Pinch of Naughty (13 page)

“You’re forcing the issue. You’ve told Uncle Henry, Aunt Mille—who you know can’t help gossiping—and Mable about your ludicrous offer. Now you’ve misled your ranch crew, suggesting that I may remain after payday. Why are you doing this?”

“I’m taking precautionary measures.” His expression changed to serious.

“For what?”

“Just protecting your future,” he said gruffly.

“My future is secure, thanks to this employment. It’s unnecessary to publicly link our names. Actually, I would prefer that you don’t. ”

“Nope. I told Henry to go ahead and draw up the marriage contracts early just in case something happens to me. I don’t want you left high and dry with a kid in your belly.”

“Did you not hear me tell you I’m barren?” Eleanor stared at him, dumbstruck.

“Yep.”

“Well?”

“We’ll just keep my offer pending until we find out. If you’re not carrying when you leave, you’ve got a pastry shop waiting. If you are, you’ll be staying here and it’s Mrs. Burke you’ll be.”

“What if I don’t want to marry you? As a matter of fact, having considered it, I don’t want to marry anyone.” That wasn’t really true. Under the right circumstances she felt that Cyrus would make an excellent husband. 

“Is that right?” His lips twitched as if he held back laughter. “We can get married and pretend to live in sin if that helps you out any.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’ll leave no bastards behind when I die, Eleanor. My mama and pa jumped the gun and before he could make it right for her he got himself killed. That’s not happening to you and me.” His words were devoid of his usual humor as he spoke of his father, a man he’d never mentioned before.

“Who was your father?” she asked hesitantly.

“John Cyrus—whether he would have married Mama or not is a moot point, since he died in a flashflood before he knew I was to be.”

“Did his people help her?” Eleanor shivered, considering the horror of a young girl discovering she was with child and alone.

“Hell, no. Painted her a trollop and turned their noses up. My grandfather Burke had a little spread east of here. That’s where I grew up.”

“And your father’s people? Where do they live?”

“They moved on,” Cyrus said nonchalantly, picking up one of the hot pecan sandies she’d just removed from the oven and blowing on his fingers. “I bought their land at auction. This part of my ranch is the first parcel I added.”

“I thought you said you built this house,” Eleanor said.

“I did. I took a sledge hammer to the old building, knocked it down and used some of the lumber from it to improve the barn. I built Mama a fine home in its place.”

In spite of his mild words, Eleanor recognized the underlying ruthless revenge he’d exacted. Cyrus Burke was not a man to trifle with and she felt as though his story was a warning in itself.

“Though I better appreciate your concern for me, your gallantry isn’t necessary.” Eleanor assured him, side-stepping the real issue—her leaving.

“Anyway, have to or not, I think you should marry me and save me from the dire humiliation of being turned down.” Cyrus scooped up three more sandies and as Eleanor watched, he bit into one of the confections, chewed the pecan sandy, swallowed and licked his lips. “Where the hell else am I going to get cookies like this straight from the oven?”

“My pastry shop.” She beamed. “Mr. Burke, with all due respect, I found marriage stifling and have found not being married very liberating…”

It was difficult completing her point as he savored the cookie, listening to her attentively. She wanted to tell him that she refused to be married because she was a financial asset or a good cook. Instead she shrugged and said, “I’ve discovered that a widow has options.”

“I kind of figured that out, Eleanor. But I’ve got some time yet to convince you that marriage to me would be your best choice and a whole new kind of liberating.” Dusting off his hands, he closed the space between them and brushed his lips across hers before pulling on his hat as he walked to the door.

“I’m moving the herd to the east pasture today. I won’t be in until supper. Don’t work too hard. We’ve got some playing to do tonight.”

“Your back?” she asked.

“Medicine last night did the trick,” he said, winking at her before he left.

When she was alone, she pictured the young Cyrus Burke with a wrecking bar, demolishing his father’s home. Underneath the playful exterior was a will of iron. She should just say yes to his offer and be done with it. She would have a beautiful home, a rich husband and a good life.

I had a beautiful home, a rich husband and a good life.
She frowned and shook her head. In retrospect, she’d had nothing.

Cyrus was pleased with his plan. He had her uncle’s blessing. Now he had to convince Eleanor to marry him and harbored little doubt he’d win in the end
. Hell, she can’t be living in the back of a store. I’m doing her a favor.
On that thought, he frowned.

Eleanor didn’t act as though she was flattered by his offer. Instead, she seemed irritated. Maybe she didn’t see him as a catch because she was the real deal—a lady of quality. On the other hand, she didn’t blink twice at him being a bastard.

Early on it had been an issue. He’d found that money made most problems disappear. Since he’d grown rich, he’d been stalked by every respectable and not so respectable woman in the county and other parts of the state. It was disconcerting when his housekeeper didn’t see him as a prize.

Somehow during the short time he’d spent with Eleanor, his lust had given way to satisfied contentment and tender concern. He didn’t know why she didn’t just grab up his offer. They were dynamite between the sheets, she liked his house and she needed someone to take care of her. He’d decided he was willing to take on the job—if that meant marrying her, so be it.

“She needs me,” he muttered. Uneasily aware that he needed her too, he tried not to think about that half of the equation.

* * * * *

During the following weeks, his strategy became countering all of her talk about her dessert shop, independence and being a free woman with inquiries about how she would decorate his house.

“What kind of rug do you want for the front door?” he asked when she pored over her ledger, doing sums and figuring at the table after supper.

“Something pretty,” she waved her hand at him, ignoring the bait.

“Brown. Mable’s got a pile of mud-colored ones. That way the dirt won’t show,” he said judiciously, looking at her across the expanse. It was another irritant. Instead of sliding in next to him, she’d said she needed space to work and set up her evening business at the far end of the table.

Eleanor laid down her pencil, leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Buy two rugs, one for outside the door and another within as an attractive complement for the floor.”

“What color?” She’d taken the bait. Now all he had to do was reel her in. Cyrus waited as Ellie studied the floor in front of the door.

“Purple,” she said. “With pink roses on it.”

He tried to picture it, not wanting to hurt her feelings since he’d asked her opinion. But—purple—with roses? He cleared his throat. “I don’t favor purple much. Maybe—”

“My mistake,” she interrupted him and shrugged. “I thought you did.” Then she took up her pencil again, ending the discussion. “Make sure you have sturdy shelving built behind my counter.”

Another night he brought up the curtains she’d mentioned and she waxed eloquent about green velvet hangings with silk scarf tiebacks. But after she finished describing her idea of fancy draperies, she brought the conversation back to her business.

It became a pattern. As the end of their six-week contract loomed near, Cyrus began to worry. He didn’t want to go back to living in an empty shell—bad food, dirty dishes and unappealing women. Eleanor was perfect.

“Ellie,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her damp skin when she lay in his arms one night. “You fit me like a glove—as if you were made for me.” The problem wasn’t convincing Eleanor to enjoy bed sports with him. It was making her understand they were special.

“Cats in the dark,” she murmured, almost asleep, exhausted from their coupling.

He didn’t know what she was muttering about in her dreams, but he was pretty sure she was wearing herself out. He considered hiring help for her, then knew he couldn’t since it would get around damn quick she was his housekeeper.

He decided he’d let her rest at night, but he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. No matter how much he promised himself each morning he’d abstain, selfish bastard that he was, he had to be inside her each night.

Worse, he was positive her pleasure wasn’t pretend, but come morning, as soon as her feet hit the floor, she acted as if it had never been. She was helpful, industrious, serene, and somehow managed to make it clear each day—temporary.

“Sometimes the worst thing a person can get is what they think they want. Ellie might have to sleep in that two-by-four shack before she appreciates what I can give her.” As he herded steers to the newly fenced pasture, Cyrus muttered ideas aloud, trying to figure the best approach to persuading her to accept his offer.

“She’s got you talkin’ to yourself now, boss. Better hurry up and get the halter on her before she gets away.” Jake rode by teasing him.

“I’m working on it, Jake.” Cyrus’ thoughts were grim. Six weeks had sounded like a long time at its beginning but it was a week before payday and Ellie was still dodging his marriage proposal, focusing instead on her domestic duties and her pastry shop plans.

As the house came alive under her attentions, Cyrus praised the clean windows, her cooking, his ironed shirts and her growing bedroom skills, only to be answered each time with her distant smile and reply, “Thank you, Mr. Burke.”

Her wardrobe, delivered the day of her emancipation from Henry’s control, proved to be enthralling. The scent of expensive perfume mixed with Ellie wove a sensuous spell around him whenever he was near. It was no wonder he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

Wednesday before payday, he rode into the ranch yard after work, determined to get the issue of her future resolved. At supper, she wore a dress he’d not seen before and it draped around into a little bustle in back. A fancy little apron accented her narrow waist and had the crew not been watching, he’d have run his hand under her skirts for a quick feel. As it was, he pictured her naked in the apron and wore a hard-on through the meal.

After she’d cleared the table for his bookwork, Cyrus studied his figures, waiting for her to emerge from the kitchen.

Eleanor took a seat at the far end, barely glancing at him, and he suddenly had had enough. His chair legs screeched his frustration as he stood and strode to her end.

“Eleanor, I think it’s time you learned to say my name.” Before she could sass, protest or lodge a complaint, he hauled her into his arms and started the climb to the bedroom.

“If you throw your back out again, Mr. Burke,” she warned, “I’m not rubbing horse liniment on you. It smells.”

“Nag, nag, nag,” he grunted, tossing her up and catching her just to show her he could. “You’ve got the wife role down pat, now all you need to figure out is how to say your intended’s name.”

“Your name is Mr. Burke as far as I’m concerned,” she corrected him, pushing at his shoulder. “You’re my employer and future landlord. We have a short-term contract, after which I’m going into business for myself.”

“You’re going into the business of being Burke’s wife if you’ve got my young’un in your belly,” he informed her.

“You don’t want a wife, you want an unpaid servant.”

“I want
you
, Eleanor.” He reached the top of the stairs and stopped long enough to silence her next argument with a kiss.

In the bedroom, Eleanor laughed at him when he used two of his neckties to tether her hands above her head to the headboard.  If he’d used the scarves in the closet, she might have killed him. She tested the knot—it was loose enough for her to slip if she wanted. She remained captured, waiting for his next move. He didn’t linger, shedding his shirt quickly. His denims, he left on.

“Say my name,” Cyrus ordered her.

Eleanor scoffed at him. “Or what, you’ll ravish me?” She stretched seductively, taunting him.

Cyrus leaned on the mattress with one knee. Her body rolled toward him as he slipped his hand under her dress, touching the silk stocking covering her limbs. With one hand, he removed her delicate kid shoes. The other hand caressed her ankle, his thumb rotating against the sensitive area.

Sliding his hands upward, he peeled her dress higher until it lay across her knees. The heat from his palms left a trail of fire making her womb clench. He paused as though feeling her inner walls tighten and squeeze. Lifting her hips, he roughly shoved her dress to her waist.

“Really, Mr. Burke, you have an unusual method of torture.” Excitement flooded Eleanor, empowering her. He was wild for her tonight, rougher than usual and determined to have his name from her lips.

Holding her gaze, he caressed her rump before grasping her silk and lace pantalettes, skimming them down her legs to be discarded. Her stockings he removed slowly, his knuckles brushing a trail across her flesh.