Tarnished Angel (28 page)

    His anxiety escalating as he slipped the latch, Charles pulled open the door. His breath escaped his lips in surprise. "Camille, what are you doing here this time of night?"

    "Charles, I have come to see you, of course."

    Charles gave a short laugh, his spirits greatly revived by the sight of Camille's full-blown charms. His eyes lingered for a moment on the brilliance of her hair, alive in the subdued glow of gas streetlamps; the teasing flicker in her warm brown eyes; the incredible glow of her smile. His gaze surveyed the sheer black gown she wore as she allowed her shawl to slip from her shoulders. The dress was lined in a soft peach that almost matched the womanly flesh exposed above the daring neckline.

    "Camille, you look enticingly lovely… and very healthy. I hope this visit does not mean you feel unwell."

    Camille's low laugh was as heady as a kiss, and Charles fought to subdue the instinctive reaction of his body. His eyes dropped to Camille's lips as a familiar hunger came alive inside him.

    "
Non,
mon
cher
, my visit here tonight is not of a professional nature, for either you or myself." Charles stepped back to allow her entrance, and Camille walked past him, pausing as Charles closed the door behind them. She turned to look up into his eyes. Her smile was direct.

    "I hope you do not have plans, Charles, because I came here with the intention of spending the evening with you."

    Charles's response reflected his surprise. "Marie… she doesn't object to your being here? It's not like her to be generous with her girls' time."

    In a few silent steps Camille was standing very close. Charles could feel the heat emanating from her warm flesh, and his heart began an escalated beat. In a few more minutes he would no longer be interested in talking.

    Camille's voice was a low purr, calculated to raise his already considerable level of physical agitation.

    "
Oui
,
mon
coeur
, Marie will face many disappointed clients, but I care little. I have gained special permission from Le Comte to absent myself. I told him I wished to bring you your birthday gift."

    Charles's fleeting discomfort at the mention of the Count slipped from his mind. He hesitated. "It isn't my birthday, Camille. "

    Camille's eyes widened in exaggerated surprise. "Ah, so!
Pardonnez-moi
. I have made an error!" Raising her arms, she slid them around his neck, her voice breathy against his parted lips. "But perhaps,
mon
cher
, since I am already here… perhaps we can pretend that it is."

    Camille's lips were moving persuasively against his, and Charles submitted to their erotic coercion. His heart began pounding, the familiar taste of Camille filling him with a desire for more, His arms slipped around her, crushing her loving warmth against him. His hand moved to cup her firm buttocks, fitting her intimately against the responsive swell of his body. When he spoke at last, his voice was a husky whisper. "Yes, Camille, we'll pretend, and we'll enjoy."

    Within moments Charles was no longer thinking. He was just feeling and enjoying. And it felt very good.

    The lights from the street shone through a corner of the window shade, allowing a narrow strip of light to penetrate the darkness. Camille lay quietly beside Charles, the man to whom she had given her heart as well as her body. She listened to his slow, even breathing in sleep, delighting in the knowledge that this night, at least, she would sleep beside him and awaken in his arms.

    Contentment… no, happiness sang within her heart, and she turned toward him, lifting herself on her elbow so she could see his face. She stared at the outline of his strong features, memorizing the lines shadowed by the darkness of the room. She pressed her lips lightly against his and whispered into his unhearing ear.

    "
Bon
anniversaire
… happy birthday,
ma vie,
with all my love. "

    Charles turned toward her in his sleep, and Camille lowered her head to the pillow once more. She shifted her position, curling her body into the hard, muscular curve of his. Charles's arm moved around her, drawing her against him tightly, even in sleep, and Camille's joy knew no bounds. Charles's hand touched her breast, and she covered it with her own.

    "And happy birthday to me… a very, very happy birthday."

    The light of morning was bright against Charles's eyelids as the last veils of sleep slipped away. He fought awakening momentarily, unwilling to stir from the pale nether world of contentment in which he languished. He reached out, a frown touching his handsome face. The bed beside him was empty, and his eyes snapped abruptly, open to scan the room. Disappointment rang hollowly inside him. Where had she gone? The bed linens were still warm from her body, rich with her scent. She could not have left more than a few minutes ago.

    Charles's hand moved to the pillow beside him, encountering a slip of paper protruding from beneath its plump softness. He read the words, precisely written with a foreign flavor so reminiscent of Camille herself:

    
Charles,

    As I write this letter, you are sleeping with such contentment that I have not the heart to awaken you. Do I presume too much,
mon
cher
, to believe I am much responsible for the smile which hovers about your mouth, even in sleep? I do not believe so, for the same smile curves my lips as well.

    I must leave now and begin the work of a new day, but my thoughts remain with you, as always.

    
Au
revoir
for now,
ma vie
.

    Camille

    Still holding the note, Charles stared at the careful script. He could almost hear Camille's low, throaty voice speaking the words. His body, so completely sated during the long night, reacted predictably, and he gave a low snort. He raised the paper to his nostrils and breathed in its fragrance. How was it possible that this sheet, taken from his own desk, carried Camille's distinctive scent? Or was it just that his heart and mind were still so filled with the beauty of all that was Camille that he just believed it to be so?

    Slowly lowering the note to the bed beside him, Charles reluctantly stood up. The smile, which had indeed been hovering about his mouth, broadened as Charles stretched his naked length. God, he felt good! He felt warm, happy, satisfied in so many ways. It was always that way when he was with Camille.

    Charles's smile slowly vanished. He walked to the washstand and met his own reflection in the mirror. It was when he was apart from Camille that his unrest began.

    He was uncertain just when the thought of Camille's other "clients" had begun to bother him. In his own mind, he no longer classed himself in that category. It was with considerable joy the previous night that he had realized Camille's appearance at his door was proof that she, also, did not think of him entirely in that way. He remembered her whispered declaration that she had missed him. The heat of that memory tugged insistently at his groin. He had missed her as well, but a strange resentment had been growing inside him.

    Abruptly shrugging aside his uncomfortable thoughts, Charles reached for the pitcher and splashed water into the washbowl. He   glanced at the clock on his desk. It was still early. He doubted Camille had yet had time for breakfast. He would shave quickly and dress, and then he would go to Blond Marie's and pick up Camille. They'd go to the
Maison
Doree
for breakfast, and they'd talk. He suddenly realized how very much he wanted to say to her.

    A few minutes later, Charles stepped out onto the sidewalk. He took a deep breath, savoring the sweet, warm air of morning, and headed for Allen Street. The sun shone on the broad brim of his Stetson and warmed the shoulders of his well-tailored suit as he quickened his pace. He was anxious to talk to Camille, to feel the warmth of those loving brown eyes on his face. He wanted to hold her full, lush body in his arms, to hear her husky whisper against his lips.

    Charles turned onto the main thoroughfare, only to have his warm thoughts brought to an abrupt halt by the sight that met his eyes. Standing unseen behind a large sidewalk sign, Charles felt all joy and life drain out of him at the sight of the happy, laughing couple walking briskly on the opposite side of the street. Camille and the Count. Camille was a vibrant splash of color against the backdrop of the commercial establishments as she walked happily on the arm of the procurer who had brought her to Tombstone, dressed in a gown and hat of startling pink. She was speaking rapidly in her native tongue, looking up into the Count's smiling face, and Charles saw in her expression a true, undeniable warmth.

    A hot, searing emotion flushed through Charles, turning his hard body rigid, balling his hands into fists. He was suddenly shaking, filled with a desire to pound the leering gaze from the Count's aristocratic face, to rip his hands from Camille's soft flesh, to drag Camille back with him to his quarters where he would have her to himself. Breathing heavily, he took a step forward, only to bring his angry advance to a premature halt as full realization struck him for the first time.

    Jealous… he was jealous of the Count! That had been the reason behind his unacknowledged decision to stay away from her during the past week. He had unconsciously realized the growing depth of his feelings for Camille, and the danger of such feelings. Was that the reason he felt no more than a friendly   affection for Devina Dale, despite her beauty and obviously warm regard for him?

    Unable to draw his eyes from the sway of Camille's generous curves as she continued a gay conversation with the Count, Charles felt the knot in his stomach squeeze into pain. What was the true nature of his feelings for the generous, warmhearted woman who made his heart sing?

    Suddenly unable to face the answer to that question, Charles turned and walked back toward his office. Whatever those feelings were, they were unwise, crazy, and they needed to be controlled. He would control them. He did not need this problem added to the many already crowding his mind.

    Within minutes, Charles was back in his office, determined to begin his workday early. He no longer had the slightest desire for breakfast. The raging appetite with which he had awakened had been banished by the sight of the happy couple striding down Allen Street, by the Count's indulgent expression, but most of all by Camille's radiant smile.

    Ross spurred his gelding to a faster pace. He was hot and tired. He had spent the long day with his spyglass, lying on his stomach on a hill outside Tombstone, as he had almost every day for three weeks. Or was it longer? He was uncertain at this point in time. The only thing of which he was certain was that he would not have patience to continue this surveillance of Devina Dale much longer.

    Ross lifted his hat and ran his hand through his hair. It was damp with sweat like the rest of him, but the cool air of evening felt good against his scalp. Replacing his hat, Ross felt a strange desolation begin to overwhelm him.

    Damn, what was wrong with him? He had been successful in taking a large Till-Dale payroll just a few days ago. There was no doubt that Dale was approaching financial difficulty now. He had heard Dale's miners were tense and accidents were beginning to happen.

    He had also heard water was pouring into the mines at a far more rapid pace than Dale's pumps could remove it. It appeared Dale's luck was beginning to turn, and he was extremely glad that he had had a hand in turning it.

    Ross's lips tightened into a firm, hard line. But the pinch Dale    was feeling wasn't enough to satisfy him. Nothing seemed to satisfy him now, and he knew nothing would until he managed to turn the tide completely against Dale. He knew how to manage that, but Dale had been one step ahead of him there. In the three weeks he had been watching Devina Dale, he had been unable to ascertain any particular time of day when she was consistently vulnerable… consistently enough so that he could form a definite plan for her abduction.

    A familiar tension tightened the back of his neck, and Ross's frown deepened. There had to be a way. He was so close.

    Ross took a deep breath and attempted to draw his emotions under control. He realized fully that the haughty little witch with the face of an angel was fast becoming an obsession with him. He was at the point now where his thoughts were seldom free of her. It occurred to him that he would not be free until he finished what he had started that first day in the stagecoach, when his initial glimpse of her had so unsettled him.

    Turning his mount sharply, Ross guided him onto the narrow trail to his hideout. He flexed the tight muscles in his shoulders and back. He was tired, tired of everything, and most of all, he was tired of the man he had become. But Harvey Dale had had a very strong hand in helping him to become that man, and it was only fair that he should be the one to suffer for it.

    His mount was lagging, and Ross pressed his spurs lightly into the animal's sides. The cabin was coming into sight and Ross was anxious to get the dust of the trail off his body and a warm meal in his stomach.

    Ross was dismounting at last when a sound made him turn toward the cabin. He gave a short laugh.