The Marrying Kind (13 page)

He couldn't remember how much he'd told her, and suddenly, he didn't want to know. Feeling was all that mattered now, touching her, and tasting those sweet lips once again. Before Donovan fully realized what he intended to do next, he had Libby back in his fierce embrace, his lips fused to hers. Then he dragged her to the kitchen table, where he bent her backward over the redwood top. He was vaguely aware of a chair clattering to the floor as he lifted her hips fully up onto the slab of wood, of glass shattering as he cleared a path upon which she could lie, but he no longer cared about a thing, except the way Libby felt beneath him. Nothing mattered except this moment.

She sighed as Donovan deepened the kiss, the sound gruff and needy, and that was all he needed by way of permission to indulge this suddenly urgent, reckless passion. Still kissing her thoroughly, he slid one of his legs firmly between Libby's and fit his thigh against the gentle rise of her womanhood. Then, responding to her guttural moan at the contact, he reached up to the open collar of her nightgown and yanked the remaining buttons free of their embroidered slots.

Libby's breasts, so warm, full, and almost completely exposed, rose up to meet Donovan's fevered gaze, inviting him in. Unable—or unwilling—to ignore the call, he buried his face in the deep, soft valley there, nuzzling her and thinking he could be quite content to lie between those satiny pillows for the rest of his life. Libby apparently had other ideas. With a throaty groan, she pushed against his chest, her slender fingers fiery against his skin, and separated him from her bosom.

"Donovan, please," she gasped, her breathless voice both wispy and harsh. "Please..."

Engulfed by now with undeniable need, especially where his body throbbed incessantly against Libby's heaving belly, he didn't stop to question her request. Innocent that she was, he assumed she needed more privacy—and a softer bed.

"You're right," he ground out between shaky breaths. "We should go upstairs
."

Chapter 7

He was floating, not as if on water, but among the clouds. The soft billowing puffs of his dreams were not white in color, but cinnamon, the lighter tendrils fog-like, catching fire as he drifted beneath the sun. Donovan's clouds were also unusual in that they seemed made of silk, just like Libby's hair. They even smelled like her, of rose petals—no, wait—roses were what he'd expected, but since he'd actually inhaled it, he thought perhaps the scent had been more like lilacs. Yes, lilacs and springtime, he remembered, recalling at the same time her sweet, breathless voice begging him "please".

As his sluggish brain processed the information, Donovan bolted upright in his bed. What had he done? Where had she gone?
"Libby?"
he called groggily, but there was no answer. Had he dreamed it all?

His headache caught up with him then, slamming against the inside of his forehead. After giving the pain a few moments to quiet itself a little, Donovan climbed out of bed and reached for his trousers.

* * *

Still lying on the mattress, beneath the downy quilt that matched everything in her frilly room, Libby listened to the cries of seagulls as they called to one another. Love songs? she wondered idly. Turning her head toward the open window in hopes of catching a glimpse of the birds, she noticed a pair of flies on the glass, one stacked upon the other in what she assumed was a copulatory embrace. She sighed heavily just as the yowl of a love-starved alley cat rent the air. Everyone and everything seemed to be indulging their passions. Everyone except Liberty Ann Justice.

Her thoughts automatically slid back to the topic she'd dwelled on since coming across him in the kitchen—Donovan. She'd never really given it a lot of deep thought, but Libby had always assumed that she could live the rest of her life quite happily without ever knowing the intimate embrace of a man. But that was before she'd met Donovan, before he'd touched her, stirring up the kind of yearnings she knew would never settle again until he relieved the quaking inside her.

But could she have given herself to him so easily? Libby wondered for the thousandth time. If she had allowed Donovan to drag her down the hallway to his bedroom and fling her onto his bed, could she actually have gone through with letting him ravish her? Libby's belly quivered as she pondered what all making love might entail, and then she restlessly rolled to her side.

She wished fervently that she had a few answers about the subject. Most women's rights leaders, including Libby's hero, Susan B. Anthony, championed the notion of taking a lover without benefit of marriage, noting that men had long enjoyed this freedom without public chastisement. Etiquette, popular opinion, and—had he lived to see her through this dilemma—Libby's father all would demand that a woman remain virtuous until the day she wed. Where would her mother have stood on the issue? Libby wondered, suddenly missing her more than she had in a long, long time. Would her mother have embraced even this most radical dictate of the equal rights proponents, or sided with the more temperate suffragists who did not view sexual freedom as one of the "spoils of war"?

If only her mother had lived to see Libby begin to bud as a woman. Then at least Libby would have some idea of what to do the next time Donovan put his hands on her—if he ever tried again when he was sober. Libby's thoughts returned to her mother, and a single teardrop rolled down her cheek. The only advice she'd gotten from her mother regarding men was never to let any of them tell her she wasn't as good or as smart as they were. Upon realizing that she'd lost sight of that goal in her preoccupation with Donovan, Libby almost gave into the urge to bury her face in the pillow and weep until she was cried out, and might have, had the man in question not barged into her room just then, without so much as knocking on the door.

"You—you're still here?" He looked dazed, disoriented.

"Are you disappointed?"

"No, just... surprised."

Donovan finished buttoning his shirt, giving Libby the impression that he'd been dressing himself on the way to her room. If its rumpled appearance was any indication, it was the same shirt he'd been wearing the last time she'd seen him.

"After the way I treated you last night, I wasn't sure you'd want to spend another day under the same roof with me." Yet he barged into her room as if she'd invited him to do so.

Amused, but slightly irritated, too, Libby folded her arms across her breasts. "Which treatment are you talking about? Are you trying to apologize for the way you fondled me in the kitchen or the way you tried to drag me into your bedroom after we went upstairs?"

"Don't hold anything back, Libby," he said sarcastically. "Do tell me exactly what's on your mind."

"I just did. If you're not here to apologize, then what do you want?"

Sighing, Donovan rubbed his hands across his face, careful to avoid his eyeballs, which felt as if they might explode. Why had he drunk so much last night, especially with nothing but a couple of sweet rolls in his belly? He should have waited for this little confrontation until he was better equipped to do battle.

"I did come here to apologize, and for both treatments. I don't usually get liquored-up like that. In fact, I rarely take more than one or two drinks. In my line of work, it doesn't pay for a drunk to be looking after the other rum suckers."

In spite of her foul mood, Libby chuckled softly, propped her pillows beneath her, and raised up a little. "I forgive you for that since I have an apology to make along the same lines. I don't usually drink so much cherry brandy either, and certainly not during daylight hours. I'm willing to call it even on that score, if you are."

"It's a deal." Looking weary, he went on to ask, "I realize this may not be the best time for you, but would it be all right if we talked a little now?"

Though once again it wouldn't be the right or proper thing to do, Libby had far too many unanswered questions to let anything so ambiguous as propriety get in the way now. She waved him forward. "You're welcome to stay, as long as you promise to give me a few straight answers for a change."

Nodding, Donovan walked over to Libby's dressing table, removed the little wicker chair, and dragged it over to the edge of the bed. Sinking heavily onto the chair, he balanced his weight as the delicate piece of furniture sagged and creaked beneath him. Then he rubbed his forehead again. "Damned," he said, groaning, "if I don't feel like hell."

"My sympathies since I know what that feels like after my turn in purgatory yesterday. My memory's understandably a little hazy about what happened at Lucky Lil's, but if I recall, you brought me home and left me here to sleep, while you went on some great mission. Did it have something to do with Savage Publishing?"

"Everything, actually."

Donovan finally lifted his head to meet Libby's gaze. "Well? What happened?" she prompted him.

"You'll never believe it."

Libby sat straight up, making sure the quilt still covered her decently. "Let me decide that."

Donovan wished she hadn't made such an inviting statement, or chosen that moment to adjust her position. Now the quilt was draped low enough to show him that the buttons at the throat of her nightdress were opened—which in turn reminded him of exactly who had unbuttoned them, and how the exquisite softness just below that opening had felt against his lips. He hadn't been so drunk as to forget that.

He cleared his throat and glanced away from the tantalizing sight. "This is probably going to sound real funny to you," he began, feeling like an idiot, "and probably familiar as hell. What would you say if I were to tell you that I really am the son of R. T. Savage?"

Libby's spine stiffened, as did her jaw. "I'd say that you'd better get out of my room before I find something to throw at your head." She punctuated the sentence by reaching for the pitcher at her bedside.

"Now, Libby..."

"As I've warned you before, don't 'Now, Libby' me, especially not while all the humiliating memories of yesterday are still so fresh in my mind, Willy."

"Dammit all stop calling me that. There isn't one thing funny about that name to me, and if you
ever
use it again, I won't be responsible for my actions—understand?"

Libby shrank back, suddenly looking tiny and wide-eyed in the folds of the big quilt. Donovan paused to get hold of himself, feeling sick to think that he'd scared her so badly. While the sound of that nickname had always irritated him, now that he'd learned the truth of how the
sobriquet
had evolved, the very thought of it filled him with rage.

Calmer, but still angry, Donovan said, "I came here to talk a few things out with you. Do you want to do that, or trade insults? Make up your mind."

Libby pressed her lips together firmly, then parted them enough to say, "Let's talk."

"All right, then, here it is, straight out. When I first went to see R. T. yesterday, he as much as came right out and told me I was his son."

"Oh, please—"

"Patience, Libby, or I won't tell the rest of the story." Her back was up by now, which relieved Donovan's conscience. He hadn't cared in the slightest for the fear he'd seen in her eyes, especially since he'd been the one to put it there. "Savage recognized my name from long ago, saw my face—which, by the way, looks a little like his—and deduced that I was his long-lost son. I, on the other hand, had no inkling that he was my father. So, without much by way of a response, I ran out of the office to check his claims."

"Don't tell me it checked out." Libby's expression still registered doubt, but he could hear just a touch of speculation in her tone. So she hadn't known his true identity last night. Is that why she'd sent him packing to his own room?

Suddenly grumpy, he snapped, "Yes, it checked out. R. T. Savage definitely is my father."

Libby stared hard at him for a long moment. "You swear this isn't another of your lies?"

Donovan crossed his heart, then held up his right hand, for good measure. "May I never fill a straight again as long as I live if I'm not telling the truth."

"Oh, my God." Her eyes were round with surprise, but he could read her well enough to know that she finally believed him.

"Precisely my reaction at first, since I had a little trouble believing it myself. But after I checked with Lil, who had the information I needed, I went back to see him."

"Your business partner knew about Savage?"

He nodded thoughtfully, wondering if he should explain about his mother, but decided that he had enough to untangle already. "Lil is a very... enterprising woman. She happened to have the information I needed to confirm that R. T. was my father. Shortly after we finished talking, I found you pie-eyed at the bar."

Libby folded her arms across her breasts and frowned. "I thought we'd called a draw on talk such as that."

"You're right—forgive me?"

"I guess so." Her mouth fell into a pout, but her eyes were amused. "So you brought me home, then took off. Where did you go after you left?"

"I headed right back to Savage Publishing, of course, to finish up a few loose ends." In spite of his mother's plea, he'd been unable—unwilling, he supposed—to make that final promise to her. Not yet, anyway. Not until he'd gotten the chance to know the man at least a little better. "When I ran out of R. T.'s office earlier, I left Andrew's satchel behind, without explaining anything about it, or even mentioning the fact that he'd been murdered."