Johanna Lindsey - Angel

“You are going to pull that down, aren’t you?”

She’d let the petticoat catch on her breasts so her torso was at least covered. “Not on your life.”

She heard him sigh. She gritted her teeth and pulled out a camisole. But after a moment of trying to get it on, she found it wouldn’t fasten over the thick petticoat.

“You’re taking modesty too far, Cassie. Your back is to me. Go ahead and drop it.”

He meant the petticoat, and she was being ridiculous. There was nothing left for him to see. Even her back was covered by her hair. So she yanked the petticoat down, adjusted the lacy camisole over her breasts, and quickly fastened it. But when she reached for a dress, she caught Angel’s reflection in her vanity mirror, which sat at a cross angle from her wardrobe. He wasn’t staring at her, he was staring at the mirror, and if she could see him clearly, he had a good frontal view of her…

She whipped around to face him. “You sneaky son—!”

“What are you getting all fired up for?” he interrupted, sounding absurdly reasonable. “For the time being, I’ve got a right to look.”

“The hell you do. We’re getting divorced, and it can’t be soon enough for me.”

He’d been leaning up on one elbow. With her last statement, he dropped back on the bed to stare up at the ceiling.

Cassie took that as a sign that she’d made her point and he was done provoking her.

She let it go at that and quickly wiggled into a dress, but she was still simmering. Rights! He’d dared to mention rights for the time being, when he knew full well their marriage wasn’t legal — or it wouldn’t have been legal if he’d stayed out of her bed.

It struck her then that he was right. He’d made their marriage legal by bedding her, and it would remain legal until they signed the divorce papers. So — legally — he did have certain rights.

To hell with legal. She hadn’t asked that he complicate matters with his revenge. He’d already overstepped the bounds of decency. So he had no rights as far as she was concerned, and she’d back that up with her gun if necessary.

“Cassie?”

The note of panic in his voice made her turn to him instantly, everything that had just run through her mind as quickly forgotten. And the problem was revealed in the first glance.

Marabelle’s attention had been caught by the movement of the covers above Angel’s toes. She’d come half up on the bed to investigate, and was now rubbing her face against the small tent his crossed feet made out of the covers. Cassie had been awakened in the morning dozens of times in such a way. But those weren’t her feet her pet was drooling over, they were Angel’s. Marabelle hadn’t noticed the difference.

“How did she get in here?”

His voice was whisper-soft, and he wasn’t taking the chance of moving the slightest bit. But Cassie’s concern had left as soon as she saw there was no danger, and that put her back in the mood that wasn’t inclined to take pity on Angel.

“I vaguely recall letting her in in the middle of the night when she scratched at the door,” she answered with blatant nonchalance. “After all, she’s allowed to sleep with me.”

He wasn’t about to touch that remark. “Get her out of here.”

“I don’t think I will. You made me your wife last night instead of your bride. The bride was willing to oblige you. The wife isn’t.”

“Cassie,” he began with clear warning, but ended on a startled note. “She’s biting my feet!”

“No, she isn’t. She’s cleaning her teeth. I told you she likes to do that.”

“So make her stop.”

Cassie sighed at that point and moved to the foot of the bed to run a hand down Marabelle’s back. “Honestly, Angel, you’ve been around her long enough now to know she’s harmless.”

He still wouldn’t take his eyes off the panther — or move. “I don’t know any such thing. A bullet is one thing. I can handle going by a bullet. But the thought of going by being that cat’s dinner…”

“Marabelle doesn’t even like raw meat. She prefers it cooked, but she’s actually more partial to biscuits and flapjacks.”

“Biscuits?” he choked out.

“And flapjacks.”

He gave her the briefest glance that said clearly she was crazy before his eyes were back on the panther. But after another moment of thinking about it — biscuits — he yanked his feet out from under Marabelle’s purring adoration. And when the cat just looked at him without moving, he went one further and leaped out of the bed.

Cassie wasn’t expecting that. Her eyes rounded. Her breath caught. But she didn’t even think about looking away. Lord love him, he had a fine-looking body, all sleek grace and subtle strength — like her panther. She noted old bullet wounds, three, four, but it was all that male skin that fascinated her. Broad shoulders, flat belly, long legs — which he was stuffing into his pants. He was angry. She could see it in every line of his body. And she was the cause.

He confirmed it. “That was a rotten thing to do.”

She knew full well he referred to her lack of help with Marabelle. “Then that makes us two of a kind, doesn’t it?”

“Lady, when I get even, it’s with lasting results.”

She sat down on the bed, looking away from him. Her voice was exceptionally quiet. “I know.”

He was suddenly there in front of her, despite the fact that Marabelle was right next to her. He hadn’t found his shirt yet. His pants weren’t fastened, were barely clinging to his hips. Nothing but skin, only inches from her face — and the crazy urge to lean forward and press her lips to it.

“Last night wasn’t ‘getting even,’ Cassie. It was a temptation too great for me to resist. For your sake, I’m sorry it happened. For mine— I’m damned if I am.”

She hadn’t expected him to attempt an explanation. He could have saved his breath, though, since she didn’t believe a word of it — except that he wasn’t sorry for his sake. Why should he be? It hadn’t cost him anything and certainly wasn’t going to damage his reputation.

She didn’t answer, and wouldn’t look up at him. But she was startled when his hand came toward her cheek. It stopped short of touching her, however, hesitated there, then dropped away. And why did she suddenly feel like crying?

She wouldn’t. She pushed herself off the bed to squeeze past him. “Find your boots and leave,” she told him on her way to her bureau. There she opened a drawer and pulled out his gun. “And you’ll need this.” She turned and tossed it to him. “You never know if you’ll have to shoot someone today.”

He’d caught the gun, but he didn’t move other than that, just stared at her for a long moment. She could almost see it happening, the change in him, the hardness coming to the surface, taking control.

“Yeah, you never know.”

Cassie cringed inwardly. Standing before her was the man who’d arrived three weeks ago, a man of violence, ruthless when necessary, conscienceless — heartless. She’d caused that with her own coldness. But it was just as well. This was the man she was more accustomed to, not the one who was afraid to touch her cheek.

Angel sat in the parlor with the bottle of tequila Maria had fetched for him, her own private stock. Charles Stuart didn’t drink hard liquor, so there hadn’t been a single bottle of whiskey in the house. And Angel didn’t feel like riding to town to get some. In his present mood, there would definitely be trouble if he did.

He hadn’t seen his wife since he’d left her room — the second time that morning. The first time he’d been angry enough to leave without his boots. He’d even gotten halfway to the stable before he realized he had nothing on his feet. He’d had to go back. He only had the one pair. But he’d waited until he cooled off some before he knocked on her door again.

She’d calmed down some herself by then. At least she’d used a civil tone when neither of them could find his boots right off. “With Marabelle in the room, you might as well look under the bed,” she’d suggested. “That’s where she stashes things she wants to keep.”

“Wants to keep?” The tug-of-war that had come to mind had him frowning. “I’m not going to fight your Marabelle for my boots.”

“You won’t have to. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s not here.”

He hadn’t noticed. It was hard to notice anything else when he could barely take his eyes off Cassie. Even with her hair tightly coiled again, her dress properly fastened— undoubtedly she’d put some drawers on by then, too — he kept seeing her as she’d been last night, lying beneath him, her long brown hair spread out on the pillow, her breasts full and pouting — and no drawers on.

It was happening again. He’d lost count of how many times he’d gotten hard today from remembering how she’d been last night. He stretched out his legs and took another swig of the tequila, but it wasn’t helping him to forget.

He’d gotten down on his knees to look under the bed. She’d gotten down on the other side. The boots were there, all right. So were a lot of unrecognizable things— and Cassie’s lavender-and-white lace dress. He’d pulled the dress out first and held it up.

“It made a fine wedding dress, Cassie. You should have removed your coat.”

She didn’t reply, just stared at him wide-eyed. He didn’t know why he’d said it, and added uncomfortably, “It doesn’t look like the cat ruined it.”

“She wouldn’t. She knows better than to chew on my clothes.”

“What about boots?”

“That’s another story. Marabelle goes crazy for them.”

“The smell of leather?”

“Sweat, actually.”

He’d wanted to laugh at the way she’d said it, as if he should have known. She made him want to laugh at the strangest times, and usually over nothing that was funny. He didn’t laugh. He fetched his boots and got out of there before he gave in to the urge to make love to her again.