Unconventional Series Collection (14 page)

Angel St. Clair appraised Harvey Pinkle and
wanted to groan. She should have known better than to dine with him a second
time. The offensive little man with lecherous eyes was mentally crossed off her
list. There was no way she would allow him to escort her across country. So,
now her list consisted of…no one.

Glancing beyond Mr. Pinkle's big ears, she
thanked the waiter for setting waters on their table and then noticed the
waiter's own blatant appreciation of her. Sighing, she looked past him. Another
patron, sitting alone, had turned to look at her. She watched his gaze slide to
Mr. Pinkle and then back to her. His expression, although admiring of a
beautiful woman—something she had been garnering since the age of thirteen—also
held a look of censor.

Coolly, she met his eyes. His mouth quirked and
he turned back around. Angel returned her attention to Mr. Pinkle, forcing
herself to appear engaged in his conversation. She reached for her water glass
and sipped, allowing her gaze to travel back to the impolite cowboy with broad
shoulders and hair as black as her own. Dressed in a worn suit, he had a
scraggly look about him, and rugged features for someone so young. Although not
handsome in the classical sense, he had a magnetism that she knew would draw
women like flies.
He's probably just come off the range and saved enough
money to buy one expensive meal.

Being an observer of people, a necessity forced
on Angel after years of abuse, both physically and mentally by men who wanted
to possess her because of her beauty, something she neither wanted nor went out
of her way to enhance, she considered the cowboy. Wrinkling her forehead, she
was surprised by her inability to read him.

"Have I said something to offend you, Mrs.
St. Clair?" Harvey Pinkle reached his hand to cover hers.

Cringing inwardly, Angel gently removed her hand
and placed it in her lap. "Not at all, Mr. Pinkle. Please go on telling me
about yourself."

The odious man grinned widely and continued his
dissertation of all of his accomplishments, as if they would protect her on her
journey to California. For the next half hour she listened to Mr. Pinkle's
boastings while the cowboy remained with his back to her, although she did have
the feeling he was listening to their conversation.

Finally, the dark haired young man pushed back
his chair and stood, picked up his tab, laid down a generous tip, and turned
around, his eyes engaging hers in a steady stare. Instead of sliding her eyes
shyly sideways, as rules of decorum would dictate, she returned his gaze and
watched his lips quirk, as if he were holding back laughter. When he passed her
table, Angel was struck by the blueness of his eyes and the amusement in them.
She took offense and gave him her most censorious look. At the last moment, he
smiled widely, and then he was gone.

A strange sense of loneliness flooded Angel and
she tried to shake it off. He was very young, very insolent, and she wouldn't
think about him. She turned her attention back to Mr. Pinkle and sighed.

Luke exited Porter's Steak and Ale with his
heart pounding. Mrs. St. Clair was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
At a glance, her name, Angel, befit her appearance. However, upon closer
inspection, there was a sadness one would not associate with an angel.
Chronologically, he guessed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties;
emotionally, her eyes revealed disillusionment for one so young. They also
revealed that she often dealt with admirers, but there had been no flirtiness
in her emerald gaze.

Returning to his hotel, Luke stopped by the bar
and ordered a brandy before entering his room to write the next installment of
his latest adventure. He had a deadline to meet, but he had set writing
obligations aside while visiting his family, preferring to enjoy every minute
with them.

After a page, he set his ink quill down because
persistent images of Angel St. Clair kept interfering with his thought
processes. Why was she seeking a husband for protection? Why was she traveling
to San Francisco? How long had she been a widow?

Luke shuffled papers around on the desk looking
for the newspaper and then located the classified section, rereading the ad.
Pursing his lips, he made a decision within the span of a heartbeat. His
inquisitive nature would not allow him to do otherwise until he discovered the
answers to those questions. Reaching for an envelope, he addressed it to the
post office box in the advertisement and then selected his best stationary for
writing his reply.

Mrs. St. Clair,

It is with amusement that I read your advertisement.
But, please, do not think my amusement is directed at you. It is directed at a
society that has no issue with a man seeking a wife through mail order, but
highly critiques a woman who does the same. At first, I felt that same censor,
however, upon reflection; I find that I am very curious as to your request.

As for the qualities required to fulfill your
need for a short-term husband, I possess youth, strength, and I certainly hope,
intelligence. I look forward to your reply. You may leave correspondence for me
at the desk of the Winthrop Hotel.

Most Sincerely,

Luke Samson

Luke enclosed the letter in the envelope and
laughed all the way to the concierge desk for delivery to the post office.

Angel sat in front of her vanity brushing
midnight black tresses that fell below her waist. If she had one conceit, it
was her hair. She knew her looks always drew attention and had often heard
herself described as exotically beautiful, but life had hardened her to those
kinds of compliments. She did however, enjoy brushing and caring for her hair.
Rarely did anyone see its glory because she kept it covered under bonnets or
hats and rolled into a bun.

Laying her brush aside and avoiding a glance
into her own eyes in the mirror, something she was wont to do because of the
pain always reflected back, she reached for the letter that had arrived that
morning. Opening the expensively crisp paper, she read again the strange reply
to her advertisement. Written in beautiful script and signed by Luke Samson,
she wondered about a man who could write such heartfelt words. Of course, maybe
they weren't heartfelt. Maybe he was a master of manipulation like all the
other men in her life, except her father, had been.

Did she want to respond to his letter? Her
intelligence told her no, but her curiosity gained a foothold over her actions.
Walking to the desk in her inexpensive hotel room, she reached for stationary
that in no way came near the quality of the paper used by Mr. Samson. Grazing
her fingers over his name, she considered her reply.

Mr. Samson,

How to respond to your letter, I am unsure. What
you write is true; however, I sense a tone of great jest in your words. Perhaps
my advertisement is unconventional, but my need for accompaniment to California
is not.

I must admit, however, that against my better
judgment, I will meet with you to discuss the particulars of my classified.

Tomorrow, at four o'clock, I will wait for you at
the entrance to Porter's Steak and Ale. If you are two minutes late, I will
leave. You may buy my dinner while we discuss your "amusement" of my
request.

I will be wearing a blue dress with black trim
and matching hat.

—
Mrs. Angel St. Clair

Angel stood outside Porter's Steak and Ale
appearing calm on the exterior, but overwhelming nervousness twisted inside her
chest. By nature, she was a reticent and shy woman, but she camouflaged those
traits because years of abuse had shown her the disadvantage of having others
aware of her gentle disposition. Plagued by second thoughts for having replied
to Mr. Samson's unusual letter, she wanted to flee back to her hotel, but she
would hold to her word and give him two minutes in which to show himself.

A man with a familiar look approached and it
only took her a second to place him—the insolent cowboy from three nights
previous. Tonight, however, he was immaculately dressed in a tailored dark gray
suit that made him appear even taller and more wide-shouldered. His hair,
although still touching his collar, was neatly combed.

Angel turned her back on him and noticed another
gentleman approaching from the opposite direction.
This must be Mr. Samson.
The gentleman merely gave her an appreciative once over, smiled, and walked
past her.

"Mrs. St. Clair," said a voice from
behind her.

Her gut clenched.
No. That can't be him!

Composing her features, she turned slowly around
and stared into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. "M-Mr. Samson?"

"Yes, ma'am."

For a second, Angel lost herself in the depths
of his ocean eyes, but recovered quickly. "Is this some kind of a
joke?" she asked haughtily.

"No, ma'am."

Angel nervously played with the drawstring of
her reticule. Unexpectedly, she asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five. How old are you, ma'am?"

Angel's eyes widened at the man's impudence.
"I can assure you, I am much older than you. I bid you goodnight,
sir." She turned to leave, but a gentle hand on her forearm stopped her.

"Please, let me
assure you
I have no
hidden motive in replying to your classified. It is as I said, I am merely
curious. If you find me to be odious during dinner, you may leave and I will
not stop you. Please, dine with me."

The gentle touch of the cowboy's hand mesmerized
Angel. She wasn't used to gentleness. Lifting her eyes to his, she extricated her
arm and felt gnawing hunger. To save money, she was eating only once per day.

He repeated his plea, "Please."

Angel inclined her head and hoped he couldn't
hear her stomach growling. "Very well."

The tall young man opened the door and Angel
lifted her head proudly, stepped inside, and tried to calm her rapid pulse.

* * *

The maitre d' greeted Luke and immediately
escorted him and Mrs. St. Clair to a secluded table in the VIP section. He
chuckled at the surprised look on her face. Unknown to her, he had earlier
slipped the man a huge bill for preferential treatment. He noted that Mrs. St.
Clair was wearing the same dress she had worn to dine with Mr. Pinkle;
something he found curious since the society women of his acquaintance rarely
wore the same dresses often. He touched the small of Mrs. St. Clair's back as
they followed the maitre d'. When he felt her stiffen, he removed his hand.
Behaving in his most gentlemanly manner, something his father had drilled into
him; he pulled her chair out, but refrained from touching her again. Then he
removed his hat and secured it on the hook above their table.

A waiter approached to take drink orders.

Luke asked, "Do you drink wine, Mrs. St.
Clair?"

The beauty trained emerald eyes on him that made
his stomach tighten. He couldn't help but notice their exotic shape. In a word,
she was simply breathtaking.

She replied primly, "In moderation."

Luke asked, "Do you prefer red or white
wine?"

"I have no preference."

He told the waiter, "Bring a bottle of your
best red wine."

The waiter bowed slightly. "As you wish,
sir."

Luke said in a friendly manner, "This is my
favorite restaurant. Whenever I'm in Dallas, I always eat here. I've tried
other places, but haven't found any as good as Porter's."

Mrs. St. Clair nodded, but didn't respond.

He continued, "Looks like spring has
finally arrived. Before long it will be summer, my favorite time of year."
He was hoping his inane conversation would ease the woman's obvious
nervousness, but she still didn't speak.

Another waiter arrived with glasses of water,
followed by the first waiter with their wine, who expertly performed his duty
of uncorking and receiving Luke's approval before serving the expensive bottle.
Luke waited for Mrs. St. Clair to sip before continuing his conversation.

"Are you from this area, Mrs. St.
Clair?" He asked in a friendly manner.

"No. I arrived two months ago." She
didn't elaborate.

"My family lives south of here in a small
town called Two Rivers. Have you ever heard of it?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. I don't think it's even
a dot on the map."

Luke was rewarded by a slight upward tilt of her
lush lips. He picked up his menu and motioned for her to do the same.
"Please order whatever you desire."

After their waiter returned and took their
orders, a lengthy silence settled again while they sipped their wines and
listened to muffled conversation drifting throughout the dimly lit room. After
a time, Luke lazily leaned back, stretched his legs out from his chair and
asked, "So, Mrs. St. Clair, tell me why you're seeking a mail order
husband."

She gave him a sharp look. "I see no reason
to go into that because it will not be you."

Luke lifted an eyebrow. "And pray tell why
am I not in the running? Surely you haven't chosen Mr. Pinkle."

He noticed Mrs. St. Clair's attractive blush and
bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He hadn't had this much fun
since he and Marylou had shared stolen kisses when they were sixteen.

Mrs. St. Clair gave him a cold stare.
"Whomever I select is none of your business, but to satisfy your
curiosity, you are not in the running because you are much too young and
impertinent."

Luke's lips quirked. "I may be young
chronologically, but I have experienced more than men twice my age."

At his words, the beauty unexpectedly smiled and
Luke's stomach somersaulted. She said, "Obviously, you are either a man of
wealth, or you are foolishly spending your hard earned money on this expensive
dinner. If you are wealthy, I doubt you could have experienced much of life's
unpleasantries, but if you are wasting hard earned money on this dinner, you
still have much to learn."

Luke leaned across the table and said quietly.
"Obviously, you are very knowledgeable of life's unpleasantries and I bow
to your experience. Now, pray tell again, why are you foolishly advertising for
a husband? Do you not know the dangers that could befall you if you choose the
wrong man—a man of theatrical ability that could fool you into believing his
intentions are honorable?" He sat back.

Mrs. St. Clair reached for her wine and he
noticed a slight trembling of her hand. So, she wasn't as impervious as she
appeared. She sipped her wine and placed her hands in her lap. Lifting her eyes
to his, he was surprised to see amusement in them.

She sighed, "You are certainly impudent and
persistent. Because of that, I will indulge your curiosity."

In spite of Luke's cool demeanor, his heart
hammered.

"I have purchased a small business in San
Francisco. It is a bakery that I hope to make a living from. It has been very
successful thus far and I believe I can continue its success."

She sipped her wine again and a drop lingered on
her lower lip. Luke had to resist the urge to reach and thumb the moisture
away. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but she continued before he could
speak.

"No doubt, Mr. Samson, you are wondering
why a husband is necessary and I will try to explain. However, you may not
understand or even believe what I say, and thus misconstrue my
confidence."

She looked down and Luke noticed how long her
eyelashes were. Again, he was struck by her stunning beauty. He waited for her
to continue.

After the space of a heartbeat, she lifted her
eyes and said completely void of conceit, "I have often been told that I
am beautiful. Because of my appearance, my life has not been as easy as one
might suppose. Since my youth, I have had to fend off the advances of men that
I neither solicited nor wanted. For years I have saved every penny in order to
purchase a bakery and I finally found one for sale in San Francisco. At the
time of the purchase, I lived on the east coast. Because of my previous bad
experiences with your gender, I hired a man whom I believed to be trustworthy
to escort me to San Francisco. Since the journey involves both rail and
stagecoach through wild country, and I had no desire to travel as an
unprotected female and repeat previous bad experiences, I hired this man
believing him to be honorable—but he was not. He tried to take advantage of my
person." She slid her eyes to her wineglass.

Luke's jaw tightened and he clinched and
unclenched his hands beneath the table. "Go on," he said with a
calmness he didn't feel.

"Needless to say, I was very frightened by
the incident that happened in Denver. The man was arrested for public
drunkenness and lewd behavior and placed in jail. I left Denver by rail and
traveled here two months ago. Even on the train, I was accosted by unruly men.
After I arrived here, I knew I could not travel the rest of the way unescorted,
and since I no longer trust the type of man who hires himself out, my options
are limited, which is why I thought the idea of matrimony might weed out many
of the lowlifes. Also, a husband is more likely to garner respect. Traveling
with the afore mentioned man afforded me nothing but disrespect from women and
crude advances from other men that ended in brawls. I simply cannot abide such
bestial behavior. I did not ask to be born the way I am, and if I had been, I
would have immediately declined and wished to become a plain woman. So, Mr.
Samson, you may take my confidences however you choose—as the ramblings of a
vain woman, or a woman who desires only to arrive at her business with her
personage intact and make a humble living."

The waiter arrived with their dinner, ending
further conversation. Luke had an almost overwhelming desire to reach across
the table and smooth his hand down Mrs. St. Clair's cheek as an act of comfort.
Instead, he cut his steak, and except for occasional attempts at conversation
on his part, they ate mostly in silence. He noticed that she ate everything and
when the waiter brought more bread, she ate that too.

When she finished, she lifted her napkin to blot
her lips and then placed it on the table. "I thank you for the meal, Mr.
Samson. I would like to leave now."

"How did you arrive? Did you come by
carriage?"

She hesitated a second. "I am not far away.
I walked."

Luke read her countenance. She was lying. She
had walked a long distance and she was impoverished. Tapping his fingers on the
table, he said, "I would like to marry you and provide the protection you
need."

Mrs. St. Clair's eyes widened. "That is
impossible!"

"Why? Because of my age? My understanding
is that this marriage is simply for the convenience of transporting you to
California. So what difference does my age make. Besides, you talk as if you
are an old woman when–"

"I am thirty-five and cannot fathom why you
would want to do such a thing. You must have young lady friends and a busy
life–"

"I have nothing standing in the way of
helping you, Mrs. St. Clair." Even though she protested, Luke could see a
spark light her eyes and pursued that line of reasoning. "My business
pursuits are such that for the time being I am free. In fact, I have been
pondering a trip to California for quite some time," he stretched the
truth.

"Exactly, what are your business pursuits,
Mr. Samson, if I may be so inquisitive?"

He leaned back in his chair. "I am an
investor and speculator." There was some truth in his response. He had
invested in the railways and much real estate, including the hotel he now
resided in. His first investment five years previous had been land adjacent to
his father's ranch that he had recently built a lovely home on, thus fulfilling
his desire to live there most of the year so he could be near his family. He
would indulge his love of ranching when he was there and realize his love of
adventure when he was not. Recently, he had hired caretakers to live in
quarters built behind the main house.

Mrs. St. Clair studied him and his gaze did not
waiver from hers. He asked a calculated question, "When were you planning
on leaving for California?"

Her eyes drifted to the table, but not before he
recognized hesitation and something else—hope. His gut twisted.

"I must think about this, Mr. Samson."

"Of course."

"I would also require references from
you."