His Substitute Bride. Elizabeth Lane

she argued. “Think of the people who care about you—people who’d be devastated to lose you. Clara. Judd and Hannah. Even me…”

      “Even you?” The mischief had crept back into his eyes. “Why, little Annie, I didn’t know you cared. Maybe I should give this some thought.”

      “Stop making fun of me!” It was all she could do to keep from slapping the smirk off his face. “Yes, I do care, you big, arrogant, smart-mouthed oaf! You’ve been my knight in shining armor since I was old enough to tell boys from girls. Even when you were Hannah’s beau, I kept you on a pedestal for years. You were my hero, Quint Seavers, and I won’t stand back and watch you throw your life away on this…this…”

      Her throat went tight, choking off her words. Merciful heaven, what had she just said to him?

      Quint was gazing down at her, his eyes glinting amber with reflected flame. Annie’s heart lurched as he thumbed her chin upward, bent toward her and captured her mouth with his own.

      His lips were velvet and honey, possessing her from the very first touch. As the kiss deepened, Annie went molten in his arms, her blood racing, her skin on fire through the soft cashmere. Her body arched against his. Her hands raked his hair as she kissed him with a ferocity she’d never known she possessed—kissed him with all the dreams and pentup longing of years. When his tongue glided into her mouth she was startled, but only for the space of a heartbeat. Then she opened to him, gasping as each probing thrust ignited fire bursts in her blood. His strong fingers kneaded her ribs, thumbs tracing the sensitive borders of her breasts.

      Her heart was pounding like an Indian drum. She wanted more—his hands on her skin, everywhere, legs tangling, hips pressing close, his splendid body filling hers. He was making her want more, she realized. Quint was an expert seducer who knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t love her. He’d made her no promises. He was only taking advantage of a vulnerable moment—taking advantage of her.

      Alarm bells shrilled in her head as she tore herself away from him. “Enough.” She spat out the word. “I’m not your plaything, Quint. I have feelings, even pride. I deserve better than this.”

      He stepped back, his mouth damp and swollen, his hair tumbling in his eyes. “I didn’t know you had so much fire in you, little Annie,” he drawled.

      She glowered at him, her fury mounting. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Frank Robinson has asked me to marry him. He’ll be meeting my train in Dutchman’s Creek, waiting for the answer I promised to give him.” Annie drew herself up. “My answer is going to be yes.”

      Quint stared at her as if she’d slapped him. “Frank Robinson? That prissy old fart who owns the hotel?”

      Annie spun away and stalked into the unlit guest room. Before closing the door a final time, she stripped off Quint’s cashmere bathrobe, wadded it in her hands and flung it out into the hall.

      The latch clicked softly into place. In the silence that followed, Quint walked forward and bent down, gathering up the robe. Annie’s scent, mingled with the spicy fragrance of his own soap, rose from its folds. The warmth of her skin still clung to the rich fabric.

      He lifted it to his face, inhaling deeply. Little Annie. Lord, what a woman she’d become! First she’d set him aflame with her sweet mouth. Then she’d put him in his place with a bullet to the heart.

      Marry Frank Robinson? Hellfire, that would be like hitching a blooded filly to a mule. Not that Frank was all that bad. But he was nearing forty, and to Quint’s way of thinking, he was about as exciting as clabbered milk.

      Still, Annie had grown up in a poor immigrant family. A share of her earnings went to help her widowed mother and younger siblings. The stability of a man like Frank Robinson would certainly have some appeal.

      But after tasting her passion, Quint couldn’t imagine that would be enough for her. The very thought of his beautiful, hot-blooded Annie in bed with that old—

      Quint shoved the thought aside. She wasn’t his Annie, and he’d been way out of line tonight. In fact, without much effort, he’d managed to make a complete ass of himself.

      Tomorrow, he vowed, he would work his way back into her good graces. That would include making some rules and following them.

      1 He would apologize, on his knees if necessary.

      2 He would not lay an unbrotherly hand on the lady for the duration of her visit.

      3 He would not call Frank Robinson a prissy old fart or anything else of that nature.

      4 While they were together, he would table the issue of Josiah Rutledge and devote himself to having a good time with Clara.

      Etching the rules into memory, Quint staggered off to bed. He’d scarcely slept in the past twenty-four hours, and he was punchy with weariness. Tomorrow he would be at work by 7:00 a.m. to draft his next column and look into what the police had done about Virginia Poole’s murder. By 10:00 a.m. he’d be back here to take Clara and Annie to Golden Gate Park. Right now what he needed was a few hours between the sheets.

      Too bad he couldn’t ask Annie to share them.

      Annie awoke to bright morning sunlight. Clara’s place in the bed was empty. The enticing aromas of bacon and fresh coffee drifted through the open doorway of the guest room.

      Flinging her wrapper over her nightgown, she pattered into the kitchen. Quint had mentioned he was going to work early. She could only hope he hadn’t changed his mind. After last night’s blistering encounter, his was the last face she wanted to see.

      Clara was at the kitchen counter with Chao. Still clad in her nightgown, she was perched on a stool, happily engaged in helping him prepare breakfast.

      “We’re making an omelet, Aunt Annie.” Her dark eyes sparkled with excitement. “Chao let me break the eggs and put in the salt and pepper.”

      Chao gave Annie a good-natured grin. The middle-aged man, who still wore the traditional queue, was using a fork to beat the eggs to an airy froth. If the omelet was half as good as his lamb stew, it was bound to be heavenly.

      “Now some butter in the pan,” he instructed his eager assistant. “This much, little bit, on your knife.” He demonstrated the distance with two fingers. “Then we let it melt.”

      “Has Quint gone?” Annie’s tongue felt as dry as old shoe leather. Maybe she’d drunk more wine than she remembered.

      “Uncle Quint went to work.” Clara scraped a dab of butter into the frying pan. “When he comes back we’re going to ride on a trolley car, all the way to where the ocean is. Can I wear my white pinafore today?”

      “If you’ll do your best to keep it clean. And you’ll need your straw hat, as well. We don’t want you getting a sunburn.”

      The omelet was so light it practically floated out of the pan. Annie enjoyed her share of it at the kitchen table, with bacon, a hot buttered biscuit, orange juice and fresh coffee. A saltwater breeze drifted into the room as Chao opened a window, carrying the sounds of morning traffic from the streets below—the clang of a passing trolley, the clamor of auto horns, the cries of street vendors and the clatter of shod hooves on pavement.

      Finishing her breakfast, Annie leaned over the sill. Outside, the awakening city seemed to pulse with life and vitality. So many people, so many divergent lives. So much excitement. No wonder Quint seemed to love this place.

      Speaking of Quint…The thought of facing him again made Annie’s stomach clench. She’d behaved like a fool last night, first flinging herself at him, then lashing out in blind fury. But the reason for her anger had been sound. Quint didn’t love her, never had and never would. He’d seized an opportunity, that was all, and she’d been weak enough to allow it.

      Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. She’d made sure of that last night. Now that Quint knew she was as good as engaged, he’d be honor bound to behave himself.

      Was