Pinch of Naughty (2 page)

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a pushy woman?” he inquired coldly, the palm of his hand itching to tan her ass. She tilted her head sideways as if considering his words.

“No, I don’t believe they have. Thank you, Mr. Burke.”

He hadn’t meant it as a compliment and told her so. “I don’t like pushy women. They tend to get upset when I push back.”

But damned if a dimple didn’t appear in her cheek. He stood, mesmerized by her almost smile, studying her and the deal she offered, enjoying the way she fidgeted under his gaze.

“Mr. Burke, I am eminently qualified for this position. I understand the intricacies of household management and the idiosyncrasies of men.” Her smile became supercilious, her chin went up a notch, and the dimple disappeared.

“Is that right?” he drawled, not committing to anything but a couple more moments with the widow.

“You need a housekeeper. I need temporary employment and a place to stay.”  She enunciated the words slowly as if speaking to an idiot. “Whether we like each other in between seems very trivial to our current situations.”

Cyrus thought he heard a hint of desperation in her voice. “What are you up to, Mrs. Lacey? Spit it out.”
Great, now I’m going to get female hysterics.
He pressed two fingers against his temple, trying to stop the throbbing in his head.

Eleanor silently acknowledged that Mr. Burke’s frown didn’t negate his attractive features. His nose, Roman and proud, balanced his high brow, currently creased in lines across the teak expanse—hard as wood and apparently just as thick.
She admired the strong chin, craggy features and well-placed eyes.

Instead of meeting her gaze, his glance roamed lazily over her body. Unfamiliar feelings of heat coiled in her womb and her nipples pebbled under her dress. Eleanor blamed it on terror and stood straighter, trying to hide her response. He was an impertinent clod.

His silence unpleasantly reminded her that he was in charge and waiting for her to answer his question.
I wonder what he’d say if I told him the truth. I’m attempting to remove male dominion from my life forever.

She turned and plunged her hands back into the soapy water. Having something to do, even washing dishes caked with filth, helped clear her mind. He hadn’t said no. Well, actually he had—twice—but she was still here. Eleanor racked her brain for the right words.

She needed to say something and the unpalatable truth wasn’t a convincing reason to hire her—she had nowhere else to go. When William, her—estranged, divorced?—husband had died unexpectedly, her grandfather had ordered her back to Hartford. Mr. Burke offered a means to foil that plan by unknowingly helping her toward her goal of independence.

The wages she’d earn would be her start—her grubstake, Mable Smyth called it. She was embarking on a temporary career as a paid servant. Having employed them herself, she knew discreet liaisons happened sometimes between staff and family.
I will not let a trivial detail get in the way.

Eleanor kept her shoulders straight, telegraphing her determination, but she wanted to give in and slump. She was tired. And although the rank smells coming from the sink made her half nauseous, she was pathetically grateful for the odor, hoping it would cover her own.

The lilac scent she’d touched to wrist, neck and bosom earlier in the day had long since been erased by sweat. Her chemise, dampened by the perspiration coating her body, clung to her back, and even her corset felt wet under her dress. Adding final humiliation, her bladder had demanded relief and she’d been forced to beg use of his convenience—a room considerably cleaner than his kitchen. Miserably she thought,
I will not cry. Men hate a woman’s tears.

The room remained silent as she stared through blurry eyes at a particularly dirty pan. She could feel his gaze locked on her form as he waited for her to speak and she tensed, determined to be the pushy woman he’d labeled her.

“I am looking for employment not a lifetime commitment. I am not afraid of work, of losing my reputation or of you.” Girding her loins for battle, she turned to face him and stood wiping her hands on a towel as she told him part of the truth.

To have to ingratiate herself with this man in order to clean his house and wash his disgustingly filthy pans was almost too much to bear. But she would do it. She would placate the devil if it meant freedom to control her future.

Mr. Burke studied her closely before he asked, “How did you talk Mable Smyth into bringing you out here?”

“Mable suggested this temporary employment when she understood my immediate need for a place to stay. I am rather good at making confectionary delights—fancy desserts. Mrs. Smyth has kindly allowed me to sell my pastries in her store. It has been a successful venture for both of us.”

Mr. Burke rubbed his jaw, apparently pondering the idea before he questioned her further. “So you’re a widowed cook and you’ve decided to become a business woman?”

Business woman—his description made her feel risqué and sophisticated. Eleanor set aside her usual grim despair as the rancher recognized her budding enterprise as an opportunity. Mable’s description of him came back to her.

To get to the Burke ranch, they’d started before daybreak and traveled over a rough trail lined with yellowing patches of water-starved grass until they’d reached the huge gate with a sign threatening trespassers. At Mable’s direction, she’d climbed down.

“Catch.” Mable had thrown a key to her. “It’s always padlocked.” She’d pointed at the far end. “The gate’s hinged so it swings. Just pull it open and let me through, then close it, lock it, get back up here and we’ll make some time.”

The blockade had glided silently, opening into rolling grassland vividly different from the parched ground they’d left behind. “How…?” She hadn’t known what to ask. How could one side of the fence be so barren and the other look like paradise?

“Pure cussed determination and stubborn will mixed with the smarts to see opportunity and grab it. That’s how.”

Mable’s explanation gave Eleanor confidence as she answered him. “Yes. I’m going into business. I agree with Mable. It seems like a very good opportunity.”

“So how do you know Mable well enough for her to be recommending your services?” Mr. Burke gave her a puzzled look.

“I’ve been selling pastries from Mable’s shop for weeks,” she told Mr. Burke.

The Mercantile had been the last stop on the way to the train. She’d gone into the store to say goodbye, still trying to think of a way to avoid Hartford. Mable had offered her a place to stay while she collected her thoughts and worked out a more palatable solution than returning to scandal and insult.

“Mable has explained that the nearest sweet shop isn’t close enough to offer competition.” Eleanor braced herself for Mr. Burke’s derision. “I intend to convert the empty building next to the Smyth Mercantile into a dessert confectionery.”

“You have carpentry skills too?” He scowled at her.

“I don’t understand.” Eleanor frowned, trying to fathom what he meant.

“That’s a shack you’re talking about selling out of. It’ll blow down before you can bake your first doodad.” He shook his head.

“Mable knows the owner. She says he’s always open to negotiations and she’ll talk to him about repairs.”

He grunted a rude expletive and muttered, “I just bet she will.”

At first, the notion of an
Alcott-Lacey woman becoming a shop owner had seemed ludicrous. But reminding herself that she was betwixt and between, neither an Alcott nor a Lacey, had helped. Until the courts sorted it out, both her status and name were in limbo, so really her plans were no one’s business.

Mable’s suggestion had planted seeds in fertile soil. This was an opportunity. It made her uneasy, though, that earlier in the day, Mable hadn’t introduced the brusque man she now faced. Eleanor would have scurried back to town had she known the arrogant cowboy might be her future boss.

He’d refrained from identifying himself as well. Regardless that she felt as though she’d been manipulated and spied-on by both Mr. Burke and Mable, Eleanor recognized the need to earn money and for a place to hide from the Alcotts when they realized she wasn’t returning.

Her thoughts were almost fevered as she grasped at the possibility of her little pastry shop next to the Smyth Mercantile. Hope anchored her. She would be independent and never again let anyone shuttle her over the countryside, hiding her as if she were shameful rubbish. When she was established, she’d send for her sisters. Eleanor forced her lips into an expectant smile, waiting.

“Has it occurred to you that your stay here as my housekeeper might dirty your public skirts a bit and put a stop to your plans to set up a pastry shop in town?” Mr. Burke’s question was sarcastic.

“No, it won’t,” she answered stiffly.

“And how do you plan to explain a young woman like yourself living unchaperoned under my roof for six weeks?” He leered at her suggestively.

“Because of my state of mourning, nobody really knows me in town. I rarely ventured from Uncle Henry’s home, preferring baking all day to social discourse. Mable and her clerk are the only local citizens I met.” Actually, she’d seen many come and go in Mable’s store, but she’d remained hidden in the back room when transacting business, staying out of sight at Uncle Henry’s request.

“Uncle Henry?” he asked and waited.

“Henry Alcott,” she mumbled.

He pushed his hat higher on his brow, giving her a hard stare. “You’re the bank president’s niece?”

Eleanor nodded. She didn’t like using social status for advantage, but surely being a banker’s niece should give her an element of credibility.

“People will believe what they want to believe. Respectability is a matter of public perception and…” She tried to read encouragement in his expression but saw none. Anger unexpectedly took charge of her tongue and Eleanor finished in a rush. “Mable says everyone knows—you won’t bed a respectable woman for fear you’ll get trapped in a marriage.” She tried to keep the hint of derision from her voice but couldn’t.

“Is that right?” His lip curled scornfully and he drawled, “You think because you’re an uppity-up, I’ll reduce the workload, bein’s how you’re too good for it? Sorry, Mrs. Lacey. I’m hiring a twenty-four-hour-a-day woman and paying top wages for what I get. And what I get is night duty too.”

Eleanor drew herself up to her full height, held his gaze and declared, “You will receive my attentions night and day. The townspeople will believe what is presented to them and when I innocently reappear and set up my pastry shop, my respectability will be intact.”

So she’s Alcott’s kin. Funny he didn’t mention her visit the last time I was in town.
Cyrus didn’t doubt her identity though. Henry’s wife was a member of the cult of true womanhood and it appeared his niece was cut from the same cloth. According to his information, a respectable female was pious, pure and submissive. He looked at Mrs. Lacey closer—maybe not submissive.

God, she was a temptation standing there, shiny with sweat, her hair escaping the sedate knot she’d bound it in. In a flash, Cyrus covered the space between them, threw his hat on the table and took her lips, drinking her taste and inhaling the scent of lilacs and woman. It was only a matter of time before she went running, so he figured he’d have a sample before she left.

Sliding his fingers through the soft curls at her neck, Cyrus held her head still when she tried to turn aside, pillaging her mouth, giving Mrs. Prim ’n’ Proper enough tongue to shock her drawers off. If that didn’t chase her away, nothing would.

Apparently though, things in Mrs. Lacey’s life had turned to deep shit—she didn’t run. She held on to his shoulders as he grabbed her rump, lifting her high and notching his cock against her mound. Then he set about delivering kisses to her eyes, her rigid jawline and back to her lips, taking her mouth with his tongue again.

When he let her go, they were both gasping for breath and Mrs. Lacey’s hat hung over her left ear. His voice was a ragged growl as he asked, “You still think you can go back to town looking innocent after six weeks in my bed?”

Fascinated, Cyrus watched Mrs. Lacey right her hat, slide the tip of her tongue across swollen lips as though tasting the idea, then frown as if the flavor was unsatisfying. Deliberately, holding his gaze, she answered. “Yes.”

Crowding close again, he grasped her chin and tilted her head to study her. “It takes a lot of nerve for a lady like you to sell her services. Things must be getting desperate if I look like an option.”

She touched her finger to her bottom lip as though checking for damage and then dropped her hands to her sides, fisting them.

He thought she might be preparing to take a swing at him.

“Mr. Burke, at home, I am a divorced woman with a ruined reputation bringing shame to my friends and family. In Texas, I am an unknown.”

“You lied. You said you were a widow.” He tilted her head higher, stretching her neck, his mouth inches from hers as he murmured his complaint. Cyrus sometimes did a little creative engineering with the truth, but it graveled him when others did too.  Mrs. Lacey’s character got another demerit.

Leaning so close her breath was a caress, she corrected him. “I did not tell an untruth, Mr. Burke. I said my husband was deceased, and he is. I was
once the wife of William Lacey and William is dead.”