Johanna Lindsey - Angel

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.

He never should have gone up to her room last night. He’d known that. It had been a really stupid thing to do. Yet through no fault of his own, he’d been given the legal right to make love to the very woman who’d been driving him crazy with lust.

There was no way he could ignore that once the notion took hold. No way he could fight a temptation that powerful. He hadn’t lied to her this morning. But she wasn’t interested in his reasons, or that she had become his weakness. She was still too upset that he’d made their forced marriage into a temporary real one.

R. J. MacKauley was an ornery cuss, but what he’d done was no big deal. They’d all known that — except Cassie. She hadn’t wanted it to happen for any reason. Angel was still infuriated over how hard she’d fought to prevent it from occurring. And that was stupid, too, his taking that rejection so to heart when he’d already known that he didn’t stand a chance with a woman like her.

He couldn’t remember ever having his emotions this tied up in knots. And he didn’t know what he could do about it — except leave. That he could do in just a few more days. That was all he needed, to remove himself from the temptation. Distance would take care of what he was feeling, get his thoughts straight, get him back on his solitary path, and end these foolish yearnings for something different.

And he’d be leaving with a clear slate. He owed no one now…

The hell he didn’t. He’d known last night that if he went up to her room, he’d end up owing Cassie. She wouldn’t have given him her innocence if she’d had a choice. She’d stopped him every other time he’d come close to tampering with it. But how did he pay back a woman for something like that?

The answer came rather quickly, since the tequila wasn’t helping to dull his thoughts yet. He knew what Cassie wanted. Her meddling had made a bad situation worse, and as a result she would be leaving some pretty unhappy people behind. She’d like nothing more than to turn that around so she could go home with a clear conscience. Angel didn’t operate that way, but he knew he could probably accomplish that for her. She wouldn’t like his methods — hell, none of them would — but it could be done.

He started to take another swig, then tensed, hearing her coming. Hell, purring that loud went through the walls. He watched the open doors, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. She didn’t usually bother him. He’d come across her in the house before, but she’d just stared at him with those huge golden eyes.

She did that now as she appeared in the doorway and sat back on her haunches. But when she made no move to enter the room, he relaxed somewhat.

“Smart girl,” Angel said with a nod. “After those teeth marks I found on my boots, I’m your worst enemy. Just keep your—”

Marabelle was at his feet in a couple of strides, gave them a few sniffs, then plopped down on the floor to literally curl around them. One large paw flipped over Angel’s ankles, as if to keep him from moving. He wasn’t about to budge.

“You start cleaning your teeth on me and I’ll shoot you,” he warned the cat.

She didn’t look in the direction of his voice. She started rubbing her face on the edge of one boot. Angel didn’t reach for his gun.

“Hell, you’re as bad as she is. You don’t know when to quit.”

The panther kept on purring. Angel watched closely, and damned if her teeth didn’t scrape across the top of his boot. He shook his head, deciding the tequila must have been stronger than he’d thought. Why else would he be sitting there letting a full-grown panther gnaw on his feet?

Cassie opened her eyes to find it hadn’t been a dream after all. Angel had come to her room again last night. Only this time it had been really late. She’d already been sleeping. Not for long, though.

She woke to his kiss, his body half covering her, and to the husky words “We’re not divorced yet, honey.”

That was perfectly true. They would be, but they weren’t yet. And she simply hadn’t cared to remember that she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let him exercise any more temporary rights. At least last night she hadn’t wanted to. But the bright light of morning had a way of putting things in their proper perspective, whereas the dull glow of a dying fire didn’t lend itself to clear thinking.