CHAPTER TWO
“Take heart, Steph. I can see the hotel from here.”
Stephanie Davenport glanced sideways at her “cousin.” Eric Bronson wasn’t truly a relative but a close childhood friend who had agreed to accompany her on this cross-country adventure. At fifteen, she’d had an enormous crush on him, especially so after he’d been the first man to kiss her with tongue. The thought still made her stomach do flip-flops. But to her great disappointment, they’d only had the one encounter, and even though she’d no doubt looked at him with moon eyes every single time he’d returned home from college, he’d never kissed her again.
She sighed. The sunlight filtering through dreary, gray clouds was barely enough to highlight his golden flaxen hair and didn’t do justice to his handsome features. At twenty-eight, and six years Stephanie’s senior, Eric was a worldly man, and it showed in the way he spoke, walked, even smiled. She’d also caught the desirable way he’d glanced at some of the lovely women on their journey. She craved for a man to look upon her with such heat in his eyes. But she pushed those desires to the back of her mind. She was thankful he’d even agreed to accompany her on this journey to retrieve her inheritance.
She nodded to herself, focusing on the task at hand. It was time for her to strike out an independent path, and the money from selling her father’s assets would turn into her best recourse. Beyond that, she wasn’t sure where this escapade would lead.
A shiver of excitement mixed with unease skated down her spine.
Stephanie stomped the thick mud from her boots as she walked. She crinkled her nose, first at the muck, then at herself. She should be disgusted by her boldness. She was far from a gambler by nature. Yet here she was, after crossing the rough, untamed miles that stretched across America, tracking down a swindler named Connor Langley. The man her estranged father had empowered with her future.
A boisterous crowd lined Union Street, pulling her from her thoughts. Except for the steep, rocky hills, the scenery scarcely resembled the picture in the travel tome she clutched to her breast. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but this place had a wild nature that New England didn’t possess.
She hugged the book closer, comforted by the small roll of bills she’d tucked into her bodice as it scraped her sensitive skin. She sighed. At least she had return train fare.
The coach driver had dumped them in the drizzling rain, minus their luggage, on a covered walkway at least a block away from their hotel. “The driver said he’d deliver our belongings when he could get through,” Eric shouted over the din.
She leaned closer to Eric to avoid yet another unladylike event. “There seems to be quite a commotion.”
Eric took hold of her elbow. “Let’s move on, shall we?” Angling an umbrella over them, they slipped between bystanders.
Odors―rich and heavy―of fish and oysters, wine, and baking bread, mingled with the salty wind from the Pacific, reminding her once more that they were a long way from Connecticut.
Stephanie mimicked Eric’s motions, craning her head this way and that, glancing through the clusters of people lining the muddy street. What exactly had prevented their carriage from reaching the hotel? Why the crowd?
Eric tugged her along for a few steps, and she resisted the urge to pull free. It wasn’t until they reached the elevated safety of the hotel’s covered porch―her dear departed father’s hotel, she noted with great relief because they’d finally arrived―that she discovered the attraction.
There, right in front of the hotel, smack dab in the center of the roadway and skewed sideways, was a huge black hearse with a set of four equally coal-black horses, a man built as strong as a buffalo by its side.
For an instant, she expected a villain to emerge from the darkened doorway and brand the man hammering the carriage wheel with his fist a fool. But a funeral hearse didn’t harbor villains, she immediately corrected, and when the man stretched to his full height, her heart jolted. No, this man wasn’t a fool, she thought as she tried to work her suddenly dry throat. His stance revealed pride and distinction.
“Oh my,” she finally said, astonished. “That man is half-naked!”
She shivered. He was practically shirtless, and drops of rain trickled over his wide, pale shoulders where his shirt had been torn half off of him. A smear of mud drew her attention to the well-defined muscles of his broad chest. Water mixed with the wet earth, and she watched, eyes wide, as the brown silt traveled that long, hard path to the waistband of his trousers. Farther south, rain-soaked black fabric clung to his powerful thighs, emphasizing a physique obviously familiar with hard work.
Certainly, the pictures of Hercules in her books on Greek mythology were no comparison to the living, breathing specimen, heroically laboring to raise the vehicle from the mud. Her face flushed hot. Was it sinful to watch him?
Her fellow educators at Hartford Girls’ School would undoubtedly think so.
The man turned his head, and drops of water flung from the ends of his dark hair. Stephanie frowned. It didn’t bother him in the least that he was the crowd’s entertainment. In fact, it was as if he was reveling it in.
His gaze met hers and held. Her first instinct was to turn away, but she couldn’t. Instead, she brazenly returned his gaze. Her heart thrummed in her chest. Why was he staring?
Then his brow creased and eyes narrowed, as if he recognized her and was trying to place her. But that was impossible, for this was her first—and last—visit to San Francisco. Besides, one didn’t forget such breathtaking good looks.
Stephanie tore her gaze from Hercules, scanning the spectators. “Look at all the people, Eric,” she said softly. “They remind me of an audience watching a carnival.”
“Indeed. I imagine this to be the best entertainment in their monotonous lives.”
She plucked at the high collar of her dress, assaulted by the persistent humidity and press of the crowd. “We should be going.”
“In a minute. I want to see him in action.”
Shamefully, so did she. Her pulse skipped and she nearly forgot to breathe when the handsome rescuer forced heavy boards into the muck beneath the front wheels of the hearse. He ordered the nearby men to take action. The coachman, still wearing his dripping-wet top hat, snapped a whip and urged the horses forward. Another man stepped out to assist in guiding the team.
The wood being used for leverage began to sink. The hearse tilted toward Hercules. Stephanie gasped right along with the crowd. He pressed both hands to the shiny, lacquered side of the vehicle and pushed until his arm and back muscles bulged from the effort. At her side, Eric took two steps forward, perhaps thinking to help, but several other men rushed in with the same intent. At last, the team lurched forward and sprang into motion with enough force to pull the coach free.
Relieved, Stephanie exhaled sharply. People clapped and cheered. A few rowdy men blasted ear-piercing whistles.
“For a minute there, I thought the poor man would be joining the one in the box,” Eric joked. “Good thing he’s a big fellow.”
“Yes. He is, isn’t he?” she agreed, studying the nearly unclad man. He had the elemental rawness of a man in close touch with nature, an intrinsic wildness that made her nervous, even frightened. She imagined him working the docks, cutting timber, or hefting masonry blocks. Whatever his occupation, his strength had served him well today.
A man pumped the rescuer’s hand. “Good work, Mr. Langley.”
Langley? She gasped and shook her head. He can’t be . . .
Yet, another man called out his name. Good Heavens, Hercules wasn’t a dockworker. The gorgeous man with muscles like she’d never seen before was her father’s no-good, cheating partner.
Mud splashed about him with each step he took as Mr. Langley moved in her direction. Panic gripped her. She had no wish to greet the man disheveled as he was―no desire to be closer to his coarse manliness. Or maybe her desire was the problem.
The impulse to flee tore at her but a lifetime of fighting her own battles had taught her the necessity for supreme calm. “Eric, let’s go inside and secure our room,” she urged.
Eric held out his elbow to escort her when a tall fellow, with a small, scruffy dog tucked beneath one arm, burst between them, pushing them both off-balance. Stephanie tried to catch herself as momentum propelled her down the steps. The muck loomed in front of her. No! The cry caught in her throat just before she closed her eyes.
Her book flew from her hands and a jarring wrench vibrated through her when she hit something solid, immovable. But instead of landing in slimy mud, her hands descended on firm, slick skin, and her cheek rested against warm, wet smoothness. The scent of musky masculinity filled her nostrils. Unsure of her own senses, she moved her fingers up and down slowly, testing the texture. Hard muscles flexed beneath her palm, and her fingers ran over the edges of a torn, soaked shirt. She groaned in recognition. Opening her eyes, she beheld mud-splattered flesh.
Mr. Connor Langley.
Shock held her still. For an instant, a shameless part of her acknowledged that he felt wonderful, protective, and this seemed a good place to rest until her world settled. Then she returned to reality, recalling who it was she rested upon. She struggled to push away from him.
“Are you injured?”
His quiet baritone voice slipped through her defenses, touching a tender place in her heart. One strong arm encircled her waist, so close that she doubted even the rainwater could trickle between them. Her gaze traveled unbidden over muscular planes up to a square jaw and angular cheekbones until she met his cobalt-blue eyes.
He studied her with concerned intensity, two deep lines furrowing between his eyes. Though she knew he was only worried about her safety, Stephanie couldn’t get past the raw sensuality of being so near him, or the strange melting sensation that settled low in her abdomen.
Finally, she recalled his question. “No . . . No, I’m fine,” she whispered. Then, finding her customary sturdier voice, she added, “if you would please let go of me.”
He released her, and she recoiled from him like a person jumping away from a snake. She staggered backward until her heel hit the edge of the steps. Giving her hands a shake, she forced them into the folds of her dress and cleared her throat.
But all the while she simply wanted to slip right back into those strong arms.
* * *
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