His Substitute Bride

“Tell me about you and Josiah Rutledge.”

Her words crashed Quint back to earth. His brief fantasy had been delicious. But this was Annie. She was family, and there was a child asleep in the next room. It was time he yanked his thoughts back above his beltline.

Pulling himself together, Quint rose to lay another log on the fire. “Would you like some wine?”

She shook her head. “No, really, I—”

“This isn’t Dutchman’s Creek, Annie. You’re in San Francisco now. Live a little.” He took a crystal decanter of merlot from the sideboard and filled two goblets half-full.

“Are you trying to corrupt me, Mr. Seavers?” Her eyebrows arched as he handed her the fragile glass.

“You look like a lady who could use a little corrupting.”

She took a tentative sip. “My poor mother would faint if she could see me now. Drinking wine in a man’s bachelor flat, wearing nothing but a sinfully expensive bathrobe…” Her eyes flashed at him over the ridge of the wineglass. “So sit down and tell me about your quarrel with Mr. Rutledge. After I’ve heard you out, we can decide whether Clara and I should stay out the week or go home early.”

Quint settled back onto the sofa, wondering how much he should tell her. He didn’t want to frighten Annie, or cause her to end the trip too soon. But how could he lie to those clear, intelligent eyes?

He started with the broader issues—the corruption in the city government, the rampant graft and bribery, and the dangerous state of the city’s water system. “The mayor and the board may be a bunch of crooks, but our fire department’s first-rate. The chief, Dennis Sullivan, has been on the job almost thirty years. He was the one who put me onto the story—said he knew for a fact that money had been paid out to fix the broken pipes and cisterns. But he’d inspected the sites himself, and found that what few repairs had been made were, to quote the good man, nothing but cow dung and feathers. I followed the money trail. It led back to the contractor and to the city supervisor who’d hired him—Josiah Rutledge.”

Annie leaned forward, the robe parting enough to reveal a glimpse of creamy skin. Quint willed himself to keep his eyes above her shoulders.

“But you said you didn’t have any proof against Rutledge.”

“I didn’t. It was pure guesswork. At first it didn’t matter so much. Getting the water system fixed was more important than nailing Rutledge. I hammered away at him in the paper, trying to make people aware of the problem. That was all I could do—until two days ago. That was when everything changed.”

Quint hadn’t planned to tell Annie about the incriminating letter. And he definitely hadn’t planned to tell her about the murder of Virginia Poole. But her soft, attentive eyes held him captive, spooling the story out of him word by word. By the time he was finished, he felt drained.

He leaned forward, staring into the fire. “I know I shouldn’t blame myself. But if Virginia hadn’t read my column she wouldn’t have contacted me and tried to give me the letter. And she’d probably still be alive.”

Annie gazed into her wineglass. “She did the right thing. You did the right thing, too. There’s no fault in that.”

“But she’s the one who paid the price. And now it’s up to me. I have to make sure that poor woman didn’t lose her life for nothing.”

“So you never did find the letter?”

“No. And judging from the way her place was torn apart, Rutledge’s hired thugs didn’t find it, either. If they had, they’d have stopped looking and left.”

“And Rutledge wouldn’t have bearded you at Delmonico’s. Not unless he suspected you might have it.”

“I wish I did have it. That would make things easy. As it is, all I can do is try to bluff the bastard into the open and hope he stumbles.”

“So your strategy is to make him think you have the letter, or at least to make him wonder.”

Damn, but the lady was sharp. It was a quality Quint found even more intriguing than her beauty.

Annie had set her goblet on the raised hearth. Her hands were clenched in her lap, the fingers interlocked. “I’m frightened for you, Quint. This isn’t just another one of your wild adventures. You could be hurt, even killed.”

“I’ll be fine. Rutledge is a politician. He’s too smart to show his hand by coming after me.”

She leaned toward the fire, gazing past him into the flames. “If you’d told me all this earlier, I’d have suggested that Clara and I come another time. The last thing you need right now is a woman and child tagging after you.”

Quint laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Her muscles were knots of tension. His fingers stirred reflexively, massaging the tightness. “There was no way to let you know. By the time it happened, you and Clara were already on the train. But never mind that. I’ve been looking forward to this visit for weeks, and I don’t want it spoiled. I may need to put in some hours at the Chronicle— in fact, I’ll be there tomorrow morning until about 10:00 a.m. But we should still have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves. All right?”

“Mmm-hmm…” Her shoulders flexed against his palm. Taking it as an invitation, Quint shifted behind her, where he could put both hands into play. “How does that feel?” he asked.

“It’s heaven. After all those hours on the train…” Her words dissolved in a moan as his thumbs pressed circles along the edges of her spine. “You really are corrupting me.”

“Chao taught me how to do this,” he said. “Chinese magic. Tomorrow, if you and Clara are agreeable, we can take the trolley to Golden Gate Park. There’s a fine Japanese garden and a playground with a carousel, and Clara will finally get to see the ocean. How does that sound?”

“Oh…she’ll love that.” Annie arched her back, surrendering to the spell of Quint’s hands. Warmth radiated from his fingertips, easing sore muscles, seeping into tired bones. It would be wonderful just to let go and drift. But she couldn’t allow that to happen. For all his bravado, Quint’s story had struck cold fear into her heart. The danger to his life was all too real, but in typical male fashion, he was pretending it didn’t exist. Somehow she had to talk sense into him.

“Let’s take our visit one day at a time, shall we?” she began. “If things get too worrisome, you can put Clara and me on the train.”

“Fine.” His fingers worked deeper, triggering waves of pleasure that rippled down through her body. Annie felt an exquisite tightening in the deep core of her hips. The voice of common sense shrilled that it was time to call a halt—and she would, she promised herself. Very soon.

“I want to ask one favor of you,” she said.

“Granted, as long as it’s fun.”

The robe’s loose collar had slid down onto Annie’s shoulders. Quint’s hands rested on her bare nape, his strong thumbs working their delicious voodoo at the base of her skull. She closed her eyes. How would it feel to be touched like this in other places? Her breasts? Her hips? She bit back a moan. Things were getting out of control, if only in her mind.

Willing her eyes to open, she glanced toward the wall. Hannah’s sunlit face smiled down at her from the simple ebony frame. Annie’s forbidden thoughts fled.

“So what’s the favor?” Quint’s hands had paused.

“Something serious. A promise.”

“Then I may need time to think it over. Tell me.”

Readjusting the robe, she turned to face him on the settee. “Just this. Rutledge has already had one person killed. We both know you could be next. If the situation gets so threatening that you feel the need to send Clara and me home early…” Annie took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

“This isn’t worth your life, Quint. I want your promise that you’ll get on that train and go with us.”

Chapter Three

Quint cursed his faulty judgment. He should’ve known better than to tell Annie what was happening with Rutledge. Now she waited for his answer, her mouth determinedly set, her velvet eyes pleading.

The sight of that face was enough to turn his resolve to warm putty. Right then he would have given her almost anything—except the one thing she wanted.

“No. I can’t leave here,” he said.

“Quint—”

“Don’t push this, Annie. You know I can’t, and you know why.”

She stood, her eyes flashing defiance. “You mean you won’t. And, yes, I do know why. It’s because you’re a man, with more silly male pride than brains. You’d rather be stabbed in some dark alley than walk away and save your own life!”

Rising, Quint opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him with the touch of a finger to his lips.