Notorious in the West

Purposely, she thought, remembering his earlier words. It couldn’t have been an accident that he’d called attention to his nose just when Annie had been staring at it. However perverse it was, Olivia had the sensation he’d been daring them to laugh.

What kind of man dared people to laugh at him?

What kind of man could withstand it, if he succeeded?

Having made her assessment based on the available evidence, the information she’d been privy to downstairs and a great deal of intuition, Olivia lifted her chin. “Mr. Turner, I presume?”

His assent was nothing more than a tightening of his mouth. Olivia accepted it all the same. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Somehow,” she mused, remembering the employees’ gossip at the front desk, “I thought you’d be tougher. And taller.”

* * *

Olivia stepped boldly past him, swept with her skirts rustling inside his darkened suite and surveyed the scene. Her hastily calculating glimpse told her that Mr. Turner was a light traveler and an even lighter sleeper. It told her that he did, indeed, carry a gun belt and two knives. It also told her that he despised sunshine. All the suite’s draperies were pulled tightly shut against the bright territorial dawn. It was...gloomy.

Although... Were those philosophy books spilling from his valise? And was that a biography of a European industrialist on his bureau? What kind of man traveled without much clothing—because her view informed her that he hadn’t brought much more than the custom-fitted duds on his back—but with a big pile of books? Did the dictatorial Mr. Turner actually read when he wasn’t upbraiding well-meaning people for disturbing him?

Suddenly, Olivia was dying to find out. It had been ages since she’d read a new book herself, owing to her vow to be more amenable, less headstrong and less academically minded. She still regretted that foolish vow. It was awfully difficult to keep when the book agent came to town. It would almost be worth getting to know this man, she mused absurdly, if only to have access to his book collection. But then all her thoughts fled as she sensed the hotel’s orneriest new guest following her into his private suite. Her goose bumps returned anew. Her heartbeat pounded. Her palms grew damp. Her throat grew tight.

Heavens. Now what?

She’d simply have to improvise, Olivia decided.

His voice boomed out. “Who are you?” he demanded.

How like him, Olivia considered, not to question her correct guess at his identity. He probably assumed everyone knew—and cared—who he was. The ever so important Mr. Turner.

His hubris was remarkable. But so was her determination.

She turned. She could not falter now. Annie was relying on her. So, brightly, Olivia said, “I am your new chambermaid!”

Chapter Five

Griffin was still mentally grumbling over his unwanted visitor’s earlier outrageous comment—I thought you’d be tougher. And taller—when she gave him a haughty look—the kind beautiful women specialized in—stepped into the center of his private suite of rooms and offered yet another ridiculous declaration.

“And you won’t be having Miss Holloway dismissed,” she went on briskly, “because I’ll be fulfilling her duties from now on.”

Griffin gave her his most coldhearted look—something that came much too easily to him now, the way money and deference and loneliness did. He hadn’t known that making people respect him would also make them keep their distance from him. He did now.

“What makes you think I won’t have you both dismissed?”

A careless wave. “You won’t.”

Her highfalutin tone suggested she was sure of it—sure of her inevitable rightness, the way Boston architects were sure that their newfangled bridges would span the river waters safely. Griffin wished he felt that certain of anything...anything except the inevitable snickering that came his way. He watched her study his suite, keeping his arms crossed, still feeling a little bit drunk on whiskey and self-pity and exhaustion.

He’d passed a largely sleepless night. He didn’t want his own company, much less hers. No matter how appealing she might be. And she was appealing, to be sure. Dispassionately, he examined her perfect profile, her delectable figure and her graceful, feminine movements. Then he disregarded them all.

Beauty left him cold. Understandably so.

Against his will, though, her gumption stirred him.

So did her curiosity about his books. He’d noticed her interest, of course. A drunk, blindfolded bat would have noticed it. It did not fit with the frivolous-looking rest of her. Neither did her avowed intention to be his chambermaid fit with her ruffled, floral-sprigged pastel dress and delicate hands. Those soft hands had never scrubbed floors.

But those obvious contradictions could wait. In his current dark state of mind, Griffin reckoned, they could wait forever.

“You are not a chambermaid,” he said with certainty, shaking himself into reason. “And you are not staying.”

He took her arm, intending to herd her to the door. In his grasp, she felt like a willowy, wiggly wisp of a thing. She looked like a black-haired, blue-eyed, fine-featured China doll come to life. She smelled of roses and toast and coffee, and the fragrance of his favorite brew made Griffin’s head swim.

At that moment, he heartily regretted pitching his breakfast into the hallway. But he’d needed to make his point somehow.

A man began as he meant to go on. Griffin’s father had taught him that. If he wanted to be left alone, he needed to be...

Alone. Completely alone. With no one...and no coffee.

Unexpectedly troubled by that minor facet of his new solitary existence, Griffin faltered. Just for an instant.

His new “chambermaid” noticed his moment of weakness—and undoubtedly his grumbling belly—and handily exploited both.

She wrenched free. “But I have to stay! For one thing, you must regret not having breakfast. I can help you with that,” she exclaimed, her pert face coaxing him to agree. Likely, most people did. Even Griffin, with his longtime solitude having inured him to charm, felt pulled toward her somehow. “It’s a long journey from...well, everywhere to here,” she nattered on. “Morrow Creek is remote. From what I hear, train-car victuals don’t have much to recommend them. You must be starving.”

Her words called to mind...everything he wanted to forget. “No.” Tensely, Griffin stared at her. “I don’t need anything.”

“Nonsense. Everyone needs something! Even you,” she cajoled. Her dimples flashed. “Take me, for instance—”

“Are all The Lorndorff’s maids this chatty? Or just you?”

At his harsh interruption, she shut her mouth.

She looked wounded. Confused, too, as though most people loved hearing her ramble on nonsensically, the way she’d been doing—as though most people were immediately charmed by her and her beauty. Likely, they were charmed. Charmed and besotted and willing to set aside common sense for her company. Not for the first time, Griffin was reminded of the unfair privilege that the beautiful—and the consequently virtuous—enjoyed. They didn’t have to watch their words. Now, at long last, neither did he.

He was a success. That helped to balance the scales.

Before he could exercise his hard-won influence, though, his “chambermaid” found her voice.

“Chatty? Only when waylaid from their work by chatty guests.” She gave him an irksomely buoyant look. “Now. What would you like from the kitchen? I’ll see that it’s prepared to your liking. All you have to do is apologize to Miss Holloway.”

Griffin blinked. He must have misheard her.

She saw his bewilderment. “You were rude to her.”

He could think of nothing to say to that.

“You threw a vase at her. You destroyed an entire breakfast tray. You shouted and scowled and behaved quite menacingly.”

He still wasn’t sure how to address her complaints. Those actions had been necessary, given his situation—given his pain.

Gruffly, he defended himself. “She wouldn’t leave me alone. I requested to be left alone.”