Fargo remembered how eagerly Priscilla Mayfair had thrown herself into his arms at the Mayfair farm, and the feeling came over him that this was the exact same situation. Which suggested there was more here than met his eye. He had a sudden conviction that the two women did not necessarily cozy up to him by choice, which meant someone had put Priscilla and now Darby up to it.
“Are you going to let me in or must I stand out here making a horse’s ass of myself?”
Fargo glanced down the hall. He saw no one, but his instincts told him they were being watched and his instincts were seldom wrong. “It’s late and I’m tired.”
Darby’s features rippled in astonishment. “You would rather go to bed alone? Are you the real Skye Fargo or an impostor? The real Fargo, I’ve heard, has slept with more women than the entire Fifth Cavalry.” She laughed lightly and splayed fragrant fingers on his chest. “You’re not serious, are you?”
The cleavage she displayed would have weakened a monk’s resolve, and Fargo was no monk. “Afraid so,” he said, and started to close the door.
“No, you don’t.” Darby barged past him, her eyes flashing with anger. “I won’t have it thrown in my face.”
Fargo nearly grabbed her by the arm and shoved her back out. He did not like being used. He never had. “What?” he asked.
“The gift I’m offering you,” Darby said, and gestured at her soft, sinewy body with all its glorious attributes. “If you make me leave it will be an insult.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Fargo said, and smirked at the thought that he had never in his life said that to a woman before.
Darby stepped to the bed and turned, one leg visible in the folds of her robe, revealing velvet skin from her toes to her thigh. “Don’t give me that. Men are always in the mood. They are born randy and get worse as they get older.”
“Not all men,” Fargo quibbled. He left the door open and leaned against the jamb. “Besides, women like it just as much as men. They like to put on airs and pretend they don’t, but they do.”
“Is that so?” Darby slid more of her leg out of the robe. She waited, and when he did not say or do anything, she gestured again, angrily. “If you know so much about women, you should know that we don’t like having our airs, or our needs, treated with contempt.”
Fargo wondered how far she would push. And was it her uncle, or Draypool, who was behind the charade?
Darby softened and forced a thin smile. “Let’s start over, shall we? I don’t suppose you have something to drink? I sure could use a brandy right about now.”
Fargo stretched, and yawned.
“Damn you. You’re making me mad.” Darby tapped her foot with impatience. “This isn’t what I expected.”
“Next time don’t take things for granted,” Fargo said.
“There won’t be a next time, mister,” Darby snapped. “I don’t care what they—” She caught herself, and stopped.
Fargo folded his arms across his chest. She had said “they.” He wanted to ask who “they” were, but he must not act too suspicious or they would guess that he knew they were up to something. He must continue to act the fool. “Look. It’s been a long day. I’m tired. I would like to catch some sleep.”
“What’s one more hour or so?” Darby asked suggestively. Her breasts jiggling like ripe fruit on a tree limb, she sashayed toward him. “I’ll make it worth your while. I promise.”
Her anger had faded, but now Fargo’s flared. He was sick and tired of being manipulated like a puppet on a string. The Secessionist League had a reckoning coming. But he could not make his move until they made theirs.
“Well, big man?” Darby stopped and taunted him with her gaze and her posture. She was a gumdrop and he was a kid staring into the jar in the general store. “See something you like?”
“These,” Fargo said, and reaching out with both hands, he covered her mounds and squeezed, hard. Really hard.
Darby stiffened and arched her back. She bit her lower lip to stifle an outcry, then covered his hands with hers and said throatily, “Not so rough, if you please. That hurts.”
“Does it?” Fargo pinched her nipples, none too gently.
“Ah!” Darby threw her head back and took half a step backward, but she could not escape his grasp. Her entire face reddened and she gasped, “Shut the door! We don’t want anyone to see us.”
“You shut it if you want,” Fargo said, but as she started to step past him he flicked a hand between her legs and up under her robe.
“What are you—?” Darby blurted. “Oh!” She tried to pull back, but his fingers were where he wanted them. “The bed, damn you. Carry me to the bed.”
“Why bother?” Fargo slowly lowered his mouth to her neck and bit her. As his teeth sank in, he thrust upward with his middle finger.
“Ah! Dear God!” Darby placed her hands on his shoulders and feebly attempted to push him away, but another thrust buckled her knees and she sagged against him, groaning deep in her throat. “Not like this,” she whispered.
“Why not?” Fargo lowered her left hand to his pants.
“Ohhhhh.” Trembling, Darby closed her eyes. Her forehead dipped to his chest and she panted uncontrollably, caught in the throes of lust. “This isn’t how I wanted it to be.”
“Didn’t you?” Fargo wrapped his free arm around her waist and lifted. She did not weigh much, no more than a hundred and ten or so, and he easily raised her high enough. She looked at him quizzically, not divining his intent until she felt movement below their waists.
“What are you doing?” Darby jerked at the contact. “Not like this! Not standing up when there is a bed right there!”
“I like to stand,” Fargo teased, and did with his hips as he had been doing with his fingers.
“No! No! No!” Darby protested huskily, but her body was saying
“I don’t like you much either,” Fargo responded, and rose up onto the tips of his toes.
A whine issued from Darby’s full lips, a whine of commingled need and frustration. She thrashed from side to side as if she were in pain, but her expression betrayed the carnal truth.
Suddenly turning, Fargo pressed her against the wall. They were inches from the open door, and the hallway. Anyone coming down it could not fail to notice them. “Maybe we’ll have an audience,” he said.
“You are the worst bastard I have ever met,” Darby growled. “I should claw your eyes out.”
“You’re welcome to try.” Fargo rammed up into her with all his might. She choked off a shriek as her body went into a paroxysm of rapture. Her legs hiked upward and wrapped tight around him.
“I will hate you for this.”
“I’ll try not to lose sleep over it,” was Fargo’s retort. He cupped her breasts and kneaded them like clay he was trying to rip apart.
“That hurts!” Darby mewed, her eyelids hooded, her chest heaving.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Yes! No! I mean—” Darby gasped. “I didn’t figure on this! I like tenderness. I like—Oh!” She shuddered, and at his next thrust, flung her arms around him and clung desperately to his shoulder. “No! Don’t stop! I want it! God help me, I want it, I want it, I want it.”
“Then you can have it.” Fargo unleashed the full power of his need, slamming repeatedly into her. His manhood and her womanhood were a fluid meld—his hard to her soft, his sword to her scabbard, his ram to her ewe. She no longer cared that the door was open, no longer cared that someone was secretly spying on them or that someone else might happen by. She was lost in the moment. He lost himself in it, too, giving himself entirely to his craving.
Fargo heard her whimper. Later she might harbor regrets, but he felt no prick of conscience. She had brought it on herself. He drove into her yet again and she sucked in a breath that seemed to have no end while quaking in
