Page 27 of Native Hawk
“A hundred dollars?” he said, incredulous. “That’s as much as a pair of pearl-handled revolvers.”
“Miss Hattie gave me a position as a housekeeper.” She absently coiled a lock of her hair around her finger. “But it is only one dollar a day. It will take me many days to make enough money.”
“Which is why you decided to fleece me for twenty days worth o’ wages in one night?” he teased.
“Fleece? I do not know this word.”
“The hell you don’t,” he said, laughing.
He finished unbuttoning his shirt, took it off, and hung it on top of his vest. Now there was only a single thin layer of white cotton undershirt to keep him from being indecent.
Looking at him with languid eyes and a limp jaw, she reached for the whiskey bottle again. How many glasses would it take to make her stop thinking about what was underneath that undershirt?
When he unbuttoned the top button of his trousers, she took a big gulp straight out of the bottle.
He smiled and shook his head. “You know, you keep drinkin’ like that, Cat, and you’re liable to get yourself in a heap o’ trouble.”
She was already in a heap of trouble. At least while she was drinking, she couldn’t be distracted by…
Ohime!Now he’d undone the second button.
She should avert her gaze. She knew that. But her eyes were not cooperating. They kept drifting back to the man who was so brazenly undressing before her.
“So what do they drink in Italy?” he asked as his fingers moved toward the third button.
Forcing her brain to focus, she answered,“Vino,wine. My father is known for his wine. The vineyards of Ferrara are…are…” She stuttered, realizing she’d blurted out the name of her home. “Ferrararianna…are the best in the country.” She grimaced at her clumsy improvisation. There was no such place as Ferrararianna. Hopefully, he didn’t know the regions of Italy.
He paused before the last button. “Well, you may have noticed, whiskey is a mite stronger than wine.”
She nodded. That was true. She’d never once choked on a glass of wine, nor had she ever become so giddy on so little.
She gulped as he undid the last button and slid the trousers from his hips. He was still wearing his drawers—white cotton with long legs, tied and fastened with buttons. But to her consternation, they did little to hide what was between his legs. And that part of him seemed somewhat more pronounced than anything that would fit beneath the fig-leaf-covered statues in Rome.
While she tried not to look, he shook out his trousers and hooked them on the bedpost along with the rest of his clothes.
Per carità!She hoped he was finished. Between the whiskey, her own state of undress, and the alluring magnificence of his body…
She set her drink down and tried to walk as casually as possible to the opposite side of the bed. There she knelt, folded her hands, bowed her head, and began to pray.
Mostly she prayed for her own salvation, because she was having the most impure and sinful thoughts. And she didn’t think she could entirely blame the whiskey.
Drew stood with his hands on his hips, dumbfounded. Was she actually saying her prayers? He didn’t know much about the religion of his mother, but he was pretty sure working in a bawdy house wasn’t on the list of commandments.
While he watched her with curiosity, she genuflected and then started to rise on unsteady limbs. Her eyes widened when she looked at him again, as if she’d prayed he’d be gone and he wasn’t.
Placing her palms on the mattress, she pushed herself up. But her camisole tie was under one of her hands, so when she rose, it came untied.
She didn’t notice, and for a few seconds, Drew battled with his own morality, debating whether to tell her. Even though he carefully avoided glancing down, he could see the luscious, deep hollow between her breasts and imagine the kisses he could place there.
In the end, his damned conscience guided him. He cleared his throat and nodded to the ties.
She furrowed her brow. She didn’t understand.
“Your…” he said, waving a vague hand in the direction of her camisole.
Her frown deepened.
He tapped his own chest.
