His Substitute Bride

Darkness had fallen, creeping in over the bay like a stealthy black cat. The last trolley car rolled into the barn for the night. Gaslit lamps glowed along the streets. Workmen with their tin lunch pails trudged home to the crowded wooden tenements south of Market Street. The mansions on Nob Hill blazed with light as carriages swept the rich off to parties or to the theater.

In the Jackson Street flat, Quint sat with his feet on the ottoman, gazing into the fire. From the bathroom came the sounds of Annie dressing Clara after her bath. Their girlish giggles resonated like music.

A legal pad and a freshly sharpened pencil lay on the side table. Quint had planned to spend some time jotting down notes for his next column. But tonight his mind was on other things.

The afternoon had been pleasantly spent, driving across the city, seeing the waterfront, the towering new office buildings and the legendary Palace Hotel where Teddy Roosevelt had been a recent guest. They’d laughed as Clara chased pigeons in Union Square and shared dripping ice cream in little sugared waffle cones at a sidewalk café. At the end of the day they’d come home to Chao’s savory lamb stew with fresh greens and flaky crescent rolls. Annie had insisted on washing the dishes so that Chao could go home to his family in Chinatown.

Clara had been a delight the whole time. As for Annie…

Quint paused in his thoughts, listening to the muffled sound of her voice through the bathroom door. He’d never given much thought to Hannah’s younger sister. The only time he could recall being alone with her was the day he’d taught her to shoot. It was a surprise to find her so intelligent, warm and perceptive. Little Annie Gustavson had grown up to be one fine woman. Any man on earth would be lucky to have her.

The bathroom door swung open and Clara pattered out in her white ruffled nightgown. With her freshly washed curls tumbling around her face, she looked like a six-year-old angel. Quint’s heart contracted as she scampered toward him. If he never did anything worthwhile in his life, siring this little girl would make up for it all.

“Would you tuck me in, please, Uncle Quint?” Her chocolate eyes melted him.

“I’ll be happy to tuck you in.”

“And would you read me Peter Rabbit first?” The small book had been a present from Quint two years ago, and she’d brought it along in her bag.

“How many times have you heard that story?” Quint teased. “Do you think it will be any different this time?”

“No. But I like it the way it is.” Clara skipped off to get the book. Annie had come out of the bathroom, her sleeves rolled up, her white shirtwaist unbuttoned at the collar. Damp tendrils of hair spilled over her forehead. She looked deliciously soft and mussy.

“While you’re reading, I believe I’ll take advantage of the warm water and have a bath myself,” she said. “We can visit later. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead. And help yourself to my new bathrobe. It’s hanging on the back of the door.”

She colored slightly. “Oh, really, I—”

“No, try it on. It’s cashmere. I paid a king’s ransom for it. It’ll spoil you silly.”

“We’ll see.” Annie ducked into the bathroom as Clara came bounding back into the parlor with her storybook.

Settling her beside him on the sofa, Quint began to read familiar tale of Peter Rabbit and his mother’s stern admonition not to go into Mr. McGregor’s garden. By now he knew the words almost by heart—which was a good thing, because his mind had begun to wander forbidden paths. The splashing sounds behind the bathroom door conjured up visions of Annie lying naked in the tub, her small, shapely breasts jutting like pink-crowned islands from a sea of soapy water. He’d never thought of Annie that way before. But damn it, he was thinking of her that way now.

Clara nudged him. “You left something out, Uncle Quint.”

“I did? What?”

“The part where Peter feels sick and looks for some parsley.”

“Maybe you should read it to me.”

“You read it better. But please, pay attention.”

Quint forced his concentration back to the trials of poor Peter. He had no business thinking about Annie Gustavson naked, he chastised himself. Unlike most of the women he knew, Annie was every inch a lady. If she knew what was going through his head, she would likely slap him senseless.

Annie eased back in the water, rested her heels on the end of Quint’s glorious claw-footed bathtub and closed her eyes. After the long, jarring train ride and the busy afternoon, this was pure heaven.

A bar of soap lay on a shelf next to the tub. Its woodsy, masculine scent recalled the way Quint had smelled when he’d leaned close to her in the cab. She held it under her nose and inhaled deeply, letting the subtle fragrance penetrate her senses. Soaping her hands, she sat up and lathered her skin. An image crept into her mind—Quint, naked in this very tub, rubbing the same soap onto his body. She pictured him massaging the lather into his armpits, down his broad chest and flat belly, between his legs…

Merciful heaven, this wouldn’t do! Her selfcontrol was slipping like a broken garter!

The water was getting cool. With a sigh, Annie rinsed herself, pulled the rubber plug and stepped out of the tub. Quint’s honey-colored cashmere robe hung on its brass hook. He’d invited her to borrow it. Annie might have refused the invitation, but she’d left her own light flannel dressing gown in the guest bedroom she shared with Clara. It was either put on Quint’s robe or get dressed in her clothes again which, since she planned to go to bed soon, struck her as a waste of time.

After toweling herself dry, she lifted the robe off its hook. It felt sensuous and weighty in her hands, like something between velvet and fur. Whispers of scent—Quint’s soap, Quint’s body—rose from the lush fabric as she wrapped it around her, slid her arms into the sleeves and knotted the thick sash. The softness was heaven on her bare skin. It made her want to purr like a cat.

Clutching the oversize robe around her, she stepped into the hall. Through the open doorway of the guest bedroom, Annie could hear Quint’s offkey baritone singing his daughter to sleep. What a shame Quint didn’t have children he could claim as his own. The man would make a wonderful father—if he could ever bring himself to settle down.

Tiptoeing into the parlor, she curled up on the settee and tucked her bare feet beneath the robe. In the fireplace pine logs popped and crackled. Annie basked in their warmth as she listened to Quint’s gruff lullaby. Hannah’s photograph, so beautiful, smiled down at her from the wall.

Why should Quint even want to settle down? she mused. He had plenty of money and a comfortable apartment, with a servant to cook and clean. And she’d wager he had his share of women, too, including the flame-haired actress who’d stopped by their table at Delmonico’s. As for children, maybe Clara was all the child he needed. He could love and indulge her without the burden of being a father. No ties. No responsibilities. Quint was as free as a bird, and he seemed to like it that way.

Why should she pin her hopes on such a man? It was time she opened her eyes and faced the truth. If she kept her heart set on Quint Seavers, she’d be committing herself to a life of spinsterhood.

“There you are.” He came around the back of the settee and settled himself at the opposite end. Reflected flames danced in his warm brown eyes. “Maybe you should keep that robe. You look a lot better in it than I do. How do you like it?”

Annie stirred self-consciously. “It’s the most decadent thing I’ve ever worn. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go put on my night clothes and return it to you.”

“No, stay.” His hand touched her wrist, rousing a tingle of awareness. “Clara’s barely asleep. You don’t want to wake her. Besides, I’ve never been alone with a woman wearing nothing but a cashmere bathrobe. Doesn’t it make you feel wicked?”

Annie’s cheeks flamed hot. He was playing with her, probably laughing at her discomfort.

“Stop teasing me, Quint,” she said. “I’m not one of your conquests.”

“Oh?” His left eyebrow quirked upward. “Then who are you, pray tell, Miss Annie Gustavson?”

“Hannah’s sister. Clara’s aunt. And your good friend, as well, I hope.”

He leaned closer, his eyes twinkling seductively. “You’re all those things. But that’s not what I’m asking. I want to know about the woman inside that prim and proper skin of yours. Who is she? Has she ever been in love?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

He grinned like a naughty schoolboy and settled back into the corner of the settee. “Little Annie. I’ve known you since you were in pigtails. But right now I feel as if I hardly know you at all.”

Annie stared down at her hands. She’d never considered herself shy. With most men, in fact, she could even be clever. But one smile from Quint Seavers was all it took to turn her into a bumbling, tonguetied schoolgirl.

She forced herself to meet his mocking eyes. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

“Whatever you like. You choose.”

“All right. Let me think.”

Quint studied her as she sat poised in silence. The collar of the cashmere robe framed her throat, lending a glow to her porcelain skin. Dampened by the steamy bath, her hair tumbled around her heartshaped face, framing her stormy eyes, her elegant cheekbones, her perfect, pillow-soft lips.

Lord, didn’t she know how beautiful she was?

He imagined tasting that mouth, nibbling at her lower lip, then crushing her in a long, deep kiss, his hands sliding beneath the cashmere to stroke her satiny skin, loosening the sash to…