Lisa Plumley - Notorious in the West

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.”

“Well. I’m afraid that won’t be possible here.”

“It will be possible,” he disagreed, unable to believe they were actually arguing about this. “Or I’ll know the reason.”

He expected compliance. Usually—and forever after—he got it. Instead, from her, Griffin merely received a smile. Her smile was steeped in patience, glowing with a sunset’s worth of prettiness. It confused him into silence. She had to be the most sought-after woman in Morrow Creek. Why was she there, with him?

And why did she look so...familiar to him?

“Mr. Turner, The Lorndorff Hotel enjoys a fine reputation in the Arizona Territory and well beyond.” Her peaceably clasped hands did not entreat him to listen, the way Miss Holloway’s outflung palms had earlier, but rather suggested that this “chambermaid” took for granted Griffin’s full attention and eventual cooperation. That was...unusual...in an employee. “Certainly you wouldn’t have us endanger that reputation by ignoring one of our most important guests while he’s here, would you?”

Pleasantly, she awaited his response. For a heartbeat, Griffin could not fathom who she was talking about.

Then he realized. It was him.

Hell. He hated when that happened to him. When would his success and security finally sink into his bones?

Bothered that she’d made him remember both his hungry days of skipping meals and his days of clawing for success during the same few minutes’ conversation, Griffin frowned. This ended now.

Roughly, he strode to the bureau. He rummaged through his things, came up with his money clip and counted some bills.

He strode back to her with a handful of cash on offer.

“Take it. Consider your work here done,” Griffin said. “I’ll never say a word to damage The Lorndorff’s reputation.”

She frowned at the money, plainly as much at a loss for a response as he had been during her demand for an apology to the maid. Even with her brow furrowed, she somehow looked tempting.

All the more reason, he figured, to have her gone.

He knew exactly the means to managing that. Quickly, too.

“Surely this isn’t the first time a man has offered you money.” Griffin nodded coldly at the cash. “The difference is, this time, all you have to do to earn it is leave.”

Her face jerked upward to meet his, giving him the fleeting and unfamiliar impression that she didn’t care a whit about his nose or his tenement life or his poor abused heart. No one had ever looked past his nose long enough to pierce his soul—not the way she did. It was almost enough to make Griffin regret goading her. Almost, but not quite. Not when she struck back at him.

“You should be ashamed, sir! I am not for sale.”

“Are you sure about that?” He waggled his money, belatedly realizing why she looked familiar to him. “I saw a whole passel of cheap elixir bottles downstairs that say otherwise.”

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. “That was— It was—”

“It was proof you can be bought. There’s no shame in that, as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I approve.” Griffin sent his gaze over her face and figure with newfound respect, seeing beyond her fine features and evident decorum to the real, raw woman beneath. “After all, you can’t pay bills with virtue, can you?”

“I am virtuous!” Her cheeks pinkened. “And you are wrong.”

“Am I?”

Her annoyed gaze locked with his. “Yes.”

“Hmm. That’s interesting.” He observed her anew, liking her courage. “I bet you wish you’d left when you had the chance.”

He felt a smile sneak onto his face and was dumbfounded by it. It couldn’t be that he was enjoying her company now that he knew she wasn’t some uptight, righteous type—could it?

It seemed it could, Griffin marveled, and smiled afresh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled twice in one day.

His pleasure only appeared to gall her further. “I wish I’d clobbered you with your breakfast tray. That’s what I wish!”

He offered a tsk, tsk of sham politeness. “Come now. That’s hardly the exemplary service The Lorndorff is known for.”

An unintelligible sound of frustration came from her. Oddly enough, Griffin liked it. He liked seeing her ladylike facade crumble. He liked knowing he could affect her. He liked...her.

The realization made Griffin falter.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her.

He’d come here to be alone. He’d set out to make his supposed “chambermaid” leave, not to become smitten with her. He was not a man who failed to achieve his objectives. Not anymore.

“That sort of outburst really does call for dismissal,” he reminded her. “You shouldn’t push a man like me too far.”

“Asking for an apology is not going ‘too far,’” she averred. “I insist you ask for Miss Holloway’s forgiveness.”

Impressed by her determination, he considered it. Then he came to his senses. “No. But you’re gutsy. I like that.”

She gawked. “You’re mad. But I should have expected that!”

Irately, her gaze whipped over his black clothes, his hat and his dark hair, as though their combined qualities entirely proved her assertion. Griffin figured they probably did, to most people. He wore black to avoid attention. He wore his hat to hide his face. He wore his hair long to distract from his hated nose. He’d done what he could, just as he’d sworn he would years ago, to make the world see a man when they looked at him.

He reckoned he’d done pretty well hiding the Turner curse. But this woman... She looked as if she saw every inch of badness in him. As if she saw him and didn’t approve of what he’d become.

Well, that made them even, then, didn’t it?

He’d become a man, it was true. But not a good man. Not entirely. He’d been counting on Mary to make that transformation complete. Now, though, Griffin was lost. Probably for good.

That made holing up at The Lorndorff a fine plan. The devil didn’t deserve a heavenly choir. Griffin Turner didn’t deserve sunshine and smiles and the friendly company of good people.

“I should have expected no better,” she declared, breaking into his ruminations, “from a man who would belittle a maid, manhandle a woman and offer a bribe, all before breakfast!”

Her outraged tone suggested that she actually objected to his actions, not his appearance. Griffin knew that could not be the case. It never was. Especially not while she was, at that very moment, avoiding looking him straight in the face—avoiding looking at his nose. Avoiding looking at pitiable Hook Turner.

His temper flared. This was why he needed to be alone.

“If you’re hoping to be ‘manhandled,’ as you say, you’ve come to the wrong room,” he informed her coolly. “I’m not interested in empty-headed women with nothing more on their minds than posing prettily and being paid handsomely for it.”

“‘Empty-headed’?” She gawked at him. “You dare call me—”

“Although you did help sell thousands of bottles of that complexion concoction,” Griffin went on smoothly. “I hear it’s even more successful than Lydia E. Pinkham’s tonic. I offer you my congratulations, miss, from one entrepreneur to another.”

Sardonically, he offered her a sharp salute.

She did not appreciate the gesture. “You gravely misunderstand me, Mr. Turner. Worse, you underestimate me.”

“No.” He contemplated it. “I don’t believe I do.”

“I am more than an image on a bottle!”

“Really? What else are you?”

Rather than answer him, she paced. Then she whirled, sending her skirts swaying. “You truly are beyond the pale.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

“What else am I? I’m unimpressed with you, that’s what else I am. You’re hopelessly rude. Purposely boorish—”

“I’ve been deemed much worse.” By my own mother, for one. “Although not by anyone as wholesome as you.” He gave a civil nod. “I’ll take your attentiveness as a compliment.”

“Don’t. All I want from you is a bit of contrition.”

“Ah. You’re angling for an apology for yourself now, too?”

“You are the one who’s empty-headed, Mr. Turner, if you believe I would ask for an apology for myself.”