The Pleasure Chest. Jule Mcbride
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didn’t blame her for wishing that was so. Gentling his voice, he said, “I think you know the truth, Tanya.”
She sucked a quick breath through small, perfect, very white teeth. “You know my name?”
He hadn’t been sure. “Saw it on yer letters.” As near as he could tell, someone named James owned the shop downstairs, from which maps were sold.
She nodded slowly.
“Now, why don’t we go back downstairs?” he suggested, his throat feeling dry again, probably because he’d just watched her thrust those shapely legs into pants of stretch material that showed every curve. “I found a bottle of good whiskey, and I could use another shot.”
Her eyes darted to the painting once more, and she studied the empty space where Stede had once painted himself into the landscape. It was days after the duel, and he’d been on the deck of a privateer vessel, sailing out of town. He’d wanted to leave a painted account of what had really happened that morning, just for the record. Then, everything had become hazy. At first he thought he’d died. And then he simply felt as if he were…drifting.
Her voice brought him back to the present. “A shot of whiskey?” she said, her voice scarcely audible. Then she added something that was music to his ears. “I think I could use one, too.”
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