Heaven with a Gun by Connie Brockway

Author:Connie Brockway [Brockway, Connie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: romance
Publisher: Connie Brockway
Published: 2013-08-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Vance Calhoun owned the only brick house in Far Enough. Its brand-spanking-new Gothic Revivalist bulk splayed over half the length of a street, and its private stable yard took up the rest. In spite of the modern architecture and the white-gloved Negro man taking hats and coats in the doorway, there was no mistaking Far Enough for Chicago.

Close by, the lowing of thousands of cows— steers—set up a deep, melancholy counterpoint to the raucous sound of human voices spilling from the Calhouns’ house. A dog started barking and a chicken squawked as women tittered and ranchers guffawed.

At the front door, the servant bowed them in. “I’m really looking forward to this,” Gilly whispered, turning from Jim and letting her shawl slide from her shoulders into his waiting hands.

“Well, at least one of us—” Jim stopped.

Apparently Gilly’s dressmaker had used up all the sapphire-color fabric in the gown’s voluminous skirt, because the damn thing didn’t have a top. Or much of one. A ten-inch-wide swath of material acted as a bodice, and from his present position Jim could see a great deal of the lovely back that swath didn’t do a damn thing to cover.

He’d never seen anything as provocative as Gilly’s naked back.

Her shoulders, unfashionably straight and all too fashionably naked, spanned the delicate plumb line of her spine. Her skin was honey-tinted and silky and smooth, young muscle moving beneath its surface. She looked healthy and lithe and bewilderingly female.

“Mrs. Coyne! Jim.” Vance Calhoun came striding down the hall, hand outstretched. Reluctantly, Jim raised his own. Vance ignored it, taking Gilly’s elbow and turning her. At least the neckline didn’t plunge like the back. “Let me show you the house. Jim, there’s punch in the drawing room to your left.”

“I’ll just tag along if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.” The bastard didn’t even bother turning his head. He took off with Gilly clomping along happily by his side, her face alight with admiration. Jim trailed behind like a stray dog. In spite of her claims of owning her own “very nice house,” from the rapt expression Gilly wore, Jim had to wonder if she’d ever been in one as extravagant as the Calhouns’.

She acted like a tourist in a museum, exclaiming over the furniture and the drapes, admiring the oriental carpets and chandeliers, complimenting Calhoun on his objets d’art and paintings.

She was “charmed” by the billiards room. She “adored” the solarium. She thought the music room was “wonderful” and the drawing room “elegant.” And all the while, Jim wondered where the hell Margaret Calhoun was while her husband leered at his wi— He stopped himself just in time. She was his ticket out of here. That’s all. But he was having a harder time remembering that with each passing day. Hell, with each passing hour.

And it wasn’t just her lovely body or siren’s voice. He enjoyed her company, her nonsensical stories and glib wit, the fiery sense of outrage that any perceived injustice roused in her, an indignation so like his own.

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