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  He noted her hesitation as she said, “You know my name is Tricia Shepherd, but I hesitate to allow the intimacy of first names between us since we’re barely acquainted.”

  Drew would have laughed if he’d felt the slightest bit merry. Instead, he replied boldly, “You’ve seen me practically naked; you’ve spent two nights alone with me in this room while I’ve been exposed to you as I’ve never been with any other woman—so I’d say you know me more intimately than most women do.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Different . . .”

  “You were sick. You still are. You needed somebody to take care of you.”

  Right.

  “Besides, you still have the remnants of a fever.”

  More than she realized.

  “Dr. Wesley said the infection seems to be improving, but it still could go either way.”

  Drew’s stomach twisted tight as her breasts heaved before she said, “But you’re right . . . Drew. Formality is a bit absurd at this point.” She compressed her lips. “Now, are you ready to eat something? Your hands are probably unsteady, so I’ll feed you.”

  That thought was more than he could bear. “I can feed myself,” Drew responded more sharply than he intended.

  “But I—”

  “I said, I can feed myself.”

  Tricia did not bother to respond. Instead, she pushed the nightstand closer to the bed and said, “Go ahead.”

  Stubborn . . . unwilling to back down . . . he was impossible!

  Those thoughts flitted through Tricia’s mind as Drew attempted to spoon the thin broth into his mouth while leaning forward awkwardly over the dish. She did not comment when more of the first spoonful ended up on his shirt than in his mouth. She looked away when he mumbled under his breath and tried again, with the same result. She turned determinedly toward the bandages on the dresser that Dr. Wesley had left for her to roll. Moments later she heard the sound of his spoon striking the tray. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Suddenly angry, she strode back to the bed and said, “I’m going to feed you whether you like it or not, and you’re going to finish that broth just like Dr. Wesley instructed—because if you don’t, you’ll never get well.”

  Drew Collins’s eyes met hers as she demanded, “Do you understand?”

  She was uncertain whether she saw a hint of amusement in those depths as she sat down determinedly at his bedside. Annoyed, she picked up the abandoned spoon and ordered, “Open your mouth.”

  Her heart pounded as Drew’s lips parted and she shoved the first spoonful of broth into his mouth. She watched as his lips closed and his throat worked visibly as he swallowed.

  She was sitting closer to him than she really wanted to. His light-eyed gaze was almost palpable as it searched her face and gradually settled on her lips. She could almost feel his body heat, and she controlled her trembling at the thought that the heat she sensed was unrelated to his fever.

  Hardly able to breathe, she slid another spoonful into his mouth.

  Damn . . . what had she gotten herself into?

  Angie shrugged into her dressing gown and pulled it closed around her. She did not bother to fasten the tie, allowing the gown to gape open to reveal flimsy undergarments that exposed a bounty of intimate flesh as she walked down the hallway toward the bordello kitchen. Chantalle frowned on such a casual manner of dress. She took great pains to impress upon all the women that her establishment was not the average bordello, and that she catered to patrons who appreciated an aura of decorum and delicacy in the public rooms, just as much as they sought full sexual gratification once the bedroom doors closed behind them. Angie was only too happy to supply the sexual gratification part, but she continued to fight Chantalle’s restrictions at every turn.

  Frowning, Angie flipped back her dark, unbound hair and started toward the stairs. Hesitating, she then turned back toward the office where she knew Chantalle would be working on her books. Memories of her visit to Simon’s house the previous night remained chillingly clear in her mind.

  Simon hated her almost as much as she hated him—with one difference. He wasn’t afraid of her.

  Angie paused at Chantalle’s doorway. She was uncertain when the relationship between her and Simon had changed from the mutual gratification of perverse sexual needs to something much darker. All she now knew was that he paid her an exorbitant sum to keep him informed of every tidbit of information she was able to obtain about Chantalle and the workings of her house. The sums had increased along with his almost frenetic interest in everything going on there since Whit Hawk and his sister, Jenna Leigh, had returned to Galveston.

  Angie paused with her fist poised to knock on Chantalle’s door. Simon now insisted that she find out all she could about an old, worthless ring that Drew Collins supposedly kept in his money pouch.

  As if she cared.

  She reminded herself belatedly that it didn’t matter if she cared. Simon did, and what Simon wanted, Simon got. If he didn’t, someone would suffer, and she’d be damned if it would be her.

  Knowing only one way to obtain the information Simon wanted—as quickly as he wanted it—Angie knocked on Chantalle’s office door.

  Chantalle frowned when her office door opened and Angie walked into the room. There was never a moment when Angie seemed other than the voluptuous whore she was. A matter as small as the teasing way she flipped her unbound hair, her deliberately casual dishabille, and the open fondling she encouraged from men in the public rooms of the establishment—all were blatant declarations. Chantalle also suspected a part of it was Angie’s desire to irritate her, as was obvious in the attire Angie had chosen to wear this morning.

  If Angie did not serve such a useful function in the house, she would . . .

  Chantalle forced herself to dismiss that thought. Angie did serve a very valuable function, and the girl knew it—but that did not make Chantalle a slave to Angie’s machinations.

  Chantalle raised her brow at Angie’s gaping dressing gown. Angie hastened to tie it closed—too quickly for Chantalle’s comfort. Angie was up to something.

  Chantalle did not have to wait long to find out what it was.

  Angie smiled and said, “I wanted to talk to you, Chantalle . . . about that fella Tricia is taking care of.”

  Immediately alert, Chantalle responded, “What about him?”

  “I feel kind of bad about what I said when he collapsed at the front door the other morning. Now I realize he really was sick.”

  “He’s sick, all right, but Dr. Wesley and Tricia are taking care of him.”

  Angie shrugged. “I suppose that’s fine, but I don’t know how that fella expects to pay for all the service he’s getting, what with him having only a few coins in his money pouch.”

  Chantalle questioned sharply, “How do you know what he has in his money pouch?”

  “You know me. I listen when people talk. It comes in handy sometimes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I heard Tricia tell Polly she didn’t even know the fella’s name at first because he didn’t have any identification on him. All he had was a money pouch with a few coins and an old, damaged ring inside it.”

  “A damaged ring?”

  “With some kind of a crest that has a sailing ship partially visible on it—a piece of junk, if you ask me.”

  Chantalle felt the color drain from her face. Trying to sound uninterested, she said, “I don’t know anything about it . . . and what difference does it make to you?”

  Angie shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just wondered if you all knew something I didn’t know about this fella. Is he really worth all the expense and attention he’s getting? It’s clear to me that if he is, Tricia isn’t the kind to make him comfortable once he’s feeling good again. I figured maybe I should show him that I’m more of what he was looking for when he came here that first day.”

  “I thought he made it clear that he didn’t
want you.”

  Angie’s expression stiffened as she said, “That isn’t likely. I’m thinking he was just sick that day. Anyway, I figured you’d have nothing to lose and would tell me the truth about him if I asked.”

  Chantalle was unable to control the subtle curling of her lip as she said, “You know you’re not my favorite person, Angie, but you make us both money here, so I’ll tell you this. I don’t have any more information about this Drew Collins than you do. As far as the ring is concerned, it sounds like it’s just a piece of junk, as you said.”

  “Then why does he keep it in his money pouch?”

  “I don’t know, sentimental value maybe.” Chantalle’s expression hardened as she added, “But it isn’t my business, and it isn’t yours either. Everybody knows I’ve got a soft spot for fellas who lost everything fighting for the Confederacy. Whether I cater to Yankees or not, that won’t change. As far as this fella is concerned, Tricia is taking good care of him, and she assures me that as soon as he’s well, he’s out the door.”

  Chantalle stood up unexpectedly and advanced a few threatening steps toward Angie as she continued, “So I’m telling you now, mind your business and everything will be fine. If you don’t, you might find yourself out on the street, just like you were before I took you in.”

  Angie’s face flamed as she scoffed, “You wouldn’t do that.”

  Chantalle’s response was coldly succinct. “Try me.”

  Chantalle watched as Angie flounced out of the room. Waiting only until the door clicked closed behind her, Chantalle went still.

  . . . a crest with a sailing ship partially visible on it . . .

  Like Whit Hawk’s ring . . . like the pendants that both Jenna Leigh and Elizabeth Huntington had shown her . . .

  Could it be? Could Whit’s brother possibly have returned to Galveston, too?

  She needed to see the ring for herself.

  Willie Childers squinted against the bright morning sunlight as he urged his horse along the trail. He breathed deeply of the scents of salt air and marshland that were so distinctive to the area, and then shook his head with disgust. He didn’t know what had gotten into him a few days previously when he’d left Drew behind at Madam Chantalle’s bar. Knowing Drew as he did, he guessed Drew probably had had a good reason for the condition he was in when Willie had emerged from Mavis’s upstairs room.

  In the time since he had left Drew, he had returned home to the lovingly tearful welcome of his family. He had slept late, had been treated to many of his favorite foods, and had shaken the hand of every aunt, uncle, and cousin who had shown up at his door. He had even spent a few hours with an old girlfriend, but the misery of his last conversation with Drew continued to plague him. He had gone over it a thousand times in his mind and had arrived at the conviction that Drew was not the kind to disappoint a friend, or to talk to a friend the way he had talked to him. No, there had to be a good reason Drew had sent him back home alone, and he should have realized it.

  He had made a mistake, and he was determined to correct it.

  Willie turned his horse down the familiar trail. He should be in Galveston by evening. He was aware that Drew might have left the city and could be miles away by this time. He hoped that wasn’t true. The only thing he was sure of was that he needed to find his friend and correct their manner of parting.

  Madame Chantalle’s bordello was the last place he had seen Drew. He would start there.

  Tricia turned to look at Drew as he dropped his towel on the bed stand beside him and lay back against his pillow. After feeding Drew the broth as Dr. Wesley had instructed, she had left the room and had stayed away while she struggled to draw her ragged feelings under control. Finally disgusted with her weakness, she had warmed some water and filled a basin to bring back to Drew so he might refresh himself.

  Her first mistake.

  Drew had removed his shirt to bathe, baring his chest and restoring to her mind the intimacy of past nights as she had bathed the fever from his powerful body. She recalled the times during those ministrations when his eyes had flicked open to link with hers, rendering her temporarily breathless. She remembered the inexplicable tightening deep inside her—a spot that now seemed to spring to life each time she was near him. Attempting to strike those images from her mind, she had glanced back intermittently as he refreshed himself, only to realize as his exhaustion became apparent that he intended to forgo any effort to shave. She couldn’t let that happen. She had shaved other wounded soldiers in the past. Surely he did not have so extreme an effect on her that she could not do the same for him.

  Her second mistake.

  Neither Drew’s reaction to her effort nor her own was similar to her experience with the patients she had tended in Yankee hospitals. That fact became obvious when she worked up a lather and, in the absence of a shaving brush or mug, prepared to apply it to his face with her hand.

  An inner tremor shaking her, Tricia attempted to ignore the sense of heightened awareness as she leaned closer to her patient. She could smell the freshly washed, male scent of his skin . . . could feel his breath against her fingers. She sensed rather than heard his subtle intake of breath when she began spreading the lather across his cheeks. She moved her hand gently across his lips and chin, her heart pounding. She told herself she did not truly feel his lips part to touch her fingertips with his tongue, but her hand trembled as she picked up the borrowed straight razor.

  To her surprise, Drew did not flinch. Instead, his eyes remained steady on her face, his gaze as intimate as a caress while she glided the blade over his skin.

  By the time she was done, Tricia was shaken to the core by the multitude of emotions assaulting her. Carefully she wiped the excess lather from Drew’s cheeks.

  He frowned as he said, “I can see you’ve done this before.”

  “Yes . . . I told you . . . in army hospitals up North.”

  His expression sober, he asked unexpectedly, “Did Yankee soldiers smile at you and whisper their thanks when you were done?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Did they tell you that you were an angel in disguise?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How did you answer them?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  He paused, and then said more softly, “How would you answer me if I said those things to you?”

  The subtle softening of Drew’s tone touched a chord deep inside her and Tricia’s inner trembling increased. How was this man able to threaten her defenses against him with a few soft-spoken words? Why did her heart race as he waited for her to reply? Why did she long to respond to his question honestly . . . with words she knew she dared not utter?

  Aware of the intimate danger of the moment, Tricia forced herself to respond, “That possibility isn’t very likely, is it? You’ve made very clear what you think of me for tending to wounded Yankee soldiers—and the word ‘angel’ wasn’t a part of it.”

  Standing up hurriedly in an effort to escape, Tricia said, “I’m going to remove this basin. Do you want anything else before I leave?”

  Drew’s gaze drilled heatedly into hers, quickening her breathing as her question hung in the silence of the room. She sensed the words he was about to speak, and her gaze dropped to his lips as they parted.

  Her heart pounded.

  A knock at the door shattered the moment, snapping their attention in its direction. Dr. Wesley entered the room without waiting for a response. Seemingly unaware of the tense moment he had interrupted, he approached the bed, smiling as he said to Drew, “Shaved, did you? You did a good job. You must be feeling better.” He said to Tricia as she turned to leave, “It looks like you won’t have this fella for a patient too much longer.”

  Tricia mumbled under her breath as she pulled the door closed behind her.

  The sun had passed the midpoint in the sky when Chantalle glanced down at Tricia as she turned out of sight at the foot of the bordello staircase. She unconsciously nodded as Tricia avoided
the public rooms and entered the hallway leading to the rear of the house, where the kitchen was located. Dr. Wesley had visited earlier in the day. He had left shortly after changing the dressing on his patient’s leg, but not before stopping Tricia in the hallway with a few more instructions as to their patient’s care. Drew was now sleeping, and Tricia had informed her when she passed her office minutes before that she was taking the opportunity to go downstairs and help Polly with dinner.

  Perfect.

  Waiting only until she was sure she could not be seen, Chantalle moved silently down the hallway. She opened the bedroom door at the end and slipped inside. She paused to look at Drew as she closed the door behind her. Asleep and motionless in bed, he was so tall and muscular that he appeared to dwarf the bed. She observed with a strange distraction that, cleanly shaven and with his expression relaxed, he was exceedingly handsome. But although his features were strong and even, like those of the other Hawk progeny, she did not see any particular resemblance. Yet one thing was abundantly clear. He was a formidable man who would be a formidable enemy, and she had no desire to incur his wrath.

  Waiting a moment to make certain that he was asleep, she walked quickly toward the dresser where his money pouch lay casually exposed. Her jaw rigid, she pulled it open and took out the ring so she could view it more clearly.

  Chantalle caught her breath. Angie’s description of the ring was accurate. Despite the fact that the sailing ship and Latin motto on the crest were only partially visible, the crest was too similar to those she had seen before to leave any doubt in her mind.

  But . . . did the ring belong to Drew, or had he found it somewhere along the way? He said his name was Drew Collins. If he really was one of the Hawk siblings, why didn’t he use his true name?

  Chantalle considered those questions thoughtfully, deciding it was wiser not to tell Jenna Leigh or Clay about the ring for fear of raising a hope that could be dashed if Drew wasn’t a Hawk after all. Also, Drew’s bitterness about the Confederacy’s defeat was obvious. It was possible that he would consider Jenna Leigh a turncoat for marrying a Yankee officer and turn his back on her even though the war was over.