He was here, she realized, to watch over her. Amusement warred with exasperation inside her. Craig, you silly, foolish man. Dammit, I’m all right. When are you going to get that through your head?
“Would you like some help, Mrs. Hamilton?” A soft-eyed blonde stepped shyly forward.
“No, thank you, Sharon.”
With a ruthless eye, Sonia fingered only the most luxurious of satins, the most frivolous of laces. It was time she took some direct action against her increasingly enigmatic husband. Craig could occasionally be unbudgeable. Bullheaded, in short. Maybe it was going to take him a little more time to get that incident in Chicago out of his head, and maybe the wisest thing for her to do was simply ignore that receipt she’d found in his desk, ignore George, ignore all the little signs that her husband’s possessiveness had burgeoned out of control.
Patience, she urged herself. In all but one arena. She held a lacy shocking-pink robe up to the light and put it down again. Not nearly sexy enough.
Craig had always been a strong, dominating personality. It might be a well-kept secret most of the time, but she was a long way from being a marshmallow herself. And not that she really believed anything was seriously wrong with their relationship, but occasionally it couldn’t hurt to use a little guerrilla warfare. Her eyes lit up and narrowed on an emerald satin nightgown.
Now there was lethal ammunition.
Sonia stretched lazily as she stood up from the table. “I can’t understand why I’m so sleepy. Think I’ll turn in early tonight.”
Charlie lifted his eyes from the plate of cherry pie. “You look about as sleepy as popcorn that just got the heat. And it’s only eight o’clock, you know.”
“I know.” One by one, she fed the dinner plates into the dishwasher, trying to work slower than her usual speed, which was like Parnelli Jones in a car race. Craig had called to say he would be working late, that he’d have dinner in town and hoped to be home by nine.
“And did you know that those pups of yours chewed straight through a brand-new harness last night?” Charlie asked.
“The harness shouldn’t have been left on the ground,” Sonia instantly defended them.
Charlie snorted. “That Rayburn lady in town said she’d take one on, and pay good money for it, too.”
“She doesn’t have any kids.” After she made a swift swipe of the counter, the kitchen looked spotless-barring the broiler pan in the sink.
“So?”
“Charlie, I’m not going to sell the pups to just anybody.”
“Take out the just,” Charlie suggested. “Five bucks says you don’t sell any of them to anybody, flat out.” He shoved his plate forward and lit his cigar. Sonia could have kicked him. Instead, she scrubbed the broiler pan, washed his dessert plate, whipped the leftover pie into the refrigerator and turned to face Charlie with another ostentatious yawn.
“What’d you buy in town?” he asked her, as if she hadn’t given him every opportunity to amble toward the door.
“Nothing.”
“You came home with a package.”
“Did your mother ever tell you you were nosy?” She leaned back against the counter, regarding her momentary nemesis with an affectionate grin. “Do you hear me asking what you did in town all day?”
“I went to the bank, the hardware store, had lunch with Jim Olsen and checked out the colt Baker wants to sell. Now, what was in the package?”
“Peanut butter.”
“Five bucks says it’s got a neckline that’ll make Craig holler.”
“Craig doesn’t holler.”
Charlie snorted. “Just ’cause he doesn’t yell at you, I wouldn’t be making no rash assumptions that man can’t let loose with the best of them. You just got him hoodwinked so he thinks you’re softer than melted butter.”
She had a fine answer for him, but unfortunately the phone rang. Charlie had only to raise a hand to reach the wall extension. Adjusting his cigar, he barked into the phone, “Hamiltons’, Charlie here.”
His face changed from teasing, gregarious Charlie to an odd stillness. “It’s all right. You can talk to me. I’ll relay the message. Yes…”
She was watching him curiously when his eyes darted in her direction, then shifted. “Nothing important,” he mouthed to her with a smile, then stood up from the chair, taking the phone as far away as its cord would let him.
“You know, Mr. Hamilton was expecting a little more action by now. As in, results. Not that I’m saying you don’t know your business, but if I were you…”
His voice was low, and he had turned his face away from her. Sonia felt something twist inside her. Maybe the person on the other end of the line wasn’t the Chicago detective Craig had hired to find the muggers; maybe the call was just business. Like hell.
Charlie hung up a moment later, and crushed his cigar in the ashtray on the counter. “Craig told some dude he might be interested in some horses of his,” he said blithely.
“Sure.” Sonia straightened from the counter and headed for the door, her tone suddenly crisp. “Did I tell you George went to Brock’s with me this afternoon, Charlie? He bought a fan belt for the pickup.”
“He wha-?” Charlie’s voice trailed off. He stared at her, guilty awareness imprinted on his face as clearly as a milk mustache. “Now, look. Sonia…”
“Forget it.” She kissed his cheek. “Sleep well.”
Enough, she told herself firmly. Enough, enough, enough. Everyone on the ranch seemed to be involved in conspiracies, primarily regarding her. Since when had anyone ever had to treat her like porcelain?
In her bathroom, she flicked on the tub faucets and reached for a vial of perfume. She poured in a few drops and, on second thought, emptied the little bottle. The fragrance burst free in the steamy water; she stole one more look at the clock in the bedroom, then closed the doors to seal in the scent, and rapidly stripped off her clothes. Eight twenty-four. She had half an hour, anyway, before Craig was due home.
Her planned soak was a quick one, just long enough for the perfume to permeate her skin. From there she stepped out to wrap a towel around herself, applied a scented cream to her feet and hands and throat, and when that was dry dropped the towel and hurried into the bedroom. Lights, she thought absently, and promptly turned on the shaded lamp on the dresser, then closed the curtains with a single glance outside to make sure Craig wasn’t driving in at that instant.
He wasn’t. The green satin nightgown was hidden in the closet; gently, she pulled it off the hanger and slipped it over her head. In front of the dresser mirror, she adjusted the two tiny straps and took a first glance.
The gown definitely had Garbo seductiveness, the satin slinky from neckline to floor, flowing smoothly even as it outlined her breasts and tummy and thighs. In its center was an embroidered cutout, baring a triangle of white skin at her navel. Her mood lifted into irrepressible wickedness as she brushed her hair into a deliberately disheveled mass of curls. No lipstick, but she bit her lips three times and then stared again. She definitely liked that little peephole in the center of the gown.
Glancing at the clock again, she hastily pawed through the trinkets in a box on her dresser. You’re not going to do this, she told herself, even as she drew out a tiny round glass jewel. Her father had given her the necklace when she was a little girl. It wasn’t valuable; she’d broken the chain years ago and simply kept the little green bit of glass because she loved it. It fit, precisely, in her navel.
She glanced at the mirror again. For heaven’s sake, take that out of there. This is not Arabia. She performed a tentative seductive undulation with her tummy; the stone popped out. Cheeks flushed, she picked it up, and gave the clock another worried look.