Even now, observing Luke Taggart through a cracked door, she felt in awe of him. A funny, fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach made her pulse quicken. His topcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a pale gray silk vest over a crisp white shirt and darker gray trousers, the sharp creases in the legs drawn smooth by the bunched muscles in his thighs.
Hair the color of burnished oak framed his sun-darkened features, which were so well-defined they might have been chiseled from granite. His jaw was angular. An aquiline nose jutted from between tawny, winged brows. A full yet firm mouth was bracketed by deep creases that offset the stubborn thrust of his squared chin. It was a beautiful face, classically masculine, its planes weathered by the elements, the skin etched with tiny crow’s-feet.
Free to study him closely for the first time, Cassandra couldn’t help but notice that his expression seemed at odds with the strength he emanated. A lost, confused look dominated his features, like that of a little boy wandering the streets who’d forgotten his way home a long time ago and had no hope of finding it again.
Tapping the fat envelope against his palm, he gazed at the poor box, clearly troubled and undecided about whether or not he should make a donation. Then, with a determined briskness, he thrust the envelope back inside his jacket and strode to the door. Once there, he stood with his back to Cassandra, one hand resting on the doorknob, his shoulders rigid. At any second, she expected him to leave. Instead, he heaved a sigh that conveyed soul-deep weariness, then spun back around to descend on the poor box again, his manner so filled with frustration that she wasn’t sure if he meant to make a donation or dismantle the box.
As he stood there, wrestling with emotions she couldn’t define, he suddenly seemed to sense that someone was staring at him. He jerked his head up, his preoccupied, unguarded expression turning wary, his stance taking on a sudden tension that electrified the air. His reaction was like that of a man who’d been caught red-handed in an act of thievery or some other equally iniquitous wrongdoing, which made no sense at all.
Cassandra caught her breath against the impact of his startled, piercing gaze. His eyes were the color of whiskey shot through with firelight, the glinting amber irises ringed with black. She’d noticed them before, of course. Lots of times when she had passed him on the streets of Black Jack, but she’d never felt the full force of them leveled directly at her.
As fierce and golden as a tiger’s, his gaze turned her skin hot, seeming to strip her bare. Held transfixed, she felt a sudden rush of fear as inexplicable as it was paralyzing. Nonsense, her practical side scoffed. But another part of her felt completely unnerved, and she wanted to run. Insolent and bold, his gaze slid over her, lingering for an endless moment on her breasts before continuing downward, then sweeping back up to her face.
The silence in the otherwise empty church seemed deafening, driving home to her how vulnerable she was. Even if she screamed her very loudest, no one was likely to hear.
As if he guessed her thoughts, he cocked a tawny eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching with a suppressed smile. Tapping the envelope against his palm again, he said, “It would seem I’ve been found out.”
His voice curled around her like warm smoke, the wispy tendrils holding her fast. She tried to think of something to say, but her mind had gone stupidly blank.
He quickly closed the envelope, then thrust it into the poor box. Bringing his gaze back to her, he tipped his hat. “I trust this will remain our secret? I’d just as soon no one knows.”
Before Cassandra could think of a response, he turned and exited the church.
Silence swamped the vestibule after his departure—a heavy, echoing silence that seemed to press against her eardrums. She stared at the poor box for several seconds, then began moving slowly toward it, curiosity outweighing her hesitancy. Lifting the lid of the box, she withdrew the envelope he had left. Scrawled across its face was one word: orphanage.
A smile touched Cassandra’s mouth. A few weeks back, she’d heard the good sisters of St. Mary’s wondering aloud about the anonymous benefactor who had made a sizable donation to the orphanage. Now the mystery was solved. The do-gooder had been none other than the scandalous, godless, and wicked Luke Taggart.
Cassandra returned the envelope to the box, her heart catching as she recalled the confused, lost look she’d seen in his eyes before he realized anyone was watching him. Wickedness? For reasons beyond her, he apparently wanted everyone to believe that of him. He might even believe it himself.
But for a few brief seconds, she’d glimpsed the man behind the mask, and somehow she knew that Luke Taggart was many things, but wicked wasn’t one of them.