Almost a Lady by Heidi Betts Page B

volition.
    Well, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. If he wanted her to panic and admit to being in that alley, then she would remain calm and keep her mouth shut.
    Besides, maybe he really didn't know anything. Maybe he was grabbing at straws, trying to draw her into confessing something he only suspected.
    "Good night,” she said shortly and pushed open the bedroom door.
    "Good night,” he called after her. Then, before she closed the door behind her, “Oh, Willow, you wouldn't happen to own an ivory-handled revolver, would you? With a matching stiletto blade?"

Chapter Twelve

    Willow leaned weakly against the bedroom door, covering her ears to block out the demonic sound of his mocking laughter.
    So he knew. So what?
    Brandt already knew she was a Pinkerton agent, so what did it matter if he also knew she'd been the one to accost him in that Jefferson City alleyway? If he hadn't been so blasted nosy in the first place, he wouldn't have gotten a knife put to his groin.
    Willow was beginning to wish she'd done as threatened and cut it off.
    But what if he told Robert?
    Robert would have no problem with her trying to apprehend a criminal in such a manner, but if Brandt also related the circumstances of her residence in Jefferson City, Robert would have her guarding the mayor's poodle before the day was out.
    And the only way to keep Brandt from letting the cat out of the bag was to come clean, level with him, be . . . honest.
    The thought made her shiver.
    How long had it been since she'd practiced honesty? She couldn't quite remember. Lying had become second nature to her, a reflex. She lied to get out of sticky situations; she lied to get into them. She lied to keep her profession a secret, and she lied to cover up her family background.
    She wasn't sure she could tell the truth if she tried.
    But now was as good a time as any to find out.
    She shrugged out of her heavy black coat and tossed it on the bed, covering the file she'd stolen from Robert's office. Spine stiff, shoulders braced, she held her head high and marched back into the sitting room.
    Brandt lounged in the corner of the settee, eyes sparkling in merriment. “I didn't expect to see you again until morning,” he said.
    She had half a notion to ask why he was still here, in her room, then. Instead of gracing his arrogant presence with a reply, she remained silent. From her waistband, she pulled the pearl-handled Smith & Wesson American revolver, setting it on the low table in front of him. Next came the stiletto knife from inside her boot and the tiny derringer stuffed at the small of her back. The line of weaponry glowed in the lamplight, each positioned pointedly at Brandt's belly.
    "I assume that answers your question,” Willow said matter-of-factly.
    He stared at the miniature munitions collection set before him. Each piece had ivory handles with the carving of a man and woman in seventeenth-century dress beneath a weeping willow tree.
    He reached for the pistol, palming it, testing its weight. His eyes never left the ornate carving.
    "I take it this is symbolic,” he remarked.
    "My name is Willow,” she answered blandly.
    "Was it your idea to have all of your weapons customized this way?"
    "They were a gift."
    That brought his head up. His green eyes drilled into her own . “From whom?"
    "Is that a professional question, or a personal one?"
    "I'd like to know who knows you well enough to present you with a veritable armory—all bearing the same scene, indicative of your name. Let me guess: Your parents were so proud of their little girl's decision to work for Pinkerton that they had them special made for you."
    Her teeth clamped shut. “My parents were already dead when I joined the Agency."
    A hint of remorse touched his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to dredge up painful memories."
    She shrugged indifferently, then took a deep breath and tried to relax, reminding herself that Brandt's opinion didn't matter. She