Naughty Marietta

by Nan Ryan

  “Very well,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll pay you the ten thousand.”

  Cole smiled for the first time since entering the mansion. He said in a low, level voice, “You will have your attorney deposit the money in the Gulf Shores State Bank this afternoon. I’ll leave for Colorado in the morning.”

  “Agreed,” said Maxwell and he, too, was smiling. His attorney had, by telegraph, queried both Union officers and fellow Confederate officers and all had agreed that Cole Heflin’s word was as good as his bond. “Weathers is waiting in the parlor. He will accompany you to the bank.”

  Cole nodded, rose, shook the old man’s hand and then turned to leave the library.

  But he stopped abruptly when Maxwell Lacey said, “Ah, one last little thing I didn’t mention, Heflin.”

  Cole turned. “Which is?”

  Maxwell looked sheepish when he admitted, “Marietta may not want to come with you.”

  Cole frowned. “Jesus, are you telling me I’m supposed to bring this woman back against her will?”

  Maxwell nodded his head. “Absolutely! I’m certain she’ll refuse to come. It’s a long, complicated tale and of no concern to you. Your orders are to bring my granddaughter safely back here to me.”

  Cole made a face. “Just how am I supposed to persuade this woman to—”

  Lacey interrupted, “If you can’t convince her to come peacefully—which I fully doubt will happen—snatch her right off the stage! Kidnap her! Use force if necessary. Do whatever you have to do, but bring her back. You understand me?”

  “I don’t like this,” Cole said.

  “Why, Heflin, what’s kidnapping to an arsonist, a bank robber?” Cole gave no reply. Lacey continued, “You don’t have to like it, just do it. I’ll give you the ten thousand you’ve demanded and fully finance your trip.” He lifted a hand and indicated the soiled jail garb Cole wore. “Buy yourself some decent clothes, travel in style and stay at the best hotels.” He paused then, looked hopefully at Cole.

  Cole said, “How do you know I won’t take your money and disappear?”

  Lacey replied, “I don’t. But I’m a pretty good judge of character and I’d bet everything against it.”

  “I’ll bring your wandering granddaughter home to you, Mr. Lacey. Count on it.”

  Central City, Colorado

  “No, no, you must start over!”

  “Not again!”

  “You heard me,” said Madam Sophia.

  Marietta made a face, sighed heavily, but cleared her throat and began anew.

  It was early afternoon. Marietta Stone, a twenty-five-year-old, red-haired opera singer, was practicing her roulades and glissandos under the tutelage of her two-hundred-and-fifty-pound voice coach, Madam Sophia.

  Teacher and pupil were ensconced in Marietta’s private quarters, a luxurious five-room suite above the Tivoli Opera House. In a few short days, Marietta would debut at the grand opera house in a production of Verdi’s La Traviata.

  She was the star.

  The young singer took her voice lessons seriously. She was determined to become a famous soprano in the glamorous and exciting world of opera. She never doubted that she would achieve the fame she sought.

  Marietta was a woman as obstinate as she was beautiful. She believed that she could change, if not the world, her world. As indeed, she had. Endowed with intelligence, determination and great beauty, she had been successful in the dogged pursuit of her goals.

  “No! No! No!” scolded the frustrated Italian voice coach as Marietta reached for a high note and went a trifle flat. Marietta immediately fell silent. Madam Sophia, shaking her head, said, “Try again and remember to breathe properly as I have shown you. You must learn to enunciate and strengthen your vocal cords.”

  Marietta was not stung by the reprimand. She trusted her voice coach completely. The acclaimed—and well-paid—Madam Sophia was an expert in the physiology of voice production and control. Marietta felt fortunate to have such a talented teacher. And, she was pleased that she was Madam Sophia’s only pupil.

  “You will begin once more,” instructed Madam Sophia, “and practice breathing properly so that you can reach those high notes without going flat!” Madam Sophia paused. “You must be better before dress rehearsal.”

  Marietta nodded, took a deep, slow breath. She began the musical scales, but was momentarily interrupted by a knock on the suite’s door. Marietta stopped her exercises. The rotund voice coach frowned.

  “That will be Maltese,” said Marietta.

  Madam Sophia exhaled with annoyance. “Must he come here while we are practicing?”

  “He won’t stay long,” assured Marietta.

  Madam Sophia held her tongue, said no more. She couldn’t object too fiercely. Taylor Maltese paid her handsomely to tutor Marietta.

  Marietta hurried to the mirror to examine herself. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, drew the feathered lapels of her pink satin dressing gown together. Then turning, she said, “Sophia, let my visitor in, please.”

  Muttering to herself in Italian, Madam Sophia opened the door and then hurried out once the dapper, immaculately dressed suitor had entered. A slender man of medium height with silver-gray hair, hazel eyes and a ruddy complexion, Taylor Maltese was an extremely wealthy, middle-aged bachelor. He owned and operated a number of Colorado’s most prosperous gold and silver mines as well as Central City’s newspaper, the Gilpin Hotel and many of the stores and saloons of the thriving mountain hamlet.

  He also owned the Tivoli Opera House, which was more of an indulgence for him than a commercial venture. He loved music, opera…and his beautiful leading ladies. Especially his current leading lady, the opera’s star, Marietta.

  Maltese had a spacious three-story home high on a bluff above Central City, as well as a huge stone mansion down in Denver, which was his primary residence. His great wealth and position in society made him the target of many hopeful women longing to become Mrs. Maltese. They were wasting their time.

  Since the moment he had first seen her, Maltese had been totally smitten with the young, lovely Marietta. His first glimpse of the flame-haired beauty had been a year ago on the stage of his own Tivoli Opera House. He had come to see a production of La Bohème. He hardly noticed the celebrated soprano who was the star. Marietta, in a bit role as a café customer in the chorus immediately caught his eye. He was entranced. And had been ever since.

  He so adored Marietta, he was afraid to press her for fear he might lose her. He longed to take her in his arms, but he didn’t dare. He had seen flashes of her fiery temper and didn’t want that anger directed at him. So he contented himself with nothing more intimate than kisses on the cheek and the pleasure of her company.

  Now Marietta turned her most dazzling smile on her aging suitor and played the coquette, to his delight.

  “What did you bring me, you naughty boy?” she purred, swaying seductively toward him, eyeing the bag in his hand. She moved in close, draped one arm around his neck and playfully tickled him under the chin with her long, painted fingernails.

  Maltese beamed with joy. He held the bag behind his back and said, “You have to guess, sugar.”

  Marietta toyed with the lapels of his custom cutaway, tilted her head to one side and said, “Mmm, let me think. A hat? Jewelry? A red ball gown?” She put out the tip of her pink tongue, licked her top lip and said in a soft, sultry tone, “No, no, I know what it is. It’s shoes!”

  It was a game the two of them frequently played. Marietta knew exactly what he had brought her. Didn’t have to guess. Her bewitched suitor had given her dozens of pairs of shoes. Shoes of every kind and color. Soft leather pumps imported from Italy. Saucy satin slippers from Paris. Even a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots.

  Now as he laughed merrily, Marietta continued to play her part. She reached around behind him, took the bag, drew it up and peeked inside.

  “Would you…put the shoes on for me, sugar?” asked the hopeful Maltese.

  “Why, o
f course, Maltese,” said Marietta. She took a seat on an armless velvet chair and made a big production of trying on the dainty new dancing slippers.

  Her enchanted admirer sank onto a sofa nearby and watched as if she were totally disrobing. Marietta, cleverly allowing her long dressing gown to part just enough to give him a fleeting glimpse of a shapely, stockinged knee, winked at the heavily breathing Maltese.

  She stretched her long right leg out straight and turned her foot one way then the other, as if she was carefully inspecting the new slipper. From beneath veiled lashes she stole a quick glance at her admirer. Beside himself with sexual excitement, Maltese tugged at his choking cravat. The pulse in his throat beat rapidly.

  He’d had enough, Marietta quickly decided. Didn’t want him having a heart attack.

  She modestly pulled her robe together, rose to her feet and said sweetly, “It’s such a warm day, isn’t it. Shall we have a glass of icy lemonade? Cool off a bit?”

  “Yes,” Maltese managed to say weakly. He drew a clean white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and nervously blotted his shiny forehead. “Oh, yes, sugar, that would be nice.”

  Three

  Cole Heflin arrived in Denver, Colorado, on a warm, still evening near the end of June. Tired and stiff, he stepped down off the train and took a moment to stretch and unwind. He raised his arms skyward, groaned and lowered them. Ignoring curious stares, he bent forward and touched his toes several times. He straightened, leaned back from the waist and twisted one way then the other.

  Once he’d worked the kinks out of his legs and back, he made his way through the crowded train depot and out onto the busy street. Cole walked the short distance to the corner of Larimer and Eighteenth, and the Windsor Hotel. A well-heeled fellow traveler had assured him that the British-built hotel was the very best accommodations Denver had to offer.

  Cole stepped into the Windsor’s vast lobby and looked around. His fellow traveler had been right. The Windsor was an oasis on the frontier. Elegant parqueted floors, sixty-foot mahogany bar and full-length diamond-dust mirrors.

  The uniformed clerk raised a disdainful eyebrow when the bearded, shabbily dressed Cole stepped up to the marble desk. Cole was unbothered by the man’s high-handed attitude.

  “Have a corner suite available?” he asked the scornful clerk.

  “Sir, our suites are quite expensive and I—”

  “Answer the question,” said Cole with a smile. “Any suites available?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Good. Top floor. Front corner suite will do.” He reached for the register, turned it around and signed it as the snooty young man went to get the key.

  “Suite 518,” said the desk clerk and reluctantly handed the key to Cole.

  Key in hand, Cole said, “I noticed a haberdasher across the street.”

  “Why, yes,” said the clerk, “Miller and Son is one of the oldest—”

  “Fine,” said Cole as he took a bill out of his pants pocket and laid it on the marble ledge. “Have someone from Miller and Son bring several suits—size forty-two long—to my suite so I can choose one. Also a white shirt, underwear and pair of black leather shoes, size eleven. And, have a barber sent up. I need a haircut. Think you can manage that?”

  The clerk looked anxiously around, then eased the bill off the marble desk and nodded. “Half an hour. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Perfect,” said Cole who turned away just as a small group of expensively dressed ladies swept through the lobby on their way to the dining room.

  One, an attractive brunette who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty, glanced at Cole, nodded and smiled. Cole winked at her. She blushed and hurried to catch up with her friends.

  Cole stood and watched her walk away, liking what he saw, wishing he could get to know her better. She went out of sight and he dismissed her. Eagerly he headed for his suite, taking everything in, admiring the fine furnishings of the stately hotel. The Windsor, with its grand staircases, was built to resemble Windsor Castle.

  It looked like a castle to Cole.

  Once in his luxurious suite, he admired the elegant furniture, oversize bed and gold-plated bathtub. Cole promptly made himself at home. He stripped off his soiled clothes, flipped the tub’s gold faucets and marveled as running water flowed swiftly into the tub.

  After a shave and haircut, a hot bath, a couple of shots of bourbon and a fine cigar, Cole dressed in the new suit of clothes he’d purchased from Miller and Son.

  The transformation was dramatic. He hardly recognized himself. His tanned face was smoothly shaven and his shaggy black hair neatly trimmed. The new apparel, a well-fitting suit of lightweight navy flannel, pristine white shirt and maroon cravat, made him look like a gentleman.

  Cole laughed at the idea. He was no gentleman.

  And he’d like to meet a woman who wasn’t a lady. Perhaps later in the evening he’d stroll down to Holladay Street and visit the famous Mattie Silks.

  But first he’d have dinner. He was starving.

  Cole went down to the dining room and was shown to a table on the wall. Once seated, he casually looked around. His attention was immediately drawn to a round table where the laughing ladies he’d seen in the lobby were enjoying a leisurely meal.

  The attractive dark-haired woman that he had winked at began glancing boldly at him. She smiled seductively then lowered her lashes. Cole leaned back in his chair and returned her gaze. The flirtation continued as he ordered dinner.

  When the ladies finished their meal and rose to leave, the shapely brunette hung back and pointedly looked his way.

  Without sound, Cole mouthed the words, “Suite 518.”

  She flushed, turned and hurried away with her friends.

  Cole chuckled.

  Dinner arrived—a thick juicy steak, fried potatoes, hot bread and butter—and he forgot the brazen brunette. When he’d finished his meal and left the dining room, he debated the visit to Mattie’s. He decided against it. He was too tired. A night’s sleep was what he needed most.

  A half hour later, back in his suite, Cole was naked and ready to crawl wearily into bed. But just as he pulled the top sheet down and put a knee on the mattress, there was a knock on the door. Cole frowned. He wrapped a towel around his waist, tied a loose knot atop his hip and crossed the room to open the door.

  Before him stood the bold brunette.

  “I…I am not in the habit of doing this sort of thing,” she promptly assured him.

  Cole grinned lazily. “Why, no, of course not,” he said as he reached out and gently took her arm. He drew the woman inside and closed the door behind her.

  For a moment they stood there face-to-face, neither speaking. Cole towered over the woman. She pressed her back against the solid door and gazed at his wide, sculpted shoulders, his broad chest, the white towel covering him. Her breath was now coming in shallow, anxious little gulps. Her heart was beating rapidly, the swell of her full, pale bosom rising and falling above the low-cut bodice of her snugly fitted suit jacket.

  Cole raised a hand, cupped the side of her throat. “I’m glad you made an exception for me.”

  “Yes, well, I…I can’t stay long,” she said. “My…my husband is expecting me home by ten.”

  “I see,” mused Cole, letting his hand slip down to the buttons of her bodice. “Then we’d better waste no more time.”

  He dropped his towel to the carpeted floor and swiftly unbuttoned her jacket. He pushed the opened jacket apart, slipped his long fingers inside her lace trimmed camisole, and eased the slick satin garment down to release a full, creamy breast. She drew a quick breath as if surprised, but made no move to cover herself. And she exhaled heavily when Cole licked his forefinger and circled her stiffening nipple with his wet fingertip.

  The brunette’s soft hands fluttered along his slim hips before seeking his already straining masculinity. Cole took his cue from her. Without so much as a kiss, he shoved her full skirts up and, with her he
lp, deftly relieved her of her underwear. Looking into her flashing eyes, he swept a warm hand across her flat stomach, then slipped his fingers between her legs. She swooned and tilted her pelvis upward, eagerly pressing against his exploring hand. Cole was amazed. She was as hot, wet and ready as if he had spent an hour arousing her. He took his hand away, pushed her skirts higher up, around her waist.

  “Want to tell me your name, darlin’,” he asked and cupped the twin cheeks of her bottom, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel his firm erection throb against her bare belly.

  “No,” she quickly responded. “And I don’t want to know yours. Just put it in. Hurry.”

  Cole didn’t hesitate. The brunette winced, then sighed with pleasure when he lifted her a little and guided his hard flesh up inside her. She clung tightly to his neck, lifted her stockinged legs and wrapped them around him.

  They stayed right where they were, making hot, impersonal love. Cole pumped and thrust and slammed her rhythmically against the heavy door. The brunette bucked and lunged and egged him on, digging her sharp nails into his shoulders. Two total strangers, out of control, mating like lusty animals. Kissing and licking and biting. Grunting and panting and growling.

  But only for a few short moments.

  Soon the brunette began experiencing a deep, wrenching climax. Cole joined her in the release.

  She cried out in her ecstasy and viciously bit Cole’s bare shoulder.

  But the second her climax had passed, she lowered her weak legs, took her arms from around his neck and pushed Cole back. She anxiously reached for her pantalets, turning away to put her underwear on before dropping and smoothing her skirts. She whirled around to face Cole as she pushed her exposed breast back inside her camisole and buttoned her bodice.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “Thanks for visiting,” he replied.

  “My pleasure,” she said with an impish smile, clearly giving his statement a double meaning. He laughed and so did she. She lifted slender shoulders in a shrug and said, “Now I really must go.”

  But before she left, she reached out and cupped his now-flaccid flesh. She licked her lips, sighed and said, “I wish I could take this with me and have it whenever I want it.”