by Nan Ryan
“I’ve been around as much as she has,” said the brazen Caroline. “I’ll show you a thing or two she’s never heard of.”
Sutton had nodded and said, “Tomorrow night?”
“Yes. Midnight. I have an earlier engagement.”
“Midnight it is,” Sutton agreed. “My suite at the St. Louis Hotel.”
“I’ll be there,” she had said, dimpling prettily and fluttering her long, dark lashes.
Caroline Summers was exactly the kind of companion he needed tonight. A tempting young beauty with no inhibitions, no morals, no expectations.
Sutton glanced at the clock. Nearing nine. Caroline was to arrive at the stroke of midnight, so he had some time to kill. He dressed in a pair of pearl-gray trousers and matching frock coat, white starched shirt and maroon cravat with black pearl stickpin.
He poured himself another brandy, drank it down in one long swallow, then went downstairs and out into the street where he hailed a carriage.
“Toussaint’s,” he said to the driver, settled back and looked forward to a pleasant interlude at the plush gambling hall.
Once there, Sutton played high stakes poker with a quartet of well-heeled gentlemen. Lady Luck was with him. He won several thousand dollars. Remembering that he had an engagement at midnight, he subtly withdrew his gold-cased watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time.
He frowned. It was half-past midnight. But he couldn’t get up and leave. Not when he was winning. He would be labeled a bad sport. He would have to wait until the others called an end to the game.
That didn’t happen until almost 2:00 a.m. Sutton didn’t rush to get back to the hotel. He felt sure Miss Summers had grown angry and left by now. To his astonishment, when he entered his suite, the lovely, milky-skinned Caroline was stretched out naked on his bed, striking a most provocative pose when he entered the room.
“My apologies. I didn’t expect you to wait,” he said, pointedly examining her plump, luscious body.
“Five more minutes and I would have been gone,” she said, petulantly. Patting the mattress beside her, she said, “Now come here and make it up to me.”
Sutton lay awake in the darkness.
Dawn was not far off. Caroline had left hours ago. She had lived up to her reputation—had been an eager and aggressive lover who couldn’t seem to get enough. Brazen and experienced, she had, as soon as he’d gotten undressed, laughed at him and said, “You’re not going to do me any good if you stay like that!”
“Maybe you can coax it to life,” he had said, laughing with her, glancing down at his flaccid flesh.
“I guarantee it,” she bragged.
And she had.
Why, he wondered now, had he tired of her long before she said good-night? It made no sense. She was everything a man could want in a woman. She was breathtakingly beautiful with a voluptuous body made for pleasure. When he’d first walked into the room and saw her lying there naked, he’d supposed that was it was going to be a most enjoyable night.
He’d had no trouble performing; Caroline had experienced several orgasms, but he had been oddly disinterested, detached. He had been able to hold his erection for a long time, a fact that had thrilled the greedy Caroline. It had been easy for him, because he was not fully engaged, not awed by her. He had learned, long ago, that he could hold his erection for an hour, sometimes longer, which made him a sought-after lover. It was a trick of control he was capable of with all women.
Sutton’s brow suddenly knitted.
Not all women.
He was no longer able to hold an erection that long with Laurette. Even when he’d tried, he found it impossible. Sutton shuddered in the darkness. Why? Why was it different with her? Why did she make him so unbelievably hot that he could no longer control his body? Why could a simple look or touch from her bring him to the edge of climax?
No matter.
It was probably because she had—all those years ago—been his very first lover. When he was with her now, perhaps a part of him reverted back to being that bedazzled young boy who had been so much in love with her.
Well, he was no longer that gullible fool and would never be again.
Sutton was confident that this part of his plan—his unexplained absence—was likely working. He’d bet all the thousands he had won at the tables that he could go to Laurette this very night and she would willingly come into his arms because she was falling in love with him.
Sutton raised his long arms, folded his hands beneath his head. His heavily lashed eyes closed and he smiled to himself. He would sentence her to another week of loneliness and anxiety. Let her miss him so much she didn’t sleep well, couldn’t eat. Let her give up hope that he would ever return. Let her hear about his various escapades in New Orleans.
By the time he got back to her, she’d be on her knees, a willing slave to her beloved master.
Twenty-Nine
He felt as if they were closing in on him.
He jumped at the slightest unexpected sound or noise. He got the shakes often and for no apparent reason. Each time he went out on the street, he had the eerie feeling that he was being watched, that someone was following him, waiting to catch him alone.
The nervous, overweight, one-eyed Gilbert LaKid abruptly rose from the wooden eating table where he was seated. The hair on the back of his neck rising, he lumbered across the spartan, rented room where he lived alone. The old ramshackle building was located on a near deserted street in a seedy, run-down section of Washington, D.C. It was one of the many addresses he had had in the past several years.
He had kept on the move, drifting from city to city, taking odd jobs to get by, making few friends, hiding from the demons he was certain were after him.
LaKid stood unmoving for a long moment in front of the closed door, listening, waiting. He finally eased the door open and cautiously looked out, half expecting to see a figure waiting in the shadows.
A black cat, eyes flashing in the darkness, frightened by LaKid’s sudden appearance, hissed and knocked over a full garbage can. The spoiled contents spilled across LaKid’s front stoop and he cursed under his breath. He slammed the wooden door shut, bolted it and returned to the table.
Edgy, restless, he picked up an envelope resting on the table. The postmark was London, England. The date was March, 1881. LaKid took out the letter and read it through for the fourth time since receiving it that morning.
Dear Gilbert,
Thank you for sending some money. I truly appreciate the helping hand, as I am unemployed and in dire straits.
Let me warn you once more to be very careful. Dasheroon was responsible for my ruin, and he will come after you, mark my words.
The man is smart and he is ruthless. Combine this quality of ruthlessness with sterling administrative ability and you have Ladd Dasheroon, regardless of the name he now goes by. I have no idea what name he is using.
You must remember that one of the qualities which most of us carry around, usually a product of conscience, is mercy. Dasheroon is startlingly and completely devoid of any such civilized quality. He is hard and ruthless with a burning intensity usually reserved for the early Christian martyrs. Beware, old comrade, beware.
Sincerely,
James Tigart
LaKid carefully refolded the letter from Tigart and returned it to the envelope. The two had kept in touch through the years. Tigart was LaKid’s only real friend, so he sent what little money he could afford to his former boss on occasion.
LaKid placed a cup of cold coffee atop the envelope, rose and paced the dimly lit room, feeling as if he were going to jump out of his skin. He had the strong premonition that something bad was going to happen. Tigart’s letter had strengthened that unsettling feeling.
He mentally shook himself, then stormed over to the small cupboard, yanked open the doors and took down a bottle that had once held bourbon. It was empty. Only a few precious drops left. LaKid swore, uncorked the bottle, turned it up and drained the conten
ts.
Angry that there was no more whiskey, he sailed the bottle across the room. It hit the slatted wooden wall, broke into a hundred pieces and scattered all across the floor. Barefooted, wearing only his dirty underwear, LaKid swore anew as his big toe touched a sliver of glass and bright-red blood appeared.
“Son of a bitch!” he bellowed, hopping around on one foot.
He sat down on the edge of his cot and wiped the blood from his toe with the corner of his blanket. He lay down, folded his arms beneath his head and tried to sleep.
It was impossible.
He reached for a cigar on the night table at his elbow. Then remembered. There were none. He had smoked the last one after his unappetizing supper, hours earlier.
He had nothing to drink, nothing to smoke.
He raised up, looked at the clock. Almost midnight. Too late to go out. It wasn’t safe. He lay back down and his thoughts turned—as they so often did—to Ladd Dasheroon.
LaKid ground his teeth in frustration. He should have killed the skinny Reb bastard when he’d had the chance! Why couldn’t the bothersome son of a bitch have died in the dungeon the way they had planned? How could he have survived all those years in the dark cell?
Well, he had, like it or not. Dasheroon was alive, living under an assumed name and posing a constant threat to him. There was no doubt in LaKid’s mind that Dasheroon was searching for him. He would have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.
LaKid rose from his cot. He went back to the table and searched for the butt of an unfinished cigar. There was nothing but cold ash in the saucer.
LaKid scratched his belly and thought how good a drink would taste. He smacked his lips. He worked up his courage, told himself he was being ridiculous. Nothing was going to happen to him. He wasn’t afraid. He was afraid of no man. He was not a coward. He would damn well go out and have himself a drink when he wanted to and the devil take the hind-ermost!
LaKid looked around for his clothes. They lay in a wrinkled heap on the wooden floor beside his cot. He picked up his trousers and shirt and starting getting dressed, humming tunelessly as he did so.
What was there to worry about? Not a thing. If Dasheroon hadn’t been able to find him in all these years, he never would. He had probably stopped trying long ago. Hell, Dasheroon likely had forgotten he existed.
Feeling a little more like his old self, LaKid left his ground floor room and walked in the unusually warm March night the three blocks to Darcy’s Tavern. A handful of men were in the saloon. All were familiar—he had nothing to worry about.
LaKid stepped up to the bar and was immediately joined by a flashily dressed woman whose full, heavy bosom was mostly exposed in a low-cut bodice. She was a fixture at Darcy’s. For a five-dollar gold piece, she would take you upstairs for the night. She wasn’t pretty. Her dyed hair was too red, her face too garishly painted, her figure too full.
She looked good to Gilbert LaKid.
Snapping his fingers to awaken the dozing barkeep, LaKid barked, “Whiskey. And leave the bottle.” He turned his one eye on the smiling woman and said, “How much for thirty minutes?”
She giggled, hugged his huge arm and told him, “Give me a dollar.”
An hour after arriving at Darcy’s, a drunken Gilbert LaKid stepped back out into the darkness. He whistled merrily as he made his way home.
It happened so fast he never had time to react.
When he was only a few short steps from his front door, LaKid grunted in stunned shock as he was grabbed from behind and slammed back against his tall attacker. His pudgy hands clawing at the steely arm holding him immobile, LaKid felt the quick, deep slice of the blade as his throat was cut from ear to ear.
Blood spurting, gasping for breath, LaKid managed the words, “Damn you, Ladd Dasheroon!”
“Who the hell’s Ladd Dasheroon?” said the assassin to his accomplice as LaKid fell to the sidewalk, dead.
Laurette was crushed and heartbroken.
She slept fitfully at night, a few short hours at a time. Many nights it was nearing dawn before she finally fell tiredly to sleep. Her healthy appetite was missing; she had to force herself to eat. Alone in the privacy of her empty house, she allowed the tears to fall. She sat before the fire, stared unseeing into the shooting flames and cried. Without Sutton in it, her life once again seemed dreary and unbearable.
Laurette had finally—after they had asked repeatedly—confessed her disappointment and despair to the Parlange twins. Both had genuinely sympathized and promised her they would say nothing, would tell no one. Worried about her, the sisters came to visit often, almost every evening. They brought foods to tempt Laurette, insisted that she eat and tried to cheer her up.
“Oh, dearest friend,” said Johanna one evening, putting a comforting arm around Laurette’s slender shoulders, “while Mr. Vane is a master charmer and sinfully handsome, he isn’t worth your anguish. You must forget about him.”
The wise, usually quiet Juliette looked sternly at her twin. “It isn’t that simple or easy, is it Laurette?”
“No. No, it’s not,” Laurette replied, then said, “I am such a fool. You see, I have…I’ve fallen in love with Sutton Vane.”
Johanna looked horrified.
Juliette nodded in understanding.
The twins said in unison, “In time, you will forget.” Johanna added, “Just as you have finally forgotten Ladd.”
“Yes, of course, I will forget,” Laurette said, knowing that she would not.
At the Confederate Veteran’s Convalescent Hospital, Laurette kept up a brave front. She made herself appear cheerful and relaxed, as if she had not a care in the world.
But she was further aggrieved when she heard from the sharp-tongued Nora Huffington, a gossiping nurse’s aide, that the wealthy, devilish Sutton Vane was presently in New Orleans where he’d been seen out on the town with a different Creole beauty every evening.
The unkind busybody turned to Laurette with a sly look and said, “Oh, Mrs. Tigart, I’m sorry. I had forgotten, you’ve been seeing Mr….”
“I attended the theater with Mr. Vane and Colonel and Mrs. Ivy a time or two,” Laurette stated calmly. “As a favor to the Colonel. I really don’t know Mr. Vane very well.”
Laurette smiled serenely and turned back to folding bandages. But she was shaking inside and counting the minutes until she could leave. She wanted nothing more than to flee to the blessed sanctuary of her home.
She was, she knew, behaving as a smitten, starry-eyed schoolgirl. Since she wasn’t sixteen, but thirty-six, she should have known better. She should have had more sense. It was not surprising that a man like Sutton Vane would quickly lose interest. She could hardly blame him. She hadn’t exactly played it smart where he was concerned.
She shuddered to think that the very first time Sutton had wanted to make love to her, she had quickly surrendered, eagerly giving herself to him. She had been an easy conquest, no challenge whatsoever.
No wonder he had become bored with her.
March had come to Mobile, but winter was making one last stubborn stand. On a raw, gray Saturday afternoon with a light sleet falling and the sky as dark as pitch, Laurette left the hospital after a long tiring day.
Shivering, she walked quickly home, the miserable weather matching her glum mood.
She let herself in the front door and immediately paused, puzzled.
The house was mysteriously warm.
Thirty
The door closed quietly behind her.
The only sound she heard was that of a crackling fire. Frowning now, Laurette anxiously stepped into the drawing room where a fire blazed in the grate and Sutton, totally naked, sat on the floor before the dancing flames. He sipped brandy from a crystal snifter.
Sutton looked up, smiled disarmingly, and raising his brandy said, “Welcome home, Laurette.”
The sudden, unexpected sight of him caused her heart to miss a beat or two. Foolishly longing to throw herself into hi
s arms and press kisses all over his handsome face, she glared at him.
“How did you get into this house? I always keep the doors locked and—”
“I have a key,” he said with no apology.
Her eyes widened. “You have a…? You’ve no right to have a key to—”
“Ah, but I do,” he corrected her. “I own this house.”
She shot him a wilting look and shook her head. “For your information, a large company owns this house now. The Bay Minette Corporation.” He nodded knowingly. Flabbergasted, she swallowed hard, then snapped, “Just what do you think you’re doing without any clothes?”
“My clothes were wet,” he replied, “as are yours.”
Her chin elevated pugnaciously, she quickly shrugged out of her long, sleet-dampened cape and tossed it over his lap as she ordered, “Get dressed and get out.”
To which he calmly replied, “Get undressed and get down here.”
Insulted, she said, “You, Sutton Vane, are an arrogant bastard and if you do not vacate the premises at once, I shall summon the authorities!”
He tossed aside the cape she had thrown over him and agilely rose to his feet. He waited a couple of heartbeats before making another move and she realized that he was giving her the opportunity to turn and flee if she so desired. She strongly considered it. She knew that’s what she should do.
But how could she leave when he stood gloriously naked before her, his tall, lean body, burnished by the firelight, a study in male perfection.
When she didn’t move, Sutton reached out and took her in his arms, drawing her against his frame. At first she tried to free herself, but his will was stronger than hers. He kissed her then, and continued kissing her until she was short of breath and her heart was beating rapidly in her own ears.
In minutes they sank weakly to their knees before the fire and continued to kiss each other ardently, hungrily. When finally, after at least a dozen heated, probing kisses, Sutton took his lips from Laurette’s, he gently cupped her flushed face in his tanned hands and said, “I cannot wait another minute to make love to you.”
