Her eyes suddenly flicked open. Sloan could hear the murmur of voices in the hall. It appeared that those voices had alarmed her, and he realized that she must be Loralee's new "beauty," just in from the East. Perhaps it was the first time she had been sent over to the inn, and the appearance of others in the hall had disturbed her.
He'd never seen a woman arrive from Loralee's in quite the fashion this one did.
Even whores usually dressed to come across the yard.
She was wearing an elegant white robe with chaste and virginal white lace at the collars and cuffs. She hadn't quite tied the garment though, and it hung open to reveal white hose, pantalettes, and corset, the latter laced through with blue satin ribbon. Even taking into consideration the effect of a corset, she had to be the most incredibly curved female he had ever seen, elegantly slim, but endowed with ripe, voluptuous breasts and enticingly rounded hips. He might be deep into the bottle, but this girl was still extraordinary. He found himself standing. He had told Loralee not to send her new beauty. Loralee had apparently done so anyway, undoubtedly thinking she knew damned well what could lighten his mood.
He opened his mouth to tell the woman harshly to go away. To his own surprise, the words died on his lips. He might be drunk, but only a dead man wouldn't be aroused by this creature.
She was staring at him, as if she had just noticed he was in the room. It was a strange gaze she gave him. One something akin to alarm. He wondered if Loralee had warned her he was half Sioux. But any whore coming west would have to realize much of her clientele would have mixed blood. Her gaze moved swiftly from his face to the opening of his white civilian shirt, down to his black boots.
He wasn't sure why, but a sudden warmth suffused him. Lust. Straight and simple, he mocked himself. She was something, all right. She'd make a mint. All a man needed to do was stare at her. Half the deprived fellows coming out of the hills would explode before ever setting a hand upon her.
"Come in," he said. Was his voice slurring roughly? What if someone had been coming in to rob him? Would he have swept that Colt from the table and taken aim quickly enough?
He smiled wryly at himself. He'd wanted the world a
little bit blurry. It was damnably so. Was the girl real? He'd have to get closer to find out.
"Wh—what?" she whispered. Her hand was on the door.
"Come in," he repeated, rising from the chair.
She continued to stare at him.
He shrugged and took a long sip of the whiskey. What in the hell was she doing? This was Gold Town. People were shy. Whores weren't shy. Miners weren't often in the mood for a simpering belle. Business was done here, short and simple.
"To be honest, I don't want you here, but you've come. So either get out, or get in and quit clinging to the door."
"I—"
He took three long strides toward her. "If you don't want to be here, get the hell out. And if you're going to stay, come into the room and away from the damned door!"
She looked as if she might flee at that moment. He could still hear the voices in the hallway.
"Are you going?" he demanded.
"Now?" She seemed appalled at the thought. Maybe she was afraid that Loralee would be furious if she didn't prove her worth. Whatever, he definitely wasn't in the mood for any games.
"Yes, now! Damn you, I just said that I didn't want you here. But you are here. But if you don't want to be here, get out! Is that clear?"
"I—"
"Just get out!"
"No!" She shook her head wildly.
He caught her arm, mindless of the slight cringe she made, and drew her past him. He set his hand upon the door bolt and slammed it, then set his hands upon his hips as he faced her. "You needn't look so damned panicked. You're not going to be seen with me. No one can get in here."
"No one can get in," she said.
"Of course not."
He tried to curtail his impatience. But hell, this was one Ntrange whore, and he'd already told Loralee that his mood was wretched.
She was still staring at him, and the way that she did so was irritating.
Insulting.
He almost wished that she had gone.
But staring back at her didn't calm the cyclone brewing within him. The heat of his very basic lust was growing. Maybe Loralee had been right, had known exactly what he needed. Whiskey to blur the edges. Some good, fast sex to burn off the fever and passion rolling like the wind within him. Standing closer to her in the flickering firelight, he was made ever more aware of her startling beauty. The girl should have been pouring tea in an aristocrat's dining room, not whoring in a dust-covered mining town. But people made their choices. The clothing she wore was obviously very expensive. Apparently, she had rich tastes. Lucky for her, she was probably going to do damned well out here.
His gaze rested on her throat, the ivory whiteness of it, a pulse beating against it. His gaze lowered. His insides quickened. Her breasts were all but spilling over the corset.
He didn't want her to go.
Yet still...
She was looking at him with that same trace of alarm in her eyes.
He approached her again, grabbing her hand. Long fingers. Manicured nails. An elegant hand. He drew it to him. Opened a button on his shirt, and placed her hand against his chest. "Do you have a problem with Indians?" he demanded.
She jerked her hand free. "Are you an Indian?"
His brows shot up and he looked at her incredulously. "Do I look Norwegian?" he asked slowly.
She extended a hand, indicating the cavalry jacket he had thrown across the foot of the bed. "I—thought you were an officer."
"I wonder about that myself," he murmured. He stared at her again. ' 'I ask you once more, do you have a problem with—"
He broke off. She wasn't listening to him. Again, she seemed to be paying attention to whatever was going on in the hallway.
The hell with it. He'd drunk too much. The right thing at the time. Now it seemed that war drums were pounding in his head, coursing through his body. Loud, hammering, demanding. Sheer forgetfulness was at hand, appeasement for the thunder pulsing through him.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he took a step, closing the gap between them. Caught her face between his two hands. Brought his mouth down hard upon hers. She tasted like mint. Her lips were rich, provocative. He wanted more of them. He drove his tongue between her lips, drawing her hard against him. Her breasts rose, lush and tempting, against his chest, which was bared now. Again he felt the rise of an almost overwhelming desire, stronger than anger, irritation, impatience, bitterness. The deeper he kissed her, the stronger his desire became.
Her hands were on his chest, pushing free. He groaned deeply, unwilling at first to let her go, his desire suddenly so strong that he was tempted to throw her down upon the bed with the brutal force firing its way into his being. He made himself free her. "Damn you, go!" he shouted, shoving her toward the door. She reached it; her fingers fumbled at the bolt. He thrust past her, opening the bolt.
He heard the voices again. A man speaking. "If I can find the younger girl first—"
He heard no more because she had spun in his arms, slipping beneath the one to stand in the center of the room again. He stared at her, baffled, as she stared back at him. Her eyes huge. Her lips damp, slightly swollen, very provocative. Her robe all the way open. Her breasts heaving with each gulp of air she took.
He fought for control. "Woman, if you don't want to be here, go!" he exploded with impatience.
She focused on him, really focused on him. "I—" she began, then broke off, and apparently came to some decision. For a moment, her lashes covered her eyes. "I'm sorry. I—I'm afraid you're right. I was just—thrown. You are an Indian. Part Indian."
He nodded, his eyes narrowing. "And you are free to leave."
"I—I don't want to go. May I have a drink, please?"
He was about to explode in a dozen pieces, and she looked as if she were expecting finger sandwic
hes. "Did you want me to order tea?" he inquired in a long drawl.
"Tea. Yes, that would be—" She seemed to catch the incredulous expression on his face. "No!" she exclaimed. "Not tea. I—"
"I have whiskey. From Loralee's."
"That would be—fine."
Perplexed, Sloan poured his visitor a snifter of whiskey. She accepted it, smiled flirtatiously, and walked over to the fireplace. The red glow rose around, casting a very soft crimson sheen over her elegant white robe and lace undergarments. She sipped the whiskey and then gagged.
"Listen," he said. "It's quite apparent you're having problems tonight. But I'll be damned if this is the way I'm going to spend the evening. I can take you back—"
"I'm fine," she protested. She offered him a smile. She had beautiful white teeth. She moved with a quick, supple grace. She walked toward the door again, swallowing more whiskey. This time, she didn't choke. She shuddered. Then she swallowed the rest of the whiskey in the snifter. She hesitated by the door. Once again, he didn't seem to have her full attention. He brought the bottle to her. Poured out another few fingers of whiskey into her glass. That would be about it. He'd almost done in the rest of the bottle himself.
"Thank you," she said briefly.
"Cheers." He clicked his glass to hers. She nodded, jerked her head back. Swallowed. All of it. Three shots of straight whiskey in just about three minutes. Saloon girls were good; they could cost their clientele by drinking down half a fellow's bottle themselves.
This one didn't seem to have much experience drinking as of yet. And he wasn't going to pass out himself. He'd be damned if he'd have her doing so at this point. He took the glass from her.
"I think that's enough."
"No, I, umm ..." She stared at him, moistened her lips, seemed to be searching. She started to take a step back, away from him. She faltered slightly, smiled. "I think I need another drink."
"You're weaving."
"I'm—fine."
"You're trying to drink too much."
"I'm not. Besides, you're—"
"Drunk?" he inquired. "Halfway there. Actually, almost just right at the moment. All the edges are nice and fuzzy, but I'm not going to fail you in any way—or let you earn your keep too cheaply. And you're not going to pretend I'm not Indian."
"What?"
"I said you're not going to pretend—"
She swayed suddenly, nearly falling, reaching out for something with which to steady herself. He caught her. She stared up into his eyes.
"Dizzy," she said.
"No more whiskey. You won't be worth ten cents."
She laughed. The sound was a little hysterical. "Depends on who is considering my worth."
"Me." He looked down into her eyes. "I guess," he murmured huskily, "you can pretend I'm whatever the hell you want me to be, hmm?" He didn't remember wanting a woman so much. With such a fever. Such a demand. Now.
He lifted her off the floor. Her eyes closed. Her head hung back. The slightest smile played on her lips. He laid her down, wondering for a moment if she had passed out.
No. She was still smiling. "Dizzy," she murmured. "I feel like I'm floating..."
"Floating. Umm. That's just what I'm dying to do, too. Hell, yes."
He pulled the satin ribbon on her corset. The garment fell loose. Another ribbon held her pantalettes. He tugged at it, then jerked the lacy garment down from her hips. The robe clung to her shoulders, but the rest of her lay naked beneath it. She was enough to rob him completely of breath.
No matter how beautiful she was, she was a whore. Loralee's new addition to the glamourless settlement of Gold Town. Loralee had been right. All the tempest, anger, and passion in him was now directed on one object—this girl. He unbuckled his belt and his trousers. Released his swollen sex. There was no time for play. He caught her ankles, drew her down. Caught her knees, parted them. Her eyes opened wide ...
Energy and need pulsed through him wildly. He lay on top of her, his weight and length keeping her legs spread when she tightened them around him.
"Wh—" she began to say. He barely heard her. He threaded the fingers of his left hand through her hair, pinning her head to the pillow as he hungrily found her mouth, his tongue thrusting into it. His other hand slid along the length of her thigh, into the soft auburn down. He parted her with his touch, plowed into her with the full force of his body. The fever of his hunger had seized him with such startling force and fury that he swept into her again and again before he realized what he was encountering.
She didn't scream, whimper, or cry out. She didn't move.
The most merciful thing about the entire fiasco was that he'd been at such an all-consuming stage of desire that once he'd realized her total inexperience, he'd quickly allowed himself to climax, constricting, shuddering into her again and again—but then withdrawing immediately to rise above her and stare down at her. Her eyes were closed; her face was white.
He felt...
Duped. Used. Betrayed. Angry. With her. With himself. He'd been drinking, yes, hell yes, but was that any excuse for this?
Excuse? She'd come over as a whore. He was the one who had been taken ...
She was the one trembling, biting into her lower lip, refusing to meet his eyes.
He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Look at me!" he snapped.
Her eyes opened, glittering with tears and fury.
"Was Loralee aware that you hadn't the faintest idea of what you were doing?"
"What?"
He started to rise. "I don't like surprises. You were one hell of a surprise when you arrived, and you were one hell of a surprise just now. I don't know what she thought she was doing, sending you over here, but it sure as hell is time for you to go back—"
"God, no, not now!" she gasped out. Her lashes fluttered over her eyes. "Not... now." Her voice trembled, quivered. She sounded as if she could slip into hysterical laughter at any given second. He gritted down hard on his teeth. She was probably afraid Loralee would fire her. Maybe she had lied to Loralee. But damn ...
She was shaking. Her eyes remained closed. "Sweet Jesu, don't throw me out of here now after—after that" she gasped.
He raised an eyebrow. After that. Her attitude was going to have to improve quite a bit if she thought she was going to make a living out here.
"Please, I can't go now!"
Sighing, he rose, shed his clothing, and lay down beside her. She jumped when he touched her, drawing her against his naked body.
"What is it about your English I'm not understanding?" he demanded irritably. "Didn't you just ask to stay?"
She nodded. "Yes!"
Her hair smelled delicious. Her body was hot, so perfectly curved, flushed against his. He was tempted to touch her. Explore. She shuddered as if with a sob. He shook his head, willing himself to dampen his growing ardor. He knew enough about women to be damned aware she'd be hurting right now. He made do with holding her and letting her sleep.
But he could make do no longer when the morning came.
She had twisted and turned. So had he. Her breasts— those which he considered to be so incredibly perfect, high, rounded, and beautiful—were directly in front of his face. Too tempting to be ignored. Every whore had to start somewhere—he'd just never had one start with him before—and he felt both the temptation and the obligation to make her realize that her chosen profession could be damned enjoyable. He meant to wake her slowly. Very slowly. He set out to do so.
He touched her lightly with his fingers, his lips, his teeth, his tongue. As he moved against her, he shook his head, incredulous. By morning's light, she was more stunning still. Her flesh was erotically soft, her breasts so firm, her nipples large and pink, swelling, hardening to his elusive touch. Her belly was flat, her throat was long, her legs were wickedly long, curved, beautiful, the down between them was a dark and tempting fire.
She whimpered slightly, rousing. Slowly. Her body arched and writhed, easily manipulated to his desir
e, each supple rock and undulation arousing new hungers within him. She moaned, twisted. Writhed to the intrusive stroke of his tongue, dug her fingers into his shoulders, his hair.
She woke fully with a shuddering gasp, just as he rose over her. Her blue eyes were wide open. "Oh, God—no! I've got to go—"
"No, I don't think so. All through the night, and you're going to leave now?"
"I—"
"Not on your life!" he promised her softly.
This time, she did cry out softly, her teeth clamping lightly into his shoulder. He moved very slowly, letting her take him all before stroking into her again, holding, moving, holding, moving again. Her fingers gripped his back.
"I can't... !" she whispered.
"You will," he promised. She tossed. He kissed her throat, her breasts. Moved. Rocked. Hungered. Rose higher. Her fists slammed against his chest.
"Can't, can't..." she inhaled on a ragged sob. She seemed to jackknife into a paralyzing constriction, gasping, shaking. He smiled to himself and let the floodgates within him free. Mindless moments of thundering rhythm racked him until he climaxed explosively within her. He fell to her side, then rolled upon an elbow to look into her eyes, laughing. "You can't, my dear, but you just did."
To his amazement, there were now tears in her eyes. "Bastard!" she cried, slamming her hands against his chest. "You bastard!"
He caught her hands firmly. "I don't care how perfect you look. You're never going to make a living at this, behaving the way you do. For one thing, your typical miner is going to want you to arouse him, not the other way around."
"Oh!" she shrieked, wrenching her hands free. She leaped up, hugging her mussed, once elegant white robe around her. He came up on an elbow, watching, puzzled, as she tugged at the bolt. He rose, walking around the bed to the door. Her eyes met his. Swept up and down the length of his naked body. Focused in panic on the bolt again.
He pulled it for her and stepped back. "Come again," he said politely, and opened the door.
"Never! Never in this life, you arrogant oaf" she charged.
And she was gone.
No Other Man Page 33
