Sighing, she shrugged off her coat and tossed Dante's calling card on the chiffonier. She'd made good progress for one day, meeting the psychiatrist and earning an invitation to mingle socially with Denver's First Families. But the day wasn't over yet. She still had to attend Mendel Baines's lecture on hypnotism at eight o'clock. That meant she'd have to ring for water so she could scrub off her mud in Tabor's legendary, gold-leaf tub.
She turned for the bathroom. She hadn't taken three steps toward her goal, however, before the menacing click of a revolver froze her in her tracks.
"Buenas noches, seňorita."
Sadie sucked in her breath. An alpine breeze riffled the curtains.
The Mexican had sneaked in through her window!
Chapter 2
Sadie's heart crawled to her throat as a shadow emerged from the gold-silk dressing screen. An amber moon silhouetted a wide-brimmed vaquero hat, slanting across the intruder's brow. A plain gray poncho blanketed his torso like a tent. With the majority of light concentrated behind him, discerning his hair color, facial features, and breadth was impossible. His only identifiable characteristic was his scent: cedarwood soap, saddle leather, and damiana, a popular Mexican herb for cigarettes.
"I have looked forward to our meeting for a long time," the gunman gloated, his accent thicker than Mexican custard.
"So sorry to keep you waiting, muchacho," she rallied huskily, struggling to keep the quaver from her voice. "To what do I owe this surprise? A certain, comely necklace?"
His chuckle was throaty, reminding her of rawhide and sin.
"You Pinkertons think you know so much," he taunted in his gruff baritone. "But where are my manners, eh? You have had a trying day. You wish to change your gown and doubtless to bathe." A flash of white in that shadow-steeped face signaled a predatory grin. "Do not let me stop you, querida."
Sadie's fingers twitched with the temptation to trigger the Smith & Wesson strapped to her wrist.
"Hands spread," he barked, as if reading her mind.
Her heart skipped. Even if she could draw her pistol, she couldn't fire fast enough to beat the bullet trained on her chest.
"I am told you are a dangerous woman," he mocked. "That you hide naughty toys in tender places. Let us start with the .32, por favor. Slowly. Very slowly. Unstrap the sleeve holster and kick it under the bed."
Who told him about my Smith & Wesson?
She mustered a seductive smile. "Come now. Don't tell me a big, bad bandito like you is afraid of a little popgun."
"Discard the .32," he snapped. "It gives my trigger finger the itch."
With a sinking heart, she watched her holster skate under the quilt.
"Next, you will remove the stiletto from your collar sheath."
Perspiration slid down her temple. Apparently, he knew the standard-issue weapons for Pinkies. But how? Had Maestro sent him to murder Minx?
Stalling for time, Sadie arched her spine, letting pearl buttons strain across her ample bosom. "I'm flattered you find me so fearsome, seňor. It is rare to meet a man who admits his... impotence."
"Your clever tongue will dig your grave," he growled. "I am not the fool you think I am. Discard the knife. Now."
Reluctantly, she tossed the stiletto near the chiffonier.
"Next, remove the laudanum ring. And the hairpin dagger. Oh, and don't forget the cameo. I do not wish to be blinded by ink while teaching you the lesson you so richly deserve."
Bastard. Sadie's hands shook as she obeyed. He knew the Pinkie arsenal, all right. But what he didn't know was that she had an outlaw lover. Cass had taught her a few survival tricks over the years, not the least of which was how to rig a false sole in her boot. She'd concealed an extra knife there.
"Bueno," her bushwhacker said as her cameo joined the growing pile of weapons by the chiffonier. "Next, your corset."
"What about my corset?" she fired back.
"It hides dangers too, no?"
"Only if you're afraid of freckles, mi amor."
Again, that husky laugh. It was a rumble of pure wickedness. "To fill out so much whalebone takes more than freckles, I think."
"Such a suspicious seňor. Come see for yourself."
"I prefer the view from here." He gestured, and his gun glinted with menace. "Remove your clothes."
Nervously, she moistened her lips, envisioning the blissful moment when she could get her hands on his balls. "I'll show you my treasures, if you show me yours."
"Does your man know you issue such invitations to banditos?"
She bit back a retort. Cass hadn't earned his nickname, Rebel Rutter, because he was known for his fidelity. Nevertheless, she battled a frisson of guilt. She might have been kinder to him in Fort Worth. She might have left a hacksaw within his reach...
She hiked her chin. Now wasn't the time to second guess her decisions. Doubt would get her killed.
"Variety is the spice of life," she rallied provocatively. "And I so adore spice."
He tsked. "Such a mouth. It should be gagged."
"Or kissed." She tilted her head, slowly, deliberately, licking her lips. "Mmm. I like exotic flavors. What does Mexico taste like, I wonder?"
"Muy caliente. Like chili, not Boston baked beans."
Her eyes narrowed. Was that a reference to Dante?
"I'm much hotter than a chili pepper," she bragged in sultry tones.
"I think all your fire's in your hair," he taunted.
"Try me."
"A tempting proposition, querida. But highly suspicious while you are swaddled in satin. Prove your sincerity, and you may find me forgiving."
Forgiving?
She steeled herself against a scowl. Who was this Mexican? The kinsman of some Tejano, whom she'd arrested in Texas? "You're a long way from home, amigo. Why have you really come here?" she demanded.
"You have not guessed?" His grin turned lopsided as he reached beneath his poncho. "I have come to return the favor of these."
A pair of fur-lined handcuffs dropped at her feet.
She blinked.
Suddenly, understanding flooded her mind.
"Cass! You stinking weasel!"
He laughed, dodging the manacles she hurled at his head. "You sure took your time sniffing out my clues, detective," he taunted, reverting to his native, Texas drawl.
Turning up the gas lamp, she glared at her lover. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Cass wearing any color except black—sinfully tight black. The reprobate had clearly gone out of his way to mislead her. He'd traded his sandalwood soap and clove cigarettes for cedarwood soap and damiana smokes. He'd ditched his fancy silver spurs and elaborately tooled Justin boots. He'd stuffed his blond, shoulder-length mane beneath a battered felt hat instead of his beloved Stetson. He'd even shrouded his lean, muscle-packed thighs in baggy trousers. But the drab shade of his poncho made the sapphire flames of his eyes burn that much brighter.
She found herself longing to trail her fingers along the tawny stubble of a week's growth of beard.
His lips quirked, as if he'd guessed her thoughts. In return, he studied her henna-darkened curls and pearl-studded bodice. The bold caress of her lover's gaze made her breaths catch.
"Does Allan Pinkerton have something against red hair?" he demanded.
"Only in Italian women."
"Since when did you become Italian?"
"About the same time you became Mexican, blondie."
He hiked a sun-gilded eyebrow. "Was that a slur against my parentage?"
"When's the last time you ever saw a tow-headed Mexican?"
"A new wardrobe, a new accent, and my disguise fooled you, Lady Pinkerton."
"Nonsense."
"'Cass, you stinking weasel!'" he taunted in a parody of feminine outrage.
She scowled. "You're a lousy mimic."
He chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. "You know what your trouble is?"
"You."
"Remind me to spank you later," he countered dryly
. "No, your trouble is, you think you can wrap any two-legged male around your little finger. That's a flaw in your armor, Madam Pinkie. And someday, some bastard without a conscience is going to come along and use that flaw against you."
She snorted. Cass had been a Texas Ranger for two weeks. Two weeks! Yet the peacock had the audacity to tell her, a seasoned detective of four years, how to run her case?
"Oh, I get it," she said. "You traveled all the way to Denver, risking a domicile with bars, to teach me a lesson."
"Damned straight, princess. You're in over your head, and you're too stubborn to admit it."
"The term's contessa, wise guy. And if anyone's in danger, it's you. You don't even have a decent growth of beard yet. Set foot in any sporting house, and you'll be recognized. And that's just for starters. Do I have to remind you I'm working for Sledgehammer?"
"Who?"
"At the Satin Siren, you knew him by his alias, Karl Dietrich."
Cass snickered. "Agent Sledgehammer."
Sadie rolled her eyes. "Honest to God. It's like talking to a doorknob."
"I think it's time I got me a code name for undercover work," Cass drawled in lilting tones. "How about Agent Ramsbottom?"
She shot him a withering glare.
"Trouser Snake? Squirt Weasel? No?"
"Are you finished?"
He smirked. "Aw, contessas are no fun."
She blew out an exasperated breath. "Cass, I can't let myself get distracted. I have an investigation to conduct."
He shrugged. "So turn the case over to Sledgehammer, and come home to Texas."
"And do what? Sit in a rocking chair while you're dodging bullets with your Ranger badge?"
The amusement ebbed from his features. "You have friends in Texas. Rex and Wilma—"
"Minx was my friend too."
Actually, that wasn't quite true. Sadie had only met the 22-year-old Missourian once, at a secret Pinkie graduation, but Cass didn't need to know that. Minx had been a bored young debutante, fresh out of finishing school, when she'd decided to run away from Daddy's choice of husbands to become a Pinkie. Other than belonging to the small, female fraternity of field agents, Sadie and Minx shared little in common.
But that fact was moot, as far as Sadie was concerned. Minx had been a Pinkerton. And Pinkertons—especially Lady Pinkertons—took care of their own.
"I thought you wanted to help Wilma train Pinkies," Cass reminded her.
"What kind of role model would I be if I refused an assignment because my lover was worried I might stub my toe?"
"That's not what I'm worried about," he said grimly.
"Have a little faith in me, Cass. Pinkerton does. Rex does."
"For your information, Rex gave me orders to come after you!"
Sadie fumed at this revelation. Rexford Sterne was her mentor and ally, but the Ranger commander had a way of turning overprotective, like an Alpha wolf, whenever he got uncomfortable with the risk in her Pinkerton missions. Considering how Rex was 20 years her senior—and thoroughly infatuated with the Pinkie Chief, Wilma LeBeau—Sadie attributed his concern to a deeply ingrained southern chivalry.
"Neither you nor Rex has authority over me," she reminded Cass brusquely. "I'm a Pinkerton. I work undercover. Get used to it."
Cass jerked his head toward Dante's calling card. "Are you working under his covers?"
Sadie sighed. She should have guessed Dante was the real bone of contention in this debate. Cass and Dante were like night and day. The dapper Bostonian had probably been born on Beacon Hill, with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, and educated at the finest universities.
Cass, on the other hand, had grown up in a leaky sharecropper's cottage. He'd learned his life's lessons in saloons, brothels, and jails, graduating with a con man's knack for trickery and the well-deserved nickname, Coyote Cass.
Cass hated the privileged class.
Hoping to diffuse the bomb that Dante represented, Sadie modulated her tone with indifference. "Dr. Goddard is a psychiatrist. An expert witness in my case."
"Beans is an expert, all right. I saw how he put his hands on you."
"Would you have preferred me to sprawl in a ditch?"
"After I saw how much you liked being caught?"
"Oh for heaven's sake. Don't tell me the Rebel Rutter's jealous of a stuffed shirt."
Cass scowled, his gaze dropping to the ostentatious emerald between her breasts. "I don't like you posing as bait."
"You made that perfectly clear on the train, darling. And that's why I sent you to Laredo—in case you're wondering."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
She blew him a kiss and started undressing. Cass could be a pain in the butt when his dander was up. She didn't have time for one of their explosive arguments or the fiery make-up sex that usually resulted. She needed to ring for bath water if she wanted to stay on schedule.
Earlier that morning, she'd learned that Minx had purchased a ticket for Mendel Baines's lecture, Hypnotism and the Conditioned Response. Sadie was hoping the psychology professor could shed light on Minx's case. About six weeks ago, the Pinkie had been hired by Sheridan Welbourn, who'd insisted that Lilybelle, her "old bat of a mother-in-law," had been tricked by the voice of a dead Indian into donating $200,000 worth of heirloom jewelry to Preacher Fowler.
Now Allan Pinkerton wanted to know why his female operative's custom-made, mohair-lined glove had been recovered from Tabor's mansion on the night the butler had been murdered and the Heart of Fire had been stolen. Male field agents, especially Mace, had speculated that Minx's "delicate mental balance" had been upset by field work, and she'd jumped off the 19th Street Bridge in a fit of remorse. To Sadie's disgust, her male colleagues had cited Minx as a tragic example of why the agency should end its "ill-advised experiment" with female operatives.
Sadie felt honor-bound to prove them wrong.
Padding across the hotel's plush carpet, she was arrested by her reflection in the floor mirror. Mud still dripped from her bedraggled curls. Splotches of dirt were caked on her chin. She groaned with embarrassment. No wonder the hotel guests were sneering at me. I look like I wrestled a pig!
Cass stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Against the starched white muslin of her chemise, his long, sun-baked fingers were warm enough, dark enough, to pass for bronze. His grip was strong and possessive, but tender, too. He held her the way a seasoned trapper might hold a cougar cub he'd decided to rescue—or tame.
The notion caused alarm bells to toll in her head. Challenging his gaze in the mirror, she was surprised to spy a fleeting melancholy in his stare. That unexpected glimpse of sadness sent shockwaves to her soul. Cass never let the world see his pain. He was too accomplished as a trickster.
"What's wrong?" she murmured.
"You still have your clothes on."
He flashed his Coyote grin, but it couldn't fool her. Not this time.
"You're still angry about the handcuffs?"
A heartbeat passed. Maybe two. He seemed to be choosing his words—another novel phenomenon.
"I was. At first," he confessed.
"So what changed your mind?"
He reached for a stray, chestnut curl, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. "The notion that you cared. Even if you have a screwed up, harebrained way of showing it."
"Are you trying to piss me off?"
"Naw."
Her lips twitched. "Well... then I'm sorry. But you wouldn't listen to reason."
"Now there's the pot calling the kettle black."
"On second thought," she said dryly, "I'm not sorry."
His dimples peeked. "Hellcat."
"Horny toad."
"'Course, if the situation was reversed," he drawled gamely, "I would have made double sure you didn't escape my train berth."
"How so?"
"Trade secret." He wiggled his eyebrows.
She snatched off his hat, admiring the curtain of pale, golden hair that spille
d to his shoulders. "In that case, I have ways of making men talk, Rutter."
He chuckled, snatching the hat back and sailing it onto the nearest bedpost. "Do your worst, Devil's Daughter."
He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb across her lips in a whisper-soft caress. An expression of such profound tenderness washed over his sun-chiseled features that it stole her breath away. A starry radiance poured from his sapphire gaze. She blinked, half in awe, half in yearning.
But Sadie was quick to chide the treacherous dreamer, who lurked inside her. Cass knew how to flatter women. More than that, he knew how to steal the most guarded of hearts. He'd tomcatted his way across the West, setting brothel records in Dodge City, Cheyenne, Deadwood, and other male-dominated towns. She had no illusions about Cass. When it came to lovers, she was one in a harem of hundreds.
And that's why he must never, ever know I've fallen for him.
"I've missed you, Sadie," he murmured.
His inky fringe of lashes drooped. She recognized the primal calling in her lover's stare. In spite of her better sense, she thrilled to the heat of his virility. Cass could have any woman he wanted, married or widowed, virgin or whore. All he had to do was flash those dazzling dimples, or murmur sweet nothings with that throbbing, Texas drawl, and any female who possessed a pulse would be a goner. Sadie didn't understand why he was lavishing all his Coyote charm on an old flame with a muddy face, but she was just vain enough—and pleased enough—to ignore the passing suspicion.
She rose on tiptoe. He nuzzled her mouth wider. His kiss was the softest sweetness, like rose petals made of spun sugar. She licked his bottom lip, enjoying the flavor of honey laced with lemon and menthol. So this is the taste of damiana? It was heady. Aphrodisiac. She licked again, and her senses began to spin. To soar. She forgot the mud. She forgot the lecture she was supposed to attend. She clasped him tighter.
In the next instant, her knees buckled, and she oozed to the carpet.
Cass braced himself, catching her as she crumpled. He'd been counting his heartbeats. He'd been waiting for the opiate to kick in so Sadie would lose sense of time and space.
"Like I said," he murmured huskily, peeling a sheer strip of putty from his bottom lip. "Some bastard without a conscience."
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 3
