But Baines was wholly focused on that humidor. With his hands clasped behind his back, he kept muttering and circling the cage that protected the artifact. If she hadn't cleared her throat to announce herself, he would have bowled her into the exhibit.
Searching for a weakness in the fortifications, Baines?
"Eh?" Irritably, he adjusted his spectacles. When his eyes rose to hers, they were bloodshot and glassy.
Sadie suspected opium, since Baines fraternized with Cort.
"Buongiorno, professore. The verde marble, it is exquisite, no?"
A deep flush rolled up his neck. "Indeed." He turned his shoulder on her.
Sadie blinked at this unexpected snub. But she reasoned he was embarrassed by the memory of his brawl. Or maybe he was self-conscious about his swollen face and scratched throat.
Strange. Her eyebrows knitted as she gazed more closely at the skin above his collar. Those marks were blistered and raw, looking more like insect stings or rope burns than knuckle punches.
"Professore," she began in conciliatory tones, "I am saddened by the misunderstanding at the hotel. I am sure you were only—"
"Sticking my nose where it didn't belong?" he finished for her acidly. "Like you're doing now?"
Apparently, he noticed me staring.
"My apologies, signore. I did not mean to offend—"
"What do you care? Unless he sent you to spy on me."
Her smile stiffened. Ironically, he wasn't as paranoid as he sounded. "Who would wish to spy on you?"
"You know damned well."
His stare remained fixed on the humidor.
She frowned. "Professore, you are a proud man. And pride makes you hard-headed, it seems. Signorina Greyfell told me you have been seeking patrons for your research—"
"You don't give a rat's ass about my research."
Her heart quickened. She wondered if she'd inadvertently blown her cover; if Cort had recognized her on a crowded street and identified her to Baines.
As if drawn by magnetic force, her gaze rose above the humidor's cage and locked with Mace's. He was standing near the refreshment table, stirring a cup of coffee.
Damn! That's all I need: to botch this mission with my boss in plain sight. Mace won't hesitate to send me back to the whorehouse!
"Professore," Sadie tried again, figuring that a desperate contessa would swallow her pride and tamp down her annoyance. "Signorina Greyfell confided your methods were most helpful. She said she sleeps like a bambina, now, because you cured her of night terrors after her papa's death."
Baines locked stares with her again. This time, confusion muddied his bloodshot glaze. "I cured her?"
"Si. She recommends you highly. She says the nightmares are gone, and the grief has nearly passed too. That is why I wish to consult with you—privately, of course—about my own complaint."
He swayed for a moment, as if he'd grown dizzy. Then he muttered something. The words were muffled behind the hand he scrubbed over his face. But Sadie could have sworn he'd said, "I don't remember."
"Professore?" A reluctant concern crept into her voice. "Are you well?"
He sucked down a shuddering breath. His eyes clouded with chagrin. But just when he seemed on the verge of apologizing, Cort exited the privy. Sniffling the white powder on his mustache, Cort slipped a snuff box inside his hip pocket.
"C'mon, Doc!" the addict bellowed across the room. "Let's get our seats. Mattie gave me a loan!"
Baines turned beet red. Harrumphing, he tucked his calling card into her palm. "Of course, Contessa. It will be our secret. Come by my office Monday afternoon. One o'clock. But a word of caution before we part. Forget the humidor. For your own good."
Is that a threat?
Sadie watched in speculation as Baines passed through the black velvet draperies that framed the entry to the bidding room. If the ill-mannered professor was Maestro, she would need more than his obsession with a music box to convict him.
What would Baines do, I wonder, if the contessa pulled some strings to get his coveted humidor taken off the market?
But before she could act on her idea, Dante rematerialized at her side with two champagne flutes and zero dowagers.
Sadie pasted on a smile, hoping to distract him from the card that she was furtively slipping into a secret pocket in her skirt. She didn't want Dante to know "the contessa" had set an appointment with his arch rival.
"You escaped," she greeted warmly, accepting a glass.
"The same might be said of you." Those exotic, gold-flecked eyes made her temperature rise as they assessed her for damage. "No ill effects from your run-in with Baines, I trust?"
"How kind you are to concern yourself with my welfare," she purred, sipping from her fizzing flute. "Rather like my own personal knight in shining armor."
His lips curved, and his lashes drooped, veiling the tantalizing heat of his gaze. "My pleasure." He offered his arm. "Come. The auction awaits, m'lady."
A sudden ripple of applause circled the room. Turning toward the main entrance, Sadie noticed the crowd was parting in waves. Apparently, the ovation was for Dolce LaRocca. She'd arrived with a well-heeled gentleman, who sported a beaver top hat and a fashionable, double-breasted frockcoat. The stunning, porcelain-skinned diva flashed her brilliant smile and acknowledged her fans as her bearded, dark-haired escort raked piercing, sapphire eyes over the crowd.
When those smoldering, blue eyes locked with Sadie's, her jaw dropped. She sucked in a strangled breath.
Dolce's escort was Cass in disguise!
Chapter 13
Cass's sunny mane had been cut and dyed the color of a starless night. His sleek, athletic build had been swathed in finely tailored broadcloth. Sadie was so stunned by this transformation, all she could do was gape.
Then Dolce reclaimed his attention. Cass turned his head and lavished heart-tripping dimples on her—dimples that would have made Venus swoon.
A sick feeling settled in Sadie's stomach.
Cass never went anywhere without his beloved Stetson and Justin boots. Yet he'd ditched every last stitch of cowboy clothing to please another woman—an elegant, sophisticated woman, whose enviable singing voice had garnered the stage success Sadie had been dreaming of since childhood.
On top of every other betrayal—the stolen emeralds, the Judas Kiss, the more talented diva—how could he escort a woman who speaks fluent Italian to the auction, knowing she could blow my cover?
Dimly, through the roaring in her brain, Sadie heard her champagne flute crash at her feet.
"Fiore."
She blinked, and Dante's handsome face began to take shape through the glaze of her tears.
Lilybelle hurried forward. She started snapping her fingers under Sadie's nose. "C'mon, Lady Coyote." The dowager's voice sounded like gravel, crunching under water. "Snap out of it."
Sadie staggered. The room was spinning, and her corset felt like a boa constrictor. "I-I can't breathe!"
"Damn," Lilybelle muttered. "I never carry smelling salts. Don't need 'em myself..."
"Step aside," Dante commanded, thrusting his champagne into her hand. "I'll handle this."
He hoisted Sadie effortlessly into his arms. In that moment, she didn't know what was worse, that he was carrying her through the gasping crowd like a sack of feathers; that Mace was present to witness her shameful attack of vapors; or that she was on the verge of a real swoon for the first time in her life.
* * *
Cass's heart ricocheted off his ribs. Sadie had grown as limp as lettuce. At first, he'd thought she was faking. Sadie had the constitution of a horse, so he'd figured a pretend swoon was her calculated ploy to remove herself from the building. That way, Dolce couldn't expose her rudimentary knowledge of Italian.
But as the seconds ticked by, Cass realized Sadie needed help. Even she couldn't fake turning whiter than new-fallen snow. However, when he would have charged to her rescue, Mace breezed past, whispering in dire tones, "Do nothing, or risk
everything."
Now Cass was struggling to keep his fists in his pockets so he didn't smash something. And by something, he meant Goddard's face.
"Che peccato. What a shame," Dolce lamented, her coffee-colored eyes fixed speculatively on the Bostonian's retreating back. "I shall not get to meet this mysterious contessa. The one I never heard of."
Cass shot her a warning look. Although Dolce was 10 years his senior, the dark-haired siren had proven as willful as a two-year-old. He'd tried damned near everything to divert her from her scheme to win Lady Fiore as her patron. He'd even submitted to Dolce's tailor and barber.
True, he'd needed the make-over to go undercover at this high-security shindig. But Dolce's motherly fussing, combined with three hours of dyeing, clipping, and pin-pricking, had made for a teeth-grinder of a morning. In truth, Cass had suffered the degradation less to avoid tin-stars than to keep Dolce from pounding on Sadie's hotel door.
But even his agile mind wasn't able to distract Dolce forever. Exhausted of ideas, he'd finally relented and accompanied her to the auction for one reason, and one reason only: to stop her from blowing Sadie's cover.
Perhaps he should have been more worried about his own "cover."
During their carriage ride, Cass had never had so much trouble keeping on his trousers in his life. To his bemusement, he discovered that the married diva possessed a libido rivaled only by stud ponies and bulls. If he'd known Italian women were so lusty, he would have made Collie pose as Dolce's tin-star hero. The last thing he wanted to do was give Sadie another reason to hate him.
"Carino," Dolce purred, when he couldn't resist sneaking another peek after Goddard, "I am here." She snapped her fingers under his nose.
Steeling himself against annoyance, Cass turned his full attention on the scene-stealer. She had flawless olive skin, which made him wonder if she was part Gypsy and fond of hexing rivals, the way the chorus girls liked to whisper.
He pasted on a roguish smile. "That's why I'm the envy of every man in this room. You've left them breathless in your scarlet silk."
"How good of you to notice," she said slyly.
"That's me. Good to the bone."
Her gaze dropped suggestively below his belt. "I look forward to proof of your boast."
He cleared his throat. Christ, am I blushing?
"We've been over all that," he said sternly. "I'm sworn to protect you. I must remain alert at all times. That's why I'm forbidden to fraternize. The rule is for your safety."
"Your Ranger Code is deadly dull."
"Shh," he hissed, wanting to spank her. In a moment of desperation, he'd invented the 'Ranger Code'—or more precisely, the part about keeping his pecker in his pants. "I'm undercover, remember?"
She smirked.
Oh, she remembered, all right.
"Perhaps I shall hire another protector," she said with a pretty pout. "Perhaps I shall hire one of those Pinkertons, I've heard so much about. Then you'd be free to take the night off. And you could show me more of Texas," she added wickedly.
"How 'bout I show you downtown Denver? And while we're sight-seeing, you could report to the Rocky your necklace was stolen—as we agreed."
She was too crafty to be dissuaded so easily.
"But carino, you read the newspaper. After that madwoman broke into my dressing room last night, I cannot cry wolf so soon. No one would believe me."
"You underestimate your performance abilities," he said dryly.
"Perhaps you are right." She fluttered long, feathery lashes. "But there is the other problem."
"What problem?"
"You are a Texas Ranger and my bodyguard," she said silkily. "If I say Daredevil succeeded so soon after Maestro failed, you would earn the reputation of... how you say? A nincompoop."
Cass wasn't fooled by this magnanimous consideration. The hellcat was stonewalling him. "For your safety, signora, I would gladly suffer the consequences."
Annoyance flickered in those hungry eyes. "Such admirable restraint you Texicans have."
Score one for the nincompoop.
But Cass's sense of triumph was short-lived. He'd lost sight of Goddard. He didn't give a rat's ass if the Bostonian was a doctor. He didn't trust him. Not with Sadie.
Did Goddard carry her out to his coach?
This notion sparked Cass's memories of his wild, twilight ride with Sadie. He tried to blank from his mind erotic visions of his woman, with her corset unhooked and her lush breasts bared—to Goddard's mouth. In desperation, Cass searched the room for something to inspire a new topic of conversation with Dolce.
Damn. Why does every sculpture in this gallery show bared bosoms or rock-hard peckers?
He spied a sign that read, Musical Humidor. Satyrs and Fauns. Verde Malachite. 18th C. Florence.
"Um, there's a nice music box over there," he told Dolce. "It's etched with goats."
"You mean satyrs."
Whatever. "Let's look."
She dragged her heels. "For mechanical movements, I prefer Swiss craftsmanship."
"Isn't that kinda like saying, for Texas chili, I prefer Michigan pinto beans?"
Amusement flickered over her exotic features. "Shall I purchase the humidor for you?"
Now he really was blushing. Just because he'd let her swaddle him in broadcloth didn't mean he'd become her pet! He was preparing to tell her so, when his attention was diverted by a commotion at the hall's entrance.
Porfi was waddling into the room in his Sunday best. The barn-sized baker sported gold frou-frou everywhere he could: the hoop in his right ear, the stick pin on his coat lapel, the rings on his fingers and thumbs. Flanking him like romping kittens were three adoring females. Not one of them was over the age of 25.
"Who's the Greek?" Dolce demanded, her speculative eyes following the blustery, granddaddy of a fence as he made a beeline for Aisle 12 and that musical humidor.
"What makes you think he's Greek?"
"He has the accent. And the libido."
Before Cass could respond, a bell chimed, signaling the start of the auction. An attendant arrived to carry the humidor into the bidding room. Porfi followed.
"Let's watch," Cass said, dragging Dolce after the attendant. After all, Porfi had said that Maestro was interested in a green musical humidor.
"Carino, one does not attend an art auction to watch," Dolce said loftily. "One attends to wrest treasures from rivals. That is the fun of the game."
Only if you're richer than Midas, Cass thought, parting the curtains and observing the assembly of high rollers, seated in their furs and silks. Most were idly fanning themselves with bidding paddles.
"How much do you suppose the humidor is worth?" he whispered, pulling Dolce into a plush gray seat beside him.
"A pittance." She sniffed. "The true valuables are scheduled later on the program."
Then why did Professor Baines start salivating like a hound when the humidor was carried to the front of the room?
The attendant played the humidor's plinking melody for the crowd. Dolce covered her ears and compared the sound to a braying donkey.
Baines sat straight up in his chair.
Porfi waved his paddle to open the bid. Fowler upped the ante by $100.
Within minutes, that "pittance" of a cigar box reached $8,000. The fretting Baines fell out of the contest early. Fowler quit $2,000 later.
After a quick, heated consultation with Baines, Cort jumped in, waging a valiant battle against Porfi. But at $11,800, Mattie compressed her lips in a grim line and shook her head. Apparently, Cort's allowance had its limits.
Just as the auctioneer was preparing to pound his gavel and bellow, "Sold for $12,000 to the bearded gentleman in the first row," Dolce flashed a cheeky smile and raised her paddle.
Porfi turned in his seats—his bulk covered two—and tossed a dagger's glare at his newest bidding rival.
"I told you, I don't want the cigar box," Cass whispered urgently.
"Sì, carino," she soothed, "bu
t I don't like him."
"I didn't think you knew him."
"I don't have to. He's Greek." She smirked, raising her paddle again. "Besides, someone has to flush out this madman, who kills with music."
Cass muttered an oath, envisioning Dolce's neck snapped and the humidor—along with Mephistopheles's Jewels—gripped triumphantly in Maestro's black-gloved fist.
Cass snatched Dolce's paddle before she could tempt fate further.
Porfi won the bid at $16,000.
Dolce pouted. "Have I mentioned you're no fun?"
Cass sighed, removing her prowling fingers from his thigh. He imagined two more days of hell, enduring the diva's shimmies, wiggles, and groping before her show finally closed.
If Sadie doesn't kill me, Dolce Duty will.
Chapter 14
Nine Hours Later
Dressed in a billowing robe of lacy, black silk, Sadie paced the Windsor's penthouse, wringing her hands and anxiously checking the clock.
Only 9 p.m.? Damn! Where's Cass? What's keeping him?
Tears glazed her vision. After the debacle at the auction house, she just knew he would show up at her door. The question was, would he show up as a lawman or a murderer?
Her stomach roiling, she recalled his threat, how he'd promised to kill Dante if the Yankee tried to woo her. The aftermath of her swoon was still foggy in her mind, but she did remember waking under a tree, in Dante's arms, with the November sun flaring around his head like a golden nimbus. Surrounded by frosted grasses, she'd clung to his neck, shivering against his warmth, fighting off the twin demons of humiliation and grief as she realized she'd keeled over like felled timber in front of Mace and half of Denver.
And it was all Cass's fault!
"I-I don't know what came over me," she gasped, her teeth chattering, mostly from shock. "I never get the vapors!"
"Relax," Dante crooned. "I'm a doctor. Just breathe. You're safe."
And ironically, she did feel safe, even though he was tugging open her corset hooks in a public yard; even though the brass buttons of his frockcoat pressed like chilled coins into her flesh. She felt confused. Aroused. Vulnerable.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 18
