Blinking helplessly into the dark fires of his mesmerizing eyes, she let him massage the base of her skull. She let him murmur softly in her ear—so softly, she heard the comforting tone, not the words. A deep shudder moved through her body when his lips grazed her neck. She sank further under his spell.
He smelled like wool and winter, but where he straddled her thighs, he felt hot and primal. His breaths whispered over her lips—spicy. Intoxicating. He was so close, so tantalizingly close. When his lashes drifted lower, her mouth watered for the taste of him.
Suddenly, his kneading fingers tightened under her skull. She gasped. Colors exploded in her brain—colors, lights, and sounds. In that moment, her brain went numb. She could only form a single, coherent thought: Is he going to kiss me?
His lips edged closer. Hovered. Parted. Those dark, smoldering eyes promised all kinds of sin as he continued to squeeze and release. Squeeze and release. The shifting pressures at the base of her skull were so soothing...
Suddenly, a chocolate-brown Stetson blotted the sun from the sky. A lanky, tow-headed youth loomed over Dante with a murderous frown.
"You sure you're a doctor?" Collie growled, the butt of his .45 peeking from the fringe of his buckskin coat. "'Cause I don't see any healing going on. Just a lot of groping."
Groaning at the memory, Sadie pressed clammy palms to her cheeks. Halting before the floor-length mirror, she stared, aghast, at her guilt-ridden reflection. She'd been angry; she'd been hurt. She'd let Dante's lips touch her throat. Collie was sure to tell Cass. And if Cass blew off Dante's head, she would never forgive herself.
Dammit, Cass, get back here! I need to know you didn't turn vigilante again.
As if on cue, a knock rattled the door. She nearly jumped out of her skin. Sucking down a ragged breath, she pinched her cheeks so she wouldn't look like death-warmed-over. Then she hurried to the door and threw it open.
"Mace!"
Silhouetted in the hall's flickering lamplight, her boss looked refreshingly dapper in his trademark black bowler and Inverness cape.
She scowled at the notion. "Come back later. I'm not dressed."
He blocked the closing door with his boot. "Got company?"
"Got manners?" she wanted to fire back. "No. Tonight I'm entertaining intruders, apparently. What do you want?"
His impertinent eyes traveled from the ebony rosettes she clutched so protectively to her throat all the way down to her bare, freckled toes. "You've been crying."
"Allergies."
"Is that the cock-n-bull story you fed Goddard when you swooned?"
"Pretended to swoon."
"Uh-huh." He pushed his way into the room. "You might want to work on that accent, Contessa. It's slipping."
She ground her teeth as the door swung closed behind him. "Cass isn't here."
"I can see that."
"Good," she snapped. "Now that you've confirmed the obvious, you can leave."
He turned to face her, those pine-needle green eyes too sharp and discerning for her peace of mind.
"First, I want to make sure you're all right."
She stiffened. Mace was concerned about her? Genuinely concerned? This slope was slippery. She didn't know how to respond.
"Of course, I'm all right. Never better. What's that package under your arm?"
"Don't know. I found it on your doorstep."
Sadie was relieved to learn he hadn't snooped through the contents—yet. "Where's the card?"
"It didn't have one."
Yeah, right. That piece of evidence was probably tucked in Mace's pocket. Hadn't he admitted to Cass he wanted her off the case?
Irritably, she tossed the box onto the mattress. It clanked with a metallic sound. Although its plain, brown wrapping didn't have an inscription, she had a pretty good idea who'd left it in the hall. Cass had been showering her doorstep with flowers, love poems, and naughty love toys for a week.
Mace hiked a bushy eyebrow. "Aren't you going to open it?"
She folded her arms across her chest. And let my boss see my outlaw lover's ingenious, fur-lined manacles? Do I look like an idiot?
"It's probably from Cass."
"A guilt gift, huh?"
She shot Mace a withering glare. "Don't you have any criminals to harass?"
"Sure. You want me to arrest Cassidy?"
"Hell, no. If anyone's going to arrest him, it'll be me."
"Then here's a tip. You can't arrest a fugitive after you've blown out his brains."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said darkly.
Mace grinned, flashing boyish dimples that made him look far less annoying than usual. "Stay sweet."
With a wink, he pinched the brim of his bowler and turned for the hall. She frowned when the door swung closed after him. She couldn't remember the last time Mace had tipped his hat to her.
Her limbs trembling from fraying nerves, she crossed to the marble vanity and poured herself a shot of fortitude. Considering the week she'd had, her tequila bottle was growing alarmingly low. Slamming the glass back on the table, she wiped her mouth and finally faced her gift. A niggling doubt had begun to gnaw the back of her mind.
I've been in this room since sunset. Surely Cass saw the light under my door. Why didn't he knock?
Warily, she crossed to the bed.
When Cass got his dander up, he was usually a beat-down-the-door kind of Neanderthal. He didn't hesitate to pick locks, either. So the good news was, Collie mustn't have told him about Dante's kiss. Yet.
Maybe Collie intercepted Cass and sent him to cool off.
Torn between hope and dread, she finally reached for the package. She told herself no amount of poetry or frou-frou could excuse Cass's treachery at the auction house. He'd risked her cover. He'd made her faint in front of Mace. All she wanted to do now was stop Cass from killing Dante and getting himself hanged.
Grimly, she tore off the wrapping. She found herself holding a black, enamel music box with a peacock mosaic on the lid.
Suddenly, Rebekah's warning knelled in her mind:
"Beware the devil's tune!"
Sadie's blood ran cold.
"Collie!" she shrieked, dropping the ominous little gift to the carpet and racing for the door. "Collie!"
A moment passed. Finally, the boy poked his shaggy head into the hall. He'd picked the lock of the maid's closet so he could hide from Mace. "You wanna wake snakes?" he hissed.
"Who left that package by my door?" she demanded as Vandy raced across the hall, trampling her slippers to wriggle his way into the room.
"What package?"
She waved the boy inside and pointed a shaking forefinger at the cheerful little box of death, which Vandy was now snuffling for food. She knew the box couldn't be the one from Minx's hotel room. Minx's box had been scratched beside the winding mechanism.
Collie shrugged. "Beats me. Why?" he added suspiciously. "What's wrong with it?"
Sadie swallowed. Everything.
"Find Cass. I need him."
Collie's lip curled. "Wouldn't you rather be rubbing navels with Beans?"
She bit her tongue, forcing herself to remember that 17-year-old males believed the only reason for a man to associate with a woman was sex. "I don't have time to argue."
"Why? You gonna faint again?"
"I told you, I was faking!"
He snorted.
She grabbed a fistful of his collar and shook hard. "So help me God, boy, I'll skin you alive if you keep sassing me!"
She had the satisfaction of watching shock flare in those streetwise, pewter eyes.
"What put a bee in your bonnet, woman?"
"Maestro! He was the one who sent the music box!"
* * *
Satisfied that Collie was keeping watch over Sadie, Cass had only one obstacle standing in the way of his greater mission to apprehend Maestro: Dolce.
Fortunately, Italian divas weren't much different from American wedding-bell chasers. Cass had lots of experience eluding t
he clutches of would-be brides. So after Dolce took her final bow, and her last bewhiskered admirer got shooed from her dressing room, Cass sneaked out of the opera house, intent on tracking Mendel Baines and learning what plot he and Cort were hatching that involved musical humidors.
Cass made sure that Dolce was too busy changing into her street clothes to notice him leaving. He also made sure he left her well-protected. Even so, he figured the diva would pitch a fit when she realized he'd left her under the surveillance of four stalwart stagehands.
Then again, Dolce certainly has the stamina for a four-man orgy...
Some bell in a distant church was tolling 10:30 p.m. when Cass trotted Pancake past a faded signpost that read, Highlands. Mounds of snow covered the boardwalk, but the main road had been sufficiently trampled to make travel easy. He urged the gelding around a whiskey bottle, gleaming in a puddle of moonlight. But Pancake, clown that he was, defied command. He slowed and stretched his long neck to sniff the frozen dribbles of amber.
"Seriously? You want tornado juice?" Cass scoffed. "That coon has been a rotten influence on you."
Pancake snorted, prancing a few steps.
"Don't get high-and-mighty with me. You and I both know you're little better than a belly on hooves."
Pancake promptly hiked his tail and let one rip.
Yes, if mooching ever became a sport, Vandy would have serious competition in Pancake. The cowpony would happily follow an apple to the ends of the earth. Cass should know. That's how he'd rustled the big, lovable oaf in the first place.
Now Cass was saddled with Pancake until he found a well-intentioned buyer. The quarter horse might not be the kind of mount that enhanced a tin-star's reputation, but Cass didn't want Pancake turned into dog food. He liked ol' Batter Head.
Besides, it wasn't Pancake's fault he was a natural-born goofball. Goofballs had their place in the world. That place, unfortunately, wasn't under a Texas Ranger. Cass needed a steed that could race locomotives, swim raging rivers, and buck audacious rustlers to the moon. He was hunting for a four-legged partner who could grow his legend, the way Steel had grown Rexford Sterne's.
Cass spurred Pancake down a side street to buffer the wind. "Now don't take it personal," he said, falling into an old cowboy habit: talking to his horse. "But when we get home to Texas, I'm gonna find you a nice, new owner. Probably in Oatmeal. Sounds like your kind of town, right?"
Pancake tossed his head.
"Well, of course that's a real town! In Burnet County. Sheesh. Calling me a liar. You'd best mind your P's & Q's, or I'm gonna sell you to some wolfer in Lick Skillet..."
About ten minutes later, Cass found the ramshackle building he'd been looking for. It was partially obscured by a pair of clotheslines, bearing a type of poor men's longjohns: grain sacks with neatly whip-stitched arm and leg holes.
Pancake eagerly sniffed the food sacks. Cass rolled his eyes.
"Dream on, Hay Burner. You'll find more oats in Oatmeal."
Dismounting, he slapped the gelding's rump, and Pancake found a nice, cozy spot between the clotheslines, where the canvas protected him from the wind—and hid him from horse thieves.
Cass raised his eyebrows. Dang. I should've thought of that.
"Don't eat the underwear, you hear? It'll give you gas."
Smirking at his joke, Cass turned toward the wooden, two-story general store, which looked about as sturdy as a building made of matchsticks. The structure was leaning into the wind. Its sign—which hung from its left chain and banged above the door—was painted in some language Cass couldn't understand. Tenants lived on the second story. Baines was supposed to be one of them.
The professor should have stayed in jail. He would have slept warmer there.
A light burned behind a tattered curtain. Cass checked the address. Sure enough, the room was Baines's rental.
Suddenly, a second story door squealed open. Tinny strains of music spilled into the night. Baines appeared, silhouetted against the clutter of newspapers and books. Despite the brisk wind, he wasn't wearing a hat, overcoat, or gloves; indeed, he didn't seem to mind the biting cold.
He descended the outside stairs. Clutched under his arm was an ivory humidor. It proved to be the music's source. Cass found himself recalling the lyrics of the once-popular lament:
"In moonlit dreams, I called thee mine,
A silv'ry fey, who charmed my heart..."
Goosebumps tiptoed down Cass's spine.
"Hey, Baines!"
If the professor heard him, he didn't react. Cass watched in bemusement as the man plowed through calf-high snow drifts to reach the street. Glassy-eyed and expressionless, Baines didn't seem aware of his surroundings; in fact, his unblinking gaze was fixed on some distant point on the horizon.
Cass popped two fingers into his mouth and whistled. Pancake's head jerked up, but the professor remained oblivious.
Cass jogged after his quarry and waved his arms in the professor's face.
"Hey, Chuckles! I'm talking to you!"
Baines didn't flinch. He simply pushed past Cass's shoulder and continued his measured gait along the trampled snow in the street.
Now Cass was getting the heebie-jeebies. Baines was acting a lot like Sheridan had acted at the opera. Deciding to follow—mostly to protect the professor from thugs—Cass swung back into the saddle. The Highlands wasn't the type of neighborhood you wanted to roam after dark, unless you had a death wish or you were accustomed to dealing with devils.
Which says a lot about me, I suppose.
But as Cass scanned the dilapidated porches, with their icicle drips and boarded windows, he decided he'd seen worse. Hell, he'd lived in worse. As a sharecropper's son, he'd spent more nights than he cared to recall, huddled before the smoky old potbelly stove, while the wind keened through the chinks in the walls and frost crystallized on his backside.
Pancake's ears swiveled west.
Yep, someone's tailing us, all right. Cass glimpsed a man-shaped wraith, flitting between buildings. Snow crunched. Porch planks groaned. Cass drew a .45. But all he could see through his steaming breaths was the tip of a flapping shadow as it vanished behind the undertaker's shack.
Cass wasn't spooked by this observation, just wary. An outlaw couldn't be too careful. That's why he never went anywhere, including the privy, without the fire power to blast an escape route from hell. Tonight, he carried three double-action revolvers, a Bowie knife, and a stiletto. His saddle boot held a Winchester rifle and a Whitney shotgun, and his torso was wrapped in the kind of bullet-proof vest that had saved Sadie in Mattie's alley.
Besides, Cass didn't believe in ghosts. He'd chalked up the wing-like flapping of that fleet-footed shadow to a cape. Some flesh-and-blood human was tailing him. Cass hoped the spy was Maestro. That way, he could beat the bastard senseless, slap him in cuffs, and leave an anonymous present on the police chief's doorstep.
In the meantime, Baines plodded on, oblivious to his pursuers, the ruts he stumbled through, and the wind that pelted him in the face.
So this is what a trance does to a body, eh? No wonder Collie nearly peed his pants when Sheridan cornered him in the dressing room.
A few blocks later, Baines ducked into Porfi's alley. Now Cass was sure Baines was up to no good. The bakery's windows were dark. The sign on the front door read, "Open 6 a.m.," in great, block letters.
The waltz was fading out of hearing. Cass spurred Pancake faster—and not a moment too soon. Gunshots exploded in the night. Lights flared in several neighboring buildings.
Cass cursed. Galloping around the corner, he arrived in time to see Porfi's kitchen door sag from its hinges. He heard a reverberating crash, a female shriek, and blood-curdling Greek.
"You will never get your hands on my humidor, goat-stink!"
Cass threw himself from the saddle and sprinted after Baines. An upstairs window was cracked open. Silhouetted against the partially drawn shade, Cass could see three sets of pert young breasts and a human wall with
a beard. Porfi and his women were throwing on clothes, which meant they would soon be charging into the kitchen, where more crashing, splintering, and gunfire could be heard. Cass worried he'd have a massacre on his hands.
But Porfi proved cannier than Cass had imagined. The Greek had smeared grease on the stoop. Cass learned this the hard way, when he went skating for dear life through the moonlit chaos of a booby-trapped kitchen. Flour billows filled the air. Forks twanged from the wooden doorjamb. Baines lay flailing in a heap of pots, pans, and broken crockery. A broken trip-wire wrapped his ankle.
The scene might have been comical, except for one hair-raising fact. Amidst all the racket, Baines didn't yell. He didn't curse. His face looked like it was carved from white marble as he kept firing wild shots at the copper kettles swinging overhead.
"Stand down, Baines!" Cass shouted when the professor's sixth and final bullet shattered the window over the sink.
But the warning did no good. In his trance state, Baines felt neither fear nor pain. He was heaving off wooden shelves as easily as he might have hurled feather pillows. When Cass tried to disarm him, Baines swung a fist. They wrestled, but the grease tripped them up, and they crashed into a heap of burlap sacks. Sugar flooded Cass's nose and mouth. Choking, he kicked blindly, but Baines weighed more and rolled on top. His eyes burning like demon fire, Baines grabbed a sack and tried to smother him.
"Thought you could steal from an honest baker?" Porfi was meanwhile bellowing from the top of the stairs. "Welcome to my kitchen, malakas! Here a thief gets eaten alive!"
Amber ooze rolled down Baines's forehead and into his eyes. Porfi's mistresses were yelling and leaning over the railing, dumping syrup and hurling eggs. Taking advantage of Baines's momentary blindness, Cass heaved the professor into a stack of cooling racks.
"My loukoumades!" Porfi cried as the honey puffs went flying.
Cass glimpsed the outraged baker through a flurry of flour, his striped mobcap askew on his nappy head, his tent-sized nightshirt falling off one tattooed shoulder. He was pumping a shotgun in his beefy hands.
"Porfi, wait!" Cass gasped. "Baines is under a spell! He doesn't know what he's doing!"
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 19
