Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "I'll tell you what he's doing!" Porfi howled. "He's going to hell!"

  That's when Cass heard the menacing click. Somehow, Baines had stolen a .45 from his belt.

  Porfi's women shrieked.

  Cass reached for his other Colt.

  But Baines surprised him. Instead of mowing down the females who'd doused him with goo, he raised the revolver to his temple.

  "Don't do it!" Cass yelled.

  Baines never batted an eye. He pulled the trigger and jerked backwards through the explosion of light and powder.

  "Sonuvabitch," Cass choked.

  The aftermath was sickening. Blood and brains oozed down Porfi's oven door. Cass averted his eyes. The three girls clutched each other, rocking on the stairs and bawling like lambs. Even Porfi was momentarily stunned. When he finally collected himself to bark an order, his mistresses fled hand-in-hand to his living quarters.

  The grim-faced Greek turned lethal eyes on Cass. Despite his crooked nightcap, the flour flaking from his beard, and the sheer cotton nightshirt that strained across the massive rolls of his belly, Porfi didn't look clownish. Not when he held that scattergun with the expertise of an infantryman.

  "In my country," the Greek growled, "we do not suffer thieves to keep their hands."

  Cass gaped at this threat. Then he remembered he'd gotten his hair cut and dyed.

  "Whoa, Porfi. Take it easy. It's Cass."

  Those glacier-blue eyes narrowed. Porfi braced the butt of his Whitney against his massive shoulder. "You think an old man is a fool, eh?"

  "I see only one fool in your kitchen," interceded a gruff, Chicago baritone near the shattered window. "I think we can all agree, it's not you, Porfi. Stand down. Cassidy made a visit to the barber, that's all."

  Mace stood illuminated by a splash of moonlight, his broad shoulders draped by an Inverness cape. Suspicion dawned as Cass watched the detective holster his Remington and Porfi lower his Whitney.

  "You turned informant for the Pinkertons?" Cass accused, glaring daggers at the Greek.

  A sheepish smile curved Porfi's lips. "Sorry, boyo."

  "No sorrier than I am," Cass snapped, stung by betrayal. Struggling with his anger, he locked stares with Mace. "You want to tell me why the hell you've been tailing me?"

  "Not you. Baines. He's been talking for days—mostly at Mattie's poker table—about raising the money for that Italian humidor. He vowed to have it, so Porfi did me the favor of making sure he lost the bid. With Baines's underground connections and his desperation for cash, I figured he'd lead us to Maestro. But you let him steal your Colt and blow out his brains."

  "So it's my fault you don't have a pot to piss in?" Cass was livid. "Serves you right, partner. Maybe next time, you'll let me in on the particulars!"

  "The way you let me in on your Daredevil scheme?" Mace countered acidly.

  A muscle ticked in Cass's jaw. He wanted nothing more than to smash Mace's perfect nose. But what would be the point? If he didn't cooperate with the Pinkertons, he wouldn't get Sadie back.

  "The way I see it," Cass jeered, "Daredevil's your ace in the hole."

  Mace's lip curled. "You overestimate your usefulness."

  "And you're a dick."

  Cass stalked past a bemused Porfi. Wading through rivulets of sugar, he retrieved his fallen Stetson and Colt.

  "Now if you vlacas will excuse me, I'm going to finish the job I started. With or without your help."

  * * *

  Much to Cass's annoyance, he left Porfi's bakery looking like a licorice lollipop. He couldn't very well search for Cort at Mattie's house while he was coated with sugar. So Cass made a quick detour to the Albany Hotel, where he traded his duster and Stetson for his detestable opera attire.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cass was climbing the stairs to the brothel, when he spied Collie cantering down Holladay Street. The kid was recognizable beneath the waning moon, partly because of his ever-present scowl, and partly because he had a raccoon stuffed in the knapsack on his back.

  Cass intercepted Collie in the gutter. "Now what?" he greeted.

  "Take a guess," the boy said acidly and dismounted. "I've looked here for you twice already. And I looked in every other public brothel in this town, plus a few that aren't so public."

  "You're welcome," Cass said dryly. "Learn anything?"

  "Not the way you mean," Collie snapped. "Your woman damned near scrambled my brains!"

  "Pissed her off again, did you?"

  "I didn't do nuthin'."

  "Vandy, then."

  "What the hell kind of female doesn't like furry little animals?"

  Cass hiked an eyebrow. Vandy, who was gleefully chomping hardtack in Collie's ear, dropped biscuit crumbs down the boy's collar.

  I'll consider that a rhetorical question.

  "Fight your own battles, kid. I don't have the time," Cass said, turning toward the brothel again.

  But before he could take another step, Collie blurted out:

  "Sadie sent for you."

  Cass frowned. Considering their estrangement, that message should have come as good news. But when Cass faced Collie again, the boy avoided his eyes.

  "Is she sick?" Cass demanded.

  "Not anymore."

  "What then?"

  "She got a present."

  "From Goddard?"

  "Don't know. The card got lost before she opened it."

  "So you told her it was from me?" Cass smirked. "That was quick thinking."

  Collie fidgeted. "The package was waiting by her door when she got back from the auction. She didn't see it until Ryker showed up."

  "So?"

  "So... inside the wrapping was a music box. She thinks it came from Maestro."

  Cass went cold. A long, uneasy silence stretched between them.

  "And now she thinks her cover's blown," Cass guessed grimly.

  Collie dragged him away from the light of Mattie's picture window. "I told her that box could have been left for lots of reasons," the boy whispered in conspiratorial tones. "She might have a secret admirer. But even if Maestro did leave his calling card, that doesn't mean he knows the truth. He might still think she's filthy rich. He might be after the jewels he thinks she has in Italy."

  "But she can't take that chance," Cass pointed out.

  "At least Ryker doesn't suspect," Collie said darkly. "He thinks the box is from you. Apparently, Sadie wants to keep it that way. So if I were you, I'd get my ass back to the penthouse before she changes her mind again."

  "Again?" Cass repeated dubiously.

  Collie grimaced.

  "What aren't you telling me, boy?"

  Collie threw up his hands in exasperation. "How should I know what goes on in that crazy skirt's mind? She's your woman! And if you want to keep her, you'd better stop whoring with Mattie and Dolce!"

  "I'm not whoring with—" Cass bit off his protest. As far as he was concerned, Sadie had no right to tell him where to take his pecker while she was freezing him out of her bed. "Hey! Where are you going?"

  "Anywhere," Collie flung over his shoulder. "S'long as it's got bourbon, and neither of you are there."

  "Now that's hurtful. We think of Vandy as family."

  "Shut up." Collie heaved himself into his saddle. "Me and Vandy are done being in the middle. The next time you need a babysitter, tell her daddy to do it. He wants to see you double pronto."

  "Wait a minute. Sterne's in town? Why didn't you say so?"

  "I just did! And considering where you're headed, it's a good thing I found you before he did!"

  Cass winced. The kid had a point.

  "Where's Sterne staying?"

  "Grand Central Hotel. Look for Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Wilma tagged along." Collie spurred Rhubarb. "By the way. That's another one you owe me, Snake Bait!"

  "Put it on my tab," Cass hollered after him.

  Collie flipped him the bird, and Rhubarb broke into a canter.

  * * *

  No light poured from the crack u
nder Sadie's penthouse door. Cass frowned. He'd expected her to be waiting up for him.

  Then he heard some distant bell chiming the hour.

  Damn. Midnight! He hadn't planned on spending so much time at the Grand Central Hotel.

  Sterne had wanted a full report, mostly about Sadie's progress with her mission. Needless to say, Cass had kept his mouth shut about the more interesting anecdotes: how Sadie had handcuffed him to his train berth; how he'd stolen the Pinkerton emeralds; how he'd given Sadie a carriage ride she'd never forget. He'd also thought it prudent not to mention how he'd mislead Dolce into believing his Ranger badge gave him authority in Colorado. He'd figured Sterne would have a conniption fit, since the Ranger commander did everything by the book.

  Yes, Sterne was a pain in the ass, but he'd won the war with the Marshal's Office. He'd arrived in Denver, toting the holiest-of-holies: a Special Deputy U.S. Marshal's badge. He'd even sworn Cass in. Now that Cass had his commission, he didn't have to worry about getting thrown in jail for his old stage coach robberies. Better yet, he could blow off Maestro's head, nice and legal-like, if the bastard threatened another woman.

  Sadie should sleep easier, knowing that.

  Tugging a widdy from his hatband, Cass picked the penthouse lock in three seconds flat. Collie would be proud, he thought wryly, slipping inside the room.

  Hastily closing the door on the hall light, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the shades of pitch. A single moonbeam pierced the slit in the curtain, illuminating the long lump in the bed.

  Sadie's sleeping, all right.

  Not wanting to wake her, Cass tiptoed toward the headboard. When a body had been thieving as long as he had, it learned how to move in silence.

  Or so he'd thought.

  But the click of a revolving cylinder quickly cast doubt on his effectiveness as a sneak.

  "Looking for someone, mister?" Sadie's voice was harsh. And slightly slurred.

  His lips twitched. He could smell the tequila in the room.

  "They call her the Devil's Daughter."

  A moment passed. Then a light bloomed at Sadie's elbow. She was lounging in a striped, pewter armchair, her chestnut mane spilling to her waist, lacy rosettes cascading from her breasts. The skimpy threads between each flower left little to his imagination, especially when she drew breath.

  But as enticing as that quivering vista of patchouli-scented freckles was, what captivated Cass in that moment—what had always captivated Cass about Sadie—was the sensual fire burning in those hungry, tiger eyes.

  "I got word you wanted me," he said.

  "Lies."

  He hiked an eyebrow.

  "But since you made the trip," she said huskily, her trigger finger never wavering on her .32, "take off your clothes."

  Cass's amusement was fleeting. Nothing would please him more than watching Sadie watch him strip. And lick her lips.

  But tonight she was angry and hurt. He glimpsed a smudge of kohl beneath her lashes, a sure sign she'd been crying. He remembered how she'd arranged the covers to look like she was sleeping and how she'd challenged him when he'd crept toward her bed. Those ploys hadn't been part of a seduction game, he realized now. She'd been scared that Maestro would enter her room.

  But Sadie, being Sadie, would never admit her fear. If Maestro did get the best of her some dark and lonely night, she would roast his manly parts in hell.

  Imagining Sadie's vengeance made Cass love her even more.

  He decided she needed a diversion. An excuse so she could let him make her feel safe. Tossing his top hat on the chaise, he leaned an indolent shoulder against the bedpost and crossed his arms over his vest.

  She looked displeased by his challenge. "Is that the best you can do?"

  "Tell you what," he taunted. "You come over here, and I'll show you what I can do."

  Those feral, feline eyes narrowed. "Prisoners don't get bargaining rights."

  "So shoot me."

  He strolled into the line of fire. He kept walking, enjoying the flash of warning in her glare. When he planted his hands on her armchair, he leaned close to the muzzle of that expertly held pistol.

  "You gonna play nice?" he demanded.

  "Never."

  Striking faster than a viper, he knocked the gun from her hand and dragged her into his arms.

  "I was hoping you'd say that," he growled, slanting his mouth across hers.

  Sadie sank against all those rugged, roughrider muscles, hating her weakness for wanting him, but needing the consolation. He was leather and rawhide, sandalwood and steel, something strong and familiar to cling to while the world was spinning out of control.

  Nevermind that he was the reason for most of the chaos. That he'd lied. That he'd betrayed her. That he was sleeping with God knew how many other women. When she'd called, he'd left those other lovers to come to her bed. And that was saying something, wasn't it?

  Besides, it was just sex, she reminded the traitorous Dreamer who lived inside her heart. Wild, primal, orgiastic sex. No one did it better than Cass, when the demon was in his blood. If she clung to that thought, she wouldn't have to remember how she'd hoped—so desperately hoped, in the secret, walled off chambers of her heart—that he would become more than a passing affair.

  "This changes nothing," she growled, mostly so her brain could hear the vow, because her hands seemed to have a will of their own. They were yanking off his vest and tugging his shirt tails from his trousers.

  He chuckled, arching her over his forearm, sucking her nipple deep into the tantalizing pressures of his mouth. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Damn. He knew what she liked. It was aggravating.

  It was wonderful.

  He kicked off his opera pumps and swept her up in his arms, carrying her past the lump in the bed. "Shh," he teased, laying her down and smoothing her riotous curls over a pillow. "Don't want to wake your other lover. Or did you put a bullet in his head, because he failed to please?"

  "I was thinking more about putting a bullet in your head."

  "Just like old times."

  "Don't flatter yourself. I used to like you then."

  "So you admit it."

  She glared up into his sapphire eyes, laughing so wickedly in the moonlight. "Doesn't your mouth have anything better to do than gab?"

  His smirk was incorrigibly male. "Well now. Rewards are reserved for obedient prisoners."

  She scraped vengeful nails down the rock-ribbed planes of his abdomen. "If you keep making me wait—" she grabbed a fistful of his swollen fly "—you'll lose something very precious to you, Rutter."

  His inky lashes fanned lower, veiling the hunger in those flame-blue eyes. "Nothing could be worse than losing you, Sadie."

  She swallowed hard when he threw her that bone. That's the trouble with tequila. It makes liars sound sincere.

  She pushed her tongue into his mouth. He gripped her butt cheek, tipping her hips with a strong, possessive hand. Lightning crackled down her nerves as he rubbed her throbbing mound. The fever didn't take long to build. She tugged impatiently at the brass buttons of his fly; he wrestled off her negligee, pushing wads of lace out of his way.

  Soon there was nothing between them but sizzle and heat. Legs tangled, tongues fencing, they writhed in an age-old rhythm. Her breaths ripped when he lengthened his thrusts, plunging in, sliding out. Desperately, she arched for more. He drove deeper, but not deep enough. Her breaths splintered when he left her wet and wild, quivering on the brink, cursing him and all his ancestors.

  He grinned. "Say it."

  "You're a pig-headed louse!" she panted, locking her thighs around his flanks, trying to drag his princely shaft back for another ride.

  "You know what I want to hear."

  "That your stamina was better in Dodge?"

  He chuckled, his callused thumb rubbing with fiendish gentleness over her sensitized nub. "Try again."

  She whimpered.

  He squeezed.

  She nearly came. Nearly.

&nbs
p; "Damn you!"

  "Nope. That's not it either."

  "Why do you hate me?"

  "I don't hate you," he crooned.

  "You have a lousy way of showing it."

  He relented, filling her aching emptiness with his shaft once more. "I need your forgiveness, Sadie."

  Her bottom lip quivered. Tearing her eyes from his, she blinked back a traitorous glaze. "I'm not ready," she whispered hoarsely.

  "When?"

  "I... I don't know."

  "You can't stay angry forever," he whispered.

  His voice sounded so sad.

  She dared to look at him then. She found herself drowning in his eyes, in those ocean-deep pools of endless, aching blue.

  "Can't it be enough that I want you?" she demanded helplessly. "Still?"

  He didn't look happy, but at least he was moving again. Tenderly. Soulfully.

  "I'd give you the world, if I could, Sadie. Why won't you believe that?"

  She didn't know how to answer.

  Fortunately, he didn't give her the chance. His mouth covered hers, and she sighed into him, shoving logic into a distant corner of her mind. She wanted pleasure. She needed pleasure, the kind that Cass gave so masterfully. She didn't want to apologize for it, not even to her heart.

  The room was spinning now, crackling with intensity. Cass was both catalyst and anchor; she clung to him for dear life. In the final moments, before the stars exploded and the moon skyrocketed out of orbit, nothing in heaven or hell could have separated them. They were a primal power. A force of nature. He gasped her name. She cried out his. All the savage beauty of life—the grief and the hurt, the love and the bliss—roared through their bodies in a tumult of feeling.

  She rolled to her side. In the aftermath, he was quiet for once. No quips. No jests. She considered it a blessing.

  Curling into a ball, she was too exhausted to protest when he wrapped his arm around her waist and settled in for the night. Many minutes passed. She found herself staring at the embers in the hearth. In spite of every hurt, every disappointment, she couldn't escape the truth:

  She still loved him. She would always love him.

  But as his breaths evened out and his fingers grew slack in her hand, she was forced to realize a painful truth:

  She was too cowardly to tell him.