The Fall of Rome

by Beth Ciotta

  Whatever it takes.

  If nothing else, he and Kat shared a common motto and goal.

  “Dammit!”

  Rome looked from the desert vista to a copse of trees. He knew that voice, though it surprised him she was up and out so early. He pushed off the boulder, peered around the sprawling branches of a mesquite, and saw a conservatively dressed Kat bending over to free her skirt from the pointy spines of a barrel cactus. Her shiny curls bounced around her head like a chestnut halo. Thick locks that once reached her waist now flirted with her shoulder blades. He wondered when and why she’d cut her hair. If she’d meant to heighten her seductive aura, she’d succeeded. Once a she-devil. Now an angelic she-devil. Christ.

  He crushed out the smoldering cheroot and moved in.

  Startled by his presence, she jerked and winced. “Dammit, Rome!”

  “Prick yourself?”

  “Thanks to you.” She squeezed her forefinger and frowned. “I thought you begged off coming to a lady’s aid.”

  “Some habits are harder to break than others.” He gestured to her wound. “Let me see.” When she didn’t comply, he took charge. As soon as their hands connected, he felt a surge of lust. He imagined suckling her finger, kissing away the hurt. He imagined flicking his tongue over her palm, her wrist. He envisioned an array of erotic images, all of which he’d performed in the past, but instead, produced a bandana from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound. It was then that he noticed her skin wasn’t as soft as it used to be. He smoothed his thumb over a rough patch. She hadn’t earned those calluses dealing cards.

  She jerked back her hand as if privy to his thoughts.

  He sensed a query wouldn’t be welcome so, for now, he let it go. Pensive, he stooped to free her skirt from the spiny cactus.

  “I could’ve done that.”

  “You’re welcome.” He straightened and met a pair of contrite brown eyes.

  “I just... I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone,” she said in a less hostile tone. “You of all people. Unless you’ve been up all night.”

  “Slept fine. Woke early. You?”

  “Same. Thought I’d take a walk. Mull over last night’s talk in preparation for the impending charade.” She lifted a brow. “You?”

  “Same.” More or less.

  “You’re staring.”

  “I know.” He was hypnotized by her face much as he was by the sunrise. Rarely had he seen Kat without face paint. This morning her face was scrubbed fresh. She was twenty-four now, yet she looked younger than when he’d first met her at eighteen. How the hell was that possible? On second thought, it wasn’t about youth, but innocence. She looked wholesome, vulnerable. He was particularly smitten with the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Smitten and curious. “You used to be meticulous about shielding your skin from the sun.”

  “If you’re wondering how I’m going to attract Brady looking like this, you can stop fretting. When it matters, I’ll slick up and dress to the nines.”

  He stuffed down a surge of jealousy, hoping to strike up an illuminating discussion. “I wasn’t criticizing your appearance, Kat.”

  “No?”

  “No. Just wondering what would tempt a night owl like you into spending time in the sun, unprotected no less. As I recall, you owned numerous bonnets and parasols.”

  “I was obsessed with maintaining a pale complexion. A sign of sophistication and gentility, as you know.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m no longer obsessed.”

  “Guess that extends to high fashion.” He gestured to her brown cotton skirt and calico shirt. “Don’t recollect you ever wearing anything that wasn’t frilly and just shy of scandalous.”

  She quirked a brow. “Little early for superfluous finery.”

  “Wouldn’t have stopped you before. Time was you wouldn’t step out of your room until meticulously dressed and coiffed.”

  “That’s because the illusion was vital.”

  “What illusion?”

  “If you knew me at all, you’d know the answer to that question.”

  “You’re joshing.”

  “Mercy, but I’m exhausted from this scintillating conversation.” She passed him his sullied bandana. “Thank you for your medical attention, Rome. I’ll leave you to your walk and continue with mine.”

  What the hell? He’d kept his tone pleasant throughout, yet she was pricklier than any one of the surrounding cacti. Don’t let her get under your skin, Garrett.

  He fell in beside her and matched her stride. “I know you’re not married, but is there a man in your life?”

  “There are lots of men in my life. In case you haven’t noticed, women are greatly outnumbered in this region.”

  “Just pondering your circumstances. Single woman, raising a little girl on her own.”

  “An unreliable woman, you mean.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Frankie and I manage just fine, thank you.”

  “So she’s been with you for a spell?”

  She stopped in her tracks, crossed her arms, and set her chin. “Why are you so all-fired intent on knowing my business?”

  “Friendly interest,” he said kindly, holding tight to his temper. Her cool tone and closed-off posture chafed.

  “We’re not friends.”

  “We used to be.”

  “We were never friends, Rome. We were lovers.”

  Well, damn. Though stated calmly, that sure as hell sounded like an insult. “There was more to our relationship than the physical, Kat. I recall--”

  “No offense, but your recollecting is getting tiresome.”

  Don’t let her rile you. “You mean to say you don’t think about those days? Ever? How it was between us before it went wrong?”

  A flash of anxiety contradicted her nonchalant shrug. “I refuse to live in the past. I have enough to worry about in the present.”

  “Like Brady?” Maybe her prickly mood was rooted in fear. He matched her stance and dug in. “Why do you see that man as a personal threat, Kat?”

  She looked away. “If I tell you, will you leave this be?”

  “Depends on your answer.”

  She met his gaze, all emotions in check. “He wanted to make our relationship permanent. I didn’t. I fled. He followed. I don’t know if he’s obsessed with me or the fact that he can’t have me. Doesn’t matter. I crossed him and, just like you, he won’t forget.”

  The low blow, intended or not, obliterated his calm. “You’re comparing me to Brady?”

  She blew out a disgusted breath. “Your ego is mountainous. I just bared my heart, and all you can think about is yourself.”

  Incredulous, he moved toe to toe. “You call that baring your heart, sweetheart? Between last night and this morning you haven’t revealed spit about where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing these past years.”

  She stepped back. “It’s called survival.”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “It means I did what I had to do. It means lying low, making changes. It means putting someone else’s welfare above my own happiness.”

  “You speaking of Frankie?”

  Another step back. More distance.

  Rome dragged his hand through his hair, his patience spent. “You think Brady would use Frankie to get to you, to get even with you.”

  She narrowed her soulful brown eyes. “What do you think?”

  He thought she should’ve listened to him and steered clear of the bastard when he’d first warned her off. “I think you’re playing me.”

  She fisted her hands. “What?”

  ‘You’re not showing all your cards, Kat. I don’t trust this.”

  “You mean you don’t trust me.”

  “Can’t say you didn’t give me reason to doubt you in the past.” Except she didn’t live in the past. Lucky her.

  They faced off in stony silence. Sunbeams sliced through the vibrant clouds. The warm air s
izzled with frustration. His. Hers. In the past their arguments had exploded into passionate tumbles, landing them in bed. Fight. Make love. Fight. Make love. Damn, if he wasn’t hoping for a row.

  “I’m not ready for this conversation,” she said.

  “What conversation?”

  “Our first conversation ... alone ... since that night.”

  He hadn’t thought about it that way, but she was right. Out of all of the questions burning to be answered, one seared his heart. Why did you sleep with Brady? He yearned for the explanation she’d denied him in the first place. An excuse, a confession, an apology . . . Anything except that flippant statement that had made him see red.

  “I know in my heart I didn’t do anything wrong

  As if their six-month relationship had meant no more to her than a one-night stand.

  He slid his hands in his pockets, settled into the moment. It occurred to him that their previous relationship had existed primarily after dusk. Conversing at dawn, sober and alert, was a new and interesting twist.

  “Why do you hate me?” he asked. Not his top question, but a source of agitation.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Yesterday you said--”

  “I despised you for a spell, but it passed.”

  “Because of the things I said that night? Surely you understand--”

  “That you were hurt? Angry? I understand the emotions, Rome. What pains me is the reaction. The lack of sensitivity.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s get something straight,” she said.

  “I’m all ears.” Except his heart was pounding so hard it threatened to drown out whatever she planned to say.

  “I’m not here to resurrect an ancient fight.”

  No fire in her voice or gaze. No sarcasm. No welling tears. If he’d thought she’d kept him on his toes before, he was floating now--the earth plumb yanked out from under him.

  “I don’t want or need your forgiveness. I don’t care what you think of me. Despite my past, I’m a good person who’s striving to be a better person. Part of that entails ridding the world of a murdering scoundrel. As long as Brady is on the loose, lives are at stake. Tonight, when we hit that first saloon and launch our mission, you will see the Kat Simmons you so strongly recollect. I will be everything I was and more. Just do me a favor and try to keep up.”

  With that she turned and headed back to the house. Not exactly a she-devil, but neither was she a shrinking violet. Who was that woman?

  For the first time since London presented this mission, Rome second-guessed his commitment. Hell, yes, he wanted to annihilate Brady. But he’d also aimed to purge Kat from his heart and thoughts. He’d aimed to seek revenge. Two days in her company and she had him more twisted than ever. She had him wondering about her beef with Brady, her relationship with Frankie. His similarities to Brady, for chrissakes. She had him questioning the past, doubting his conclusions. “You owe her the benefit of the doubt,” London had once said. Did he? Had pride and whiskey clouded his judgment?

  Now, instead of focused, he felt confused. Instead of righteous, he felt petty.

  “Horse’s ass,” Boston taunted from afar.

  He thought about Kat’s challenge. He wasn’t worried about keeping up, but he’d prefer to stay a step ahead. In order for that to happen, he needed to know his opponent inside out.

  “If you knew me at all, you’d know the answer to that question”

  His detective instincts kicked in. To get to the heart of the mystery, he needed to get to the heart of Kat. He watched her retreating form--the bouncing halo of curls, her purposeful stride--and marveled at his eagerness.

  CHAPTER 12

  Phoenix

  “What is it, Parker?”

  “How did you know it was me, sir?”

  “Anyone else would have knocked.” London cracked open his lids just as the man wrenched open the curtains. Sunlight pierced his eyeballs. He grimaced at the rude awakening, then noted Parker’s fallen expression. “What’s wrong?” He swung out of bed stark naked and stalked to the antique bureau transported from his apartments in San Francisco. A half-dozen scenarios flashed through his mind in the half second it took Parker to answer.

  Josh telegrammed. Baby’s coming.

  Athens telegrammed. Fur flying.

  Kaila panicking. Zach injured in a fistfight. Zoe ran away.

  The saloons on fire.

  “I’m distressed by the fact that you always hear my approach, sir.” London froze, hunched over, one leg stuffed into a pair of trousers. “What?”

  “I take great pride in my ability to come and go unnoticed. I have researched and practiced and strive for a ghostlike existence.”

  “Why?” Perturbed yet intrigued, London finished tugging on his pants.

  “I had hoped your brother would eventually recognize the value of said skill.”

  “Why?”

  “Is it not obvious?”

  London straightened and glared across the room at the man who’d awakened him from a restful sleep. A third night with an adventurous dove had rendered him sated and exhausted. “No. It is not obvious, Parker. Enlighten me, fast, or go away.”

  Athens’s personal assistant straightened his already-impeccable posture, gave the lapels of his wrinkle-free jacket a crisp snap. “I wish to be utilized in the field.”

  Welcome to the club, London thought. “Your organizational skills are top-notch, Parker. You’re invaluable in a behind-the-scenes capacity. Just as a qualified and efficient stage manager is integral to a flawless stage performance, you are integral to a smooth-running PMA.”

  “Kind of you to say, sir.” Parker pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his long, straight nose. “I am, however, determined to play a more active part. Unfortunately, it seems I am not as advanced in my espionage skills as I’d previously determined. I have yet to catch you unaware.”

  London suppressed an eye roll. He commiserated, after all. He, too, wished to be utilized in a more active capacity. Providing a front for PMA headquarters wasn’t a challenge. Nor was watching over Kaila and his niece and nephew, who seemed to be getting on fine. Just now, he’d prefer standing in any one of his brothers’ boots as opposed to his own. “Tell you what. First time you successfully sneak up on me, I’ll have a word with Athens on your behalf.”

  Parker smiled. “Truly?”

  “Absolutely.” Hell would freeze over first, but no harm in giving the man hope. He liked Parker, even though he was an annoying bastard. “We done here? Since I’m up, think I’ll head over to Becker’s Bath and Hair Dressing Emporium, indulge in a leisurely soak.”

  “Miss Effie Go-All-Night is famous for riding a man sore,” Parker said matter-of-factly.

  The crude observation didn’t surprise London as much as the mention of the dove’s name. He hadn’t told Parker about his trip to the pleasure palace, certainly hadn’t shared the pretty and imaginative dove’s professional name. “How did you ...” He held up a hand. “Never mind.”

  Parker strode to the armoire, chose a shirt, and passed it to London. “No time for a bath, sir. You have business.”

  “No, I don’t. It’s Sunday.” His day off. A day typically devoted to family.

  “She said it couldn’t wait until Monday.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Tori Adams.”

  The name rang a distant bell.

  “You hired her, sir.”

  He hadn’t hired anyone aside from two barkeeps and Mrs. Chen, an Oriental woman who cooked and cleaned

  “She’s a pianist,” Parker added. “If that helps.”

  It did. He remembered now. A vibrant pianist recommended by a friend. At the time she’d been booked in Dodge City. London had hired her for a two-month engagement at the Gilded Garrett. Negotiations had been handled via wire months ago. The actual engagement set for this past month. The new owner of the opera house, renamed the Gilded Lily, had promised to honor previous contracts. Perplexed as to what
business he therefore had with Miss Adams, London buttoned his shirt. “Where’s the telegram?”

  “What telegram?”

  “The one that can’t wait until Monday for a response.”

  “Miss Adams didn’t wire you, sir. She’s here.”

  “In Phoenix?”

  “I was walking over to give you an update on the Peacemaker you instructed me to send to San Fernando.”

  London knew now that San Fernando was a Mexican convent north of Tubac. What he didn’t know was why Boston was babysitting nuns. “Manning in place?”

  “I don’t know. I asked him to wire us when he arrived. Nothing yet. I’m concerned, sir.”

  “Don’t borrow trouble, Parker.”

  “Could be as simple as not having immediate access to a telegraph office,” the man mused.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m sure he’ll check in soon.”

  London smiled. “About Miss Adams . . .”

  “Ah, yes.” Parker cleared his throat. “As I neared the Last Chance, I noticed an old man and young woman preparing to knock. I introduced myself, as did they. A retired lawman, John Fedderman, and Miss Tori Adams.”

  “They’re waiting downstairs?” he asked while tucking in his shirttails. Surprising he hadn’t heard any voices or activity, given he lived directly above the saloon. He’d renovated the second floor into spacious and comfortable living quarters. Until he decided where he wanted to build a home, it would suffice.

  “Mr. Fedderman wished to speak with you in private, so I escorted Miss Adams to the Café Poppy and introduced her to Mrs. Dillingham, who in turn invited her to have tea and scones.”

  London fought to make sense of Parker’s words. On Sundays, Kaila didn’t open her bakery until early afternoon and only for a few hours. “What time is it?”

  “Noon.”

  No wonder his head was fuzzy. It had been years since he’d slept this late. “Fine. So Miss Adams is with Kaila and Fedderman is downstairs. Why didn’t you tell me right off?”

  “I confess to being sidetracked by your infuriating awareness, sir.”

  London smiled at that, finger combed his hair while sparing a glance in the mirror. No time to shave, but minimal ablutions and bladder relief were a must. “Tell Fedderman I’ll be down momentarily. In the meantime, do me a favor and--”