by Beth Ciotta
“I tried on every gown,” she continued, glassy-eyed. “I looked in the mirror. But I couldn’t see her.”
“You’re not making sense, sugar. What do you mean, you abandoned the profession?”
“Everything depends on my creating a stir playing poker. Only I’m rusty.” She pointed to a deck of cards littering the floor. “I tried a riffle and a flourish, and I hobbled. What if I can’t bluff? What if I forget what beats what?”
What the hell was she talking about? He dragged a hand down his face, stated the obvious. “You’ve been drinking.”
“I thought it would help. Part of my old routine. I used to take a couple of swigs before leaving my room. To loosen up.”
He glanced at the bureau, noted the bottle of liquor. “You took more than a couple of swigs, Kat.”
“Because it wasn’t working.” Her forehead lulled back to her knees. “It’s still not working. It used to make me giddy.”
“I remember.”
“And brazen.”
“Remember that, too.”
She peeked up. “You recollect an awful lot.”
His lip twitched. “Wearing on your nerves?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Hmm.” He rose and sought out a chamber set, soaked a cloth with water, and returned. “Look at me, sugar.” When she did, he smiled and gently washed away her streaked face paint. “You used to hold your liquor a whole lot better.”
“I haven’t had a drink in a long time.”
“How long?”
“Since that night.”
“What night?”
She raised a brow.
Well, hell. He poked a tongue in his cheek as a boodle of thoughts stampeded through his mind. Best not to explore them now. Instead, he focused on her Face, the face he’d seen this morning. Sun-kissed and sprinkled with freckles. Funny, he was having a hard time seeing the “Kat everyone knew” himself.
He eased down on the floor, positioning himself next to her with his back against the wall, legs stretched and crossed at the ankle. “The illusion.”
She slid him a glance.
“That’s what this is all about, right? Your daddy was a smart man, from all I’ve heard. Knew how to read people, manipulate people. That’s what made him a top-notch practitioner.”
She didn’t correct him, so he kept rolling. “He was all you had, except for that half-sister I never knew about. You said the two of you were estranged, so I guess her mother raised her. I’m thinking Charles F. Simmons taught you his secrets and technique so you’d have a way of earning a good living. I’m thinking, since rumor has it he was a doting father, he thought he was doing you a favor.”
She wet her lips. “What else are you thinking?”
Mostly, about kissing her. She looked so vulnerable. So sweet. But she was also roostered and he was sober and that combination was a first. Instead, he eased his arm around her, pleased when she didn’t object. “I’m thinking when you lost your daddy, you also lost your sense of security. I’m thinking you adopted a tough and wild persona that allowed you to survive in a male-dominated profession, but on the inside you were a scared young girl.”
Her flushed cheeks burned brighter. “Early on, he told me I was pretty. Told me I could move mountains with a wiggle and a smile.”
“You certainly moved me,” he said, heart heavy. “Gotta admit, it dings my ego some, thinking it was all an act.”
“I thought you liked me that way.”
Guilt reared and kicked. “I did.”
“I wanted you to like me. I wanted . . .”
He looked down at her bowed head. “What?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Tell me.” Maybe he was a bastard for pushing, but he was afraid she’d clam up when she sobered. He honestly wanted, needed to know.
She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “You’re right. I was scared. When Daddy died... Don’t get me wrong. I loved cards. Loved the excitement. The challenge. But I was afraid of being alone. I wanted a companion. Someone to laugh with, to live with.” She stumbled over her words, but her feelings rang loud and clear. “I wanted a champion. A protector. I thought you were that man, Rome. I thought . . .” Her voice cracked and she swiped away a tear. “I fell in love with you that first night, under the faro table.”
His heart pounded against his ribs.
“At least the man I sensed you were. I don’t think I ever really knew you. I think I put you on a pedestal and then . . .”
“I fell off.” He thought about the ugly names he’d called her when he’d walked in on her and Brady. Yes, he’d been hurt and angry, but he’d also been drunk. He’d seen everything--Kat naked in bed, Brady sitting in a chair, shirtless and pulling on his boots--through a rotgut haze of fury. He’d coldcocked the man and blasted the woman. He’d stormed in and out in a rage. An emotionally charged, whiskey-addled scene frozen in his brain for six damned years.
“Every time I got used to you being around, you took off on a case for Wells Fargo. I know it was your job and I know it was important, but then I didn’t feel important. We’d only been sparking for six months, yet I already felt like old news. I started thinking, why would you want to stay on permanent with me? You liked kids, and I wasn’t good with them. You’d want a wife and a family, and I was a cardsharp. Some part of me panicked. Some insecure, wretched part of me latched on to Brady’s interest. He was charming at first and,” she lowered her gaze, “I was a fool.”
“You were young.” Rome smoothed her curls from her face, winced at her tortured expression. “And I was an ass.” He banged the back of his head against the wall, blew out a breath. “This is an awful lot to take in, Kat.”
“I’m sorry.
“I’m not.
“No, I mean, I’m sorry. About. . . that night.”
The apology he’d longed to hear. He thought he’d feel a sense of satisfaction. Thought he’d feel lighter.
He felt like hell.
He struggled now to recall details he’d missed due to tunnel vision.
“I know something happened,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “I know we, he... but I don’t remember any of it. It had to be the liquor, except I didn’t drink more than usual. I know it sounds crazy, but... I don’t know how it happened.”
“You should have given her the benefit of the doubt.”
He stared down at her, a cyclone of thoughts and emotions battering his being. “Why didn’t you tell me that right off?”
She blinked, her soulful eyes racked with frustration and hurt. “I tried. But I was upset and confused. I didn’t feel well, and you were such a mean bastard. I seized up.”
“I know in my heart I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Rome dragged a hand down his face, cursed himself blue. Spent, Kat rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to hate myself in the morning.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I failed Frankie.”
“No, you didn’t. The plan’s in motion. We just took another angle.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“That’s the whiskey talking. You can do it. You’re going to take another angle, too.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”
She sounded close to nodding off. “I’m working on it, sugar.” He wrapped both arms around her, pulled her against his chest. “I should put you to bed.”
She didn’t answer. She’d already fallen off.
He settled in, thinking she felt good snuggled up against him, thinking Brady was possibly more of a snake than he’d given him credit for. Thinking she’d had good cause to compare him to the bastard.
Just when he’d thought he couldn’t sink lower.
CHAPTER 19
Phoenix
“That locket worth dying for?” He made a grab for her neck. Victoria jerked back.
Tori let loose with a blistering s
et down.
Victoria saw the fires of Hades burning in the outlaw’s eyes. Paralyzed with fear, she did nothing, said nothing.
Tori railed, “Heartless bastard!” and slapped the devil’s face. He struck back, slammed the butt of his gun against her temple.
“Nooooo!” Victoria bolted upright, her throat aching, her ears ringing from the piercing scream. Tori’s scream. No, her scream.
She heard footsteps. Dark shadow. Dark man. Him. This time she swung... and hit and hit. “Murderer!”
He caught her wrists. She struggled. Too strong.
“Tori, wake up. Calm down.”
“Mr. Fedderman?” Her voice sounded scratchy and weak to her ears. Her eyes hurt when he turned up the flame on the bedside lamp. Only it wasn’t the kindly old lawman who sat on the edge of her bed. Another man. A handsome man with intense brown eyes. She tried to focus. Her head pounded. Her clothes ... Frantic, she swiped her hands over her drenched gown. “So much blood.”
“Not blood, honey, sweat. You’re soaked through.” He grasped her hands, stilled her motions. “Sit tight. I’ll fetch you a fresh nightshirt.”
Wait, her mind pleaded as she gripped his fingers. The last vestiges of the nightmare receded, and she realized now that she was looking at London Garrett. She didn’t trust herself to speak. What if she threw up on him again?
“You’re safe here, Tori. Safe with me. Do you believe that?”
She nodded. Not just because her friend had told her so. Because she sensed it. She vaguely remembered swooning after the mortifying boot incident. London had carried her upstairs, laid her on this bed. There’d been a doctor. Exhaustion, he’d said. Influenza, he’d said. “The doctor gave me something to help me rest,” she said aloud. There. She spoke. Actual words. Progress.
London nodded. “You’ve been out for hours. It’s well past midnight.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t wake me, honey. I’m a night owl. Nature of our business.”
Our business. The entertainment business. Her sluggish mind scrambled. According to Tori, London had owned an opera house in San Francisco. He worked with actors and musicians. There was a certain familiarity among their kind. Endearments, she ventured, were common. Still, she blushed. She realized then that she had a death grip on his hands. Strong hands. Kind hands. Hands that didn’t smack back. “I’m sorry I hit you. I thought ... I thought you were . . .”
“The man on the train.” He stroked his thumb over the heel of her hand, a gesture meant to comfort. “Did you catch his name?”
The nightmare had faded to black. She couldn’t think straight anyway given this man’s gentle touch. She shook her head.
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
The devil.
She squeezed back tears. “I don’t want to remember. My fault,” she blurted.
He slipped her grasp to frame her face. “Nothing that happened on that train was your fault, Tori.”
“But . . .” She trailed off, uncertain as to why she’d said such a thing. Just a feeling. An awful feeling that gnawed at her stomach and made her ill. She met London’s gaze, wondering how she’d ever thought him dangerous. All she saw was tenderness and . . . something. Something that set her blood afire.
“Jesus, honey, you’re burning up.”
Or maybe it was fever. She confessed to feeling a mite delirious.
He eased away and returned a moment later with a basin of water and a folded cloth. He set the basin on the nightstand, smoothed the cloth over her face--cool, wet, refreshing--and over the back of her neck. “Better?” Choked up by his kindness, she nodded.
“Fresh nightshirt,” he said, rising again.
It took a second for her to realize that he was going though her unmentionables. Or rather Ton’s unmentionables. Somewhat scandalous, like her wardrobe. Mortified, she wanted to demand he stop, but he was already standing over her, a white cotton frock clasped in his hand.
Surely he didn’t think to . . . “I can manage.” She pulled the chemise from his grasp. “Thank you.”
“Polite and modest.” His brow furrowed a little before turning. “I’ll wait in the hallway.”
She didn’t understand why her modesty surprised him. Then she remembered she was Tori Adams--entertainer. She flashed on some of her fast friend’s stories. Tori was not modest.
“I just meant. . . you don’t have to take care of me.” He’d already moved to the threshold. His back was to her, but she heard the smile in his voice. “I’m the oldest of five. Three younger brothers, one sister. I’ve overseen countless theater productions. Actors, dancers, musicians, and variety performers. Not to mention gaming staff. Bartenders, barmaids, dealers. I’m used to taking care of people.”
Even so. “I hate being a burden.” She’d been a burden to her father. He’d said so a hundred times.
“You’re not a burden. Trust me.”
She hurriedly exchanged the damp nightshirt for the fresh one, shivering when the air hit her bare skin. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to tell him the truth about who she really was. But what if he turned her out? What if he contacted her father? She shuddered. She couldn’t, wouldn’t risk it. Tying off the ribbon at the chemise’s collar, she scooted under the covers. “You can turn back now.” He moved into the room, and the heat returned with him. That something in his eyes. The something that distracted her from the awful event that plagued yet eluded her. The something that caused her heart to flutter and her mouth to go dry.
“How about I fix you some catnip tea? Heard tell it has soothing effects.”
Tea made her think of this afternoon’s catastrophe. She blushed. “I’m sorry I ruined your boots.”
“Polite to a fault.” He smiled. “So. No tea.”
“No tea.”
“Sleep, then.”
She swallowed.
“You need to sleep, Tori.”
Tori wouldn’t give a fig that she was staying in a man’s home without a chaperone. Tori would speak her mind. “Would you sit with me for a spell?”
“Absolutely.”
He pulled over a chair, doused the light.
“Would you hold my hand?” she whispered.
“With pleasure.”
The pleasure was hers. His touch was gentle, yet reassuring. She felt safe and cherished. A first. She fought tears, dared to hope. “You can do this . . . Tori.”
A goodly amount of time passed in silence. Sleep beckoned, but she staved it off long enough to voice her gratitude. “I’m beholden to you for your kindness, Mr. Garrett.”
“I’m beholden to you for my future happiness, Miss Adams.”
She didn’t know what that meant. But she took the sentiment into her dreams.
CHAPTER 20
Tucson
Kat stirred. She didn’t open her eyes. She wasn’t sure she wanted to face the day. Not without fully remembering the previous night.
The last moments trickled in first. She recalled falling asleep in Rome’s arms, remembered a knock at her door, a brief exchange between Rome and Athens. Sometime later he roused her, put her to bed . . . and left.
Groaning, she palmed her forehead. Her brain hurt. Not from thinking too hard, but from drinking too much. That knowledge alone would’ve sickened her, except . . . she remembered every moment. Every action, every thought, every word.
Rome was right. She didn’t hate herself.
At long last she’d confronted him about that night. Granted, she’d always envisioned herself of sound mind and body, blasting him for having so little faith in her affections.
Cursing him for taking the easy road instead of taking a stand. Instead of fighting. For her. Then again, she hadn’t fought for herself either. She’d taken solace in Brady’s lies. She’d run.
She massaged her temples, wishing she hadn’t fallen back on old vices last night. She regretted pouring her heart out in an inebriated, teary state. But she didn’t hate her
self. The relief was too immense. She’d finally vocalized her shame and confusion--I don’t know how it happened.
And Rome believed her.
She hadn’t expected that. If it weren’t for her pounding head, she’d dance on the ceiling. As it was she could barely open her eyes, let alone kick up her heels. Heavy-lidded, she winced when sunlight pierced her eyeballs, wished so hard for a cup of coffee she smelled it.
“Morning.”
Hand to heart, Kat bolted upright. “Dammit, Rome. Stop sneaking up on me.”
He’d shaved and changed his clothes. He looked handsome and rested. She tucked bed-mussed curls behind her ears, thinking she looked a fright.
So why was he gazing at her like he wanted to crawl into bed for a tumble?
“Quick response. Prickly mood.” He grinned. “Glad you’re feeling better.”
That smile burned off her sluggishness, reignited an ancient ache. Startled, she forced her thoughts north. “My head hurts something fierce.”
“Thought it might.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Brought you something.”
She peered around him, noted a small table and a steaming pot. “Coffee.” She shoved off the coverlet, nabbed her wrapper from the end of her bed, and pulled it on as she scrambled to salvation. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“On my best days.”
He waited until she sat, then poured for them both and pulled up another chair.
She inhaled the rich aroma. “Heaven,” she said, then sipped. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her skin warmed under his watchful eye. She recognized the glint in his ocean-blue gaze as genuine interest. And guilt. And, God help her, affection. Unsettled, she eyed the open window. “Don’t tell me you scaled the ledge carrying all this.”
“I’m a daredevil, sugar, not a juggler.” He slid her room key across the table. “Took the conventional route.”
“Anyone see you come or go?”
“Probably.”
Silly to be embarrassed. It’s not like she hadn’t cavorted with Rome before. It’s not like she hadn’t already been labeled a fallen woman. But that was before she worried about how her actions would affect someone else. Specifically Frankie. “People will talk.”
