The Song Bird (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

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The Song Bird (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 5

by Beth D. Carter

She saw him uncross his arms as he made his way to her. Immediately, she rose from the vanity to face him. She thought about standing her ground, but something wicked glittered in his eyes. Unnerved, Avilon backed up until her shoulders hit the wall behind her. Eli advanced until he placed his hands on either side of her head, trapping her.

  Avilon flattened herself, her pulse quickening as his unique scent hit her nostrils—distinctly male, a hint of spice and strong soap with a trace of sweat. She lifted her chin. “Mr. Masters, you owe me. I sang four songs, so by our agreement, you have to answer four questions.”

  “Very well,” he replied, his voice deep and rich. His eyes roamed over her face caressingly, but he didn’t pull away. “What’s your first?”

  She swallowed and had to actually think of what she was going to ask him. “Do you remember a woman with dark brown hair, brown eyes, about my height?”

  “You’ve just described the majority of the white women in San Francisco,” he answered with a touch of amusement. “Brown hair, brown hair, standing what, five foot five in bare feet?”

  “Granted, but what about six months ago? Surely you remember those girls.”

  “As I recall, of the eight girls working for me, there were six with the exact same likeness.”

  “What were those six names?”

  “I don’t recall. But I can get Jace to pull the accounting ledgers.”

  “You don’t remember the names of the women working for you? Very well, then. Yes, please,” she said. She rolled her shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s been so hard to find her. I thought I’d come here and Amelia would welcome me with open arms.”

  “What did you think would happen once you found her?” he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe return to New Orleans or start over somewhere new. I just wish I knew why she came here, why she took a job as a…”

  “A whore?” he finished.

  She flinched at the word. “Must you use such a vulgar word?”

  “No reason to sugarcoat it.”

  “Just don’t. Please.”

  He stared at her, those light eyes assessing her. She wondered what he saw in her.

  “You’d be okay with accepting the person Amelia is now?”

  “Of course,” she replied softly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I love her.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment. But she saw the hard edges of his mouth soften and the tight lines around his eyes ease.

  “And that’s all?” he finally asked. “Love?”

  “What else do I need?”

  His long fingers brushed away the wayward curls lingering at her temple. “Very well.”

  “Thank you. Now for my last question—”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve already asked me four questions.” Just like that, the tenderness fled, and the cockiness was back.

  “What? No, that didn’t count!”

  “A question is a question, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, you’re such an infuriating man!” She pushed against his chest, trying to move him, but Eli Masters was a mountain of a man. “Why won’t you just tell me what I need to know so I can continue my investigation?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Investigation? Into what, your sister’s lifestyle? I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but girls like her leave all the time. They move around, head to different places, and they sure as hell don’t leave forwarding addresses. Your sister probably found some man dumb enough to pay for her private services and is living with him right now.”

  There was something in his tone, something deep and dark, that made her pause. His voice had twisted, becoming a little shrill, while the look on his face, in his eyes, was a dark pit of bitterness. She stopped pushing against him, and her hands rested against his chest.

  “If it was that simple, then why the mystery?” she asked, her own tone softening. “What theft made you fire them six months ago? What makes your long-term employees scared to talk about it?”

  He sighed in exasperation. “I fired them because they lied about stealing a personal belonging from a client. End of story. No mystery, no big revelation.”

  She would have taken the explanation at face value, but she saw the barest tightening of his lips and somehow knew that he was lying.

  “No, Mr. Masters. I don’t think I believe that entirely,” she replied. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what goes down in your club when you know every facet, every nook, and every corner of what makes this place breathe life. You had a crystal chandelier personally sent from England. You had a Pleyel piano brought in from France. This club takes up over half a block with meticulous details of architecture I’m sure were to your specifications. This isn’t just a club for you, Mr. Masters. It’s your mistress. So don’t insult my intelligence by saying you don’t know my sister. A man like you doesn’t rise to power by not knowing everything around him.”

  “I am who I am by knowing when to lay low and keep my mouth shut,” he muttered, “something you should learn. It’s a bigger picture, Avilon, more than you can imagine.”

  Several emotions struck her at his words. Fear at his warning, satisfaction that she had managed to get him to admit to knowing more, frustration that he had blocked her yet again. But all of it faded as she watched him lean down to capture her mouth with his.

  For a moment she did nothing, too overwhelmed by surprise. This wasn’t some innocent kiss, exploring for the first time taste and texture. No, Eli Masters took her by surprise, stormed past any protest she might have given to sink himself into her. His tongue swept into her mouth, twining with hers in a sort of odd dance. He moved his hands from the wall and cupped her face as he possessed her mouth with smoldering demand.

  Dazed and slightly confounded by his aggression, she reached for him. Her mind tried to throw up a warning, but it was a little too late as a surge of pleasure traveled straight down her spine. Her body was moving independently of her thoughts, molding to the hard planes of his body as her nerves lit with sparks of sensation.

  Vaguely she felt him remove his hands from her face, felt them travel over her body before settling on her rear. He gripped her, pulling her into his groin. Even through the layers of clothing, she felt his hard ridge, large and long, pulsing against her. She had the overwhelming urge to grind into him, to part her legs and pull that incredible hardness into her soft core. It was a feeling so foreign and alien to her that it shocked her thoughts back into place. She pushed him from her. Caught off guard, he stumbled back. When he went to reach for her again, she ducked away and opened the door.

  “Please leave,” she said, panting. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart.

  “You don’t really want me to go,” he told her, his voice harsh and gritty with desire. “You’re staring at me like a doe in heat.”

  “Get out, Mr. Masters!”

  He stared at her for a moment longer and then walked to stand in front of her. His light eyes were liquid heat. “I’ll go. But don’t delude yourself into thinking you don’t want me, that you don’t want what’s between us.”

  “I…can’t.”

  “You will,” he said and then left, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  With everything that had happened, it took her a long time to fall asleep that night.

  Avilon tossed and turned, and when the cleaning crews arrived, she bolted upward. The half dozen Chinese women worked through the club, scrubbing and cleansing the previous night away. In her opinion, they couldn’t do enough to expurgate the evening’s events. She still felt slightly ill at the memory of Eugene Behr. She had seen much in her travels, but none so evil as the banker’s abrupt personality switch. And to know that he also knew Odell felt very strange. She fervently hoped Amelia had had nothing to do with him.

  Feeling tired and strung out, she rose and prepared for the day. She had a lot to accomplish before singing in the evening, leas
t of all taking one of the horrid dresses left over from the last singer and transforming it into something she wouldn’t mind wearing.

  Not having any other garments, she donned her one dress. She was glad the fashion had faded from the hooks and eyes buttoning in the back to favor an easier jacket bodice over a chemisette. Before, panels over the shoulder had gathered into a blunt point at the dropped waist, and it had been easy to fasten while traveling with her aunt, but when Verity Chambert had passed away, Avilon had had to learn a different way of doing everything. Flounces were still a bothersome hindrance, but a necessary evil. At least they kept her legs warm enough.

  She left her room and headed for the stairs, needing to talk with Annabel. She couldn’t get her words out of her head, that Eli Masters and Jason Braddock liked sharing women. What exactly did that mean? The logistics had been explained, but the concept still boggled her, especially now that her body had reacted so strongly to both men.

  Wasn’t it sinful? Wasn’t it deplorable to want two men? And how did two men not become jealous of each other while…while…the sharing was happening? She marched up to Annabel’s door and knocked softly. She waited a few minutes, but heard nothing, so she rapped again, a little louder this time. Abruptly, the door was yanked open, and Annabel stood there. Her red hair was nothing but knots, pointing in all directions, and her makeup had smeared down her cheeks. She peeped out from one edge of her sleeping mask

  “Oh,” Avilon murmured. “I’m so sorry for waking you.”

  “It is eight in the morning,” Annabel said with an annoyed, sleep-roughened voice. “Go away.”

  “Of course. I suppose I’ll see you later today—”

  Annabel shut the door, cutting Avilon off.

  She supposed she should have expected that. The working girls stayed up until the club shut down at four in the morning. Avilon felt bad for having interrupted Annabel’s rest. With a sigh, she headed back down the stairs to her next goal, retrieving her personal belongings from the Sisters of the Sacred Heart.

  She was able to slip through the kitchens and out the back without having to talk to anyone. She didn’t see Jason or Ellis since there wasn’t a delivery so early in the morning. The only people were the cleaning staff, who didn’t seem to give a whit who she was.

  The morning air was still chilly, and she wrapped her cloak around her tightly as she retraced her steps back to the shelter on Vallejo Street. She could hardly believe all that had happened to her in the past forty-eight hours. So much hadn’t exactly gone as planned, though she didn’t doubt she was on the right path to finding Amelia.

  She had failed her sister once. She wouldn’t do it again.

  The walk took her about an hour, the exercise warming her up considerably. The rolling streets made her pause often to catch her breath. She had thought herself in fine physical shape, but the streets of San Francisco were an altogether different type of entity. When she finally found herself standing in front of the mission and boarding house, she tried to blank out the fact that she’d have to walk back carrying her valise.

  She knocked on the front door, and a second later it was opened by Sister Faith, much to Avilon’s displeasure. Of all the nuns she had traveled with, Sister Faith had been the most annoying. She had taken her name from the young girl who had lived sometime in the third century who had refused to make pagan sacrifices even under torture. The poor girl had been killed on a red-hot brazier, a martyr to Christianity. Avilon could see how Sister Faith had been drawn to such a legend. The woman was long-winded every time she gave a blessing, as if personally taking it upon herself to verify the holiness of the meal.

  Sister Faith stood in the doorway, her mouth pinched together as she looked Avilon up and down. Avilon half wondered if the nun had a private stash of lemons that she liked to suck on every morning to obtain that puckered expression. It did wonders for maintaining her godly ministrations.

  “Miss Chambert,” Sister Faith greeted, her tone anything but friendly, “are you just coming in this morning?”

  “Actually, I’m here to collect my belongings, Sister Faith.”

  The nun’s eyebrows rose. “And where, pray tell, will you being going?”

  “I found a lead on my sister.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” The door was wrenched all the way open to reveal Sister Agatha, who was smiling widely. Of all the nuns Avilon had traveled with, she liked Agatha the best. The woman was cheerful, something that had to be difficult through the many and long, laborious hours spent repenting and praying. Even their weeklong trek through the jungle hadn’t managed to diminish Sister Agatha’s optimistic effervescence.

  The bubbly nun threw her arms around Avilon and hugged her tightly. The white woolen robes of her order’s habit were rough and scratchy against Avilon’s cheek, while the white scapular and black wimple crushed into her eye.

  Sister Faith sniffed her displeasure. “Such public displays are quite vulgar, Sister Agatha. Our presence is to affect a level of decorum, humbleness—”

  “Oh, tosh,” Sister Agatha laughed as she pulled back from her impromptu hug and gave a dismissive wave at the older nun. “The Good Lord has rewarded Avilon’s diligence of finding her sister. Is that not reason to celebrate, Sister Faith?”

  “I’ve not completely found her yet, but I have some leads,” Avilon replied. “In fact, part of the reason why I’m here is in case she should show up at the center asking for mercy.”

  “Of course,” Sister Agatha replied. “Come in, please, and tell us all you know.”

  As she packed her small valise with her few belongings, she told the two sisters a quick version of what had transpired last night, omitting the few details of Jason and Eli.

  “You can’t stay there!” Sister Faith said with a horrified gasp. “It’s a den of sin.”

  “I have to,” Avilon answered. “I have to find Amelia.”

  Sister Agatha placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Have you ever considered that Amelia might be with the Almighty now?”

  Avilon shook her head. “I can’t afford to think that way. I’ve come too far to give up hope.”

  “Sydney Town is nothing but a wasteland of filth and crime,” Sister Faith said, disgust thick in her voice. “The whole district needs the strict hand of God delivering his judgment.”

  Sister Agatha frowned. “It is not up to us to judge, Sister Faith.”

  Sister Faith sniffed. She glanced at Avilon and looked her up and down. “One day God will strike his mighty sword, and I suggest you not be anywhere in the vicinity, Miss Chambert, lest you become another casualty.”

  And with those words, she turned and marched away.

  Sister Agatha cleared her throat. “She comes from a strict cloister.”

  “Yes, one that has sticks up their asses, apparently.”

  Avilon heard a startled gasp come from Sister Agatha before the nun started to laugh. “Heavens!”

  “I’m sorry,” Avilon said contritely. “I should never have said that. It was an expression I heard recently.”

  Sister Agatha cleared her throat. “Yes, well, crudely put, but perhaps the correct visual in this case.”

  Avilon quickly gave the nun a hug. “Thank you for everything you and your order have done for me. I never would have been able to travel here safely.”

  Sister Agatha returned the embrace. “You have become a friend, Avilon. If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”

  When she pulled back, Avilon smiled and nodded. “Take care,” she said and picked up her valise.

  She left the boarding house with one thought on her mind. What if Sister Agatha is right? What if the reason Amelia had disappeared was because she had died?

  Not wanting to, but knowing it was a path she had to investigate, she changed direction and headed to the sheriff’s office. It was one place the sisters had pointed out to her as soon as they realized her true intention for reaching San Francisco. The smell of fish permeated the air,
the cool wind nipping at her nose and making it run slightly. She sniffed a few times. When she finally found the sheriff’s office, she was winded from climbing up and down the steep hills. She had to rest a moment before being able to talk again.

  When she opened the front door, a young man seated behind a desk glanced at her and immediately stood. He looked to be around her age, maybe a little older, dressed in black with his hair slicked back.

  “Ma’am,” he greeted politely.

  “Hello,” Avilon replied. “I was wondering I could talk to the sheriff for a brief moment.”

  “Are you here to report a crime? I can take your statement—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “I…I came to San Francisco with the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. I’m trying to determine if my sister might be…deceased. Do you, perhaps, have a log of unidentified…people?”

  “Ah,” the young man murmured and gave her a sympathetic smile. “If you wait here, I’ll see if Sheriff Scannell has a moment.”

  Avilon nodded and watched as he disappeared into the back. She occupied her time by looking at the plaques of the previous sheriffs of San Francisco all lined up in a regal row of officers. But the young man was gone only a few minutes. He cleared his throat to grab her attention.

  “Right this way, ma’am,” he said with a gesture of his hand, holding open the door to the back.

  The front office had been quiet, inactive, but that changed as soon as she stepped through the door. Cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, as did the smell of unwashed bodies and stale alcohol. Men swarmed around like ants in a hill. Some were handcuffed. Some were being led to a hallway where she glimpsed cells. Almost all looked at her as if they hadn’t seen a woman in years. She gripped her valise tightly.

  The clerk led her to a large office in the back where two men were waiting. One was seated at a desk piled with papers, and the other was at the bar, pouring a drink. The sitting man rose when she walked in.

  “That will be all, Roger,” he said.

  The young man closed the door behind him.

  “Good morning, Sister. I’m Sheriff David Scannell, and this is US Marshal William Richardson,” said the sheriff, who looked to be in his midthirties and stood with his spine straight. His dark hair was trimmed neatly, matching his beard. His mustache flared widely on the ends, giving him a slightly walrus-like appearance.

 

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