When the kiss finally ended with Frank’s hands cupping her bottom, he smiled. With his lips still nuzzling hers, he whispered, “I’ve never danced with anyone who wore trousers before.”
It was the moment of levity that brought with it instant sanity. Colleen knew with startling clarity that unless she put some distance between herself and these men she would never recover her better judgment. If she didn’t rein in her galloping passion, she would end up naked on the floor of the banquet hall’s kitchen with two men ardently seeking their satisfaction from her.
For a woman who could count the number of lovers she’d had on the thumbs of her left hand, such a prospect was entirely appalling.
“Gentlemen, thank you so much for your assistance with my chicken crate,” Colleen said, spinning out of Frank’s grasp. Her tone was piano-wire tight. “And thank you for the lovely dances. I’ve always enjoyed a good waltz. But if you would please leave now, I think that would be best for everyone involved.”
“Best?” Marc shrugged his broad shoulders beneath a finely-tailored black jacket of lightweight cotton. “Not only is that wrong around the edges, it’s wrong at the very center of its existence. The best thing that could happen is for me to stay right here, with you, and lock that door.”
“And if Marc stays, then I should stay, too,” Frank added.
Colleen watched as the two lifelong friends exchanged a quizzical look. They appeared as confused by the intensity of all that was happening as she.
To Marc, Frank said, “I can’t walk away from her any more easily than you can.”
“Damn,” Marc replied.
“Damn, indeed,” Frank said. “So what are we going to do about that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
A small, choked sob caught in Colleen’s throat. These men were talking about her in possessive terms, but instead of feeling objectified, she felt protected. In a way that she’d never before experienced, she felt possessed and caressed by them.
But she was also frightened by them. Listening to Marc and Frank speak suggested they were men who simply took whatever and whomever they wanted. Their commanding natures made her tingle and her juices flow so liberally she was afraid her underpants would be wet.
From somewhere outside, a woman’s voice called out, “Colleen, are you in there?”
“Oh, God!” Colleen gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. In a rush of words, she explained, “It’s Amanda Holloway. She’s been hired to work the banquet.”
“I’m not finished with you.” Marc’s words came out as a taut whisper.
Frank added, “Don’t for a second think that we’re done here.”
Colleen tried to speak, found that she couldn’t, then simply nodded in acceptance. The three of them weren’t finished with what had started completely by accident. Even though she had just lived through the most confusing experience of her life, she understood with rock-solid certainty that whatever had begun had most definitely not reached its inevitable conclusion.
She watched the two men, both tall and handsome, debonair despite their cattleman roots, and knew instinctively that her life had changed irrevocably and in ways she was only beginning to comprehend.
Chapter Three
Colleen watched as both Marc and Frank tipped their hats in greeting when Amanda stepped into the room. The men left without delay. It irked Colleen that her best friend went to the doorway to watch the men as they walked away.
“I swear,” Amanda said, at last pushing away from the doorframe. She sighed with a flourish. “Those two men are about as handsome as they get. And neither one has a wife. Have you noticed that?” She laughed softly. “Of course you’ve noticed that. There isn’t an unmarried woman in the territory who doesn’t know about Marc Andollini and Frank Bishop.” She sighed again. “And here I am, a lonely lass of twenty-two without a beau.” And then her mood changed instantly, and she said with cold finality, “And I’m here to tell you I’m not letting Papa sell me like some prized heifer. I’m just not going to get married because Papa says I have to.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that he can’t make you marry against your will?” Colleen snapped. “Who’s he trying to marry you off to this week?” Colleen was grateful that she had something to divert her from dwelling on thoughts of two men whose inclusion into her life had suddenly gone from distantly casual to significantly more intimate than she ever dreamed possible. “It’s not your fault that your father views your virginity has a salable commodity.”
“Let’s get to work,” Amanda said, her smile feigned and tight. “I hear hard work’s good for getting your mind off troubles, and since this is going to be one hell of a party, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Amen to that,” Colleen replied, equally grateful for the chance to distract her thoughts. “I’m hoping I don’t run into Allen and his wife tonight.”
But she was really afraid of seeing Marc and Frank.
* * * *
Frank’s hole card was a five of spades. His next three face-up cards were an eight of spades, a nine of hearts, and a nine of spades. He had chances for both three of a kind and for two pair. The other players at the table showed cards holding little promise, and their betting suggested they were waiting on their final down card before having a solid hand, deciding they would bluff, or choosing to fold.
It wasn’t the kind of hand that Frank liked, but he’d made a small fortune from similar hands other the years, and he hoped that tonight Lady Luck would be smiling at him. Cards, and numbers, were Frank’s one true calling. Some people thought him a genius with numbers, though others said he was just highly gifted. Enough men in the territory had lost money to him playing five card stud so that nobody believed him to be just another gambler. If a man gambled against Frank Bishop, the smart money bet the other way.
“What’ll it be, Frank?” Zachery Singer asked. He held the deck of cards in his left hand, with his right hand poised to deliver the next card facedown. “You’re high hand.”
Frank thought back to the previous cards and the bets that each card had prompted from the other four players at the table. Under normal circumstances, he would recall each card and each pass, raise, call, or bid. His ability to remember what everyone had done on a card-by-card basis and to calculate the odds of success or failure were legendary. It was what enabled him over the years to supplement his own considerable fortune at tables topped with green felt. But thoughts of a buxom, redheaded Irishwoman had been tantalizing his imagination, diverting his concentration from poker and toward more libidinous pursuits. As he looked into Zachery’s eyes, he realized that, for perhaps the first time in memory, he had allowed a woman to interfere with his poker playing. It was not a comforting awareness.
“Raise,” he said. He hoped his confusion didn’t show to the other players. He tossed a blue wooden chip into the pile. “I’m in for another twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five it is,” Zachery replied, his eyes narrowing a bit. The other players at the table were either calling the bet or folding. When it was time, he began dealing the final down card. Under his breath, he said, “That’s a pretty big pot. First big one tonight it seems.”
A cattle hand’s monthly salary was typically thirty dollars, so the bet was not inconsequential.
For the second time in less than three minutes, Frank Bishop was again filled with an unusual sense of dread. Was this really the first big pot of the evening? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps it was, but he couldn’t remember with any certainty. It seemed like the first really big pot, but hadn’t Paul Jasper won a pretty sizeable pot early on it the game?
The fact that Frank didn’t immediately have the answer with certainty was appalling to him. And it was all because of that damned Colleen O’Malley that he couldn’t concentrate!
As much as he wanted to resent her, across the surface of his mind he remembered what wild, unanticipated thrills had been his when he’d take
n her into his arms, forcing her voluptuous form to conform to the solid surface his body. He remembered the plush extravagance of her breasts pressing against him as he bent her backward, feasting on her mouth, kissing her with a hunger that had shocked him. And he remembered how luscious it had been to take her buns in his hands and squeeze, pulling her body against his own so that he felt her pelvis rub against the rapidly swelling length of his cock. Not even the combined thickness of his trousers and hers could prevent the heat of her body from going straight into his cock, making him grow, making his lusty flesh tent the front of his trousers.
His down card was the five of clubs. Two pair. Not a sure-fire winner, but a fine hand under any circumstances.
He looked at Zachery’s hand. A jack of clubs, a four of hearts, and a queen of hearts were showing. The two face-down cards were neatly arranged to the side.
But what worried Frank was that he couldn’t remember what Zachery’s bids had been. Had he called? Raised? Upped the ante or given the impression he was thinking of folding?
Prior to Colleen O’Malley’s unexpected intrusion into his life, and his thoughts, he would have known precisely what Zachery had done.
But he didn’t know now. He didn’t even have a clue.
“You’re still high hand,” Zachery said, looking straight into Frank’s eyes. “What’s your bet?”
For a man who took pride in his competence, to see himself befuddled by a woman and incapable of concentrating on poker was not a comfortable awareness. In truth, he didn’t have any idea of what the other players were holding as their down cards. Even more infuriating, he had to look a second time to remind himself what his own down cards were. He hadn’t been this discombobulated at the poker table since he was fifteen years old.
“I’ll raise,” he said, though for the life of him he didn’t know why he was raising anything. He tossed a blue chip into the kitty. “Another twenty-five.”
Two men folded. Zachery tossed in his own blue chip and added a second.
“And another twenty-five,” Zachery said. He smiled. “Let’s see how big your balls are, my friend.”
The taunting told Frank that Zachery knew he’d lost track of the cards. Under normal circumstances, Zachery wouldn’t have the courage to say such a thing. As far as Frank could tell, Zachery was the kind of man who did his best fighting when the enemy’s back was turned and he could deliver a nasty sucker punch.
Stupidly, foolishly, driven more by masculine instinct than logic, Frank calmly tossed two blue chips into the pile of chips in the center of the table.
“I’ll raise you fifty,” he said, and then smiled, though the humor never quite reached his eyes. “What about it, Singer? Got the balls two put in another fifty bucks?”
It wasn’t the fifty dollars that caused Zachery’s face to suddenly turn white, it was the open insult of being called “Singer” without “Mr.” that bothered him, and Frank knew it. Around the table, a soft gasp came from several of the gamblers. Though Zachery Singer wasn’t a physically dominating man, he came from a powerful family, and he’d been known to use his guns when confronted or disrespected.
But on this evening, he was entirely sober, which helped his self-control immeasurably. In response to the insult and the raise, Zachery just smiled, tossed in another fifty dollars worth of chips, and said, “Call.”
Frank showed his two pair.
Zachery smiled, turned over his hole cards to reveal a queen of diamonds and a queen of spades. Three queens beat two pair every time.
“Frankie boy, in this dick measuring contest, you came up short,” Zachery said as he began pulling the chips into his pile.
The smile that was stretched across Frank’s mouth was false. It had been years since anyone had openly insulted him, taunted him. Zachery had done it now, but Frank realized that he’d invited the taunting. Even more infuriating was the fact that he knew he’d lost the hand, and all that money, because Colleen O’Malley had entered his thoughts when he should have been concentrating on his cards and those of his opponents.
Frank decided then and there that the feisty redhead with the luscious lips and full bosom wouldn’t interfere with his thoughts again.
Not ever.
* * * *
Colleen put the tines of her fork in the chicken leg, watched carefully as the juice bubbled out of the puncture, steaming hot and clear, and knew that the meat was cooked to perfection. Neither overcooked nor undercooked. And the seasoning—a special combination of salt, pepper, garlic, butter, flour, and basil—was nothing less than taste bud seduction. With the long-handled fork, she skewered the chicken pieces from the enormous cast-iron frying pan and put them onto a serving tray. The attendees of the annual banquet would be treated to some truly exquisite dining.
Colleen was tempted to try another piece of chicken for herself but resisted the urge. While it was true that, as a cook, she was expected to taste her own cooking, there was a difference between tasting and indulging. Besides, she was conscious of her weight, and she’d already tested a wing, a neck, half a breast, and a gizzard. Colleen had, by her own standards, overindulged, and she was already promising herself to fast tomorrow to make up for what she considered a shameless lack of self-control.
Movement from her left drew her attention as she put the last of the chicken onto the serving tray. Stepping forward, Amanda was smiling brightly, her golden blonde hair no longer neatly piled atop her head because of her labors, her chocolaty eyes bright and shining with pleasure. The banquet had obviously been profitable, and Colleen was happy for her.
“You wouldn’t believe the gratuities I’m getting tonight,” she exclaimed. “I’m getting nickels and dimes every time I put down the drinks or bring in more food.” She let out a whoop of joy. “Nothing quite like inebriation to make men generous with their tips!”
Colleen nodded toward her best friend’s bosom, which was revealingly on display above the low-cut décolletage of the dress. The waitress uniform, supplied by the Sons of Freedom and no doubt chosen by a man, was intended to put her feminine charms on display.
“With you showing that much skin, it’s a minor miracle the men can control themselves.”
Amanda grinned. “If you had a lick of sense in you, you’d put on that other dress and get your fanny out there serving drinks. Lord knows, if they like looking at my bunnies,” she cupped her breasts from the underside and lifted them several times, “they’d go plumb loco looking at yours.”
“I’d rather not be on display.”
Amanda rolled her eyes and sighed. “They’re just looking, that’s all.”
Unwilling to get into an argument with Amanda and unwilling to put on an undersized dress, Colleen handed the serving platter laden with steaming fried chicken to her friend and said, “My job is to cook. Your job is to serve. Now go do your job and try to keep from drooling on all the rich men out there.”
“They’re drooling for me, not the other way around,” Amanda announced as though that made all the difference in the world. “And you’re simply no fun at all, Colleen O’Malley. How on earth do you think you’ll ever find an exciting man when you’re just no fun at all?” Amanda huffed prettily. “Not fun. Not even a little bit.” She winked. “Wish me luck.”
Colleen turned back to the stove and the big cast-iron frying pan, a smile on her lips. She had known Amanda for years, and there wasn’t a single day in all their time together when Amanda didn’t make her laugh out loud at least once when they were together.
“So this is where you’ve been keeping yourself.”
The male voice was not particularly familiar. Surprised at not being alone, Colleen spun quickly to face the intruder in her kitchen.
It was Ralph Andrews, Zachery Singer’s best friend and most loyal toady. His jet-black hair was long, coming down well over his collar, and his blade-thin nose canted sharply to the left, having been reshaped when he was just eighteen by a woman’s boot as she defended herself against his am
orous inclinations. There was nothing about him that Colleen found pleasant. He was, top to bottom, repulsive in her estimation.
“I’m busy, Ralph. What do you want?”
Colleen had known him since they were children together. He had always been vile in her eyes, so it was especially frustrating when his father made an instant fortune by finding gold in his mine. The thick vein of gold had petered out rather quickly, which put an end to the escalating finances of the Andrews family, but the lack of continuing income hadn’t seemed to have any effect on the family lifestyle. Ralph, along his father and mother, continued to spend as though they had thousands of dollars worth of gold coming in every month instead of virtually nothing at all. There wasn’t a soul in Golden Valley who didn’t understand that a nasty crash was going to happen, but nobody said anything, and everyone waited for the inevitable.
“What do I want? Well, you, for starters.” He laughed, and the way he looked at Colleen made her feel as though she should bathe immediately. “You know, there are a lot of easier ways of making money than standing over a stove cooking chicken for a hundred people you don’t much care for.”
Colleen felt her insides tighten. Lack of money had always been a problem in her life, and it irked her enormously that all of Golden Valley knew it.
“It’s an honest income,” she said after a moment. “I don’t suppose you’d have much understanding of that, now would you?”
“You keep talking smart like that, and maybe I’ll teach you some manners. A woman like you should know how to behave with your betters.”
“Oh, I know how to behave with my betters.” She smiled thinly. “I’m just not with them at the moment.”
Ralph took a step toward Colleen. Her response was instantaneous. She took a single step backward and turned the long-handled fork in her hand so that she held it like a sword. She glared at Ralph.
“You’re a cunt. You fucked Allen Carpenter until his balls were dried up, and now you won’t fuck anyone at all.” He spit on the kitchen floor. “The day’s going to come when I’m going to fuck you in the ass, and you’ll take it because I’ll give you five dollars to do it.”
Maxwell, Brandi - Colleen's Desire [The Lost Collection] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting) Page 3
