But turning Cass into an informant wouldn't be easy—at least, not as easy as seducing him. Cass and Baron went back a long way, even longer than he and Wilma did. As fond as Wilma was of her Rebel Rutter, she hadn't held out much hope for Cass's conversion.
"You aren't just talking about a romp in the sheets, chere," Wilma had warned. "You're asking Cass to turn state's evidence against one of the most powerful men in Texas. A man who could make his career or crush it—and that's only if Baron lets Cass survive the initial act of betrayal."
Rex had been even less encouraging, if that was possible.
"It will take more than reckless courage to fight Westerfield," the Ranger had said in dire tones. "It will take a man who believes in doing the right thing. A man who loves justice more than he loves comfort, money, or privilege. Can you really tell me Cassidy is that man?"
Sadie swallowed hard to recall Rex's question. The truthful answer was... no. No, she couldn't.
But she wanted Cass to be that man.
William Cassidy was a dyed-in-the-wool rascal. He'd robbed stages, smuggled moonshine, rustled livestock, and seduced virgins. Sadie had no illusions about Cass.
However, knowing him since adolescence had given her insights into his character that neither Rex nor Wilma possessed. For instance, Sadie knew that Cass had grown up too poor to wear shoes. He'd watched every man in his family get gunned down in the bloody Lee-Peacock Feud of northeast Texas. She knew he'd carried his mother's grave marker on his own aching back for five miles. And he was deathly allergic to bee stings.
At the age of 12, Cass had been the only person in all of Pilot Grove who'd had the courage to stop the Ku Klux Klan from torturing Lynx, a Cherokee half-breed, who'd eventually become his best friend. Cass was willing to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone at least once, and this idealism could sometimes be sniffed out by older, cannier coyotes with less integrity.
Like Baron.
'I have to try,' Sadie told herself. 'For the sake of that idealistic boy who used to blanket my windowsill with bluebonnets, I have to turn Cass.'
Drawing a shuddering breath, she mustered her courage and rapped her knuckles on Cass's door. A muffled oath ensued, followed by the creak of a chair and the unmistakable click of a well-oiled Colt cylinder. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, her wary lover cracked open the door. She caught a whiff of tobacco and spicy musk as he arched a pale gold eyebrow at her titian curls and jade evening gown.
She wasn't reassured when he scowled, but at least he holstered his gun.
"You lost?" he challenged in gravelly tones.
Cass hadn't been expecting company; that much was certain. His hair was rumpled. His shirttails were hanging. His feet were shod in stockings—black ones, of course. But even when he was disheveled, the rapscallion made her mouth water with those flame-blue eyes, chiseled cheeks, and tawny chin hairs.
God is so unfair, she thought uncharitably. She'd had to work for an hour to curl, paint, perfume, and powder—not to mention her trials with a corset, bustle, and garters—just so she could achieve the right appearance for seduction.
All Cass had to do was run his fingers through his hair.
Hell. He doesn't even have to do that, apparently.
She pasted on a luscious smile. "This is the lair of Lucifire, isn't it? The notorious heartbreaker, whose kisses burn like flame?"
He snorted. "Depends on who's doing the asking... Mrs. Sterne."
She ignored his dig. "You were most persuasive at Wilma's place last night."
"How's that?"
"Well, for one thing, you weren't packing a pistol."
"I'm always packing, sweetheart."
"Mmm." She let her eyes trail lower. "Why don't you show me?"
He leaned his shoulder against the jamb and folded his arms across his chest. "What's the matter? Some sodbuster get a putter in his pecker?"
"Let's just say... I like my stud ponies to run the long race."
A reluctant mirth flickered in his glare. Nevertheless, he continued to bar her entry.
Cass was a game-player. Nothing excited his inner Coyote more than giving chase—except, perhaps, getting snared by the Tigress in her den. So Sadie let her shawl gape to advantage. The ploy revealed the bulging tops of freckled, patchouli-scented breasts.
"A lady could freeze out here, waiting to be invited inside," she said huskily.
"Good thing it's hotter 'n the devil's frying pan, huh?"
Smartass.
"But darling, I brought your favorite dessert. And I made my own whip—er, whipping cream."
"I'm flattered."
"You're tempted."
"Hmm." He rubbed his stubbled jaw. "So what's the pleasure of this visit gonna cost me? Daddy's button?"
"Pendant."
"That's what I figured."
"I could never fool you." Her smile dripped honey.
He tossed a suspicious look at her handbag. "Got anything else to declare in there? A scorpion? Or a rattler, maybe?"
"Nothing that bites as good as you."
"Aw. That's sweet."
He still wouldn't budge.
"You aren't still mad at me for dying, are you?" she asked with a pretty pout.
Something dark and dangerous flitted through the sapphire depths of his eyes. But the emotion fled so quickly, she couldn't put a name to it.
"Refresh my memory. Weren't you planning to visit Sterne the night you sneaked into the Globe Hotel, wearing trousers and a beard?"
She wrestled with her annoyance. She'd told Cass a dozen times—no, two dozen—she'd never had an affair with Rex. Why couldn't he simply believe her and drop the subject?
"I thought you liked my beard," she rallied with a naughty grin.
"Sure. Why don't you mosey on back to Wilma's place and put it on for me?"
She blinked. In all her years of game-playing with Cass, she couldn't remember a single other night when he'd turned down her offer of sex.
"We'd just be wasting time," she countered in provocative tones. "And my berries would wilt."
"Worse things could happen."
"You mean... your berries could wilt?"
He smirked. "As a gentleman, I plead the 5th."
"Not to worry, darling. I know the cure for berries—and for gentlemanly inclinations."
She sidled closer. He kept barring the door.
Her eyes narrowed.
She remembered how he'd answered her rap carrying a gun. But that wasn't so disturbing. Always ready for a showdown, that was her Lucifire.
What was disturbing—at least to her womanly intuition—was the way Cass continued to shield the door. He wasn't just trying to drive her away, he was preventing her from seeing past his shoulders to the dimly lit interior.
"Well?" she demanded.
"A deep subject."
Hilarious.
"Are you going to let me in?"
"How bad do you want that button?"
"Enough to come. Here," she added provocatively.
His chuckle was wolfish. "That could be arranged."
"Promises, promises."
The smoking sapphire of his gaze trailed leisurely over her bodice, her belly, her hips. By the time he was staring at the apex between her thighs, she was licking her lips.
"You know," he drawled, "that kick of yours left a dent in my gut."
"You're a big boy." She fought fire with fire, training a lusty stare at his crotch. "I figured you could handle it."
She was gratified to see his buttons strain.
"Would it have been so hard to say, 'Howdy, Cass. It's me under the beard?'"
"A woman likes to play hard to get."
"This is playing hard to get?"
She was sorely tempted to kick him again. "You want me to beg for forgiveness? Is that it?"
"It couldn't hurt."
Donkey butt.
She struggled with her notoriously short temper. "All right, fine. Cass, I'm sorry. I need you. I want
you. I can't live without you."
"Aw, you didn't say pretty please. With cherries on top."
She gritted her teeth. "Pretty please. With cherries."
Those wicked, blue eyes danced. "Now say—"
"Impossible man." She grabbed his shirt front and kissed him.
He chuckled into her mouth, stepping into the hall and letting the door slam behind him. As their tongues wrestled for dominance, fire rushed through her blood. Sparks showered her nerves. Enjoying the sensations, she wasn't shy about demanding pleasure. She shimmied until the taut nubs of her breasts jutted into his shirt; he dragged her hips closer, tantalizing her with the hot, throbbing promise of his arousal.
Cass wasn't called "Eros in Spurs" for nothing. His erotic enticements were soon melting the rational part of her brain. She began to forget why she'd knocked on his door. She began to lose sight of her starry-eyed ambitions to topple a corrupt senator.
The heat of Cass, the taste of Cass, the scent of tobacco, sandalwood, and leather, were heady aphrodisiacs. They called to mind other nights, other seductions. Cass wasn't just some informant whom she could trick into helping her solve her case. He was the only man whom she'd ever yearned for in the secret, lonely chambers of her heart. He was the one lover who could set her nights on fire.
She dragged his hips closer and rubbed against them. In the next moment, she wasn't sure who was growling, who was panting, and who was needier for release. She tugged at his shirt buttons; he hiked her skirt. She squirmed, her breaths sawing when he shoved his free hand down the front of her bloomers. Within seconds, he proved that he knew precisely how to make her body beg. His uncompromising mastery had her shaking with craving. And that was before he found her spot.
"You will never," he snarled in her ear, "pretend to die on me again! You put me through hell!"
His name tore from her throat; he silenced her with a wild, untamed kiss. She tried to retaliate, but he seized her hand, backing her into the wall.
Her knees threatened to buckle from the cyclone of pleasure coiling between her thighs. She thought she heard the seams of her bloomers rip. She tried to care, but her senses were reeling, and her mind was white noise. She clawed at the drawstrings, making it easier for him to plunder his prize.
He rewarded her submission with plunging, serpentine thrusts that soon grew maddening. He took her to the brink again and again, punishing her with the sweetest of tortures. Relentless in his expertise, he milked her liquid fire but refused to let her come.
"I promised myself I'd make you sorry..." He caught her earlobe between sharp teeth.
She tried to jerk away, but he tangled a hand in her hair, holding her head captive, tormenting the tender inner space of her ear with his tongue. Chills chased the sparks that danced over her flesh.
"...Really sorry for toying with me," he added huskily.
Shuddering with the effort to stand, she clung to his shoulders, silently cursing the slippery fabric of her gown. It kept interfering when she tried to hook her ankle over his buttocks to sweeten the pleasure. She began to fear she really would come in the middle of the hall—and worse, that Baron would arrive in time to see the show.
"Cass, please," she whimpered, hating that he'd reduced her to begging.
"What, no cherries on top?"
She was close... so damned close. "Take me inside!"
"Aw. But then I'd have to stop."
She squirmed, stretching desperately. "I can almost reach the doorknob—"
He abruptly released her. If a sturdy wall sconce hadn't been within reach, she would have stumbled to her knees on jellified legs. Uncomprehending, she blinked as he took three steps back, barring the entry to his room once more.
"Th-that's it?" she demanded.
"Yep."
"The best you can do?"
"For tonight."
"But what about the payback you promised me?"
"Some other time, sweets."
Her eyes narrowed. She remembered the creaking chair, and realization dawned. "Get rid of her!"
"Naw. I kinda like this one."
Sadie's heart kicked hard at this confession.
"You kinda like all of them, until the sun comes up," she accused.
Before he could respond, the door cracked open two inches. Sadie had the fleeting impression of green eyes and bare arms behind Cass's brawny shoulder. The woman was still clothed—barely—in a blue silk negligee, but then, she might have draped her private parts so she could step into the hall.
Auburn hair. Big breasts. Cass would, indeed, like this one.
In a volcanic eruption that shook Sadie's world, her heart spewed ash and flame.
The grief was catastrophic.
"Cass?" her redheaded rival whispered. "A-are you still out there?"
"He's with me, bitch! Get over it!"
The woman gasped and ducked back inside the room.
Cass cleared his throat. At least he'd had the decency to redden.
"Now Sadie, that wasn't very nice."
"Screw you, Cass!" Her eyes burned in their efforts to dam tears.
"I tried to tell you, didn't I?"
She snatched her reticule from the rug. Flipping him the bird, she turned on her heel.
Cass muttered an oath. He couldn't very well admit Baron's wife was in his bedroom. Nor was he at liberty to announce that Poppy had come to him, crying her eyes out, because Baron was a cheat.
Could this night get any worse?
Cass caught Sadie's arm. She wrenched free, rounding on him. He saw the blaze of fury in those jungle-cat eyes, and he gulped a restraining breath.
Yep. The night could definitely get worse.
"Don't try getting friendly with me now," she flared. "I don't do threesomes, remember?"
"Keep your voice down," he retorted in a low, urgent tone.
"What's the matter? Afraid Mrs. Westerfield will hear?"
He winced. "Sadie—"
She sneered. "I don't know why I bothered to come here."
"Why are you so spitting mad? You're the one who tossed me aside for Sterne, remember?"
She choked, turning even redder, if that was possible. "That's right. Blame the whole, damned Dodge fiasco on me. Never mind that you had a three-day orgy at Wilma's place."
His chest heaved. "I asked you to ride away with me! You turned me down flat!"
"They would have killed you!"
"By they, are you referring to Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson? Or some other tin-star whom you told about my murder bounty?"
"That's a lie!"
Is it?
Cass struggled with the old, painful suspicion.
She might have forgotten what she'd said one fateful night, four years ago, but he could still remember their argument, like it had happened yesterday. He'd found her secret love song—the one she'd claimed she'd penned to some made-up, dead twin. When he'd torn the music to shreds, she'd been incensed. She'd threatened to tell the law he was wanted for murder back in Texas. And then who had she gone running to?
A Ranger named Sterne!
Sadie flared, "If you believe that rubbish, for a single, solitary second, then we were never meant to be together!"
"Sorry, sweets. But I'm of the mind actions speak louder than words."
She looked considerably paler now. Even her knuckles had whitened over the handle of her bag. "So that's it then? We're history? Old news? Water under the bridge?"
He crossed his arms across his stricken heart. "I reckon."
She drew a shuddering breath.
"Well then." Her smile was bitter. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."
Turning on her heel, she swept down the corridor in a rustling swath of jade silk. When footsteps sounded in the stairwell, she ducked her head and made a beeline for the north wing.
In that nerve-jangling moment, Cass didn't know what made him sicker, the thought of Sadie walking out of his life forever, or the notion that the hotel detective might step out of the stairwell
and find Baron's disheveled wife in his bedroom.
Fortunately, Collie and Vandy shoved open the stairwell door, not the tin-star.
As if on cue, Poppy poked her head back into the hall. "Is that harlot still plying her trade out here? A hotel has rules about that sort of thing, you know."
Collie's jaw dropped to see Baron's wife leaning out Cass's door in her flimsy silk night gown. He shot Cass a blistering look that screamed, "Idiot!"
Cass cursed under his breath.
He hated when the kid was right.
Chapter 10
Loose ends. Incompetent minions.
Asrael couldn't abide either.
If the devil was in the details, then Satan was having a field day at Asrael's expense. Thanks to a colossal case of mistaken identity, the She-devil from the Satin Siren had escaped divine retribution and was continuing to wreck havoc on Asrael's life.
Yes, sometime within the last two months, the bitch had come out of hiding long enough to achieve her most diabolical feat yet. She'd arranged for her freckled spawn to inherit everything Asrael had worked so hard to build. Everything!
Nevermind that James Westerfield would be nothing but a stinking cattle prodder today, if Asrael hadn't worked so diligently—so invisibly—as his avenging angel, greasing palms, negotiating behind closed doors, and hiring regulators to dispose of certain business threats. All Asrael had ever requested in return for this tireless service was loyalty.
But apparently, the insufferable clod couldn't even manage that.
Seething with hatred beneath a mask of glacial calm, Asrael sipped cherry sarsaparilla and waited in the Grand Park casino for the arrival of an ally, a soul of sufficient darkness to eliminate the double plague of the She-devil and her demon spawn.
Much like that fateful night in Galveston, the hotel's sumptuous green gaming hall festered with sin. Many of the characters from the Satin Siren's last chapter were gathered here, tempting the patience of angels. Most noticeable among those characters was the Siren's mermaid queen, a big-busted, red-haired alto with a whiskey voice.
Asrael's smoldering glare followed the strumpet as she strutted through the crowd with two brandies on a tray. The Siren's star performer had apparently changed her name. Tonight, she was Chantelle O'Leary, a slut in a skin-tight witch's costume with spiky black heels. The strumpet's gown was criss-crossed with silver threads, like cobwebs, and looked in danger of disintegrating with a sneeze. All that held the fabric together over that shameless visa of freckles were a few strategic knots.
Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) Page 12
