Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Sadie scowled. She would have recognized Randie's silvery, sniping soprano anywhere, even with the new, Cajun accent.

  "Shouldn't you be humping a shark or something?" Sadie retorted acidly.

  "Sorry to disappoint you, chere," Randie taunted, continuing her descent. "I gave up sharks for bigger fish."

  A memory of the shadowy redhead in Cass's doorway flashed through Sadie's mind. Her lip curled, and she cocked her gun hammer. "That's far enough."

  Randie halted, arching a finely plucked eyebrow.

  "What are you doing here?" Sadie demanded in iron tones.

  "Talking to a ghost, it seems. So you're the Maisy my Boo has been sneaking off to visit."

  Randie was Jazi's mother?

  Mira. Miranda. The names made sense now. Ballsy bitch.

  Randie had yet to bat an eyelash at the pistol, pointing with such unwavering accuracy at her chest. Her Cajun accent was even more believable than her Texas one, which made Sadie wonder if the bawd was really a native of New Orleans—or N'awlins, as Wilma liked to pronounce it.

  "I must say," Randie drawled, "you're not being very hospitable. With manners like yours, one might think you were born in... well, a cave."

  Hilarious.

  Sadie refused to take her thumb off the gun hammer. Never mind that Wilma had vouched for this "Mira." Never mind that one of Wilma's gris-gris hung from Randie's neck. Sadie didn't trust Randie. As far as Sadie was concerned, Randie had plenty of motive to want her dead, and she had lots of shady admirers. Any one of them could have locked Sadie's door from the outside or hurled Greek Fire through her window at the Satin Siren.

  "Intruders don't deserve hospitality," Sadie fired back.

  "Well, if it isn't the pot calling the kettle black. Now you know how I felt after you and Dietrich destroyed everything I worked for."

  "I nearly got crispy-fried because of you!"

  "Me?" Indignation stained Randie's porcelain cheeks. "If my prayers had that kind of power, my husband would never have died. My Boo would never have suffered malaria. And I sure as hell would never have set foot inside the Satin Siren!"

  Sadie's eyes narrowed.

  "Now Tito is dead," Randie continued grimly. "His body was found in the woods. According to Marshal Wright, Tito's death wasn't an accident. I think whoever was gunning for me back in Galveston followed me here."

  "You?"

  Her chin raised a notch. "What, you think you're the only diva who ever made an enemy? Not everything's about you, Cassie. The bomb was tossed through my bedroom window. Or at least, it was my bedroom window, up until the morning of the fire. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all."

  Sadie frowned. Randie could be suffering from delusions of grandeur.

  Then again...

  "Why would your enemy want to kill Tito?" Sadie demanded. "You think he knew something about the fire? Something he didn't say to the arson investigators?"

  "Maybe." Randie's eyebrows knitted. "Tito wasn't incredibly bright. But he always looked out for me. He was infatuated with me, in truth. It was a sticky situation. I just didn't feel the same way. Things got especially tense when... "

  Her voice trailed off.

  "When what?" Sadie pressed.

  Randie's chin raised a notch. "When Boo got sick," she said tartly. "Tito wanted to look out for her too. And be a family."

  Sadie eyed Randie speculatively. She suspected the older woman wasn't telling the whole truth. "Have you told Wilma any of this?"

  "Good God, no. You know how she is, always fretting about evil spirits. It's bad enough she made me and Boo wear these herbal talismans," Randie added, sniffing her gris-gris. She wrinkled her nose and let the pouch flop back between her breasts.

  "Besides, it's not like Wilma can do anything—except worry. That's why I paid a call on Marshal Wright tonight. I told him everything I know about Tito, the Satin Siren, and you. So don't be surprised if he comes calling, wanting your side of the story. He'll be trying to piece together any information you can tell him about Tito. If Tito really was murdered here, and his death had something to do with that Galveston fire, then the local law should be looking out for us."

  Sadie wasn't moved by this peace overture. She was too busy wondering why so many of the Galveston survivors had found their way to Lampasas. Almost by design.

  "Why did you come to Lampasas?" she demanded.

  Randie stiffened. Pink bloomed in her cheeks. "Why does anyone come to Lampasas? I thought the mineral springs might do Boo good. I suppose my timing could have been better. I didn't know the convention had gobbled up all the hotel rooms. As much as I adore Wilma, her house isn't the place for an impressionable child. We'll be leaving for New Orleans just as soon as Halloween is over.

  "Mais well," she added briskly, squaring her shoulders and erecting a façade of aloofness once more. "As lovely as this reunion has been, I have to attend to my daughter. Boo needs her medicine. I can see she didn't leave her tin of pastilles on the crate. So unless you're still planning to shoot me for a crime I didn't commit, I'll continue my search upstairs."

  Narrowly, Sadie watched Randie turn and climb the steps. Frustration flurried through her gut as the trap door banged closed.

  Sass, class, and the protective instincts of a mother tigress.

  No wonder Cass liked Miranda Reynolds.

  * * *

  Unlike Hancock Pool, with its mule-drawn trolley to the Grand Park Hotel, Aquacia was off the beaten track, about two miles north of town. It was also privately owned, which allowed wealthy patrons to rent the bathhouse after hours.

  Remembering the adage, "Pinkertons can't be too careful," Sadie tethered her horse about a tenth of a mile from the building. Beams from a round, amber moon filtered through the tree canopy, lighting her way, but her insistence on stealth made the walk tedious. She was glad she'd tugged one of her oldest, rattiest pair of dungarees from her trunk, because she encountered thistle bushes more than once as she forged a path toward her destination.

  Finally, she reached a clearing. The spa was nestled in a park-like setting of golden cedar elms, fiery maples, and broadleaved evergreens called live oaks. Blood-red tiles capped white stucco that made the Spanish-styled structure fairly glow in the moonlight.

  The tinkling splash of the courtyard's fountain reached her ears. Tugging her slouch hat low over her bearded face, she flitted past a charming walkway of terra cotta tiles to the moon-drenched sun porch, which was attached to the main pool. No windows had been built into the bathing chamber, just an enormous, stained-glass bubble dome. Nevertheless, if she strained her ears, she could detect a rhythmic flutter-kick beyond the door, which Cass had propped open.

  He was inviting her to be seduced.

  Thinking of Randie in his hotel bedroom, she scowled.

  Two can play the conquest game, Rutter.

  For a long moment, Sadie stood in the doorway, cicada song swelling behind her in the woods. Moonbeams spilled through the skylight, illuminating dust motes that danced like fairy magic over verdant waters. A long, lean swimmer's body was power-stroking through the pool. Completely naked, Cass's exquisite length glimmered like a torpedo-shaped pearl.

  She told herself she should arrest him for breaking-and-entering. Unfortunately, she was arrested—even mesmerized—by the view: emerald waters sliding over alabaster flesh; corded limbs surging through frothy bubbles; the breadth and power of rippling shoulders, rising above the wave. Most endearing of all was the sight of his own dimpled moons, winking at the celestial orb that peeked slyly through the skylight.

  Seeing him so appealingly undressed, Sadie had a hard time repressing a little growl. Cass's exquisite musculature was a sculptor's dream—and a woman's wet fantasy. But then, he'd always been an athlete, taking care to keep his reflexes as sharp as his mind.

  Her man-shark hadn't noticed her arrival yet. That gave her time to plot her strategy. She raced him along the pool's longest edge, beating him to the shallows, wh
ere she waited triumphantly with a scowl. She was loath to let him know just how much she enjoyed watching his shameless virility cleave her ominous, black silhouette on the water.

  When he pretended not to notice her, looming over him like an angry volcano goddess, she tugged his Bowie knife from her belt and flung it. The blade struck the deck's wooden planks above his head with a resounding thunk.

  That got his attention.

  He reared up out of the water, tossing back his hair in a gleaming arc of spray that looked like a moonbow around his golden head.

  "I stopped by Wilma's place," she announced. Planting her fists on her hips, she straddled that erect and quivering hilt. "What the hell is this?"

  Cass grinned. He trailed his wicked gaze from the knob on the hilt to the apex of her spreading thighs. "I'm not sure. But it looks illegal."

  "You're illegal."

  "That's why you like me."

  She snorted. "As far as I'm concerned, Wright should have locked you in the calaboose and thrown away the key."

  "Aw. Whose fluffy, white pillow did Vandy really soil? Yours or loverboy's?"

  "You think vandalism's a game?"

  "Life's a game, sweetheart. I just play by different rules."

  "This from the man who wants to be a Ranger."

  "I'm starting to have second thoughts about Rangerhood," he said drolly. "Women aren't allowed on the force."

  "Oh, so now you're all about equality."

  He winked. "Mostly, I'm about undercover work."

  She didn't dare let her lips twitch.

  "So tell me," he drawled. "How does a woman who couldn't bear to breathe the same air as a tin-star wind up becoming one?"

  He was probing. Her guard raised a notch.

  "If you can't fight 'em, join 'em," she answered breezily.

  "Now that doesn't sound like you."

  "Let's just say I liked the perks."

  His eyes narrowed with speculation. "Care to be more specific?"

  "Oh, you know. Steady pay. Lots of travel."

  "And a tyrant boss to take the place of a husband?"

  With a sudden flash of insight, she guessed where his questions were leading. The scapegrace was actually concerned about her! The notion warmed her heart in a dangerously romantic way.

  "Does putting up with tyrants sound like me?"

  He cocked his head, studying her. "No. But tyranny does sound like Sterne's style."

  She rolled her eyes. "Right. I forgot who I was talking to."

  "'Course, if you like being bossed around these days...." He flashed his Coyote grin.

  "My, aren't you the considerate villain."

  "Just doing my part to keep womankind sated and happy."

  Dog.

  Plotting his comeuppance, she let her gaze roam over the chamber. Tiled with colorful, Mexican-style images of suns, moons, and stars, it was the perfect backdrop for a heavenly body, like Cass's. Great earthen pots of yellow lantana, silver sages with lavender flowers, bushy dwarf palms and other drought-resistant flora had been cleverly arranged on limestone tiers to form a grotto, beneath which the spring's source bubbled forth. White colonnades, painted with fanciful sunflowers marched along the pool's eastern side, closest to the vaulted doorway that led to a pitch-black corridor and parts unknown.

  Finally, Sadie spied what she'd been searching for: the glint of silver. Cass had stashed his all-black wardrobe in the shadows, under one of the grotto's slabs. Beside his boots and spurs sat his Stetson. He loved that hat almost as much as he loved breathing. Once, after he'd lost everything except his guns during a particularly bad craps shoot, she'd watched him bet his horse for the return of his hat—not for the knife that had made him a mumblety-peg champion. Not for his award-winning rodeo buckle. Not even for the hand-tooled Justin boots that he lovingly polished each morning until he could glimpse his stubbled mug on the toes.

  The fact that he had stolen back his gear and his gelding hours later was beside the point.

  "I don't suppose you paid to enter this bathhouse after hours," she accused.

  "Why rent a pool when you own a lock pick?"

  "Is that a confession, hooligan?"

  "Are you going to arrest me?" he countered hopefully.

  "Not if you're going to like it."

  "Then I confess. I hate to swim. Especially when I'm butt-naked and all alone."

  "Isn't that a shame?" Her smile was smug. "'Cause all I came for was the button."

  She turned on her heel and headed for his trousers. She was intent on ransacking his pockets—maybe even tossing his hat into the pool.

  "You mean this button?" he challenged, opening his fist. Brass flashed from the chain that slid through his fingers.

  She sucked in her breath.

  "Take another step toward that hat, Tin-Star, and the button gets it." He was wading backwards into the pool's center, her keepsake dangling precariously above murky waters.

  "If you don't want to walk out of this bathhouse in your birthday suit," she retorted, annoyed that he'd out-coyoted her, "you'd better get your butt and my button up on this pool deck!"

  He flashed all his pretty teeth. "I got plenty of duds stashed in Baron's private locker. You only got one button."

  Baron has a private locker?

  She filed that information away for future reference. Then she shot a vengeful glance at the Stetson.

  Retaliating, he let the chain slide lower.

  "You wouldn't dare!"

  "Try me."

  She fumed. The water was lapping around his pectorals now. If he dropped Daddy's button, even by accident, she wasn't sure she could ever find it in the pool's dark, green depths—at least, not by moonlight.

  "If you lose Daddy's button, I swear to God, I'll skin you alive!"

  "Be my guest. 'Course, you'll have to dive in first."

  Donkey butt.

  She eyed the water dubiously. In this part of Texas, spring-fed pools could be colder than a witch's tit—and that was in the sunshine.

  "Truce?" she offered grudgingly.

  "Spoken like a loser."

  "A loser who pocketed four-hundred of your dollars, sucker."

  He snorted at this dig. "Where'd you learn to count poker chips, cheater?"

  "Cheater!?"

  "Why, sure. If it looks like a duck, and waddles like a duck—"

  "You are so dead, Cassidy." She ripped off the first boot.

  He twirled the chain around his fingers, quacking like a mallard.

  She ripped off the second boot. "You're fowl, all right!"

  He winked, dunking the button like a teabag.

  Her hat, trousers, shirt, and breast bindings flew off at his threat. Gritting her teeth, she took the plunge, leaping feet first into the shallows. The shock of that icy water ripped a shriek from her throat, especially when it slapped the undersides of her breasts and puckered her nipples. Sputtering curses against him and all his ancestors, she planned to drown him the moment her blood thawed.

  Meanwhile, her man-shark was knifing through the water on a collision course with her. She glimpsed taut buttocks, gleaming like snow-capped hillocks in the lunar light. She was almost sorry when the show ended. He surfaced before her, a cascade of liquid emerald rolling off moon-chiseled shoulders, biceps, and pectorals and an abdomen that might have been cut from white granite. Tossing back his hair, he revealed starlit eyes that twinkled with mirth.

  "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  Uncertain what he meant, she shot her sea monster a warning glare. It didn't stop him from wading closer.

  "Where's my button, felon?"

  "Reckon you'll have to search me for it, detective."

  His head lowered, and his tongue slid along her bottom lip.

  That's when she remembered, to her utter mortification, she was wearing whiskers.

  But Cass, being Cass, was thoroughly amused by the sheer wrongness of kissing a bearded woman. He rubbed his chin against her chin. He nibbled the bri
stly end of her mustache. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his dimples. Darling. Devilish. Dangerous to any female with a functioning brain.

  So what did that say about her?

  "The glue tastes like honey." His murmur throbbed with sin. He reached for her waist.

  "Don't you dare get my face wet!" She reared back, shoving a hand between their chests. "I'm wearing my favorite beard, and it has to look presentable after you ravish me!"

  His chuckle was wolfish. The next thing she knew, he'd kicked her feet out from under her. She squealed in protest, but it was already too late. Cold, dark waters were closing over her head. She came up blind and sputtering, her sodden curls plastered over her nose, her whiskers floating somewhere in a sea of bubbles.

  "Ducks don't have beards," he said cheerfully. "'Course, now you look more like a drowned rat."

  "I hate you."

  He whooped and splashed her in the face.

  "All right. That does it, slug-head."

  She pounced, but he fended off her headlock, and they had a rollicking wrestling match in the shallows. As her legs grappled with his, she felt the small pouch that he'd strapped above his right knee. But it was hard to plunder pouches when his wicked fingers kept dancing across her flesh, stroking and tickling. She tried to dunk his cocky head, but the water worked against her, slowing the Judo moves she'd learned in Pinkie training.

  "Is that the best you can do?" he taunted.

  She grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanked his head lower, and thrust her tongue into his mouth. He growled. The rumble vibrated deep into her belly, awakening her smoldering volcano, shooting sparks of lightning along her nerves. When she locked her thighs around his waist, he turned predator. He kneaded her buttocks with powerful hands. He slanted his mouth across hers, demanding more of his feast.

  Now she was panting, but he was too. His arousal was hot, like velvet-sheathed steel sliding against her belly. She rubbed his swollen head, delighting in his throttled groan. Knowing his weakness, she clamped her teeth over his earlobe and tormented the ticklish inner space. He staggered, and she smiled wickedly, enjoying the way his nipples pebbled against her chest.

  But Cass had tricks of his own that could drive her wild. Most had to do with his mouth and her cleft, but with the water in the way, he shifted tactics. He arched her back over an arm, suckling a ripe, rosy breast while circling his thumb in an insidious pattern of pressures over her pleasure bud. She bit back a moan, nearly crawling out of her skin when his forefinger finally, slyly probed her. She hiked her hips in shameless wanting, and he obliged, taking his time to please her, to tease her, to milk her restless yearning to a fever pitch.