Desperado (14 page)

He doubted that very much.

S
acramento City pulsed with life. And if gambling was its heartbeat, then gold surely was its pumping blood.

The first gambling “casino” they entered was a huge round tent. Numerous lanterns hung from the ceilings, casting an eerie glow. The small string orchestra that played to one side could hardly be heard over the raucous noise of shouting miners crowded around at least fifteen tables. Frazzled waiters darted between the tables serving drinks to grubby prospectors betting their hard-earned fortunes on games of chance, like lansquenet, monte, faro, poker, or roulette. More gold and silver than she'd ever seen in her life lay in piles on the tables.

“C'mon. C'mon. Who'll buck the tiger?” she heard more than one banker call out.

Still others cajoled, “Jack and deuce. Make your bets, gentlemen. All down? All down?”

Or, “One hundred against the house. Who'll be a winner tonight?”

At the bar, cut-glass bowls were filled with peppermints, lemon drops, and the blasted cigars, and bartenders with wide thumbs took pinches of gold dust from the customers in exchange for what appeared to be whiskey, wine, ale, and liquors.

The babble of voices, slap of cards, jubilant shouts and doleful groans, music, clinking of glasses and bottles, all provided a backdrop to the smells. And they were overwhelming. Body odor, perfume, whiskey, cigarettes, stale liquor, and Chinese punk, which lay smoldering in miniature jars for the convenience of those needing to light up.

“Oh, boy!” Rafe exclaimed.

“What?” she said, then gasped as she noticed the direction of his gaze.

The circular canvas walls were covered with paintings, no doubt completed by some down-and-out artist turned prospector. The murals all depicted women. Nude women in erotic poses.

“Great! The Playboy Club of the old West!”

Rafe laughed.

“Maybe you can pick up a bunny later,” she proposed sarcastically. Only a few women, clearly prostitutes in sleazy, low-cut gowns, were there. Some dealt cards at the gambling tables; others acted as “come-on” girls or lures for the bar; still others worked the crowd for their own personal gain.

“Honey, I'm not that horny. These bunnies bark.”

She was about to chastise him for his crudity, but saw that he was smirking expectantly, just waiting for her to rise to his bait. She clamped her mouth shut.

“Besides, I have you, babe,” he crooned softly in her ear.

She elbowed him in the ribs. “Behave.”

As they moved through the crowd of about two hundred, Helen saw some of the men glancing from her to the paintings,
probably picturing her in similar positions. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Let me guess. You want to go somewhere else.”

“Can we?”

Surprisingly, he agreed. “It's too crowded in here anyway, and smoky. We can't have you fainting all over the place.”

The next tent, The Plains, also was adorned with oil paintings, but these were of scenes of the overland trail to California: Independence Rock, the Sweetwater Valley, Fort Laramie, the Wind River Mountains, the Sierra Nevada Pass.

Rafe decided that tent was too crowded, as well.

They strolled through J and K streets near the levee where most of the saloons and gambling places were located. As they made their way through the labyrinth of half light and moving shadows, musical instruments sounded from practically every quarter—flutes, French horns, violins, fiddles, trumpets. And because the establishments were jammed so close together, all the musical sounds blended into a chaotic symphony.

In the distance, she heard the occasional report of a gun firing and the sound of male baritones singing ballads, like “Old Dan Tucker” and “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”

From one of the tents, a brassy woman's voice said, “How do you want it, cowboy?” followed by a gruff male reply, “French.” Three other men were lined up outside, waiting their turns.

Helen blushed and pretended not to hear, even when Rafe chuckled.

Next, they tried The Humboldt, The Mansion, The Diana, and Lee's Exchange. Eventually, they settled on a small tent at the end of K Street. It had only three tables and a board over two barrels that served as a makeshift bar. Whiskey was the only beverage served. A dark-haired
señorita
in an off-the-shoulder camisole and a colorful full skirt leaned against
the tent pole talking to a handsome Spanish vaquero. A thin brown cigarillo dangled from her loose lips.

At one of the tables, chuck-a-luck—a simple dice game—was being played. At another, it was monte. At the third, poker.

“Which one are you going to try?” she asked in an undertone.

“Monte. It's the fairest game. Least chance of cheating.”

They stood for a half hour, watching the action, before a young miner threw in his cards, having lost what seemed a fortune to Helen.

To her discomfort, she recognized the banker—the slimy Frenchman who had wanted to purchase her earlier that day for a brothel in San Francisco. His cold snake eyes watched her and Rafe with calculating interest.

Rafe squeezed her hand when she shivered with apprehension.

“Well,
Monsieur
Ángel
, care to try your luck?” the gambler said with oily condescension. “My name is Pierre Lamoyne.”

“Sure,” Rafe said, sitting down on the stool, “and the name is Rafael Santiago. Mr. Santiago to you.”

Lamoyne's elegant nose turned up at the affront. In the background, Helen heard someone remark snidely, “These greasers jist don't know their place.”

“And this is my wife, Helen.” Rafe reached over his shoulder and pulled her up tight against his back, placing her hand on his shoulder. “For luck,” he said aloud to the other men, but for her ears only, he murmured, “Stick close, baby. I'm not feeling warm, fuzzy vibes here.”

That was an understatement.

“Enchanté, ma chérie!”
Lamoyne said in response to Helen's introduction, inclining his head toward her with respect. Then he ruined the aristocratic effect by remarking to Rafe, “Your wife?
Non
, she is
certainment
a . . . um . . .
une fille de joie
.”

“What did he say?” she asked, leaning down near Rafe's ear.

Rafe told her, “He thinks you're a pavement princess, babe. A hooker.” When her fingers clawed into his shoulder, he cautioned, “Take it easy, hon.”

“Where is your ante,
monsieur
?” Lamoyne barked, suddenly impatient.

Rafe pulled out his meager pouch of gold dust and ignored Lamoyne's snort of disdain.

“Five dollars a hand,” Lamoyne announced.

“Two,” Rafe corrected.

“
Alors
, perhaps you and your
wife
should go down the street where the stakes are lower and the company less discriminating.”

“Perhaps,” Rafe said smoothly and started to rise.

“Two dollars then,” Lamoyne capitulated ungraciously.

After an hour in which Rafe won some hands and lost others, Helen was disgusted to see that his pile remained pretty much the same as when he'd started. Lamoyne looked equally disgusted.

“Enough of these penny-ante games. Let us increase the odds here,
monsieur
.” The gambler laid a pile of nuggets in the center of the table. “Five hundred dollars.”

Reluctantly, Rafe shook his head. “Can't do. I don't have that much.”

The sleazeball twirled his mustache with sly satisfaction, his crafty eyes connecting with Helen. “Ah, but you are wrong, my friend. You have something of equal value to wager.”

Rafe's body under her hand grew rock stiff. “She's not for sale.”

The gambler shrugged and started to pull his pile of nuggets back.

Rafe raised a halting hand. “Perhaps we can make a deal.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses.
“Ray-Bans. Worth a hundred dollars,” he said and put them on to demonstrate. “They protect your eyes from sunlight.”

“I thought Pablo took those, Helen said.”

“He did, but he gave them back to me today . . . said they were useless.”

Lamoyne checked out the sunglasses when Rafe laid them on the table. With a grunt of derision, he picked them up and tried them on. The
señorita
made a cooing sound of appreciation at his appearance, and the vain little fop preened.

“So, do you want them?” Rafe pushed.

With heightened color, Lamoyne snarled, “
Oui,
fifty dollars.”

Next Rafe took off his camouflage shirt, leaving on his tight-fitting green T-shirt.

“You can't do that,” Helen admonished. “It's against Army regulations.”

He cut her a telling glare that said clearly, “Get real!”

The shirt brought another fifty.

“How about black silk boxer shorts?” Rafe offered.

Helen burst out laughing. “You are crazy.”

“Well, I can't think of anything else. I don't want to give up my boots.”

“Boxer shorts?” Lamoyne asked.

“Men's underpants.”

Lamoyne balked. “Why would a gentleman want another man's filthy undergarments?”

“These are silk,” Rafe informed him. “And clean. I washed them last night, didn't I, Helen?” Without waiting for her answer, Rafe leaned over and unlaced his boots. Then he stood and began to undo his pants. “Look the other way, honey,” he told the
señorita
, but he winked at Helen and told her, “You can look, though.”

By the time Helen peeked back, Rafe's boxers were lying outrageously in the middle of the table, and he was zipping
up his pants over bare skin. Helen forced herself to stop thinking about all that bare skin under his pants.

After examining the shorts—joined by the other card players and the
señorita
—Lamoyne agreed to another fifty dollars.

“That's only a hundred and fifty dollars,” Rafe muttered.

“How about my underwear?” Helen blurted out, and everyone in the room turned to gawk at her. Including Rafe, whose gawk quickly changed to an ear-to-ear smile.

“I mean, if you can give up stuff, so can I,” she said in a weak voice. After a few quick words from Rafe, she went to a back room, partitioned by only a red calico curtain, and removed her bra and panties. Rafe stood guard on the other side of the drape.

Face flaming, she returned and placed the white lace bra and French-cut briefs on the table, along with her camouflage blouse.

Rafe sat back down, then glanced back over his shoulder, taking his first gander at her. His eyes locked on her breasts, naked under the thin T-shirt. Licking his lips, he whispered huskily, “Maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all.”

To her embarrassment, her nipples hardened under his appreciative scrutiny.

Rafe's sharp inhalation of breath only made them tighten more. She folded her arms over her chest and demanded of Lamoyne, “Well, do you want them or not? We can always go elsewhere if you're not interested.”

The gambler picked them up, one at a time, examining them closely, especially the filmy cups of her bra.

“Jay-sus,” one Irishman exclaimed, “you could prob'ly sell that over at Lola's for a thousand dollars.”

Rafe sat in front of her, barely stifling a snicker. She cuffed him on the shoulder.

Finally, Lamoyne grumbled, “It's a bet.”

And fifteen minutes later, Rafe and Helen left the tent post-haste
with their belongings, as well as $520 in gold nuggets and dust.

“Let's get away from here,” Rafe said, pulling on her hand. “I don't trust Lamoyne. He'll be after us in a flash.”

“I know.” She rushed to keep up with him.

Rafe looked at her and groaned.

“What?”

“Your breasts are jiggling in that T-shirt. I think I'm about to co—”

“Don't say it,” she snapped. “I'll put my blouse on as soon as it's safe to stop.”

He mumbled something about never stopping.

But he did stop soon after that in front of the City Hotel. “Did you say something earlier about being willing to sell your soul for a bath and a bed?”

“Oooh, yes!” she said on a long sigh. “I can't wait.”

“Me neither, baby. Me neither,” he agreed, taking her hand and leading her through the front door.

Something in Rafe's smooth-as-butter voice set off alarm bells in Helen's head, and she halted, pulling him back sharply. “I'm not selling anything here, Rafe. Especially not a corkscrew.”

A warm laugh escaped his lips before he wagged a finger chidingly. “Tsk, tsk, Prissy. That's not what I meant.”

“Oh.” She felt heat rise from her chest to her hairline.

“Although I do think I deserve a reward for being a winner.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”

“Oh, well, I don't know. Let's see.” He tapped the edge of his bristled jaw with a forefinger consideringly, then brightened. “How about a kiss?”

“A kiss? That's what you want? That's all?”

“Yup.”

“Just one?”

He hesitated. “For now.”

“Oh, all right.”

He dazzled her with a wicked look of triumph then, and the promise in his pale eyes nearly scorched her already hot skin.

She almost reneged on the deal, especially when he added, “But I'll take my reward later, after we bathe, because . . .”

He was already pulling her along into the hotel when she prompted, “Because?”

“Because when I collect my kiss, I want it to last a
real
long time.”

I
t was just a kiss. Hah! . . .

H
elen sat cross-legged on the homemade, three-quarter-sized bed that took up most of the small room they'd rented in the City Hotel for the night. The two-story building with its projecting balcony was a former sawmill built by the famous Captain Sutter—primitive by modern standards—but they were lucky to get a separate room. The majority of the guests slept dorm-style in tiny cubicles or in double-decker bunks, sharing a bathtub and even—God forbid!—a communal toothbrush and razor.

The only other furniture in the second-floor room was an oak washstand, hardly visible in the shadowy light thrown by a lone lantern. Wooden pegs on the wall held their meager supply of clothing. Crimson calico lined the walls.

Despite the crude accommodations, Helen felt gloriously clean, though slightly sunburned. She'd just bathed and donned a scratchy cotton nightgown, which Rafe had purchased while she was in the tub. His consideration in paying
extra cash from their small hoard for clean water and a locked door to the “bathroom” would endear him to her forever.

He was down there now, taking his own bath, but he'd made her promise not only to bar the door from the inside but to brace a slat under the handle for extra insurance, and to keep one of the pistols handy. The gambler Lamoyne might still come after them, or the sheriff could have second thoughts.

Combing her wet hair, Helen felt hopeful for the first time in days. A bright moon shone through the one grimy window, and Helen figured it must be well past midnight.

“Helen, open up.” Rafe's whispered voice came from the hallway, accompanied by a sharp knock. “Hurry! I just saw Lamoyne out on the street, and he didn't look like he was coming over to say ‘Howdy.'”

Briskly, she removed the wooden slat and slid the bar. Rafe walked in, barefooted, carrying his dirty clothing and boots in one arm, and a raised revolver in the other. Without even glancing at her, he dropped everything to the floor and locked the door, double-checking the strength of the bar and wooden brace. Next, he examined the open window to make sure no one could enter that way, either. Luckily, there was no roof or balcony nearby to give access to their room.

Only then did he turn to Helen. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Rafe was wearing only his camouflage slacks, slung low on his hips, exposing his navel. Beads of water still rolled off his slicked-back, wet hair and down his neck to bead on his chest. He had even shaved.

Helen swallowed and a knot of tension coiled in her stomach. She tried to avert her gaze from the wide expanse of shoulders, the muscled planes of biceps and ridged abdomen, the flat male nipples. She really did try—but his body was so beautiful.

“I like to look at you, too, Helen,” he rasped out.

Her eyes widened, locking with his. He smiled knowingly at her, but not in a mocking way.

He moved closer, an easy job in the close confines of the tiny room. The hungry, predatory gleam in his eyes alarmed, and excited her.

Helen backed up a bit, hitting the wall next to the bed with a bang. The comb she still held in her hand dropped to the floor. “What . . . what are you doing?”

“Collecting my reward,” he said huskily, reaching out to brush a loose strand of damp hair behind her ear.

She gasped at the intense pleasure created by just that whisk of his fingertips across her face. “What reward?”

He grinned, then licked his upper lip with his tongue. He made a low, savage sound deep in his throat and stepped even closer. An animal moving in for the kill. “My kiss. Don't you remember, Helen? You promised me a kiss.”

A kiss? That's all he wants? A kiss?
Helen's jumbled brain tried to assimilate the softly murmured words. She felt the heat of his bare chest, only inches away. She smelled the strong odor of lye soap, and clean male skin . . . Rafe's own scent. Her breasts filled and tautened into aching points. A delicious shudder rippled through her body, and she clenched her fists at her sides to keep from opening her arms in welcome. She'd never been aroused so swiftly or so fiercely by a man in all her life.

“A kiss. That's all. One kiss,” she insisted, forcing a cool tone to her voice, praying for control.

“One kiss,” he agreed with an enigmatic chuckle. “For now.”

His lips were so near. She closed her eyes.

“Why did you moan?” His warm breath fanned her lips.

She hadn't realized she'd moaned. She would have to be more careful. “Because I want this to be over as quickly as
possible. Just do it so I can go to sleep,” she snapped, scrunching her closed eyelids even tighter.
I'll never sleep tonight. Never
.

“Liar,” he hissed, placing two fingers on the wildly beating pulse in her neck. “And don't give me any of this I-am-a-martyr-and-you-are-the-satyr bit. This is going to be a mutual kiss, a willing give-and-take. We're talking long, hot, slow, wet—”

Her eyes flew open. “I never agreed—”

But it was too late. His lips were already covering hers. Soft. Brushing back and forth till she opened for him. Slanting. Seeking the right fit.

She didn't know who moaned then, him or her. It didn't matter. She wanted his kiss. She wanted his kiss desperately.

He put both hands on either side of her face, and his firm lips took possession of her mouth.

Willingly, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. With one hand behind his nape, she pulled him closer. His lower body sought out the cradle of her hips, and she knew, without a doubt, that he was as aroused as she was.

With his tongue buried in her mouth, he inserted a determined thigh between her legs, separating them. Expertly, he undulated his arousal against her arousal.

She tried to keen out her spiraling pleasure, but his tongue, slipping in and out of her mouth, stopped her cries.

All the time, he continued to kiss her, ravenously, never coming up for air, probably fearing that the minute they broke contact, the kiss would end. Their agreement would end.

With a growl of frustration, Rafe put both hands on her buttocks and lifted her, pulling up the hem of her nightgown, adjusting her bare legs around his waist. She locked her ankles and tightened her thighs against his hips. Her shoulders rested against the wall.

He cupped her bare bottom with his hands, then began to move against her in earnest—rhythmic thrusts against her parted center. She wanted him so much. She couldn't seem to get enough.

Through the fog of his bone-melting passion, Rafe became aware that Helen was kissing him back, with abandon. Licking his lips, nibbling, sucking, inserting her tongue into his mouth, grinding her lips against his.

Tears were streaming down her face and incoherent pleas came out as whimpers into his own mouth.

He turned and lowered her to the bed, following on top of her. His lips never left hers. He wasn't taking any chances.

“Please,” Helen pleaded against his lips, then broke contact, jerking her head to the side. Her chest was heaving and she panted, writhing from side to side.

“Hold on, babe, hold on,” he promised, running a hand up her leg to her inner thigh. At the first touch of her wetness, he almost came. “Oh, sweetheart, you feel so good.”

She raised her hips up off the bed and parted her bent legs more. He could feel the muscles in her arms and legs grow rigid.

“Relax, sweetheart. Just relax.”

“Relax?” she choked out incredulously.

He smiled. “Do you want me to touch you again?”

“No!” Then, more weakly, “Yes.”

His thumb strummed her slickness.

She distended and pulsed.

He could barely breathe.

“O-o-oh, Rafe.”

“I told you I would teach you how to say, ‘Oh, Rafe!'”

“Shut up,” she ground out with a laugh.

“I want to look at you.”

“Not now,” she asserted, holding his hand in place with one of hers. The other hand reached down and caressed the length of his erection through the fabric of his slacks.

He saw stars.

With a guttural, animal sound of surrender, he placed himself against her, arousal against arousal. Bracing himself on straightened arms, he simulated the act of love—a hard rhythm, up and down.

And she met his every thrust with an opposing thrust, a sweet, tantalizing counterpoint.

“Oh, God, oh, Rafe, oh my, oh-h-h-h,” she screamed exultantly, arching high off the bed, knees bent and bracketing him, feet planted on the bed linens.

He came against her in a searing gush of pleasure, so powerful his body shuddered for several long minutes afterward. Decreasing spasms continued to ripple through him. He'd never had such a satisfying orgasm, even when inside a woman.

He let himself rest on her, heavily, for several moments, trying to get his heart pumping back to normal again. When he finally raised himself on his elbows, he saw that Helen was trembling, too, gazing up at him with awe.

He shared the feeling.

And this was just the beginning. What would it be like when they really made love? When he was imbedded inside her welcoming folds? When she climaxed around his erection?

He stifled a groan.

Grazing a thumb across her kiss-swollen lips, he said in a hoarse voice he barely recognized, “That was some kiss, babe.”

She nodded. “This is probably par for you, but I never—”

He pressed his fingertips against her lips to halt her next words. “No, it's not par for me. Believe me, what just happened to us was different . . . special.”

“Rafe, don't say things you think I want to hear. It happened. That's all. I don't expect anything from you.”

He gritted his teeth. For some reason, he wanted her to expect things from him. And he wanted her to admit it was special for her, too. “I want to look at you,” he said huskily, and began to tug on the hem of her gown.

She covered his hand with hers, stopping the hem at mid-thigh. “I don't know if this is such a good idea,” she replied nervously.

“Don't go shy on me now, honey.”

He pushed the rest of her gown over her head and flicked it off the bed. “Well, I'll be damned!” he exclaimed, surveying her body. “I was right. You
do
have Vargas breasts.”

She tried to cross her arms over her chest and close her legs with belated modesty. Before she had a chance to curb her tongue, she blurted out, “What are Vargas breasts?”

He pulled her arms apart and over her head, holding them by the wrists with one hand. With the other hand, he cupped one breast, testing its weight. “Champagne breasts. Round and full. Puffy aureoles. Pebbly, pink nipples,” he explained thickly. “Vargas was an artist who painted nude pinups like that for
Esquire
years ago.”

“Pinups? Pinups?” she sputtered, her face burning with mortification as she squirmed to get free from his grip. But not too hard, he noted.

“I love your freckles,” he added. “I love that they're all over, even in your secret places.”

She moaned.

“And I love it when you moan for me.”

She moaned again.

He moved his hand lower, pausing over her flat stomach. “So smooth. Your skin is
so
smooth.”

“Except for my scar.”

“What scar?”

“Just above my belly button. You can't miss it. I had a port wine birthmark removed when I was ten years old.” She
glanced down, and then jerking her hands out of his grasp, sat up. “My God, the scar is missing. That's incredible.”

He shrugged and reached for her again.

She ignored his open arms and stood, moving closer to the lantern, examining her stomach for the missing scar, then studying her right knee. She was momentarily unaware of her nudity, which he was enjoying immensely. “My knee surgery scar is missing, too. I tore up the cartilage in a skydiving jump five years ago and decided to have the shredded cartilage removed by laser surgery.”

“Hmmm. That's odd,” Rafe said, but his smoldering eyes said he had something else on his mind. “I mean, it's odd that we would retain our tattoos, but not other body scars.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her. “C'mere and let me check out your other bodily anomalies.”

She laughed. “I'll give you anamolies.” Then she thought of something. “Maybe it has something to do with scientific anachronisms.”

“Say that again.”

“You know, it was possible to have tattoos in the nineteenth century, but cosmetic operations didn't come into vogue until World War I. And a swollen knee joint wouldn't have been cause for surgery. So, we only carried back with us those medical marvels that were possible in this time.”

She moved back toward the bed. “Don't you have any scars, Rafe? Didn't you ever have any surgery?”

“Well, actually . . .” he said, folding his arms behind his head. He was really, really enjoying the play of light and shadow on Helen's sexy buns and magnificent breasts. “The only surgery I've ever had, if you could call it that, was the vasecto—”

The blood drained from his head as he bolted to his feet, rushing over to the lantern. Even before he looked, he knew what he would find.
No vasectomy scar
.

“No!” he exclaimed, then turned to her hopefully. “Please tell me you have an IUD or birth-control implant.”

She shook her head slowly, apparently not understanding his dilemma.

Damn! He felt all his hopes for this night, in fact the remainder of this time-travel adventure, go up in smoke.

“What?” she asked, looking pointedly away from his genitals.

“My vasectomy scar is gone.”

Helen stared at Rafe, trying to understand the horror in his voice.

“And I only have three damn condoms in my wallet.”

“Well, why is that such a big deal?”

“Why is that such a big deal? Why is that such a big deal?” He mimicked, moving away from her, pressing his palms against the wall. “Because that means we can't make love, that's why. And believe me, babe, to me that is a
very . . . big . . . deal.”