Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (24 page)

Seething like a firestorm, he stalked away from his boss, the festive paper lanterns, the sparkling champagne, and the tinkling laughter. His mood was as dark as the path that kept twisting somewhere into the night. He had no real memory of jewel-colored evening gowns, scattering before him, or black swallowtails, stepping hastily out of his way. He'd even forgotten Poppy—probably because he'd turned a deaf ear to the sound of spiky little heels trying to keep pace.

"Ow! For heaven's sake, Cass, stop! I-I think I've twisted my ankle."

He halted, his chest heaving, his mind spinning with shadows and shades. He'd gone so deep into his own, personal darkness, that for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was.

He forced his vision to focus on the green-eyed redhead, whose freckled face bobbed near his shoulder.

"Help me," Poppy whimpered.

He scowled, not liking how that single phrase could exhume nobility from the dark side of his soul. Apparently, his demons couldn't stave off an attack of conscience where a damsel-in-distress was concerned.

Reaching unceremoniously for Poppy's waist, he swung her around and propped her spine against a tree.

"Y-you're so strong," she gasped.

He grunted. He could be described as a lot of things. But strong? After he'd let Sadie under his skin again?

He started to turn away.

As if on cue, Poppy teetered and flailed, throwing her arms around his neck. "Don't leave me!"

He scowled.

Cass knew women. Most of the time, he liked them—especially redheads. What he didn't like was being played for a fool. Clearly, that's what Poppy was trying to do with all the flailing and the limping.

He glared a warning into the misty green eyes of his boss's wife. But Poppy didn't wise up and take the hint. He wondered if that made her fair game. Panting, trembling, she looked like a wild doe caught in his sights. Her breasts reeked of violets as they heaved, grazing his chest. Her lips trembled open, moist, plump and ripe. Musky heat rolled off her hips.

The predator inside him smelled sex.

"T-Thank you. I'm so grateful you caught me," she murmured. "You're always so gallant and kind. Such a good friend. And you need a good friend, too, don't you? To take away your pain... "

She stroked his chest. The fruity scent of champagne lingered on her breath. His nostrils flared. Her eyelashes fanned lower.

"Let me be that friend, Cass..." Barely audible, the words hovered between them, more invitation than plea.

He was tempted.

The part of him that wanted to punish Sadie for her treachery was darkly, dangerously tempted. Steamy little waves of femininity brazed the buttons of his crotch. The brass grew warmer. Tighter.

Poppy swayed, swoonlike, and their chests collided in earnest.

Oh, he could have had his boss's wife, all right. She'd been making that evident for days: her coy touches. Her kittenish mews. Her ridiculous eyelash-flapping. She thought herself so worldly; she lorded her sophistication over women who weren't as privileged to be a senator's wife. But in bedroom matters, Poppy was clearly a schoolgirl.

Cass decided a crude dose of reality was needed to put an end to Poppy's infatuation.

"You need to mount a horse, Mrs. Westerfield?"

She shrank back at his clipped tone. "I-I'm not sure... "

"Then maybe you should think on it a spell."

Confusion vied with the indignation on her face. Apparently, she couldn't decide if he'd meant "horse" in the conventional sense.

"Are you
angry
with me?"

Her bottom lip quivered, and a spark of humanity bloomed in his chest. It reminded him his quarrel wasn't with Poppy. Sadie was the redhead he wanted to punish.

"No," he said gruffly, tugging off his bandanna and shoving it into her hand. "Wipe your eyes. The second half of the program will start soon."

She dabbed her tears as instructed, but she refused to put a respectable distance between their loins.

"My poor, sweet Cass," she crooned. "Always so thoughtful. Always so sensitive to my needs. But you're hurting too, aren't you? First the news about Tito. Then the proof that faithless woman spurned you."

Cass reined in his demons. Poppy was too naïve to know how he spared her. A conventional, missionary romp wouldn't have satisfied a man of his appetites. In truth, he'd already grown bored with Poppy's adolescent wiles and tentative groping. Baron was the man who needed to be instructing his bride in the art of pleasure-giving.

"Let me help you, Cass." She sidled closer, dropping a fluttery hand to his thigh. "Let me take away your pain."

He caught her wrist in an uncompromising fist. "I have a better idea. I'll take you back to your husband."

She blinked. She looked like an owl caught in the light of a hunter's lantern. "But you like me. I can see the proof in your pants."

"I like a lot of women," he said harshly.

"But we could make such beautiful babies together!"

"No doubt Senator Westerfield will be thrilled to know you're feeling affectionate for a change."

Her cheeks mottled. "How dare you!"

"Blame it on my upbringing, ma'am. You're a fine lady, and I'm... well, just a trashy kind of horse."

At last, his strategy worked. She recoiled in outrage, her chest heaving, her fists clenched.

"Insufferable baboon! You'll regret your conceit! Someday, you'll rue the way you mocked me. And on that day, your guns will be cold company!"

Shoving past him with surprising strength, she marched into the night on spiky little heels that didn't wobble or limp.

Well, lookie there. The lady's ankle made a miraculous recovery.

Cass snorted to have his suspicions confirmed.

Pushing Poppy from his mind, he headed in the opposite direction, away from the lights and the milling crowd. He had a score to settle with the Devil's Red-haired Daughter. He figured the best way to do that was to surprise the hellcat in her lair.

* * *

The musicians were filing from their chairs for intermission. Sadie stood at the top of the stage steps. Like a queen, she cuddled Rex's roses and daintily offered her hand to her other admirers.

She hoped all this posturing made her appear in her glory after her "triumphant love song," as the stagehands were crowing about it. God knew, she didn't feel triumphant. When she'd blown a kiss to Rex, accusation had rolled off Cass in waves. She'd cringed, her insides shriveling before the blast of heat in Lucifire's glare.

Throughout her performance, Rex had staunchly played the doting beau. He'd stood in the aisle, just beyond the orchestra's seats, so every gossip in the crowd could watch their ruse. Although Wilma had orchestrated tonight's charade, Rex had improvised. He'd surprised Sadie by throwing that big, flashy bouquet of roses. Who would have guessed Rex possessed a theatrical bone in his body?

Now he stood watching her possessively, his arms crossed over his crisp white vest and linen shirt. He looked every inch the dashing Alpha Wolf, with his slicked back hair, immaculate swallowtails, and gleaming Justin boots. (Even Wilma hadn't been able to coax Rex into wearing opera pumps.) At the appropriate moment, one of Rex's campaign staff was supposed to appear with an urgent message to lure him away, leaving Sadie an unguarded little lamb, ripe for Baron to slaughter, so to speak.

Apparently, that moment was now. A plump clerk waddled over to his boss. Rex made a credible show of looking grave and bowing his head toward the shorter man. The campaign manager gestured urgently—
melodramatically
might have been a better description. Rex tossed her a look of disappointment that would have been flattering if he hadn't been acting out a role. Then he turned, and his commanding presence parted the mob of sycophants as cleanly as Moses had parted the Red Sea.

Baron continued to ogle her, but his expression was openly calculating. Sadie tried to be glad Wilma's plan was working. She forced herself to ramp up her flirtations. She was
so close
to luring the weasel from his lair! But pretending was hard—damned hard—when she had to lavish loins-stirring smiles on balding, pot-bellied admirers with tobacco-stained teeth. The only man whom she could have possibly wanted in that crowd had stalked out of the garden with his boss's wife on his arm.

"Outta the way," growled a male with a rough, Kentucky accent.

A roly-poly ripple of silver—equipped with flashing fangs—bounded up the stairs, causing her suitors to stumble backwards and mutter oaths. However, none of her erstwhile beaux dared to openly challenge the double threat of a 50-pound raccoon and the Colt .45 that was strapped under Collie's buckskin coat. The older men scattered to a resentful distance.

Cass's rangy sidekick halted two steps below her, a tactic that still allowed the crown of the 17-year-old's Stetson to tower over her by an inch. Sadie found herself staring into a sun-blackened face and flint-colored eyes, which were uncommonly hard for a youth. She imagined she was staring into iced steel.

Finally, Collie's lips interrupted their sneer long enough to speak.

"Baron wants to meet for a screw. Name your terms."

Sadie winced. In her whoring days, she'd been accustomed to uncouth propositions from drunken cowboys, buffalo hunters, and wolfers. But for some reason, Collie's lack of sentimentality made her stomach clench.

And then she understood why. Hatred burned in the black centers of the boy's eyes.

"Baron?" she repeated hoarsely. Her mouth had gone dryer than Death Valley. "Are you referring to Senator Westerfield?"

Somehow, she forced the lump from her throat. She pasted on a coy smile.

Collie snorted at her attempt at flirtation. "Save it, woman. I'm not Cass. That means I'm not gonna put up with your games. You in or out?"

Sadie drew a shuddering breath. She didn't dare glance at Baron. She suspected Collie was deliberately sabotaging the senator's proposition.

"You're loyal to Cass." She kept her voice low and even. "He's lucky to have a friend like you. You're not the kind to give trust easily."

"Don't change the subject." The boy's voice had a razor's edge. "This ain't about me."

"If you're
really
Cass's friend," she insisted in that same urgent undertone, "you'll get him the hell out of Baron's organization. Before it's too late. Before Cass gets himself
hanged."

Collie's eyes narrowed. At the age of 17, he already had a gunfighter's stare. The proof was unnerving. "What's it to you?"

"Everything."

She drew herself up to her full five-foot-eight-inches. She didn't give a damn what Collie thought of her, as long as he looked out for Cass.

"Now go tell your boss a lady doesn't like to be ignored," she said with as much temerity as she could muster. Tonight, at least, she had to behave every bit like the whore Collie thought her to be. "Baron had his chance with me. So he'll have to do a lot better than a slap and a tickle if he wants me to spy for him on Rexford Sterne."

Chapter 12

Later that night, Cass stood in the woods across from Wilma's back fence, dodging moonlight and resisting the urge to light a smoke. Shadow sheathed him from his Stetson to his boots. He'd stuffed his pale gold hair beneath his hat; he'd readied his bandanna for the mission to come; and he'd discarded all reflective silver, including his buckle and spurs.

He was planning to ransack another bedroom.

When Collie had caught up with him, minutes before Act II, Cass ordered the boy to babysit Baron for the rest of the evening. But Collie hadn't been fooled by Cass's excuse—namely, that he had a sniper to catch. The boy guessed Cass was planning a showdown with Sadie.

That's when Collie surprised him by blurting out the news: "Sadie said if I was really your friend, I'd get you out of Baron's organization before you get yourself hanged."

"Oh, did she now?"

"Why would she say a thing like that?"

"Beats me."

"Don't you think you should find out?"
Collie demanded, looking troubled.

"Don't you think you should mind your own business?"

"Hell, you're such a pain in my ass, you
are
my business," Collie retorted. "'Sides. I'm tired of getting you off of murder charges, Snake Bait."