Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (3 page)

The auburn head of the mermaid queen split in two, replaced by a pile of upswept, flame-colored curls. A face that rivaled Aphrodite's hovered in that makeshift window for a moment, a bare fraction of time, but every nerve in Cass's body fired with recognition as a pair of tawny tiger eyes locked with his.

He sucked in his breath.

The face vanished.

Damn.

Cass's instincts had never failed him, and right now, they were screaming loud enough to rouse his pecker.

The devil's own daughter smoldered behind that curtain, and the firebrand's name wasn't Cassandra McGuire.

Chapter 2

Sadie Michelson cursed under her breath as she dared to peer a second time through the stage curtains. Unfortunately, her eyes hadn't deceived her. The heartthrob with the sun-bronzed skin, sapphire eyes, and sinfully tight, leather chaps was none other than her cocky ex-lover.

Eros in Spurs.
That's what William Cassidy was called in polite society, but Dodge City bawds had dubbed him the Rebel Rutter after he'd accepted a bet to seduce a bride on her wedding day. And succeeded.

There are 26 brothels on The Line, Cass. Why did you have to pick mine?

Sadie fumed, and not just because the inveterate skirt-chaser had waved Randie to his side. In less than two minutes, Sadie was supposed to sashay onto the stage, wearing a shameless, black satin gown that fit too tightly to allow a corset.

She was supposed to wiggle her hips, bounce her breasts, and tease the all-male crowd into a lusty lather during the first public performance of her
Ballad of Lucifire
.

She was
supposed
to use her seductive arts to cozy up to a corrupt state senator and entice him to spill his guts.

But how could she concentrate on making James "Baron" Westerfield confide all his loathsome secrets, when the real Lucifire lounged against the bar, sizzling hotter than the devil's pitchfork?

Damn you, Cass, you're going to blow my cover!

Panic threatened to drag her into its undertow. Four years ago, when Cass had ridden out of her life, she'd secretly died inside. Desperate to forget the soul-searing heat of his kisses, she'd clawed her way from the ashes, like a stubborn phoenix. She'd determined to prove to Allan Pinkerton that a cowtown whore had more useful talents than sex. Fighting her way into the Master Spy's secret circle of men, she'd gained credibility for her marksmanship, resourcefulness, and wit. She'd accomplished her directives in record time and more impressively, without bloodshed.

Now she faced the highest-profile assignment in her Pinkerton career. The whole agency was scrutinizing her. If she could pin a murder charge on Baron, after all her illustrious male colleagues had failed, she would finally gain the satisfaction of silencing her critics.

Determined to achieve that happy end, Sadie latched onto the first solution that presented itself: a busty blonde, who was hurrying past the curtains in her warrior-mermaid costume.

"You're on, Randie."

The older woman jerked her arm free. The glitter of frosty, green eyes challenged Sadie's right to order her around.

"Dietrich told me to change my costume for the Can-Can."

"Laryngitis," Sadie improvised in her hoarsest whisper. She patted her throat for emphasis. "Out of the blue."

"Not my problem."

Bristling, Sadie dug her fists into her hips. Miranda Reynolds had been a thorn in her side since Day One of this mission—not that Randie didn't have good reason. Only that morning, Pinkerton Agent Mace Ryker (alias, Karl Dietrich) had ordered the outraged soprano to give up the best bedroom in the brothel for his "new star performer."

"With an attitude like yours," Sadie said, "no wonder Dietrich busted you back to hoofer."

Well,
that
opened the proverbial can of worms.

"Listen here, you braying bitch! I can sing
circles
around your rusted pipes—"

Sadie grimaced as the 30-year-old diva aired her lungs. Only 20 feet of cigar smoke and a flimsy strip of velvet separated her from Cass. The whole reason she'd invented this laryngitis charade was so he wouldn't hear her
.

"Yes, yes," she hissed at Randie. God knew, she'd been cursed by whores before. None of the women in the chorus liked her. Sadie didn't really care, except she had a job to do, and snooping for intelligence in a whorehouse would have been a whole lot easier if the bawds had accepted her.

Six days ago, Mace had snuffed out that pipedream after he'd "acquired the Siren in a wager" (Pinkertons had a way of getting what they wanted—fast.) Mace had cancelled Randie's solo performances to make room on the program for Sadie, who'd needed an entrée into Baron's close-knit circle of high-rollers.

"Got it," Sadie rasped. "I'm slime, and you're a doughty diva who can twist into a pretzel, naked. You want the solo or not?"

The spite in Randie's glare transmuted into a far more dangerous weapon:
cunning.

"Your voice didn't sound so scratchy that time."

Sadie could have kicked herself.

"This sudden throat affliction wouldn't have something to do with Cass, would it...
Cassie?"

Sadie groaned inwardly.
Why, oh why, did I choose that alias?
She spread her hands in a questioning gesture.

"Oh please." Randie snorted. "I had a chat with Mr. Long-Drink-of-Handsome by the bar. He told me you two go way back. He wanted directions to your dressing room. Frankly, I don't know what your problem is, trading a red-blooded charmer like Cass for a humorless prick like Dietrich. Stupid fever, maybe?"

Sadie reined in her notorious, Irish temper. She was sorely tempted to point out that Cass hadn't earned his nickname because his talent was fidelity. However, laryngitis was supposed to be curbing her ability to mouth fight.

"Fine," she snapped. "I'll ask Mimi to sing my solo."

Randie blanched. "You can't," she protested, no doubt envisioning the triumph of her ambitious, 18-year-old understudy. "There isn't time. And besides, the show must go on."

How convenient.

"D-flat isn't exactly my key," Randie continued loftily, as if altos were a stink one scraped off one's shoe. "But I heard you caterwaul
Lucifire
enough times in rehearsal to commit the hokum to memory. Of course, by rights, a headliner should have a change of costume—"

Sadie yanked off her black boa and draped it over Randie's shoulders. "Here," she whispered, pushing the shorter woman toward the curtain. "The show must go on, remember?"

A smug smile curved Randie's lips. "Very well. I'll sing your stupid cowboy song. But you'll owe me. You'll owe me
big."

Attesting to the soprano's popularity, ear-piercing whoops and whistles accompanied the thunderous applause that greeted her unexpected return to the stage. Randie sauntered across the gleaming oakwood, all the way to front-and-center like a queen ascending her throne. A provocative little smile teased her lips as she turned her head from side to side, acknowledging the toasts of her admirers.

Taking the opportunity to peer over the soprano's shoulder, Sadie scanned the sun-blackened faces at the bar.

Uh-oh. Where's Cass?

Hastily, Sadie checked the gamblers, gathered around the faro, roulette, and craps tables. She couldn't see her ex-lover anywhere. Biting her lip, she dropped the curtain, allowing inky-blue shades to crowd around her.

Damn.
Cass had already headed for her dressing room. That meant she'd have to retreat to her bedroom to retrieve a new costume—or better yet, a gun. Under a flood of stage lights, in skin-tight fishtails, she hadn't been able to disguise the bulge of a pistol on her thigh.

Sadie barely heard the strings bow the opening chords of
Lucifire.
Her mind was in a whirl as she weaved through hulking shadows cast by theatrical backdrops, shaped like pirate ships, Poseidon, and whales. It occurred to her she should warn Mace about the Cass problem before she reported to Baron's poker game.

Her feet faltered.

Suddenly, she was distracted by a tendril of tobacco smoke. She tensed. She would have recognized that signature blend of cinnamon and cloves anywhere. However, spying Cass amidst the prop clutter in the stage's dimly lit wing was going to be another matter entirely.

"The years have been good to you, Sadie."

Her heart skipped as that seductive, Texas baritone caressed her name. He was closer than she'd imagined, invisible except for his cigarette. The tip brightened, kindling orange flames in the sapphire mirrors of his eyes. When he exhaled, silvery, aromatic fingers reached out to her, beckoned her, enticing her as only the promise of secrets and sin can.

"You sound surprised," she rallied, reining in her galloping emotions. "What were you expecting? Wrinkles and warts?"

"And a pointy, black hat."

"Dog."

A flash of white hinted at his grin—a dimpled, darling grin that still had the power to sneak into her dreams.

He leaned a shoulder against the frame of a velvet swing. His new pose silhouetted him against the rising moon, peeking through the catwalk's window. Lunar light and star shine shimmered around his sun-streaked hair. Such a halo was incongruous for a man who looked like the devil in his thigh-hugging leather and denim.

As if on cue, Randie's voice soared like larksong through the house:

"Lucifire they called him,

His draw was next to none;

His smile was like an angel's;

The devil ruled his gun.

"The purdy gals in Texas

Would sigh for him and swoon,

When Lucifire went sparking—

Sneaked thru windows to go sparking—

Broke fair hearts when he went sparking—

Each night beneath the moon."

Cass chuckled, exhaling another stream of smoke. "Lucifire, huh? So that's how you're immortalizing my legend these days."

She cringed inside. She'd been hoping the scapegrace had forgotten how she'd once confessed, in the throes of sentimental lunacy, that she wrote all her love songs about him.

"You think
I
wrote those lyrics?"

"Wrote them and intended to sing them—until you spied me in the crowd."

"Nonsense."

"'Laryngitis,'" he mocked, pitching his voice higher and imitating the way she'd patted her throat. "'Out of the blue.'"

She kept smiling—barely. She remembered the other reason why Cass was so dangerous: he'd known her since puberty. They'd both come a long way since his thirteenth birthday, when he'd been forced to flee east Texas, charged with gunning down the Ku Klux Klansman, who'd murdered his older cousin. Still, Cass knew enough of her tricks and weaknesses to jeopardize her mission. Maybe even her life.

He cocked his head. Randie was singing again:

"The Devil in the darkness,

His kisses burned like flame;

Lawmen vowed to catch him;

Fathers cursed his name."

Sadie's face heated like a firecracker.

Cass chuckled, tapping ash from his cigarette. "Not that I'm criticizing, but you might add a verse about how Mothers adore me. And how little kiddies want to grow up to be like me. You know, to keep the record straight."

"Sure. And then I could add how pigs fly and buffaloes have wings."

"Naw." He winked with roguish charm. "No one would believe that part."

Randie launched into the next verse:

"Wanted by the Rangers,

And fleeing Lady Love,

Lucifire nursed a secret–

An aching, soul-deep secret–

Young Lucifire hid his secret—

His heart yearned for a dove.

"Her eyes were hot as cinders,

Her heart burned like a brand,

The outlaw's red-haired siren,

Would never wed one man.