Renegade Bride (36 page)

"All night, Proctor? Are you sure she said all night?"

"Sweetcakes, with the color I just struck, I could keep you all week."

The woman squealed and the pair disappeared into the shadows. Creed stepped around the sawdust-filled brass spittoon that decorated the muddy stoop and entered the brothel.

The parlor was crowded with whores—Chinese, American, French—lounging beside men on velvet covered settees and ottomans. Two muscle-bound bouncers stood with arms folded across their chests, eyeing Creed. In the back corner, the gray-haired Negro piano-player, Oleander Smith, looked up and tipped his chin up in acknowledgement. Creed nodded back.

An S-shaped tete-a-tete, fringed extravagantly in the same deep red as the rest of the upholstery, held two couples getting better acquainted. Spittoons punctuated each corner and the Persian carpet Desiree had shipped from New York City covered the center of the floor.

"Wipe yore feet, handsome."

The husky sound of a woman's voice came from behind him. He turned to see Lula Mae, a voluptuous brunette whose once-pretty face had been scarred by smallpox. Her costume never changed: black net stockings, red silk bloomers, and a suggestively-laced corset over her filmy chemise. Lula Mae smiled seductively while he wiped his feet on the dog-shaped boot scraper by the door.

"It's been a long time, honey," she crooned, her red lips set in a fetching pout. She took a step in his direction. "Where've you been?"

"Around." Her heavy perfume wafted around her like an evening mist. It wasn't unpleasant exactly, but he preferred something more subtle. Unbidden, Mariah's sweet scent filled his memory and his body tightened all over.

"I don't suppose I can talk you into tryin' me out tonight instead of Miss Desiree," she murmured. Spreading her arms wide she twirled slowly for his inspection. "It just so happens my dance card is wide open." Laughing, she draped herself across his side and pressed her breasts up against his chest.

He swayed slightly with her assault, feeling the effects of his drinking, then extricated himself. "Not tonight,
cherie
."

"Ooh," she crooned with a wink, "I lo-oove it when you talk French to me, Devereaux."

He couldn't help but smile at her persistence. "Is Miss Desiree... entertaining, Lula Mae?"

With a frown, she plucked at the laces on her satin-edged corset. "Well-l-l..."

"Depends on 'oo ees asking,
blonde
," came a heavily accented voice behind him.

Creed turned to find Desiree smiling genteelly at him from beside a pair of heavy velvet drapes. Dressed to the nines in her signature red silk gown, Desiree Lupone bore little resemblance to the whores she employed. Her apparel set her apart from the others as surely as her beauty did and he wondered for the hundredth time what a woman like her was doing in this kind of a life.

Though her piled-high hair was tinted a brassy red, her pale, freckled skin proved it had once been genuine. She wasn't much older than he—thirty-three or four at most—but the life had aged her, hardened what he imagined had once been soft and innocent.

Despite that, her makeup wasn't garish or overdone, nor was that of any of her girls. The kohl around her eyes was applied with a light hand, as was the lip tint that reddened her mouth. He supposed the class she lent to the place was one of the reasons why The Nightingale had grown into one of the most popular brothels in the Gulch.

"Desiree." Creed stepped forward to take her outstretched hands. "You look beautiful... as always."

Her gaze raked and read him in the same instant. He'd known she would. He'd never been able to keep anything from her. "And you... mon ami," she returned, "you are too 'andsome for the world's good, as always."

She tossed a look at Lula Mae and continued in French. "Shall we... go somewhere more private?" Nodding toward the whore who was feigning indifference, she added, "You know what they say about little jugs having big ears? Little whores are worse."

He followed her, somewhat unsteadily, upstairs to her private bedroom, a place where he knew few men were ever allowed. The comfortable room, done in muted blues and greens with tasteful furnishings and a minimum of clutter, was in direct contrast to the rest of the house with its garish trims and colors. Her only concession was the intricate brass bed that was, by design, the focal point of the room.

He stared at it, for the first time uncertain why he'd come. He swayed indecisively, then took off his hat and hung it on the brass ball of the bedstead.

"It's been a long time, Creed," she continued in French. Desiree stopped in front of him and slid her hands inside his capote, spreading her fingers across the wall of his chest.

He allowed the touch, sucked it in the way a parched man would rain. He felt the room tilt, and with it went perception. The red-eye surged through his veins, heating his blood. Suddenly, it wasn't Desiree's brassy red hair he saw, but the burnished chestnut color of Mariah's; sable eyes turned whiskey-colored and guileless. His muscles felt aflame with his aching need and his heart thudded heavily against her fingertips.

Brushing the V of hair-dusted skin at his throat, she undid the sash that tied his capote. Sliding the garment off his shoulders, it landed in a heavy heap on the floor.

"You're cold,
mon chou
," she whispered against his skin. "But you don't need that coat to warm you."

Her touch sent passion through him, exploding in his blood like a brushfire. His body tightened as she pressed herself against him, purring like a hungry cat.

Without thought, Creed cupped her face with both his hands and pulled her mouth up to his. There was no gentleness in his kiss. It was a hard, volatile plunder—tongue, lips, teeth grinding together in a seeking, mindless need. It had been building in him all night and even smashing his fist into Erastus Field's face hadn't assuaged it. He wanted to show her, prove to her, beg her...

She tightened her arms around him, pulling him closer. Creed's breath came ragged and hot. With a moan, he slid one hand down her back to her derriere, forcing her hips against his and filling his other hand with her breast.

No, wait. Just wait a goddamn minute.

Pulling back a fraction, he gave himself a mental shake.

That's wrong. His sodden brain struggled with the situation. The breast in his hand was more voluptuous, the figure fuller, the lips not nearly soft enough. Realization struck him like a bucket of icy water.

Creed jerked back and took her wrists in his hands, pulling them away from him. His breath ground in his chest like the wheels of a runaway train. Desiree was staring at him, her open mouth still bruised by his kiss, a half-lidded expression of surprise and hurt in her eyes.

"Jesus." He cupped her face and dragged his thumb across her cheek. "I'm sorry, Desiree." He let her go and raked his fingers through his too-long hair. "I need a drink."

After a moment, Desiree sighed heavily and nodded. "What are you drinking?" She stepped toward the cluster of crystal decanters on her dresser. The stopper of the bottle rattled in its nest.

He was tempted to request cyanide, but he said, "Whiskey will do." He slumped heavily onto the comfortable tufted settee near the fireplace.

He let out a long breath that drew Desiree's glance from the decanter in her hand. She steadied the tremble in it and released a sigh of her own. She'd seen trouble on Creed Devereaux's face before. Often. Trouble followed him like a shadow.

Or, perhaps he went looking for it.

It didn't matter. Trouble was always what brought him to her. And she had decided long ago she'd take Creed Devereaux any way she could get him.

But tonight was different. He was different. The trouble in his eyes was not the kind she'd seen before. It was woman trouble. He hadn't been kissing her. She'd known it from the moment their lips touched. She'd been in the business too long not to recognize it, but not so long that the loss of a man like Creed Devereaux didn't hurt.

She handed him the cut-crystal glass and sat down opposite him in the velvet upholstered slipper chair. Sipping her bourbon, she endured the ache inside and waited for him to speak.

Creed swallowed the drink in one gulp and grimaced as it went down. He sat forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. His head hung between his arms. His temples throbbed, his chest ached, and his hand burned. But none of it mattered. When he spoke, he spoke in French. "I shouldn't have come here tonight, Desiree. I'm drunk."

"I've seen you drunk before."

"I'm very drunk."

"This I know, too,
cheri
." She sipped her bourbon, watching him carefully. "What happened to your hand?"

He glanced at his bloody knuckles and smiled. "It ran into an idiot's face."

Desiree's mouth curved upward. "You don't sound contrite, love."

"It felt good to hit something."

"Yes." She set her drink down on the marble-topped teakwood table and went for a clean cloth. Dipping the edge in the bourbon, she went to sit beside Creed. "Let me see."

He gave her his hand and she dabbed the cloth against the bloody cut. He winced, but kept his eyes trained on her beautiful white hands.

"So,
cheri
," she said, trailing a gentle finger down the side of his face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know. I don't even know why I'm here." He shrugged helplessly. "I had nowhere else to go."

Another woman might have been insulted by such a comment, but Desiree wasn't. She no longer whored for a living. Her girls did that for her. She'd become a successful madam first in Salt Lake, then in Virginia. Her relationships with men were absolutely her choice now and there were few who interested her.

Of those few, only Creed owned her heart. If, tomorrow, he asked her to marry him, she'd leave this life behind in a second. Lock, stock, and velvet cushion. But fantasy was never her strong suit, so she'd given the possibility little serious consideration. A man like Creed didn't come to a woman like her for a lifetime commitment. The most she could hope for was friendship, and that's what she offered him now.

Lifting her arms, she pulled the tortoiseshell pins from her hair, one by one. In a cascade of flame, her burnished tresses uncoiled to her waist. Creed's gaze followed every movement. She reached for the embossed silver hairbrush on the table behind the settee and handed it to him.

"Here. Perhaps we'll both think better if you brush my hair." When he hesitated, she asked, "You like it, no? It soothes you, no?"

One corner of his mouth curved in answer. Lifting her hair off her neck, his fingers brushed against her skin. She allowed the shiver his touch never failed to produce, and she inhaled deeply. The boar bristles sank into her hair at the crown and he drew the brush down in long, gentle strokes. She closed her eyes and sighed. The piano music from below drifted up through the floor.

"You have beautiful hair, Desiree. But you know that, don't you?"

"I've been told. Yet, I think... not as beautiful as hers."

The brush paused mid-stroke. "Hers?"

"There is a woman, no? Is that not what I see in your eyes? What I tasted just now in your kiss?"

The brush moved through her hair again. "Yes."

"And she troubles you,
cheri
?"

"Yes." She heard him sigh slowly as if relieved of a great burden.

She wound her fingers together in her lap, inhaling his nearness, the masculine scent of him she always found such a powerful aphrodisiac. "So, who is she?" The brush massaged her back as he drew it downward.

"She's... not mine. She belongs to Seth."

"Ahh... Seth." A sigh lifted her chest. "Tell me, does she still?"

"Still what?"

"Belong to Seth." Her eyes caught and held his. His bleak expression told her what she wanted to know. She turned around again. "So... you're in love with her,
ma beau
."

"It doesn't matter."

"Is that what you think?" Desiree laughed softly, tipping her head back languorously with the pressure of the brush. "It is the only thing that does matter,
cheri
."

He stroked the hair back away from her face, silent. From outside her door came the sounds of a couple fumbling with a doorknob down the hallway, laughing.

"Does it surprise you that a whore would speak of love?" she asked, ignoring the intrusion.

"I've never thought of you that way, Desiree."

"I know. But that's what I am," she replied without apology. "It hasn't always been so. I was once young and in love." She glanced up. "I can remember what it's like."

"Was it with your best friend's fiancé?" he asked bitterly, stroking unintentionally harder.

She stopped his hand with hers. "No. He was married."

Creed stared and she smiled. "Are you shocked?"

"Did you know?" he asked. "Did he tell you?"

With a shrug, she answered, "Of course. His marriage had been arranged—it was a matter of money. They had nothing in common, least of all love. They even lived separately, because together, they fought constantly. They had been married eight years when he met me. We fell madly in love and before I knew it, his child grew inside me."