Silver Nights With You (Love in the Sierras Book 1) (28 page)

The flare in his shoulder smarted until he rotated his arm back and forth while massaging the spot. With the bullet wound still fresh, he should be grateful the pain wasn't worse, but it was still damn inconvenient. He hadn't needed his cane in a week and was finally starting to feel his young age again, which was good. Every scrap of energy would be needed to deal with the woman inside the shop.

Val took a deep breath, inhaling a lungful of dust and horse hair from the busy road at his back, and looked through the windows of the dress shop. Through his own reflection, he made out bolts of fabric folded on tabletops, and he saw the shadowy figure of a woman hurrying to and fro behind the countertop. He hoped the store was empty of customers because he wanted privacy for this confrontation. No matter what it took he was going to get the truth out of her, and if he knew one thing, it was that she was full of spit and fire. He braced himself and strode through the door.

"Monsieur Kelly," she greeted with a wide smile. The shrillness of her voice made him wince. "To what do I owe zee honor?"

She stayed behind the counter, so he went and leaned his elbow on top of it as he faced her. "Well, I thought I'd stop by and ask you who the hell you really are."

Her smile faltered for the briefest moment, and she blinked rapidly. "
Perdon?
"

He tilted his head to level his eyes at her. "Collette. I have spoken French fluently for ten years, and I've got to tell you that yours is the worst accent I've ever heard, not to mention the God-awful impersonation of French-accented English you do.” He cringed. “Clearly, you're not a Frenchwoman. So, that begs two questions. Who are you and why are you pretending to be someone else?"

Her features remained unchanged and unreadable. After a long pause, during which he prepared himself for her ire, she rounded the counter to stand before him and squared her shoulders.

"Monsieur Kelly," her chin raised another inch. "I am not zee kind of voman to allow a man to insult her. You are no longer velcome in my shop. Please leave. Ven you can remember 'ow to be a gentleman, you may return, but not a moment sooner."

Standing so close, he admired the smooth paleness of her skin, not a blemish or a freckle to mar the perfection of her face. Her nose was the only feature that fit the role she was playing. It was slim and slightly pointed; the perfect nose to stare down at somebody. The violet of her eyes marbled with deep blue flecks to create a striking, unique color he'd never seen before, and they seemed the size of silver coins, large enough to draw anyone's attention. Her lips were a natural deep rose color, and their fullness puckered into a frown as she stared at him.

He grimaced when his eyes went to her throat and the gauzy black lace that fastened her hat to her head. A giant bow was tied beneath her chin, throwing her entire look off kilter. It was too frilly for the frostiness in her countenance. He flicked the edge of the lace with the tip of his finger as he spoke.

"What's with the stupid hats all the time? You know you're indoors, right?"

She produced her high-pitched laughter as she rolled her eyes. "I vould not expect a filthy miner to know anything about zee fashion." Her eyes scanned his clothing as she sneered. "Nothing at all. Now, are you going to leave like I asked?"

"Afraid not," he said as he stood to his full height, staring down his nose at her in return. "Not until you tell me the truth."

"What makes you think I am lying?"

"I've got a funny feeling in my gut."

"Zen, perhaps you should eat something.” She stamped her foot and thrust a pointed finger toward the door. “Out of my shop. Now!"

He closed the distance between them with a step and lowered his voice to dispel the casual mood he'd entered with. "I don't like being lied to."

"Ha!" she barked, unafraid. "Says zee man whose best friend was a murderer and a robber who almost keeled his own brother! If zat is any indication of your powers of perception, perhaps you should be rethinking vut you are doing in my shop."

Val's jaw clenched at the reminder of his friend, David, whose recent death still weighed on his heart and mind. He stalked toward her, causing her to retreat back behind the counter.

"Enough with the games," he said. "I'm not leaving until I get what I came for."

Her eyes narrowed into determined slits. "Yes you are, Monsieur."

In a move that Val predicted, Collette's hand whipped up from behind the counter, brandishing the same six-shooter she'd used to kill his friend. As she swung the barrels to face him, his hand came up and batted it back down to the counter, pinning both it and her hand to the wood. He scowled impatiently at her. They both knew she wasn't going to shoot him. He heard the scrape of feet coming from the hall to his right and turned to find Helene standing in the doorway, her mouth agape as she took in the scene.

"Stay zere," Collette soothed. "It's all right. Everything is fine."

Val looked from the woman to the wide eyes of her kid sister, and his brow furrowed as a thought came to him.

"Why do you not speak to Helene in French?"

The hard corners of her eyes relaxed in worry. "Vut are you talking about?"

"She is your sister, is she not?"

"Of course she is!"

"Then, why do you speak to her in English instead of French? Could it be, perhaps, that neither of you are from France and the poor dear doesn't understand a word of the language?"

She huffed, but he could see the light of fear dawning in her eyes. He was getting closer.

"I speak English to help her learn zee language quicker. We may be from France but we live in America now. She must become comfortable with zee language."

"Hmm…" He turned his gaze to Helene. "
Cherie, peux-tu me comprende?
"

Each second that Helene did not respond was a beat of triumph in his ears, but even when the little girl finally nodded and Collette's shoulders visibly relaxed, he was not deterred. He'd asked too simple a question. Being around Collette's fractured French would have taught her that phrase.

"Satisfied, Monsieur?" Collette asked with a smug smile.

"Not quite."

He held out his arm to Helene and beckoned her toward him with a crook of his finger. While he gestured, he spoke to her in French, saying, "If you can understand me, ignore what I'm telling you to do with my hand and stay right where you are."

Helene's eyes darted to Collette's but she remained still, aware that Val was watching her. After a short pause, Helene began walking toward him. He was right. She didn't understand French. He grinned as he stood to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest. Before he could crow, Collette moved to stand between him and Helene. The look on her face was enough to widen his grin, and when she spoke, the tone of her voice was deep and breathy, a soulful opposition to the noise she'd been pretending. It was smooth, sensual, and completely free of any foreign accent. She was American.

"Leave her out of this," she said, and there was an unmistakable growl of warning in it.

Despite the confirmation of his suspicions, he shut his eyes at the way the depth of her new voice rolled over him.

"Now, that's a pretty purr," he told her, but she was unmoved by his flattery. Her gaze was fierce, her stance solid, challenging and unforgiving.

"What do you want?" she demanded. "And you can wipe that goddamn smirk off your face."