Katherine O’Neal (2 page)

When it was her turn, she slid her ticket
across the counter and asked, “When is the next train for New
York?”

Suddenly, the crowd parted, and there he
was—Bat Masterson, pride of the Kansas frontier, standing in the
plush drawing room of the New York mansion.

It made an incongruous sight. The moneyed
elite of New York, in their sleek dinner jackets and jeweled gowns,
crowded around him like pups pawing over a bone. Saranda knew it
was a perilous situation, calling for stealth, subtlety, and quick
thinking to avert any trouble that might arise. But then, those
were qualities that came naturally to her. In truth, the danger
thrilled her as much as the challenge.

It wasn’t that she thought this most welcome
of guests would purposely give her away. But in that moment of
recognition, who could tell what else might slip from him? He was,
after all, the only person in the city who knew her real
identity.

He was as attractive as she remembered, in a
reckless, irrepressible sort of way. More appealing, perhaps, since
he’d aged a little and didn’t look like such a boy. Two years
younger than her twenty-five years, he still radiated the same Huck
Finn quality of deviltry that had made him a favorite on the
frontier. He had the same short mop of black hair parted on the
side, the thick but neatly trimmed mustache, the wide forehead and
lean cheeks. He was of medium height, slender, but with a body
toughened by the rigors of the frontier. Always fastidious about
his appearance, he dressed like his own peculiar version of a
dandy. But he’d toned down his image considerably, adopting
undertaker black instead of the bright colors and red Mexican sash
that had been staples in his wardrobe when she’d known him two
years before. He looked somewhat awkward amid the glitter of New
York society—not like a man who could single-handedly back down a
saloonful of drunken cowboys on a Saturday night.

He still carried his gold-headed cane, she
noted. Originally, he’d used it to aid him in walking after he’d
been shot in a saloon fight over a girl; by now it was a symbol as
much as anything. No one could brandish a cane like Bat. But she’d
forgotten that intense, cool, sighting-down-the-barrel gleam of his
light grey eyes. It was a look that could make a woman tremble or,
clashing like steel, stop the hearts of the roughest men.

He glanced at her with the impartial
appreciation he’d bestow on any beautiful woman. It was clear, for
a moment, that he didn’t recognize her. Then his face changed. A
look of wonder softened his features, and he took an impulsive step
toward her.

“Sarand—”

“Sarah,” she corrected him in the perfect
mid-Atlantic American accent that wasn’t her own. “Sarah Voors, Mr.
Masterson,” she repeated, willing him to take the hint.

He studied her for a moment, not entirely
sure. She’d always been a chameleon, rarely looking the same twice,
unless she made an effort to do so. He’d never known such a
changeable woman. She had the remarkable ability to become anything
she wanted. She could stand out as the most stunning woman at a
gathering, or she could just as easily disappear into a crowd. The
shade of her skin seemed to change with her clothing. Her eyes
appeared sometimes blue, sometimes grey, sometimes even green,
depending on the effect she was after. Her only impediment to her
gift for invisibility was her silvery-blond hair—so shimmeringly
unique in shade that she was forced to cover it with wigs to
disguise her identity. She had one of those faces he wanted to
watch all the time, changing like a mountain whose beauty shifted
with the light and whose colors varied as often as Saranda’s
eyes.

Now, she was dressed in gold, looking like
something the conquistadors would fight and die for. Her features
looked altered, her face wider than he remembered—no doubt the
result of her mastery with a pot of rouge. But her hair was her
own, the color of moonlight, swept up in sophisticated curls, with
soft ringlets gracing the creamy satin of her bare shoulders. Her
eyes appeared a deep, mystical blue, alight with hidden amusement,
like a secret password for him alone, watching him carefully to see
what he might do. Her lips, always so enticing, were parted in a
“let’s-see-if-you-get-it” smile, so that her white teeth gleamed at
him in playful challenge. She looked every inch the aristocrat she
was no doubt pretending to be. Yet she couldn’t—or hadn’t bothered
to—hide the bewitching sensual femininity that belied and softened
the inner fire and determination. She gave the impression of lush,
willingly offered flesh while at the same time holding herself
aloof. Like a present a man might open when he’d proved himself
worthy of the deed.

It was all he could do to keep from sweeping
her into his arms and giving a good old western yelp for joy. But
her manner—and the gauntlet she was clearly throwing him—held him
at bay.

“Haven’t we met before?” he prodded, testing
her to see if she’d waver in front of an audience.

She didn’t skip a beat. “I think not, Mr.
Masterson. I would have remembered a man of your—reputation.”

Her lips, forming the word, made it sound as
if his reputation were born of adventures she’d never dream of
sharing. But he knew her well, and he caught the subtle message.
Saranda understood Bat’s renown as an invincible lawman was as much
a con as her pretending to be the estimable Sarah Voors. But he did
have another, more rightly deserved, reputation—one of remaining
loyal to, and protecting, his friends no matter which side of the
law they were embracing at the time. With the soft, dewy glimmer of
her eyes, she told him she was counting on him to come through for
her now.

“But tell me, Mr. Masterson,” she continued
in a playful voice, “how do you like New York?”

“I like it fine, Miss—Moors, was it?” He
raised a brow, throwing back a challenge in return.

“Voors, Mr. Masterson,” she corrected with a
knowing smile. “It’s a Dutch name.”

“Well... how delightful—and unexpected.”

“Is it? I should think a man of your vast
experience would have learned to
expect
the unexpected.”

“Being invited to New York out of the blue
was rightly unexpected. I always wanted to come to the big city—” A
thought struck him, and he peered at her more closely. “Say, you
wouldn’t have anything to do with me being here, would you?”

All around them, people were watching. She
was the most beautiful woman at the party, he the celebrated guest.
Conscious of this, she flashed him a femininely timorous smile that
was quite unlike her, and blushed in the charming, self-deprecating
way ladies in fashionable New York society did when pretending not
to flirt with handsome gentlemen. “Me, Mr. Masterson? Don’t be
silly. What influence would I have over the
Globe-Journal
?”

Which meant she’d arranged the whole thing.
It was an astonishing revelation. The
New York Globe-Journal
was one of the most influential newspapers in the country. When
they’d wired him in Dodge City, offering him a week’s visit to New
York—all expenses paid, with a great deal of money thrown in as
incentive—in exchange for an exclusive interview about his
adventures on the frontier, he’d been understandably flattered. And
just the slightest bit confused. His reputation didn’t extend much
beyond Kansas and parts of Texas and Colorado. He couldn’t figure
out how they’d known to ask for him. But, adventurer that he was,
he wasn’t about to turn down such an enticing offer.

Now it all made sense. At least he knew why
they’d sent for him. But if his pride was ruffled by the truth,
seeing Saranda again was more than enough compensation.

But how had she arranged for him to come? And
to what purpose?

“Where I come from,” he drawled, wondering if
it was possible to pierce her veneer, “you can’t always tell who
has influence and who doesn’t. Folks change names like they change
their clothes. Fact is, in Dodge, folks change their identities so
often, it’s assumed they’re giving false names. It’s got so we
don’t even ask anyone what their name is. We just say, ‘What do you
want to be called?’ ”

“Indeed? Dodge must be a dangerous place,
with so many desperadoes on the prowl.”

“Dangerous, ma’am?” He grinned as he recalled
some of her more celebrated escapades in Dodge. “I reckon a woman
like you could hold her own.”

“A woman like me, Mr. Masterson? At the mercy
of all those ruffians... ?”

“As a rule, men respect women on the
frontier. I’ve even known a con woman or two who used that fact to
her advantage.”

How far could he take this, he wondered,
before she began to squirm? “I knew one once—what a beauty she
was—best in the business. So notorious in the underworld that her
very name struck awe in their hearts. She took the rough men of
Dodge for every plug nickel they were worth.”

“How absolutely scandalous! You must tell us
more. Was she really the best you ever knew?”

His eyes softened appreciatively on hers.
“She was more than that,” he said softly.

“And what became of her?” she challenged with
a fearless abandon that sucked the breath from his lungs.

He shifted, realizing once again that eager
faces all around them were listening, riveted, to every word.
Glancing about at the sumptuous surroundings, wondering again what
she was doing here, he replied sincerely, “That, little lady, is
something I’m waiting to find out.”

A large man in his fifties, with the assured
air of a man who knew his place in the world, stepped over to them.
“Mr. Masterson, I see you’ve met my future daughter-in-law, Miss
Sarah Voors.”

Bat looked at Saranda, then back at the man
standing beside him as if he couldn’t fathom what he was hearing.
Jackson Van Slyke was one of the wealthiest men in New York, and
certainly one of the most influential. It was his newspaper, the
New York Globe-Journal
, that had sponsored Bat’s trip East
in return for an exclusive interview. Bat was a stranger to the big
city, but it hadn’t taken him long to discover that his host
personally owned quite a chunk of it. On the frontier, they’d say
he was rich enough to be called Mister.

Bat looked about him at the imposing
surroundings. The Van Slykes’ Fifth Avenue mansion boasted high,
vaulted ceilings and arched doorways leading from one spectacular
room to the other. It was decorated in the cool blues and whites of
the Delftware pottery that graced the surfaces of tables, curios,
and mantels throughout the house. Beside them rested an enviable
assemblage of Netherland knickknacks in silver, pewter, and
crystal. Ancient Dutch rugs covered cold tile floors, and
tapestries lined the walls. Paintings by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Jan
Steen, and Frans Hals were displayed as casually as family
portraits. Overflowing with flowers and palms, it was quiet,
peaceful, well ordered, and serene.

There was no doubt that the inhabitants were
fixed in a way few people ever dared to imagine. Upon his arrival
in New York, Bat had done his homework. Jackson Van Slyke inherited
a great deal of money from his father, but had amassed more by
competing with John Astor to buy up every available lot of real
estate on the island of Manhattan. Unlike the deceased Astor,
however, Jackson was a man who believed in giving back to the city
that had made his family a power in their new country. He was,
everyone assured Bat, a humanitarian first and foremost.

A most interesting place for Saranda Sherwin,
royal successor to a family of con men and thieves, to turn up.

“Who’s the lucky fella?” Bat asked.

“I have that honor,” said a young man
stiffly, moving to Saranda’s side.

“My son, Winston,” Jackson Van Slyke
introduced him with pride.

Bat turned to look, wanting to see the man
who’d won Saranda’s hand when
he’d
been so unsuccessful at
it. Winston was twenty-six, but already his hair had turned
salt-and-pepper grey, giving him the serious appearance of an older
man. The family resemblance was unmistakable. His face was
delicate, open like his father’s, but gullible in a way one
wouldn’t expect from the son of such a powerful man. His eyes were
a gentle shade of aquamarine, and his wire-rimmed spectacles
bridged his nose. He wore about him the vulnerable aura of the
ultimate sucker, Bat decided. As Winston gazed at Saranda, he
blushed, as if he still couldn’t quite believe his luck.

“Mr. Van Slyke,” Bat greeted him carefully.
“You’re getting hitched?”

Winston was bemused. “Hitched? Well, yes, I
suppose I am. Next week, in fact. Perhaps you could lengthen your
stay and attend the ceremony. We’d be delighted to have you as our
guest.”

“Well, now, it’s not that it ain’t a sight
I’d even pay to see... It’s just that my duties as sheriff...” His
voice trailed off as his gaze drifted back to Saranda. He wanted
her as much as he ever had. He’d loved her once, been rejected by
her, and had accepted it long ago. Still, she was the most
infuriatingly tempting creature he’d ever known. What kind of scam
was she pulling this time?

Saranda glanced back over her shoulder in an
imperceptible gesture he knew was meant only for him. He saw that
she was standing beneath a portrait of a woman who looked so much
the way she did now that Bat glanced at it, shifted his gaze to
stare at Saranda, then looked back at the painting again in
disbelief. “That’s not you, is it?” he asked her hoarsely.

“That’s my mother,” Winston explained.
“Lalita Van Slyke.”

“I’m sorry for staring. It’s just that
your—Miss Voors could be her.”

Winston’s eyes softened with deep affection
as he looked from the portrait back to his fiancée.

His father elaborated. “My wife died when
Winston was just a baby. Sarah came into our lives and filled a
void of loneliness no other woman could have filled.”