Katherine O’Neal (6 page)

“I see your interest in the mud is
short-lived,” she commented to cover her nervousness.

“Why pretend? We both know the mud was an
excuse to get you alone.” His voice was hushed in the night, oddly
thrilling.

“Ah, but you plucked me from the crowd with
such careless abandon. Given the masks, have you considered that
you’ve made a mistake? I may not be who you think I am.”

He swiveled his head and looked into her
glittering eyes. “Perhaps I’m not, either.”

“Under the circumstances, perhaps I should
demand you remove your mask and prove your identity.”

He turned back to her and took the larger
blue diamond of her necklace in his hand. His warm knuckles brushed
her flesh as he did, sending unexpected shivers up her spine. With
a playful grin, he asked, “And what will you remove, if I take off
my mask?”

“You should be horsewhipped for your
impertinence.” She jerked away so the necklace fell from his hand.
In the process, his hand brushed against the yielding velvet of her
breast. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, but taking advantage of
every opportunity, she raised herself up just a bit, ever so
slowly, encouraging his hand to graze her at a more leisurely
pace.

“And you should be spanked,” he said in a
suddenly husky voice. “For encouraging such impertinence from the
best friend of your fiancé.”

Saranda moved away, sashaying past him with
arrogant female grace. “The last man who tried to spank me is now
wearing an eyepatch and a new set of teeth.”

Her hand was caught from behind, captured
with a gentle, halting pressure. She froze, her back still to
him.

He turned her around slowly, yet with the
inexorably determined gaze of a man who had no intention of being
denied. The look that passed between them was electric, raw and
crackling with hidden truths. She could feel him touching her
before he did, feel her skin tingle as his eyes roved with familiar
longing over the lush, seductive curves of her body.

Suddenly, he stepped closer, his body
touching hers. She felt blistered by a sudden invading heat. In the
flare of his eyes beneath the mask, she detected a rampant spark of
maleness, a brightly burning blaze. She could almost smell his need
of her. As if she’d pushed him to the limit. As if, by her playing
him on her string, all the red-blooded urgency of his desires had
suddenly seared his well-built armor, devouring his sense and
caution in the hellfire of his arousal. His body as he pressed into
her was like a furnace, bent on combustion, ignited by the amorous
torment of her gambit. She felt it scorch her, as if her clothes
had suddenly burst into flames. Alarmed, she moved back until she
came up short against the wall at her back, the scaffold at her
side, the dangling ropes brushing her face. She had time only to
swipe them aside before he was upon her, crushing her against the
stone with his body.

Beneath the elegance and impeccable tailoring
of his evening clothes, he had the physique of a cat burglar—that
acrobatic Blackwood body, firmly muscled yet with a litheness of
movement that easily lent itself to the traversing of rooftops in
the dead of a moonless night. The lean yet powerful grace, the
massive shoulders, the sinewy arms... His hands grasped her arms,
pressing them back against the cold wall on either side of her
head, sliding them up to entwine his fingers with hers in an act of
intimacy that shocked and thrilled her all at the same time.

“Thanks for the warning,” he said in a
deceptively lazy voice. “If I ever decide to spank you, I’ll take
precautions beforehand.”

With a swiftness that caught her off-guard,
he wrenched her hands above her head. Holding them taut in one
hand, he grabbed one of the ropes and looped it repeatedly around
her wrists so they were anchored high above.

“What are you doing?” she cried, her sudden
panic causing her voice to tremble.

She could feel the intensity of his gaze. He
softened it with a lift of the comer of his mouth. In the
moonlight, she saw the dimple crease his cheek. His teeth, as his
smile widened, shone white and strong. Shuddering, she turned her
face away.

With his other hand, he traced a finger along
the outline of her mask. “Didn’t you wonder why I chose masks for
tonight?”

“I don’t have to wonder. I know why you did
it.”

“Do you?”

“Because you wanted to seduce me, and you’re
too cowardly to do it to my face.”

She struggled against the ropes, the
frustration of her helplessness acting in an incongruous way as a
stimulant to her senses. With her arms anchored so, her breasts
rose high, swelling and threatening to spill from the confines of
her dress. In the night air, the diamond necklace felt cold against
her suddenly heated skin.

He chuckled softly. “Is that what you
think?”

“Who but a coward would have to resort to
binding a woman’s hands just to—”

“To what? Kiss her?”

His hand crept around her, and he crushed her
to him, lifting her feet off the floor as he bent to capture her
lips with his own. He kissed her deeply, impaling her against the
solid barricade of his chest. He had a deliciously wicked kiss, so
passionate, so thoroughly devouring, that she felt she was being
consumed, in a flash, by a brushfire, a force of nature without
compunction, without mercy. She lost track of her thoughts, of her
role, of her plans. He was like Mars, the ancient god of war—bold,
confident, impatient, giving all of himself to the burning interest
of the moment. His lips moved over hers, invading, claiming her.
Under the fierce assault, she felt her body go limp as she fought
against the ropes in a futile effort to bring her hands to his
face. She was drowning in sensations so volcanic, she forgot to
breathe. Clutching at her bonds, feeling the roughness of the hemp
dig into the flesh of her wrists and palms, she fought to keep a
hold on reality as her head spun and her limbs turned elastic,
molding themselves to his frame.

When he raised his head, leaving her mouth
parted to the cold night air, she slumped against the ropes,
stunned by the discovery his touch had forced on her. His kiss
intoxicated her beyond anything she’d ever known. She hadn’t
expected it, wasn’t accustomed to being swept away by men—no matter
how enamored they were of her. It frightened her, left her gasping
for badly needed air. Perhaps, she rationalized desperately, she’d
been rattled by her earlier fear of heights...

“I love masks,” he whispered in a voice
hoarse with the same maddening passion that was pulsing through her
veins. “A mask is passion’s best friend. Once masked, you’re freed
from your inhibitions, from your sense of self. In a way, it’s the
same freedom and exhilaration when you wear the disguise of a great
flam.”

It was as close to a confession that he was a
con artist as she was likely to get. His words recalled the rumors
that had followed Blackwood across Europe and kept the tongues of
the underworld wagging. He was, they claimed, the greatest lover in
Europe. The thought of it made her limp with need. His mouth,
whispering with hypnotic power, nuzzled the sensitive flesh at the
side of her neck, sending shock waves of sensation through her
hungry body that made her want to turn her mouth to his and part it
in another searing kiss.

“A mask gives you a sense of control,” he
continued, his lips obliging her by moving toward her mouth. He
held himself away so that, unbidden, she leaned forward, whimpering
for his kiss. “It aids the pretense. Ropes, on the other hand, take
away all control, destroy all pretensions. A woman like you should
lose control occasionally. Surrender to the moment...”

He leaned over to kiss her once again. But
just as his lips touched hers, just as a low moan rushed from her
mouth to his, he drew back. Some instinct told him they weren’t
alone anymore. Saranda was too insensible to realize what was
happening as he turned his head, saw the open door, then
straightened up, suddenly cautious and distracted.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said abruptly,
unwrapping the rope from her wrists so she fell against him in a
heap. Setting her on her feet, he added, “This will have to wait
for another time.”

He moved toward the door, closed now, as if
to leave her without another word. Then, thinking better of it, he
returned and said, “Meet me in the Park. Tomorrow at five.”

She just stared at him, unable to believe
what was happening. Was he leaving her—after all that had happened?
Could he calmly walk away after rousing her to such a fevered pitch
that she could barely make out his features in the blur before her
eyes?

He grabbed her neck and pulled her close,
kissing her hard. “Promise,” he commanded.

She nodded weakly, leaning closer for another
kiss. But once she’d promised, he moved toward the door with swift
efficiency and left her standing alone in the moonlight, her wrists
chafed and her heart pounding in her brain.

She didn’t see him again that night. But
occasionally her fingers wandered to her lips, where his kisses
still burned like a brand.

Saranda was accompanying Winston as he gave
Bat a tour of the
Globe-Journal
. Already, they’d viewed the
composing room, the pressroom, the city room. It was intended as a
perfunctory jaunt, but Bat surprised Winston by showing interest in
every aspect of the paper. He’d had little formal education, having
left his parents’ Illinois farm at an early age to follow a life of
adventure, but he’d read widely on a diverse range of subjects.
Writing, it turned out, was a particular fascination of his, as was
the power of the press. He’d witnessed this power firsthand during
his visit. After just one article in the
Globe-Journal
, he’d
found himself lionized as a folk hero.

Because of his interest, and the questions he
asked, their circuit of the paper was taking longer than expected.
Bat stopped to chat with everyone from reporters and editors to the
printers and engravers in the back shop. No one escaped his
inquiries or his easy grin. Everyone, having read the report of his
skill with a smoking sixgun, stared at him with an awe that he
found at once flattering and discomfiting.

They’d been touring the executive offices
when they came at last to a door with a stenciled sign that
read:

M. ARCHER

EDITOR IN CHIEF

Saranda had known they’d pay him a visit
sooner or later and had spent the time preparing herself. What had
happened the night before now seemed like a dream. She couldn’t
believe she’d behaved in such a ridiculous manner just because a
man had kissed her. Well, not just any man; Mace Blackwood, her
sworn enemy. She’d never reacted to anyone in such a breathless
manner before. It embarrassed her, making her question her sanity.
What had she been thinking?
The trouble was, she hadn’t been
thinking at all. In his arms, she’d been reduced to a rush of
sensation such as she’d never experienced before. By the sight of
his wolf’s mouth lowering itself to hers. By the sound of his voice
rasping in her ears. By the feel of his arms as he demanded from
her a response no man ever had. It unsettled her. She’d always
known he was a formidable foe, known he had the ability to fool
anyone alive. The humiliating realization hit her that, for that
brief moment in the moonlight, he’d duped her as well. His golden
tongue had lulled her into a senseless state of surrender that was
unlike anything she’d come up against in all her years on the
con.

But it wasn’t going to happen again.

Winston opened the door without knocking.
They caught a quick impression of a massive office dominated by a
cluttered desk and lined with wooden file cabinets on three sides.
The corner office looked down over Park Row, where the other New
York papers made their homes. But it was the atmosphere that
captured their attention. Blackwood was standing behind his desk,
glaring at the man seated opposite him. It was the same man Saranda
remembered complaining about the absence of Madame Zorina. She knew
he was Sander McLeod, whose wealth and influence rivaled Jackson’s.
She knew, too, that Blackwood, in his guise as Archer, had been
systematically exposing the underhanded tactics of McLeod’s
powerful business friends.

“I can recall a time,” McLeod was saying
heatedly, “when the
Globe-Journal
stood up for the rights of
the underdog without libelous attacks on the fine and decent men
that have made this city—hell, this country—great.” He was clearly
agitated, gesturing with a fist that looked like a blacksmith’s
hammer pounding away at an anvil.

“By decent men, you wouldn’t be referring to
men like your friend Grant?” Blackwood demanded.

“The General is one of the greatest men I’ve
ever had the privilege to know. I served under him in the War. Why,
if it weren’t for him—”

“If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have had
the most crooked administration this country’s ever seen.”

“Grant has done more good for this country
than a man like you will ever know.”

Blackwood raised a brow. “A man like me, Mr.
McLeod?”

“It’s misguided editors like you who are
responsible for his leaving office.”

Blackwood lowered his eyes deceptively. “I’d
like to think I played
some
small part in it.”

Appalled, and highly embarrassed, Winston
cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Archer, I didn’t know you were
busy.”

He made a move to back out, but Blackwood
waved him into the office. “That’s quite all right. We have no
secrets, do we, McLeod? It might be an education for Sheriff
Masterson to see how bad men function in the big city under the
guise of respectable businessmen.”

“How dare you?” McLeod growled. “These people
you’re smearing are friends of ours. People of influence. They can
help not only your paper, but your career as well. Why, with their
backing—with
our
backing—you could be senator!”