Rainbows and Rapture (16 page)

“Evenin’,” the man slurred merrily, swaying and waving a bottle of his own. “Name’s Newt.”

Santiago inclined his head.

“Mind if I set down?” Newt asked, plopping himself into the chair next to Santiago’s. “I’m about to do ya a big favor, Mr. Santiago Zamora. Y’know that long-haired whore ya was with?”

At the lewd expression in Newt’s eyes, Santiago stiffened, anger building. “What about her?”

“Knowed her long?”

“No.”

“Had her yet? ‘Cuz if ya ain’t, lemme let ya in on a little secret about her,” Newt murmured, leaning closer. “I seed ya give ole Hilda some gold a minute ago when ya was talkin’ to her over there at the bar, but ya ain’t gotta give up no more o’ that gold. Ya wanna know how’s ya can keep it and still have ya a good time with Russia Valentine?”

Santiago didn’t care for the way Russia’s name sounded in the man’s mouth. “How?” He growled the word.

Newt looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “Make up some sob story,” he said, nodding.

“Sob story?”

Newt grinned. “That’s what I did, and it worked real good. I told her my horse, Abe, had broke his leg and that I’d had to shoot him. I even managed to sniffle some when I told her I’d used all my money to buy a headstone for ole Abe’s grave. She got so upset, she cried.” He threw back his head and laughed.

“Go on,” Santiago urged, his voice falling to a dangerous level.

“Well,” Newt continued, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin, “ya can’t use the same story I did, that’s fer sure. Tell her… Um… Tell her ya just got the news that your beloved grandma in Mexico died, that you done sent ever’ penny you had fer her coffin, and that now ya ain’t got none left fer the trip to the funeral. Give her one o’ them heartbreakin’ expressions. Do all that, and she’ll spread them white legs o’ hers fer free. Hell, she might even give you some money to help ya git down to Mexico!”

It happened so fast, Newt never understood what hit him. Santiago’s fist slammed into his face, cracking bone, spilling blood. Newt crashed to the floor.

Santiago rose, his shadow falling over the unconscious man. His brows knit in a straight line over his flashing eyes, he stared back at all the people who were watching him, then bent to remove the money pouch attached to Newt’s belt. After taking half the cash it contained, he tossed the bag to the saloon owner. “Before Newt passed out, he mentioned wanting to buy a round for the house. A pity he couldn’t hold his liquor and stay awake long enough to hear everyone’s gratitude.”

Without another word, he headed for the stairs, his footsteps the only sound in the entire room. He met Hilda in the upper hall. “Which room?” he asked the wide-eyed woman.

“Two.”

“Did you clean it?”

Hilda’s head bobbed. “As best as I could in the short time I—”

“And the girl? Did she bathe? Eat?”

“Russia Valentine,” Hilda blurted. “She—I know her name, Mr. Zamora. Everybody does. She’s the clumsy strumpet who burned down the—”

“It’s my understanding a new hotel will be built soon.”

The anger Hilda saw in his face whitened the scar on his dark cheek. She remembered the tale behind that scar. He’d gotten it from a terrified young girl whom he’d raped and eventually killed. Trembling, she shrank back. “Miss Valentine—she’s in the tub now, eatin’ and washin’ at the same time.”

At the obvious horror in the woman’s eyes, Santiago realized she was ruminating on some spectacular story she’d been told about him. People always looked at him like that when dwelling on the grisly tales.

Pain lurched inside him. He and Russia had just incarcerated four truly dangerous outlaws, and the citizens of Rock Springs remained intent on believing the worst about them.

God, he couldn’t wait to leave this wretched town.

“Give me the key to the room,” he ordered the frightened woman. He knew Russia had locked the door again. Key in hand, he proceeded down the dingy corridor, stopping before room number two and sliding the key into the lock.

Russia, feasting on an ear of corn while in her bath, squealed loudly when the door opened and banged against the wall. Her corn splashed into the water, then bobbed up again and floated next to her breasts. Immediately conscious of her nakedness, she slid deeper into the steaming water, her eyes never leaving the tall, black-garbed man in the doorway.

Santiago stood motionless, as if someone had nailed his boots to the floor.
Santa Maria
, she was beautiful, sitting there with water and candlelight splashed all over her. Droplets shone on her creamy skin and shimmered through her strawberry-gold hair. One even twinkled from the tips of her long tawny lashes.

He could see nothing but her heart-shaped face and delicate shoulders, but God, it was enough. It was almost too much.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he swiveled, closing and bolting the door. “Are you over your crying spell?” he demanded, trying to sound harsh but detecting a note of concern in his voice. “Because if you’re not, tell me right now.
I
’ve no intention of dealing with any more of your tears tonight.”

“Oh, is that so?” Irritation overthrew the last fragment of her grief. “Well, let’s do somethin’ fun, then. We’ll play horse. I’ll be the front end, and you jist be yourself.”

Her barb relieved him somewhat. He couldn’t imagine that she’d come to complete terms with whatever had so upset her earlier, but as long as she didn’t mention it again, neither would he. He didn’t care what it was, anyway.

Ripping his hungry gaze from her, he examined his surroundings and decided he could spend one night here. Hilda had given the room a respectable cleaning. With Newt’s money in hand, he strode over to a whitewashed table.

Russia watched as he took her bag from it, opened it, and stuffed a handful of money inside. “What are you doin’?”

It was a moment before he answered. Looking into her open bag, he saw folds of tattered fabric beneath the money he’d dropped inside. Anger welled. While men like Newt took advantage of her softhearted nature, she dressed in rags.

With more strength than was necessary, he snapped the bag closed. “I met a friend of yours downstairs. He asked me to deliver that money to you.”

“A friend? I ain’t got no friends in this godfer-Satan town.”

“Godforsaken.”

“Whatever.”

Still struggling with anger, Santiago unbuttoned his shirt, taking a very long time to do so. When it was off, he threw it into Russia’s bath. Lifting one hip upon the table, he leaned against it, folding his arms across his bare chest. “Your friend’s name was Newt. Nice man to remember a debt, don’t you think?”

Newt
, Russia repeated silently, finally recalling that he was the man who’d bought his dead horse a tombstone. “Yeah, Newt’s a real nice feller.”

Santiago’s expression revealed nothing, but he had to squelch the temptation to return to the saloon and punch Newt again. “Yes, a real jewel of a man.”

Her eyes were drawn to his heavily muscled chest; she barely heard what he said. His tanned skin was so smooth. The soft candlelight flickering over it made it almost lustrous. “You ain’t got a single hair on your chest.”

“Does that disappoint you?” He found himself straining to hear her answer.

“If I said yes, would y’try to grow some?”

He felt the start of a grin crease the corners of his mouth.

His small smile dazzled her, filling her with affection and the need to show it to him. “I love it when you smile at me, Zamora. I wish you’d do it more.”

Before he realized it, he was granting her wish. His slight grin broke into a huge smile. He felt it spread over his entire face.

Russia was enchanted. By his alluring smile, by the twin grins in his somber eyes, and by…by much more than just his smile.

He sat there, his slim hip half on, half off the table, one foot firmly on the floor, the other dangling a bit above it. And yet she knew that sleeping behind that easy stance was sleek power. Strength that could be roused in an instant.

His might made her feel safe and secure. It made her think of how small and fragile she was compared to him. She glanced at his legs. His pants seemed molded to him. Like he’d put them on wet and they’d shrunk to fit every lean, male curve of his body. Not a bit of anything tipped over his tightly cinched belt. His torso tapered down into those snug black breeches perfectly.

Down into those snug black breeches…

Her senses spun. It was happening again. That strange thing he did to her. Unnerved, she slipped further into the tub. Water rose to her chin, flowing through her parted lips and down her throat. Sputtering, she closed her eyes, sat up, and tried to catch her breath.

She choked again when she detected his nearness and smelled his musky, masculine scent. Lord, she hadn’t even heard him approach, and here he was, right beside her, so close she swore she could feel his midnight gaze roaming over her.

She brought her knees up, the tops of her thighs pressing against her breasts. Her heart racing, she kept her eyes closed, afraid to see his bare chest, his devastating smile, his virile power, his tight black breeches…

…afraid of the feelings the sight of them brought.

She heard and felt him dip his hands into the water. His long, strong fingers brushed across her thigh, then began sweeping across the bottom of the tub, sliding past her calves and feet and up again to glide next to her hip. “What are you—”

“Looking for the soap.”

She opened her eyes, struck by the look in his. Like two pieces of lit charcoal, his eyes smoldered. “I can wash my own self!”

Brow raised, he lifted one hand from the water, then plunged it between her slightly parted thighs. “Ah, here it is,” he informed her, deliberately allowing his wrist to brush across the folds of her womanhood as he wrapped his fingers around the bar of soap that lay on the bottom of the tub.

When he made no move to take his arm out of the water, Russia squeezed her thighs tightly together, thus capturing him between them. Through her mind shot confusion and not a little fear; through her body stirred yearning and readiness. She couldn’t seem to join her mental and physical sensations.

But neither her mind nor her body could ignore how hard and thick his arm felt between the soft flesh of her thighs. “Zamora,” she whispered, damning her voice for being weak, “git away from my tub and lemme finish my bath.”

He sensed her trepidation, but recalled his oath to soothe it. He wanted her, and he knew damn well she wanted him, too. “No.”

Though he’d uttered only one word, he’d spoken it in that deep-timbred voice that never failed to make her heart turn over. “I can wash my own self. I don’t need none o’ your help.”

“I haven’t offered it, Russia. I’m going to wash my shirt.” With his other hand, he pulled his floating shirt through the water, bringing it under Russia’s thighs. With one hand between her bent legs, the other under them, he commenced to roll the bar of soap over his shirt.

With each motion he made, his wrist stroked her intimately, fanning a blaze of feelings Russia never knew she had.

“Do you like that, Russia?” Santiago asked softly.

The sweet feelings surged. “I—yeah, but—” She broke off when she saw his face coming nearer. He was going to kiss her. Everything was happening so fast! She needed time to understand the powerful feelings coursing inside her. Gripping the sides of the tub, she stammered for words. “Zamora—I—please…”

Santiago drew back, watching her cheeks pale. He knew she’d enjoyed his caresses, but dammit, she looked as though she were facing her own execution!

Pushing himself away from the tub, he rose and stormed across the room. His sable hair whipped around his dark, broad shoulders as he spun to face her. “What are you? An all-knowing strumpet, or an untouched maiden? I asked you that once before and got no answer.
Santa Maria
, tell me now, and I’ll treat you accordingly, Russia! Russia? Hell, that’s not even your name! What
is
your real name? Betsy Lou? That has an innocent ring to it!”

His angry shouting made her mad. “It’s
Russia!
And you know damn well I ain’t no untouched maiden!” To emphasize her ire, she fished the corn out of her bathwater and threw it at him.

He dodged it easily. “Really? Then why do you act like one?”

“I—” She blinked in perplexity. Dammit, the man had confused her to such an extent, she wasn’t sure
what
she was anymore!

“I asked you a question, Russia, and I want an answer right now!”

“Yeah? Well, croonin’ crackers and chin-waggin’ chiggers, I reckon the time has come fer you to git it!” Instantly, she was out of the tub. Grabbing a towel, she quickly dried her body and hair, then marched to the table where her bag lay. She snatched up her scarlet dress, stockings, and black shoes, and dressed hastily.

“What are you doing?” Santiago flared. “Getting ready for a night’s work?”

She paid him no mind. Rummaging through her bag again, she pulled out her box of paints and smoothed some color on her face.

“The saloon is full,” Santiago snapped. “You ought to be a rich woman before the night is over.” He made tight fists of his hands and felt his nails gouge into his palms.

Still ignoring him, Russia smoothed clove oil behind each ear, then arranged her damp hair so that it fell around her body like a long gold cape. Thus, she turned to face Santiago and walked slowly toward him, her right leg slipping out of the thigh-high slit in her skirt. When she was in front of him, she curled her arms around his neck and pressed her body intimately close to his. “What do I look like to you, Zamora? What am I actin’ like?”

“A whore.” The word hissed between his clenched teeth.

“Then I reckon that answers your question about what I am, don’t it?”

He yanked her arms down from around his neck. Ripping off his gun belt, he let it drop to the floor. In seconds, his breeches and boots joined his Colts.

He stood before her naked. “You look like a whore right now, you’re acting like a whore right now. It’s about damn time to see if you
perform
like one. Right now.”