The Fall of Rome (13 page)

The illusion was vital.

To what?

Survival.

Backtracking, he could see the signs, the vulnerability. He’d been blind to them then because he’d been seduced by the illusion. Consumed with the pressures of work, he’d considered her the perfect distraction. Carefree and independent. A good time. He’d fallen in love with the idea of her.

Kat was right. He never really knew her.

And he’d accused her of being self-involved.

“I say, haven’t we met?”

Jaw clenched, Rome eyed the dandy standing next to him. He had to admit he was impressed with his brother’s dedication to this case. Instead of sitting behind the desk, spouting orders like most men in charge, he was in the trenches. Rome even detected a firearm under that outlandish frock coat. Definitely a side of Athens he’d never seen. “I’d remember,” Rome said, eyeing the fancy getup.

“Sherman Shakespeare,” he announced, sticking out his hand. “Book peddler.”

“Rome Garrett.” He grasped his brother’s palm, no longer certain of his own label.

“Thirsty.” On demand, the barkeep served up a glass and a quart bottle. “Buy you a drink, Shakespeare?”

“Most generous of you, good chap.” He stroked the long, wheat-colored whiskers of his newly acquired beard, deep in thought. “I say, I believe I’ll have a brandy sour.”

“Figures.” Smirking, the barkeep turned to the shelf of liquor.

“Rome Garrett,” Shakespeare mused loudly. He snapped his fingers. “The legendary Garrett Brothers. Of course! No wonder you look familiar. I’ve seen your face on dozens of dime novels.” He glanced around. “Where’s your sidekick, Boston?”

“Otherwise engaged.”

“Pity. Dual autographs would have fetched a pretty penny.”

Rome rolled his eyes as Shakespeare sipped his cocktail. “It may surprise you to learn that we have a mutual friend, Mr. Garrett.”

“You don’t say.” This scene wasn’t going as planned, but coming from a theatrical family, Rome knew the value of improvisation.

“Miss Katrina Simmons.”

“Kat Simmons?” he asked, feigning surprise.

“Best poker player this side of the Mississippi.”

“That’s a pretty tall compliment, mister.” This from the ruffle-shirted cardsharp standing to Shakespeare’s left.

“You talking about Charles F. Simmons’s daughter?” asked the barkeep.

“I am,” said Shakespeare.

“I’ve heard of her. Long time ago. Thought she took to the riverboats.”

“Indeed, she did, sir. But now she’s bound for San Francisco. As am I.”

“Charles F. Simmons,” said the cardsharp. “Now him I’ve heard of. Broke several faro banks in New Orleans about ten years back. Heard he walked away with $50,000.”

“$55,000,” Rome corrected.

“Yes, well,” Shakespeare said, “Miss Kat is her father’s daughter.”

“If that’s so,” said the cardsharp, “I’d like to see her in action.”

“Likely you will, Mr. . . .”

“Lewis. Tom Lewis.”

“Sherman Shakespeare. Book peddler.” He gripped the man’s hand and pumped. “You a reader, Mr. Lewis?”

“Not unless it’s the newspaper or a treatise on gambling.”

“Ah. So I wouldn’t be able to interest you in a first edition of Charles Dickens--”

“About Miss Simmons,” Rome prodded. Damn, Athens. Where is she?

“Yes, yes. As I was saying, we were on our way to San Francisco when we heard about the upcoming poker tournament here in Tucson.”

The barkeep nodded. “Next week at the other end of town. Foster s Gambling Emporium. Professional sporting men have been trickling in for days.”

“I’m one of them,” Lewis said. He fingered his watch fob. “Buy-in’s steep.”

“We’ll possess the necessary funds in due time,” Shakespeare said.

“We,” Rome said, holding tight to his patience. Athens was feeding necessary information, hopefully inciting gossip, but where the hell was Kat?
Feed me a clue, dammit
. “You and Miss Simmons cozy?”

“Gracious, no. Traveling companions. Strictly platonic. We’re staying at the Cosmopolitan.”

“So am I.”

“You don’t say? You wouldn’t be heading there now, would you?”

Here we go.
Rome shifted. “As a matter of fact--”

“Splendid.” He rapped Rome on the shoulder. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to show Miss Kat about town. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see an old friend such as yourself. I told her I’d be back within the hour, however, I see a game of monte--”

“My pleasure.” He pushed off the bar, whiskey untouched. A barmaid distracted Lewis, and Shakespeare leaned into Rome, voice hushed. “Maybe
you
can talk her out of her room.”

Except for the usual stares he received as a dime-novel legend (now fallen), no one paid Rome any mind when he crossed the lobby of the Cosmopolitan Hotel. He was a guest, after all. He took the stairs two at a time. He knocked lightly on the door marked 10. Two doors down from his own room.

No answer.

He knocked again. “Miss Simmons?” he called, for appearance’s sake. “Rome Garrett. Heard you were in town. Hoping you’ll take a late supper with me.”

No answer.

He leaned into the woodwork, spoke low but firm. “Kat, dammit, I know you’re in there.”

“Go away.”

The voice was hushed and shaky and directly on the other side of the door, though closer to the floor. “Kat.”

“Can’t do it.”

Can’t do it?
She’d been the one to contact Athens. She’d been the one who’d been on an all-fired crusade to protect Frankie from the--quote--
heartless miscreants in this world. Starting with Brady
--end damned quote.

He tried the door.

Locked.

Clearly, she wouldn’t open it.

Clearly, he couldn’t break it down.

Chest tight, he moved on to his own room and walked to the window. This side of the building faced away from the main street. Pedestrian traffic was minimal. It was pitch-black, and the ledge was just wide enough for him to edge along. If he fell, well, hell, he was only two stories up. A dime-novel legend, he thought with a self-deprecating grunt, wouldn’t think twice.

Five seconds later, he eased through another window and into Kat’s room. A kerosene lantern burned, so he saw her right off. Clad in only pantaloons and chemise, she sat on the floor with her back against the door, knees pulled up to her chest, head lowered, face hidden.

“Hard for me to keep up,” he taunted gently so as not to scare her, “with you hiding out.”

Instead of starting at the sound of his voice, she slowly raised her head, her dark curls in wild disarray. “How did you get in here?”

Reaction time sluggish. Voice slurred. Hell. “Never mind that.” Hands on hips, he scanned the room. It looked like her steamer trunk had exploded. Gowns, petticoats, corsets, shoes--strewn everywhere. “What’s going on?”

Hand limp, she gestured to the mess. “None of them are right.”

Something told him this was more than an
I-don’t-like- anything-I-have-to-wear dilemma
. He’d witnessed plenty of those in the past. “I’m sure you looked beautiful in any one of those dresses,” he said, while moving forward.

“But I didn’t look like
her
.”

“Who?”

“The Kat everyone knows. The young cardsharp who wins the attention of every man in the room with a sly smile and saucy laugh. I abandoned her years ago. The name, the persona, the profession. I thought if I dressed the part, everything would come back.”

He hunkered down in front of her, noted the face paint smeared from crying. Christ.

“I tried on every gown,” she continued, glassy-eyed. “I looked in the mirror. But I couldn’t see her.”

“You’re not making sense, sugar. What do you mean, you abandoned the profession?”

“Everything depends on my creating a stir playing poker. Only I’m rusty.” She pointed to a deck of cards littering the floor. “I tried a riffle and a flourish, and I hobbled. What if I can’t bluff? What if I forget what beats what?”

What the hell was she talking about?
He dragged a hand down his face, stated the obvious. “You’ve been drinking.”

“I thought it would help. Part of my old routine. I used to take a couple of swigs before leaving my room. To loosen up.”

He glanced at the bureau, noted the bottle of liquor. “You took more than a couple of swigs, Kat.”

“Because it wasn’t working.” Her forehead lulled back to her knees. “It’s still not working. It used to make me giddy.”

“I remember.”

“And brazen.”

“Remember that, too.”

She peeked up. “You recollect an awful lot.”

His lip twitched. “Wearing on your nerves?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Hmm.” He rose and sought out a chamber set, soaked a cloth with water, and returned. “Look at me, sugar.” When she did, he smiled and gently washed away her streaked face paint. “You used to hold your liquor a whole lot better.”

“I haven’t had a drink in a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since that night.”

“What night?”

She raised a brow.

Well, hell. He poked a tongue in his cheek as a boodle of thoughts stampeded through his mind. Best not to explore them now. Instead, he focused on her Face, the face he’d seen this morning. Sun-kissed and sprinkled with freckles. Funny, he was having a hard time seeing the “Kat everyone knew” himself.

He eased down on the floor, positioning himself next to her with his back against the wall, legs stretched and crossed at the ankle. “The illusion.”

She slid him a glance.

“That’s what this is all about, right? Your daddy was a smart man, from all I’ve heard. Knew how to read people, manipulate people. That’s what made him a top-notch practitioner.”

She didn’t correct him, so he kept rolling. “He was all you had, except for that half-sister I never knew about. You said the two of you were estranged, so I guess her mother raised her. I’m thinking Charles F. Simmons taught you his secrets and technique so you’d have a way of earning a good living. I’m thinking, since rumor has it he was a doting father, he thought he was doing you a favor.”

She wet her lips. “What else are you thinking?”

Mostly, about kissing her. She looked so vulnerable. So sweet. But she was also roostered and he was sober and that combination was a first. Instead, he eased his arm around her, pleased when she didn’t object. “I’m thinking when you lost your daddy, you also lost your sense of security. I’m thinking you adopted a tough and wild persona that allowed you to survive in a male-dominated profession, but on the inside you were a scared young girl.”

Her flushed cheeks burned brighter. “Early on, he told me I was pretty. Told me I could move mountains with a wiggle and a smile.”

“You certainly moved me,” he said, heart heavy. “Gotta admit, it dings my ego some, thinking it was all an act.”

“I thought you liked me that way.”

Guilt reared and kicked. “I did.”

“I wanted you to like me. I wanted . . .”

He looked down at her bowed head. “What?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Tell me.” Maybe he was a bastard for pushing, but he was afraid she’d clam up when she sobered. He honestly wanted,
needed
to know.

She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “You’re right. I was scared. When Daddy died... Don’t get me wrong. I loved cards. Loved the excitement. The challenge. But I was afraid of being alone. I wanted a companion. Someone to laugh with, to live with.” She stumbled over her words, but her feelings rang loud and clear. “I wanted a champion. A protector. I thought you were that man, Rome. I thought . . .” Her voice cracked and she swiped away a tear. “I fell in love with you that first night, under the faro table.”

His heart pounded against his ribs.

“At least the man I sensed you were. I don’t think I ever really knew you. I think I put you on a pedestal and then . . .”

“I fell off.” He thought about the ugly names he’d called her when he’d walked in on her and Brady. Yes, he’d been hurt and angry, but he’d also been drunk. He’d seen everything--Kat naked in bed, Brady sitting in a chair, shirtless and pulling on his boots--through a rotgut haze of fury. He’d coldcocked the man and blasted the woman. He’d stormed in and out in a rage. An emotionally charged, whiskey-addled scene frozen in his brain for six damned years.

“Every time I got used to you being around, you took off on a case for Wells Fargo. I know it was your job and I know it was important, but then
I
didn’t feel important. We’d only been sparking for six months, yet I already felt like old news. I started thinking, why would you want to stay on permanent with me? You liked kids, and I wasn’t good with them. You’d want a wife and a family, and I was a cardsharp. Some part of me panicked. Some insecure, wretched part of me latched on to Brady’s interest. He was charming at first and,” she lowered her gaze, “I was a fool.”

“You were young.” Rome smoothed her curls from her face, winced at her tortured expression. “And I was an ass.” He banged the back of his head against the wall, blew out a breath. “This is an awful lot to take in, Kat.”

“I’m sorry.

“I’m not.

“No, I mean,
I’m sorry
. About. . . that night.”

The apology he’d longed to hear. He thought he’d feel a sense of satisfaction. Thought he’d feel lighter.

He felt like hell.

He struggled now to recall details he’d missed due to tunnel vision.

“I know something happened,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “I know we, he... but I don’t remember any of it. It had to be the liquor, except I didn’t drink more than usual. I know it sounds crazy, but... I don’t know how it happened.”

“You should have given her the benefit of the doubt.”

He stared down at her, a cyclone of thoughts and emotions battering his being. “Why didn’t you tell me that right off?”

She blinked, her soulful eyes racked with frustration and hurt. “I tried. But I was upset and confused. I didn’t feel well, and you were such a mean bastard. I seized up.”

“I know in my heart I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Rome dragged a hand down his face, cursed himself blue. Spent, Kat rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to hate myself in the morning.”