The Trailrider's Fortune (20 page)

"With apple
butter on them?" she'd grimaced, thanking her lucky stars women weren't forced
to eat weird foods to be alluring. Boned corsets and rouge were torture enough.

"Aw now,
darlin'," he'd drawled as he caught her left wrist and lashed it to the brass
bed frame with his blue bandanna. "You eat what you like and I'll do the
same."

"Have you gone
crazy? What are you—Raford Conley, let me up!" Shouting, kicking and
bucking only proved she couldn't get free. Rafe caught her right wrist and tied
it to the bed with his red bandanna, then stood grinning. Sparkle cursed and
made unflattering comparisons between him and members of the ape, canine, and
equine families. Rafe chuckled, stripped off his jeans and made her watch as he
perched on the edge of the mattress and slowly ate every last oyster.

Even before he
wiped his mouth with the back of a tanned forearm—even before his eyes lingered
on her heaving breasts or his sensual lips parted, she'd guessed…feared?—what
he'd inevitably say. "The apple butter ain't for the oysters, anyway. This
apple butter goes on you."

She gasped, seeing
the jar in his hand. She rued the night she'd met Alice and let herself be
talked into rubbing cactus juice on his chest. She apologized for the incident,
pleaded for mercy. But he hadn't forgotten and intended she never would. Not
after that morning.

The rogue from her
thoughts appeared behind her, starling her again. He scowled at the reflection
that met his eyes now in the dresser mirror. Sparkle continued primping
silently, hoping he wouldn't notice her high color or ask what she'd been
mulling over as he came in. Perhaps he knew. She'd had difficulty meeting his
gaze all day. She was too vulnerable now.

Rafe was thinking
she looked every inch the high-toned strumpet. Slocumb would take one look and
go stiff as a fence post. Just as stiff and randy as Rafe himself, even after a
whole day in bed with her. He still saw her in his mind's eye, wrists tied to
the bed frame, writhing and gasping as he'd traced apple butter over her
nipples with his index finger. Saw her thighs clamped around his hips, eyes and
puffy lips pleading as he'd run his tongue across her stomach, lapping at the
sticky goo.

Jesus. Every man
who walked into the Bold Adventuress that night would look at Sparkle and
fantasize about doing similar things. Now Rafe questioned the wisdom of
teaching her all he had. He'd told himself she had to make a convincing whore.
How could she play the part of an exotic fallen angel if she'd barely spread
her thighs for a man? Slocumb was a known goatish lout. Rafe had to be certain
she wouldn't blush too easily. She had to be appear seasoned as any practiced
doxy, nearly impossible to offend. She was Rafe's partner. Her safety depended
on how convincingly she could execute her assigned role.

And it wasn't as
though Rafe hadn't enjoyed every minute of her training. He had. Too much. Now
it hurt. She wasn't the gal he'd met in Wichita any longer. That gal, though
furious enough to rip her dress off and throw it at her boss, had paled at the
mere suggestion of going upstairs. That little gal had been innocent,
pretending to be worldly and tough. The person primping before the mirror now
was a woman in every sense of the word…no longer an innocent, worldly in truth.

The sultry looks
she flashed Rafe from her card table were enough to make him seize up and fight
for breath. The damned velvet evening gown clung to every curve and had Rafe
straining against his jeans. The dress and the black stuff painted on her eyes
worried him. She didn't need to go that far to play the doxy, and he told her
so. His comment had sparked a feminine giggle and a literal slap on the back of
his wrist.

Rafe's scowl deepened,
darkening with his mood.

There were grown
men who'd sooner bunk with a rattler than touch Rafe's right arm. Their throats
went dry if he moved that arm an inch during a poker game without visible
cause. If Rafe didn't extend his right hand first, nobody who knew his name and
reputation ever reached for it. You didn't take liberties with a mercenary's
gun hand. Not unless you happened to be his woman and were out to show how far
you could push him.

Rafe could swear
Sparkle was torturing him on purpose. She didn't really want to help catch
Slocumb. She'd been emphatic about not helping with Rafe's business. It wasn't
really the money, either. She could have turned whore for Hard Case Frazer if
it all came down to cash. Rafe had begun to suspect she liked dressing the
part. Liked leading customers on, because it drove Rafe insane. She knew he
watched her, knew how jealous he felt. She smiled at the men and lowered her
lashes just to drive Rafe loco.

He was halfway
deranged already. Had to be. He'd never thirsted like this over anybody, never
craved looking at her or talking to her or being with her, screwing her. He stood
between Sparkle and the door out of the panel crib. "Let's make sure we're
straight on what to do."

"We've gone
over this every night," she said in an exasperated tone. "I know what
to do."

"You square on
what
not
to do?"

She recited the
litany. "I don't let him undress me and find my garter knife. I don't let
him get close to the sliding panel or the windows. I've got it."

She reached for the
doorknob. He wouldn't step aside. "You don't let Slocumb do more than you
absolutely have to until his guns come off. No foolin'. I can get that panel
open without makin' a sound. I catch you playin' up to him—"

"Are you
suggesting I'd
want
a murderer pawing me?" she demanded, eyes wide.
"Are you drunk, Rafe?"

His lips thinned
into a hard line. "Nope, but I'm recollectin' how much you like our romps.
How steamed up you get with a man's hands on you." His fingers clamped on
her wrist. "Likin' it with him would be a real serious mistake. Maybe even
your last."

"You know, you
were right," she hissed, jerking free. "you
do
say horrible
things because you're a horrible person. You just threatened me."

"I say
horrible things when folks make me think 'em." His eyes narrowed. "I
told you I love you, but you ain't said anything like that back to me. I think
and say horrible things when I'm played for a sucker. When it seems my woman
don't give a crap. Like if it wasn't for a thousand dollars and a train ticket,
she'd have left by now."

"I don't like
it here. You know that. I never wanted to come to Dodge. If we were in Wichita…"

"You'd tell me
you love me if we were standin' in Wichita? What kind of horseshit is that?
Either you love me or you don't."

Sparkle pushed a
pin deeper into her hair. "We really shouldn't have this conversation
right now. Both of us are on edge. I'm nervous every night, and you're jealous
for no reason. You know I care about you, Rafe."

"I do, huh?
Damned amazin' how you're so sure of that. But hell, I forgot. You're the
fortune teller. Why don't you point out the big clue, cause I missed it."

Sarcasm laced his
words, and Sparkle faltered, sensing this anger was somehow different from his
aggravation on previous nights. "It's not necessarily any one thing."

"You thanked
me for savin' you from kidnappers. Was that a sign? Did that mean you love
me?" came his harsh demand. "You pant and shout my name…Now, of
course, so does every other female under this roof, if she can remember the
payin' customer's name. Is that the big clue? Or should I assume you must love
me, account of me bein' the one who took your maidenhead? You were savin'
yourself all those years, just waitin' for me to come along. Is that
right?"

Sparkle closed her
eyes. She wouldn't lie, not after all they'd shared. She refused to lie to him,
even though he was on a rampage and the truth wouldn't be pleasant for either
of them.

"No. I wasn't
waiting for you, or anybody else. There's…someone else, a man I've known for
years. I was saving myself for him, but he doesn't see me the way you or the
men downstairs do."

"What?"
The question was a slow hiss.

"I liked you
from the first. I like the way you kiss, the feel of your arms around me. The
tarot said you were someone special. I hated the hurt and loneliness inside
you. We could talk and…trust each other. To a point, anyway. I let things
progress beyond talking. Maybe that was wrong, or my reasons were. I'm sorry.
You know I don't have much experience. I didn't know any better."

"You're
sorry
?"

She swallowed and
dropped her gaze. "Only because you're not happy. I thought…I was fairly
certain you'd realize you're important, that of course I do care, but…"
She sighed. "I have to go downstairs."

She slipped past
him and out of the room. Once in the gaming parlor, she tried not to let the
confrontation destroy her spirits. She needed to appear vivacious. But tears
burned behind her eyelids. She forced a smile when a stranger asked for a tarot
reading. Her fingers took over shuffling and laying out the cards. Her lips
formed the standard words of explanation. But her mind was still upstairs,
still trapped in turmoil.

She saw Rafe
glaring at her. She heard him fuming, informing her he detested seeing her in
saloons. She pictured them together on the wide mattress, her fingers gripping
the brass frame, Rafe's hips grinding as he rode her. Saw Rafe's wicked grin
and unspoken promise as he'd savored those oysters. Imagined the two of them
climaxing as she watched in the overhead mirror. Imagined Rafe that one
morning, kneeling to catch that water droplet…

Before, during,
afterward, that same lazy, heart-stopping grin. She choked back a sob. How
would she ever get him out of her life or her blood, now that she'd let him in?

An hour later the
saloon's main floor was still half empty. Tolover advised the weather had
turned foul. A stiff wind kicked up, bringing rain their way, which might ruin
their chances of luring Slocumb into town. Men out in the open would seek what
shelter they could or head for high ground. Sometimes rain filled up the
trailheads, other times it left them standing empty.

By the time
slashing drops splattered the overhanging balcony, the saloon's poker tables
had thinned out. Only a handful of gamblers remained. A few lone drinkers
lounged at the long bar. Then a group of rowdies came stomping through the
doors, soaked to the skin. Laughing crudely at the wall mural, they shouted for
tall rations of Old Touse. Sparkle looked up and missed her shuffle. Cards
exploded across her tabletop and onto the floor.

Sam Parker had
given her the nod.

She didn't have to
wonder which of the newcomers he'd recognized. As she slid off her stool to
retrieve the scattered cards, she rose and found the most sadistic-looking
stranger of the group directly in front of her. A lecherous grin split his
face. His dark eyes glittered.

"This must be
the new painted cat who tells fortunes. Fellas, have yourselves a few drinks.
I'm gonna get me a nice French kiss." He hummed a ribald drinking tune as
he bent forward to run his tongue over the exposed tops of her breasts, up the
column of her throat to her lips. Sparkle stood rooted to the spot, too stunned
to react.

"Nice
powder," he announced. "Guess you don't respond with any feelin' till
we get upstairs." He licked his lips and reached into a pocket of his
sodden coat. "Heard tell there's high times to be had, if a fella can ante
up. How much to see your room, French doll?"

She recovered
enough to find her voice. It was surprisingly smooth and clear. Years in
saloons had some value, after all. Poise might just save her life. "I was
born in Paris, but have been in this country some years now. I do not have so
much the accent any longer. Visit with me must be arranged with
Monsieur
Tolover." She pointed to him behind the bar, relieved to glimpse the
implacable set of his features.

Tolover, Rafe,
Parker, and Driscoll…you'll be well guarded, never really alone with him. Never
in true danger.

"If you like
my powder," she remarked with false assurance," there are other
places from which to sample it. Places few men have tasted as you will,
sir."

"Hot damn! You
read tea leaves, the wrinkles on a man's balls, or what?"

"Tarot
cards," she replied in a sultry hiss as she held up THE LOVERS.

"Ho, got some
other tricks too, I hear. Want some more of your powder, French pastry. Now.
Tell the boss I got a pocketful of gold eagles."

Sparkle offered a
winning smile and sashayed across the saloon to the bar, where Tolover stood
with his burly barman. "Send the men upstairs to fill the tub. I'll wait
in the panel crib while you hash out price."

"The
tub?" Tolover frowned. "But I just had Denny Rae and Marcus pull it
out of there not two hours ago, on Rafe's orders."

"Our guest is
wet and muddy," Sparkle whispered, winking. "Never met a man who wore
his gunbelt in the bathtub."

"Good
point." Tolover ambled over to Slocumb. Sparkle hurried to the kitchen to
request the tub and hot water. She passed Driscoll waiting on the employee
stairwell, as agreed. She announced their quarry had arrived, then continued up
to the panel crib.