by Layla Chase
“Slade?” Pete's voice came from atop the wagon. “Help hand down these bags, will ya?"
Within moments the passengers’ bags sat on the boardwalk and Pete stood staring at the pile. “Do you suppose Mrs. Harrington is expecting me to haul her bags up to Ella's?"
Slade thumbed back his hat and ran a hand over his jaw. The rasp of beard stubble reminded him of a promise he'd made to himself. “I'll carry them. This town got a good bathhouse?"
Pete jabbed him in the ribs and gave him a broad wink. “Gonna get gussied up and visit The Lucky Strike?” He jerked his head up the street.
Slade eyed a saloon two buildings along the boardwalk with tinny piano noise and raucous laughter coming from its doorway. He shook his head. “Just want to soak my aching muscles."
“Soak?” Jessimay turned from where she had bent over the pile of bags, her eyes filled with longing. “As in a hot bath? I would pay a pretty penny for a long bath with lots of steamy water"—she sighed—"and maybe some rose petals floating on the top."
In his mind, Slade pictured the scene. He saw her slender form approach the steaming bathtub. She shrugged her shoulders and a silky garment dropped to her feet, exposing creamy, smooth skin. Skin that his hands itched to touch. He wasn't halfway done looking his fill, but her luscious body slowly disappeared under the bubbly water. The images he'd conjured heated his blood. His stomach clenched and his hands drew into fists.
He hadn't thought about needing a woman in weeks. Trailing the bank robber had occupied all his thoughts. What was it about this particular woman that unsettled him?
Action. He needed physical activity. Plus he needed to put distance between himself and the woman who stood three feet away. Slade hefted all the unclaimed bags into his arms. “I'll be taking these now. See ya in the morning, Pete.” He dipped his chin in her direction, but didn't trust himself to look her in the eye. “Miss Morgan.” With that, he started off, cursing himself as the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi.
“Ah, Mr. Thomas?"
Slade tensed. Had she figured out what he'd been thinking? Not trusting his voice, he glanced over his shoulder and raised a questioning eyebrow.
Her gaze darted from boardwalk to the street and back, as the smile on her pink lips flashed, then disappeared. “Would you mind escortin’ me? I'm a bit overwhelmed by crowds."
Crowds? Slade glanced around and counted no more than twenty people in sight. Was she actually nervous? The bold and defiant Miss Jessimay Morgan? More likely this was another ploy by an accomplished con artist. For purely investigative reasons, he nodded and moved to the outside of the boardwalk. Her hand gripped the inside of his elbow and held tight.
He gritted his teeth against the instant heat her touch caused, shifted the bags in his arms, and walked toward the boardinghouse.
“I do appreciate this favor."
With precision, he forced out a polite reply. “Of course, ma'am."
They paused to allow a woman with a child anchored to each hand cross in front of them to enter the mercantile.
A few more feet along the boardwalk, she leaned close and whispered, “And I wanted to explain about my earlier behavior."
The exact subject he preferred not to have mentioned again. At least, not within range of polite company. “No need. It's forgotten."
“Well, isn't that sad."
He glanced around, looking for an injured animal or a raggedly clothed child. Nothing. “Beg your pardon?"
Someone stepped through a doorway without looking and bumped into Jessimay, pushing her against him.
Her soft breast nudged his forearm and, even through his jacket sleeve, his skin was scorched. Branded by the intimate contact. He gritted his teeth and breathed in quickly through his nose.
“Pardon me."
He glanced over Jazzy's head and spotted Mrs. Harrington. Her voice was apologetic, until she spotted whom she'd bumped into.
She sniffed loudly. “Oh, it's you. About time someone arrived with our bags.” She reached for hers and pulled.
Slade broke contact with Jessimay and juggled the bags as best as he could. “I'll be glad to carry these into the boardinghouse, ma'am."
“But I need mine right away. I simply must have a change of clothing before supper."
Irritation at this bossy woman stiffened his hold. He strode over the threshold and dumped the bags at the foot of an iron coat rack.
“Careful. I've got delicates packed in there.” Mrs. Harrington swooped down on the pile and pried free her bags.
From the corner of the room, Miss Whitfield moved forward and reached for a battered satchel. “Thank you, sir."
Slade touched the brim of his hat. “Ma'am."
A tall, smiling woman approached, drying her hands on her apron. “I'm Ella. Welcome to my establishment. You'll be wanting separate rooms?"
“No,” Mrs. Harrington spoke up, her hand moving between herself and the quiet woman. “Miss Whitfield and I wish to share a room. Safety in numbers, you know."
Jazzy shook her head, curls bobbing around her face. “What's the fun there?"
Astonished faces turned to stare at the woman whose eyes had widened and whose face was rapidly turning pink.
Slade gulped back a laugh. Her outlook on life constantly surprised him.
“Oh!” Jazzy's hand covered her mouth and she gazed at the circle of people around her. She dropped her hand to her side and grabbed a handful of skirt. “I meant to say there'd be no fun in sharing with me because I snore so horribly. A trait passed down by my dear departed papa. Louder than a hornet's nest, and a wet hornet's nest at that. Mama always did say that about me."
Suspicion raised the hair on his neck. She was lying. Including too many details in an explanation was a surefire tell.
With quick movements, Ella waved them forward. “So, that's three rooms. Follow me."
Slade allowed the ladies to go first and then he scooped up his bag, making sure he lagged behind the group. He was very interested in learning which room Jazzy was given. A few minutes looking through her belongings would be time well spent. If he could arrest her tonight, this investigation would end. Then he'd be free to get on with the rest of his life. Alone and on his ranch in the mountains.
On the second floor, he leaned against the newel post and watched Ella show the rooms to the ladies, pointing out the advantages of each. Finally, the two ladies settled on the room at the end of the hall away from the street, at Mrs. Harrington's insistence.
Jazzy stood with her hand on the knob to the middle room to the right of the stairs. Her gaze rested on him and didn't waver.
Something in her eyes beckoned him, and he stepped closer. “Do you need help, Miss Morgan?"
She tilted her head and tapped a finger at the corner of her mouth. “I must need help."
“I don't understand."
“That is just so sad.” She turned to her room and pushed open the door, mumbling under her breath, “If you've forgotten that moment outside the stage stop, I'm losing my touch."
* * * *
An hour later, Jazzy stomped up the stairs of the boardinghouse muttering, “Twenty-five cents! For a sponge bath! Outrageous for a basin of tepid water, stinky homemade soap, and a dingy gray towel.” She crossed the hall and grabbed the doorknob to Room 3.
Scuffling sounded from the far side of the room and the bedsprings squeaked. Her breath hitched in her throat and gooseflesh rose on her skin.
Light filtered from the door opening and the acrid smell of a kerosene lamp tickled her nose. Jazzy hesitated—she hadn't left the lamp burning. Almost on its own, her hand patted the folds of her skirt. Her money was safe.
A foot away stood a small table with several books in a stack. She lifted the top one and hefted it, weighing its effectiveness as a weapon. What she owned might not be much, but it was hers.
With no time to call for help, she quickly drew back her arm into throwing position and stepped inside. She froze at the sight befo
re her. The book dropped from her grasp, dully thudding on the wooden floor. Slade Thomas lay on the counterpane of her iron bed, jacket hung from the bedpost and stocking feet crossed at the ankles. Even from across the room, she sensed the poised strength of this potent man.
Against the fabric of her camisole, her breasts grew heavy and her nipples tingled. The man was too handsome for her peace of mind. Before she started her questions, she breathed deeply. A definite mistake. The movement only teased her nipples into tight peaks. “I reckon you're in the wrong room, Mr. Thomas."
One dark eyebrow rose in question. “Oh?"
Why did he have to be so manly? She nodded and cast her gaze around the room, surreptitiously checking her personal items in plain view. All seemed to be in place. “This is my room. Number 3."
A grin eased his lips apart, showing a flash of white teeth. “Three has always been my lucky number.” His low-pitched voice flowed around her, as smooth as Kentucky sipping whiskey.
Deep, rumbling voices were her particular weakness. A shiver ran over her skin, yet her blood burned. Years of practice settled like a cloak over her movements. She shifted her weight and rested a hand on her forward hip. “So, you're feelin’ lucky, are you?"
His gaze skittered to the side and back to her face, then slowly ran down the length of her body. He levered himself up onto an elbow and leaned toward the middle of the springy mattress. “Yes, ma'am."
That voice again. She sighed. With an exaggerated swing in her step, Jazzy approached the end of the bed.
His gaze appeared riveted on her bust line.
As she moved, her fingers loosened the front buttons of her jacket and shrugged it off her shoulders. Folding it to hide her mother's cameo, she let the garment drop to the seat of a nearby chair.
Maybe there was another reason for his visit—a reason that didn't involve the two of them rolling around in the middle of this bed, aroused and completely naked. “Slade?"
“Yeah.” His gaze lifted to hers and held, his eyes dark with desire.
She eased several buttons through the buttonholes of her blouse, then rested her forearms along the top bar of the iron foot rail. “Please tell me you've come for more than a discussion about tomorrow's travels.” A half step brought her breasts in contact with her arms and she leaned forward, feeling her breasts push against the upper confines of her corset.
His gaze slipped to her exposed skin, and she watched his hands tighten into fists. The man was obviously conflicted in his desire. The air between them felt heavy and electrically charged, like before a summer thunderstorm. “That I have."
As often as she'd seen a similar reaction, she felt a special thrill at this obvious interest from a man who looked like he knew more than one way to act on that desire. Lordy, this man's expression set her senses reeling. A sheen of dewy perspiration broke out on her chest and her body seemed weighed down by too much clothing.
In a flash, Jazzy knew she wanted this time to be different. She didn't want to direct the encounter, to force herself to go through the regular routines. Tonight she wanted to be wooed, to have him remove her clothes, slowly and with his kisses skimming along her skin as each additional inch was exposed. She wanted to give herself permission to truly feel the encounter, maybe even enjoy the sensations.
Pushing away from the rail, she shook her head. What had put those crazy ideas into her mind? This night wasn't much different than the past fourteen hundred others—give or take a few. Her weighted petticoat banged lightly against her thighs. Inside was all the money she had in the world and it needed to stay hidden from those she didn't know well.
In other words, everyone.
Covering for her apparent indecision, Jazzy spun to face him and undulated her hips in an alluring fashion. A trick that often distracted her customers. “Do tell? I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir."
Slade pushed a hand against the mattress and rose to his feet, seeming intent on crossing the floor to where she stood.
No, she didn't want him close. Not yet. Not while she still wore her petticoat with the money in her pocket. In three steps, she was close enough to reach out and lay a hand flat against his chest. The palm of her hand touched solid muscle and she brazenly savored his strength. Oh, my! She swallowed hard before speaking, “Sit back and relax, Slade.” With a gentle shove, she toppled him backwards onto the bed.
A chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest and his gaze was thorough in a slow perusal of her entire body.
Careful to position her feet in the middle of the small rug at the side of the bed, she kept her hips moving and leaned forward to flash him plenty of cleavage. At the same time, her fingers worked the buttons at the waistband of her skirt. Her common sense told her she would regret this taste of paradise, but her instinct argued this was a night for making memories.
The last button popped from its restraint and she slid free the ribbon ties on her petticoat. With a wiggle of her behind, she inched the skirt and petticoat downward, being sure they landed on the rug to deaden the sound of the coins. She stepped back and raised her arms to remove the pins from her hair.
At the sight of her blond curls tumbling over her shoulders, his hungry eyes lit with feral heat.
With a quick kick, she scooted the pile of fabric under the bed and sashayed around to Slade's side of the bed.
Slade hadn't moved. His long legs hung over the side of the mattress, feet braced on the floor, and he lounged back on his elbows. “Are you always this sassy?"
With a wink and a wide smile, Jazzy nudged his legs wider and stepped between them. “I can be.” Unable to resist the pull of his intent gaze, she rested both hands on the bed and leaned close. “And sometimes I'm sassier yet."
In a flash, he twisted and clamped a restraining hand on her upper arm, levering her to sit on the edge of the mattress. Warm fingers fumbled along the inside of her left hand.
A metallic snap filled the air.
Jazzy started and her eyes widened at the touch of cold metal against her skin. She looked down at the shiny handcuff encircling her wrist, the other end hooked to the bed rail, and back up at Slade. Her heart skittered a beat, then a smile pushed up the corners of her lips. “Oh, it's that kind of night, is it?"
* * *
CHAPTER 3
For a moment, the sauciness of her question didn't register. He was too busy concentrating on the heat where her touch had branded his skin. Slade looked down at her wrist to make sure he hadn't imagined using the handcuffs.
“What kind of night?"
She gave him a slow wink and a smile full of anticipation stretched her lips. “Captives."
He shook his head. Why didn't she look upset? Most robbers he'd arrested fought at the first touch of the metal restraint against their skin.
She eased closer and rested her free hand on his forearm, a glint lighting her blue eyes.
The muscles under her hand jumped in response. Why couldn't he keep his mind on business? What about this woman had gotten under his skin since the first moment he'd sat beside her on the stagecoach?
She pressed closer, brushing the front of her corset against his chest. “Am I a southern belle and you're a dirty Yankee who just occupied my family's plantation? Or am I the medieval maiden being kidnapped by a rival laird for the price of her father's lands?"
He sucked in a breath at the friction her movements created, only to inhale her fragrance. Her skin radiated a spicy heat that sent his thoughts spinning toward sinful pleasures. Pure torture. The animal part of him wanted to take her right here, right now. The lawman part of his brain told him to ignore what was being offered and just do his job. “What about the sheriff and the bank robber?"
Looking from under lowered eyelids, Jazzy ran a finger along his jaw. “I haven't played that one. Sounds like fun. But my favorite is the princess stolen by the Indian warrior. Will you be my warrior, Slade?"
Slade gritted his teeth against the pure need flashing through him and the hunger
building in his loins. Too much time had passed since he'd last enjoyed a woman's soft touch. That had to be the reason his control was weakening. He knew not to mix pleasure with business, but a part of him couldn't resist the enticing lure of this playful siren.
The expression in her eyes softened, her lips were moist and too much skin was within easy reach. “So I'm your prisoner? What do you want from me?"
The short answer, “Information,” was on the tip of his tongue. When his gaze flicked down to satiny breasts plumped by her corset, he reconsidered. A few kisses might not hurt.
“A small taste.” He lowered his head and grazed his mouth along her temple and down her cheek. Immediately, his shaft hardened and pushed painfully against his trousers. Before he realized what he was doing, his hand had tangled in her hair and held her head in place. He leaned close, intent on capturing her mouth.
Instead, her lips brushed his jaw and she lapped at his neck.
A low moan sounded and Slade couldn't tell whose it was. Raising his head for a better angle, he tried to catch her gaze. Panting breaths tickled his chin, and her cheeks were flushed with excitement.
Her lids fluttered open, but her expression was wary.
“Such fair skin, Jessimay. Fitting for a pampered princess."
She moaned and raised a hand to his shoulder, rubbing a slow path that ended at the back of his neck. “But are you a savage?"
His skin rippled at her touch and he shifted a leg to lessen the pull in his groin. A flood of passion flowed through his body. He couldn't get enough of this tantalizing woman. “You don't want to test me."
“Oooh, such tough talk.” She eased back and, with one hand, worked on the buttons of his shirt, her blue eyes flashing with sexual heat. Her fingers fumbled and pulled on the fabric.
“Slow down.” He covered her hand with his and pressed until her fingers stilled. “No need to rush.” His thumb slid along the underside of her palm and drew small circles.
She gasped and shivered. “That tickles ... but I love it."