by Sandra Hill
Laughing, he managed to grab the spindles of the headboard and right himself over her squirming body. If you only knew how much I enjoy your squirming, honey!
Shrieking madly, she berated him with all kinds of love words, like pond scum, sex pervert, Andrew Dice Baptiste, and, the one he liked best, You damn sex machine!
Finally, he got her under control by forcing her hands over her head and onto the spindles where he secured them with two tassels from the mosquito net. The rest of her flailing body he pinned to the bed with his own much heavier weight.
“See,” she sputtered. “You are into forceful seduction.”
He shrugged. “I never had a taste for it before, but I must say you have whetted my appetite.”
“Let me up. Now.”
“I have a better suggestion.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. Unfortunately, it didn’t draw the usual response. Instead, she bucked up against him angrily.
Bucking was good, too, he decided.
She realized her mistake instantly and groaned.
Did the groan mean she was weakening?
Hoping it did, he tested the slickness of their bodies by rubbing his chest hairs across her breasts. Pink nipples—hardened into pebbles from his earlier ministrations—were the crowning glory of the most beautiful cone-shaped breasts. Not too large, not too small. Just right for a man’s hand.
“Don’t you want to know what my suggestion is, honey?”
“No!” She scrunched her eyes tight, but not before he saw her involuntary reaction to his caress. “Why are you doing this?” she cried.
“Oh, darlin’, isn’t it obvious? Because I want to.”
“We need to talk about this time-travel business.”
He hooted with laughter. “If you think that you and I are going to carry on a rational discussion now, you really are demented. Now, my suggestion is this…since you don’t want buttermilk, I was wondering…how do you feel about wine?”
Her eyes shot open. “Wine?” she squeaked out.
With a wink, he lifted himself off her now poleaxed body and walked over to the sideboard, where he picked up the crystal wine carafe. When he hovered over her once more, he held the cool glass against first one breast, then the other.
He traced a fingertip over the carafe’s design. “Oh, look at this, Harriet,” he said silkily. “Isn’t this ornate beadwork on the rim interesting? I wonder if…”
Harriet made a gurgling sound, which he took for another good sign.
A short time later, he husked out, “Who knew wine could be drunk in so many interesting ways?” Then, “Did you know you have gasping down to an art, sweetheart?”
Harriet was speechless, for once. He suspected it was the beadwork that did the trick. The pièce de résistance.
Eventually, Harriet regained her power of speech. The first words out of her mouth were a complaint.
“I’m sticky and hot. I need a bath,” she whined, swatting away his hand, which was measuring the curve of her buttocks.
“Maybe we should find Simone’s double tub.”
“I’m not getting into a tub with you,” she asserted. “Who knows what perversions you’d have lined up there.”
“Darlin’, you love my perversions. I’ve counted every little appreciative squeal of yours, and there were hundreds.”
“I do not squeal.”
“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” he mimicked.
She couldn’t hold back a grin.
Well, that was progress. He was learning to read her body language so well he could probably become a mind doctor, just like her.
Climbing off the bed, both sets of their knees proceeded to crumple. His had brush-burns. In fact, another part of his body was a bit brush burned, too, from overuse.
And Harriet’s skin, from forehead to toes, was one big whisker-rasped flush. Her hair was a wild mane of black curls, which had frizzed in the humidity. Her lips her wonderful, deliciously full lips—were swollen and red from his kisses.
He was about to step into his trousers and hand her the silk dressing gown when they passed a large, beveled mirror hanging on one wall. Stopping, he dropped the garments, looped an arm over Harriet’s shoulder and posed them in front of the huge reflection. “Damn, we look fine.”
She moaned.
He wasn’t sure if the moan meant “Oh, no!” or “Oh, my!” But the end result was that they didn’t make it to the bathing chamber for another half hour.
Who knew the cock could crow so many times before dawn? Or that the South could, indeed, rise again. And again. And again.
In the middle of the night, Etienne awakened to the wail of Abel’s trumpet. Abel’s expert fingers and mouth evoked almost human voices and emotions from his instrument—a child’s sob, a man’s belly laugh, and a woman’s sigh of pleasure. Also filtering up were the sounds of muted laughter, both male and female voices. Apparently, Abel was entertaining the “troops” in Simone’s parlor; so it couldn’t be much past midnight.
It was astonishing that so much had happened since he’d come upstairs less than six hours ago. He glanced sideways at the woman cuddled into the curve of his arm. In sleep, her full lips were closed—thank God!—and pouty from all his kisses. Her stubborn chin wasn’t quite so rigid. And her hand, which rested on his chest, looked small and vulnerable.
Etienne’s heart lurched.
It was lust, of course. Harriet, the curious woman who claimed to come from the future, had more than made up for the years of sexual deprivation he’d suffered during the war. He felt renewed now, and for that he had to be thankful.
She wasn’t a spy. He was convinced of that.
So, what to do with the wench?
Easing gently out of the bed and pulling the bed linen up over her sleeping form, Etienne tapped his chin thoughtfully. He and Cain and Abel were leaving early in the morning for Bayou Noir, by separate routes. They would meet up near Bayou Barataria and head down to Bayou Vilars before nightfall.
As to the woman, well, he would follow his earlier plan and leave her under guard with Simone for the next month. He could send word by way of Abel when it was safe to release her, once the gold was back in President Grant’s treasury and the massive government corruption ring was uncovered. By then, he would also have obtained his back pay and gained the much-needed information on those who’d betrayed him during the war.
Then what?
Well, he supposed Harriet could make her way back to her time, or wherever she’d come from. It was her problem, not his. He would leave enough money for her care; that was as far as his responsibility went.
Ignoring the niggling tug of guilt on his conscience (truth to tell, he felt lower’n a doodlebug), he dressed quietly, donning the blond wig and mustache and the garb of a Mississippi riverboat gambler just in case there were strangers in Simone’s parlor who might recognize Etienne Baptiste from the old days.
He gave her one last, lingering look. He would remember her like this, one arm thrown over her head in carnal satisfaction—she would hate that image, he knew—her face and body posture that of a woman who had been loved, long and well.
That odd lurching of his heart occurred again.
It was probably the wine he’d consumed. In a most unconventional manner.
With his hand on the doorknob, he paused. Would he ever see her again?
He doubted it. C’est la vie.
She’d been great entertainment to slake a man’s lust, but he had no intention of muddling his life with a woman.
Au revoir, chérie.
Harriet’s life was muddled beyond repair.
That was her first thought when she awakened hours later, even before she opened her eyes. The events of the past few hours flickered behind her eyelids, like an X-rated fast-forward video, and she cringed.
I am a disgrace to my profession. I am a disgrace to every woman of the nineties. I am a spineless, oversexed slut…well, at least where one persuasive, oversexed jerk is concerned.
Sh
e cracked an eyelid to look at said persuasive, oversexed jerk, and immediately sat upright. Gone! The jerk was gone.
Calm down. He probably just went to the bathroom, or something. Maybe, considerate guy that he is, he’s getting us a little snack from the kitchen.
Yeah, right.
Dragging her battered body out of the bed, Harriet assessed her situation in a glance. The candles Etienne had insisted on lighting were burned down halfway. That fact, combined with the sounds of music and laughter and muffled voices coming from downstairs, told her it must be about two A.M. Joleen had told her that the girls worked from about nine P.M. to four A.M.
Glancing around the room, Harriet gasped. All of Etienne’ s belongings were gone, along with her two books and tape recorder.
He had abandoned her. Why that should surprise or hurt her so much, she couldn’t imagine. All she knew was that her heart was shattering.
How could he engage in the most overpowering sexual experience she’d ever had and just walk away? And there was no doubt in Harriet’s mind that the chemistry between them was phenomenal.
Because it was just lust for him, she concluded.
Harriet slumped wearily to the edge of the bed and let the tears flow freely, something she hadn’t done in a long, long time. She cried for the weird detour her life had taken. She cried because she was lost in time, and didn’t know what to do about it. She cried for her missing self-control and self-respect. But mostly, she cried because she’d thought, foolishly, that she’d found a soul mate…a prince.
Unfortunately, her prince had turned into Super Toad.
After she’d cried her eyes out and started hiccoughing, Harriet decided she’d had enough self-pity. She was a strong woman. She would survive, even in the past. With any luck, it would only be two more months until the railroad bridge was completed. There had to be work opportunities for women here, too. Intelligent, thinking women who, once burned, never, ever again succumbed to the charms of a blue-eyed rascal.
A plan…what she needed was a plan. With all the men killed in the war, and the large number of widowed or single women, she could probably set up a relationship service—sort of a matchmaker. And how about the men suffering from postwar syndrome? She could definitely help them. And, dammit, there were way too many prostitutes in this war-torn city. Yep, possibilities abounded for a bright, ambitious woman.
I am down, but I’m not out, Mr. Baptiste. You may have thrown me a sucker punch, but I’ll be up before the count of ten. Just watch me.
A short time later, dressed in the lavender marbled gauze gown, which one of Simone’s employees had repaired and laundered, Harriet packed her few belongings in her briefcase, including her journal and her leopard-print nightgown. Then she proceeded to the door, which was locked, as she’d expected. Rapping lightly, she called out, “Oh, Joleen. Are you there?”
At first, there was silence. “Yeah, whaddaya want?” a voice finally mumbled. She must have been sleeping up against the door.
“Could you come in here a minute, please?”
Harriet heard some shuffling noises, followed by several curse words, but the door opened.
“What?” Joleen barked as she entered the room.
“Don’t be mad at me, Joleen,” she implored. “I’m just feeling so down and blue. Etienne left me, you see, and I…I…” She burst into sobs. One big crocodile tear slid out of her eye and ran down her cheek.
“Ah, now,” Joleen said, “ain’t that just like a man? Plows the field, then leaves the furrows to wither in the sun. Or be tended by some other farmer.”
Harriet almost giggled at the analogy.
“Could you sit down and talk to me for a little while?” Harriet pleaded, eyeing the open door behind Joleen. “I need…I need to talk to another woman. Did Etienne leave or is he downstairs? Will he be coming back to me?” She batted her eyelashes hopefully.
“Now, honey,” Joleen soothed, plopping down on a straight-backed chair near the door. Heck! “Don’t be countin’ on that swamp rat. He’s leavin’ here at first light.”
That’s what I thought. And, yeah, swamp rat about describes him. “But what about me?” she wailed, though what she’d like to do was make a mad dash for the door.
“It’s not too bad. You’re to be locked up for a month, till he sends word to release you. But don’t go gettin’ all fretted up. You don’t have to service no men. Lessen you wants to.”
“Me?” Harriet choked.
“Don’t be puttin’ on those la-de-da airs. Workin’ for Simone ain’t bad. The whores gets to keep a third of their take and they only have to pay for their rooms and meals and linens. And the Catholic girls can even go to mass on Sundays.”
Harriet was horrified.
“And girls like Charity gets paid extra, of course.”
Harriet shouldn’t ask. “Why?”
“She’s a ‘self-starter.’ She gots a talent for helpin’ young men get their cherries popped. Or sparkin’ some life in men what can’t get their sun to rise no more.”
But then Harriet focused on something else Joleen had said. A month? Etienne expects to keep me locked up for a month? Harriet gritted her teeth. Oh, someday she was going to find that jackass and put his tail in a sling. But first things first. She had to escape.
“I don’t know how I’m going to survive the pain, Joleen. Have you ever felt like this? I mean, my heart just swells when I think about Etienne.” I think I’m going to gag.
“Honey, at my age, just about everything swells. Don’t you be moanin’ and groanin’ over that Baptiste fella, though. They’s plenty more men in this city, and most of ’em don’t favor pokin’ their private parts in dead women.”
“Really?” Harriet said and batted her eyelashes some more. She pulled another chair up close to her guard so that they were almost knee to knee. “Joleen, you have the most beautiful eyes. No, really you do. They’re greenish, like mine, but much different. Look at mine. Look closely. See the pupils.”
Harriet’s voice took on a monotonous, tranquilizing tone. The eye method was one of her best hypnotherapy techniques. Within seconds, Joleen, who was probably exhausted to begin with and in a susceptible state of suggestion, lolled against the back of her chair in a deep trance.
Okay, step one accomplished.
“Why is Joleen sleeping?” a female voice asked.
Oh, great! It was Charity, strolling down the hall. By the looks of her wrinkled, red satin gown hanging half off one shoulder, she must have just finished with a client. Harriet instantly berated herself for her harsh assessment. Right now, she didn’t feel much better than a whore herself.
“Oh, Joleen just dozed off,” Harriet lied blithely. “Would you come in for a second?”
“Ain’t you s’posed to be locked up?” Charity asked dubiously.
“Oh, Etienne trusts me now,” She waved her hand airily toward the rumpled bed. Then, seating Charity on the chair, Harriet sank down to the bed and proceeded to tell the softhearted girl her sob story.
“Ain’t men the worst sort of rats?” Charity commiserated.
“Absolutely. By the way, Charity, do you know that you have the most unusual eyes?” Within minutes, Charity had joined Joleen in la-la land.
Hmmm. What to do with them?
Harriet smiled.
Carefully, she gave the two women their separate posthypnotic instructions. Joleen was to strut around the room, flapping her elbows like a chicken and clucking, “Cock-a-doodle-do.” Charity was to clasp her hands over her head and chant, “Etienne is a jerk, Etienne is a jerk, Etienne is a jerk….”
The password given to both women, which would end their trances, was, naturally, rooster.
Well pleased with her efforts thus far, Harriet whisked her hands together. Then she went over to the bed and lifted the mattress to obtain the most important element in her escape plan—the single bar of gold she’d filched from the coffin back on the train when Etienne and Cain had turned their backs on her
for one fortunate moment. Her insurance policy. Her ace in the hole. No way had she been going to leave that train, her anchor to the future, without some financial security.
Hey, she wasn’t a total nincompoop.
Putting the bar in her briefcase, along with Joleen’s gun belt and pistols—though what she’d do with those, Harriet had no idea—she headed for the door and freedom.
Even so, just before Harriet closed the door and turned the key in the lock, she felt tears well in her eyes. With painful insight, Harriet realized that she’d held something precious in her hands in this room, and somehow it had slipped through her fingers.
Chapter Ten
Etienne took one last sip of the thick chicory coffee, a Creole mainstay, and pushed his chair away from the table. It would be dawn soon. Time to leave the Crescent City.
“What the hell is taking Abel so long?” he grumbled.
“Need you ask?” Cain responded with an arched brow.
They’d long since finished the huge breakfast Simone had laid out for them before going off with Abel more than an hour ago. The fancy house customers had departed by now and the girls had retired after a tiring night’s work.
He stood and walked over to a side mirror, checking his disguise again. The blond wig and mustache changed his appearance dramatically, not to mention the pleated shirt, brocaded vest and frock coat left behind by one of the brothel’s customers.
This whole parade of disguises was wearing thin, and bordered on the ridiculous. But it was a game Etienne played to divert Pope. In order to win the game, they had to lead Pope and all the game players to Texas—the lair of the prime player in this charade. No sense killing ants if the main nest stayed intact.
“How come I never get to be the riverboat gambler?” Cain complained behind him. He was dressed in the blue uniform of a Yankee army corporal.
“A blond Negro?” Etienne inquired with a grin.
Cain shrugged. “I’ve seen a few.”
“Next time, then.”