by Heidi Betts
RAVE REVIEWS FOR HEIDI BETTS'S ROSE TRILOGY
"[Almost A Lady] is just too excellent for words! . . . An exciting read that will most certainly hit the bestseller lists!"
—Huntress Book Reviews
"Cinnamon and Roses is an engaging and fast-paced tale . . . a well-crafted debut novel that will leave readers eager for Ms. Betts's next one. Excellent!
—Rendezvous
"Books like Cinnamon and Roses are few and far between. The story will tug at your heartstrings and tickle your funny bone . . .. Cinnamon and Roses is a keeper."
—Reader to Reader
"A delightful romance that enthralled and enchanted me from the beginning. An outstanding read."
—Rendezvous on A Promise of Roses
"Snappy dialogue makes this a quick read."
—Romantic Times on A Promise of Roses
"The dialogue is dynamic, the writing superb! Ms. Betts is an absolutely wonderful writer . . . . Don't miss any of [the Rose trilogy]! FANTASTIC! 5 BELLS!"
—Bell Book & Candle on A Promise of Roses
"Ms. Betts's Rose trilogy is well worth reading."
—Old Book Barn Gazette
ALMOST A MARRIAGE
Brandt shifted on the cushioned seat. "It will be interesting during this little adventure to see how well we share a bedroom . . . and a bed, don't you think?"
What little oxygen the tight corset allowed froze in her lungs. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to look him in the eye. His lips were crooked in a sexy, suggestive grin, but she steeled herself against his charm. "We'll share accommodations by necessity, not by choice. And I'm trusting you to keep your hands—as well as your lascivious thoughts—to yourself," she added with what she hoped was a firm hands- off glare. "I don't let personal issues muddle the clear lines of an investigation."
The cocky grin remained while his eyes drifted over her face, her shoulders, down to the swell of her breasts. "Usually," he said softly.
She raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
"Usually," he repeated. "You don't usually let personal issues conflict with professional ones." His gaze held hers, his hazel eyes burning like hot coals. "You're a woman. I'm a man. It's obvious we're attracted to one another. It's going to be hard to ignore that attraction while sharing a chamber, a bed, a marriage—however fraudulent."
"It may be difficult," Willow said, "but I do hope you'll try." Because God knew, she didn't have the strength to resist him alone.
Other Leisure Books by Heidi Betts:
CINNAMON AND ROSES
A PROMISE OF ROSES
A LEISURE BOOK®
January 2001
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Copyright © 2001 by Heidi Betts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 0-8439-4817-5
The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.
To Sandra Hill—for everything. For all the years of critique and conferences; for pushing me into my first agent/editor appointments and teaching me everything I need to know about promotion; for being such a great friend and mentor. And most of all, for saying you think this is my best book yet.
Acknowledgements
A very special thank you to Harvey Turner and Tim Hartman of the Union Pacific Corporation in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Years ago, you took the time to talk to a budding author about the history of the Union Pacific Railroad, and to answer my many questions. There's only one thing I've never figured out for sure: Would Brandt and Willow sleep on the top or bottom berth of a Union Pacific sleeper car?
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Author's note
Prologue
His eyes darted up and down the dock. Other than a few drunken sailors and painted prostitutes, the dark, fog- shrouded wharf of the Lower East Side was nearly deserted.
Perfect, he thought. Perfect.
He tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane, giving instructions to the driver—also his valet and trusted companion. He chuckled wickedly. Outram would never speak a word of what he witnessed to anyone, of that he could be certain. Poor Outram had lost his tongue at the age of fifteen to an abusive father.
The shiny black carriage slowed, pulling up beside a petite young woman. Strands of dirty black hair fell from the loose coil atop her head. A well-worn, dark blue shawl covered shoulders left bare by her camisole. Which, along with a heavy, too-short woolen skirt was all she wore.
He pushed open the door, beckoning her into the car-
Chapter One
Jefferson City, Missouri, 1886
"Care to try that again?” She bobbed to the right, bouncing on the balls of her feet, waiting for Sammy to take another drunken swing. “Come on, Sammy, give it up,” she coaxed.
"Who are you, mister?” he asked, a moment before striking out with a weak right hook.
The punch grazed her shoulder. She stumbled back a step before regaining her footing and landing a solid punch to his midsection. He dropped to the ground with a heavy thump.
With the sky turning to dusk, few people were out, but her eyes darted to either end of the darkened alley, assuring herself that their conversation was still a private one. “Now, are you going to come willingly, or do I have to do a little more convincing?"
"No, no.” Sammy raised his hands in surrender. “I won't give you any more trouble."
"Good.” She pulled a pearl-handled Smith & Wesson revolver from the waistband of her pants. “Get up."
Sammy stumbled to his feet, his eyes blotched red from too much drink.
"Turn around.” She flattened his hands against the side of the building, smoothing hers down his body from shoulders to ankles to check for weapons. “Fancy that, Sammy. You haven't been this clean since the day you were born."
"I didn't do nothin',” he protested.
"You squealed on your best friend for a bottle of whiskey and a train ticket out of town."
He whirled around. His beady eyeballs near
ly popped the sockets of his long, narrow face. “H-how'd you know about th-that?"
Her free hand slipped inside the pocket of her oversized coat for a set of heavy metal handcuffs. “It's my job to know these things, Sammy,” she replied easily, motioning him back toward the wall.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she sensed a change in her surroundings. Her head swung around a second before she heard me deep male voice.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
The stranger stepped closer, into the shadows of the alley, until all she could make out clearly was the broad expanse of his shoulders.
The barrel of her gun pressed more deeply into Sammy's back as she replaced me cuffs in her pocket, readying herself to deal with this newest threat. “This ain't none of your concern,” she told him, making her voice unnaturally rough. “Mind your business and get the hell out of here."
"I don't think so,” he said evenly.
"You gotta help me, mister,” Sammy whined.
"Shut up, Sammy,” she growled.
But Sammy didn't heed the warning. He edged forward a step. “I told him I ain't got no money on me, but he don't believe it. You gotta help me,” he pleaded with the stranger. “'Fore he shoots me in the back."
The last thing she needed was some good Samaritan poking his nose where it didn't belong. With any luck, he'd back off and she wouldn't have to shoot him.
The stranger took another step forward.
So much for that, she thought.
"I'd hate to waste a bullet killing an innocent man,” she said, changing the direction of her aim.
He stared down the barrel of the revolver. “I'd hate to die,” he replied smoothly.
"Then just turn around and walk away."
"I can't do that."
Suddenly Sammy broke free, racing for the street.
"Sammy!” She aimed for his thigh, intending to hobble, not kill him.
But before she could get off a shot, the stranger barreled into her, knocking her to her back on the hard ground. The air rushed out of her lungs as the revolver spun across the ground, out of reach.
She kicked, but the man pinned her legs. She tried to wriggle away, but strong hands pressed into her shoulders, keeping her flat.
"Give it up,” he ordered.
Her struggles ceased. She forced herself to relax, letting her muscles go slack.
"Good,” the man said.
She watched him carefully, waiting for his guard to drop.
He sat up on his haunches, straddling her hips. “Christ, for such a scrawny fellow, you sure can hold your own,” he said, wiping the palms of his hands on his thighs as he got to his feet. “We both know the odds are against you, mister. Get up.” He extended an arm in her direction.
She watched him carefully. “You taking me to jail?” she asked.
"You did try to rob that man,” was his only answer.
Letting out a breath, she lowered her eyes in defeat. With great reluctance, she put her hand in his. He gave a tug and pulled her to her feet.
"Let's go,” he said, beginning to turn, as though he expected her to follow.
Lightning-quick, she struck out with the heel of her hand, catching him on the side of the face, just below the eye. He gave a yelp of pain. She knocked him off balance, propelling him into the nearest building, while in the same motion drawing a pearl-handled stiletto from inside her boot.
Her fingers curled around the collar of his shirt. “For such a big man, you sure don't have much brains,” she said.
Brandt's eyes narrowed. There was something not quite right about this whole scenario. How had a man of such small stature gotten the drop on him—all six feet three inches of him? And why would this fellow be robbing a man with clothes more tattered than his own?
He looked more closely at his captor's face. Even in the muted evening light he took in long, thick lashes, high cheekbones, and smooth skin without a hint of beard stubble. And bright eyes the color of . . . amethyst.
His own eyes widened. His assailant was no man. “You're a—"
"Shut up. Unless you want to explain a new medical condition to your wife."
For a minute he didn't know what she meant. Then he felt the cool steel of a knife at his groin. His gaze darted downward in surprise a second before a grin spread across his face. This woman might be the most able-bodied female he'd ever had the misfortune to run across, but there was no way she'd actually do as she threatened.
"Listen, you're not really going to do anything with that knife,” he said.
"Oh, yeah?” The sharp point of the blade pressed against his inner thigh.
He winced. Maybe she did intend to use it. But even if she didn't, accidents happened. She might slip. And he might end up a eunuch.
"I'm going to be real sweet and give you two choices. You can either walk away and never look back, or you can become uncommonly intimate with the blade of my knife.” She moved the stiletto a little to the left, cutting into the sensitive flesh of his manhood. “Which is it going to be?” she asked.
"I think I'd like to keep everything right where it is,” he said.
She slid the knife from between his legs, slowly. “Then I suggest you start walking."
He cleared his throat, tugging at the front of his trousers to make sure everything was intact.
"It's still there,” she told him. “But it won't be for long if you don't get moving."
The silver blade glittered in the pale lamplight. As she palmed the weapon, Brandt noticed a uniquely intricate design carved into the pearl handle. It looked like two forms standing beneath the bowed branches of a large tree.
He raised his head, taking in her loose trousers, baggy black jacket, and knit cap tugged down about her ears. But a heart-shaped face and sparkling eyes belied the masculine ensemble.
And no mere woman was going to get the drop on him.
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist in a vicelike grip. With a harsh yank, he turned her away from him, twisting her arm behind her back. “Drop the knife,” he hissed.
For a moment, she struggled against him, knuckles white on the hilt of the blade. Then her grip loosened. The weapon fell to the dirt with a thud.
He let go of her wrist, sliding an arm seductively about her waist. He couldn't decipher any feminine curves, but that did not dispel his belief in her gender.
"So tell me what a woman is doing out at this time of night,” he whispered above her ear. “Dressed like a man."
He didn't feel her movement until the heel of her boot made contact with his shin. Shards of razor-sharp pain splintered up his leg. At the same time, she drove her elbow into his stomach. He doubled over, cursing a rainbow of colorful language.
The woman grabbed up her knife and revolver and took off down the alley without a backward glance.
Brandt limped after her for several paces, then stopped at the corner of the building to soothe his bruised and battered body. A favor to a friend had brought him to this godforsaken town, and he was none too happy about it But he would take tracking down a simple songbird looking for her missing brother over following that woman any day.
And, suddenly, going after Willow Hastings didn't seem like such a trial after all.
Chapter Two
A knock sounded on the door. “Ten minutes, Willow,” a woman's voice warned.
Grunting, Willow pushed herself the rest of the way through the window, hitting the floor with a solid clunk. “Coming,” she managed to call out.
Ten minutes.
She pulled off her cap, shaking the curl back into her long hair. She'd have been back and ready in plenty of time if that brainless Neanderthal hadn't interfered with her plans.
The heavy black coat, boots, and trousers joined the cap in a pile in the corner. Now she was unprepared to go on stage and she'd lost Sammy the Snake. Robert would not be happy about that.
With more force than necessary, she tugged her favorite royal blue show dress over her head. It
took some doing, but the stiff fabric finally molded itself to her body. The tight, tapered waist left little to the imagination, and only a few well-placed black ruffles kept her bosom from being completely exposed by the off-the-shoulder gown.
She gave herself a quick once-over in the full-length mirror. If she didn't hit the high notes tonight, at least she knew the audience—entirely male—would enjoy the view.
She grabbed a pair of pale silk stockings from the bureau, hurriedly sliding them on. Royal blue garters, the same color as her dress, held them in place. Removing the stiletto scabbard from her boot, she slipped it through the garter on the inside of her thigh. She never went anywhere without at least one weapon.
"Five minutes.” Beverly, the house's madam, tapped rapid-fire on the door.
"Coming,” she yelled again. With a quick twist, she fixed the hair atop her head, leaving a fall of brownish-red curls to cascade down her back.
Francis and Robert, her Pinkerton supervisors, would both kill her if they knew she was singing in a saloon/ whorehouse, she thought. The Agency motto might be, “We Never Sleep,” but personally, Willow liked “We Get the Job Done” better. What did it matter how she solved a case, as long as she solved it?
She headed for the door, then stopped abruptly. “Shoes.” Her eyes scanned the room. No shoes. “Where are they?” she mumbled, throwing open the closet door. When she didn't find them there, either, she got down on her hands and knees and started rooting around under the bed.
"Shoes, shoes, shoes. . .” They had to be somewhere. She'd worn the dark blue slippers just last week.
She heard the door open behind her and let out a long-suffering sigh. If her singing didn't draw such a crowd, Beverly wouldn't have cared less if Willow was on stage on time or not. But the men who came to see the show ultimately stuck around to spend money on Bev's girls.
"I'm coming,” she said. “Give me a minute."