An Unlikely Lady

by Rachelle Morgan

  Jesse stood in a ray of setting sunlight in all his naked glory, every lean, tapering inch of him, beautifully bronzed and exquisitely proportioned. The air around her went tight and humid. She teetered on the verge of swooning.

  Speechlessly, she let her gaze roam over the body bared to her view. Bad enough he had a face so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him, but did he have to have a body to match? Wide shoulders, chiseled chest, abdomen flat and rippled with muscle.

  Her gaze dipped, drawn against her will to that fine line of hair extending from his navel to the impressive and unmistakable evidence of his desire.

  Oh, lands, she was in trouble. All that power, all that sensuality tucked into one masculine body . . .

  Even as she watched transfixed, the corners of his mouth turned upward in a smile of awareness, whether at his own power or its effect on her, she couldn’t say. But despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t tear her eyes away as he crossed the room with a loose-limbed stride that made her heart stutter. He then flipped the sheets over on the bed and climbed in. With his back propped against the headboard, arms winged behind his head, a devilish smile appeared on his fallen-angel face and a wicked promise glittered in eyes. Men of his caliber weren’t harmless—they were dangerous as sin.

  And resisting him was going to be harder than she’d ever dreamed.

  Aware that he was waiting, she forced her wobbly legs to carry her to the bed. She handed Jesse his glass of whiskey, lifted her own in the air, and, hoping he never knew how dearly she regretted what she was about to do, proposed a toast. “To an unforgettable night.”

  Chapter 3

  He couldn’t remember a damn thing.

  With his elbows propped on splayed knees, his head cupped in his hands, Jesse sat at the edge of the bed, naked as the day he was born. Around him, the scents of sweat and lilacs swirled together in a dizzying aftermath.

  His gaze turned to the woman in his bed. Her pale hair fanned across the pillow slip, silky tangles against pristine white. A vague image of burying his fingers in that hair stirred at the back of his memory, yet he couldn’t quite grasp it.

  She rolled onto her side. Her eyes were closed, her lashes casting shadowed crescents on flawless cheekbones. Her nose nuzzled the sheet as if inhaling its scent, and her lips curved into a smile of wistful bliss that had his gut knotting.

  Abruptly she stilled. A frown creased her brow. Then she shot up off the bed, giving him only a glimpse of bare back and pale, curvy bottom before snatching a blanket over her nudity. Eyes as wide and frantic as a stormy sea searched the room, then anchored on him.

  “Jesse?”

  “Expecting someone else?”

  “Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “Oh my gosh!”

  Through bleary eyes, he watched her throw a wrinkled chemise over her head, then wriggle into a pair of ruffled black drawers. Seeing her in the dark undergarments had as much an impact on him as the red corset he’d taken off her last night.

  At least, he thought he’d taken it off her.

  Jess strained to put the night in order in his mind. He distinctly remembered soft caresses and hot kisses that could turn a man to cinders. And he remembered laughing when Honesty spilled whiskey on his chest, then moaning when he made her lick it off . . .

  It got a little hazy after that. Nothing more than sensations of heat and dampness and the most insane need to possess that he’d ever felt in his life.

  The last thing he could recall with any clarity was climbing atop her soft and willing body and hoping like hell he didn’t explode before he buried himself inside her.

  And then . . . nothing. Not even a glimmer to remind him what had transpired next.

  “What . . .” He licked his lips, then glanced around for something to get rid of the chalky taste in his mouth. Half a glass of whiskey sat on the table. It was watered down and stale, but it was wet. “What happened last night?”

  She paused in the act of tying her chemise to look at him. “Last night?”

  For a split second, he’d have sworn she looked as confused as he felt. “Yeah. Did we . . . you know . . . finish?”

  “What kind of question is that? Of course we did!” She bustled about the room, plucking her dress off the chair and a dyed black petticoat from the floor. “Twice, in fact! We might have gone for a third time, except you had me so plumb wore out . . . well, let’s just say that had I known the extent of your talents, I’d have been more prepared. Have you seen my shoe?”

  Something about the way her words gushed out and she kept avoiding his eyes struck Jesse as odd, but his mind was too damned fuzzy to sort it out. How much had he drunk? A few whiskeys? Surely not enough to wipe his mind clean. Hell, he could outdrink an Irishman.

  “Gosh, I can’t believe I fell asleep in your bed. First time I’ve ever done that.”

  It was the first time he’d ever had a woman fall asleep in his bed. That was one thing Jesse had always prided himself on, and what had always made him so good at his job: clearing himself of the scene before it became incriminating.

  “By the way, you owe me three dollars.”

  “Three dollars!” he cried, then immediately regretted raising his voice when what felt like a thousand ice picks stabbed behind his eyeballs.

  “Surely you didn’t expect to spend a night with me for free.”

  No, but at that price he expected at least to remember it. How did he know he’d been given his money’s worth?

  Yet how could he prove he hadn’t?

  “Aw, hell and damnation.” Jesse ripped his trousers off the floor and plunged his hand into the front pocket. Pulling out a handful of coins, he blinked, then narrowed his eyes. Was this all he had left?

  She snatched the required amount from his palm so fast his head spun, then headed for the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. “Thanks, cowboy. You really were incredible.”

  At least one of them enjoyed it.

  After Honesty left, Jesse dragged himself off the bed, got dressed, and went downstairs hoping a strong cup of coffee would help clear his head.

  He found his hostess sitting at one of the tables, several books that looked like accounts spread open before her. From the frown of consternation on her face, the numbers weren’t meeting with her approval. “Mornin’, Scarlet.”

  She glanced up, then shut each book. “Well, good mornin’, Mr. Jones.” She leaned back in her chair and gave him an appreciative once-over. “My, my, my, don’t you clean up nicely?”

  He rubbed his hand self-consciously along the short bristles that replaced the bushy beard. “I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”

  Amusement glittered in her eyes as she gestured to the empty chair across from her. “Enjoyed yourself last night, did you?” she asked after he lowered himself into the seat.

  “I’m told I did.” At her strange look, he confessed, “It’s all a bit fuzzy right now.”

  “Well, from all the ruckus those bedsprings were making, the two of you were having a grand ole time.”

  Jess couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping. If they’d been so . . . obvious . . . that even Rose knew how they’d occupied the evening, how was it that his mind remained so blank?

  Something was beginning to smell rotten in the Scarlet Rose, and this time it wasn’t him.

  Jesse leaned back in his chair and feigned casual interest. “A woman of Honesty’s talents must be quite in demand.”

  Again she looked Jesse up and down and grinned. “She seems to have a certain . . . effect on men.”

  That she did. “How long has she been working for you?”

  “A few weeks. Poor tiling wound up working in one of the mining camps after losin’ her family. Diphtheria, I think she said.”

  A common occurrence, and no reason to question it, Jesse thought. He’d been in enough mining camps to know that they were prime breeding grounds for disease. It also explained why she was so sensitive about that ring from her father. Still, Jesse could
n’t rid himself of the niggling feeling that there was something missing in the story. “Why didn’t she just get married? Men are a dime a dozen and it isn’t as if she’s hard on the eyes. I doubt she’d have had any trouble finding a husband.”

  Rose made a sound of disgust, leaned back in her chair, and folded her hands over her stomach. “You think I didn’t try convincing her of that? When she showed up on my doorstep, I told her she should find herself a good man, settle down, have a couple of young’uns . . . she looked at me like I’d asked her to drink poison. She was bent on workin’, so I figured she’d be safer here, where I could watch out for her, than in back in one of those camps.”

  As much as he hated to admit it, Rose was right. Honesty was a grown woman, fully capable of making her own decisions. If she chose to make her living this way he supposed she was a lot better off doing it here than in some filthy camp with a bunch of desperate miners.

  Jesse frowned. Maybe that’s what bothered him: why would a woman who made her living off men choose to work in a dying town that saw so few of them?

  “You’re awful curious about a girl you’ve only known a night,” Rose remarked. “You aren’t thinkin’ on stealin’ her away, are you?”

  Jesse’s head snapped up. “Hell, no!” Just the thought of getting involved with another woman sent a shudder down his spine. “I just wondered why a girl as pretty as her would choose this kind of life, that’s all.”

  “Most of the men who show up at my place don’t care why. They only care how soon and how much.”

  She had a point. He’d never given any thought before to what made women turn to whoring; why concern himself with it now? So it still nettled that he couldn’t recollect spending the night with a woman as lusty as Honesty. He should count himself lucky that memory loss was all he’d suffered for his moment of weakness. Greater prices had been paid for smaller follies—Miranda had taught him that lesson well.

  Yep, best he put the little firebrand upstairs out of his mind and start focusing on the person he really wanted. Deuce McGuire.

  Chair legs screeching across the floor cut through his thoughts as Scarlet rose. “How about some biscuits and gravy, Mr. Jones? You’ve probably worked up quite an appetite—”

  “It’s Jesse—and thanks for the offer, but don’t go to any trouble on my account. In fact, I think I’ll see how my horse is faring this morning so I can be on my way.”

  “So soon?”

  “I’ve been here longer than I planned.” He got to his feet, reached into his pocket, and tossed several coins atop Rose’s ledgers. It was twice the amount she charged, but he figured she could use it more than he could. “In case I don’t see you again, take care of yourself.”

  “You, too, Jesse. I hope you meet up with your friend.”

  “Oh, I will. You can count on it.”

  He’d not sleep until he did.

  Twelve dollars. Honesty stared in despair at the pile of coins, gold nuggets, and bank notes she’d dumped across her bedspread. That was all she had to show for three months of hard scraping, conning, and outright cheating. At this rate, she’d never get to Galveston. She’d be lucky if she got out of Colorado.

  Her fingers went to the ring around her neck. For a moment she swore she could still feel the heat of Jesse’s fingers brushing her skin. She closed her eyes and her mind filled with images of him as he’d been last night, lying in the tub wearing nothing but soap suds and a smile . . . standing in a ray of red-gold sunlight, all slicked and bronzed and glorious . . . sprawled across her stomach in drugged oblivion . . .

  Oh, God. She still couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep in his bed. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking, and that was the problem. Never, in all the times she’d forced herself to endure a man’s groping, waiting for him to fall asleep so she could slip out with him none the wiser, had she ever been so swept away that she’d forgotten herself.

  But last night had felt neither like groping nor endurance. With Jesse’s flesh pressed against hers, his breath hot against her breast, his hands tangled possessively in her hair, sensations had kindled inside her that she hadn’t thought herself capable of feeling. If he hadn’t passed out when he had . . . her heart picked up speed when she realized how close she’d come, how tempted she’d been, to finish what they’d started in his bath.

  Shaking the ludicrous thought from her mind, Honesty let the ruby fall and returned her attention to her small cache of savings and the map spread across her bed. A line of stars marking a dozen years of travel cut a diagonal path through Colorado, into New Mexico, then down through Texas to the Gulf.

  The truth is hidden in the flowing stones.

  Honesty shook her head, as perplexed now by her father’s last words as she’d been the day she’d heard them. The truth about what? And where were the flowing stones? What were the flowing stones? A river? A canyon? A gold mine? Oh, the possibilities were endless.

  Well, the only way to solve the riddle he’d left her was to find the flowing stones. Go back the way we came. She’d narrowed down that part of the riddle at least, and had memorized the name of every place she and Deuce had ever been between Denver and Galveston.

  Twelve dollars wouldn’t get her very far, but at least it would get her somewhere. If necessary, she supposed she could sell the ruby and buy herself a train ticket, or a seat on a southbound stage . . .

  No. She’d not sell the ring unless she had absolutely no other choice. It was all she had left of Deuce. That, and a puzzle she had yet to understand.

  So now, the only thing left to do was to find a suitable escort.

  She certainly couldn’t ask Jesse, not after last night. The journey would takes weeks—even months! She didn’t doubt for a second that he would expect her to indulge him whenever the mood struck. And given the way she turned to mush every time he so much as looked at her . . . well, that was just asking for trouble.

  Who else was there, though? Honesty wondered, fighting back discouragement. If she could make the journey on her own, she would. Unfortunately, Deuce’s vagabond lifestyle had taught her early on the perils a woman faced in a world ruled by men. And since his death, she’d learned firsthand that traveling alone was just plain foolish. As much as she wished otherwise, she needed protection. She needed a man. Someone strong enough to keep danger at bay, yet manageable enough to control. Jesse was strong enough, that she didn’t doubt. But manageable? She shook her head. He didn’t strike her as a man anyone easily controlled.

  Or was he?

  If only she knew more about him—where he was from, what he did for a living, what kind of friends he had . . . what did she really know of Jesse Jones, other than that he had the face of an angel, the charm of the devil, and a body as inviting as sin?

  Maybe he was just a rambler, as he claimed; he had that look about him. Yet there was something more, an unleashed power, an untamed aura she couldn’t define . . .

  Oh, her decision would be so much easier if the man wasn’t so much a mystery.

  Or so much a temptation.

  A sudden rumbling in her stomach rescued her thoughts from venturing once again into forbidden territory. Knowing that Rose would be expecting her to help with the midday meal, Honesty folded the map, capped the money jar, and returned both to their hiding spot before venturing out into the hallway. Her steps slowed as she passed by the open doorway to Jesse’s room. The bed was neatly made, the clothes gone, his saddlebags missing.

  With a curious frown she sought out Rose and found her sitting alone in the main room of the saloon, scratching on a tablet with a pencil. “Where’s our guest?”

  “You just missed him,” Rose answered without looking up. “He left about ten minutes ago.”

  He’d left? The bottom dropped out of Honesty’s stomach. “Where’d he go?”

  “Said he was goin’ to check on his horse.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  Rose shrugged. “He didn’t say and I didn’
t ask.”

  A strange emptiness spread through her, which made no sense. She should be glad he was gone. It had been hard enough waking up beside him; seeing him after her story of unbridled passion would not only have been awkward, but downright foolish.

  “He seemed mighty taken with you, though,” Rose said with a smile in her voice.

  Honesty glanced quickly at Rose’s bent head and fought a surge of panic. “Did he say something?”

  “Nope. But he was askin’ all kinds of questions about you.” She peered up at Honesty and her mouth twitched, as if holding back a grin. “I don’t know what you did, but it sure left an impression on him.”

  Honesty averted her gaze. She didn’t want to think about what Rose would do if she ever learned how she’d “handled” Jesse. And if Jesse ever found out how she’d duped him . . .

  A sliver of guilt crept into her conscience. Drugging a customer, then playing it off afterward hadn’t bothered her any other time she’d been forced to do it; why should it bother her now? She’d been trained to play on human weakness; it had been ingrained since she could remember. The one time she’d given in to a weakness of her own, she’d paid the price—with her father’s life.

  Fresh grief welled up at the memory, and Honesty pushed it to the back of her mind, then slipped into the chair across from Rose. Strands of her golden-red hair had escaped their pins and fell about her shoulders. Honesty couldn’t tell if Rose had recently woken up or if she’d not gone to bed at all. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to turn coal into gold,” Rose said, scribbling something in one of the books before her. “That damned Eli Johnson is going to be the end of me yet. First he steals my girls, then he steals my customers, now he’s about to steal my livelihood.”

  Contrition instantly rose up inside Honesty. Lately, she’d been so focused on her own problems that she hadn’t given much thought to the struggles Rose faced in keeping the saloon’s doors open. Eli Johnson owned the Black Garter, a bordello that sat directly on the stage route a few miles east. He’d been sweet on Rose once, but when she didn’t return his affections, he swore he’d make her regret spurning him. Evidently, it was working. “Are things that bad?”