“Sure,” he said. “Order anything you want.”
“Aren’t we going to try to get some information out of each other?” she asked. “I mean, isn’t that why you actually invited me?”
“And isn’t that why you came?” he asked. “Yes, we’re going to do that, but let’s eat first.”
Over dinner he found out how long she had been in San Francisco and how long she had been working for Adrian Webster.
“He came to this country ten years ago,” she said. “At that time I was ready to stop working in banking, so I applied for the job with him and got it.”
“And have you been happy in your job?”
“Yes, very,” she said. “He pays me well.”
“And are you in love with him?”
“Well, you really get to the point, don’t you?” she asked. “No, I’m not in love with him. That wouldn’t be right.”
“Because he’s younger?”
She smiled.
“Oh, no,” she said, “I like younger men very much. No, it’s because he’s my boss.”
“And if he wasn’t your boss?”
“But he is,” she said.
And that seemed to be the end of the subject.
Over dessert she tried to find out how he felt about being the Gunsmith. He dodged the question as long as he could.
“You really don’t like talking about this, do you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “but that doesn’t matter. It is what it is.”
“And you have to live with it.”
“Right.”
“What if you hadn’t become the Gunsmith?”
“But I did,” he said, “and I am.”
And that was the end of that.
After dessert she said, “Well, that was a wonderful meal. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They left the dining room, walked through the lobby, and out the front door.
“Cab, sir?” a doorman asked.
“I’ll see you home,” he said to Sara Jane.
“But I’m not ready to go home.”
“Do you want to do some gambling?”
“I don’t gamble.”
“Then what—”
“I want to go back to your hotel.”
He stared at her, and she smiled.
“I told you I like younger men.”
TWENTY-FIVE
When Clint entered the lobby of the Diamond Palace with Sara Jane, he saw Lily standing at the front desk with the clerk who had checked him in. It seemed like the poor kid was the only clerk in the place.
She frowned when she looked over at him, and he simply nodded and then went up the stairs after Sara Jane.
When they got to his room, he unlocked the door and allowed her to precede him. Inside he turned up the gas lamp on the wall, then removed the Colt New Line from behind his back. She watched him put the gun down on the dresser top.
“I hope that wasn’t a problem for you,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“That was Mrs. Kingsforth down in the lobby, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And she saw us come up here.”
“I don’t think she’ll evict me for that.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sara Jane said. “I thought perhaps you and she . . .”
“What? Oh, no,” Clint said. “She owns the hotel, and I’m doing some work to try and help her, but we haven’t ever . . . no.”
“Good,” she said, “I don’t like poaching on other women’s property.”
“I’m no one’s property,” he said.
“You know,” she said, undoing some buttons on the front of her dress, “I know what you thought when you first saw me.”
“You do? What was I thinking?”
“Not bad-looking for a spinster,” she said.
“I didn’t—”
“Sure you did,” she said. “That’s what all men think when they walk into that office. But that’s okay, it’s what I want them to think.”
She finished unbuttoning her dress and slid it down her waist, over her hips, and let it drop to the floor.
“But I’m not a spinster,” she said. “I’m a widow. I was married once, a long time ago.” She removed her undergarments, until she was standing there totally nude. He was surprised by her body. Big, rounded breasts and hips that she managed to hide beneath her clothes.
“He died, also a long time ago. Since then I pick and choose the men I want to be with. But I’ll never again allow a man to get that close to me. It hurts too much when he leaves.”
“Your husband died.”
“I know he did,” she said, with barely contained anger, “but he left me, nevertheless. But you’re not going to leave me, Clint Adams.”
She walked up to him and kept going until she bumped into him. Her breasts were very firm for a woman her age.
“Not tonight, anyway.”
Feeling the heat coming from her body he said, “Furthest thing from my mind.”
TWENTY-SIX
Sara Jane’s skin was remarkably smooth and fragrant. Clint kissed her shoulders, her neck, and then her mouth. He slid his hands up and down her back, then down to cup and knead her firm buttocks.
“Surprised?” she asked.
“I—what? How do you mean?”
“How old do you think I am?” she asked. “I’ll bet you expected sagging breasts and buttocks.”
“Sara Jane—”
“I know, I know, I look older dressed,” she went on, kissing his neck and unbuttoning his shirt. “I dress so I’ll look over fifty, but I’m not.”
“Oh, well—”
“I’m only forty-nine,” she said, sliding his shirt off. “Not as old as you thought, maybe, but still older than you.”
She kissed his nipples, ran her tongue around them, then went to work on his belt.
“And,” she said, pulling the belt free from the loops, “I’ll bet you thought I hadn’t had sex in a long time, and I’d be grateful for the attention.” She tossed the belt aside, undid the buttons on his trousers.
“Well, I didn’t—”
“Oh, sure you did,” she said, yanking his pants down almost angrily. “But I’m here to show you how wrong you were.”
Clint wasn’t sure he’d ever had sex before with a woman who angrily intending to prove a point. But he forgot all about it when Sara Jane got down on his knees and licked his rigid penis.
She took hold of his erection with both hands, stroked it, licked it from tip to shaft and back again, wetting it before finally taking it into her mouth and sucking it. She seemed very practiced and talented, so it was easy to believe that she had not gone without sex for any extended period of time.
She slid her hands up and down his legs, the backs of his thighs, then grabbed his buttocks and clenched her hands as she took the entire length of him into her mouth. Clint actually stood up on his toes and grabbed for her head when she did this.
Abruptly, she released his penis and sat back on her haunches.
“You look silly with your pants around your ankles and your boots still on,” she said. “Why don’t you take them off and join me on the bed?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
She got on the bed and watched as he removed his boots and kicked them and the pants away.
“Have you known many young women who could take you into their mouths like that? The whole length?”
He didn’t want to disappoint her by telling her that yes, he had run into some women who could do it.
As if she could read his mind she said, “And I don’t mean whores.”
“Well,” he admitted, “I haven’t met many secretaries who could do it.”
She reached for him as he got into bed with her, but he pushed her away and down onto her back.
“My turn,” he said. “You’re not the only one who wants to show off.”
“Be my guest,” she said, projecting
an attitude that indicated she didn’t expect much. Clint had the feeling Sara Jane had been disappointed by men in a lot more ways than her husband dying on her. And he was the one who was going to have to prove himself different.
Peter Forrest returned to his Lucky Lady later that evening with his face stitched and bandaged. He didn’t go into the saloon but instead went upstairs to his rooms. He was not anxious to see anyone or to be seen. Plus he was starving because he was not able to eat.
But although he couldn’t eat, he was being eaten up on the inside by his anger. How dare Clint Adams blind-side him like that? He was going to make sure the man paid for what he’d done, and if he was going to make him pay he might as well make Lily Kingsforth pay, as well. After all, she was the one who had sicced Adams onto him.
Forrest used his key to unlock his door and enter. He stopped short when he saw the person sitting in his armchair, waiting for him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, but it came out muffled and he had to repeat himself, enunciating very carefully.
“I heard what happened,” the person said, “and I thought I should do something about it before you did something stupid.”
“What . . . can . . . you . . . do?” Forrest asked, painfully forming the words.
“This.”
“What the hell—” Forrest said, but it came out, “Whuh de hul—”
The person in the armchair pointed a gun at Forrest and fired once. The bullet went in just above the bandages, and lodged inside his head. Forrest fell to the floor, face-first. The shooter checked to make sure he was dead, then got out of there.
There was probably too much noise downstairs for anyone to have heard the shot or the fall, but the shooter didn’t want to take any chances.
The shooter took the back staircase down and waited to make sure he wouldn’t run into anyone in the hallway. The noise from the saloon and gaming hall was loud, reinforcing the belief that no one had heard what went on upstairs.
Forrest had become a liability, even before Adams had humiliated him. Left alive, he would definitely have done something stupid.
The shooter quickly moved to the back door and went outside.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clint had Sara Jane on her hands and knees and was fucking her from behind. Her back was so smooth and beautiful that from this angle—if not for the gray in her hair—she could have been twenty years old.
She grunted as she drove her ass back into him, ground herself into him, rotated her hips before drawing away and then driving back again. At one point he was completely still and she was doing all the work, backing into him, sweating, growling, grunting with the effort. She not only looked younger from this angle, but she had the sexual appetite of a much younger woman. It was a shame she was so angry at men.
Clint loved women. He loved being around them and he loved making love to them. He didn’t think he could do it too well if he hated them. This made him wonder how good sex with Sara Jane would be if she loved men.
She disengaged from him just long enough to flip herself over onto her back, then grabbed him and pulled him back to her. He drove himself into her, and she wrapped her legs around him.
“Fuck me hard!” she said urgently into his ear. “I may be an old lady, but I won’t break.”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” he told her.
He slid his hands beneath her, held her, and starting slamming into her over and over again until it was he who was swearing and grunting.
She spoke to him while they rutted—that’s what they were doing, not making love, not even fucking—but only in single words, like “damn,” and “ooh,” and “God,” and “baby.”
The more time he spent with her, the harder it was to think of her as the woman he’d seen in Adrian Webster’s office.
She bit his shoulder, bringing him back from his reverie. This wasn’t the woman from the office; this was Sara Jane, the woman with her teeth in his shoulder and her legs wrapped around his waist.
“God, you’re so wet,” he said to her. The sheet between them was soaked with her juices. “I want to taste you.”
“Be my guest,” she said. She removed her legs from around his waist and spread them as wide as she could, holding on to her ankles. She had a look of pride on her face. Let’s see a woman twenty years younger do this!
Clint was tired of thinking. He got down between her legs and attacked her with his tongue and lips. Before long she was writhing and groaning and his face was shiny and wet with her.
“Oooh, God,” she moaned, “you’re sooooo good at that, aren’t you?”
He didn’t bother trying to answer. He was busy. He slid his hands beneath her ass and lifted her. Her juices had covered her ass cheeks and wet her anus. He licked up as much of it as he could, concentrating on her puckered pink orifice.
“Oh, Jesus,” she said, writhing even more. He held her tightly, though, and continued to lick that hole, then moved again to her wet pussy. Before long she was jerking uncontrollably, gasping for air, trying to push him away and hold him there at the same time . . .
She still had not gotten her breath back when he climbed atop her and entered her again. She was so sensitive that she started to spasm again immediately. Wave after wave of orgasm rolled over her, and later she’d think back and realize that she had blacked out for a moment.
This was definitely not a typical man.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” she said, later. She was sitting up, her arms wrapped around her knees.
“I just wanted to make sure you remembered me when I’m gone.”
“Oh, I’ll remember you, all right,” she said. “You’re the only man who ever licked my . . . I mean, I never felt anything like that before.”
“Good, I’m glad.”
“God.” She lay back down on her back and slapped her hands down on the mattress. “Can you do that every time?” she asked.
“I think the question is,” he said, “can you do that every time?”
She rolled over and smiled at him, reached down between his legs to take hold of him.
“I think we should check and see.”
“I’m ready again,” he said.
His penis was swelling in her hand and she said, “Oh, my, it is!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
There was a knock on the door the next morning to wake them both up.
“Who’s that?” she asked, anxiously, rubbing her eyes. “Oh my God, we fell asleep?”
“I think we knocked each other out,” he said.
“I can’t be seen—” She pulled the sheet up to her chest.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “This is a big room and the bed can’t be seen from the door.” He patted her bare shoulder. “I’m not going to let anyone in.”
When he stood up she thought he was reaching for his trousers, but instead he plucked his gun from his holster, which was hanging just above her.
“Wha—”
“Can’t be too careful,” he said.
“But . . . you’re still naked.”
He smiled and said, “That’s what they get for waking me up.”
When he opened the door he startled both Inspectors Burns and Logan.
“Whoa!” Logan said.
Clint didn’t know what startled them more, his nudity or the gun in his hand.
“Don’t shoot,” Burns said.
“What the hell—” Clint said. “It’s early.”
“Not too early for murder,” Burns said.
“Who got murdered?”
“Why don’t you get dressed and come downstairs and we’ll talk about it,” Logan said.
“And leave the gun,” Burns said. “And tell whoever’s in there with you we apologize for waking her.”
They started down the hall to the stairs and he closed the door.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“The police.”
“What did they want?”
“They want to
talk to me about somebody who got killed last night.”
“Who?” she asked, curiously.
“I’ll have to get dressed and go downstairs to find out,” he said. “Why don’t you wait here?”
“I have to go,” she said.
“If you walk through the hall, they’ll see you,” he said. “Why not wait until I get rid of them? I’ll come back up and tell you what’s going on.”
“Who could’ve been murdered?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, getting dressed. “I talked to a lot of people yesterday.”
“Do you think it’s Mr. Webster?” She was suddenly alarmed.
“I don’t know, Sara Jane,” he said. “If it is, I’ll come right up and tell you. If I’m not right back, you’ll know it’s not your boss. Why don’t you take a nice hot bath, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“All right,” she said. “A bath sounds nice.”
Fully dressed, he walked to the bed and kissed her. The morning light showed the lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth, but she still looked lovely. He kissed her, then went to the dresser for the New Line.
“Stay out of sight,” he told her, tucking the gun behind his back. He grabbed a jacket and put it on to cover the gun. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Okay.”
She was still sitting in the bed when he left, but had let the sheet drop from her. Her dark brown nipples stayed with him all the way down to the lobby.
TWENTY-NINE
He found the two inspectors waiting for him in the lobby.
“No six-gun?” Logan asked.
Clint didn’t answer.
“Why don’t we get some coffee?” Burns suggested.
“First tell me who’s dead,” Clint insisted.
The two policemen exchanged a glance, and then Burns said, “Peter Forrest, if it makes a difference.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “let’s get some coffee.”
Once they were in the dining room with coffee in front of them Clint said, “What’s going on?”
“We just have a few questions,” Burns said.
Bad Business Page 7