Out of the Past

by J. R. Roberts

  “Be careful what you say about her—”

  “Fine, fine,” Cameron said. “Get drunk if you want to—stay drunk, too, but do it at home, huh? Don’t do it in public.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Billy said, “I wouldn’t want to embarrass the family.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Cameron said. “Just remember that. Now go home, crawl into a bottle. Get it out of your system.”

  Billy got to his feet, stumbled, regained his balance and made his way to the door. Cameron watched, both disgusted and dismayed. This was the man who was going to take over the empire. He was going to have to talk to Lorna. The woman was lovely. Surely, she could use her considerable talents to make her husband forget the dead woman.

  Clint had decided to make a bold move after leaving Lieutenant Abernathy. Why not beard the lion in his own den?

  He entered Louis G. Cameron’s office, located in another of Kansas City’s more modern brick structures. The slender man seated at the desk looked up and frowned.

  “Mr. Cameron sees no one without an appointment,” he said.

  “How do you know I don’t have an appointment?” Clint asked.

  The man smiled.

  “Because I make all his appointments.”

  At that point the door to Cameron’s office opened and a young man came staggering out. He almost bumped into Clint and kept going out the door.

  “Did he have an appointment?”

  “That was Mr. Cameron’s son.”

  “Ah,” Clint said, “the famous Billy I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  “And who would you be?”

  “You first,” Clint said.

  “I am Franklin Walters, Mr. Cameron’s assistant,” the man said.

  “Well, my name is Clint Adams,” Clint said. “I think Mr. Cameron will see me . . . don’t you?”

  The man stared at Clint with his mouth open, then got up and said, “I-I’ll see.”

  “You do that.”

  He stumbled to the office door and through it in a good impersonation of drunk Billy Cameron. As Clint waited, he sniffed the air. The whiskey smell coming off of Billy was still there. He had a feeling father and son were not getting along well.

  “What is it, Walters?” Cameron asked, annoyed. “Billy staggers out and now you come stumbling in?”

  “Um, Clint Adams is outside to see you.”

  “What? Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Well, he said he wa—”

  “Never mind,” Cameron said. He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a gun, checked to make sure it was loaded, then replaced it. He left the drawer ajar. “All right, show him in.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “Oh, show him in, Walters!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint waited patiently until the door finally opened and the assistant came out.

  “You can go in, sir.”

  “Why, thank you, Walters,” Clint said, moving past the man.

  He closed the door firmly in Walter’s face.

  “Mr. Cameron?” he asked the old man behind the desk.

  “I’m Cameron,” the man said in a raspy voice. “You’re supposed to be Clint Adams?”

  “I am,” Clint said. “I’m the man you sent a boy named Joe Bravo to kill.”

  “I did nothing of the kind,” Cameron said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Clint approached the desk, noticed the man’s right hand twitch near a partially open desk drawer.

  “I doubt that very much, Mr. Cameron,” Clint said.

  “From what I’ve heard about you, you always know what’s going on.”

  “That may be, but you’re talking crazy,” Cameron said. “Why would I send a boy to kill you?”

  “You’re right,” Clint said. “You wouldn’t. You sent him to test me. When you do send someone to kill me, it’ll be a man, won’t it?”

  “Still taking crazy, sir.”

  “That was your son leaving here, wasn’t it?” Clint asked. “Actually, I need to talk to him as well.”

  “I would stay away from my son if I were you, sir,” Cameron said warningly.

  “Is that right? Why’s that? You and he have a fight? Are you afraid of what he might say?”

  He could tell Louis Cameron did not like being braced in his own office. His right hand was twitching. He had a feeling if the old man had been just a few years younger he would have gone for that gun in the drawer.

  “You want to grab that gun in your drawer, I’ll give you a head start, old man,” Clint said.

  Cameron pulled his hand back as if he had been suddenly burned.

  “Good choice,” Clint said. “Live a little longer.”

  “I’m not sure you have anything to say to me, Mr. Adams, so get out of my office.”

  “Let me make this clear before I leave,” Clint said. “I know you had something to do with the death of Anne Archer. I’m going to find out who pulled the trigger on her, and after I take care of that I’ll trace the killer back to you. And then I’ll be back and we’ll see if you have the nerve to go for that gun in the drawer.”

  Cameron glared at him with hatred.

  “I’m going to turn my back now and walk out,” Clint said. “You’ll have a chance to try to shoot me in the back.”

  Clint turned, walked to the door, then looked around and stared hard at Cameron, who hadn’t moved.

  “Good choice.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  While Clint Adams was in with Louis Cameron, Olivia Cameron entered the outer office.

  “Is he in?” she asked Walters. “What am I saying? Of course he’s in. Where else would he be, darling?”

  “Don’t call me that here,” Walters hissed. “He’s inside with Clint Adams.”

  “Clint Adams?” she asked. “Really?” She had only ever heard of the man, but she was thrilled.

  Suddenly, the door opened and a tall man stepped out.

  “Hey, Walters,” Clint said, “better get your boss some water. I think his mouth’s a little dry.”

  “What did you do—”

  “Mr. Adams?”

  Clint turned and saw an absolutely lovely woman standing there with a blue dress that hugged every curve of her.

  “Yes?”

  “I just—well, it’s just a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said. “My name is Olivia Cameron. The man with the dry mouth is my husband.”

  “Really?” Clint asked. “You and him?”

  Walters wanted to stay and listen to their conversation, but he also felt he should go into the office and check on his boss.

  “I know,” she said, “it’s hard to believe, but . . .” She shrugged.

  “Mrs. Cameron—”

  “Oh, Olivia, please.”

  “Olivia,” he said, “I was just going to go try to find a good cup of coffee and a piece of peach pie. Would you be able to recommend someplace?”

  “Why, yes, there’s a perfectly nice—”

  “And would you join me?”

  Her eyes widened and her breathing deepened, which did nice things to her chest.

  “I would love to join you.”

  “Well, then let’s go,” he said, extending his arm.

  She slid her arm into his and they left right away. Walters came rushing out of the office just in time to see them go. He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it quickly.

  After all, what could he have said?

  “What was your business with my husband?” Olivia asked when they got outside.

  “Why should we talk about that?” he asked. “Which way to the peach pie?”

  She giggled and said, “This way,” tugging on his arm.

  Walters didn’t know what to do so he went back into the office, where Cameron had just kicked him out.

  “What the hell do you want?” the old man demanded. He was holding a tumbler of whiskey and his hand was shaking. “I told you I don’t want any damn water.”

  “
I . . . Olivia just walked in the door, and—”

  “I don’t want to see her.”

  “Uh, no, I mean . . . she left.”

  “So?”

  “With him.”

  “With who?”

  “With the Gunsmith.”

  “You’re telling me my wife just left with Clint Adams?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you let her go?”

  “H-how could I have stopped them?”

  Cameron stared at Walters for a moment, then said, “How, indeed. Walters, come have a glass of whiskey.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “You strike me as being a smart woman,” Clint told Olivia when they were seated with coffee and pie in front of them.

  “Really?” she asked. “Little ol’ me?”

  “I think a lot of men buy into your act,” he went on, “like your husband.”

  She sat back and lowered her voice about an octave.

  “Oh, you can bet he bought it,” she said. “But you know what? He’s no dope. He bought what he wanted, and I give it to him.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “A beautiful wife to wear on his arm.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “You mean, do I share his bed?” She shuddered. “No, we have a strict hands-off policy.”

  “So what do you do when you want . . . hands on?”

  She smiled.

  “I pick the hands I want on me,” she said, “but so far I’ve had nothing but disappointment in Kansas City. There seems to be no men here who know what to do with a woman.”

  “That’s a shame,” he said. “A woman like you deserves to be handled right.”

  “You know,” she said, leaning forward and giving him the full effect of her green eyes, “I’ve heard stories about you.”

  “You can’t believe everything you hear,” he said. “Nobody alive can have killed as many men as I’m given credit for.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I wasn’t talking about your prowess with a gun.”

  “Oh?”

  “Before I lived here,” she said, “I lived in San Francisco. I met several women who had many . . . nice things to say about you.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Clint said. “I mean, having people say something nice about me for a change.”

  “Oh,” she said, “they were very complimentary.”

  Clint leaned over his half-eaten pie and said, “And you’re curious, aren’t you?”

  “To tell you the truth,” she said, “I’m desperate, and you just may be the answer to a girl’s prayer.”

  “So where do we go from here, Olivia?”

  “I’ll bet you have a room in the best hotel in town.”

  “You’d win that bet.”

  “Then I say we go there.”

  THIRTY

  Clint thoroughly enjoyed escorting Olivia Cameron under the clerk’s nose, because he knew word would get back to her husband.

  When they got to his suite, she looked around and asked, “How did you rate the best suite in the house?”

  “Maybe I scared the clerk,” Clint said.

  “You know my husband owns this hotel.”

  “I suspected as much,” he said. “Word got back to your husband pretty quick that I checked in.”

  “Word gets back to my husband about everything.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that he’ll hear about this?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “It will kill him, especially if you and he are doing business.”

  “We’re not doing business, exactly,” Clint said.

  She began to loosen the stays on her dress and slip out of it.

  “You see, I believe your husband had a friend of mine killed.”

  She stopped just for a second, then stepped out of the dress and said, “Oh, yes? You’ll have to tell me about that . . . later.”

  She undid her undergarments, let them fall to the ground, and then stood with her hands on her hips.

  “You see this?” she asked. “My husband is paying a lot of money for this—and he’s not allowed to touch.”

  Clint eyed her firm breasts, slender waist, long legs and the bush between her legs and said, “A fool and his money . . .”

  If Olivia Cameron was disappointed with Clint’s performance, she was making too much noise to notice.

  Clint shucked his clothes quickly and took the woman to bed, determined to make sure she had a time to remember. Also, he apparently had a reputation with the ladies in San Francisco to live up to.

  Most of all he wondered if Olivia would go home and tell her husband all about her afternoon.

  Normally, Clint would have turned her advance down. She was prideful, and she was married, two things he did not like in a woman. But even though he was doing this to get to her husband, there was no harm in enjoying a beautiful woman.

  Holding her in bed, he realized she had quite a beautiful mouth. Her upper lip was almost as full as the lower, and when he kissed her it was a wonderful experience. She moaned deep in her throat, slid her hands down his body until she had hold of his erection.

  “Oh, God, yes,” she said, sliding her mouth from his, “I want to get a close look at you.”

  “Not yet,” he whispered, “first I get to look at you . . . and touch you.”

  He kissed her neck, slid his hand over one breast, then the other before leaning down to kiss them. Her skin was pale and smooth, her nipples dark brown. He took one in his mouth, rolled it around with his tongue while he slid his hand down to her moist pussy. He used a finger to part the slick lips and then slid the tip of his finger up and down, making her moan and move her legs. He bit her nipple, then moved to the other one and spent some time there before moving his mouth down, working his way along her body. He tickled her belly button with the tip of his tongue, kissed her belly, moved down farther and nuzzled her pubic bush with his nose. The scent of her wetness was heady and he delved in with his tongue until he could taste her. Her body jerked and she cried out when the tip of his tongue found her clit. He slid his hands beneath her to cup her buttocks and lift her off the bed. This gave him a better angle to work on her pussy with his mouth and tongue until she was writhing on the bed, banging her fists on the mattress, tossing her head from side to side crying out, “That’s it! That’s it! That’s what I’ve been missing . . .”

  Moments later she was sitting on the bed with her knees pulled up to her chest, catching her breath.

  “Finally,” she said, “a man who knows how to touch a woman.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long,” he said, sitting across from her.

  “So am I,” she said. “Jesus.” She touched her left breast. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I mean, so much pleasure after waiting so long.”

  She stretched her legs out then, put her hands behind her and leaned back. This position thrusted her breasts out and he could see that her dark nipples were still hard. He could also still smell her. The scent of her excitement permeated the room.

  “Now,” she said, eyeing him up and down, “it’s my turn . . .”

  “Me?”

  She quickly got to her knees, put her hands against his chest and pushed him over backward until he was lying on his back with his head at the foot of the bed.

  She got down between his spread legs and took his hard dick in her hands. She licked the underside of it, stopping just beneath the head when he jerked. She began to suck just the head of his cock, while continuing to flick that sensitive spot with the tip of her tongue.

  “You are the prettiest man . . .” she cooed. She slid one hand down to cup his testicles and then took the length of him inside her hot mouth. She held him there for several seconds, then began to bob her head up and down, suckling him wetly.

  “Mmmm,” she murmured, as her head began to move faster and faster. He reached down to put his hands on her head, but he exerted no pressure. His hands just rode with
her and then he began to move his hips in unison.

  Finally, she released him, slid on top of him and guided him inside her.

  “Ooooh, yessss,” she hissed as she sat down on him, taking him all the way in. She closed her eyes, said, “This is going to be good,” and then started riding him.

  She was right.

  It was.

  Later they were lying in bed together, knowing that it was time to get dressed and go their separate ways.

  “You did this just to get to my husband, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “That was my initial thought, yes,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I know you enjoyed it,” she said, her eyes glittering. “So did I. You’ve ruined me now for the men in Kansas City.”

  “Then I feel bad for the men of Kansas City.”

  She sat up, pulled on her underthings and stood up to put her dress back on. Then she went to the mirror to try to do something with her hair.

  “You know,” she said, looking at his reflection, “he’s a horrible, horrible man who will do anything to get what he wants.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “But he’s been nothing but good to me.”

  “Then why do you . . .”

  “What? Sleep with other men? Well, I do have needs,” she said, then turned and said, “In my own way, I’m as selfish as he is.”

  “But not horrible.”

  “No,” she said, “not horrible.”

  She walked to the bed, reached out and took his hand in both of hers.

  “I wonder . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Should you get what you want . . . do you think you can do that without . . . killing him?”

  “Olivia,” he said, “believe it or not, I’d prefer to do that. But I think that’s going to be up to him.”

  She nodded, as if she understood, and he squeezed her hand.

  “You know, he’s very lucky to have someone like you to beg for his life.”

  “Well, I have another hope, too,” she said, moving to the door.

  “What’s that?”

  “I hope that if you don’t get what you want,” she said, “that he won’t end up killing you.”

  As she went out the door, he said, “Believe it or not, I’d prefer that, too.”