by Beth Ciotta
“Actually … no.” He tossed Josh an ax, and together they attacked the ebbing fire. “You don’t give a tinker’s damn about being a theater owner, do you? You’re trying to salvage this place for her.”
“I’d snuff out the sun if I thought it would make her happy.”
Boston groaned.
Rome sighed. “I hate it when I misjudge a man. Means I’m slipping.”
Fifteen sweltering backbreaking minutes later the fire was doused, the wraparound veranda and the stained-glass pane were history, the front wall charred, but still intact. Josh thanked the exhausted men and invited them back in a couple of days—drinks on the house.
Oscar entered the Desert Moon via the back door to inspect the smoke damage. Seth left to check on Burgess.
By the time Josh and the Garretts crossed to the hitching post, Paris was gone.
London swiped a sleeve across his sweating face, streaking dirt across his singed cheeks. “Who taught you how to tie a knot, Grant?”
Josh fingered the twine, a sick feeling in his gut. “She didn’t wiggle free.”
“Someone cut her loose,” Rome said, inspecting the fray.
“So why didn’t she rejoin the brigade?” Boston rasped, his voice hoarse from the smoke.
Josh jerked the Colt from his holster, checked the chamber.
Noting his sense of urgency, the brothers nodded at each other then readied their own hardware. They had their reservations about his role as a brother-in-law, but they obviously respected his instincts as a lawman. It was a start.
Rome produced a half eagle coin, rolling it over his knuckles like a seasoned gambler.
Josh’s stomach twitched. “What’s that?”
“My lucky charm. Never travel without it.” He slid the five-dollar goldpiece back into his pocket then adjusted his shoulder holster. “So, who are we tracking?”
Josh fought the urge to roar, gut instinct confirming his worst suspicion. “A murdering bastard.”
She was dying.
Her head throbbed mercilessly causing her stomach to roll with nausea. White light exploded behind her eyelids as someone yanked her into a sitting position.
“Rise and shine, little girl.”
Paris swallowed the bitter bile rising in her parched throat and opened her eyes with painstaking effort. Sunlight filtered in through crude windows and decrepit, slatted walls. Dust particles danced on the blinding rays. She must have been unconscious for hours. She laid her palm to the side of her head and winced. No wonder. Her temple pulsed with a bump the size of an egg. Bleary-eyed, she scowled at the man stooping in front of her. “You hit me.”
Niles Burke smoothed a hand down the lapels of his striped jacket. “Would you have come willingly? No? Well, there you have it.”
She remembered him cutting her loose. She’d even thanked him. Then she’d darted for the bucket brigade only to be snatched into the shadows. After that, she was clueless. Even now she found it hard to focus. “Where’s Josh?”
“He should be here any minute. Tracking will be easier now that it’s daylight.”
“I don’t understand. Where are we?”
“Near the hat-shaped peak dubbed Sombrero. The Peralta’s lost mine is around here somewhere so those pack mules can’t be too far off.”
Oscar had told her about Miguel Peralta’s legendary gold mine. Convinced the Mexican miners were desecrating their Thunder God’s home, the Apaches had annihilated the interlopers in 1848. Pack mules loaded with extracted gold had wandered deep into mountains where they’d later died. According to Oscar, Mason had happened upon a few of the skeletal remains. Or so he thought. Peralta gold or not, he’d stumbled upon a fortune. Some of which he’d left to Josh.
Flooded with dread, Paris folded her arms over her queasy stomach. “I don’t know anything about the location of the mine or those other mules.”
Niles shrugged. “Maybe not, but Josh does.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Just before he died, Mason told me he’d willed me a substantial amount of money. He’d left the bulk of the fortune to a deserving soul.”
Spooked by the fiendish glint in his eyes, she scooted away until her back hit the wall. “You had something to do with Mason’s death.”
He rose and spread his hands wide in casual disdain. “If he’d simply given up the location of his find, I would have ridden off ahead of him, and he would have continued on to the Desert Moon. Instead, he lectured me on my loose morals and extravagant lifestyle. Why can’t you be more like Josh? Do you know how many times I heard that in my life?” His pretty-boy features distorted in anger. “I lost my temper, broke his neck. It just … happened.”
She sucked in a horrified breath. “You murdered your own father?”
“If he was my father. My mother, a one-time dove, was pregnant when they married. There was a one in five chance that he was the father. Enough for an honorable man like Mason Burke. Seeing that I didn’t inherit that trait … ” He clucked his tongue. “I’m thinking he was wrong.”
“But he claimed you.” She blinked up at the man, sickened by his cynicism. “After the killing, directly after, you must have felt some sort of remorse.”
“Afterward, I rifled his pockets hoping to find a map. All I found was a lone gold nugget. I tossed him back in his wagon and spooked the team, knowing the buckboard would eventually flip. I’d just lost my shirt in a poker tournament. I needed a windfall then. Not later.” He polished his pinkie ring on his shirtsleeve. “Ironically, I couldn’t part with the nugget.”
No wonder Josh despised this man. He was wicked. Furious and exasperated, her swollen temples throbbed. Fisting her hands in her lap, she glared up at the demon, while saying a silent prayer for poor Mason Burke.
Hands on hips, Niles towered over her, eyeing her exposed cleavage. His lips curved into a lecherous grin.
Disgusted, she buttoned Rome’s duster to her chin. He laughed then, a hollow cackle that stoked her anxiety. She didn’t understand this man. Did he truly think Josh knew where those other pack mules were? Did he think to use her as a bargaining tool? He was to be severely disappointed. She knew from Oscar that Mason’s “deserving soul” was a person to be decided by fate. “What if you’re wrong? What if Josh can’t lead you to those other mules?”
“Then I’ll shoot him. Actually, I’ll do that regardless. Initially, I thought it would be enough to ruin him. Run him out of business. Sabotage his marriage. If only you’d proven more interested in fame than in my cousin.” He snorted in contempt. “Destiny. I nearly gagged when you sang that sentimental drivel. I’ll be damned if there’ll be a happy ending for Josh.” He eased back his jacket, brushed his fingers over the butt of the pistol wedged in a fancy shoulder holster. “I know now that the only way I can get on with my life is by taking his.”
Tamping down her panic, she curled her fingernails so tightly into her palms that she winced. “Seth will hunt you down.”
“Not likely since he’ll think it was Burgess’s doing.”
“Burgess is locked up back in Chance.”
He smiled and pointed to the far corner of the shack. Propped against the wall, bound and unconscious, one leg splinted, was Burgess Riley. Somehow Niles had busted him out of jail.
She willed her pulse steady, assuring herself that his plan was absurd and doomed to failure. Seth was not a man easily fooled. Josh would be here any second.
And so would her brothers.
It occurred to her that Niles didn’t know about her brothers. Upon their arrival, he’d be sorely outnumbered. Still, what if he got off one good shot?
She remembered then that she wasn’t entirely helpless. All she had to do was reach in her pocket, grab Rome’s gun and … Niles reached down and grabbed her wrist. Incensed, she tried to jerk free. “What do you want?”
He hauled her up into his arms and licked his lips. “Everything that belongs to Josh.”
The door slammed open at the same t
ime she jerked up her knee. Hard.
“Bitch!” Niles stumbled back, his face contorted in pain.
She fumbled for her hidden peacemaker as his hand darted for his holster. The sound of multiple guns cocking caused him to whirl around, one hand cradling his injured privates, the other wielding his pistol. Paris nearly fainted with relief at the sight of Josh hulking in the doorway, her brothers looming outside the open windows, guns drawn and aimed.
“Go on, Fancy Man,” Rome taunted. “Take your shot. Nothing would make me happier.”
“Who are you?” Niles raged.
Boston smiled. “Your worst nightmare.”
“Wrong. That would be me.”
Paris glanced at her husband, her breath catching at the fierce look on his ash-streaked face. If looks could kill, Niles would be cashing in his chips. “How long were you out there?” she croaked.
“Long enough to hear a confession.” His gaze flicked to hers, eyes brimming with concern. “Are you all right, honey?”
She managed a nod.
With a crazed howl, Niles whirled around.
Someone shot the gun out of his hand.
Josh blew over the threshold and grabbed him by his throat. He slammed him against the wall, tightening his grip until the man’s face turned blue. “I should break your neck. Tit for tat.”
“I want him alive,” Seth called from the threshold. London shoved past him.
“This is for manhandling my wife.” Josh rammed his fist into his cousin’s face. “And it’s only the start.”
Stone-faced, her oldest brother tried to drag her from the premises. Fearing Josh would make good on his threat, she broke away, rushed across the shack, and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Don’t,” she said softly.
Her husband’s body quaked with rage and, as Niles continued to twitch and wheeze for air, she worried that her plea had fallen on deaf ears. He finally loosened his hold.
When he stepped away, Rome shot the gasping man in the knee. “That’s for touching my sister.” Niles crumpled to the ground with an agonized howl.
“Dammit, Garrett!” Seth bellowed.
“He’s alive,” Rome said, glaring through the window at the bleeding man. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the balls.”
Niles grabbed his shattered knee and roared.
Burgess awakened, shifted, and let out a tortured groan.
Josh swept Paris up into his arms and whisked her outside, leaving Seth and her brothers to attend the outlaws.
She snuggled her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of smoke, sweat, and goodness. “I’m glad you didn’t kill Niles,” she said, hugging him tight. “Even though he deserves to die. I wouldn’t want that on your conscience.”
He kissed her forehead then set her on her feet, smoothing away her hair to examine her bump. “Trust me, honey. My conscience would not have suffered.” He gently nabbed her chin, brushed his lips over hers and then deepened the kiss, rendering her boneless. Holding her steady, he eased back and locked gazes, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not going anywhere with your brothers. The opera house needs you. I need you. You didn’t just lasso the moon, you lassoed my heart.”
Her knees fairly buckled at his earnest admission and the worried look in his beautiful eyes. She pressed her hand over his heart, trying to soothe its erratic beating. “I figured out what you meant when you said it wasn’t like I thought. You would have tricked me into marrying you regardless of that will,” she said with a smile.
“I can’t fathom why that makes you happy, squirt,” Boston grunted as he breezed past them and into the shack.
Josh grinned down at her. “Because she knows it means I’m in love.”
Seth strode by, dragging along Niles. “For chrissake, say the words, Josh.”
He dropped his forehead to hers. “I love you, Paris.”
His tender words wrapped around her heart, filling her with hope and joy. “Marriage equals two people trying their best to make each other happy.” She looped her arms around his neck, tugging him closer, aching to become one. “How do you feel about three sons and three daughters?”
He tightened his arms around her waist, nuzzled her ear. “Delirious.”
London stalked past with Burgess slung over his shoulder. “This isn’t over, Grant.”
“Damn right.” He placed a hand over her belly and smiled down at Paris, his eyes sparkling with affection. “It’s only the beginning.”
Also by Beth Ciotta:
“JINXED is an enjoyable private investigative romance that has the feel of the 1930s Hepburn-Grant madcap comedies … fans of screwball romantic romps will enjoy the love tale of the socialite and the sleuth.”
—Amazon.com Reviewer, Harriet Klausner
ISBN#0974363944
Jewel Imprint: Ruby
Contemporary
$6.99
Available Now
Chapter One
“Declined.”
“Excuse me?” Afia blinked at the quasi-Euro sales associate, a black-rimmed spectacled, chic-suited man who three minutes before had been all smiles and pleasantries.
“Your privileges have been revoked, Ms. St. John.”
The woman standing behind her in line snickered. Afia blushed. Exclusive shops such as Bernard’s treated their patrons like royalty. So why did she suddenly feel like the rabble? “There must be some mistake.”
The associate retained a deadpan expression. “Perhaps you’d like to try another card.”
Her business manger, Henry Glick (a financial wizard according to her mother), had asked her to make all of her purchases on one specific credit card until further notice. Something to do with interest rates and consolidation. So seven months ago she’d handed over the bulk of her cards to Mr. Glick, except for the American Express that she’d tucked away for emergencies. As her dignity was at stake just now, she considered this a genuine crisis. Fishing her Gucci wallet out of her matching handbag, Afia handed the sales associate her backup card. He slid her platinum plastic through the gizmo next to the cash register, starting the process all over again, leaving her to ponder the mystery of her “declined” Visa. Obviously, the card was defective. As soon as she got home she’d call Mr. Glick and have him order her a replacement.
The clerk glanced up, with one haughty eyebrow raised, and a trace of a smirk playing at his glossed lips.
Afia’s stomach clenched. Stop looking at me like that. I haven’t done anything wrong. Funny how many times she’d wanted to scream that sentiment in her cursed life. But as always she kept her feelings inside. Calm. Dignified.
The associate sidled over to the phone and placed a call.
Afia tucked silky strands of poker-straight hair behind her diamond-studded ears and willed her pulse steady. I haven’t done anything wrong.
Casting her a sidelong glance, the associate mumbled a cryptic “uh-huh” and “I see,” and then hung up. He returned and passed Afia her American Express. “Declined.”
Bernard’s four other patrons—plump-lipped, tight-skinned women who looked as though they frequented the same plastic surgeon—conversed in hushed tones. Afia hated being the center of gossip. Mortified, she leaned over the counter and crooked a finger at—she glanced at his nametag—“Douglas. There must be something wrong with your credit card device.”
“Our Zon is functioning properly. I’m afraid it’s your credit that’s in question. Perhaps you’d like to write a check.”
“I don’t have my checkbook.” Mr. Glick oversaw her bank account and paid her bills. She’d been relying on cash and her Visa for months. She’d yet to have a problem. Until now. “Please try again.” Panic fluttered in her chest as she re-offered Douglas her Glick-approved Visa. Those strapless, wedge-heeled Chanels sat on the counter waiting to be bagged. The perfect mates to the silk shantung dress she’d just purchased at Saks.
Two minutes later, Douglas re-shelved the wedgeheeled Chan
els. On the verge of hyperventilating, Afia fled Bernard’s. The shoe fiasco had dashed the last of her tremulous composure as she navigated the bustling city sidewalk. She’d survived two high profile weddings and three funerals in seven years. Not to mention the unflattering media surrounding her bizarre personal dramas. Being labeled “The Black Widow” by an unfeeling gossip columnist had been the cruelest blow. Anyone who knew her, knew the insinuation was absurd. Still, her second husband’s sudden death had earned her a fair share of suspicious double takes. Her small circle of friends had dwindled to one. She’d managed to cope and found shopping a temporary cure-all for her ever-increasing bouts of depression. But surely, surely she hadn’t shopped herself into the poorhouse. Each of her husbands had left her a fortune.
Her mind racing with one horrible possibility, she quickened her spike-heeled steps and avoided walking under a workman’s ladder only to step on a crack in the pavement. Out of habit she clutched her left wrist and stroked the charm bracelet her dad had given her to counteract ill luck. That’s when she felt it. The gap. She quickly fingered the charms, ticking them off in her mind—horseshoe, wishbone, four-leaf clover—stumbling twice in her haste to make it to the car. The third time she went down. Face down on the crowded sidewalks of Fifth Avenue.
Rudy came to her rescue. The muscle-bound chauffeur whisked her up and carried her to his double-parked limousine. “Animal,” he said of a snickering passerby and then opened the door and helped her into the back seat.
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