by Jon Sharpe
He quickened his pace, moving himself atop her and sliding into her warm center in one smooth motion. She shrieked in pleasure, rocketing to her climax as her hips shuddered beneath him.
“Oh, my God, my God!” she screamed, shoving herself against him. “Eeee . . . Yes, Skye! Yes, oh God, yes!” she screamed as her orgasm hit.
Her body shook beneath him, her hard nipples jutting into the air and the sweat on her skin making it shine. Fargo let himself go when he felt her clench his manhood, the sweet, musky scent of her orgasm hitting his nostrils and filling the air.
In the dim light he saw her small, wondering smile and she curled into the protective curve of his arm, sated and giving off an almost visible glow. After they’d gathered their breath, Fargo gently lifted her up and beneath the blanket, then joined her as she drifted into sleep.
Tired in mind and body, Fargo let himself wind down until sleep came on quiet feet to take him, too. His last thought was one of some concern and he promised himself to think on it more:
If Hattie Hamilton had sent the girl here before he’d met with Beares, was it possible that she was playing some kind of game of her own?
But it turned out not to be his last thought, after all. Suddenly he was awake again. He lay there listening to Mary breathing. Snoring, really. The soft, sweet sounds a child makes while sleeping. He smiled, grateful for an image of innocence in a city that knew very little innocence of any kind.
He reached over and touched her hip beneath the sheet. He envied her ability to fall asleep. There were so many angles and lies to sort through in this place. You couldn’t be sure of anybody. Sometimes you even doubted yourself, something Skye Fargo wasn’t used to.
He forced himself to close his eyes. To drive all thoughts of conspiracy from his mind. He wouldn’t be much good if he had to drag through the day, now would he? But when sleep came it was troubled sleep with dreams of shadowy doorways and cards dealt from the bottoms of decks and smiling faces that were not at all what they seemed.
As was his habit, Fargo awoke early and took a moment before opening his eyes, letting his other senses tell him about his surroundings. The streets of New Orleans were beginning the slow process of waking up—unlike frontier towns that often started even before sunrise, New Orleans was a city of night, and it woke like an ill-used prostitute, slow and cranky and stiff.
It suddenly hit him that Mary wasn’t in the bed. He opened his eyes and saw that the room was empty. He sat up, wondering where she’d gone and had just decided to go find her when the door handle rattled and began to turn.
With lightning reflexes, Fargo snagged his Colt free from its holster on the end of the bed and spun back to the door just as it opened.
Mary let out a little gasp of surprise and almost dropped the tray laden with breakfast and coffee she held in her hands. “Oh!” she said.
Fargo eased the hammer back on the Colt and put it away. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know where you’d gone.”
She blushed a bit, her dark-skinned cheeks showing just a hint of rose. “I’m sorry . . . Skye. I thought you’d like some coffee and food.”
Fargo nodded appreciatively. “You reckoned right,” he said. “I worked up a fairly good appetite last night.”
She giggled and stepped the rest of the way into the room, setting the tray on the dresser and pouring coffee for him. Handing him the cup, she looked briefly into his eyes and the knowledge of the previous night once more made her blush. “Here,” she said. “I made it myself.”
Fargo grinned and took the cup, enjoying the hot feel of it in his hands. He took a long sip and tasted chicory—something he hadn’t had in his coffee in a long while. “Mmmm,” he said. “That’s good.” The coffee was rich and black and strong.
He pushed a pillow against the headboard, and leaned back to enjoy the view as she went about the business of making a plate for him and then a smaller one for herself. She was as pretty as a night sky, and he felt his manhood stirring once more.
She turned back to him and must have noticed his condition through the thin sheet.
Setting the plates down, she smiled shyly and said, “Do you . . . ?”
He put his coffee on the floor and pulled her into the bed and his arms. “It’s the best breakfast in the world,” he said.
Pleasuring her, he quickly found, was a pleasure. She was a fast learner and it wasn’t long until once again her cries of joy were echoing in the small room.
When they finished, Fargo got his makings out of his saddlebags and rolled himself a smoke, using a saucer as an ashtray. He wanted a bath and suggested they find one.
“I have an idea,” she said, sitting up in bed and sipping out of his coffee cup.
“What do you have in mind?” Fargo asked.
“Would you take me for a ride on your horse again, Skye?” she asked. “I know a place. . . . It’s private and we could bathe and do . . . other things.”
Fargo laughed. “I think you’ve developed a taste for sex,” he said. “That’s a fine quality in a woman as beautiful as you.”
She laughed, too, though he could sense her embarrassment. “Please,” she said. “I don’t want to tire you, but it is beautiful and private.” She paused, then added, “And your horse is wonderful. Those colors!”
“He’s special,” Fargo said. He didn’t have anything in particular to do today and a ride away from this place in good company might give him time to think about everything he’d learned—assuming Mary let him think at all. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go for a ride.”
“Thank you!” she squealed. “You won’t regret it.”
Noticing that in her excitement the sheet had dropped away, Fargo eyed her gorgeous body with appreciation. “I don’t reckon I will at that,” he said.
Snatching the sheet to cover herself, she giggled again.
“Get yourself dressed,” Fargo said.
She jumped out of the bed, ready to head down the street stark naked if it meant getting the day started.
“Then we’ll go?” she asked.
Mary was so full of excitement that Fargo couldn’t help but join in. “Yes,” he said. “Then we’ll go.”
It didn’t take long for them to get Mary outfitted in some comfortable riding clothes and it was only two hours later that they picked up the Ovaro and headed out of the city.
She guided him back to the field where they’d first met and from there to a small grotto nearby. A clear pool had formed beneath the cypress trees and the hanging moss. It was as private as any bathhouse he’d ever been in.
He helped her out of the saddle, then grabbed his soap and a towel from his saddlebags.
The water was almost as warm as she was and it took quite some time for her to reach all his spots, but with his guidance, they managed to get them all . . . and all of hers, too.
After, she led him to a moss-covered place beneath the trees and they toweled themselves dry. It had been quite a while since Fargo had been with someone of her considerable appetite, but she sat quietly next to him now and let him think.
There was a lot more going on in New Orleans than a simple high-stakes poker game, and more players, he thought, than had actually agreed to come to the table.
With so much at stake, he knew he’d have to be very careful over the next few days if he was going to get out of the city with the money he’d been promised . . . and his life.
Life was often cheap, he knew. But the kind of money and power that was involved in this game was more than enough for many people to kill for. These two jobs—keeping the game fair and keeping Hattie Hamilton safe during the game—wouldn’t be easy, lay-down jobs.
They’d be the kind of jobs that could get a lot of men killed. One easy distraction and . . .
Fargo sat bolt upright, realizing that there was a huge distraction sitting next to him. One that had already caused him to lose a night and most of a day.
“Mary,” he said, “do you have any family at
all around here? Somewhere you could stay for a few days?”
She shook her head. “No. They all been killed or run off during the war. I’m all I got.”
Fargo sighed. He’d have to find somewhere to stash her. One look at her eyes or her body and like any man, he could be distracted at a critical moment that could lead to his death. “Well, you’ve got me,” he said. “At least until we figure out what to do.”
She smiled and Fargo couldn’t help but wonder if he was being played for a fool. He looked into her eyes, but there wasn’t the smallest hint of guile. She was innocent, he thought. There wasn’t any sign that she was anything other than a beautiful prostitute who’d been caught up in the games of her employer.
Knowing they’d have to head back soon, he put an arm around her and she snuggled close.
There are worse forms of payment in the world, he thought, looking at her. A lot worse.
9
H.D. was not happy. In fact, he sounded downright unhappy. “Come on, Fargo, I’ve got better things to do than babysit a whore, for God’s sake!”
“Not for the next few days, you don’t,” Fargo said. “Unless I miss my guess, Parker, Beares, and Anderson are going to pull all their men in and wait for the outcome of the game. It should be pretty quiet around here.”
“But why a whore, Fargo? My wife will tan my hide and stake it to the front door. Couldn’t you have found some nice girl to rescue?”
Fargo chuckled. “I’m not all that big on nice girls,” he said. “Mary is special, H.D., and she needs help. I can’t watch out for her while dealing with all these other snakes, too.”
Fargo could go sentimental and say that there were whores of the body and whores of the heart. Some “nice” girls harbored attitudes about people that were anything but nice. And some whores harbored thoughts that were downright charitable when it came to helping men in and out of bed. As far as Fargo was concerned, that was one of the problems with this world. The poor had to scramble just to get meals sometimes, and this kind of scrambling made them seem coarse to those more prosperous. But the fancy manners of the rich folks would soon be pitched out the window if they, too, had to scramble to put food on the table. And a whole lot of those “nice” girls wouldn’t seem so nice anymore, either.
H.D.’s shoulders sagged and Fargo knew the man had given in. “Don’t worry on it too much,” he said. “Your wife will understand a woman needing protection, no matter what she does for a living.”
His face in his hands, H.D. said, “She’ll kill me, Fargo, the second she finds out. She’ll think I’ve been seeing a sporting lady and now I’ve brought her into our home.”
“No, she won’t,” Fargo said. “What kind of an idiot does she take you for? No sane man would bring his mistress—even a paid one—into the same house as his wife. One woman is trouble enough, let alone two.”
“You’d probably know, Fargo,” H.D. said. He held up his hands. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out. When are you coming back for her?”
“Thursday, depending on how fast the game runs. Maybe Friday. Just keep her out of sight until I return.”
Throughout this conversation, Mary had remained silent, but Fargo could see she was all but busting at the seams to say something. “What is it, Mary?”
“I don’t want to stay with him, Skye. I want to . . . stay with you,” she said. “Miz Hamilton told me that’s what I was supposed to do.”
Fargo shook his head. “Mary, you can’t. This poker game is liable to get downright dangerous. I can’t do what I have to do if I’m worried about you. You’ll be safe with H.D. He’s a good man.”
“But what if something happens to you?”
H.D. laughed. “Girl, that man you’re talking to is the Trailsman. There’s no one in New Orleans more dangerous than he is.”
Mary looked confused. “He does not seem dangerous to me.”
“That’s because you haven’t tried to kill him,” H.D. said. “Yet.”
“What do you mean, ‘yet’?” Fargo asked.
H.D. grinned evilly. “You just haven’t had a chance to piss her off yet, Fargo. Sooner or later, you will, and she’ll come at you with a pigsticker and try to gut you like a winter hog. You aren’t the kind of man to settle down, my friend. Too many trails yet to ride. Women, in my experience, just hate that.”
“You . . . you will be leaving?” Mary asked.
Ignoring his urge to strangle H.D., Fargo said, “Not anytime real soon.”
She sagged in relief. “I don’t want you to leave, Skye. Not ever.”
Another one that wants me to settle down, Fargo thought. Why can’t women just enjoy the time and move on? “I guess we’ll see what happens,” he said, then turned his attention back to his meddlesome friend, who was grinning openly. “Thanks,” Fargo said drily. “You sure know how to help a man out.”
“Least I could do, Fargo,” H.D. said. “Given the ‘favor’ you’re doing me.”
Unable to help himself, Fargo chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said. “Just keep an eye on her. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“All right,” H.D. said. He stood up from behind his desk and buckled on his gun belt. “Come on, Mary. I’ll show you to where you’ll be staying. You’ll like my wife. She’s a fine woman, a good cook, and she’ll fill your head clean full of ideas on how to hog-tie this fella you’ve set your cap for.”
“Great,” Fargo said. “Maybe I should have left her in the swamp.”
“Naw,” H.D. said, “then she’d have ended up taking lessons from the alligators. They know even more evil tricks than my wife.”
Fargo clasped Mary in his arms and planted a kiss on her lips. “I’ll be back for you in a day or two. In the meantime, listen to what H.D. tells you and stay out of sight.”
“You . . . Skye, you promise you’ll come back for me?”
Fargo nodded. “I promise. Now get going.” He gave her a playful swat on the backside and nodded to H.D. in thanks, then turned and left the office.
He had some scouting to do before the game started. Even in the city, there were trails to follow for a man with the eyes to see them.
If there was such a thing as the crown jewel of a place as seedy as Basin Street, the Blue Emporium was it. No matter what trail he could find, all of them would lead, he suspected, to this one building.
From the outside, it didn’t look like much. The building itself was wedged between two others, and was four stories tall. Made of a dark red brick stained with soot, a quick glance would tell a passerby that it was nothing more than a hotel or perhaps a boarding-house. But there were clues that it was something more.
The concrete steps led up to a set of double doors, which were carved of mahogany. On either side of the doors, a sculpture of a scantily clad nymph in a sea-shell welcomed those who approached. Leaded-glass panes decorated each door, and farther up, the observant man would notice that the windows themselves were not cheap glass, but well made, and with nice curtains offering privacy to each room. Small balconies, large enough for a single person and made of wrought iron that was bolted directly into the brick, stuck out from each window.
Fargo had heard that during certain times of the year, when there were citywide parties and festivals, the women would stand on the balconies showing off their “wares” and throwing trinkets of beads to the crowds below. If it was true, he wondered what the typical farmer’s wife attending the harvest dance out on the frontier would make of such an activity. He laughed to himself. She’d probably call it the work of the devil.
He walked up the front steps and opened the doors, closing them softly behind him. It was early in the day, and the building was quiet. As he had suspected, the inside was even more luxurious than the outside. The foyer was white and blue marble, with twin pillars setting off the entryway. Beneath his feet, tiny tiles made a picture of yet another nymph, her finger beckoning suggestively.
Beyond the foyer and to both the left and the right were small sitti
ng rooms. The floors were covered in thick carpets dyed crimson, and the furniture—overstuffed couches and chairs with fat pillows—were a rich golden color. The walls were dark wood and both rooms sported small bars, topped with glass decanters filled with presumably the finest liquor available. Behind each bar, a selection of cigars and other tobacco was available. Carpeted stairways led to both upper and lower floors. Fargo could hear a voice coming from somewhere behind the stairs.
The kitchen, Fargo realized, must be on this floor, behind the two sitting rooms. The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when he heard the sound of a familiar voice. He stepped into the sitting room to his right just in time to see Hattie Hamilton enter the room from a recessed doorway in the back.
“Why, if it isn’t Skye Fargo,” she said. “Welcome to the Blue Emporium.” She wore a paisley-print dress that was made of silk and clung to her body as though it had been painted on. Her hair was done up in a neat set of curls that were tied in a bun. As always, her voice and her eyes, even her mannerisms, screamed of a sensual, wanton woman.
“Miss Hamilton,” Fargo said.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t out here to greet you properly, Mr. Fargo,” Hattie said, stepping forward and holding out her hand as though she expected him to shake it or kiss it. “We don’t usually get much business at this hour.”
“I don’t imagine,” Fargo said. “I was hoping I could take a look around, if you don’t mind, before the game starts.”
“Of course, of course,” she said. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Matilda just brewed some up fresh. There’s breakfast, too, if you want it.”
“That would be fine,” Fargo said. “So long as I can have it in the back. I’m not dressed properly for such a fancy place.”