Whoops and whistles erupted from Chantelle's drunken admirers as she maneuvered her tray over their heads without spilling a drop. Within minutes, the recipient of Chantelle's expensive liquor became clear. She sidled up to the chair of Senator Baron Westerfield and thrust her tits into his face.
"Cherry fizzy-pop? Seriously?" taunted an oily, Midwestern accent from the crimson drapes behind Asrael's shoulder. A medium-built man emerged from the booth's curtain and slid behind the table. "Are you trying to ruin my reputation?"
Asrael's fist whitened over the tankard of blood-red suds. "I didn't have you paroled for your lip."
"Comes with the package. Get used to it."
Even in his disguise as an aging, bearded sodbuster, everything about Henry "Hank" Sharpe was average: his height; his weight; his balding pate and brown eyes. He was the type of man whom people didn't notice in a room, especially if those people were female.
Nevertheless, in certain circles, Hank had earned a reputation for standing head-and-shoulders above the crowd. To his clientele, who preferred that their business transactions remained anonymous, Hank was known as The Ventilator.
"So the gang's all here from Galveston," Hank drawled.
Asrael tossed him a withering glare. "I had hoped a man of your reputation would be eager to rectify his error, not gloat about it."
"You mean your error, pard," Hank retorted, tugging a pouch of tobacco from his duster pocket. "You picked the window."
"And what, pray tell, was your excuse on the grocer's roof?"
"Get off your high-horse." Hank began rolling his quirley. "You said to throw suspicion on the sodbusters and make Baron look like the target. That's what I did."
"Except, of course, nobody died," Asrael sniped in a low, exasperated tone. "I had to get rid of the Neanderthal myself."
"Serves you right for changing the plan at the last second."
"I'm the reason you're still alive! You should be thanking me!"
Hank snorted. "You mean 'cause you kept getting in the way?"
A muscle ticked in Asrael's jaw.
Hank struck a match with his thumb. When he bent his head to puff his smoke, a ruddy glow illuminated his harsh and grizzled features beneath the brim of his chocolate-brown Stetson. He was watching a blond gunfighter in black duds. Cassidy was shooting tequila shots at the bar and glaring daggers at Chantelle, who was diligently trying to entice Baron away from the craps table.
A muscle ticked in Asrael's jaw. "Must I remind you, Cassidy has never lost a gunfight?"
"It only takes one."
"Don't be obtuse. I've kept Cassidy from learning you're in town and hunting you down. In case you've forgotten, you're the reason that Injun pal of his can never show his face again in Burnett County. Lynx would have been lynched for that church offering you stole, if Cassidy hadn't busted him out of jail. Cassidy's young, but he's not stupid. You'd be wise not to underestimate him."
Hank exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "He'd be wise not to underestimate me."
Asrael's chest heaved. The Ventilator was entitled to his boast. Hank had never lost a gunfight, either. But the vermin's real value lay in his ability to make murder look like an accident: a hoof to the head. A stampede. A drowning. An avalanche. A broken axle wheel. Hank was particularly crafty at rigging backfiring pistols—which would be the end of Rexford Sterne if the ex-Ranger became a serious threat to Asrael's ambitions.
"Since you're obviously feeling your oats," Asrael said irritably, "find a way to exercise your creativity. Bodine has become a nuisance."
"What's the deadline?"
"The end of the conference."
Hank smirked. "Oh, goodie. Rush jobs cost double."
Loath to be baited by such lowbrow humor, Asrael moved briskly to the next topic on the meeting agenda. "Have you found where she's hiding her spawn?"
"Not yet." Hank exhaled again with great gusto.
Asrael waved away the stench of cheap tobacco. "How hard can it be? There are only five hotels in town."
"They're crammed full of sodbusters. Even if she registered under an alias, no clerk has seen hide nor tail of a big-busted blonde, traveling with a kid."
"Try the brothels."
Hank hiked an eyebrow. "What kind of mother—"
"Exactly," Asrael interrupted in a low, venomous undertone. "A whore like that doesn't deserve to live."
Hank chuckled, flashing yellow, mongrel teeth. "Sounds like one more reason to enjoy my work."
"Glad to hear it." Palming a small, clanking tin, Asrael slid it across the table to Hank.
"What's this?"
"A little treat for the brat."
"Perfected the formula, did you?"
"Let's just say I had to bury a lot of dogs."
Hank grunted, pocketing the tin. "And the will?"
Asrael stiffened. The will was a particularly sore topic. It was the main reason why Hank had agreed to kill Ferraro and Cassidy in the first place. Asrael had entertained second thoughts about silencing Cassidy, mostly because Hank was as trustworthy as a viper. Cassidy, on the other hand, possessed a glimmer of conscience that could work to Asrael's advantage. Especially if Hank strayed too far out of line.
"I'm working on it," Asrael hedged.
Hank's eyes narrowed, coldly accusing. "That's what you said last time."
"These things can't be rushed."
"Hell, all you have to do is name yourself the executor."
Asrael tamped down a surge of resentment. Few people knew Hank was kin, and worse, that he hailed from the wrong side of the blanket. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. Asrael sent attorneys to rescue The Ventilator from the law, while Hank discretely eliminated sodbusters, politicians, lawmen, ranch hands—in short, anyone who stood in the way of Asrael's ambition to live in the governor's mansion.
And maybe even the White House.
Hank's name could never be associated with Asrael's, of course. Fortunately, they shared a common interest—the estate—because the only other thing that kept Hank under control these days was the staggering payoff the vermin earned each time he successfully carried out Asrael's bidding.
"The document must be copied precisely," Asrael said tartly. "One tiny mistake could throw the estate into probate for years. I see no reason to tempt fate, and certainly not with haste."
Hank made a derisive noise. "Have you taken a good look at Baron lately? The man's got one foot in the grave."
Asrael shot the regulator a daggerlike glare. Baron's ailment wasn't all it appeared to be. That carefully guarded secret was another Ace up Asrael's sleeve. One that needn't be played tonight.
"I promise you: Baron is going to win this election."
"Because you're nothing if he doesn't?"
Asrael stiffened at this insult—an insult that had struck much too close to the truth.
"Just for the record, dear boy, if I die before the age of 100—for any reason—you get nothing from my estate. Furthermore, should I die of unnatural causes, my Last Will and Testament instructs my attorney to deliver to the U.S. Marshal's Office a catalogue of your less publicized crimes, the ones that I've worked so diligently to keep out of court, lest they send you to the gallows."
"Is that a threat?" Hank's face had turned florid. He leaned across the table and stabbed the air with his cigarette. "Are you threatening me?"
"Don't be absurd." Asrael was careful to hide a smirk behind the mug of sarsaparilla. "I've always been of the mind that blood is thicker than water."
* * *
Careful what you wish for.
That's what Sadie told herself as she pasted on a luscious smile and ramped up her flirtation with Baron. She hadn't tried this hard to be agreeable to a man since the night when Madam Snake-Eye had threatened to beat the living crap out of her if she didn't spread her legs to relieve some foul-smelling carpetbagger of his purse.
Just like that night in Pilot Grove, more than 12 years ago, Sadie was mystified by her intended John's di
sinterest. In Baron's case, she'd gone to great lengths to perfect her costume, especially her witch's hat, which she'd hoped would be a conversation-starter. She'd embroidered the cone with the cheerful greeting, "I kiss toads."
If Baron had found the jest amusing, he didn't say. In truth, he'd barely glanced her way. The best she'd earned for her hours of labor with a needle and thread was a grunt, which he'd directed at the general vicinity of her breasts. She had half a mind to dump an ashtray in his lap just to see if she could get a rise out of the man.
Her mind raced for something to say. Something provocative. Something intellectual. Something that would elevate her above a common beerjerker in a senator's mind.
Why the devil was she having so much trouble enticing him? Had Cass said something about last night's hallway feud?
Louse.
Sadie forced herself to keep smiling. The part of Cass that wasn't Coyote was mostly Magpie—with some Mother Hen thrown in. For the first time in days, he wasn't hovering over his boss, scaring all the big, bad sodbusters away with his double-holstered rig. She suspected he was visiting the water closet.
In any event, he'd be returning soon, and she was scheduled for a costume change in under ten minutes. This might be the only chance she got to convince Baron that Chantelle O'Leary's bed would be more interesting than whatever private poker game he'd been invited to this evening.
Edging closer, she dropped her hand to Baron's thigh. "I brought you something," she murmured in his ear.
Baron placed a bet before finally deigning to turn his head her way. Through his cloud of cigar smoke, he looked a tad peaked for a man who was rumored to ride the range when he wasn't stumping for votes.
Suddenly, she remembered a piece of advice Madam Snake-Eye had confided between benders:
"There are only two times in life when a John isn't receptive to a rut: When he's on his deathbed, and when he's sick with love. During those times, you'll just have to work a little harder for your pay."
Letting a provocative dimple peek, Sadie offered Baron one of the two snifters on her tray.
"For me?"
"For us," she purred.
His smile was polite but discouraging as he scooped up the glass. "Much obliged, Sweet Pea. But you should know, my wife can sniff out my assignations like a bloodhound."
Sadie's smile never wavered. "Then perhaps we should go to a place where she can't find us—like my hotel room."
Baron chuckled. "Don't think I'm not flattered. But Poppy would gut a sweet little thing like you like a fish. No offense, Sugar Plum."
Sadie blinked. She wasn't sure how Baron had gotten the idea she was sweet. Or that a woman who swooned at the sound of gunfire could pose a threat to a street-smart bawd like her. In any event, Sadie's mind was racing for some appropriate way to prove herself equal to the Poppy Challenge, when a velvety baritone crooned in her ear:
"Oh look. You found that pointy hat."
She stiffened at Cass's taunt.
He'd sneaked up behind her in the din. She shot him a get-lost glare, but he didn't take the hint. Instead, he made a nuisance of himself, staking out his territory by her side—or maybe by Baron's. It was hard to tell, since the craps players had wedged themselves so tightly around the table, they had to turn sideways just to raise a glass. Shouts of "Snake eyes!" were making her head pound.
But Cass didn't flinch. He stood before her with his thumbs hooked over his gun belt. Considering how close they were, she wondered how she could have failed to miss his scent: an alluring blend of cloves, cinnamon, and sandalwood.
As if he knew the devastating effect he was having on her senses, he flashed his devilish grin. She was sorely tempted to punch out all those pretty teeth—especially when he scooped the second cognac from her tray and tossed it down his gullet like sugar water.
"That Cordon Rouge will cost you $20 dollars," she said pleasantly.
He winked. "Put it on my tab, Cassie. Or is it Chantelle tonight?"
Baron arched a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "You two know each other?"
"It was a long time ago," she said with practiced indifference.
"Sometimes it feels like yesterday," Cass quipped.
She turned her shoulder on the pest and lavished her most stunning smile on Baron. "I've always admired a man who knows what he wants. And how to make it his."
"Can't fault a lady for that," Baron said, rolling his stogie to the other side of his mouth and raking in his winnings.
"Or Chantelle," Cass chimed in.
"Tell me," Sadie purred, mustering the will to ignore Cass completely. "Are you enjoying our fair city? And all it has to offer?"
"The view isn't bad," Baron admitted, glancing once more at her breasts.
"I could show you more."
"Chantelle prides herself on her hospitality," Cass said drolly.
Baron snorted with mirth.
Sadie wanted to scratch out both their eyes.
Resolutely tamping down her anger, Sadie tried again. "It's a pity women can't vote, senator. A charming gentleman—" she emphasized the word for Cass's benefit "—such as yourself, should be in the Governor's Mansion. Maybe even the White House."
That earned her a grin of appreciation. "I always did believe in looking after the ladies. Are you a suffragette, Miss O'Leary?"
"I admit to doing my part to support my man. And you're a man whom a lady would definitely like to see on top," she said suggestively.
"Of a pike," Cass added.
Baron guffawed. "Tarnation, boy. Should I be renting a room for you two?"
Sadie shot Cass a withering glare. He had the decency to redden.
At that inopportune moment, the craps dealer roared for bets, and the orchestra started playing the cue for her costume change. Choking down her frustration, Sadie was forced to settle for Baron's promise—and a distracted one, at that—to watch her performance.
Seething at Cass's sabotage, she stalked off through the crowd, plotting all manner of paybacks. She hadn't walked more than 20 feet, however, when strong, callused fingers wrapped her wrist and tugged her to a halt.
She rounded on her bushwhacker. "How dare—""I'm sorry," Cass murmured. "About last night."
Her chest heaved. They were surrounded by spectators: leering craps shooters, gawking beerjerkers, liveried black-jack dealers.
Even more dangerous to her cover were the orchestra and it's hoity-toity conductor. Maestro Lundgren was an import from the vaunted New York Academy of Music and resented how Rex had called in a favor to get her the Grand Park gig. Lundgren had no idea she was a Pinkerton. After hearing her solo for the first time, the Maestro had complained she wailed like a banshee in heat.
Then, of course, there was Baron, his eyes hooded in speculation as he watched her and Cass through a cloud of blue cigar smoke. As much as Cass deserved to have his head chewed off, Sadie steeled herself against the temptation. She wasn't going to blow her cover because her showboater of an ex-lover got his jollies by making scenes.
"It's forgotten," she said, trying to jerk her wrist free.
"Just like that?" he countered warily.
"What does it matter? I'm due backstage for a costume change."
"I kind of like the costume you have on," he cajoled.
The smolder was unmistakable in those sapphire eyes. Her traitorous heart kicked.
Damn you, Cass, I'm not a fiddle to be played whenever you get nostalgic for the old tune!
She pasted on a smile for their audience and tried again to twist her arm free. "I don't have time for this. I have to sing."
"About me?"
"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "Whatever."
Actually, Wager with the Devil had been inspired by their poker game at Wilma's place. But he didn't need to know that. Hell, he didn't deserve to know that!
"I can't wait to hear it." He cocked his head in a winsome manner. "Do you take requests?"
"That depends on the request," she said warily.
&nbs
p; "I'm kind of partial to Lucifire."
"You and all the ladies."
"Aw. Don't be that way. Meet me afterward?"
"We burned that bridge, remember?"
He flinched.
Remorse needled her.
"Look," she said grudgingly, "I know what you are, who you are. I don't expect you to change for my sake. If she makes you happy, then be happy. Life's too short to hold grudges."
His throat worked, and his hand tightened over her wrist.
"Sadie, it's not like that—"A trumpet fanfare sounded.
She bit back an oath. Her snooty bastard of a conductor was cuing the opening bars of her solo. On purpose!
"Cass, I really have to go!"
He must have read the desperation on her face, because reluctantly, he released her. Another trumpet blast shook the rafters.
Their stares locked.
Cinders and smoke. Hunger and hurt.
"Watch your back," she whispered earnestly.
Amidst the laughter and applause, she hiked her hem and fled for the steps of the stage.
* * *
Another night, another failure.
Sadie wondered how she could possibly file her next Pinkerton report without getting booted off the case. The convention would be over in two days—two days!—and she still hadn't found a scrap of evidence to incriminate Baron for capital murder. Hell, she hadn't even been able to seduce him! If a room full of whistling, stomping sodbusters hadn't deafened her after her performance, she might have worried she was losing her appeal.
Unable to face herself in the mirror, Sadie threw on trousers, a hat, and a beard. She wanted to avoid Cass and sneak out of the casino. She was furious with herself for letting him work his Coyote Charm on her. No one knew better than she the danger Cass posed with those bottomless baby-blues, adorable dimples, and well-rehearsed lines.
'He's the Rebel Rutter, you sap! Of course, he made you feel like he sincerely cared! That's how he gets sweet little maids to spread their legs!'
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