“Dinner’s served,” he muttered.
Miri watched with interest as Deacon pulled on a pair of clean pants and crossed to the door. She’d always found his size attractive.
“You’ve lost weight during your illness,” she remarked as he rolled the serving cart toward the bed.
“Better skinny than dead,” Deacon answered.
Miri retrieved the shirt she’d been wearing, making a moue of distaste at its damp, wrinkled state.
“Wear one of mine,” Deacon suggested. After he parked the cart next to the small dining table in the room, he tossed her a shirt from his saddlebags.
It was better quality than what she usually wore. She didn’t have to inspect it to know that Deacon’s shirt was custom made. The finished seams caressing her flesh confirmed the superiority. That in turn reminded her he was an educated man she didn’t want to appear a fool in front of.
Keep your lips sealed and you’ll be fine.
Her audacity at being in this room with Deacon McCallister left her speechless. After a year of wistfully staring at her rival from afar, she’d done it—tasted forbidden fruit.
Miri had hung around Eclipse long enough to ascertain McCallister was on the road to recovery before returning to the task of tracking the spread of phony money through Texas and the Territory. It was the biggest case she’d ever pursued and she was determined to catch the criminals involved. She’d gathered what information Hiram had about the three men spreading fake money and followed his leads to other towns where bills had been found.
Finally she’d narrowed her pursuit to one man, a Texas cowboy named Ned Jackson, but Jackson’s trail had frequently crossed the other two men’s, Collier Syms, an Eastern banker, and Jefferson Landau, a Southern preacher. Being adept at disguises herself, she figured out fast that Syms, Landau and Jackson were all the same man.
She’d found the pretend minister real soon but instead of catching him, she’d decided to watch Landau, hoping he’d lead her to the plates he’d used to print his phony money. She followed him to Dodge and attended a tent service that started before the dew on the ground was dry.
Landau was preaching and the tent was jammed with saved sinners. He probably wouldn’t have gotten more than the usual two bits but he salted the mine, so to speak. Every once in a while, a churchgoer waving a hundred-dollar bill would jump up and praise Jesus. The lucky men and women claimed they’d found money after giving.
“Proverbs 21:26,” Landau had shouted. “The righteous give without sparing.” He’d started his service in the morning and by afternoon, lines had formed outside with folks waving dollars and trying to get in the tent to put money in the collection plate and praise God.
She knew there was no mistake and Landau was her crook. Figuring that finding the plates would pay a bigger reward, Miri had held off taking him prisoner, hoping he’d lead her to the source of the bills.
He’d gotten away and it had taken her two more weeks to find another clue. This time she’d found Jackson. After studying the information that had been gathered by lawmen and comparing it to hers, she could see that whether there were three or one, two of the identities had something in common. One time or another, Syms and Landau had both visited the Pleasure Dome in Fort Worth. She’d based her next move on her conviction that Ned Jackson would show up at the brothel. The same day she quit looking in Wichita Falls, she traveled to Fort Worth.
When she’d arrived she could see that the section of town called Hell’s Half Acre had sprawled way past its allotted size. She didn’t much care for the wild goings-on but didn’t figure to stay in the city of sin any longer than it took to complete the task at hand.
She was on the hunt when she’d struck up an acquaintance with Mrs. Lydia Lynch, the owner of the house of ill repute named the Pleasure Dome. The brothel owner needed a new butler and Miri needed to get inside the fancy whorehouse. Her path to success seemed destined to include butlering
.
Getting hired wasn’t as easy as it sounded though.
The first time Miri applied for the job, she’d been wearing her Beau Beauregard clothes. She’d climbed a great number of fancy steps to a door decorated in gold and painted blue. When she knocked, the man who opened up was a bruiser. He took one look at her and said, “Sales, produce and complaints, take ’em around back.”
Before he could get the door shut, Miri had explained in Beau’s Tennessee drawl that she wasn’t in trade and she wanted to apply for the butler’s job. Miri could see why Lydia needed a new butler. The temporary doorman laughed out loud and shut the door in her face.
Not one to give up easily, Miri had made the trip to the back door, memorizing the hidey-holes of the guards stationed along the way. When she’d presented Beau this time, she’d received a sympathetic look from a kitchen worker along with a suggestion.
“Don’t bother applying. Lydia only hires pretty boys to do her butlering.”
Wearing shaggy brown hair topped by a floppy hat, Beau was country for sure. The young bounty hunter always made a point of drawling and smoking and keeping Miri’s face mostly concealed so that folks remembered the thick accent instead of more telling features like her eyes.
Having a wolf trot beside her probably had a lot to do with leaving an impression too. In that light, it had been easy to see that her Beau disguise wasn’t the right fit for Lydia’s doorman. Grumbling at the expense, she’d visited Osgood’s Theatrical Supplies and invested in a suit and a new hairpiece.
Already having spent more than she wanted, she’d shaved costs by renting a stall for Possum in the town livery, then sleeping in it too. In her opinion, with Ketchum sprawled outside the stall on guard, she was about the safest person in Hell’s Half Acre.
The next morning Miri had knocked on the door as Calvin, a young gentleman wearing a vest, black frock coat, a gold pocket watch, dark sideburns and neatly trimmed hair. This time she’d been ushered to the brothel owner’s office, where she was subjected to her first fondling.
“No padding at all,” Lydia had purred, feeling Miri’s shoulders and admiring the way the coattails hung in the back. “Calvin, you’ll do.”
Lydia had explained that her place was high class and her employee at the entrance had to dress accordingly. She’d been more concerned with appearance than protection. She’d introduced Miri to two of the men she employed to handle what she called
incidents
and made it clear that Calvin was only expected to be polite and answer the door.
And just look who Calvin invited in.
Miri buttoned Deacon’s shirt, loving the subtle smell of tobacco and soap clinging to it.
If he has one of his cigars after dinner I’ll beg for a puff.
She watched, mesmerized, as Deacon peeled the white cover from the suite’s table to reveal a setting for two. Deftly he turned the wineglasses upright, filled each one with sparkling brew and handed her a glass.
It probably isn’t much different than beer.
She hesitated.
He picked up a strawberry and swirled it in the liquid, then held it to her lips.
“Oh.” The flavor burst over her tongue as she sank her teeth into the juicy fruit.
She nibbled her way to the green stem then licked his fingers, gratified to hear him stifle a groan.
He deftly unbuttoned her shirt and brushed the sides apart, displaying her breasts. Heat coiled in her belly, anticipating what he might do next. He swirled another strawberry in the wine, then rubbed it over her nipple before licking the drops of liquid from her now turgid peak.
His engorged shaft pushed against loosely buttoned pants. Before she could change her mind, she reached down and freed his hard length. As he suckled her breast, she pushed him down on one of the armless dining room chairs, straddling him and sinking down on his cock.
Miri cupped her breasts so that he might better suckle while he gripped her hips and set the tempo of their ride.
“Tender?” he asked her as she tightened the walls of her channel around his hard length.
“Hurts good.” She told him the truth and that seemed to free some restraint he’d been under. He nipped her breast then applied suction to the tip, sending hot bolts of lust radiating from her nipple to her sex.
She spread her thighs and flexed her knees, raising and lowering herself on his shaft, each thrust allowing deeper penetration until his cock head lodged against her core.
Oh my, yes.
She closed her eyes. She’d waited a long time to try this out and planned to take full advantage of the opportunity since it was doubtful she’d ever get another chance to bed him. He cupped her breasts, kneading them and pressing his thumbs against her nipples as he took her mouth in a kiss.
She’d never tongue-kissed anyone before Deacon tonight. While she tried to get the hang of doing it, he stroked the nubbin of nerves at the top of her cleft, thrusting his hips up and sinking deeper inside of her at the same time. She followed his rhythm and it was what Miri imagined dancing must be like.
Her sex fisted around Deacon’s cock and her channel squeezed him as her back arched against the tension. Pulling her mouth from his, she gasped in panicked protest.
“Deacon…” she managed to get out before ecstasy pulsed in her womb. Her hips moved, chasing bliss.
“Don’t stop, sweetheart,” he growled. He stiffened, tried to stand, sat back down and grabbed her rump, grinding his pelvis into the lips of her sex and sealing them together. She felt the hot pulse of his seed against the walls of her channel.
It was amazing and scary and not at all like the first time they’d coupled, which had been interesting. This time she was embarrassed, lethargic with pleasure and left feeling vulnerable. She’d clearly misplaced her mind.
“I lost control,” he muttered.
Well, all right. He’d lost his head too. She blinked, not realizing until that moment her eyes had been shut tight and she was biting her lip. Her gaze locked with his. He looked stern, forbidding. She still had his cock inside of her. It was awkward.
“I sure am hungry.” Not knowing what else to say, she eased off him, dropped a napkin over his lap and grabbed his shirt. Retreating to a spot behind the fancy screen, she cleaned herself, again feeling that flush of intense awareness of her body, him and what they’d done.
As she washed away their mingled emissions she tried to get a grip on her emotions. It had been a momentary aberration. A loss of good sense. Now she’d have to deal with possible repercussions from her insane behavior.
She tidied herself, pulling on his shirt. He was bare-chested, wearing only pants when she returned to the table. He stood, seating her on the chair as if she were a lady before he dropped a kiss on her head and began filling a plate from the different selections on the serving cart. When he handed it to her, she avoided his gaze.
“Hope this is pheasant.” Lydia’s chef was famous. Miri had sampled a few bites on her way through the kitchen during the last week and knew it was food like she’d never had before. Flustered by her own feelings, she concentrated on the meal and not the man across the table.
When she heard the clink of cutlery against china, she risked a peek at him. He’d filled his plate and ate with gusto. She returned to her food, adjusting the way she held her fork to match his.
Everything was moving along well until he began to question her. She should have known that Deacon McCallister was incapable of setting aside work for pleasure.
“How do you know Lydia?”
“What difference does it make?” she mumbled, forgetting to use the seductive voice she’d assigned this role.
“How long have you been here at the Pleasure Dome? Did Beauregard send you in to scout for him?” He prodded her for more information.
“Why?” Miri laid her fork down and stared across the table at him. His inquisition ruined the moment and she set aside the impulse to bury her face against his chest and rub her nose in his scent.
He stood, placing his napkin carefully on his chair. She noted the gesture in case she had an occasion for fine dining in the future, which was doubtful.
“You were a virgin,” he repeated as if that had some significance she’d overlooked.
“Was. Not anymore.”
“I don’t bed virgins,” he declared.
“Too late,” she answered and took the last strawberry from the dish to nibble while he said what he had to say.
“When I next see Beauregard, I’m going to kick his ass from here to Sunday. This is the second time the toad-eater has sent you into danger. You will leave this den of iniquity with me in the morning. Dammit, this has got to stop. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She bit down on the strawberry, wishing the flood of sweet juice would erase the bitter taste of regret in her mouth.
“Fine. Come to bed. We’ll sleep and then sort things out tomorrow.” His tone lost its autocratic menace and a half-smile curved his lips. He moved her back to the bed and took charge. And she let him. He was tender, rough, giving, demanding and everything Miri had ever imagined he’d be.
“Feel good?” he whispered in her ear as he cupped her mound, parting her folds and playing in her wet heat.
Good doesn’t do it justice.
Sliding her long mane to one side, she exposed her neck to his lips. She was greedy for sensation. “Don’t be gentle,” she ordered him.