Chapter 23 #2
He hadn’t lit any of the lamps within the room.
The brocade drapes at the windows had been shut.
There was only the light from the fire, which cast a warm orange glow and many shadows over the room.
The flickering firelight only served to enhance the exquisite and stunning beauty of the woman who had entered.
All right, he thought, so he was, finally, fairly drunk. Maybe she wasn’t so beautiful. She was blurred. As softened as the rough edges of fate that had been ripping at his soul.
She stood stiffly with her back pressed against the door, her eyes at first closed as if she were listening for something out in the hallway.
Her hair was glorious—dark and waving with a touch of gold and crimson fire down her back, over her shoulders.
Her face, framed by the thick tendrils, was an ivory oval, cheekbones high, mouth generous and defined.
Her beautifully arched brows added to the regal perfection of her face. Her skin looked smooth and flawless.
Her eyes suddenly flicked open. Sloan could hear the murmur of voices in the hall.
It appeared that those voices had alarmed her, and he realized that she must be Loralee’s new “beauty,” just in from the East. Perhaps it was the first time she had been sent over to the inn, and the appearance of others in the hall had disturbed her.
He’d never seen a woman arrive from Loralee’s in quite the fashion this one did.
Even whores usually dressed to come across the yard.
She was wearing an elegant white robe with chaste and virginal white lace at the collars and cuffs.
She hadn’t quite tied the garment though, and it hung open to reveal white hose, pantalettes, and corset, the latter laced through with blue satin ribbon.
Even taking into consideration the effect of a corset, she had to be the most incredibly curved female he had ever seen, elegantly slim, but endowed with ripe, voluptuous breasts and enticingly rounded hips.
He might be deep into the bottle, but this girl was still extraordinary.
He found himself standing. He had told Loralee not to send her new beauty.
Loralee had apparently done so anyway, undoubtedly thinking she knew damned well what could lighten his mood.
He opened his mouth to tell the woman harshly to go away. To his own surprise, the words died on his lips. He might be drunk, but only a dead man wouldn’t be aroused by this creature.
She was staring at him, as if she had just noticed he was in the room.
It was a strange gaze she gave him. One something akin to alarm.
He wondered if Loralee had warned her he was half Sioux.
But any whore coming west would have to realize much of her clientele would have mixed blood.
Her gaze moved swiftly from his face to the opening of his white civilian shirt, down to his black boots.
He wasn’t sure why, but a sudden warmth suffused him. Lust. Straight and simple, he mocked himself. She was something, all right. She’d make a mint. All a man needed to do was stare at her. Half the deprived fellows coming out of the hills would explode before ever setting a hand upon her.
“Come in,” he said. Was his voice slurring roughly? What if someone had been coming in to rob him? Would he have swept that Colt from the table and taken aim quickly enough?
He smiled wryly at himself. He’d wanted the world a little bit blurry. It was damnably so. Was the girl real? He’d have to get closer to find out.
“Wh—what?” she whispered. Her hand was on the door.
“Come in,” he repeated, rising from the chair.
She continued to stare at him.
He shrugged and took a long sip of the whiskey. What in the hell was she doing? This was Gold Town. People were shy. Whores weren’t shy. Miners weren’t often in the mood for a simpering belle. Business was done here, short and simple.
“To be honest, I don’t want you here, but you’ve come. So, either get out or get in and quit clinging to the door.”
He took three long strides toward her. “If you don’t want to be here, get the hell out. And if you’re going to stay, come into the room and away from the damned door!”
She looked as if she might flee at that moment. He could still hear the voices in the hallway.
“Are you going?” he demanded.
“Now?” She seemed appalled at the thought. Maybe she was afraid that Loralee would be furious if she didn’t prove her worth. Whatever, he definitely wasn’t in the mood for any games.
“Yes, now! Damn you, I just said that I didn’t want you here. But you are here. But if you don’t want to be here, get out! Is that clear? Just get out!”
“No!” She shook her head wildly.
He caught her arm, mindless of the slight cringe she made, and drew her past him. He set his hand upon the door bolt and slammed it, then set his hands upon his hips as he faced her. “You needn’t look so damned panicked. You’re not going to be seen with me. No one can get in here.”
“No one can get in,” she said.
“Of course not.”
He tried to curtail his impatience. But hell, this was one strange whore, and he’d already told Loralee that his mood was wretched.
She was still staring at him, and the way that she did so was irritating.
Insulting.
He almost wished that she had gone.
But staring back at her didn’t calm the cyclone brewing within him.
The heat of his very basic lust was growing.
Maybe Loralee had been right, had known exactly what he needed.
Whiskey to blur the edges. Some good, fast sex to burn off the fever and passion rolling like the wind within him.
Standing closer to her in the flickering firelight, he was made ever more aware of her startling beauty.
The girl should have been pouring tea in an aristocrat’s dining room, not whoring in a dust-covered mining town.
But people made their choices. The clothing she wore was obviously very expensive.
Apparently, she had rich tastes. Lucky for her, she was probably going to do damned well out here.
His gaze rested on her throat, the ivory whiteness of it, a pulse beating against it. His gaze lowered. His insides quickened. Her breasts were all but spilling over the corset.
He didn’t want her to go.
Yet still…
She was looking at him with that same trace of alarm in her eyes.
He approached her again, grabbing her hand. Long fingers. Manicured nails. An elegant hand. He drew it to him. Opened a button on his shirt and placed her hand against his chest. “Do you have a problem with Indians?” he demanded.
She jerked her hand free. “Are you an Indian?”
His brows shot up, and he looked at her incredulously. “Do I look Norwegian?” he asked slowly.
She extended a hand, indicating the cavalry jacket he had thrown across the foot of the bed. “I—thought you were an officer.”
“I wonder about that myself,” he murmured. He stared at her again. “I ask you once more, do you have a problem with—”
He broke off. She wasn’t listening to him. Again, she seemed to be paying attention to whatever was going on in the hallway.
The hell with it. He’d drunk too much. The right thing at the time. Now it seemed that war drums were pounding in his head, coursing through his body. Loud, hammering, demanding. Sheer forgetfulness was at hand, appeasement for the thunder pulsing through him.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he took a step, closing the gap between them.
Caught her face between his two hands. Brought his mouth down hard upon hers.
She tasted like mint. Her lips were rich, provocative.
He wanted more of them. He drove his tongue between her lips, drawing her hard against him.
Her breasts rose, lush and tempting, against his chest, which was bared now.
Again he felt the rise of an almost overwhelming desire, stronger than anger, irritation, impatience, bitterness.
The deeper he kissed her, the stronger his desire became.
Her hands were on his chest, pushing free.
He groaned deeply, unwilling at first to let her go, his desire suddenly so strong that he was tempted to throw her down upon the bed with the brutal force firing its way into his being.
He made himself free her. “Damn you, go!” he shouted, shoving her toward the door.
She reached it. Her fingers fumbled at the bolt. He thrust past her, opening the bolt.
He heard the voices again. A man speaking. “If I can find the younger girl first—”
He heard no more because she had spun in his arms, slipping beneath the one to stand in the center of the room again.
He stared at her, baffled, as she stared back at him.
Her eyes huge. Her lips damp, slightly swollen, very provocative.
Her robe all the way open. Her breasts heaving with each gulp of air she took.
He fought for control. “Woman, if you don’t want to be here, go!” he exploded with impatience.
She focused on him, really focused on him. “I—” she began, then broke off, and apparently came to some decision. For a moment, her lashes covered her eyes. “I’m sorry. I—I’m afraid you’re right. I was just—thrown. You are an Indian. Part Indian.”
He nodded, his eyes narrowing. “And you are free to leave.”
“I—I don’t want to go. May I have a drink, please?”
He was about to explode in a dozen pieces, and she looked as if she were expecting finger sandwiches. “Did you want me to order tea?” he inquired in a long drawl.
“Tea. Yes, that would be—” She seemed to catch the incredulous expression on his face. “No!” she exclaimed. “Not tea. I—”
“I have whiskey. From Loralee’s.”
“That would be—fine.”
Perplexed, Sloan poured his visitor a snifter of whiskey. She accepted it, smiled flirtatiously, and walked over to the fireplace. The red glow rose around, casting a very soft crimson sheen over her elegant white robe and lace undergarments. She sipped the whiskey and then gagged.