CHAPTER 5

Work had ceased at the Glory Hole. A scarred old dog stood like a sentry in front, as if waiting for something. Or someone.

Cat had learned from Teddy that Canton had not been put aboard a ship, but instead jailed and charged with assault and disorderly conduct, a ludicrous charge at best. There was no such thing as disorderly conduct on the Barbary Coast.

She felt twinges of guilt, but they weren’t too severe. At least she had saved him from an unwilling trip to China. That she had set things in motion in the first place was something she decided not to dwell on; she’d never told Delaney to go to such lengths, though she probably should have expected it.

But there was nothing she could do about it now. And he was stopped. Perhaps he’d learned a lesson and would fold his hand and go back to wherever it was he came from … if he ever got out of jail. He’d made an enemy of Captain Delaney when he hadn’t allowed himself to be taken without a fight. Delaney didn’t like complications, nor having to pay more money to two of the more seriously injured thugs. It wounded his pride.

She hadn’t been surprised, however, when she’d learned the details. Canton had almost killed four of the city’s most vicious toughs. If one hadn’t landed a lucky blow …

Damnation. Why couldn’t she go two minutes without thinking of him? It had been ten days since his disappearance, and she still found herself looking for a tall, lethally graceful man who, by only his presence, dominated a room.

Ten days. Ten goddamned hellish days in a damned cage before he finally convinced a guard he could obtain bribe money if only the man would contact his lawyer.

He still hurt. His ribs remained sore, and his skin retained a yellowish spotting where some of the worst bruises were finally fading. The cut on his arm was healing slowly, leaving a great jagged scar because it had not been stitched.

Only the injury to his pride hadn’t improved.

And his anger.

And both had festered each of the past days, each humiliating moment stored in his mind for retaliation.

The first few days were still somewhat a blur of pain. He hadn’t really cared where he was, and he reasoned that the hard bed was as comfortable as a feathered one, considering the extent of his injuries. Softness would have made movement more of a probability. Movement was pain.

But on the third day imprisonment became a reality, along with inedible food, filth, lack of privacy, and most important, the impotence of being caged. There was barely space to walk five steps before bumping into walls or bars, and his natural restlessness screamed for relief.

He asked repeatedly and to no avail to see David Scott. His rage grew with the sense of hopelessness. He thought of dozens of ways to even the score with Catalina Hilliard, the most rewarding of which was taking her to bed. He knew how to torment, not by crude pain, but by exquisite temptation. He knew how to bring a woman to the edge … and then leave her in expectant agony.

Or perhaps financial ruin. He was willing to risk everything now to win.

Catalina Hilliard had raised the stakes. He didn’t plan on losing the game.

David Schuyler Scott eyed his bearded, bloodstained client with no little trepidation. Canton had seemed fierce before, but that was nothing to the way he looked now.

“Don’t say it,” Marsh said. “You warned me. Now, how do I get the hell out of here?”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Marsh met his gaze directly. “I went to the Barbary Coast.”

“Should I ask why?”

Marsh shrugged. “A whim.”

“An expensive one, you’ll find, in more ways than one,” Scott said. “I talked to a Captain Delaney, who lodged the charges and got nowhere, so I went a step above him.” He paused. “Fortunately, the two men you shot have long police records. They also have long connections with Delaney.” He paused again. “And Delaney is frequently seen in the Silver Slipper.”

“I rather thought that,” Marsh said without a change in expression.

“I didn’t think Catalina Hilliard would go this far,” David said slowly.

“I think her purpose was even more ominous,” Marsh said. “Like having me shanghaied. You see, I was chloroformed. Why do that merely to cart me to jail?”

David looked puzzled. “But you are here!”

Marsh smiled humorlessly as he looked around. “That’s very observant of you. Now what do we do about it?”

“It’s already been done,” David said. “You performed a public service for the city, disabling those thugs. It was simply pointed out that no one, particularly Captain Delaney, would want the newspapers to look too closely into the circumstances, which, if your case went to trial, might happen.”

“I didn’t know I’d hired such a clever and influential attorney.”

“You didn’t,” David said. “As much as I would like to take credit, I can’t.”

“Then who …?”

“The only man I know who has that kind of power: Quinn Devereux.”

For one of the few times in his life, Marsh was stunned. “But why?”

“Damned if I know,” the attorney said. “He seems to take on odd causes.”

Marsh didn’t like the idea of being a cause. Or of owing anyone. He wondered what Devereux wanted.

It was as if David read his mind. “You can always stay here.”

Marsh gave him a cold smile. “My boots?”

David looked down at his client’s stockinged feet, remembering the first time he had seen Marsh Canton, and his eyes moved upward over a filthy shirt and torn trousers. While not elegant, his client had always been well dressed and groomed. These last ten days must have been hell. He did not miss the determination in Canton’s eyes. They were even colder than before, and he knew he wouldn’t care to be in certain shoes. He also wondered whether Quinn Devereux knew what he was unleashing. “I’ll see what I can do.” He started to leave.

Marsh didn’t hesitate. “To hell with the boots.”

David nodded and watched as Marsh moved slowly, painfully, toward the barred door. “I think you might want to visit a doctor.”

Marsh shook his head. “I have other business first.”

David looked at him warily. “You may not be so lucky next time you … visit here, or the Barbary Coast.”

“I have no intention of doing either,” Marsh said harshly. He didn’t like explaining himself to anyone, but he owed this man something for his freedom. And Devereux. He supposed he would discover soon enough what the hotel owner wanted.

“Then—”

Marsh cut off David’s warning. “I know the legalities, Scott,” Marsh said. “I’ll stay within them.” Except, he added to himself, for a few minor circumventions. Like a little bribery of his own. He’d had ten days to think about retribution, and how to go about it.

“I have a carriage outside. The hotel?”

Marsh looked down at himself. His odor was rank, as were his clothes. And that was a charitable way of describing both.

David understood. He should have thought to bring some clothes. He knew San Francisco jails, though not well. He usually represented businessmen, not criminals. Canton was proving an interesting diversion in more ways than one. “I’ll take you to my home,” he said. “You can take a bath there and borrow some of my clothes.”

“I’ll pay for them,” Marsh said abruptly.

“Not necessary.”

“It is,” Marsh said in a tone that finished any argument. It was one thing to pay a man for services, another to accept favors. He hadn’t accepted one in fifteen years, and now in one day he was forced to take two. Well, he could minimize at least one of them.

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Marsh said curtly, and followed the attorney out of the filthy cell, down a filthy corridor, and through another pair of doors to sunlight.

David Scott’s wife regarded Marsh with interest, not horror, and he wondered whether her tolerance came from simple good manners, experience with her husband’s clients, or the fact that there were probably few surprises in a city said to be full of odd characters.

Whatever it was, he liked her, her easy smile and affability. He had also been surprised at the force with which Scott had urged a very good suit upon him. He was not used to being taken in and treated kindly, and he didn’t care for the way the gesture initially pleased him. He didn’t need any cracks in an interior he’d worked hard to fossilize.

Quinn Devereux had been the next stop. Marsh had already decided to leave the Pacific Palace’s comfort for the far less lavish rooms of the Glory Hole. With the costs involved in rebuilding the place, he could scarcely afford expensive lodgings.

Devereux had been in his office, which was remarkably designed. One wall was all windows; the other three walls were graced with some of the finest paintings Marsh had ever seen, one of which he considered particularly outstanding. It was a rainbow that seemed so real, Marsh imagined he could reach out and touch it.

“My wife painted that,” Devereux said, his voice laced with pride.

“She’s very good.”

“Yes,” Devereux agreed simply. “Some night you’ll have to come to dinner and meet her.”

The same kind of pang that had struck Marsh earlier at the lawyer’s home invaded him again, and he tried to shove it away. Christ, was he really that desperate for the companionship of someone other than the usual gamblers or gunfighters he met? For just the briefest or moments, flashes of another life returned, of sociable evenings and gay balls, of hunts, of evenings spent in companionable discussion over fine bourbon and excellent cigars. And then he stiffened. He had chosen a certain kind of life that precluded the niceties of civilized society, and it was too late now for regret.

He gave Devereux a noncommittal nod that bespoke reluctance, and Devereux smiled as if he had some kind of secret knowledge.

It made Marsh downright uncomfortable. “I just wanted to thank you,” he said in a raspy voice that revealed inexperience in thanking someone. “Scott told me you were the one who arranged my release. I don’t know why.…”

Devereux raised dark eyebrows, which seemed incongruous in a face framed by gray hair. His age was impossible to determine, Marsh thought, because of the strength of the face and eyes. There was an energy around the man that defied time. His eyes were blue, almost brilliant, and his body was exceptionally fit. There was something about Devereux that told Marsh he was no ordinary businessman, and not a man to cross. And yet there was humor and even compassion in his expression.

“I don’t like injustice,” Devereux said easily. “I don’t like four men attacking one, who was jailed for it.”

“How did you know?”

“I hear a great deal.”

“It wasn’t a random attack.”

Devereux hesitated a moment. “I’ve heard rumors.”

Marsh decided to dig for information. “About the glorious Miss Hilliard?”

“I don’t know the lady, but I do know of her. This doesn’t sound like her. Perhaps I’m wrong, but at least now you know what you face. Are you sure you want to continue?”

“More than ever,” Marsh said with a faint smile.

“I suspected as much. If there’s anything I can do—”

“Why?” The question was sharp and suspicious. “Why should you care? Why should you concern yourself?”

Devereux didn’t answer that question immediately. Instead he went over to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a decanter.

“Drink?”

Marsh refused with a curt gesture of his hand. “Why?” he repeated.

“I suppose you remind me a little of myself years ago.”

Marsh looked at him with disbelief. Quinn Devereux was one of the most respected men in San Francisco, a philanthropist, it was said. “There’s nothing you want?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“Neither do I, nor having people owe me. So forget it. Consider it a whim of mine. I don’t like Captain Delaney. It amuses me to annoy him.”

“Delaney?”

“The man behind your arrest. Watch out for him.”

Another favor. Marsh winced. “I’ll do that.” He started for the door, then turned back. “I still owe you.” Before Devereux could reply, Marsh had opened the door and left.

That odd tune she’d heard days ago from the Glory Hole kept nagging at Cat.

She grimaced in the mirror as she twisted her hair into a French knot for the evening. Would that melody never go away? Perhaps if she knew its name, but she didn’t know how to discover it, although the melody stayed firm in her mind. She knew songs like “Skip to My Lou,” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and some pretty bawdy chants and maudlin ballads; her knowledge ended there.

She frowned as she considered her lack of education. She’d acquired what she had as an adult, mostly from Ben, and that had been pretty much limited to the basics: reading, writing, and ciphering. Ben had introduced her to some good books, but they were hard to come by in the mining camps, and she’d had little time here in San Francisco. Someday, though …

But she’d had a really wide education in human nature.

“Go away,” she whispered to the melody that was haunting her. And when it wouldn’t, she suddenly realized it wasn’t in her mind. She heard the piano, the notes drifting up through the evening air.

He must be back. Canton. Somehow he had gotten out of jail. Canton was playing?

It couldn’t be. Not with that hard face and those soul-dead eyes. Not something this soft and lovely and enticing.

He was back. Released. A chill swept through her. He must have guessed what had happened. And why.

How did he get out of jail?

And how would he take revenge?

The music changed from the plaintive melody to an almost violent piece. She shivered as she imagined a threat in it.

And then she pushed that odd feeling away. She had learned to fight. And she didn’t mind fighting dirty for what she wanted.

Marsh sat at a table in the rear of the Silver Slipper. Cat was surprised by the rush of guilt she felt when she saw his fading yellow bruises and the stiff way he held himself as if he were still in pain.

Cat knew how to bluff. She also knew one should never avoid an encounter with an enemy set on one. Especially when she was on her own ground.

She walked up to him. “Mr.…”

“Canton,” Marsh said with a small smile. “Taylor Canton.”

Cat met his gaze directly. “It’s been quiet the past few days.”

His eyes betrayed nothing. Neither did his face, nor the small, enigmatic smile. “Some business to take care of,” he said easily. “But I’m afraid your respite was a short one. We begin again in the morning.”

Her gaze never left his. “You’re going to stay?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Once I start something, I stay to the bitter end.”

For the first time there was a hint of emotion in his cool voice, a trace of menace, a warning so subtle, Cat almost missed it. “We have something in common, then,” she said with a patently insincere smile of her own.

“I think we may have a great deal in common, Miss Catalina.”

“Very little I would say.” She shrugged with contemptuous dismissal.

His smile broadened. “Now let me see. We both own saloons.” His gaze left hers and lazily, but very thoroughly, examined her body. Cat suddenly flushed, something she hadn’t done in years. Without words but very definitely with his eyes, he confirmed something else they had in common: the almost painful physical attraction that was impossible to hide. It was so strong, the air vibrated with it.

He allowed that knowledge to simmer, daring her to deny it, as his eyes undressed her in a way no man ever had—with lazy sensuousness, with the knowledge that her body was involuntarily responding … aching suddenly with exquisite yearning that was plain torment.

She hated him then. She hated him for making her feel like a woman. She hated the weakness it spawned in her. She hated the sudden doubts that made her question who and what she was.

And he sat there, unreadable, watching with eyes that were like mirrors, not of himself, but of her, mirrors that bored into her.

That was the most menacing of all. Much more than open threats or visible fury.

She thought about explaining that she’d meant him no physical harm, but any explanation would involve the police captain. And in the end it would mean nothing. She’d set events into motion, and she doubted whether he would believe anything she said, especially the fact that she’d prevented his voyage to exotic places. After all, the possibility wouldn’t even have existed if not for her, so she doubted his appreciation.

And she couldn’t apologize. Cat was not a hypocrite. And she knew she would probably do the same thing over again. And next time, she thought a tad viciously, she wouldn’t be so quick to interfere. The thought of him swabbing a deck was suddenly very sweet. In any event, she thought self-righteously, he’d deserved it. Anyone who visited the Barbary Coast was a fool. That’s it, she told herself. Think of him that way. As a fool. Not as a man whose masculinity sent hot shivers down her back.

“And then,” Marsh added softly, “we seem to have something else in common.…” He seemed to be searching for words, but Cat knew it was only for effect. She instinctively knew a great deal about him.

“A lack of charity,” he said with sudden inspiration accompanied by a wolfish smile. “You would agree, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps ‘ruthlessness’ is the word you seek,” she said slowly, meeting the challenge frontally.

“As good as any,” he agreed amiably.

Her gaze ran over his face again, over the discoloration from the bruises. It did nothing to detract from the masculine appeal of the features, of the hard lines and angles that so oddly attracted her.

And she knew that the tactic she’d tried, to consider him a fool, was as useless as the others. She didn’t know why he had ventured down to the Barbary Coast, but it wasn’t because he was a fool.

She sat on the table, her hand rubbing across the smooth wood, taking confidence in it. This was hers. She had built and nurtured the Silver Slipper, and she was the Ice Queen of San Francisco, held in awe, if not respect, by many. She wanted to wipe that lazy look off his face, even though she suspected how dangerous that action might be … how touching him in any way would be fatal.

Danger mixed with the hot sensuality that had settled like a cloud around them. It was intoxicating. Exhilarating. And terrifying.

Mindful of the danger, yet unable to stop, she asked, “Did you have an accident?”

“A minor mishap,” he said carelessly. “A miscalculation.” He waited a moment before adding, “By others.”

“Oh?”

“There are two in the hospital, I think. Maybe three. I’m not sure.”

“Ah, San Francisco can be a very dangerous place. You have to be careful where you go.”

“It’s kind of you to warn me,” Canton said, a gleam in his eye.

“Of course, you look well armed,” she said innocently, her gaze moving from the wounded face to the gun he was wearing.

Canton nodded. “Now that I’m fully aware of the city’s pitfalls, I’ll be more on guard.”

Cat switched to another subject. “I heard a piano earlier … coming from the Glory Hole.”

His expression didn’t change. He ignored her question as if it weren’t worth answering and sipped his whiskey.

She had been roundly rebuffed, but she had to know. Because one should know one’s enemy. “Were you playing?”

Canton looked through her, still not answering. He was the kind of man who didn’t have to answer. She suspected that he did this frequently. Merely fixed that dark gray gaze on someone until they were so intimidated, the question just fell away as if into an abyss. Had he tired of their game? A warning had been given, acknowledgment made, war subtly declared.

He rose suddenly, lean and lethal, the gun so very evident at his hip. “It’s been … enlightening,” he said as he reached out and took her hand, bringing it almost to his mouth in a cavalier manner.

Cat was struck motionless by his gesture, even more so by the heat that scorched her hand when he touched it, scorched and traveled on, like a brushfire, along her bloodstream. For a moment she thought he was going to draw the palm to his mouth, but then his lips twisted into a mocking smile.

“For now, darlin’.” He allowed her hand to drop, threw a couple of coins on the table, and strode out, Cat staring after him.

The dog growled at Marsh when he entered the Glory Hole. He lit an oil lamp and considered his companion. “We’ll just have to tolerate each other,” he told the animal.

Marsh decided to stay in the main room this evening. He placed his bedroll and gear next to the bar. The dog stayed a fair distance, growling whenever he deemed Marsh encroached on his territory.

The dog had been sitting in front of the saloon when he’d arrived earlier. Marsh had had the odd feeling of being greeted. He’d not been greeted by a living thing in more than a decade. At least it was some kind of homecoming after ten days in jail.

Marsh stretched out on the blanket. He heard loud noises from across the way. The Silver Slipper was alive with activity. He saw Catalina in his mind again, those sparking green eyes as he’d taunted her. She played the game well. Very well.

He would take the greatest of pleasure in besting her. And he would. One way or another.