CHAPTER 7

The streets outside the Glory Hole were overflowing with people. Ladies who would never have thought about entering a San Francisco saloon had come to hear Lotta Crabtree.

Catalina hadn’t even tried to compete this night. Any entertainment she might offer would pale in comparison. But her time would come shortly. Very shortly.

She couldn’t prevent a flash of admiration for Canton’s ingenuity as she dressed to attend the opening of the Glory Hole. It was not going to be a happy experience. Yet he had extended an invitation, and she wasn’t going to let him think her a coward, nor that he had gotten the best of her. She would wear her very finest gown—a black velvet creation that dramatically punctuated the ebony of her hair—and smile brilliantly.

Cat took her time dressing. She brushed her hair until it glowed, then twisted it into a French knot held by pearl pins. She used the barest amount of paint on her cheeks and lips, just enough to give them a rosy sheen.

She stepped back and regarded herself in the mirror. She looked her best. She drew on a cloak and took the first steps toward the serpent’s lair.

Catalina Hilliard would come. Marsh knew it as well as he knew life ended in death. She would come because she couldn’t bear to give him the satisfaction of not coming.

He had saved the best table for her. For them. The second-best table was reserved for Christopher Buckley, “Blind Chris” as he was called. Buckley owned the Snug Cafe near the city offices and was, according to all sources, the power behind the politicians in San Francisco. He was a man, Canton was told, to cultivate if he wanted to stay in business. Buckley had sent word that he wished to attend, and Marsh had been warned to give him the best table in the Glory Hole. Instead, he gave him the second-best.

Marsh tried his damnedest to look pleasant. Christ, but it was difficult after perfecting a stare of pure menace for so many years. Hugh O’Connell had made several suggestions and finally gave up with a disgusted grunt. “It’ll have to do,” he muttered as he’d stamped off.

This was the first time since the end of the war that Marsh had worn formal clothes, and they took him back to times and places he didn’t want to revisit. He was also tired of black. He had worn it for years as part of a legend he had established. The greater the reputation, the more business came to you; the bigger the reputation, the more shaky opposition became. The black brought back the gunfights. The range wars. That displacement of feelings.

When he’d looked into the mirror this night, he had wondered for a moment who was standing there. He’d been to a barber who’d cut his hair, and now the tiniest bit of gray showed through the ebony strands. The fine clothes did nothing to ease the lines on his face, but they distinguished them in some subtle way.

It wasn’t a killer facing him, not the killer he’d seen so many times reflected in the glass.

Could clothes really make that much difference? Or was it something else?

Or was he only imagining it? Wanting it to be so?

He’d turned away in disgust, wishing the night were over, wishing he hadn’t started to question so many things, wishing he was alone, with the dog. The dog had been there this morning, but as the number of bartenders and waiters had increased during the day, he’d slunk off someplace. Marsh wished he could do the same.

With one last disgusted look, he’d turned around and made for the stairs, and, perhaps, a new life. Or the discovery that it was no longer possible.

Catalina Hilliard made an entrance. Perhaps it was on purpose, or perhaps her mere presence always created a stir.

Marsh had long ago become jaded about women, but even he took a deep breath when Catalina swept into the Glory Hole.

He always had admired her beauty, but tonight she was breathtaking. She wore a black velvet dress that hugged a very desirable body, then fell gracefully to the floor. It was not fashionable; there was no bustle, no elaborate decoration or bows, but the very simplicity emphasized her dark beauty. Her hands and arms were clothed in black silk gloves; her only other adornments were a gold necklace with a small emerald that matched her eyes and pearl pins in her dark hair. The simple elegance made every other woman in the room look overdressed and fussy. He was impressed, even as he reminded himself that this was the woman who’d probably had him beaten, jailed, and very nearly shanghaied.

Every head turned away from him, away from the stage where musicians were warming up for Lotta Crabtree’s appearance, away from seeing who else had been able to gain entrance to one of the most popular events in recent San Francisco history. And every set of eyes remained on the elegant woman who moved toward Marsh with an assurance and challenge that was undeniable.

Marsh met her halfway as the room hushed. Rumors had already been flying about a feud between the two. In fact, he had encouraged them, knowing, as he had learned over the past years, that such speculation spurred interest.

And interest spurred business.

He also realized immediately that he and Catalina, with their black hair and formal wear, were striking together.

Marsh bowed with great courtliness. “Welcome to the Glory Hole,” he said. “You are most gracious to come.”

“Ah,” she replied sweetly, “I don’t think ‘gracious’ is quite the word. Let’s say ‘curious’ instead. I like openings—almost as much as I like closings.”

“Do I detect petulance, Miss Catalina?”

“Of course not, Mr. Canton. You are to be congratulated on obtaining Lotta Crabtree. And I would like to return the invitation. I hope you will find … the time to attend my … little gift to San Francisco.”

He raised his eyebrows. “When is this?”

She gave him a beatific smile. “You can read about it in the paper tomorrow.”

Marsh’s smile widened, and this time he didn’t have to work at it. The exhilaration he had felt with her before surged through him. It was wild and heady and unpredictable. And completely new.

He saw the sparkle of combat in her eyes, deepening them to an almost unbelievable shade of green, and he bowed again. The scent of fresh flowers hovered around her, not sweet, but with the tangy, enticing aroma of fields of wildflowers. “I look forward to it, Miss Catalina,” he said, tucking her hand in his arm. “I hope you will share my table.”

She nodded, unable to detach her hand without making a scene. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. She was surprised, however, by the jolt that ran through her as his white-gloved hand touched her black-gloved one. Cloth should have protected her, but it didn’t. His body warmth flowed through and burned right to the core.

He felt her reluctance, the slight recoil, and yet she showed no distaste, only awareness. Their eyes met, dueled, and she dropped her gaze first, only, he realized, because she didn’t want to make a point of it, not because he’d won. He silently applauded her again. She stole the show with aplomb.

But then the music ended with a crescendo, and all eyes went to the stage and to Lotta Crabtree.

Marsh guided his reluctant partner to the table and seated her with a flourish. But no one was paying attention now, and he immediately understood why David Scott had so insisted on spending such a large portion of Marsh’s money on the redoubtable Miss Crabtree.

From the second she took the stage, Lotta captivated every person in the audience. As a girl she had been befriended by Lola Montez, another California legend, who had tutored her. Lotta had a contagious laugh. Her hair was red, and her eyes a bright black, and she danced and frolicked, inviting everyone to join in the fun.

The Glory Hole rang with laughter, and Marsh felt an unusual burst of pride at the transformation that had taken the place from the derelict it was only weeks ago to the pleasure palace it was tonight. An accomplishment that had nothing to do with his gun hand, it was deeply affecting.

And so was the woman beside him, who couldn’t quite hide an occasional smile during the performance, a contagious smile that he instinctively knew was as rare as his own. Once, she’d leaned over to share a joke but then obviously caught herself and turned away quickly. He felt a sudden, unaccountable loss.

When the first performance was over, she asked, “And what are you going to do with the Glory Hole after this?”

“I’ll think of something,” he said complacently. “But now the Glory Hole’s respectable again.”

“For how long?” The question was sweetly asked.

“Oh, I plan to run an exemplary establishment,” he said with dry humor. “I have great respect for the law.”

“I never would have expected it, Mr. Canton.”

“Taylor,” he insisted, almost saying “Marsh” instead, before reminding himself that he was distancing himself from Marsh Canton, the gunfighter. Somehow, suddenly, that life seemed aeons away. But still, he knew only too well, the shadows would always be there.

She cocked her head. “You don’t look like a Taylor.”

Marsh wondered whether the name had sounded new on his tongue. He had to be careful. If she had been behind the attack on him, as he so strongly suspected, she would dearly love to know who he really was. Then the newfound respectability of the Glory Hole would be shot to hell. He shrugged. “You don’t look like a Catalina.”

“And what would you suggest?”

“Perhaps a shortening … to Cat.”

“Cats have claws.”

“That’s why it suits you so well.” He smiled, his eyes telling her that he was only too aware now of her attempt to rid herself of him. “And I’ve always been fascinated by them, their … cleverness. I’ve always wondered if one could be tamed—by the right master, of course.”

“There is no such thing as a right master, Mr. Canton.”

“No exceptions?”

“No.”

“Such certainty,” he said, amused. “There are always exceptions.”

“I didn’t expect such … flexibility from a man like you.”

“And what kind of man am I?”

“Uncompromising. Dangerous.”

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment,” he said. “What do they say, it takes one to know one?”

“Exactly, Mr. Canton.”

The challenge was there again, and he reveled in it. He had never dueled like this with a woman before, and it was exhilarating. His gaze didn’t leave hers as his hand reached for a glass of champagne that had been placed in front of him. The green eyes were like a cat’s, lazy and superior and sensuous—and unblinkingly fixed on him.

Marsh’s groin tightened. He ached to touch the ivory skin above the inky blackness of the velvet dress, to run his tongue over the hollow of her throat, to lay his head against that dark hair that looked as if it were soft as silk.

Christ, he was panting like a dog.

For a woman who was his declared enemy.

But that was what made it so exciting. At least, he thought that was part of it. He didn’t want to think it might be something else.

He barely heard the enthusiastic roar of approval as Lotta Crabtree appeared again onstage. He felt only the heat that was radiating between Catalina Hilliard and himself, heat that he knew she also felt, because her cheeks had turned rosy.

She blinked.

So the Ice Queen did feel!

His hand brushed hers. The flush deepened on her cheeks, and she moved her hand as if it were burned.

“Champagne?” Even he knew his voice was huskier than usual.

“I wouldn’t want to bankrupt you too quickly,” she retorted, but her voice too had a new sensuality to it. What was obviously intended to be a waspish tone was almost a purr of invitation.

Bankruptcy sounded good in that warm, seductive voice.

They were still then, listening to Lotta Crabtree, but his eyes rarely left Cat’s. Despite their silence, they were communicating in another way altogether, a soundless conversation filled with expectancy and challenge, which grew with each passing moment.

He didn’t want to let go of those moments. Christ, but they were oddly pleasurable, a sharing of feelings so personal, so private. He was barely aware of another round of applause as Lotta Crabtree finished her last song of this particular series, and Hugh O’Connell mounted the stage to announce that the finest in entertainment would be offered nightly at the Glory Hole.

The room then exploded into conversation. People crowded over to Marsh’s table to congratulate him, curiosity evident.

The brief, unique pride he’d felt dissolved as he realized that the only thing he wanted at the moment, needed at the moment, was the woman who sat across from him. But as he accepted the congratulations, he saw her ease from the chair, then toward the door, and he could do nothing about it. Not now. Not without appearing to run after her.

But the pure need of his body didn’t go away as he moved among the crowd, trying to look pleasant and not quite knowing whether he was succeeding. Christ, but he was out of practice with the simplest of civilities, he who had once been master of them, one of the most sought-after young gallants in Georgia. At last he gave a nod to Hugh and made his way to the back door and out into the alley, into the fresh air, away from the lingering scent of wildflowers.

The Silver Slipper was busy with the overflow from the Glory Hole. Cat offered the customers drinks on the house, and the somewhat sullen mood turned good-natured. Catalina never offered drinks on the house.

And she mingled, as she rarely did, making each customer feel uniquely privileged and not at all displeased that he had missed Lotta Crabtree.

She talked of politics and asked of their families, always keeping a certain emotional distance while making the recipient of her attention feel honored. When one hand of a newcomer reached out to touch her, she fought a familiar revulsion, but then recovered quickly, giving him a polite smile but quickly moving away.

Why didn’t Canton’s touch do that to her, incite that wave of distaste, of memories, that had protected her all these years? Why, instead, had he awakened something in her that was so intense in its yearning, that ached so painfully, she could scarcely bear it? She didn’t even know where the ache had been birthed; it simply flooded the whole of her with such strength that it occupied every part of her body and soul.

The feelings terrified her even more than those dreaded visits years ago. She had given her heart and hope once and had been so bitterly betrayed that she knew she couldn’t face such a thing again.

She had to get rid of Canton. She refused to think of him in any other way. Certainly not as Taylor. He was too … too earthy for such a civilized name. Nothing fit other than “Canton.” A harsh name. A harsh man.

Somehow she got through the evening, fixing her attention on each of the customers in a way she’d never done before. But her real attention was on a tall, black-haired man in formal clothes who was too handsome by far, with eyes too magnetic, even as they chilled. Chilled some. Not her. If only they did, instead of filling her with such dangerous heat.

She wondered whether he was watching Lotta Crabtree, perhaps even sharing a private dinner later. And she was seized with a jealousy she hadn’t known she possessed.

Lotta Crabtree eyed her host with speculation as she puffed on a big black cigar.

He had sent her a huge bouquet of flowers, along with a box of cigars it was rumored she liked. She liked him for doing that. Most men wouldn’t have thought of the last.

She sat across from him in her dressing room, drinking a glass of champagne, wondering whether she dared pursue anything more with Taylor Canton.

She dared anything.

But he was different. She had accepted this offer because David Scott had requested it, and David had once done her a very great favor. She was opening in a play tomorrow night in San Francisco, and this seemed a small enough favor, though her manager had screamed about it. Performances in a saloon diminished her, he’d argued, but Lotta did exactly what she wanted, and she felt intense loyalty toward those who had helped her in the beginning … when she was a child performing in mining camps and later as her fame increased.

From the first moment she’d met Taylor Canton, she’d been intrigued. He was as unlikely a saloon owner as any man she’d ever met, and she wondered briefly at David Scott’s connection with him. She’d seen men like Canton before in the mining camps, the wolves among sheep.

And yet he had the manners of a gentleman even while his eyes said otherwise. No tame suitor, he.

“Is that a southern accent?” She asked.

He smiled. “I thought it long gone,” he said. “But yes, Georgia.” She noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Just a trace, but I have an ear for accents,” she said, pleased with herself as she studied him. “A wealthy family?”

“Once upon a time.”

“Before the war?”

“Before the war,” he confirmed.

“And how did you become a saloon owner?” She puffed on the cigar and discovered the conversation had so involved her that the cigar had gone out. She looked at it in disgust. Marsh leaned over to light it again, amusement dancing in his eyes. Amusement but not warmth.

“I won it.”

“A gambler?”

“In part.”

“And the other part?”

Now he leaned back and lit a cigar for himself, letting the silence answer for him.

“You think I ask too many questions,” she said. “I do. That’s how you become a good actress … knowing people. Understanding them.”

“And do you understand me?”

“I doubt if anyone understands you, even yourself.”

He did smile then, a smile that even touched his eyes. He leaned over and his lips met hers, and he felt her respond. But the stirring he’d felt earlier, the raw hunger, wasn’t there, and he knew it immediately. He tried to will even a fraction of that emotion, that need, but it wouldn’t come.

He cursed silently. Lotta Crabtree was a beautiful, fascinating woman, desired throughout the country, and he didn’t feel a damn thing, except perhaps a slight, pleasant sensation.

Lotta Crabtree allowed herself to explore for a moment; then she disengaged herself. “That was a beautiful woman you were sitting with,” she observed with a slight smile.

He nodded warily.

“She left,” she noted.

“She owns the saloon across the street.”

“Friendly competitors?”

He shook his head. “She tried to have me shanghaied.”

Lotta Crabtree sat back and chuckled. “I could almost feel the heat from where I was standing. I didn’t think it was dislike.”

He grinned. “Something … does seem to happen when we’re together. Fireworks.”

“Too bad,” she said with real regret as she eyed him with a certain amount of desire. “It would have been interesting.…”

She didn’t have to explain what she meant. Marsh wished for a fraction of a second he’d never set eyes on Catalina Hilliard. “It still could,” he said.

Lotta shook her head. “I never settle for being second.”

“No,” he agreed. “You wouldn’t.”

“And now would you like to take me to my hotel?”

“My pleasure, Miss Crabtree.”

Cat was braiding her hair when she heard the sound of a carriage outside. It was near dawn, and silence had long since fallen over both saloons.

She went over to the window. Canton was handing Lotta Crabtree into a carriage. She waited until he nimbly joined her on the seat and the driver flicked his whip. Canton had moved close to the actress, and in the first gray light of dawn Cat saw Lotta turn toward Canton and break into laughter.

Cat felt a tightness in her chest, almost as though she were being smothered.

With an oath that would make a sailor proud, she flung her brush across the room, watching as it headed toward a glass of port awaiting her. The glass broke, flinging the dark-red liquid across the silk sheets of the bed.

Stains. Dear God, the stains.