CHAPTER 9

Catalina Hilliard, owner of the Silver Slipper, has announced she will bring the cancan to San Francisco for a two-week engagement.

The dance, which originated in France and has created a stir throughout the world, will be performed by a company of French dancers now touring the United States. It will be the first performance of the cancan on the West Coast.

The event is seen as a response to the appearance last night of Lotta Crabtree at the revival of the Glory Hole across the street from the Silver Slipper.

The feud between the owners of the two establishments is certainly benefiting San Francisco’s night life.

This reporter looks forward to even more excitement in the coming weeks.

Marsh read the item in the San Francisco Chronicle several times. A similar announcement had appeared in the city’s other newspapers. He’d bought the papers after heating a newsboy chanting “Cancan coming to San Fran.” The singsong words had caught his attention.

He was sweaty but exhilarated from a long ride along the coast. Christ, but he was beginning to enjoy California, especially the fresh bite of the sea wind.

It was almost as if he were awakening from a long sleep, parts of his body and mind coming alive again, appreciating small pleasures he had denied himself for so long. His mind was fully functioning again, not just his senses and his gun hand.

And now the next move had been made in what he was coming to think of as a chess game between him and the fascinating Miss Hilliard. A game he didn’t intend to lose. He wanted her to concede. And make amends for his attempted kidnapping and stay in jail—and he knew exactly the form in which he desired those amends from her.

He closed his hand around the newspaper and entered the Glory Hole. It was satisfactorily filled for a late afternoon; Marsh supposed that people were curious after all the publicity. He was glad. He had to keep them coming, especially during the two weeks the cancan was being performed.

His women dealers should help. He was interviewing the next day and would start their training immediately. The novelty of women dealers and croupiers would bring in customers and encourage them to play more. He also had a new singer, highly recommended by Quinn Devereux.

Hugh was behind the bar, working with another bartender he had hired. He looked harried, and Marsh stopped to speak with him before going to his room to change clothes. “Everything all right?”

“The new singer’s accompanist is sick. She says she can’t sing without him.

Marsh swore softly. They had distributed handbills throughout the city. Jenny Davis, a popular young singer, had gained a strong following. A nonappearance after Lotta Crabtree’s success would do incalculable damage. For a fleeting moment he wondered whether Cat had anything to do with it. “Where is she?”

“In the dressing room. Waiting for you. She wanted to tell you herself. Uh, have you seen the newspapers?”

Marsh nodded. “The cancan?”

Hugh fumbled with the glass he was holding. “I just thought you should know.”

“I know,” Marsh replied dryly. “But if I can get in my dealers, along with Jenny, we may minimize the effect—unless Miss Catalina brings in women to run her gambling.”

The glass fell and broke, and Hugh knelt swiftly to retrieve the pieces, keeping his face averted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Canton.”

Marsh suddenly felt kicked in the gut. He wasn’t used to loyalty and had no reason to expect it. Hugh had worked for him only three weeks now. Marsh had no reason to expect anything. But he did, and he knew in that instant that Hugh was not his.

The quiet pleasure of the morning faded as his cynicism returned. His first impulse was to fire the man; the second was to use him.

His jaw tightened. “It’s all right. We have plenty of glasses. Just see about getting those young ladies in here for me to interview.”

Hugh nodded, his eyes fixed on the broken glass.

“I don’t think we can depend on Hugh any longer,” Teddy told Cat.

She looked up from the ledger. Bringing the cancan to San Francisco was costing her a fortune. An investment, she told herself, both an emotional and business investment. She had to get rid of the troublesome neighbor across the street.

It takes money to make money.

Money is power and protection.

How well she remembered Ben Abbott’s words. They had been among the first lessons he’d taught her.

She tried to concentrate on what Teddy had told her. “What did you say, Teddy?”

“I don’t think I can get any more information from Hugh. He doesn’t want to be disloyal.”

“How about his loyalty to you?” she asked indignantly.

“That’s just it, Miss Cat. He doesn’t feel right about either.”

“He likes that … that man?”

“I don’t know how he feels about Canton, but he’s taking his money.”

Cat muttered under her breath about damn principles.

“He did tell me that Canton’s hiring women as dealers.

Cat felt the now-familiar tightening in her chest as she thought about it. It was a good idea. A very good idea. Why hadn’t she come up with it?

She could counter by doing the same, but then that would be conceding defeat in some way. She didn’t need to imitate him. She could do better, just as she had by bringing the cancan to San Francisco. She just hadn’t dreamed he would be so … imaginative.

“Hugh also said Canton won’t allow any cheating.”

“Sweet Lucifer,” Cat said. “He’s not a saint. I know he’s not a saint.”

“It’s obvious the usual means won’t work.”

“We can try Captain Delaney again,” Cat said hopefully.

Teddy shook his head. “Not now. He’s still angry about your stopping the shanghaiing.”

Another grudge against Canton. Because of him she’d used up a valuable marker with Delaney.

“The cancan will bring in new customers,” Teddy said. “All San Francisco’s talking about it.”

“We’ll get the girls new dresses, dresses that will be similar to those worn by the dancers. Perhaps they can learn the dance, and we can keep it going.”

Teddy grinned. “Bare legs are better than lady dealers any day.”

Cat didn’t smile. “I liked the Silver Slipper the way it was.”

“We can always go back … we’ll still get our usual customers.”

“Will we?” she asked. “People always go after something new, something different.”

“We were doing just fine.”

Maybe. Cat didn’t know anymore. She just knew everything had changed. And Taylor Canton was the reason.

What would she do without Teddy? He was her only real friend, the only person she could talk to, the only one who knew the photo of her supposed husband was a fraud, the only one who knew how much she needed to succeed. He’d heard her one night when she’d had a nightmare, and though he had never questioned her, she’d known from his expression that he’d learned a great deal—but she also realized he would never repeat a word of it. He looked worried now, and she wondered whether it was because of her or Molly. “Has Molly said any more to you?” Cat asked.

Teddy shook his head. “But I know she’s scared about something.”

Cat nodded. “I wish she would talk about it,” but she knew the girl wouldn’t, just as Lizzie Jones hadn’t. For the longest time Cat hadn’t been able to distinguish friend from foe; betrayal had been too frequent and too hurtful.

“I’ll keep close to her,” Teddy promised.

Of that Cat had no doubt. “Don’t get too involved,” she warned, knowing it was probably too late.

Teddy only looked sheepish, a ridiculous look on a face that could be as fierce as any in San Francisco, and Cat felt a deep surge of affection for the man who had become like a brother. She didn’t want him hurt, and despite his rough exterior she’d learned he had a big heart that he protected as she protected her past. But now, at this moment, she suspected he was as vulnerable as she.

He was peering at her with a concern on his face that probably equaled her own for him. “Why don’t you go out for a while?” he asked, looking around the room. “Get some fresh air.” There was a lull right now in the saloon, the time between the midday rush and late-afternoon crowds.

The idea struck her as a fine one. Fresh air, that’s what she needed and some time away from the Silver Slipper, away from the Glory Hole across the street.

She smiled and nodded, suddenly pleased with the idea. “I’ll take a walk.” Cat picked up a shawl. She wished she had time to take the rig and go to the shore, but she knew her presence was important to her customers, and now, more than ever, she needed their loyalty.

Still, she found herself crossing the street when she didn’t have to. Passing the Glory Hole when it wasn’t necessary. Drawn there by some invisible cord. To see what he was up to now, she told herself.

Cat slowed and gazed into the saloon—to judge how many customers were inside, she told herself. Then she heard the sound of a piano, and she moved closer. She recognized the tune as “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” The keys were being caressed, rather than merely touched. She’d heard enough piano players to know this was a particularly good one, and she remembered the haunting melody from nights earlier.

And then she saw the player’s back, the head of thick dark hair turned toward a pretty girl standing beside the piano. Her breath stopped momentarily and she couldn’t move.

Canton was sitting at the piano, his fingers ranging easily over the keys. He seemed oblivious to the customers, to the waiters.

His sleeves were rolled up, and she saw mostly his back, which seemed even broader than ever. The usual grace was in his movements, but it was as if an angel played rather than the man who was anything but angelic.

Cat couldn’t stop herself from entering, pulled by the same force that had drawn her to walk by the Glory Hole when she could have easily avoided it. Canton—she couldn’t think of him in any other way—stopped and looked up at the girl next to the piano, who hummed a few notes. His fingers went back to the keys, and the music floated out with such elegance that Cat was stunned.

She saw the muscles move in his arms, in his back. She sensed a barely harnessed energy and, remembering the earlier passion of the night music she’d heard, wondered whether it was difficult for him to mold his playing to what was required now for accompanying the girl.

He looked up. “Will I do?”

The singer grinned. “I wish I could take you every place I go. You wouldn’t like a permanent job, would you?”

Cat saw a slow smile transform his face, and she felt the strangest ache inside.

“I’m afraid I have one, for the time being. I’ll keep it in mind, though.”

The girl laughed. “Will you play something else?”

He rose slowly, lazily. “I only know what I hear,” he said as he started to turn, his eyes showing only the briefest surprise at seeing Cat. They studied her for a moment with the wary amusement she now expected, even as his words hovered in the air. She knew them as a lie, and wondered why he so disparaged what even she knew was extraordinary talent. He knew a great deal more than what he merely “heard.” No one could play as well as he had the other night without training. She just didn’t know why he lied about it.

“Miss Cat,” he said as his gaze ran over her dress and shawl. “What a very pleasant surprise to have you visit again. Can’t stay away?” His voice was low and teasing.

She thought fast. “I’m just returning your courtesy,” she improvised sweetly. “A special invitation to sit at my table for the opening night of the cancan.” And then, because she realized that there was something about his musical ability he wished to hide, she continued, “How interesting to discover you have … a talent. Are there any more I should know about?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger, perhaps. Or something even stronger.

“Are you sure you want to know, Miss Cat?” Now his voice purred, but not like any house pet she’d ever known. There was a sensual invitation in it that sent prickly shivers up and down her spine. She felt herself being expertly unclothed, piece by piece by those damnable eyes of his. The shivers turned to raw, ragged heat that seemed to claw at her insides.

The girl standing next to him looked decidedly confused. The air was alive with challenge … and the heat that crawled inside Cat was making her existence plain hell. It reached outside her. It wrapped around him. She saw it plainly in the smile that was disappearing, in the sudden tightness of his trousers.

A muscle twitched in his cheek, and she took satisfaction in it. He wasn’t nearly as indifferent as he wanted to appear. But then, as if through sheer force of will, the muscle quieted and a grim smile came to his lips. “I’ve forgotten my manners,” he said in that natural way that told of breeding in his past. “Catalina, this is Miss Jenny Davis, who will be entertaining here, and Jenny, this is Catalina Hilliard, our worthy competitor from the Silver Slipper.”

Jenny flushed and Cat wondered why. She’d seen the quick looks the girl had sent toward Canton, and that bubble of jealousy she’d felt about Lotta Crabtree bobbed back to the surface of her awareness. Damn the man. Did he have every woman in the city panting after him?

He didn’t seem to notice as he nodded to the girl. “I’ll see you this evening, Jenny. I have some business to discuss with Miss Catalina.” It was an abrupt dismissal, but a slight, practiced smile softened the impact, and the girl nodded, though it was clear from her expression that she was curious.

His eyes were intent on Cat, and there was something very dangerous in them now. She wasn’t surprised when he took her arm and guided her toward the door. His fingers pressed into her arm in a possessive way, with a fierceness that indicated he wasn’t going to let go. “Will you accompany me for a ride?” The question was not a question at all, but an order, and Cat bristled. She thought of pulling away, damn the consequences of a scene, but then he leaned down, his warm breath tickling her ear in a way that dulled her intent but excited less reasoning and more combustible parts of her anatomy.

She tried to say no, but his hand on her was as confining as a shackle. “Of course, you will,” he whispered as though he heard her declining his invitation. “We have some very important matters to discuss … a certain police captain, for instance.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Cat said with the composure she’d practiced for so many years.

Canton smiled. “You’re very good, you know. You would have made one hell of a gunfighter.”

She leapt on the words. “Is that what you are, Mr. Canton?”

His smile widened, and Cat knew it was no slip of his tongue. As part of his invitation—or order—he was offering a slice of temptation, a hint that he might reveal what she desperately wanted to know.

“I didn’t say that. I merely said that you would have made a good one.”

“And why is that?”

“You give very little away, Miss Cat. And then there’s a certain ruthlessness about you.”

“You’re describing yourself, Mr. Canton.”

“I thought we’d gone beyond Mr. Canton.” That infernal chuckle was in his voice, that deep sensuousness that was half invitation, half challenge, and all deadly. Her wayward body felt the craving she heard in his voice, the pure lust that astounded and horrified her.

She summoned every bit of willpower and tried to pull away, but his hand was like a steel band on her arm. “I have to get back.”

“Then I’ll have to carry you off,” he said in a low voice no one else could hear. “I’ll try to make your abduction far more pleasant than the one you arranged for me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, we could discuss it here.” They had reached the door, away from Jenny Davis and customers, but all eyes in the establishment were fixed on them.

She lifted her chin. She didn’t like the way he called her Cat. No one called her Cat, although a few had tried, before she’d fixed them with what Teddy called the look that turned men into bumbling, apologetic fools. She had mastered that look to perfection, but it didn’t work on this man. He seemed only amused by it, as if he understood all the insecurity and pain that lay behind it, that he knew it for the fraud it often was.

“We have nothing to discuss,” she said coldly, even as she struggled to keep from trembling. All her thoughts were in disarray. He was so adept at personal invasion. That look in his eyes of pure radiance, of physical need, almost burned through her.

Fifteen years. Nearly fifteen years since a man had touched her so intimately. And he was doing it only with his eyes!

And, dear Lucifer, she was responding.

She’d thought herself immune from desire. If she’d ever had any, she believed it had been killed long ago by brutality and shame and utter abhorrence of an act that gave men power and left her little more than a thing to be used and hurt. She’d never felt this bubbling, boiling warmth inside, this craving that was more than physical hunger.

That’s what frightened her most of all.

But she wouldn’t show it. She would never show it! She didn’t even like Canton, devil take him. She didn’t like anything about him. And she would send him back to wherever he came from. Tail between his legs. No matter what it took. And she would never feel desire again.

But now she had little choice, unless she wished to stand here all afternoon, his hand burning a brand into her. He wasn’t going to let her go, and perhaps it was time to lay her cards on the table. She preferred open warfare to guerrilla fighting. She hadn’t felt right about the kidnapping and beating—even if she did frequently regret her moment of mercy on his behalf.

She shrugged and his hand relaxed slightly. They left, and he flagged down a carriage for hire. Using those strangely elegant manners that still puzzled her, he helped her inside with a grace that would put royalty to shame.

He left her then for a moment and spoke to the driver, passing a few bills up to him, then returned and vaulted to the seat next to her. Hard-muscled thigh pushed against her leg; his tanned arm, made visible by the rolled-up sleeve, touched her much smaller one, the wiry male hair brushing against her skin, sparking a thousand tiny charges. His scent, a spicy mixture of bay and soap, teased her senses. Everything about him—the strength and power and raw masculinity that he made no attempt to conceal—made her feel fragile, delicate.

But not vulnerable, she told herself. Never vulnerable again. She would fight back by seizing control and keeping it.

She straightened her back and smiled. A seductive smile. A smile that had entranced men for the last ten years. A practiced smile that knew exactly how far to go. A kind of promise that left doors opened, while permitting retreat. It was a smile that kept men coming to the Silver Slipper even as they understood they had no real chance of realizing the dream.

Canton raised an eyebrow. “You are very good,” he said admiringly.

She shrugged. “It usually works.”

“I imagine it does,” he said. “Although I doubt if most of the men you use it on have seen the thornier part of you.”

“Most don’t irritate me as you do.”

“Irritate, Miss Cat?”

“Don’t call me Cat. My name is Catalina.”

“Is it?”

“Is yours really Taylor Canton?”

The last two questions were spoken softly, dangerously, both trying to probe weaknesses, and both recognizing the tactic of the other.

“I would swear to it on a Bible,” Marsh said, his mouth quirking.

“I’m surprised you have one, or know what one is.”

“I had a very good upbringing, Miss Cat.” He emphasized the last word.

“And then what happened?” she asked caustically.

The sardonic amusement in his eyes faded. “A great deal. And what is your story?”

Dear God, his voice was mesmerizing. An intimate song that said nothing but wanted everything. Low and deep and provocative. Compelling. And irresistible. Almost.

“I had a very poor upbringing,” she said. “And then a great deal happened.”

For the first time since she’d met him, she saw real humor in his eyes. Not just that cynical amusement as if he were some higher being looking down on a world inhabited by silly children. “You’re the first woman I’ve met with fewer scruples than my own,” he said, admiration again in his voice.

She opened her eyes wide. “You have some?”

“As I told you that first night, I don’t usually mistreat women.”

“Usually?”

“Unless provoked.”

“A threat, Mr. Canton?”

“I never threaten, Miss Cat. Neither do I turn down challenges.”

“And you usually win?”

“Not usually, Miss Cat. Always.” The word was flat. Almost ugly in its surety.

“So do I,” she said complacently.

Their voices, Cat knew, had lowered into little more than husky whispers. The air in the closed carriage was sparking hissing, crackling. Threatening to ignite. His hand moved to her arm, his fingers running up and down it in slow, caressingly sensuous trails.

And then the heat surrounding them was as intense as that in the heart of a volcano. Intense and violent. She wondered very briefly if this was a version of hell. She had just decided it was when he bent toward her, his lips brushing over hers.

And heaven and hell collided.