CHAPTER 12

Cat balanced the bowl of water carefully and nudged open the door. She nearly dropped the bowl. She was no child to blanch at the sight of a man without a shirt. Yet her heart seemed to stop, and her gaze unwillingly went directly to his bare chest and remained there. It was magnificent … and battered.

She saw at least three scars, one long and jagged down his side, the other two small and puckered, obviously bullet wounds.

Canton followed her gaze. “A saber,” he said. “During the war.”

“The others?”

He shrugged. “Bullet wounds.”

“Also during the war?”

“No,” he said flatly, his dark eyes obviously watching for her reaction.

“Should I ask which side you fought for?”

He grinned unexpectedly. “Why the correct side, or course.”

“Was that the winning side or the losing side?”

“I suppose it’s all in the way you look at it.”

“You enjoy talking in riddles, don’t you? A way of protecting yourself?” she asked shrewdly.

The grin disappeared. “Perhaps. As you use the Ice Queen pose, shall we say?” He moved toward her, all lean, lethal, masculine perfection. “We both know you’re not cold.”

True. No one knew that better than she as the temperature in the room spiraled upward at least ten degrees with each step he took. She couldn’t control herself, much less the man who was approaching.

She tried. “Where’s your shirt?” The question was full of a bravado she didn’t feel. She congratulated herself for keeping the quiver from her voice.

“On the bed,” he said. She didn’t realize three words could convey so much invitation. He grinned. “I was considering taking off my trousers.”

She knew she was being baited and ignored the comment, even if she couldn’t ignore him.

She started to ease herself around him, and to her surprise he allowed it, moving just a little to the side, but not enough that she didn’t have to brush by him, her chin almost touching his chest. She noticed that oddly enough, his chest hair was sandy-colored, not the near black of the hair on his head. Enticing little tendrils curled against a chest that looked as hard as a washboard—but ever so much more inviting. His dark formal trousers were tailored to a snug fit around his lean waist and muscled thighs. Her gaze moved upward, stopping at the jagged scar, and she found herself yearning to touch it, to absorb some of the pain that once had been there.

It was insane! She clasped the bowl tighter before setting it down on the table, along with a towel she carried on her arm. Ignoring him, she dampened the towel and picked up his shirt. It smelled of him, of musk and soap and danger. Trying to ignore him, she sat down at the table and scrubbed furiously on the linen cloth, but the faint gold stains resisted.

She bit her lip. She wanted him gone. From this room, from the Silver Slipper, from San Francisco. From her consciousness.

But he was too real to disappear. Too vibrant.

She scrubbed harder.

“An exercise in futility? Would you like to try the trousers?” He accommodatingly started to unbutton the fly.

Cat thrust the shirt at him. “No need. The Silver Slipper will pay for a new suit.”

“Not necessary,” he said, suddenly deciding he had gone far enough. He didn’t want to chase her away again. His hands relaxed at his sides. “Just watching you scrub is recompense enough. I’m glad I’m not that shirt.”

A roar of approval came from the other room, and then loud applause that almost shook the walls.

He smiled. “Your cancan is a great success.”

The smile seemed to make him even more attractive, more … human. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to be human. “It was expensive,” she admitted suddenly, surprising herself. But, then, he would most certainly know that already.

He held out his hand to her, and she placed the shirt in it. The shirt wasn’t what he wanted, she knew, but she wasn’t prepared to give him any more. A dimple suddenly showed in one of his cheeks as he accepted it. “It’s wet,” he observed. “I don’t think I want to put it back on.”

Now she raised an eyebrow. “Are you going out there like that?”

“Not if you have a better suggestion.”

“There’s a back door,” she said helpfully.

“That’s not a better suggestion,” he retorted, his smile broadening into a grin.

Cat knew she shouldn’t spar with him. He was much too dangerous for that. She knew exactly how dangerous, as his hand allowed the shirt to fall to the floor and reached for hers, pulling her to him. Insistently.

And then her body was pressed to his chest, her cheek against his bare skin, her velvet dress suddenly crackling with electricity from his body. He felt so good. Smelled so good.

She had seen so many bodies, but she had never been attracted to one before. And his body was like a furnace, his heart beating like a big bass drum she’d seen in parades. Strong and steady and hypnotic.

Cat felt dazed. “I’ll get you one of Teddy’s shirts,” she finally managed to say. But she couldn’t force herself to pull away as she knew she should.

There was a mob of people right outside. And she didn’t care. All the fear, all the distaste, all the horror inspired by men who came too close, suddenly disappeared. There was nothing at this moment but his head bending down to meet hers, those sensuous lips playing with hers with such violent delicacy—two incompatible words, she would have thought before meeting this man.

But even as he obviously reined back the violence from a kiss that he tried to make tender, she felt it radiate in the shiver that ran the length of his body. The kiss deepened as their lips melded in eager contest. Not surrender. She knew instinctively that she could never surrender to this man, or he would overwhelm her. And crush her. As he would anyone who stood in his way.

But dear Lucifer, what he did to her!

Cat found herself responding in ways she never thought she could, her hands going eagerly around his neck, her body swaying against his, her mouth seeking to take his deeper. She felt his swelling manhood against her, and that strange yearning that had been plaguing her intensified.

She felt weak and strong. Happy and immeasurably sad. So this was what being alive meant! But it was too late. It had come far too late and most certainly with absolutely the wrong person.

But she didn’t want to give it up. Not now. Was it so wrong … these few moments?

His lips slipped away, and her head somehow relaxed against his chest. She felt his own head rest on her hair, heard his soft sigh, felt his arms circling her with a gentleness she hadn’t expected.

It was insidious. He was a master seducer.

But so pleasant. So incredibly warm and pleasant. She swallowed deep against a need that had nothing to do with the physical craving that was so strong. For the first time in her life, she felt protected.

She knew it was deceptive. That he represented exactly the opposite of safety. But she still couldn’t tear herself away, ruin a magic moment.

Her gaze met his, and the darkness, the mirror that usually blanked his eyes, was pierced. A kind of hopelessness was in the cracks, a pain so strong, she felt as though she had been ripped apart.

She felt his chest quiver as he held her tightly, and watched his eyes dart away as if trying to hide what was lurking there. But it was too late.

He kissed her again, and the tenderness erupted once more into the explosiveness that inevitably haunted every physical exchange between them. Cat was stunned again by the way everything within her reacted. She shouldn’t be … not now, not after those other encounters with this man had turned her ordered world inside out. She found herself doing the unthinkable, tracing her fingers along his back as if she couldn’t get enough of him, even as his hands were digging themselves now in her hair, pulling it down from the sophisticated knot that had taken her nearly an hour to arrange. She felt her hair falling over her arms, falling in silken waves against his bare skin.

His eyes closed, and so did hers, and there was nothing between them now except a frantic need to finish what had been started.

Suddenly he stiffened, and slowly she emerged from the sweet haze of feeling, and she heard it too.

An insistent pounding on the door.

“Miss Catalina. Miss Catalina. Are you all right?” It was Harry’s voice, her second bartender, who had apparently taken over Teddy’s vigil.

Cat swallowed. She wasn’t all right. She wondered whether she would ever be all right again. Like Pandora’s box, Canton had released something she knew would be better locked away forever.

An ironic smile replaced the blatant sensuality on Canton’s face. “You’d better answer, or we might have everyone from the saloon in here.”

Cat suddenly realized how she must look. Hair tumbling down, dress mussed. The pounding came at the door again.

“It’s all right,” she said through the door. “I’ll be out in a few moments.”

“The mayor’s here,” Harry called.

“Sweet Lucifer!”

“I’ll help you,” Marsh said unexpectedly. “After all, it is my fault.”

“Just dress,” she said acidly.

“I don’t have a dry shirt,” he observed. “Or dry trousers,” he added.

She went to the bureau and opened one of the drawers, feeling as if his eyes were burning a hole in her back. She found a white shirt Teddy used for special occasions and pulled it out. It wasn’t the same quality as the one Canton had been wearing, and she knew it was much too large. Although he was a large man, he didn’t have Teddy’s bulk.

She thrust it into his hands, and before he could refuse, she turned and looked in the mirror. Her worst fears were realized. She looked like a schoolgirl caught out in the hay. Frustrated, she searched for a comb, but there was none. Teddy must have taken his with him.

“Are you quite sure you don’t want me to repair your hair?” Canton’s voice was silky. “I have a comb, and the mayor is waiting.”

“You can give me the comb.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “But I suppose you could go through that crowd to get upstairs.”

Cat gritted her teeth. If only he didn’t sound so damnably smug. “All right,” she finally said, noting that this was the second time he’d taken advantage, the first being that infernal carriage ride. But she couldn’t stay here forever, and she couldn’t leave with her hair in this state.

She’d think of a suitable reprisal. A riot at the Glory Hole would be nice.

In the meantime she glared at him while he pulled on Teddy’s shirt, leaving it unbuttoned and looking even more tantalizing than before as he rolled up the sleeves.

He grinned at his victory. “Sit down,” he ordered.

She obeyed. Anything to keep from looking at him. She felt the comb run through her hair, and then his fingers—every sweep slow and sensually indulgent.

Knowing.

Sweet Lucifer!

He stopped, and a moment went by. She felt her hair being lifted, twisted, and then it fell back down. There was another moment of silence.

She turned, and he looked a bit abashed, an expression unexpectedly endearing.

He shrugged. “I know how to comb,” he said. “The other looked rather easy, but …”

Cat barely held back a smile. She felt unexpectedly good. He couldn’t do everything. And also, she admitted to herself, she was rather pleased he didn’t know more about dressing a woman’s hair. She held out her hand, and he placed the comb in it.

Cat rose from the chair and went to the mirror. She watched him watching her as she started twisting up her hair. The pins were missing! And then she saw him kneeling, and he handed them to her with that slight smile that she was halfway coming to like.

It wasn’t going to be as smooth as before, but then, she didn’t have an hour to spend. But at least she didn’t look like … well, like.

She turned slowly toward him. He was buttoning the shirt. It was too big, but he would look elegant in a sack.

Cat had expected him to try to accompany her back to the table, and she had already formed several arguments. He surprised her.

“I’ll go out the back way,” he said. Without fixing his cravat, he pulled on his coat, his shirt still open at the neck. He looked pleasingly untidy. Black bristles darkened his chin slightly, and a thatch of hair fell over his forehead. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I thank you for a very fascinating evening.”

He went to the door and slipped out without another word, leaving her to stare at the opening, torn between relief and desolation.

You can’t trust Canton.

Catalina knew that. The one time she had trusted had turned into disaster. And murder.

It hadn’t taken Catalina long to discover that her supposed savior so many years ago had been her worst betrayer. And if she needed a reminder of his treachery, she only had to look in the mirror at the scars on her back made by James Cahoon’s belt buckle when she had balked at servicing the men who had bested him in poker.

Would Teddy be back tomorrow? Or was it today? She missed him. Needed him. Perhaps he could bring some sanity back into her life.

Cat stood in the main room of the Silver Slipper. The last customer had left, the last glass had been washed. The girls had gone upstairs to bed. So had Molly, who had come down to help. Molly, too, missed Teddy.

She looked around the empty room, seeking the comfort she often found in knowing it belonged to her. Chairs were placed on tables so the floor could be mopped. In the glow of the one oil lamp still lit, they looked like skeletons in some macabre dance. Her hand went to one of the tables and clutched the edge of it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about those months of terror after James fell down on the knife. Murder. Murderess. She had run for her life … changing her name frequently … moving from one saloon to another because she didn’t know anything else. She couldn’t even read or write. But trouble followed her wherever she went. A drunken miner or cowhand wouldn’t take no for an answer, and a fight would ensue. She would be asked to leave town, or the local law would put her on a stagecoach.

Until she reached a silver mine in Utah … and Ben Abbott. Ben had come west years earlier because of his sick lungs, and also to chase gold. He’d soon learned his stamina prevented him from being a miner. He simply didn’t have the strength to pan gold, to stand for hours in the biting cold. So he opened a saloon, following the miners from one location to another, and made more money than those who panned.

When Cat appeared at the Silver Slipper in Alta, Utah, a stop along the stagecoach line on which she had unceremoniously been ordered, he had offered her a job, though she made it very clear she would not prostitute. Her name was Selina then. Ben was only forty, but he looked a decade older, his eyes sad, his cough racking. He had taken her under his protection, asking nothing in return, and she hadn’t understood why until a year later when he’d told her how much she resembled the girl he left in Boston, the girl who had died waiting for him to send for her.

He had taught her to read and write and, when she showed an ability for numbers, how to keep the books. He himself was an educated man, the possessor of a degree from Harvard University, and she realized he’d quite enjoyed transforming her from, he used to say, a raw piece of coal into a diamond.

But his health steadily declined, even in the cool, dry mountains, and Cat, grateful for everything she had learned from him, nursed him and finally, at his request, married him. He wanted no problems, he’d said, in leaving his property to her.

Ben knew something of her past and her aversion to the physical side of marriage, and the marriage had never been consummated. He was too ill, in any event. He had wanted only companionship in his last days and the assurance she would be cared for. He had left her the saloon and some money, but she no longer had protection in a mining town that was infamous for killings and violence. She decided to sell the Silver Slipper and move on to a place where no one knew her.

The stage line ended at San Francisco, and she found an old building suitable for a saloon, the only business she knew. She changed her name again, this time to Catalina because she liked the sound of it, the same name as an island off California. But she named the saloon the Silver Slipper in memory of Ben.…

She knew what she wanted even then: to build it into the most successful gathering place in San Francisco, then sell it and retire to some remote, beautiful place. A safe place where she could earn the respectability she’d sought since she was a child. It had been difficult, but she’d succeeded.

Cat stared through the window at the darkened windows of the Glory Hole. Why didn’t safety and respectability seem as important now as a month ago?

Why?

A man leaned against a building within sight of the Silver Slipper. He watched the last window darken.

He had learned patience a long time ago. His business as a private detective demanded it.

His hand curled around one of the circulars he’d been passing around. Someone had told him the girl, Mary Beth Adams, had been seen going into the saloon. It didn’t make sense to him, not a girl with her background, but he had to check it out.

So he’d gone into the Silver Slipper tonight, one of many men lining the walls, and he’d searched the face of every girl there, including the dancers. None fit the description he had.

Still, it was the first lead he’d received. He would hang around for a few more days. He was being paid well enough, and if he found the girl … well, the fee would be substantial—very substantial.