Devil in Texas(3)

After a leisurely stroll around the perimeter, he bellied up to the bar. Tossing down two bits, he ordered a shot of José Cuervo, then rested his elbows on the counter to survey the room. Near the stage, he spied the casino's duded-up new owner, Karl Dietrich, cracking his knuckles and ordering dancing girls around. Stocky, like a bouncer, Dietrich's darting eyes missed nothing. Cass took an instant dislike to him—and not just because the German was barking at women. Something about Dietrich wasn't quite right. He looked too young for gray hair and a silver goatee.

Next, Cass noticed the sodbuster, whom Collie had spotted earlier on Post Office Street. The granger sat in a dimly lit corner without friends, women, or even a deck of playing cards. His tankard was foaming with cherry sarsaparilla.

That country bumpkin traveled all the way to Sin City to drink fizzy pop?

Suddenly, the sodbuster stiffened. He leaned intently across his table. Cass followed the man's gaze and noticed the rippling stage curtains.

The auburn head of the mermaid queen split in two, replaced by a pile of upswept, flame-colored curls. A face that rivaled Aphrodite's hovered in that makeshift window for a moment, a bare fraction of time, but every nerve in Cass's body fired with recognition as a pair of tawny tiger eyes locked with his.

He sucked in his breath.

The face vanished.

Damn.

Cass's instincts had never failed him, and right now, they were screaming loud enough to rouse his pecker.

The devil's own daughter smoldered behind that curtain, and the firebrand's name wasn't Cassandra McGuire.





Chapter 2



Sadie Michelson cursed under her breath as she dared to peer a second time through the stage curtains. Unfortunately, her eyes hadn't deceived her. The heartthrob with the sun-bronzed skin, sapphire eyes, and sinfully tight, leather chaps was none other than her cocky ex-lover.

Eros in Spurs. That's what William Cassidy was called in polite society, but Dodge City bawds had dubbed him the Rebel Rutter after he'd accepted a bet to seduce a bride on her wedding day. And succeeded.

There are 26 brothels on The Line, Cass. Why did you have to pick mine?

Sadie fumed, and not just because the inveterate skirt-chaser had waved Randie to his side. In less than two minutes, Sadie was supposed to sashay onto the stage, wearing a shameless, black satin gown that fit too tightly to allow a corset.

She was supposed to wiggle her hips, bounce her breasts, and tease the all-male crowd into a lusty lather during the first public performance of her Ballad of Lucifire.

She was supposed to use her seductive arts to cozy up to a corrupt state senator and entice him to spill his guts.

But how could she concentrate on making James "Baron" Westerfield confide all his loathsome secrets, when the real Lucifire lounged against the bar, sizzling hotter than the devil's pitchfork?

Damn you, Cass, you're going to blow my cover!

Panic threatened to drag her into its undertow. Four years ago, when Cass had ridden out of her life, she'd secretly died inside. Desperate to forget the soul-searing heat of his kisses, she'd clawed her way from the ashes, like a stubborn phoenix. She'd determined to prove to Allan Pinkerton that a cowtown whore had more useful talents than sex. Fighting her way into the Master Spy's secret circle of men, she'd gained credibility for her marksmanship, resourcefulness, and wit. She'd accomplished her directives in record time and more impressively, without bloodshed.

Now she faced the highest-profile assignment in her Pinkerton career. The whole agency was scrutinizing her. If she could pin a murder charge on Baron, after all her illustrious male colleagues had failed, she would finally gain the satisfaction of silencing her critics.

Determined to achieve that happy end, Sadie latched onto the first solution that presented itself: a busty blonde, who was hurrying past the curtains in her warrior-mermaid costume.

"You're on, Randie."

The older woman jerked her arm free. The glitter of frosty, green eyes challenged Sadie's right to order her around.

"Dietrich told me to change my costume for the Can-Can."

"Laryngitis," Sadie improvised in her hoarsest whisper. She patted her throat for emphasis. "Out of the blue."

"Not my problem."

Bristling, Sadie dug her fists into her hips. Miranda Reynolds had been a thorn in her side since Day One of this mission—not that Randie didn't have good reason. Only that morning, Pinkerton Agent Mace Ryker (alias, Karl Dietrich) had ordered the outraged soprano to give up the best bedroom in the brothel for his "new star performer."

"With an attitude like yours," Sadie said, "no wonder Dietrich busted you back to hoofer."

Well, that opened the proverbial can of worms.

"Listen here, you braying bitch! I can sing circles around your rusted pipes—"

Sadie grimaced as the 30-year-old diva aired her lungs. Only 20 feet of cigar smoke and a flimsy strip of velvet separated her from Cass. The whole reason she'd invented this laryngitis charade was so he wouldn't hear her.

"Yes, yes," she hissed at Randie. God knew, she'd been cursed by whores before. None of the women in the chorus liked her. Sadie didn't really care, except she had a job to do, and snooping for intelligence in a whorehouse would have been a whole lot easier if the bawds had accepted her.

Six days ago, Mace had snuffed out that pipedream after he'd "acquired the Siren in a wager" (Pinkertons had a way of getting what they wanted—fast.) Mace had cancelled Randie's solo performances to make room on the program for Sadie, who'd needed an entrée into Baron's close-knit circle of high-rollers.

"Got it," Sadie rasped. "I'm slime, and you're a doughty diva who can twist into a pretzel, naked. You want the solo or not?"

The spite in Randie's glare transmuted into a far more dangerous weapon: cunning.

"Your voice didn't sound so scratchy that time."

Sadie could have kicked herself.

"This sudden throat affliction wouldn't have something to do with Cass, would it... Cassie?"

Sadie groaned inwardly. Why, oh why, did I choose that alias? She spread her hands in a questioning gesture.

"Oh please." Randie snorted. "I had a chat with Mr. Long-Drink-of-Handsome by the bar. He told me you two go way back. He wanted directions to your dressing room. Frankly, I don't know what your problem is, trading a red-blooded charmer like Cass for a humorless prick like Dietrich. Stupid fever, maybe?"

Sadie reined in her notorious, Irish temper. She was sorely tempted to point out that Cass hadn't earned his nickname because his talent was fidelity. However, laryngitis was supposed to be curbing her ability to mouth fight.

"Fine," she snapped. "I'll ask Mimi to sing my solo."

Randie blanched. "You can't," she protested, no doubt envisioning the triumph of her ambitious, 18-year-old understudy. "There isn't time. And besides, the show must go on."

How convenient.

"D-flat isn't exactly my key," Randie continued loftily, as if altos were a stink one scraped off one's shoe. "But I heard you caterwaul Lucifire enough times in rehearsal to commit the hokum to memory. Of course, by rights, a headliner should have a change of costume—"

Sadie yanked off her black boa and draped it over Randie's shoulders. "Here," she whispered, pushing the shorter woman toward the curtain. "The show must go on, remember?"

A smug smile curved Randie's lips. "Very well. I'll sing your stupid cowboy song. But you'll owe me. You'll owe me big."

Attesting to the soprano's popularity, ear-piercing whoops and whistles accompanied the thunderous applause that greeted her unexpected return to the stage. Randie sauntered across the gleaming oakwood, all the way to front-and-center like a queen ascending her throne. A provocative little smile teased her lips as she turned her head from side to side, acknowledging the toasts of her admirers.