* * *
Careful what you wish for.
That's what Sadie told herself as she pasted on a luscious smile and ramped up her flirtation with Baron. She hadn't tried this hard to be agreeable to a man since the night when Madam Snake-Eye had threatened to beat the living crap out of her if she didn't spread her legs to relieve some foul-smelling carpetbagger of his purse.
Just like that night in Pilot Grove, more than 12 years ago, Sadie was mystified by her intended John's disinterest. In Baron's case, she'd gone to great lengths to perfect her costume, especially her witch's hat, which she'd hoped would be a conversation-starter. She'd embroidered the cone with the cheerful greeting, "I kiss toads."
If Baron had found the jest amusing, he didn't say. In truth, he'd barely glanced her way. The best she'd earned for her hours of labor with a needle and thread was a grunt, which he'd directed at the general vicinity of her breasts. She had half a mind to dump an ashtray in his lap just to see if she could get a rise out of the man.
Her mind raced for something to say. Something provocative. Something intellectual. Something that would elevate her above a common beerjerker in a senator's mind.
Why the devil was she having so much trouble enticing him? Had Cass said something about last night's hallway feud?
Louse.
Sadie forced herself to keep smiling. The part of Cass that wasn't Coyote was mostly Magpie—with some Mother Hen thrown in. For the first time in days, he wasn't hovering over his boss, scaring all the big, bad sodbusters away with his double-holstered rig. She suspected he was visiting the water closet.
In any event, he'd be returning soon, and she was scheduled for a costume change in under ten minutes. This might be the only chance she got to convince Baron that Chantelle O'Leary's bed would be more interesting than whatever private poker game he'd been invited to this evening.
Edging closer, she dropped her hand to Baron's thigh. "I brought you something," she murmured in his ear.
Baron placed a bet before finally deigning to turn his head her way. Through his cloud of cigar smoke, he looked a tad peaked for a man who was rumored to ride the range when he wasn't stumping for votes.
Suddenly, she remembered a piece of advice Madam Snake-Eye had confided between benders:
"There are only two times in life when a John isn't receptive to a rut: When he's on his deathbed, and when he's sick with love. During those times, you'll just have to work a little harder for your pay."
Letting a provocative dimple peek, Sadie offered Baron one of the two snifters on her tray.
"For me?"
"For us," she purred.
His smile was polite but discouraging as he scooped up the glass. "Much obliged, Sweet Pea. But you should know, my wife can sniff out my assignations like a bloodhound."
Sadie's smile never wavered. "Then perhaps we should go to a place where she can't find us—like my hotel room."
Baron chuckled. "Don't think I'm not flattered. But Poppy would gut a sweet little thing like you like a fish. No offense, Sugar Plum."
Sadie blinked. She wasn't sure how Baron had gotten the idea she was sweet. Or that a woman who swooned at the sound of gunfire could pose a threat to a street-smart bawd like her. In any event, Sadie's mind was racing for some appropriate way to prove herself equal to the Poppy Challenge, when a velvety baritone crooned in her ear:
"Oh look. You found that pointy hat."
She stiffened at Cass's taunt.
He'd sneaked up behind her in the din. She shot him a get-lost glare, but he didn't take the hint. Instead, he made a nuisance of himself, staking out his territory by her side—or maybe by Baron's. It was hard to tell, since the craps players had wedged themselves so tightly around the table, they had to turn sideways just to raise a glass. Shouts of "Snake eyes!" were making her head pound.
But Cass didn't flinch. He stood before her with his thumbs hooked over his gun belt. Considering how close they were, she wondered how she could have failed to miss his scent: an alluring blend of cloves, cinnamon, and sandalwood.
As if he knew the devastating effect he was having on her senses, he flashed his devilish grin. She was sorely tempted to punch out all those pretty teeth—especially when he scooped the second cognac from her tray and tossed it down his gullet like sugar water.
"That Cordon Rouge will cost you $20 dollars," she said pleasantly.
He winked. "Put it on my tab, Cassie. Or is it Chantelle tonight?"
Baron arched a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "You two know each other?"
"It was a long time ago," she said with practiced indifference.
"Sometimes it feels like yesterday," Cass quipped.
She turned her shoulder on the pest and lavished her most stunning smile on Baron. "I've always admired a man who knows what he wants. And how to make it his."
"Can't fault a lady for that," Baron said, rolling his stogie to the other side of his mouth and raking in his winnings.
"Or Chantelle," Cass chimed in.
"Tell me," Sadie purred, mustering the will to ignore Cass completely. "Are you enjoying our fair city? And all it has to offer?"
"The view isn't bad," Baron admitted, glancing once more at her breasts.
"I could show you more."
"Chantelle prides herself on her hospitality," Cass said drolly.
Baron snorted with mirth.
Sadie wanted to scratch out both their eyes.
Resolutely tamping down her anger, Sadie tried again. "It's a pity women can't vote, senator. A charming gentleman—" she emphasized the word for Cass's benefit "—such as yourself, should be in the Governor's Mansion. Maybe even the White House."
That earned her a grin of appreciation. "I always did believe in looking after the ladies. Are you a suffragette, Miss O'Leary?"
"I admit to doing my part to support my man. And you're a man whom a lady would definitely like to see on top," she said suggestively.
"Of a pike," Cass added.
Baron guffawed. "Tarnation, boy. Should I be renting a room for you two?"
Sadie shot Cass a withering glare. He had the decency to redden.
At that inopportune moment, the craps dealer roared for bets, and the orchestra started playing the cue for her costume change. Choking down her frustration, Sadie was forced to settle for Baron's promise—and a distracted one, at that—to watch her performance.
Seething at Cass's sabotage, she stalked off through the crowd, plotting all manner of paybacks. She hadn't walked more than 20 feet, however, when strong, callused fingers wrapped her wrist and tugged her to a halt.
She rounded on her bushwhacker. "How dare—""I'm sorry," Cass murmured. "About last night."
Her chest heaved. They were surrounded by spectators: leering craps shooters, gawking beerjerkers, liveried black-jack dealers.
Even more dangerous to her cover were the orchestra and it's hoity-toity conductor. Maestro Lundgren was an import from the vaunted New York Academy of Music and resented how Rex had called in a favor to get her the Grand Park gig. Lundgren had no idea she was a Pinkerton. After hearing her solo for the first time, the Maestro had complained she wailed like a banshee in heat.
Then, of course, there was Baron, his eyes hooded in speculation as he watched her and Cass through a cloud of blue cigar smoke. As much as Cass deserved to have his head chewed off, Sadie steeled herself against the temptation. She wasn't going to blow her cover because her showboater of an ex-lover got his jollies by making scenes.
"It's forgotten," she said, trying to jerk her wrist free.