Devil in Texas(31)

"Just like that?" he countered warily.

"What does it matter? I'm due backstage for a costume change."

"I kind of like the costume you have on," he cajoled.

The smolder was unmistakable in those sapphire eyes. Her traitorous heart kicked.

Damn you, Cass, I'm not a fiddle to be played whenever you get nostalgic for the old tune!

She pasted on a smile for their audience and tried again to twist her arm free. "I don't have time for this. I have to sing."

"About me?"

"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

Actually, Wager with the Devil had been inspired by their poker game at Wilma's place. But he didn't need to know that. Hell, he didn't deserve to know that!

"I can't wait to hear it." He cocked his head in a winsome manner. "Do you take requests?"

"That depends on the request," she said warily.

"I'm kind of partial to Lucifire."

"You and all the ladies."

"Aw. Don't be that way. Meet me afterward?"

"We burned that bridge, remember?"

He flinched.

Remorse needled her.

"Look," she said grudgingly, "I know what you are, who you are. I don't expect you to change for my sake. If she makes you happy, then be happy. Life's too short to hold grudges."

His throat worked, and his hand tightened over her wrist.

"Sadie, it's not like that—"A trumpet fanfare sounded.

She bit back an oath. Her snooty bastard of a conductor was cuing the opening bars of her solo. On purpose!

"Cass, I really have to go!"

He must have read the desperation on her face, because reluctantly, he released her. Another trumpet blast shook the rafters.

Their stares locked.

Cinders and smoke. Hunger and hurt.

"Watch your back," she whispered earnestly.

Amidst the laughter and applause, she hiked her hem and fled for the steps of the stage.

* * *

Another night, another failure.

Sadie wondered how she could possibly file her next Pinkerton report without getting booted off the case. The convention would be over in two days—two days!—and she still hadn't found a scrap of evidence to incriminate Baron for capital murder. Hell, she hadn't even been able to seduce him! If a room full of whistling, stomping sodbusters hadn't deafened her after her performance, she might have worried she was losing her appeal.

Unable to face herself in the mirror, Sadie threw on trousers, a hat, and a beard. She wanted to avoid Cass and sneak out of the casino. She was furious with herself for letting him work his Coyote Charm on her. No one knew better than she the danger Cass posed with those bottomless baby-blues, adorable dimples, and well-rehearsed lines.

'He's the Rebel Rutter, you sap! Of course, he made you feel like he sincerely cared! That's how he gets sweet little maids to spread their legs!'

Damn Cass. She had to get him out of her system. But how could she end her attraction to him overnight, when four years of separation had failed to snuff out the spark?

That was the question plaguing her mind as she trudged through the park, to the woods, and finally located the secret tunnel which led to Wilma's boardinghouse. The brothel had been built over a cave, carved by a defunct river. Two decades earlier, Confederate engineers had altered the riverbed, so a mule could haul war-time supplies along a mine-cart track to a distant farm. Allan Pinkerton had secretly bought that farm on behalf of his operatives, and when construction of certain covert facilities was complete, Sadie hoped to help Wilma establish her training center there for Pinkies.

In the meantime, Wilma's cave was the perfect hiding place for Sadie to stash trunks bearing her more elaborate disguises—or so she'd thought. When she arrived at the secret chamber and unbolted its door, she surprised a two-legged mouse in a sea of light.

The child couldn't have been more than nine years old. She'd wedged herself between towering kegs of moonshine in the hopes she wouldn't be noticed. Clearly, the urchin had been rummaging through forbidden treasures. Blonde and sheepish, she huddled in the black lace of Sadie's favorite old negligee, accessorized with a string of Sadie's pearls and beaded slippers. Streaks of azure powder accented cornflower-blue eyes; great circles of rouge decorated the child's gaunt cheeks; and cherry-red paint had been smeared—crookedly—over bowlike lips.

To complete this comical picture, wilted daisies jutted from Sadie's most matronly beaver hat (for the days when only an old-woman disguise would do), and the kid's sausage-style ringlets bobbed beneath the net veil.

Sadie cleared her throat, keenly aware that the child wasn't the only one playing dress-up. She tugged her hat brim lower.

"Are you lost, little mouse?" she asked in her best imitation of a man's voice.

The child cocked her head, drawing tawny eyebrows together. "What's the matter? You got a frog in your throat?"

Just my luck. An urchin with attitude.

"Nothing's wrong with my throat," Sadie retorted.

The child giggled. "You sound like a burro with a head cold!"

Sadie choked at this assessment. "Does your mother know where you are?"

"I hope not." The kid grinned, crawling out of her hideout and dragging the negligee's hem through an eon's worth of filth. "Where'd you get your beard? Can I wear one?"

Sadie groaned to see the kid stumble into the lamplight, cobwebs sparkling all over the once pristine beaver fur. The child had a Cajun accent, much like Wilma's, and was wearing a gris-gris from her neck. The amulet could only mean one thing: Wilma was trying to protect the little beanpole.

"I don't think a beard would go with the pearls," Sadie said dryly, watching her negligee spill off the kid's scrawny shoulders. "Or with the dust." She arched an eyebrow at the knees of the gown.

"Oops! Sorry." Hastily, the child knocked the worst of the grime from the silk, coughing behind her hand as dust rose up around her. "There. As good as new. Almost." The little charmer beamed, crowding her freckles together. "I'm Jazi. Well, actually I'm Jazlyn. Mama couldn't decide between Jasmine and Jocelyn, so she invented an even better name!"

"Does Grandma Wilma call you Jazlyn?" Sadie probed slyly.

Illuminated by the radiance of six kerosene lamps, Jazi traipsed over to the rickety vanity that Wilma had nagged Gator and Cotton to drag into the cave—along with Sadie's costume trunk, an accordion-like wheeler's cot, a no-frills wash stand, and a copper bath tub. The rest of the chamber was stacked head-high with kegs of liquor, crates of cigars, and various sundry items needed by bawds.

"Wilma's not my Nannan," Jazi supplied absently, studying her reflection as she tilted the beaver hat at varying angles beneath her daisies. "She's Mama's madam. Or at least, she used to be on Bourbon Street. Wilma calls me Boo."

The mystery deepens.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Jazi asked over her shoulder.

"Well, I don't know. How good are you at keeping secrets?"

Jazi's thin chest puffed out with pride. "The best."

"How can I be sure?"

"Well..." Jazi seemed to consider this question. "I never told anyone who really paid for my medicine when I was sick."

"Is that a fact?" Sadie edged closer, setting her lantern on the vanity table. She tugged a drooping sleeve back to the child's shoulder, releasing the sweet scent of strawberries. "Someone with plenty of money, huh?"

"If I told you that, it wouldn't be a secret!" Jazi countered triumphantly.

Their eyes met in the mirror. Sadie smiled.