Poppy sidled closer, linking her arm through his. "There now, Cass. Everything's going to be all right. What's this Miss O'Leary to you?"
"Trouble," Collie said harshly.
Baron chuckled at the worried expression on the boy's face. "Redheads. They're the ones you have to watch out for. Right, Collie?"
"You're not helping," Poppy snapped at her husband. Her tone softened as she patted Cass's arm. "Come, Cass. Walk with me. You need a change of scenery."
"You might as well go, son," Baron said with an expansive wave of his champagne glass. "Mother won't quit whining till you do. Me and Collie can hold down the fort. We'll find out what Chantelle finds so jo-fired fascinating about Sterne."
"Chantelle?" Poppy repeated suspiciously.
"That's her name, ain't it?" Baron boomed jovially. "Collie, go on over and introduce yourself to Miss O'Leary. Tell her I have a request."
"It had better be a singing request," Poppy sniped.
Baron rolled his eyes. "Of course it's a singing request," he lied.
"I'll go," Cass insisted hoarsely, some vague plan forming in his mind that he would drag Sadie off the stage and remind her why he was called the Rebel Rutter.
But Collie had grown more cussid than usual. He shoved Cass back with a force that put the spurs to his already straining temper.
"Your name ain't Collie," the boy snapped.
Cass clenched his fists.
Vandy growled.
"Something wrong with your hearing, boy?" Baron grabbed Cass's closest gun arm in restraint. "My wife asked you to walk with her. Start walking, lest I have to cool that hot head of yours by busting it open."
By that point, Cass was ready to punch out Baron.
Seething like a firestorm, he stalked away from his boss, the festive paper lanterns, the sparkling champagne, and the tinkling laughter. His mood was as dark as the path that kept twisting somewhere into the night. He had no real memory of jewel-colored evening gowns, scattering before him, or black swallowtails, stepping hastily out of his way. He'd even forgotten Poppy—probably because he'd turned a deaf ear to the sound of spiky little heels trying to keep pace.
"Ow! For heaven's sake, Cass, stop! I-I think I've twisted my ankle."
He halted, his chest heaving, his mind spinning with shadows and shades. He'd gone so deep into his own, personal darkness, that for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was.
He forced his vision to focus on the green-eyed redhead, whose freckled face bobbed near his shoulder.
"Help me," Poppy whimpered.
He scowled, not liking how that single phrase could exhume nobility from the dark side of his soul. Apparently, his demons couldn't stave off an attack of conscience where a damsel-in-distress was concerned.
Reaching unceremoniously for Poppy's waist, he swung her around and propped her spine against a tree.
"Y-you're so strong," she gasped.
He grunted. He could be described as a lot of things. But strong? After he'd let Sadie under his skin again?
He started to turn away.
As if on cue, Poppy teetered and flailed, throwing her arms around his neck. "Don't leave me!"
He scowled.
Cass knew women. Most of the time, he liked them—especially redheads. What he didn't like was being played for a fool. Clearly, that's what Poppy was trying to do with all the flailing and the limping.
He glared a warning into the misty green eyes of his boss's wife. But Poppy didn't wise up and take the hint. He wondered if that made her fair game. Panting, trembling, she looked like a wild doe caught in his sights. Her breasts reeked of violets as they heaved, grazing his chest. Her lips trembled open, moist, plump and ripe. Musky heat rolled off her hips.
The predator inside him smelled sex.
"T-Thank you. I'm so grateful you caught me," she murmured. "You're always so gallant and kind. Such a good friend. And you need a good friend, too, don't you? To take away your pain... "
She stroked his chest. The fruity scent of champagne lingered on her breath. His nostrils flared. Her eyelashes fanned lower.
"Let me be that friend, Cass..." Barely audible, the words hovered between them, more invitation than plea.
He was tempted.
The part of him that wanted to punish Sadie for her treachery was darkly, dangerously tempted. Steamy little waves of femininity brazed the buttons of his crotch. The brass grew warmer. Tighter.
Poppy swayed, swoonlike, and their chests collided in earnest.
Oh, he could have had his boss's wife, all right. She'd been making that evident for days: her coy touches. Her kittenish mews. Her ridiculous eyelash-flapping. She thought herself so worldly; she lorded her sophistication over women who weren't as privileged to be a senator's wife. But in bedroom matters, Poppy was clearly a schoolgirl.
Cass decided a crude dose of reality was needed to put an end to Poppy's infatuation.
"You need to mount a horse, Mrs. Westerfield?"
She shrank back at his clipped tone. "I-I'm not sure... "
"Then maybe you should think on it a spell."
Confusion vied with the indignation on her face. Apparently, she couldn't decide if he'd meant "horse" in the conventional sense.
"Are you angry with me?"
Her bottom lip quivered, and a spark of humanity bloomed in his chest. It reminded him his quarrel wasn't with Poppy. Sadie was the redhead he wanted to punish.
"No," he said gruffly, tugging off his bandanna and shoving it into her hand. "Wipe your eyes. The second half of the program will start soon."
She dabbed her tears as instructed, but she refused to put a respectable distance between their loins.
"My poor, sweet Cass," she crooned. "Always so thoughtful. Always so sensitive to my needs. But you're hurting too, aren't you? First the news about Tito. Then the proof that faithless woman spurned you."
Cass reined in his demons. Poppy was too naïve to know how he spared her. A conventional, missionary romp wouldn't have satisfied a man of his appetites. In truth, he'd already grown bored with Poppy's adolescent wiles and tentative groping. Baron was the man who needed to be instructing his bride in the art of pleasure-giving.
"Let me help you, Cass." She sidled closer, dropping a fluttery hand to his thigh. "Let me take away your pain."
He caught her wrist in an uncompromising fist. "I have a better idea. I'll take you back to your husband."
She blinked. She looked like an owl caught in the light of a hunter's lantern. "But you like me. I can see the proof in your pants."
"I like a lot of women," he said harshly.
"But we could make such beautiful babies together!"
"No doubt Senator Westerfield will be thrilled to know you're feeling affectionate for a change."
Her cheeks mottled. "How dare you!"
"Blame it on my upbringing, ma'am. You're a fine lady, and I'm... well, just a trashy kind of horse."
At last, his strategy worked. She recoiled in outrage, her chest heaving, her fists clenched.
"Insufferable baboon! You'll regret your conceit! Someday, you'll rue the way you mocked me. And on that day, your guns will be cold company!"
Shoving past him with surprising strength, she marched into the night on spiky little heels that didn't wobble or limp.
Well, lookie there. The lady's ankle made a miraculous recovery.
Cass snorted to have his suspicions confirmed.
Pushing Poppy from his mind, he headed in the opposite direction, away from the lights and the milling crowd. He had a score to settle with the Devil's Red-haired Daughter. He figured the best way to do that was to surprise the hellcat in her lair.