Recalling that restless, sleepless night, with no one to hold except José Cuervo, Sadie was grateful when her hack finally rolled beneath the elaborate, wrought-iron gateway to Hancock Park. She was looking forward to dress rehearsal. She needed the diversion.
Unfortunately, when she reported to the Grand Park's stage, she learned her accompanist was running behind schedule. A quarter of an hour later, she was still pacing her dressing room floor, waiting for the slacker to show up. Since the chamber was small and cluttered with furniture, her bustle and cumbersome skirts left little space to work off her annoyance.
She glared at her unabashedly feminine surroundings: a butter-cream wardrobe and folding screen, painted with blush-colored roses; a matching vanity with a pink marble top; a velvet chaise lounge with swan fabric; and the inevitable vases. Dozens of vases. Each emerald-and ruby-colored vessel was stuffed to overflowing with last night's tribute-bouquets.
When space had run out on the furniture, the floor had become the next logical place to sow her garden. Some enterprising hotel worker had even arranged her posies by color. Her chaise looked like a boat, floating in an orange-gold sea of hellenium, dahlias, and witch hazel. The assault of fragrances was making her nose itch.
Suddenly, she noticed the festive orange and black basket, brimming with Halloween goodies. Some knucklehead had put it on the floor instead of making space for it on the vanity.
Great. It'll probably be swarming with ants.
But it wasn't.
Her curiosity piqued, she reached for the attached card. "Chantelle O'Leary" had been etched across the envelope in Cass's sloping scrawl.
Interesting. When did Cass have time to send me an apology basket?
Torn between annoyance and delight, she broke the seal on the flap. The message read:
'Destined' to be a perfect ending! Brava, show-stopper!
~ Cass
Her eyebrows knitted.
"Brava?" That was it? Not, "You were right about Hank, and I'm a dog for ever doubting you?"
Or "I was wrong to think Baron could be trusted."
Or "Can you ever forgive me for being so bossy, ornery, and cussid?"
Now she really was pissed. Didn't Cass remember anything she'd told him over the years? He should at least know better than to send her dessert. Back in Dodge, she'd blistered his tender, 21-year-old ears about the realities of fishtail skirts and how they showed every ripple of unsightly fat in the stage lights.
"No sweets!" she'd bellowed, throwing a strawberry shortcake at his head. The scapegrace had been nimble enough to dodge it, and for the next 20 minutes, they'd had loads of fun scraping whipping cream off the wall and smearing it all over each other's private parts.
Sadie grinned at the memory.
Then she pouted.
Didn't he at least remember that?
Snot head. She had half a mind to shove a caramel apple up his nose.
She scowled at the arrangement of delectable edibles.
Wait a minute. Is that a soul cake?
Suspicion flurried through her mind. When did Cass start celebrating Día de los Muertos?
She reached once more for the card.
And frowned.
Never, in the 13 years that she'd known him, had she seen him sign a document, Cass. For contracts, he always wrote William A. Cassidy. For a love letter, he scrawled, Billy, his pet name from childhood. Sometimes, when he was feeling his wild oats, he signed a love letter, Reb. But never Cass.
And good God! She sniffed the paper. Is that violet perfume?!
She was just about to start examining the food, when a sharp rap rattled her door.
"Finally," she groused, stalking to the door to throw it wide. "I thought you'd never get here—"
Only her visitor wasn't her accompanist.
Baron stood on the threshold, dressed in impeccable gray-silk morning attire. In his case, the clothes didn't make the man. As wide and brawny as a bull, he used his breadth and his walking stick to force his way inside, ignoring her sputtered attempts to greet him civilly. His size seemed monstrous in such cramped quarters. His bloodshot eyes and gray complexion didn't radiate health. Or lust. All she could sense in Baron's manner was hostility.
She backed up three steps.
He slammed the door behind him.
"What's the matter, Sweet Pea?" His lip curled, part leer, part sneer. "I heard you wanted some company."
Sadie rallied her wits, despite the pounding of her heart, which even a deaf man would have heard slamming against her ribs. After the incident at the bathhouse, she worried Baron intended something violent.
Fortunately, she was wearing an arsenal of Pinkerton gadgets. She consoled herself that she'd handled more than one barn-sized bully in her life.
"I'm honored," she purred. "What kept you so long?"
"Trouble on the shooting range. Bo Bodine's dead. His rifle backfired."
Sadie felt the blood drain from her face. "Th-that's awful."
Baron grunted. "It just proves what I've been saying for years: Bodine was a moron. His inane rhetoric used to stall my bills in committee. Now I'll finally be able to get some agricultural legislation passed."
Sadie gaped. Was Baron actually bragging? Was the sick bastard plotting to arrange a "lethal accident" for every prominent sodbuster in the senate?
Meanwhile, Baron's canny gaze was sweeping the room. When his eyes lighted on the Halloween basket, he reached for a chocolate and popped it in his mouth.
"Anyone else here?" he demanded between chomps.
Sadie had to fight nausea to muster a come-hither smile. "Why? Do you prefer threesomes?"
"You do get around, don't you?" He popped another chocolate in his mouth.
"I aim to please."
"That's what I hear. And speaking of Cassidy—" Baron stooped to pick up the gift card, which had fluttered to the floor. Munching on a soul cake, he scanned the note. His brow furrowed, and accusatory eyes bored into hers. "Where's Cass?"
Sadie had trouble hiding her anger when she snatched the paper from his hand. "Don't know."
"I find that hard to believe. Especially since you and he are such close friends."
"Don't let the basket fool you. Cass is friends with lots of women."
"Mostly redheads." Baron's chuckle wasn't reassuring. "Tell me. Are you acquainted with my wife?"
"Can't say I've had the pleasure."
He snorted. "You sure?"
"I think I'd remember."
"Uh-huh." He didn't look convinced. "Let me tell you a little something about my Popsicle. Pleasure is the least of her talents. She's far better at revenge. Turns out, the talent runs in her family."
"Just hers?"
"I suppose every man has his share." An ominous glint entered his eyes. Reaching into his coat pocket, he produced a linen handkerchief. When he unfolded the corners, he revealed a strand of red hair—one that looked alarmingly like hers.
"Your calling card," he jeered. "My wife found it in my underwear drawer. Needless to say, she raised quite a ruckus."
Sadie didn't have to feign surprise. "Senator, I do confess to being one of your biggest fans. But I assure you. I draw the line at pinching underwear."
"You think I was born yesterday?" He stalked closer, his breadth squeezing out the light from the open window. "You put on a wig and a maid's uniform and searched my suite for Sterne! Your stunt caused a great deal of trouble for a lady friend of mine, and if anything happens to her or her child, so help me God, I'll take every ounce of their pain out on your flesh!"
Sadie struggled with her composure. He'd leaped to the right conclusion—for the wrong reasons. He hadn't yet guessed she was a Pinkerton. But then, what man in his right mind suspected a woman of being an undercover detective?