Devil in Texas(54)

His spurs chinking a harsh little tattoo, Cass stalked down the porch stairs and stepped out beneath purple thunderheads, none of which had unleashed yet. Kicking up a dust storm in the street, he made a great show of heading for Sterne's campaign office.

But the moment Cass was sure he was out of sight of Wilma's picture window, he backtracked, creeping along her 10-foot fence, climbing a handy cottonwood tree, and sneaking through an open casement on the second story.

* * *

Sadie nearly jumped a foot off the vanity stool when she heard a fist hammering on the door of Wilma's boudoir.

"Sadie!" It was Cass's voice. "Open up! I know you're in there."

She muttered an oath, casting a desperate glance at her reflection in the elaborately carved, serpentine mirror. Next she gazed at the hopelessly melting ice in the washrag in her fist.

Dear God. Not Cass. Not now!

No one was supposed to know she was hiding out in Wilma's bedroom—well, except for Rex. Wilma had insisted on delivering Sadie's report about Bodine's "accidental death," minus the embarrassing detail that she'd let Baron smash her face, of course.

At the time, Sadie had been too exhausted to argue with Wilma's wisdom when she'd urged, "Lay low and plead a woman's complaint." Wilma had seemed to think Rex would do something violently illegal if he spied Sadie's black eye and the one-inch gash marring her cheekbone, thanks to Baron's wedding ring.

The good news was, the cut wouldn't scar and her vision was as sharp as ever. The bad news was, she looked like she'd collided with a locomotive. Even so, Sadie couldn't imagine Rex getting violently illegal about a shiner.

Cass, however, was another matter.

"Go away!" she shouted, darting on bare, catlike feet around Wilma's love lair so she could turn down the gas lamps. Where the hell are Cotton and Gator? What good are twin bouncers if neither of them can barricade a street door?

"Are you poisoned?"

"No!"

"Then we need to talk," Cass called.

"I don't want to talk!"

Sadie clutched Wilma's black, satin robe around her throat and backed as far as possible from the bombazine keeping the noonday sun from pouring through the windows. Light was not her friend right now.

"This isn't a social call, woman!"

"Yeah? Well, I'm not open for business."

"What the devil's the matter with you?"

"You! You know better than to send me a basket full of pastries!"

"I didn't send you any pastries!"

She blew out her breath. She didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed to have her suspicion confirmed about his forged signature. "Well, someone did. And signed your name to the card."

"What?" He rattled the brass door handle. "You think I tried to poison you?"

"No, I think you're a cockroach! Last night, total strangers showered me with roses, but you couldn't give me one stinking daisy! Or a bottle of champagne. Or that forged card, apparently! You didn't even stay for my second solo! You were too busy ransacking my vanity and sticking a knife through my nose!"

"Served you right! You showed up on Sterne's arm. And as I recall, I gave you a gold chain for your button!"

"Yeah? Well, who asked you to? Get lost!"

A heartbeat passed. Then another. She curled nervous toes through the plush, shag pile of Persian wool. She knew Cass too well to think he'd tucked his tail and slinked away just because she'd turned diva on him.

And then she heard it. The dreaded scraping of a widdy in the lock.

"Cass, so help me God, I'll brain you with a candle stick if you come busting through that—"

But he was a lot faster with a lock pick than she remembered. She'd barely had time to grab the brass implement of his destruction before the door banged open, and he towered on the threshold, scowling.

"Why is it so dark in here?"

"I was sleeping!"

"The bed's made."

She cursed her stupidity. "On the chaise!" she fired back. "What the hell kind of man breaks into an unwilling woman's bedroom?"

He cocked his head. She could tell by the flicker of his emotions, his anger was rapidly dissolving into suspicion. "It's not like you to hide in the corner, Tiger."

She swallowed hard. Damn his Coyote instincts. "I want you out of this room! Now!"

His wary gaze flitted over the ebonized furnishings. The boudoir's showpiece was a towering half-tester bed in the Rococo style. The mahogany posters gleamed like dark flames in the flickering storm-light, pouring through the doorway. Sensual furs and silky comforters enticed male visitors for a sumptuous romp beneath a gold-and-burgundy canopy, crowned with a medallion of Wilma's monogram.

Cass didn't look impressed. He was too busy hunting for threats. At least, that was Sadie's guess, since he barely glanced at the lovers writhing on the scarlet silk of the hand-painted dressing screen. Nor did he pay attention to the tinkling crystal in the chandelier; the wicked sleigh-chaise that could be cranked up or down to accentuate pleasure; the boxy, chintz-draped chiffonier (whose deceptively staid drawers hid Wilma's most imaginative tools;) or any of the ruby vases, sporting blood-red poppies mingled with the fluffy plumes of albino peacocks (Sadie's favorite love toy.)

Cass did, however, focus on shadows, especially around the bottom of the dressing screen, draperies, wardrobe, and mattress. He tossed her a questioning look and patted his holster.

"Of course I'm alone! And safe."

"No lover hiding under the bed, eh?"

"Why must you always leap to the most sordid conclusion? Can't a woman just sleep, for God's sake?"

He was watching her now as if she were a confidence man playing three-card Monte. "Sure you can sleep. But first, step into the light."

Panic threatened what little composure she had left. "Cass, I'll scream this house down around your head if you don't leave! Now!"

"Truce?"

"No!"

"How come?"

"Because!"

He closed the door and advanced.

"Cass, I'm warning you! Not another step!"

His eyes narrowed, and his strides grew more determined.

"Cass, please... " She was cornered—literally. She strangled on a sob. The candlestick slipped from her fingertips.

Then he was standing before her, staring at her shiner. His breath sucked in on a hissing rush of outrage. In that moment, his expression was truly terrible: an unholy mask of vengeance. Satan himself would have fled for the hills.

"Who?" he demanded in guttural tones.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She hated herself for that show of weakness; she knew what it would cost. Her shiner didn't hurt nearly as much as the realization she would lose him—in a heartbeat—if he gunned down a senator in her defense.

"Don't leave me!" she sobbed, desperately flinging herself into his arms.

Cass staggered, clasping her shuddering length protectively to his chest. It was bad enough that some bastard had struck a woman—his woman—in the face. But what really rocked his world was the sight of Sadie, shedding tears. Never, in the 13 years that he'd known her, had he seen the Devil's Daughter weep. Sadie was more of the pounce-and-claw-your-eyes-out kind of female.

"Sadie," he rasped, "I'll make this right for you. I swear. On my mother's grave, I will!"

His vow didn't elicit the desired effect. She buried her face in his throat and wept harder.

Now he was worried some of her bruises weren't visible. He struggled to rein in his fury as he searched for other damage. Anxiously, he smoothed her flaming curls away from the creamy column of her neck. Gingerly, he pushed ebony silk from her alabaster shoulders. The sight of all those darling freckles, dancing with such carefree abandon over her pouty breasts, made his heart hurt. He couldn't bear to know he'd failed to protect her in Galveston, and now in Lampasas. He would kill the sniveling coward who'd cut her face and caused her pain!