Cold Steel and Hot Lead [How the West Was Done 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (8 page)

The next thing she knew, she was in a heap on the floor. What had happened? Panting, dizzy, and not a little bit frightened, she looked up at the vanity. Something warm trickled into the corner of her eye. Lifting a shaky hand to touch it, she found herself looking at bloodied fingers.
What in the name of hell?

A soft knocking came at the door. “Alameda?”

Whipping her head around, she looked at the door.
Derrick!

“Yes?” she called. Her efforts to sound innocent didn’t turn out well. She sounded like the panic-stricken strumpet that she was.

“Rudy would like to go to the Oddfellows Hall now, if you’re ready.”

Ready? She had forgotten all about the Oddfellows Hall, where “Deluxe Dora” was supposed to make her debut. “Please come in,” she stupidly said. She wasn’t thinking straight. Her skull was beginning to throb.

Derrick shut the door behind him, frowning with concern when he viewed her bedraggled form huddled on the carpet. “Alameda! What happened?” He squatted down next to her, feeling her bare arms as though for broken bones.

“I don’t know. One minute I was standing up in front of the mirror, and the next second I was collapsed down here.”

“You’re bleeding! You must have hit your head on the edge of that countertop. Look. Let me help you.”

He assisted her to stand. She was quite wobbly on her feet. Devastated from the recent turmoil of the fantasies, the orgasm, the braining on the marble, Alameda wasn’t alert enough to be mortified that one of her breasts was bared to the warmth of his chest. He held her by the shoulders and examined her intently, his beautiful brown eyes roaming over her face, neck, shoulders…bosom.

Taking a small towel from the vanity, he dipped it in the washbowl and gently pressed it to the cut on her forehead. “May I ask what was going on when you fell and hit your head?”

Alameda decided to be honest. Oh, why the hell not? It was no big deal. He had seen her nearly naked breast not a few hours before. She wasn’t trying to impress him with her wifely skills. Perhaps it was the blow to the head that had thrown all reason out the window, but suddenly she heard herself explaining, “I was pleasuring myself while standing up.”

Derrick’s eyes misted over with a stupid sheen, and he looked down at her nose but quickly went back to patting the blood. “And do you usually swoon when doing that?”

“Not usually. Never, actually. It was just…
stronger
than usual.”

He slowed down his dabbing. He turned her so she was propped against the vanity and would not fall again. She could feel his breath warm against her forehead. “And the strength of it knocked you off your feet?”

“Something like that, yes. I suppose.”

Derrick put the rag onto the countertop, and she felt no more blood drip. He could have, should have stepped back now. Instead he stood so close his body heat warmed her innards. She made a halfhearted attempt to stuff her breast back into the corset, but the severed lacings would not keep it encased. Her nipple still poked out freely, begging to be sucked.

“And what made it stronger than usual?”

He waited patiently for her answer. Now, for the first time, she was hesitant. Maybe her reason was coming back. She couldn’t look him in the face when she said, “I was thinking of you.” My, he had a thick, columnar neck. He needed a shave after being stuck overnight on the train.

She could feel his eyes searching her face without even looking at him. She would not look at his face. He would entice her with his achingly handsome beauty, and then she would be doomed. “Thinking of…me?” Amused now, he asked, “Me doing what?”

She was in perilous waters. She would answer him, then run! “Thinking of kissing you. What it would be like to lick your throat.” Oh, damn. She was staring directly at his stately, powerful throat. “And lick your chest. And—”
Run, Alameda! Run!

But just as she jerked her torso to run, Derrick clutched her shoulders firmly and kissed her.

Oh, dear God.
Alameda fell into the kiss because she had been yearning for it. His delicious lips moved softly against hers, tempting her, enticing her. She lifted a hand to touch the side of his face, prickly with stubble, so finely sculpted she could feel the exquisite beauty of his jaw under her fingertips. He released one hand to cup her chin as he snorted heated sighs onto her. A deep growl of joy and longing vibrated in his chest.

How heavenly it was, sliding her wet lips against his lush mouth. Alameda dared to nibble at his lower lip, and his jaw went slack, allowing her to lick the edges of his teeth. His tangerine scent would be smeared all over her now, his shirtfront plastered to her bare tit as her thighs parted in anticipation. The solid bulk of his twitching erection was crushed to her mons veneris, just like in her wild imaginings. She was so sensitive, so wide awake in all her senses, her pussy could measure the heft and width of it. Apparently her pussy was pleased, for it clenched and shivered with craving.

She delved in to lick his throat. Her tongue slid over the rise of his Adam’s apple, where it could feel the shuddering of the moans he swallowed. Apparently he couldn’t bear her tickling his throat, for he slipped his tongue into her mouth to lick the back sides of her teeth.

Alameda found some resistance within herself. Taking him unawares, she squirmed free and stalked to Liberty’s bed, panting heavily. Spying her petticoat in a heap on the floor, she snatched it up and held it before her lap. “You,” she said weakly. “A married man! You should not be acting like this. And your constituents, all those poor unsuspecting women. Thinking that you want to set them free from their shackles when all you want to do is keep them in the bondage of servitude.”

Derrick stood there lamely, his erection tenting the crotch of his trousers, rising obscenely in the mirror reflection behind him. He lifted a limp hand to his chest and said softly, “Me? Married?”

She wanted to step into her petticoat, but she had a good tempo to her harangue. “You pretend you want to give them the vote, but you really want them to choose you because of your lovemaking skills. Hah!” she spat. The more she ranted, the better it felt. “You probably have paramours in every city waiting for you with open legs, telling all of their friends that when they get the vote, they must vote for you—Derrick Spiro, the hypocritical shyster, the Grecian man about town!”

Derrick chuckled. He dared to chuckle! “Alameda,” he said patiently. “In the first place, I’m not married. Whatever gave you that idea?”

She had to pause. Wasn’t that a well-known fact? “You said…you said your wife had experienced some lightheadedness, some fainting or other, when her corset was too tight.”

Hands dangling at his sides, Derrick took a few steps toward her. She clutched her petticoat protectively to her lap. “Yes, that’s true. That did happen. Two years ago, when my wife was still alive.”

It was as though all the ire and rage deflated from her. Alameda’s brain went blank as she let go of her load of self-righteous anger. Now she should feel sorry for him. Yes. That’s what she must feel. But it was difficult to turn the page on the anger she had been so puffed up with. “Oh. I’m terribly sorry. I’m sorry for having misunderstood.”

He held his hands out, innocent of almost all charges. “So? Am I still a hypocritical shyster? I’ll admit I do know women in every town, but they’re all of the prairie flower variety whose job it is to hang on to a senator’s every word. To give him temporary pleasure for an hour. I have not sought out another belle since my wife died. As I am now seeking you out.”

“Oh,” Alameda said in an even smaller voice. She looked at his tie because she couldn’t face him, but she only wound up wishing she could straighten his tie for him. Summoning up her dignity, she stepped into her petticoat, acutely aware that her breast swung freely. But now it wasn’t so insulting that he looked. He was only a widower, and they were allowed to look at breasts. And he was “seeking her out.” “I am very sorry for your loss. You must have loved her dearly.”

“Yes.” When she buttoned her petticoat she dared to look at him. His look was boyish, hangdog, as any man would look when thinking of a dearly departed wife. “But I think I’m prepared to move beyond that grief. I mourned for a long time and dove into my work, finishing up what Cora started. The dream of giving the vote to women.”

Oh! How could she resent a dead woman when she had such admirable goals? Sticking out her lower lip petulantly, she even moved a step closer to Derrick. “That is very noble of you.” And it was.

“And by the way,” he said in a new, lighter tone. “I’m not Greek, my duck. My father is a Russian Jew, from Saint Petersburg. A banker. His name is Spirovsky, so you can see why I shortened it. Easier to write on a ballot.”

“Oh, how charming!” she cried. “So do you practice the tenets of Judaism?”

He tilted his head. He looked so adorable in that moment, Alameda just wanted to crush him in her arms, but she was still embarrassed by her outburst. “Well, I do observe some of the more ridiculous holidays, and I avoid eating pigs, hares, and camels. And I was circumcised, although I don’t suppose I had any say in that.”

Alameda laughed in delight. She didn’t see how his women’s measure could not pass, he was so thoroughly charming. “I will make sure not to cook you any chili with pork.”

She paused when it struck her that this must imply she ever
would
cook for him. So she asked him something she had been curious about. “You seem very athletic. Do you participate in sports? I was a member of a group that played lawn tennis together, with Kittie Wells, and it was very invigorating.” She giggled. “But I must bind my breasts down or they flop all over.” She reached for Liberty’s green gown and stepped into it.

Derrick politely averted his eyes. “Oh, yes. In fact, I was going to ask you if there were any sportsmen in town. I enjoy alpine skiing, and this would be the ideal place for it. I have some new ideas for some stops and turns one could make while skiing. Unfortunately I left my skis back in South Pass. There’s a new house waiting for me in Cheyenne, but I didn’t ship my skis on the train.” He chuckled. “I only shipped the real important items, like my harpoon and my seal’s paw.”

“Yes, I have seen a couple of fellows skiing. From Germany, I believe they are. We could find out who made their skis.”

“I’d like to start a baseball team, when the weather gets better,” Derrick rambled. “Cheyenne isn’t so very far from here.”

“I’m sure there are lots of Laramie residents who would like that. If you can manage to convince them you had nothing to do with Kittie’s disappearance.”

“Better yet, if I can help find her.”

Now Rudy knocked on the bedroom door to tell them Jeremiah was sliding off his chair, still in a dead faint. Alameda adjusted her hair and tunic as well as she could and went to show Jeremiah to his room.

An aura of joy followed her about now that she knew Derrick wasn’t married. And he wished to court
her!
Of all the dozens of debutantes he could have chosen, being a commanding and influential senator from Cheyenne, he chose her. Alameda’s very body sang with the jubilance, the anticipation of the coming thrill of courtship. It had been so long since she had met anyone who had remotely intrigued her. She wanted to know everything there was to know about Derrick Spiro.

Starting with where he was sending a telegram. He insisted they stop off at the Union Pacific telegraph office so he could cable someone on their way to the Oddfellows Hall. Well, perhaps he was cabling someone at the senate chamber in Cheyenne, informing them the status of the snow melt. Alameda’s sister Ivy was on duty and obviously had to read the message as she tapped it out, so Alameda would remember to ask her later.

The interior of the Oddfellows Hall had probably never seen such bustle.

Derrick could barely squirm through the main entry door. He was crammed against the doorjamb by a fellow who felt like The Skeleton Man from the way his bony ribs poked into him. Then he was shoved into the bosom of a woman who could only be The Fat Lady.

Opera singers tested out the acoustics from the stage, belting out random librettos aimed at different walls and rafters. Musicians tuned creaky violins, and a particularly insistent drummer beat out an ominous rhythm on a bass drum. Above all, performers shouted at each other.

Someone jammed a mummy between Derrick and Alameda. The fake mummy, wrapped in musty scraps of fabric, nauseated him, and he scrabbled to fling it free. Then Alameda was shoved ass-first nearly into a tuba, and Derrick had to yank her out.

“This is exciting!” Rudy cried. He grabbed the arm of a passing showman. “Four-Eyed Murphy! Who’s running this show?”

“Remington Rudy!” Four-Eyed Murphy pointed toward the theater. “Cannonball Donaldson is directing the play, if that’s what you mean.”

“Cannonball Donaldson?” Rudy gaped. “Why, all he’s ever done is jump off a tightrope and into a vat of water.”

“While shaped like a cannonball,” Murphy added. “Well, he’s trying his hand at this. They’ve got some grandiose idea of putting on a production of
The Black Crook
.”

Rudy’s face was wreathed in smiles. “How are they going to pull off that amazing transformation scene? Where the rocky grotto turns into fairyland?” He told his companions, “This grand production ran in New York City for many months. Took five hours to stage the whole thing.”