As the Cowboy Commands [Ecstasy in the Old West 2] (Siren Publishing Allure) (22 page)

Could Amanda be coerced to her knees? wondered Gregg. And if she could, could he pretend that she was there willingly? That might make the occasion significantly more entertaining for him. Particularly if she didn’t cry when on her knees. There had been a young prostitute in Fargo who had cried the entire time she sucked him. It rankled Gregg’s nerves that her whimpering dissatisfaction with her station in life had disrupted the pleasure he was experiencing. The fact that she was crying, and should probably be shown some measure of sympathy, never quite entered into Gregg’s thought processes. The question of why she was crying was of even less significance to him and, in fact, never even entered into that part of his brain relegated to serious thoughts.

Gregg Neilson was a man who had never lost a minute’s sleep worrying about the people who might be displeased with his behavior.

Not one minute.

To Amanda, he said, “That was last month. You decided to be obstinate, and in consequence the price for your property has gone down. Delay some more and it will go down even farther.”

Amanda shook her head slowly. “No. You can’t do that.”

Gregg tossed his head back and uttered a short, obscene laugh. Then his face transformed into a savage scowl as he asked, “Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can or can’t do?” His lip curled in an ugly sneer of unalloyed contempt. “Be smart. Take the eight hundred. Make me wait to buy your property, and you’ll get even less.”

Without giving her time for a response, he turned on his heel and kicked his foot up into the stirrup of his saddle. With some effort he pulled himself up onto the palomino. Never once did he meet eyes with Amanda or Samantha. He did take a moment to look at Tookie Smithers, the man he had hired to take Jared’s place, and said, “Come with me. We’ll give this cunt twenty-four hours to think about it.”

* * * *

Gregg reined over his palomino, and with a tilting of his head indicated he wanted to speak privately to Tookie Smithers. Though by no means an intelligent or crafty man, Tookie was still bright enough to understand that ingratiating himself to a man like Gregg Neilson might be a very profitable professional move to make. He reined his own horse closer to the banker’s.

“Do you know who Helen Miller is?” Gregg asked, keeping his voice low enough that the other riders couldn’t hear.

Tookie nodded. “She’s your gal.”

Gregg showed no indication that he’d even heard what his latest hired gunman had said. He asked, “Do you know where she lives?”

Tookie nodded. “Got a place outside town a couple miles. Nice, little place.”

What an idiot! That drafty old shack disgusts me! thought Gregg as he stared into the yellowed and slightly bloodshot eyes of the man he had just employed to be his hired muscle. A whole host of insults danced on the tip of his tongue, but Gregg kept them all silent. Tookie’s presence was repulsive, but for the time being, quite necessary.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Gregg said once he’d regained thorough control over his senses. “I want you to ride there right now. Take the men with you. Don’t be seen going there, if it can at all be helped. Once you’re there, I want you to burn the house and the barn to the ground.”

Tookie’s eyes widened. “But Mr. Neilson, she’s your—”

“Quiet!” Gregg snapped. “I want the house and barn completely demolished. Nothing can be left standing.”

Tookie was shaking his head slowly. “Mr. Neilson, what’s you want to burn down your own lady’s house for?” Tookie was by no means bright, and he was a man easily confused. This behavior on the part of his employer made no sense to him at all.

“My reasons are good enough for me.” The thought of having to explain himself and his actions to a man like Tookie was appalling to Gregg. “If you want to keep putting Neilson gold in your pockets, you’ll have to learn to do what you’re told and not ask stupid questions.” Gregg paused a moment to look at the other three men in the group. There wasn’t a man in the group who didn’t need a bath and a shave, but Gregg knew that they were killers who didn’t really mind who they killed so long as they got paid afterward—and that was all that truly mattered to Gregg. To Tookie, Gregg said, “She’s got a horse in that small barn of hers. A horse and a carriage. Burn the horse inside the barn. I want nothing left.”

Tookie’s brows pushed together in confusion. “I could sell the horse and—”

“Just do like you’ve been told,” Gregg said through teeth clenched in anger, his voice rising sufficiently to draw the attention of the other three gunmen in Tookie’s gang. To them, Gregg said, “Mind your own goddamned business. When I want you to know something, I’ll come out and tell you straight to your face. Until that happens, keep your eyes open and your mouths shut.”

The men all bristled at the open insults, but none dared openly confront the well-dressed banker riding the stately palomino.

“I’m going back to the bank,” Gregg told Tookie. “Make sure nobody sees you going to Helen’s homestead. And once the fire’s going, don’t ride straight back to Whitetail Creek. Make sure you’re not being followed. Come see me tomorrow at noon at Pamela G’s. I’ll give you and your boys a nice bonus.”

Tookie nodded his understanding. He had never eaten at Pamela G’s restaurant, though he knew it was the most exclusive eatery in Whitetail Creek.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Neilson,” Tookie said after a moment. “Me an’ the boys’ll do a good job for you. There won’t be a twig left standing on her homestead.”

“There’d better not be,” Gregg replied then tapped his spurs to the palomino’s flanks.

The horse bolted into an easy trot it could maintain for hours. Gregg felt markedly better astride the palomino now that Tookie and his gang were receding in the distance. Gregg accepted as fact that Tookie and his ilk were necessary cogs in the gears of the Neilson profit-making machine—he just wished that he didn’t actually have to see, talk, or hear the man or his minions.

Gregg tapped his heels to the mare. He needed to get to the bank, where everyone could see him, before the smoke started filling the sky. He wanted there to be plenty of witnesses who could testify where he was and what he was doing when his fiancée’s home and barn went up in flames like a tinderbox.

* * * *

“What’s going through that brain of yours, Gregg Neilson?” Helen asked, standing in the doorway to his office at the bank.

Gregg leaned back in his swivel chair as he laced his fingers behind his neck. The buttons of his vest nearly popped at the pressure put on them. Wealth, and a penchant for the delicious apple and blueberry pies—and always topped with a generous scoop of the vanilla ice cream she had imported from St. Louis in a refrigerated freight railcar—sold at Pamela G’s restaurant located just a mere one hundred yards from the bank, had been adding steadily to his girth for going on two years now. He seemed oblivious to the inescapable fact that the new wardrobe he bought each year had to be a size or more larger than the previous year.

“I was just wondering when you’d finally make up your mind on a date to get married, Helen,” Gregg replied after several seconds. In a tone less cordial, he added, “You still haven’t given me a date.”

Helen felt the blood drain from her face. This was not the conversation she wanted to have with her fiancé. For weeks she had been avoiding the question. Now, after having had her eyes opened in a thousand different ways by an utterly enigmatic and thoroughly erotic man named Jared Parker, Helen
most definitely
didn’t want to engage in that particular topic of conversation.

“Gregg, there are a lot of difficult things going on in my life right now that—”

“Yes, I know. You’ve told me all about your brother,” he said sharply, cutting her off. His tone suggested something less than empathy toward her financial plight. “The instant you marry me, he won’t be a financial burden to you.”

Suddenly discovering that a lie might be much more palatable to Gregg than the truth, Helen adopted an expression of utter seriousness. She replied, “He’s my responsibility, not yours.” Gregg’s gaze focused on her, and Helen knew she’d better make the lie one that her so-called fiancé wouldn’t want to hear. “My darling, if you married me now, you’d be burdened with my burdens. That wouldn’t be fair to you. I couldn’t look myself in the mirror if I knew that our marriage had caused you to become liable for all of my brother’s medical bills.”

Gregg cocked his head a little to one side, looking rather comically like a dog who has heard a sound it doesn’t recognize. In a low, wary tone he asked, “What do you mean by saying that
his
bills would become
my
bills?”

Helen batted her lashes and looked away, showing in her posture and demeanor that she was searching her memory. She could feel Gregg’s gaze upon her, studying her, waiting for her next sentence. She knew it had to be a good one. Lying didn’t come naturally to Helen, but despite her inexperience she knew that her next one she told would have to be the most believable one of her life.

“I’m certain that I read about it in the newspaper several months ago,” Helen said, dissembling as she went on. “The territorial governor signed the law into effect. It had to do with a husband assuming the responsibilities of his wife’s financial obligations.” Liking the way the lie sounded—and, more importantly, liking the way that Gregg had suddenly gone pale—Helen leaned toward. In words barely above a whisper, she said, “I just couldn’t hold my head up with pride if I knew that our marriage forced you to pay the bills from that sanitarium in Colorado. My brother’s getting better, but he’ll still have to be there for months and months, and there’s no real telling what that will cost.”

Unable to look Helen directly in the eyes, Gregg turned his chair toward the windows and said, somewhat ambiguously, “I had no idea our marriage might be so…expensive.”

Helen studied his expression, afraid that she would put a curse upon herself for thinking bad thoughts, yet desperately wanting Gregg to be the one to call off the wedding. Should she suggest, softly but with great sincerity, that she would understand if Gregg didn’t want to marry her? He might jump at the idea. But, then again, particularly when one considered how many times he’d demanded a date for their wedding—which she always ignored—her plea of understanding might well come off as being the lie that it was.

“Step into the office, Helen,” Gregg said quietly, turning his chair to face her. “What we’re discussing shouldn’t become grist for gossip by Marcus and the others.”

Helen stepped into Gregg’s office and closed the door behind her.

“I’m so glad you’re being understanding about—”

Helen’s words were cut off in mid-sentence when Gregg grabbed her by the shoulders, twisting and pushing her simultaneously until her back was against the oak paneled wall, and leaned into her, his fleshy lips searching for hers.

“Gregg! What are you—”

This time her sentence was cut off by Gregg’s mouth, which was fleshy and slippery with an overabundance of saliva when it sealed over hers. The kiss was painfully harsh, punishing, defiling. The hands that went rapidly from Helen’s shoulders to her breasts were no less unpleasant, masculine fingers that had never known a callus digging painfully deep into pliant feminine mounds.

She had been kissed before by Gregg, but now that she had Jared to compare him to, the sensation of having her fiancé’s lips pressing hungrily, desperately against her own was so offensive it nearly made her retch. Twisting her head around sharply, she ended the kiss. Even more shockingly, she put her hands on Gregg’s chest and shoved with all her might. With her back to the wall, and Gregg flat-footed and self-assured, the banker went toppling backward, landing first on his fleshy backside, and then tumbling backward further until his head connected rather soundly—with a resonating
thunk!—
against the hardwood floor.

He immediately pushed himself to a sitting position. The look in his eyes was murderous, and Helen saw it for precisely what it was. But then, after only a few seconds, the expression evolved into one of imperious benevolence.

“Obviously, I made a mistake,” Gregg said.

He had to roll over onto his hands and knees before he could push himself up to a standing position. Watching his laborious moves, Helen was appalled at the coordination difference between Jared and Gregg. It was like trying to compare the sleek, effortless agility of an alpha wolf to the movements of an aging, overfed housedog. One was primal and one was a pet. Helen, coming to this awareness, damn near laughed aloud.

“I do apologize, dear,” Gregg said conversationally, as though he hadn’t just been knocked on his ass by a woman. “Perhaps it’s best I get back to work. When the work day’s done, I’ll give you a ride back to your homestead.” He smiled openly, without malice. That, in itself, was enough to make Helen suspicious. “And I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

Helen was trying hard to not smile victoriously. Straight-faced and pretending affront, she replied, “Thank you, Gregg. That will be appreciated.” And then she left her fiancé’s office, hoping and praying that she would never again have to be sullied by his lips touching hers, his slender fingers touching her breasts, his tongue searching for a response that he could never possibly inspire from her.

* * * *