Rue Allyn (7 page)

“She took that without asking me.”

“Are you calling me a thief?” A broad smile tilted the madam’s lips as she rifled through the envelope.”

He looked her in the eye. “A mule is a mule no matter how fancy the harness. Now give me back my money.”

An ugly murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Sorry, Dutch. I can’t do that. Busy as you were talking to the judge, you managed to open and close the bidding. I have a room full of witnesses and your invitation to the auction to prove it.”

“I never received an invitation and wouldn’t have accepted if I had.”

“Really?” She smiled broadly and turned the envelope that now held his money so he could see the front where
Trahern
was scrawled in elegant black script.

Anger crashed through him in the wake of the dawning truth. Duval and his father had set him up. He’d allowed concern for Trey to blind him to everything else. Dutch opened his mouth to protest then closed it. The room was full of men who knew him or knew of him. Some might know the judge and wonder how much the son was like the father. Despite years of hard, honest work to shake off his past, Dutch saw doubt on the faces of men he did business with every day. Denying he’d bid on the whore would confirm him as a liar and a cheat in their eyes and destroy everything he’d worked for. Trahern-Smiley Import & Export would be out of business in less than a week. If he accepted the whore and let Duval keep the money, he’d be short on cash and his reputation for clean living would be smirched, but the business would suffer less.

Cerise Duval’s cat-in-the-cream expression gleamed up at him. She had him, and she knew it.

“Fine.”

“Drinks on Mr. Trahern, boys.”

The crowd made a rush for the bar.

“Follow me.” With a swish of satin skirts, Cerise made for the stairway.

What had she gotten herself into? Edith swiped at her sweating forehead and tugged on her sleeveless bodice. She simply did not have enough bosom to support the thing. Why she’d allowed Duval to dress her in clothing more suited to seduction, Edith didn’t know. With a man hired for sex, she didn’t think seduction was necessary, especially since she had no intention of allowing any intimacies. Of course she hadn’t told Madame that. Insisting on the dress, Duval had explained that “cold business deals are rarely pleasurable for either party. Surely you read the
Kama Sutra
’s instructions on how to intensify pleasure.” Edith had read some of the alarming text and paged through the scandalous pictures.

Giving a mental shake, she walked to a small table near the bench nestled within an alcove formed by a dormer window. Right or wrong, she had embarked on this course to find her sister and prevent Grandfather from committing a serious error. Now was not the time for doubts.

She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen knots of worry. The attempt failed, so she took a bottle from the tray on the table and poured a dark, pungent liquid into a cut crystal glass. Madame Duval claimed that the cherry liqueur would help Edith relax. She sat. Lord knew she was tense. Still she stared into the glass a long while before drinking. The stuff was sickly sweet. She gagged and nearly spat the liquid into a spittoon but forced herself to swallow. The liqueur would relieve her tension, thus serving a greater good. Just as the deceptions and bribery she would commit tonight would serve to increase her chances of finding Kiera.

Edith forced down sips of the sugary brew. It was the only source of refreshment in this overheated chamber. Her breasts itched. She looked downward. The bodice had sunk once more. She hauled it upward. With every move, the garment — it could hardly be called a dress — crept lower. If she didn’t constantly tug on the bodice, her nipples would be exposed.

Anxiety churned in her stomach; she really needed to relax. She was hot and very uncomfortable. Nothing would make her happier at this moment than to remove this horrid apparel, but she couldn’t do that until she made her bargain with the hired man and he left. Hearing a noise at the door, she looked up.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood leaning against the closed door.

“What’s keeping you, girl? Cerise said you’re eager, so get your backside over here,” he ordered.

Heart racing, Edith cringed. The whiplash tone sliced with temper just as Grandfather’s had for years. Was this how a hired man spoke to a patroness? Queasy with uncertainty, she sank back farther into the shadows of the window seat.

If she were to make a deal with the man, now was the time. But she’d have to speak with him, look him in the eye and let him see her in this awful garment. She’d have to get closer, and she was reluctant to move within arm’s reach. A man of his size could break her in two with one hand. Fear held her immobile. The realization angered her, and anger set her free. In her entire life, she’d never let a little fear — right now a great deal of fear — stop her from achieving a goal. She had to go through with her plan, for her sisters’ sake.

Edith swallowed, tugged her bodice up, straightened her shoulders, and stood.
Be bold
.
Men respect
confidence
. Tossing her hair in what she hoped was a carefree manner, she advanced on her target, determined to get the man’s agreement to a pretended liaison.

She stepped forward, one hand on her hip, the other swishing her skirt in a deliberate attempt to prove how little he impressed her. She added a sway to her hips. Madame Duval assured her men saw that as the mark of a confident woman. Close enough now to see his features Edith leaned forward slightly and halted in shock.

“Mrs. Smithfeld?”

“Mr. Trahern! What on earth are you doing here?”

His appalled expression told Edith that he was as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Somewhat relieved that he recognized a lady when he saw one, she now had a problem: How to get rid of him before her hired man arrived.

“My presence here should tell you that I won the auction.”

Far from happy to see him, she brightened her smile. She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, and she had neither time nor interest in finding out.

“I’m delighted you were victorious. However, I must ask you to leave as I am expecting a visitor.” She kept her tone polite but serious, at least as serious as the liqueur allowed. She seemed to be having trouble not only with managing her dreadful ensemble but also with enunciation.

“Ha,” he barked a laugh. “A visitor, is that what they call a stud these days?”

Stud
?
He’d actually said stud. To her. Does he know why I’m here
?
Impossible, but this is a bordello, and the man probably made assumptions. I’ll make an allowance for his rudeness this once, but only once
.

His expression grim, he stalked into the room, forcing her to retreat or have him walk over her or worse.

“I … I’ll have you know Mr. Trahern that … that I have a perfectly legitimate reason for being here. Yes perfectly legitimate. However, that reason is no business of yours. Now please be on your way. Your presence is di … distinctly inconvenient.” Her voice shook. One hand clutched at her bodice, and she continued her slow retreat.

He stopped moving an arm’s length away and looked her over with a lurid sneer. “Inconvenient? Woman, you don’t know that half of it. I’ve been more than a little inconvenienced tonight, and I’m not in the mood to talk. Get over here. I want what I paid for.”

The man was insufferable. He actually seemed to imagine she should service him. The idea was ludicrous. She opened and closed her mouth unable to think of an insult that would put him in his place.

Suddenly Edith was beyond furious. She’d lived her entire life in unpaid servitude catering to or circumventing the absurd, unreasonable wants of a man. Now, when she’d spent good money to have a man at her beck and call, to cater to her needs and desires, that man had the temerity to insist that he was in charge. That she should cater to him. She finally found her voice.

“What you want? What you want!” Her voice rose with every word. Her arms dropped to her sides. Her hands fisted. “I’m fed up with men and their insistence on having everything their way. Well, not tonight.”

A flush spread from her chest to flame in her cheeks. Her shoulders stiffened. Her chest heaved, and her bodice slipped.

“I’ve invested everything in this venture,” she ranted, beyond caring. “Tonight we do things my way.”

Kicking her trailing skirts aside, she advanced.

The man stood there, his mouth open, staring at her chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

All sense fled before Edith’s fury. At the same time she wanted to hit him and kiss him. Kiss him? Where had that thought come from? Massively uncomfortable, hot, nerves itching, overwrought with confused emotions, and uncaring of the consequences, she had to show him who was in charge. She marched up to him, stood toe to toe then stretched toward his frown and pressed her mouth to his.

The softness of his lips shocked her. Who would believe such a hard expression could feel so good? She inhaled. The scents of mint, leather, and the faint odor of chocolate swirled in her head, anger drowned in a flood of desire. After a moment, his mouth responded, moving ever so slightly back and forth across her own. This was even better. Tiny lightning bolts struck her skin. The itching hadn’t stopped, in fact the tingling sensation increased. It felt wonderful, and Edith wanted more.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her body fall against his until they were pressed together from shoulder to knee. A thousand new sensations overwhelmed her, and she tried to get closer. His arms tightened around her in a most gratifying manner.

Inwardly Edith crowed, and the knot of tension in her belly loosened. She’d kissed him, and he’d returned her kiss. She’d shown him that she was in charge. Her desires would take precedence.

• • •

This was the most awkward, ill-practiced, unsubtle attempt at seduction that Dutch had ever been party to, and as Cerise Duval’s one-time toy he’d been party to a great many. The Smithfeld woman kissed like a child. Lips together and almost no pressure, suction, or movement of her mouth, as if mashing faces was all she knew about the process.

Still, Dutch kissed her back. Kissed her like he was starved for it. His lips moved over hers, sampling her tenderness, tasting her sweetness. His hands skimmed along her soft curves to cup her buttocks and urge her closer. The pressure of her breasts against his chest stirred his senses. His manhood hardened, and he ground his hips against her softness. He hadn’t lain with a woman in more than six months. Abstinence alone could explain his body’s response. He waited for her to open her mouth. For a whore, she sure didn’t seem to know what to do. She just hugged him and pressed inward with both her mouth and body, but she didn’t move. Didn’t rub. Didn’t do anything else. She might as well have been a stick of wood were it not for her heat and heady female scent. The spicy odor of daisies engulfed him. No working girl ever smelled like daisies.

His cock surged, straining toward that eager, inexperienced, feminine warmth. No! He put his hands on her shoulders, pushed her to arm’s length, and stared into her puzzled, hugely dilated, green eyes.

He recalled her approach when he’d entered the room. She’d swayed from side to side in the oddest way. Was she drunk? When he considered her rapidly changing moods and the sudden flush of her skin above the sinking neckline of her dress, he knew drugs to be the cause.

Not every woman who ended up in a cathouse wanted to be there. The auction had been for a willing virgin, but it wouldn’t be the first time that willingness was forced. Plus he had personal experience of Duval’s penchant for exotic aphrodisiacs. On the other hand, plenty of whores used stimulants voluntarily, so maybe she wasn’t an innocent. Regardless, he should follow his instincts and leave. But footsteps still sounded beyond the door. He could not allow himself to be seen leaving so soon, or word would spread like wildfire that Dutch Trahern had welched on a deal. How to find a way out?

He dropped his arms and stepped away.

The woman pouted at him. A whore wouldn’t pout, would she? If a client didn’t want a particular service, most whores would shrug and wait for the client to say what was wanted.

Her lower lip trembled.

He nearly tasted those lips again, but he refused to yield.

He walked past her to the window embrasure that she’d recently vacated.

“Um.” She tapped his shoulder as he passed. “What are you doing?”

He ignored the breathy question and studied the view from the window. No balcony. The drop was a straight two stories into a back alley. Not fatal, but injury was a real risk. He turned and surveyed the room. Ah, the bed sheets and curtains. With a little effort he could be safely out of here and on his way home. He went to work stripping the bed.

A soft touch on his arm made him pause. He turned his head to find her standing next to him. He almost regretted that she’d retrieved her bodice and covered herself. He inhaled sharply. His head filled with fresh daisies and woman.

“Excuse me … but I think … that is … we need to discuss the services I’m paying you for.”

He shifted to face her straight on and gave a bitter laugh. Drunk, drugged, or simply crazy, the woman was out of her mind. “You’re paying me? That’s real funny lady, when I just paid $2,000 for the privilege of telling you I don’t sleep with whores. Listen carefully. We aren’t getting into this bed or having sex together anytime, anywhere.”

She frowned prettily, as if wishing for some sort of treat that he denied her. She was being coy. Whores were too business-like to be coy. She couldn’t be a whore, could she?

“What do you mean you paid for the privilege? If you wanted the job so badly, why didn’t you just tell Madame Duval? Or does she charge her studs if for taking on clients?”

Dutch clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping and his temper in check. He hadn’t thought anything could surprise him, but Mrs. Smithfeld had, several times. He stared at the now smiling woman with the death grip on her bodice.