Tomorrow's Dreams (30 page)

“And you, Princess, made me see a whole new side of you,” he murmured, cupping her chin in his palm to lift her face to his. Without another word, he covered her lips with his.

Stunned and delighted, she returned the unexpected kiss, once again thrilling at the feel of his mouth claiming hers. Like their day together, the kiss was over all too soon.

“W-what was that f-for?” she stammered as he pulled away.

Grinning, he reached under the buggy seat and produced her script. “That was the final rehearsal of page thirty-two.”

Chapter 17

“Damn that bastard!” Adele hissed beneath her breath, her eyes narrowing into infuriated slits as she watched Seth Tyler kiss her star performer. She'd had a hunch the man was going to be trouble, and as usual her intuition proved correct.

Angered and more than a little disturbed by the couple's affectionate display, she began to tap her bare foot against the wooden floor. In the shadowed alley beneath the second-floor Shakespeare window where she stood, Seth and Lorelei lingered in a cozy têtê-à-tete, laughing and clutching at each other's arms in a way that was far too intimate for her comfort.

When Seth swept Lorelei into his arms to kiss her again, this time with leisurely thoroughness, Adele's hands curled into fists so tight that she crushed the edge of the yellow damask curtain she held. Tyler was a quick worker, she'd give him that. He'd been in Denver for a week, and he already had the most sought-after, not to mention the most unattainable, woman in town falling into his arms.

Not that that surprised her. He was just the sort of man to turn the head of a weak-willed ninny like Lorelei; he was rich, handsome, and virile. He was also shrewd, powerful, and honorable. It was that last quality that made him so dangerous. Adele twisted her handful of damask, as if it were Tyler's noble neck. She had to nip their romance in the bud, that much was for certain, and in a way that would assure that it never bloomed. The only question was: how?

Her mind devised and discarded several plans in quick succession. She needed something different from her usual threats and fines. Something unexpected. Something so brutally shocking that just the thought of disobeying her again would make Lorelei swoon with fear. She needed …

Inspiration curved her lips as she shifted her gaze from the laughing girl to the tall man holding her. She needed to make an example of Seth Tyler; a grisly and deadly example. She almost clapped her hands in childlike glee at her own ingenuity. Murdering the handsome saloon owner was the perfect solution, brilliant really. Not only would Tyler's demise remove his potentially dangerous presence; his savagely butchered corpse would demonstrate to Lorelei the lethal sincerity of her threats.

Adele's smile broadened as she imagined telling Lorelei detail by bloody detail of the man's agonizing death. She couldn't wait to hear the girl's hysterical cries and see her too beautiful face contort with pain and guilt when she learned that she, with her waywardness, had caused her lover's death. It would be a cold day in hell before the stupid chit crossed her again.

Feeling almost grateful to the actress for giving her a reason to kill Seth Tyler, she turned her mind to the practical matter of plotting his death. She needed someone to do the deed for her. Someone unscrupulous, yet discreet. Someone easily manipulated, but with enough mind to think on his feet.

And she knew exactly who that someone was going to be.

With a flick of her long saffron hair, she shot a cunning glance at Harley Frye, who lounged naked on the bed across the room, a lit cheroot dangling from his lips. God knows she hadn't been bedding the gambler for the pleasure of his lovemaking.

The swarthy man caught her looking at him and patted the rumpled sheets beside him, his grin wide beneath his droopy black mustache. Carelessly tossing aside the cheroot, he drawled in a voice that bespoke the South. “Come on back to bed now, honey. Me and General Beauregard here”—he reached down and wiggled his flaccid sex—“are gettin' lonesome lyin' here all by ourselves.”

Adele dropped the curtain back into place and turned, taking care to display her figure to its best advantage. Letting a delicate shudder convulse her body, she brokenly choked, “I-I don't feel like it,” all the while squeezing out several well-rehearsed crocodile tears.

As with all men, her feminine ploy worked on Harley. “What's wrong, sugar?” he asked, springing from the bed to hurry to her side. “Old Harley didn't do somethin' to upset you, did he?”

She made a whimpering sound and shook her head.

“Good,” he murmured, his features stamped with relief as he swept her into his embrace. “It'd break my heart if I thought I'd done somethin' to make my sweet little gal cry.” Tightening his arms around her in a breath-stealing hug, he kissed the top of her head. “Now then, honey. Why don't you stop that sobbin' and tell your Harley what's got you all weepy-eyed?”

“I-It's the new saloon owner, Seth Tyler. He … he …” She let her voice fade away as if too overwrought to continue.

“He what?” Harley demanded, his drawling voice hardening into sharp-edged steel. Grasping Adele's shoulders, he pulled her away and held her at arm's length, glowering down into her tearstained face. “That bastard hasn't made advances, has he?”

She released a quivering sob and looked away, as if too distressed to meet his gaze.

“Damn it, Adele. Look at me!”

She did as commanded, her face arranged into the expression of tragic desolation she'd perfected through hours of practice in front of the mirror. It worked like a charm.

“That's it, isn't it?” Harley hissed, murderous rage contorting his features. “He tried to force his attentions on you, didn't he?”

Adele buried her face into her hands as if the humiliation of her fictional molestation was too much to bear. Her voice quivering, she lied, “He didn't just try … he s-succeeded. He attacked me and had his way with me l-last Tuesday night.”

A savage growl ripped from Harley's throat, and his grip turned bruising. “I'll castrate the bastard,” he snarled, inadvertently shaking her in his rage. “I'll castrate him and bring you his balls as a trophy.”

Adele could barely suppress her smile. Now, there was a provocative idea, one with definite possibilities. She could just imagine the willful Lorelei's anguish at seeing the virile Mr. Tyler mutilated in such an ignominious way, not to mention her horror when she found his severed parts in her cosmetic box that very evening. The girl would be her slave forever.

Looking up at Harley with feigned surprise, she asked in an appropriately meek voice, “You would do that for me?”

“I
will
do it for you,” he corrected, his dark eyes burning like hot coals. “You're my woman, and I take care of what's mine. Tyler'll pay, and pay dearly for what he's done.”

“But however will you manage?” She wrung her hands in a distracted manner. “Tyler is a big, strong,
dangerous
man. He's not going to just lay down and spread his legs for you.”

Harley's craggy features contorted into an ugly scowl. “You don't think I can lick him in a fight?”

Adele could have slapped herself for her stupidity. Harley Frye had more overblown masculine conceit than any man she'd ever met. To him, questioning his fighting skills was akin to belittling his sexual prowess. Set on soothing his ruffled pride, she wrapped her arms around his affront-stiffened torso and lay her head on his shoulder, reassuring him,

“Anyone can see just by looking at you that you're the better man. Why, you'd beat him in a second in a fair fight. But I've heard tell that Tyler fights dirty, that he'd as soon stab a man in the back as look at him. And, well …” She let her voice catch. “I-I just can't bear the thought of you being hurt. Whatever would I do without my Harley and his general?” The last sentence was uttered in a series of sobs. Burying her face against his neck, she pretended to weep in earnest.

The angry tension eased from Harley's body. “Aw, come on now, darlin'. Don't carry on like this,” he crooned, stroking her back. “Nothin's gonna happen to Harley and the general.”

She made an articulate noise and shook her head.

He paused in the act of patting her between her shoulder blades. “Do you really care about me that much?” There was a note of hopeful wonder in his voice.

Her face still against his neck, she nodded, smirking her satisfaction. The fool was falling neatly into her trap.

“Tell you what,” he said, finger combing her hair. “So as you won't be worryin' that pretty head of yours, I'll get Bub Willard, Duane Sweeney, and Russ Knox to help me. Tyler kicked 'em out of the saloon for cheatin' last week, so I'm sure they'll be glad to repay the favor”—he chuckled—“with interest.”

Arranging her features in a facsimile of a concerned lover, Adele lifted her head to look up at him. “I'm still worried. Tyler isn't the sort of man who's going to crawl away and hide after you maim him in such a humiliating manner. He's ruthless. If you don't kill him, he'll hunt you down and return the deed.”

Harley laughed at that, in the cold, humorless grate Adele always found more stimulating than his sweet talk. “Never fear, honey. I don't intend to be gentle or neat when I hand out my justice. And his balls aren't the only things he's gonna be missin' when I'm done. If he doesn't die of shock from the cuttin', he'll bleed to death afterward. We'll do it out of town, where no one'll find him until it's too late.”

“When?” she asked, thrilled by his vicious tone.

He pondered a moment. “With your help, maybe next Friday.”

“How can I help?” Adele reached between their bodies to fondle the general, who suddenly seemed a very tempting fellow.

Harley groaned and clamped his hand around her stroking one to increase the pressure. Rolling his hips to intensify the sensation, he explained between panting breaths, “While I was playin' faro yesterday, I heard some of the saloon gals beggin' Tyler for Friday off so they can go to the bonnet race Mrs. Vanderlyn and some of the other goody-good biddies are holdin' to raise money for the orphanage.”

“What's a bonnet race?” Adele asked, impatiently pulling his hand from her now steadily pumping one and guiding it to the lust-slickened flesh between her legs. She quivered with pleasure as he began to tease the hardened bud of her desire.

“God, honey,” Harley whimpered, plunging his fingers deep inside her. “You're so hot, so … wet.” A shudder convulsed his body as she deliberately tightened around his fingers. “How about givin' General Beauregard a taste of your sugar?”

She writhed against his hand slowly, seductively, emitting throaty moans as she moved. Petting the top of the general's scarlet head with her thumb, she purred, “There will be no sugar until you tell me about your plans for Tyler.”

“Aw, come on. Don't torture the poor general like this.”

“The general will have a better time for the waiting,” she promised, never once pausing from her inflammatory ministrations.

Gasping harshly with need, Harley hastened to do as instructed. “There's posters all over Denver announcin' the race. I'm surprised you haven't seen 'em.”

“I haven't paid any attention. What do they say?”

Harley huffed out between panting breathes, “The Ladies Social Reform Coalition want all the unmarried men and women to take part in the race. They want the women to lend their bonnets, which”—he paused to release a quivering moan—“which'll be hung on stakes a half mile from the startin' line. For a five-buck entry fee, a man 'll have the chance to race for the hat belongin' to the lady of his choice. If he manages to bring it back to the startin' line, he gets to accompany her to a ball bein' held at Louisa Vanderlyn's big house that night.”

“So? What does the race have to do with your plan?” Adele demanded, pressing her naked body against his to temptingly rub his inflamed sex against her slippery woman's flesh.

He arched up aggressively, trying to shove inside her. She released a husky laugh and pulled away. Shaking her finger at the general, she chided, “Oh, no, Beau. No charging allowed until after Colonel Harley finishes briefing me on his plan of attack.”

Thus forced into unwilling retreat, Harley continued grudgingly, “The race is bein' held on the Vanderlyn Brewery property, about a mile west of Denver. If we can get Tyler to race, me and the boys might be able to ambush him on his way back into town. That's where you come on. I need you to find out which gal he fancies and convince her to participate in the race.”

“That would be Lorelei, and she'll participate,” reassured Adele, satisfied enough by his strategy to saunter over to the bed. “I'll appeal to her sense of … charity.” Seductively tossing her thick fall of hair over one shoulder, she swiveled at the waist and beckoned to Harley. Then she lay down and opened her legs, wantonly surrendering to the general's carnal siege.

Soon, very soon, her enemy would be vanquished.

Chapter 18

The water was still warm. Penelope reclined against the bathtub backrest, heaving a weary sigh as the moist heat enveloped her body. She was so tired that it was a miracle she'd managed to get out of bed and be here at Seth's hotel by seven.

Her darling,
messy
Seth. Yawning, she stared bleary-eyed at the wet towels and the red velvet dressing gown littering the floor around the tub. It was all his fault she was so exhausted.

A smile tugged at her lips as she wondered what Seth would say to that accusation, especially after the pains he'd taken to ensure that she got enough rest. Upon taking possession of the saloon, he'd mandated that the cast be allowed leisure time from three to six every afternoon, and had made certain that she was at her boardinghouse every night no later than twelve-thirty.