At Marietta’s gentle touch, Cole felt a quick rush of sexual excitement. He brushed her hand away and turned his back on her.

“Sing some more, Marietta,” he said, knowing that her singing would quickly dampen his desire. “I do so like to hear you sing.”

“Really?” she asked, eyes shining.

“You have no idea,” he said as he picked up his chambray shirt.

Marietta was thrilled. Her singing had had the desired effect. She would use it as her chief tool to tempt him. And once she had seduced him, had given herself to him, he would surely fall in love with her. So much in love he would not force her to go to Galveston to her grandfather. He would take her wherever she wanted to go. And she wanted to go back to Central City and the opera!

Marietta inwardly shuddered at the prospect of allowing Cole to actually make love to her. She didn’t really know what to expect. Wasn’t sure she would know what she was supposed to do when the time came.

She was worried. But she had no other choice. If she was ever to be free of him, then she would have to let Cole make love to her. It would, she knew, be quite a sacrifice on her part.

But it would be worth it.

Also by Nan Ryan

THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD

THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN

THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES

WANTING YOU

CHIEFTAIN

Naughty Marietta
Nan Ryan

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For seven of my favorite writers

who are also valued friends

Marsha Canham

Lori Copeland

Heather Graham

Virginia Henley

Kat Martin

Meryl Sawyer

Christina Skye

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

One

June 1872

Midnight in Galveston, Texas, a Southern coastal city still under the occupation of federal reconstruction troops seven long years after the end of the War Between the States.

A man who had given the ultimate for the Confederacy’s cause—his only son’s life—sat alone in the paneled library of his spacious seaside mansion. He was grimacing in agony, his teeth were clenched, his eyes closed.

Seventy-eight-year-old, wheelchair-bound, Maxwell Lacey—crippled in a fall from a horse years ago—was suffering. The increased dosage of laudanum failed to kill the pain. The disease that was slowly ravaging his frail body was incurable; he would not recover. Nor, he realized, would his passing be an easy, peaceful one.

The pain refused to go away. It was unbearable. He could stand it no longer. He would stand it no longer.

Maxwell Lacey opened his eyes, gripped the arms of his chair and anxiously wheeled himself across the room and around behind his massive mahogany desk. Grimacing in misery, he opened the bottom desk drawer and took out the old Colt revolver he had carried as a young man. Perspiration dotting his pale, drawn face, he calmly loaded the weapon, raised it and placed the cold steel barrel directly against his right temple.

His finger on the trigger, he glanced across the room. His watery eyes fell on the poster advertising Marietta’s starring role in her most recent opera. Maxwell Lacey swallowed hard and blinked to clear his vision. Focusing on the diva, he gritted his teeth against the worsening pain and slowly lowered the revolver.

Shaking his gray head, he laid the weapon atop his desk. He folded his age-spotted hands together, placed them beneath his quivering chin and sat quietly for a long moment, staring fixedly at the poster. Lost in the mists of memory, he was tormented with anguish and regret.

He thought back over the years to when he was young and the mansion was filled with children’s sweet voices and his wife’s throaty laughter. Now the big house was silent and lonely, had been for a long, long time. All were dead: his son, Jacob, his daughter, Charlotte, his devoted wife, Annabelle.

Maxwell stared at the poster as tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. And he came to a decision. He would attempt to right some of the terrible wrong he had done.

Suddenly, for the first time in days, the pain eased.

Maxwell Lacey sat in the shadowy library of his opulent home all night, patiently waiting for the summer dawn. Come morning, he sent a servant to summon his attorney to the mansion.

Upon his arrival, Marcus Weathers was immediately shown into the library. Puzzled, the attorney stepped inside and greeted his client.

Turning his wheelchair around and without so much as a “good morning,” Maxwell instructed Weathers, “Draw up my last will and testament!”

The lawyer frowned, his eyebrows knitting. “You already have a will, Maxwell. Don’t you recall, you made it several years ago.”

“I’m changing it, so get out your pen and start writing,” Maxwell bellowed.

“Why the urgency?” asked Weathers as he took a seat facing Maxwell’s desk. “Has something happened? Are you…?”

“Yes,” Maxwell Lacey interrupted. “Doc LeDette was here last evening. The prognosis is not good. I haven’t long to live and I want to…I have decided that I am going to…. Damnation! What is that infernal hammering?”

The steady, rhythmic hammering just outside the steel-barred window elicited no curiosity from the darkly bearded prisoner whose cold blue eyes stared unblinkingly at the ceiling.

In the shadowy cell at the rear of the Galveston city jail, Confederate war veteran and condemned prisoner Cole Heflin lay on his bunk with his hands folded beneath his dark head and his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

Cole Heflin knew what the hammering meant. A gallows was being constructed. A hanging was to take place at noon. And he, Cole Heflin, was the man who would be hanged. He had been charged with burning Hadleyville—a Northern munitions-supply station—during the war. The Northern press had dubbed him “the man who burned Hadleyville.” Secretary of War Stanton had declared the act a crime against the Union. A crime for which he would hang.

Cole did not fear death. He had faced it many times in the bloody four-year struggle in which most of his friends had perished.

Reflecting on his thirty-four years on earth as he calmly awaited the fast-approaching hour of his death, Cole realized with little regret that he would be leaving no one behind to mourn his passing. His mother and father had long since gone to their final reward and the pretty young woman who had promised to be his faithful sweetheart and wait for him until he came home from the war hadn’t. She had waited only a few short months before running away with a wealthy New Orleans cotton broker.

There would be no tears shed over his passing, including his own. But he did have regrets and remorse that he had not kept his pledge to Keller Longley.

Cole’s eyes clouded as his thoughts turned back to that hot summer day in 1864 when his best friend, Keller Longley, died in his arms on the battlefield atop Lookout Mountain.

When the war began, Cole and Keller—friends since their Texas childhood—made a solemn vow. Should one survive and the other die, the survivor would take care of his deceased comrade’s family.

Cole swallowed hard as he recalled that terrible moment just before Keller died. “You’ll look after Ma and little Leslie, won’t you, Cole?” Keller had managed to say weakly, clutching Cole’s shirtfront as his lifeblood flowed out of him.

“You know I will,” Cole assured him as he cradled Keller in his arms and cried like a baby.

Now Cole ground his teeth in frustration. He hadn’t kept his promise to Keller. He had failed his friend, hadn’t been able to look after Keller’s widowed mother and baby sister. Cole closed his eyes and grimaced, a muscle clenching in his lean jaw.

Before the war Cole had been a young, struggling attorney. But he couldn’t practice law when the war ended. A fugitive with a price on his head, he’d had to lie low. Had to constantly keep on the move in an effort to elude the occupation troops and avoid being caught and hanged for burning Hadleyville.

Finally, in desperation, he had attempted a bank robbery to get money to help Keller’s mother and sister. He had been caught. An alert captain on the provost marshall’s staff had matched the captured felon’s face to the old federal death warrant.

What would have been five years in Huntsville State Prison for the failed bank robbery became a federal death sentence. He would hang for the burning of Hadleyville and the destitute Longley women would be left to struggle on alone.

The hammer of the ancient clock in the town square struck the hour. The jailer’s booming voice drew the reclining prisoner from his painful reverie.

“It’s time, Heflin,” the jailer said as the heavy cell door swung open and he held out a pair of silver handcuffs.

Cole slowly turned his head, nodded and agilely rolled up and off his bunk. Rising to his full, imposing height of six foot two inches, he extended his wrists and said, “Crowd forming?”

“A big one,” said the burly jailer with a broad smile.

“Well, let’s go give them what they came here for,” said Cole calmly.

Flanked by two armed federal marshals, Cole Heflin walked out of the Galveston City Jail and into the sun-splashed square where the newly built gallows dominated the cloudless blue skyline.

“Here he comes!” The excited declaration swiftly swept through the gathering as the throng parted to let the prisoner through.

“The bastard’s getting what he deserves!” exclaimed a well-dressed, transplanted Easterner who spat contemptuously at him as Cole passed.

The expression on Cole’s face never changed.

“I don’t care what he’s done, he’s too handsome to die!” shouted a brazen young woman and, elbowing her way through the crowd, she stepped right up to Cole and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly.

A mixture of whistles and boos rose from the shocked spectators. Other less forward young ladies threw bouquets at the tall, dark Southerner, while a majority of the men, Confederate veterans who considered Cole a hero, shouted admiringly, “Hurrah for the brave Johnny Reb! The man who burned Hadleyville!”

Cole climbed the gallows’ steps to the wooden platform where a new rope hung down in an ominous loop from the sturdy overhead beam. There stood an old robed padre and the hangman, dressed all in black.

The jailer cautiously uncuffed Cole. Cole gave him no trouble. Instead, he stepped into place directly below the looped lariat and atop the trapdoor.

The rope was lowered, the loop slipped down around Cole’s neck. The hangman produced a black hood. Cole declined.

The hangman asked, “Any last words, Heflin?”

“No,” said Cole as the priest stepped closer and began to read passages of scripture.

The hangman was tightening the noose around Cole’s neck when an out-of-breath gentleman, soon identified as Marcus Weathers, forced his way through the crowd, shouting, “Stop! Don’t do it! I have signed orders from Colonel Patten of the Federal Occupation Forces for you to cease and desist!”

The shout drew everyone’s attention to the well-known attorney. In his raised hand was a blue legal document. Marcus Weathers rushed up onto the platform and handed the papers to the executioner. The document was read and then, frowning, the executioner announced, “Take the rope from the prisoner’s neck. The hanging’s off!”

Two

A low moan went through the crowd.

Amid rising jeers and cheers, Cole stood stunned and totally still as the jailer roughly removed the noose from around his neck.

“You’re free to go, Heflin,” the big lawman said, clearly disappointed.

Marcus Weathers stepped forward, smiled at Cole and said, “Come with me, Mr. Heflin. The carriage is waiting.”

“Where are we going?” Cole asked.

“You’ll see,” replied Weathers as he took Cole’s arm and slowly guided him down the gallows steps, through the buzzing mob and toward the black carriage.

Cole was driven a short distance to the city’s waterfront. The carriage soon turned into a long palm-bordered avenue that led to an opulent seaside mansion. The white two-story building was located at the center of a great expanse of well-manicured acreage. It gleamed in the late-morning sun and Cole quickly realized its inhabitants were afforded an unobstructed view of the Gulf of Mexico.

Cole was ushered into the imposing mansion and immediately directed to a large, darkly paneled library where an old man sat in a wheelchair.

Maxwell Lacey smiled when Cole entered the room and said, “Welcome to my humble abode, Mr. Heflin. Won’t you have a seat.”

Cole continued to stand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir.”

“I usually do. Or, at least, I try to,” Maxwell Lacey said with a chuckle.

Cole didn’t share his amusement. “Who are you? What’s this all about?”

“You’ll know soon enough what it’s about, Mr. Heflin. But allow me to introduce myself. I’m Maxwell Lacey. You may have heard of me.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“No matter. Would you like a drink?”

Cole accepted. An unobtrusive servant immediately handed him a bourbon. Cole turned the heavy shot glass up to his lips and drank thirstily.

Maxwell Lacey dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand and said, “Please, sit down, Mr. Heflin. Let’s have a little talk.”

Cole drained the glass, set it aside and folded his long body down onto a comfortable sofa. Lacey wheeled his chair out from behind his desk and moved closer. He continued to smile as he sized up the lean, darkly bearded man.

The man he had chosen to do his bidding.

Maxwell laced his fingers together in his robe covered lap, leaned forward and said, “I know all about you, Heflin. You’re the man who singlehandedly burned Hadleyville during the war and—”

“Ancient history,” Cole interrupted with a dismissive shake of his head.

“Not ancient history to the occupying federal forces,” Maxwell Lacey reminded him. His eyes flashed when he added, “You were tried and convicted in absentia years ago and sentenced to hang! Took them seven years to catch you.”

Cole shrugged his wide shoulders. “What’s that got to do with you?”

“Everything, Heflin. I saved your life. Had the federal commander order you taken down from the gallows. I am a very powerful man in Galveston. And a rich one. I greased the necessary palms, pulled the necessary strings to have your life spared.”

Cole raised one well-arched eyebrow, looked Maxwell Lacey in the eye and said, “My sincere thanks. But again, why?”

With an ominous laugh, the old man ignored Cole’s question and stated, “I expect to be repaid for your deliverance. You will do exactly as I ask, Mr. Heflin.”

“And why would I ever do that?”

A sharp pain pressed Maxwell’s spine. He paled, but continued as though Cole had not spoken. “There is a special young woman, a Miss Marietta Stone, an opera singer in Central City, Colorado.” He pointed across the room to the poster featuring Marietta. “She is my granddaughter and my only living relative.” He paused.

“Go on,” Cole said.

“I am dying—I have only a matter of months, perhaps weeks, to live. My granddaughter must be brought to Galveston before I pass away.”

“And you’ve chosen me to go get her, bring her here.”

“Exactly.”

Cole looked thoughtful, as if he was considering the proposition. But when finally he spoke, he said, “No, I don’t think so. Find somebody else.”

Maxwell’s wrinkled face instantly turned scarlet with anger. He thundered, “Damnation! If just anyone could bring her back from Central City, you’d be swinging from the gallows this very minute! I saved your life. You owe me, young man!”

“True,” Cole admitted, pausing briefly. “I’ll go,” he finally answered. “But here are my terms. Before I leave for Colorado, you’ll pay me ten thousand dollars cash.”

“Ten thousand dollars! Why, this grand house didn’t cost much more than that. You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll give you that kind of money.”

Cole sat calmly, said nothing.

“That’s highway robbery! You’re in no position to demand anything,” barked Maxwell Lacey. “Let me remind you again, I saved your life. You will go after my granddaughter or you’ll go right back to the gallows and be hanged.”

Still, Cole didn’t budge. “Ten thousand or your precious granddaughter stays in Central City.”

Maxwell Lacey was not a man used to being bested. His first inclination was to order this arrogant upstart out of his house. Send him back to the gallows. Let the ungrateful bastard swing. But time was short. Running out. His days were numbered.

“Very well,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll pay you the ten thousand.”

Cole smiled for the first time since entering the mansion. He said in a low, level voice, “You will have your attorney deposit the money in the Gulf Shores State Bank this afternoon. I’ll leave for Colorado in the morning.”

“Agreed,” said Maxwell and he, too, was smiling. His attorney had, by telegraph, queried both Union officers and fellow Confederate officers and all had agreed that Cole Heflin’s word was as good as his bond. “Weathers is waiting in the parlor. He will accompany you to the bank.”

Cole nodded, rose, shook the old man’s hand and then turned to leave the library.

But he stopped abruptly when Maxwell Lacey said, “Ah, one last little thing I didn’t mention, Heflin.”

Cole turned. “Which is?”

Maxwell looked sheepish when he admitted, “Marietta may not want to come with you.”

Cole frowned. “Jesus, are you telling me I’m supposed to bring this woman back against her will?”

Maxwell nodded his head. “Absolutely! I’m certain she’ll refuse to come. It’s a long, complicated tale and of no concern to you. Your orders are to bring my granddaughter safely back here to me.”

Cole made a face. “Just how am I supposed to persuade this woman to—”

Lacey interrupted, “If you can’t convince her to come peacefully—which I fully doubt will happen—snatch her right off the stage! Kidnap her! Use force if necessary. Do whatever you have to do, but bring her back. You understand me?”

“I don’t like this,” Cole said.

“Why, Heflin, what’s kidnapping to an arsonist, a bank robber?” Cole gave no reply. Lacey continued, “You don’t have to like it, just do it. I’ll give you the ten thousand you’ve demanded and fully finance your trip.” He lifted a hand and indicated the soiled jail garb Cole wore. “Buy yourself some decent clothes, travel in style and stay at the best hotels.” He paused then, looked hopefully at Cole.

Cole said, “How do you know I won’t take your money and disappear?”

Lacey replied, “I don’t. But I’m a pretty good judge of character and I’d bet everything against it.”

“I’ll bring your wandering granddaughter home to you, Mr. Lacey. Count on it.”

Central City, Colorado

“No, no, you must start over!”

“Not again!”

“You heard me,” said Madam Sophia.

Marietta made a face, sighed heavily, but cleared her throat and began anew.

It was early afternoon. Marietta Stone, a twenty-five-year-old, red-haired opera singer, was practicing her roulades and glissandos under the tutelage of her two-hundred-and-fifty-pound voice coach, Madam Sophia.

Teacher and pupil were ensconced in Marietta’s private quarters, a luxurious five-room suite above the Tivoli Opera House. In a few short days, Marietta would debut at the grand opera house in a production of Verdi’s La Traviata.

She was the star.

The young singer took her voice lessons seriously. She was determined to become a famous soprano in the glamorous and exciting world of opera. She never doubted that she would achieve the fame she sought.

Marietta was a woman as obstinate as she was beautiful. She believed that she could change, if not the world, her world. As indeed, she had. Endowed with intelligence, determination and great beauty, she had been successful in the dogged pursuit of her goals.

“No! No! No!” scolded the frustrated Italian voice coach as Marietta reached for a high note and went a trifle flat. Marietta immediately fell silent. Madam Sophia, shaking her head, said, “Try again and remember to breathe properly as I have shown you. You must learn to enunciate and strengthen your vocal cords.”

Marietta was not stung by the reprimand. She trusted her voice coach completely. The acclaimed—and well-paid—Madam Sophia was an expert in the physiology of voice production and control. Marietta felt fortunate to have such a talented teacher. And, she was pleased that she was Madam Sophia’s only pupil.

“You will begin once more,” instructed Madam Sophia, “and practice breathing properly so that you can reach those high notes without going flat!” Madam Sophia paused. “You must be better before dress rehearsal.”

Marietta nodded, took a deep, slow breath. She began the musical scales, but was momentarily interrupted by a knock on the suite’s door. Marietta stopped her exercises. The rotund voice coach frowned.

“That will be Maltese,” said Marietta.

Madam Sophia exhaled with annoyance. “Must he come here while we are practicing?”

“He won’t stay long,” assured Marietta.

Madam Sophia held her tongue, said no more. She couldn’t object too fiercely. Taylor Maltese paid her handsomely to tutor Marietta.

Marietta hurried to the mirror to examine herself. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, drew the feathered lapels of her pink satin dressing gown together. Then turning, she said, “Sophia, let my visitor in, please.”

Muttering to herself in Italian, Madam Sophia opened the door and then hurried out once the dapper, immaculately dressed suitor had entered. A slender man of medium height with silver-gray hair, hazel eyes and a ruddy complexion, Taylor Maltese was an extremely wealthy, middle-aged bachelor. He owned and operated a number of Colorado’s most prosperous gold and silver mines as well as Central City’s newspaper, the Gilpin Hotel and many of the stores and saloons of the thriving mountain hamlet.

He also owned the Tivoli Opera House, which was more of an indulgence for him than a commercial venture. He loved music, opera…and his beautiful leading ladies. Especially his current leading lady, the opera’s star, Marietta.

Maltese had a spacious three-story home high on a bluff above Central City, as well as a huge stone mansion down in Denver, which was his primary residence. His great wealth and position in society made him the target of many hopeful women longing to become Mrs. Maltese. They were wasting their time.

Since the moment he had first seen her, Maltese had been totally smitten with the young, lovely Marietta. His first glimpse of the flame-haired beauty had been a year ago on the stage of his own Tivoli Opera House. He had come to see a production of La Bohème. He hardly noticed the celebrated soprano who was the star. Marietta, in a bit role as a café customer in the chorus immediately caught his eye. He was entranced. And had been ever since.

He so adored Marietta, he was afraid to press her for fear he might lose her. He longed to take her in his arms, but he didn’t dare. He had seen flashes of her fiery temper and didn’t want that anger directed at him. So he contented himself with nothing more intimate than kisses on the cheek and the pleasure of her company.

Now Marietta turned her most dazzling smile on her aging suitor and played the coquette, to his delight.

“What did you bring me, you naughty boy?” she purred, swaying seductively toward him, eyeing the bag in his hand. She moved in close, draped one arm around his neck and playfully tickled him under the chin with her long, painted fingernails.

Maltese beamed with joy. He held the bag behind his back and said, “You have to guess, sugar.”

Marietta toyed with the lapels of his custom cutaway, tilted her head to one side and said, “Mmm, let me think. A hat? Jewelry? A red ball gown?” She put out the tip of her pink tongue, licked her top lip and said in a soft, sultry tone, “No, no, I know what it is. It’s shoes!”

It was a game the two of them frequently played. Marietta knew exactly what he had brought her. Didn’t have to guess. Her bewitched suitor had given her dozens of pairs of shoes. Shoes of every kind and color. Soft leather pumps imported from Italy. Saucy satin slippers from Paris. Even a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots.

Now as he laughed merrily, Marietta continued to play her part. She reached around behind him, took the bag, drew it up and peeked inside.

“Would you…put the shoes on for me, sugar?” asked the hopeful Maltese.

“Why, of course, Maltese,” said Marietta. She took a seat on an armless velvet chair and made a big production of trying on the dainty new dancing slippers.

Her enchanted admirer sank onto a sofa nearby and watched as if she were totally disrobing. Marietta, cleverly allowing her long dressing gown to part just enough to give him a fleeting glimpse of a shapely, stockinged knee, winked at the heavily breathing Maltese.

She stretched her long right leg out straight and turned her foot one way then the other, as if she was carefully inspecting the new slipper. From beneath veiled lashes she stole a quick glance at her admirer. Beside himself with sexual excitement, Maltese tugged at his choking cravat. The pulse in his throat beat rapidly.

He’d had enough, Marietta quickly decided. Didn’t want him having a heart attack.

She modestly pulled her robe together, rose to her feet and said sweetly, “It’s such a warm day, isn’t it. Shall we have a glass of icy lemonade? Cool off a bit?”

“Yes,” Maltese managed to say weakly. He drew a clean white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and nervously blotted his shiny forehead. “Oh, yes, sugar, that would be nice.”

Three

Cole Heflin arrived in Denver, Colorado, on a warm, still evening near the end of June. Tired and stiff, he stepped down off the train and took a moment to stretch and unwind. He raised his arms skyward, groaned and lowered them. Ignoring curious stares, he bent forward and touched his toes several times. He straightened, leaned back from the waist and twisted one way then the other.

Once he’d worked the kinks out of his legs and back, he made his way through the crowded train depot and out onto the busy street. Cole walked the short distance to the corner of Larimer and Eighteenth, and the Windsor Hotel. A well-heeled fellow traveler had assured him that the British-built hotel was the very best accommodations Denver had to offer.

Cole stepped into the Windsor’s vast lobby and looked around. His fellow traveler had been right. The Windsor was an oasis on the frontier. Elegant parqueted floors, sixty-foot mahogany bar and full-length diamond-dust mirrors.

The uniformed clerk raised a disdainful eyebrow when the bearded, shabbily dressed Cole stepped up to the marble desk. Cole was unbothered by the man’s high-handed attitude.

“Have a corner suite available?” he asked the scornful clerk.

“Sir, our suites are quite expensive and I—”

“Answer the question,” said Cole with a smile. “Any suites available?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Good. Top floor. Front corner suite will do.” He reached for the register, turned it around and signed it as the snooty young man went to get the key.

“Suite 518,” said the desk clerk and reluctantly handed the key to Cole.

Key in hand, Cole said, “I noticed a haberdasher across the street.”

“Why, yes,” said the clerk, “Miller and Son is one of the oldest—”

“Fine,” said Cole as he took a bill out of his pants pocket and laid it on the marble ledge. “Have someone from Miller and Son bring several suits—size forty-two long—to my suite so I can choose one. Also a white shirt, underwear and pair of black leather shoes, size eleven. And, have a barber sent up. I need a haircut. Think you can manage that?”

The clerk looked anxiously around, then eased the bill off the marble desk and nodded. “Half an hour. Will that be acceptable?”

“Perfect,” said Cole who turned away just as a small group of expensively dressed ladies swept through the lobby on their way to the dining room.

One, an attractive brunette who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty, glanced at Cole, nodded and smiled. Cole winked at her. She blushed and hurried to catch up with her friends.

Cole stood and watched her walk away, liking what he saw, wishing he could get to know her better. She went out of sight and he dismissed her. Eagerly he headed for his suite, taking everything in, admiring the fine furnishings of the stately hotel. The Windsor, with its grand staircases, was built to resemble Windsor Castle.

It looked like a castle to Cole.

Once in his luxurious suite, he admired the elegant furniture, oversize bed and gold-plated bathtub. Cole promptly made himself at home. He stripped off his soiled clothes, flipped the tub’s gold faucets and marveled as running water flowed swiftly into the tub.

After a shave and haircut, a hot bath, a couple of shots of bourbon and a fine cigar, Cole dressed in the new suit of clothes he’d purchased from Miller and Son.

The transformation was dramatic. He hardly recognized himself. His tanned face was smoothly shaven and his shaggy black hair neatly trimmed. The new apparel, a well-fitting suit of lightweight navy flannel, pristine white shirt and maroon cravat, made him look like a gentleman.

Cole laughed at the idea. He was no gentleman.

And he’d like to meet a woman who wasn’t a lady. Perhaps later in the evening he’d stroll down to Holladay Street and visit the famous Mattie Silks.

But first he’d have dinner. He was starving.

Cole went down to the dining room and was shown to a table on the wall. Once seated, he casually looked around. His attention was immediately drawn to a round table where the laughing ladies he’d seen in the lobby were enjoying a leisurely meal.

The attractive dark-haired woman that he had winked at began glancing boldly at him. She smiled seductively then lowered her lashes. Cole leaned back in his chair and returned her gaze. The flirtation continued as he ordered dinner.

When the ladies finished their meal and rose to leave, the shapely brunette hung back and pointedly looked his way.

Without sound, Cole mouthed the words, “Suite 518.”

She flushed, turned and hurried away with her friends.

Cole chuckled.

Dinner arrived—a thick juicy steak, fried potatoes, hot bread and butter—and he forgot the brazen brunette. When he’d finished his meal and left the dining room, he debated the visit to Mattie’s. He decided against it. He was too tired. A night’s sleep was what he needed most.

A half hour later, back in his suite, Cole was naked and ready to crawl wearily into bed. But just as he pulled the top sheet down and put a knee on the mattress, there was a knock on the door. Cole frowned. He wrapped a towel around his waist, tied a loose knot atop his hip and crossed the room to open the door.

Before him stood the bold brunette.

“I…I am not in the habit of doing this sort of thing,” she promptly assured him.

Cole grinned lazily. “Why, no, of course not,” he said as he reached out and gently took her arm. He drew the woman inside and closed the door behind her.

For a moment they stood there face-to-face, neither speaking. Cole towered over the woman. She pressed her back against the solid door and gazed at his wide, sculpted shoulders, his broad chest, the white towel covering him. Her breath was now coming in shallow, anxious little gulps. Her heart was beating rapidly, the swell of her full, pale bosom rising and falling above the low-cut bodice of her snugly fitted suit jacket.

Cole raised a hand, cupped the side of her throat. “I’m glad you made an exception for me.”

“Yes, well, I…I can’t stay long,” she said. “My…my husband is expecting me home by ten.”

“I see,” mused Cole, letting his hand slip down to the buttons of her bodice. “Then we’d better waste no more time.”

He dropped his towel to the carpeted floor and swiftly unbuttoned her jacket. He pushed the opened jacket apart, slipped his long fingers inside her lace trimmed camisole, and eased the slick satin garment down to release a full, creamy breast. She drew a quick breath as if surprised, but made no move to cover herself. And she exhaled heavily when Cole licked his forefinger and circled her stiffening nipple with his wet fingertip.

The brunette’s soft hands fluttered along his slim hips before seeking his already straining masculinity. Cole took his cue from her. Without so much as a kiss, he shoved her full skirts up and, with her help, deftly relieved her of her underwear. Looking into her flashing eyes, he swept a warm hand across her flat stomach, then slipped his fingers between her legs. She swooned and tilted her pelvis upward, eagerly pressing against his exploring hand. Cole was amazed. She was as hot, wet and ready as if he had spent an hour arousing her. He took his hand away, pushed her skirts higher up, around her waist.

“Want to tell me your name, darlin’,” he asked and cupped the twin cheeks of her bottom, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel his firm erection throb against her bare belly.

“No,” she quickly responded. “And I don’t want to know yours. Just put it in. Hurry.”

Cole didn’t hesitate. The brunette winced, then sighed with pleasure when he lifted her a little and guided his hard flesh up inside her. She clung tightly to his neck, lifted her stockinged legs and wrapped them around him.

They stayed right where they were, making hot, impersonal love. Cole pumped and thrust and slammed her rhythmically against the heavy door. The brunette bucked and lunged and egged him on, digging her sharp nails into his shoulders. Two total strangers, out of control, mating like lusty animals. Kissing and licking and biting. Grunting and panting and growling.

But only for a few short moments.

Soon the brunette began experiencing a deep, wrenching climax. Cole joined her in the release.

She cried out in her ecstasy and viciously bit Cole’s bare shoulder.

But the second her climax had passed, she lowered her weak legs, took her arms from around his neck and pushed Cole back. She anxiously reached for her pantalets, turning away to put her underwear on before dropping and smoothing her skirts. She whirled around to face Cole as she pushed her exposed breast back inside her camisole and buttoned her bodice.

“I must go,” she said.

“Thanks for visiting,” he replied.

“My pleasure,” she said with an impish smile, clearly giving his statement a double meaning. He laughed and so did she. She lifted slender shoulders in a shrug and said, “Now I really must go.”

But before she left, she reached out and cupped his now-flaccid flesh. She licked her lips, sighed and said, “I wish I could take this with me and have it whenever I want it.”

Grinning easily, he teased, “Don’t you have one like it at home?”

“Hardly!” The smile left her face and a clouded expression came into her dark eyes. “Not like this. Nothing like this.”

She reluctantly released him, turned, opened the door and rushed away without saying goodbye.

For a moment Cole stood naked in the open doorway, shaking his head. Then he shrugged, closed the door and yawned. It wasn’t the first such encounter he’d had with a stranger and it probably wouldn’t be his last.

He’d lose no sleep over her or any of the others. Women, so long as they were easy on the eye, were all pretty much the same to Cole Heflin. They all behaved alike. Hard to tell one from another.

He smiled.

God, it was good to be alive.

Cole crossed the silent room, blew out the lamp and fell sleepily into bed.

Late the next afternoon the narrow-gauge train chugged its way higher and higher through the winding and steep-sided Clear Creek Canyon. The newly built railway ended at the mining and smelting town of Blackhawk, more than eight thousand feet up in the mountains.

Cole stepped off the train at Blackhawk and, swinging his suitcases, walked the mile up the steep hill to Central City. The high altitude and thin mountain air made him feel short of breath and slightly light-headed. He stopped outside the Gilpin Hotel and considered checking in. He leaned against the building, took a minute to catch his breath, then moved on.

As he strolled unhurriedly up Eureka Street, he noticed the posters advertising Verdi’s opera, La Traviata, and it’s young star, Marietta Stone.

Cole paused before one of the posters, studied the likeness of Marietta. He exhaled heavily. Here she was, the toast of Central City, a content, fulfilled young woman. And he had come to take her away from it all. He hated to do it, but he had no choice. He’d promised Maxwell Lacey he would bring the woman to Galveston and he would, whether she wanted to go or not.

The summer sun had completely slipped below the Front Range. In the gathering twilight, Cole walked up the street to the newly opened Teller House Hotel. The four-story hotel’s wide entrance opened onto a floor of solid-silver bars. He checked into a top-floor room with furnishings of exquisite walnut and damask and a fine Brussels carpet.

Cole looked around, shrugged out of his suit jacket and stretched out on the soft bed. He folded his hands beneath his head and gazed up at the crystal chandelier at the room’s center.

How should he go about getting the pretty opera star out of Central City and back to Galveston? He had the sinking feeling that it was not going to be easy.

He wouldn’t worry about it. He’d take it one step at a time.

First on the agenda was tonight’s performance of La Traviata at the Tivoli Opera House.

Four

Full darkness had fallen and there was a definite chill in the mountain air when Cole, dressed in dark evening attire, left the Teller House Hotel that evening.

Eureka Street was crowded. Laughing people spilled out of restaurants and saloons. Others milled about leisurely, stopping before glass-fronted shops. Many, like him, were headed to the Tivoli Opera House for the debut performance of La Traviata.

In minutes Cole reached the imposing opera house, which was built out of stone, brick and iron. The main entrance was wide; swinging doors afforded passage into a spacious corridor.

On the ground floor, at the back of the roomy foyer, was a large gambling club. Cole instinctively moved closer, pausing just outside the crowded, smoked-filled casino. He was sorely tempted. It had been ages since he’d sat in on a good poker game.

He thought about the ten thousand dollars in the Gulf Shores State Bank. Ten thousand that belonged to him. His to do with as he pleased. His expense money—a thick roll of bills—was suddenly burning a hole in his pocket. With effort, he resisted the strong lure.

He turned away and moved with the growing crowd up a flight of stairs to the theater. The grand stairway divided two spacious sections of the theater. The ornate and elaborate audience room was large, and the dress circle, where Cole was to sit, was reached by a second set of stairs. The circle extended, horseshoe shaped, around the room.

Opera chairs with adjustable seats were of ornate cast and upholstered in scarlet plush. Cole found his and sat down in the comfortable chair. White-and-gold hand-turned balusters formed balustrades around the horseshoe circle. The railing was covered with scarlet plush.

Cole looked around with interest. On the right side of the stage, high up on the wall, was a large private box, mirrored and upholstered in scarlet like the dress circle. Lambrequins and lace curtains gave the private box a degree of privacy. The box was presently empty.

Cole’s attention returned to the main floor of the grand theater. The wide aisles were beautifully carpeted in red, the walls were painted in brilliant colors, the ceilings handsomely frescoed. Everything was red, gold and white, and revealed by brightly burning gas jets.

Just below the scarlet-curtained stage, a fifteen-piece orchestra was seated in a circular box. They played an overture as the auditorium began to fill with patrons.

Cole had patronized few opera houses, but he felt certain this one was as grand a theater as could be found anywhere in America. Cole lifted and studied his program.

La Traviata

by Giuseppe Verdi

Characters

Violetta Valéry, a courtesan…………………Soprano

Dr. Grenvil, Violetta’s physician……………Bass

Alfredo Germont, lover of Violetta…………Tenor

Cole glanced through the rest of the cast, then read the brief summary of the opera’s story at the bottom of the page.

A tale of the tragic romance of Violetta Valéry, a beautiful courtesan of Paris, and Alfredo Germont, a sincere and poetic young man of a respectable provincial family.

Cole finished reading and lowered the program.

The theater had quickly filled to capacity. Every seat in the house was taken. While there was a scattering of handsomely dressed couples, the majority of the first-nighters were men. Men who were not handsomely dressed. A rough-hewn, sunburned lot in work clothes looking sorely out of place in this palatial amphitheater.

Cole wondered briefly if it was the opera’s celebrated star, Marietta, who had attracted such an unlikely mix.

Impatient for the curtain to go up, Cole again glanced at the private box high up on the wall near the stage.

It was no longer empty. A silver-haired, impeccably dressed gentleman sat in the plush box, a look of eager anticipation on his face. Something moved behind the gentleman. Cole’s attention was drawn to the back of the box.

Beneath a sway of lace curtains, half hidden in shadow, stood a tall, spare man with shifty eyes and a nasty-looking scar on his cheek.

The conductor rapped his baton.

The noisy crowd quieted.

Cole quickly turned his attention to the stage. The scarlet curtain rose. The opera began. Act 1 opened on the richly furnished drawing room of Violetta Valéry in Paris. A party was under way. Several bit players sang their parts.

Cole quickly grew restless.

He had no interest in the supporting cast. He had come to see Marietta.

At last the star appeared onstage amidst deafening cheers from the appreciative patrons. Cole blinked, then stared, feeling as if he’d just been struck in the solar plexus.

Marietta was so incredibly beautiful he couldn’t believe his eyes. Cole drew a quick intake of air and felt his heart lurch in his chest.

Flaming red-gold hair framed a perfect face with flawless apricot skin, large, dazzling eyes, a small upturned nose and a ripe, red mouth fashioned for kissing. Tall and slender with soft feminine curves, she wore a luxurious ball gown of shimmering turquoise silk adorned with thousands of tiny semiprecious stones.

Marietta’s character, Violetta Valéry, was determined to ignore the precarious state of her health in a ceaseless round of enjoyment. Marietta looked anything but sick. She was young and healthy. Fantastically vital, alive and vivacious. And she was so breathtakingly lovely, so ethereally beautiful, she might well have been an angel come down to earth. Cole gazed at the vision in turquoise, totally mesmerized.

The flame-haired beauty took a step forward, smiled and bowed to her admirers, giving the adoring throng a fleeting glimpse of her soft, pale bosom. Amidst whistles, catcalls and cheers, she straightened, pressed her lips to her fingertips and tossed a kiss to the audience.

At once she had them all—including Cole—in the palm of her hand.

But then she began to sing.

Cole’s jaw dropped.

He frowned.

He stared in stunned disbelief at the gorgeous Marietta, wondering if the discordant sounds he was hearing were actually coming from her.

They were.

Marietta’s mouth was open wide and she was singing at the top of her lungs. She did not have a beautiful voice. Far from it. It was a slightly shrill singing voice that went displeasingly flat when she reached for the high notes.

Bless her heart, she had everything else. She was young, beautiful, a good actress, had great stage presence and wore the elegant costume as no one else could. She was captivating to watch. Graceful. Commanding. Sure of herself.

Still, Cole shook his head with incredulity, wondering how on earth such an untalented singer was allowed to grace the stage of this or any other opera house. The woman simply could not sing.

Puzzled, Cole glanced around. He caught the expressions on some of the weathered faces of the men in the audience. They were smiling, yet looked as if they were in a small degree of pain. Apparently he was not the only one who found Marietta’s singing voice somewhat jarring.

But if that were so, why had they come to hear her? Why the full house? Why would anyone come to hear a singer with a decidedly displeasing voice? How could this untalented woman, lovely though she was, be an opera star?

Cole’s gaze returned to the well-dressed, silver-haired gentleman seated alone in the box. The man was beaming down at Marietta as if he had never heard a sweeter voice.

“Oh, holy Christ,” Cole muttered under his breath, knowing instinctively that the gentleman was no doubt the starry-eyed suitor of the tone-deaf singer.

Cole sat there and endured the cacophony for several long minutes, then finally could stand it no longer. Opera was tough enough to take when the performers had beautiful voices.

“Excuse me,” he whispered, rose, and made his way out to the wide, carpeted aisle, bumping knees as he went.

Resisting the temptation to put his hands over his ears, he eagerly exited the theater. But he didn’t leave the building. He went down the grand staircase to the first floor and into the gaming room. Tables of green baize rested beneath crystal chandeliers. The shuffle of cards, the click of the dice, the spin of the roulette wheel were seductive. Cole, his heartbeat quickening, loosened his black silk cravat. But he did not succumb to his strong desire to gamble.

A long polished bar stretched the length of the back wall. He headed directly for that bar and for a stiff drink.

A bald, rotund man stood behind the bar, wiping glasses on a clean white cloth. He looked up, smiled and asked, “What’ll it be, sir?”

“Bourbon,” said Cole. “And hopefully a bit of information.”

The fat man smiled and said, “Try me. I know just about everything that goes on in Central City.”

“Then you’re my man,” Cole said with a smile before he downed his bourbon in one long swallow and shoved his glass across the polished bar. The barkeep poured him another. Cole said, “And your name?”

“Harry,” he said with a grin, rubbed his gleaming bald pate and added, “Not that kind of hairy.”

Cole smiled, reached a hand across the bar. “Cole Heflin, Harry. I was just upstairs at the opera.”

“I figured,” said Harry, firmly shaking Cole’s hand.

“The star of the opera can’t sing, Harry.”

The barkeep laughed heartily, jowls and belly shaking. “You noticed, did you?”

“I noticed. I also noticed a prosperous, silver-haired gentleman seated in a private box who appeared to be taken with the opera’s lovely young star, Marietta.”

Nodding, the barkeep looked around, then leaned across the bar. “He’s absolutely mad about that red-haired singer.”

“I assumed as much. Who is he?”

“Taylor Maltese,” said Harry as if Cole should recognize the name.

“I’m a Texan,” Cole explained.

“Then you don’t know who he is?”

Cole shook his head.

Harry said, “He’s Taylor Maltese, owner of the Maltese Mining empire. Rich as old Jay Gould. Owns silver mines all over these mountains as well as many other lucrative enterprises.”

“And this Marietta, she’s his…?”

“Yes, she sure is.” The barkeep laughed and confided, “I’ve never seen a man as smitten with a woman as Taylor Maltese is with that gorgeous redhead. He’s like a puppy dog, always following her around, nipping at her heels, begging her to toss him a bone.”

“And does she?” Harry just grinned and gave no reply. Cole pressed on. “I noticed a rather evil-looking character standing at the back of Maltese’s private box. Scar face and all. Bodyguard?”

“He’s called Lightnin’,” the barkeep said, nodding.

“Lightnin’,” Cole repeated.

“That’s how fast he is on the draw.”

“I see,” Cole said thoughtfully. “Lightnin’ the only bodyguard?”

“No, there are a couple of big, burly brothers, the Burnett boys. They shadow Marietta.”

That was bad news for Cole, but he didn’t let on. He sipped his second bourbon and said, “You know, I can understand this wealthy man’s infatuation with Marietta. She’s sure a pretty thing, isn’t she?”

“Looks like an angel,” agreed the barkeep.

“But there’s something I can’t understand,” said Cole. “She can’t really sing very well, so how is it she’s the star of an opera.”

The barkeep roared with laughter. “How do you think? Maltese owns the Tivoli Opera House.”

Cole laughed. “That explains it.”

“Maltese is so in love with that luscious singer, he pays his miners hazard pay to fill the opera seats every evening to cheer and praise his darling!”

Five

Harry disclosed that the wealthy Taylor Maltese provided his adored Marietta with luxurious living quarters; a five-room rooftop suite above the Tivoli Opera House. Not only that, the multimillionaire had persuaded a renowned Italian voice coach to come to Central City to tutor Marietta. It was rumored that he paid the woman generously to teach and train Marietta. Exclusively. The voice coach was allowed to have no other students.

Cole listened as the talkative Harry supplied answers to questions that hadn’t been asked. “The voice coach, Sophia somebody, I don’t know her last name—you should see her, she’s bigger than me.” Harry laughed then and patted his big belly. “She lives in a nice little cottage near the opera house. Maltese pays the lease. Some folks wonder why she doesn’t live with her only pupil. There’s plenty of room in Marietta’s private quarters. But I guess Maltese doesn’t want anyone around when he visits his ladylove.” Harry winked conspiratorially.

Cole smiled and said casually, “I’m surprised he allows Marietta to live alone. Isn’t he worried she might entertain someone other than him in her quarters.”

“Not a chance of that happening,” said Harry. “He watches her like a hawk. Or, rather, his minions do. She goes nowhere without the Burnett boys tagging along. And, when she’s at home, one or the other of the brothers stands guard below on the sidewalk. Night and day. Maltese is no fool. The way I see it, she’s his, bought and paid for. And Maltese protects his property.”

“Can’t say that I blame him,” Cole replied. Just then, people, laughing and talking, began streaming into the foyer beyond the gaming room. Cole turned his head, glanced in their direction and said, “Looks like the opera is over.”

“Yes. I’ll be pretty busy now,” said Harry.

“Time for me to be getting back to the hotel,” said Cole. “Nice talking to you, Harry.”

“Same here,” said the barkeep. “You come again.” Harry screwed up his florid face then and added, “I’m losing my touch. We’ve talked for more than an hour and I know nothing about you other than the fact that you’re from Texas.”

“Not much to know,” said Cole. “I’m just your typical music lover, in town for a few days.”

When the final curtain came down, Maltese rose and exited his private box. His hands were red and stinging from applauding so vigorously. Marietta had taken several curtain calls and the audience, on its feet in a standing ovation, had whistled and called her name and tossed fresh-cut flowers onto the stage.

Now the great auditorium was swiftly emptying and Maltese, anticipating giving his beloved a congratulatory kiss, hurried backstage. The unsmiling, scar-faced Lightnin’ was a couple of steps behind.

Inside the flower-filled dressing chamber, Madam Sophia, proud of her charge’s performance, was embracing and complimenting the beaming Marietta. The two women had grown close in the months they had spent together. Marietta had few female friends, save the motherly Madam Sophia. She confided in Madam Sophia, told her things about herself that no one else knew. Once resentful and in complete disdain of Marietta, Madam Sophia had now become understanding and protective of the beautiful young woman.

Madam Sophia was aware of her pupil’s limited singing abilities. But she knew how desperately Marietta wanted to be famous, so she was determined to mold her eager pupil into a star despite her less than perfect singing voice.

Marietta wasn’t the first opera singer she’d coached whose voice was not exceptional. And, Marietta had everything else. With her youth and beauty and acting talents, she was surely destined for some degree of stardom.

“Did you count the curtain calls?” Marietta asked breathlessly, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes shining.

“Seven,” replied Madam Sophia, giving the taller, younger woman one last affectionate pat on the back. “Now turn around, dear, and I’ll help get you out of the costume.”

Sighing happily, Marietta dutifully turned. Madam Sophia’s plump fingers went to the tiny hooks going down the back of Marietta’s gown. As she worked, Madam Sophia said, “Such a grand opening night! Every seat filled and—” An urgent knock on the dressing room stopped her in midsentence. Madam Sophia clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Maltese, I presume. Shall I tell him you’re not dressed?”

“No,” said Marietta. “You can let him in. I’ll finish behind the dressing screen.”

Madam Sophia grabbed her charge’s arm, whirled her back around. “With him in the room?”

Marietta laughed off Madam Sophia’s chagrin. “That’s what dressing screens are for, Sophia. Is my dress completely unhooked?”

“It is,” said the coach, hands going to her wide hips.

Marietta nodded. “Then open the door for Maltese.”

“If you undress behind the screen, he’ll see the tops of your bosom,” scolded the disapproving Madam Sophia.

“Nonsense,” said Marietta. “He’ll see nothing. Now, please, answer his knock and then you may go.” Madam Sophia made a face.

Marietta laughed at her friend’s needless concern and assured the older woman, “Nothing will happen, believe me. I see to it that Maltese is always a gentleman with me.” She danced around behind the screen. “You know I’m telling you the truth.”

Madam Sophia lifted a skeptical eyebrow, crossed to the door and admitted the eager admirer. To Maltese she said, “Marietta has early rehearsals tomorrow.”

Eyes only for Marietta, Maltese said, “I won’t keep her up too late.”

Madam Sophia bustled out in such a hurry, she bumped into Lightnin’, who stood just outside the door. They glared at each other.

Maltese closed the dressing-room door and leaned back against it. “You were a sensation tonight, my dear,” he said.

“You’re so sweet,” she replied with a flirtatious smile. “Give me a minute to get out of my costume and I’ll be ready to go to dinner. Will you blow out the lamp?” Marietta asked and ducked behind the dressing screen.

“Of course, sugar,” Maltese said as he crossed to the mirrored dressing table, lifted the lamp’s glass globe and blew out the flame.

The lamp extinguished, now only a single white candle burned in a holder near the open back window. The small room was bathed in the candle’s mellow glow. Shadows danced on the walls. It was a seductive atmosphere.

Marietta was soon to make it even more seductive.

His voice cracking a little, Maltese turned about and said, “So…you haven’t changed yet?”

“No, Sophia and I were so busy congratulating ourselves I didn’t get around to it. But don’t worry, I won’t be a moment,” she said and favored him with another dazzling smile.

Marietta was a tall woman. Her head and shoulders rose above the covering screen. She lowered the sleeve of her turquoise gown down one shoulder and asked, “You don’t mind waiting, do you?”

Maltese swallowed hard. “No, sugar. You take as long as you need.” His eyes flashing with expectation, he reached for a chair, turned it around so that it faced the screen and quickly sat down.

Marietta knew exactly what she was doing. She would, on this festive evening, provide her middle-aged benefactor with a few memorable thrills. And she would do so without actually showing him anything or compromising herself.

She knew how it would excite him to know that she was stripping behind the screen. So Marietta stepped out of the turquoise costume and draped it over the screen.

She paused, rested her arms atop the screen and said, “I’m just dewy with perspiration from my strenuous performance.”

“Are you, sugar?” Maltese managed to say, his wide-eyed gaze resting on her pale shoulders. “Did you want to go up to your quarters and take a bath before dinner?”

Marietta pretended to be thinking it over. “No, tell you what, Sophia was so thoughtful, she placed a basin of water here behind the screen. I’ll just strip off everything and take a little sponge bath. If that’s all right with you?”

Maltese was now practically speechless with excitement. He nodded his silver head vigorously and gestured with trembling hands.

“Does that mean yes?” she asked in a honeyed voice.

“Y-yes,” he finally croaked. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Good. I declare, I’m just so hot and sticky.”

Marietta sensuously wiggled free of her lacy petticoats and tossed them atop the discarded costume.

“These tiny little hooks on my camisole are hard to manage,” she informed him, her face screwed up in concentration as she worked at undoing the minuscule fasteners. She laughed then, and added, “If I can’t get these little devils open, I may have to enlist your help.”

Maltese’s breathing grew labored and shallow at the exciting prospect. He watched with growing anticipation.

“Ah, there!” she said after a moment. “Finally got the last one.”

“That’s nice,” he said, a cloud of disappointment crossing his perspiring face. But the disappointment evaporated as the lace straps of the camisole slipped down her shoulders. The frothy undergarment was soon draped across the screen’s top and Maltese felt his heart hammer in his chest. His beloved—standing not six feet from him—was now bare to the waist.

He began to pant when Marietta lifted her arms, swept her long red-gold hair atop her head and pinned it there. The movement caused her shoulders to lift, the swell of her full, bare breasts to rise dangerously close to the top border of the screen.

Maltese anxiously licked his dry lips. He gripped his trousered knees with dampened hands; hands that itched to touch the beautiful woman who so tempted him. He could almost feel the warm heaviness of her white breasts in his palms.

Marietta, knowing what was going through his mind, chattered gaily as if nothing unusual were taking place, continuing to thrill her suitor without really giving him anything. When she slithered out of her lace-trimmed pantalets and tossed them over the screen, she sighed as if with great relief.

Maltese, red-faced now, pulse pounding in his ears, squirmed on his chair as she noisily kicked off her shoes, then peeled her silk stockings down and tossed them over the screen.

“Ah, there,” she sighed, “everything’s off and I’m as bare as a newborn babe. It feels sooo good. Sometimes I wonder why we must wear such hot, heavy underclothing.” She laughed musically then and added, “Sometimes I wonder why we must wear any clothes at all, don’t you, Maltese?”

“Y-yes, oh, yes,” he groaned as his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.

Just then a strong night breeze stirred the sheer window curtains. The candle flame danced wildly. The quick surge of light outlined—for a fleeting instant—Marietta’s bare silhouette against the dressing screen. Maltese quickly put a hand to his mouth to stifle his rising moan of joy. Such undraped perfection! Such purity! And it was his, all his.

Light-headed, dizzy, Maltese felt his brain pounding out the message, “My darling Marietta is naked. Totally, gloriously naked. She is bare. Not wearing a stitch. And there’s only a silk screen between us.”

Marietta began to hum as she dipped a sponge into the basin of water and pressed it to her throat, then let it slide slowly down her chest until it disappeared behind the screen. Maltese had never known such sweet agony. He watched, entranced, as his naughty Marietta sponged off her entire body. He could see nothing, but he imagined that he could. He wished that she would announce which part of her lovely body she was presently washing. But, of course, she wouldn’t. She was too much of a lady.

Maltese held his breath, hoping against hope that the candle would flare again. His chest tightened as he pondered whether or not she had reached the nether region between her long slender legs. God, he wished that she would tell him.

Marietta revealed nothing, just continued to hum.

Still, being afforded the opportunity to share this intimate bathing exercise with her was incredibly pleasurable and highly arousing. He could, if asked, truthfully brag that he had watched Marietta take a bath. But that would be raffish behavior.

Nevertheless, Maltese had high hopes that one day Marietta would be naked in a candlelit room with him and there would be no screen between them. He would be the one helping press the dampened sponge to her heated body.

This pleasant fantasy continued as Marietta finished her bath and got dressed. When she stepped out from behind the screen, she was fully clothed and fully aware that she had given her aging caller all the excitement he could handle for one evening. Nothing more would be required of her. A sumptuous dinner at the Castle Top and then a good-night peck on the cheek.

Maltese would leave her a happy man.

Six

Cole joined the departing crowd.

He left the opera house, but he did not immediately go to the hotel. Crossing the street, he approached a false-fronted business, now darkened and closed for the night. He stepped into the shadows of the roof’s low overhang, turned and leaned back against the building. Arms crossed, Cole stood looking up at the top floor of the opera house.

Marietta’s private quarters.

Cole wondered if she was up there now, entertaining her aging Romeo. He recoiled at the thought and quickly looked away.

From where he stood, he could see down the alley directly beside the opera house. The tall, spare man he’d observed in Maltese’s private box was posted there by a side door near the back of the building.

Cole watched him for a moment, then looked back to the front of the theater. The crowd had thinned dramatically. Only a few stragglers remained on the sidewalk, talking, getting into carriages. Two men stood out—both were big, burly fellows dressed in work shirts and buckskins. Undoubtedly, the Burnett brothers that Harry the barkeep had told him about. Cole studied the brothers for a while, sizing them up, wondering how he was ever going to slip Marietta past them.

His attention was drawn once more down the side alley, when the door opened and out into the mountain moonlight stepped Marietta and her middle-aged lover.

Cole sank farther back into the shadows. He watched as the couple came up the alley toward the street. They turned onto the sidewalk and into the glow of the gaslights lining the avenue.

Again Cole was struck by Marietta’s incredible beauty and for a moment he sorely envied the silver-haired man with whom she shared her time and her charms.

Cole’s jaw tightened.

He continued to watch as the couple, arm in arm, strolled up the street. The scar-faced bodyguard called Lightnin’ followed a few paces behind. Marietta and Maltese soon entered the bustling Castle Top restaurant at the top of the hill. Lightnin’ stayed outside. An armed, unmoving, black-clad sentinel.

Cole again glanced directly across the street. The Burnett brothers still loitered outside the opera house. They would, he surmised, be waiting when Marietta got home.

Cole pushed away from the building and headed for his hotel. Back at the Teller House he undressed without lighting the lamp, tossing his clothes over a chair. He mulled over what he had seen and heard. And he grimaced.

Old Maxwell Lacey’s beautiful red-haired granddaughter was the mistress of a wealthy, powerful man who was old enough to be her father. And it would not be simple or easy to whisk the gold-digging beauty away from Central City. Not with the lovesick Maltese certain to interfere.

Naked, Cole crawled into bed. He yawned and thought back over the evening. Like a quick jolt of adrenaline came the unforgettable moment when he’d gotten his very first glimpse of the gorgeous Marietta. Cole felt himself stir at the vivid recollection. She was without doubt the most beautiful, the most innocent-looking, the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

He wanted her. Wanted her now. Wished that she was here, naked in his arms.

Cole exhaled with frustration and silently cursed himself. He flopped over onto his stomach and pressed his surging erection into the softness of the mattress. He gritted his teeth, cursed his weakness and waited for this quick burst of unwanted desire to pass. He was annoyed with himself. And he was surprised. It wasn’t as though it had been weeks since he’d had a woman. He’d had one just last night in Denver. What the hell was wrong with him?

Cole waited impatiently for the stirring sexual hunger to subside. All at once he recalled the discordant sound of Marietta’s singing voice. He could hear it ringing in his ears. That did the trick. Desire fled. Heat passed. Cole relaxed.

He heaved a sigh of relief, turned onto his back, folded his hands beneath his head and wondered idly if the beautiful opera singer was in love with the Maltese mining magnate.

No, she wasn’t. He’d bet his ten thousand against it. Harry, the barkeep, had said Maltese purchased the newly built Tivoli Opera House solely so that Marietta could star in all the productions. Marietta was cleverly, cold-heartedly using the lovesick Maltese to further her fledgling singing career.

Cole lay awake pondering how best to get the heartless little gold digger back to Galveston. He decided he’d have to spend a few days in town before he tried anything. He’d watch her closely, check out where she went and when. And with whom. Try to catch her away from her big bodyguards. If he could get her alone for just a moment, he would introduce himself. Tell her he was a fan.

Cole briefly considered courting her, but decided against it. He wasn’t that big a heel. He would simply level with her. Admit that he had come to Central City to escort her home to Galveston and her waiting grandfather.

After all, he wasn’t sure she would refuse to go.

“New York. London. Rome. Amsterdam. Madrid!” exclaimed a glowing Marietta after the morning’s rehearsals. “Andreas, tell me that one day I shall sing in all those cities’ fine opera houses!”

The other players had left the opera house as soon as rehearsals had ended. Only Marietta, Sophia and the opera’s artistic director, Andreas, remained on-stage.

Andreas, a slender, refined man with sandy hair, a pencil-thin mustache and a fondness for the red-haired Marietta, smiled indulgently but was noncommittal.

He said, “My dear child, before you can hope to appear in the opera houses of London and New York, you must spend years mastering your craft. Listening to Madam Sophia, doing as she instructs. Learning, practicing, improving.”

This was not what Marietta had wanted to hear. She sighed heavily and sank onto a chair. “Andreas, you know very well how much I practice. That’s all I do all day, every day. Tell him, Sophia.”

The rotund Madam Sophia agreed. “She works very hard, Andreas. Perhaps too hard.”

The discerning artistic director, like the voice coach Madam Sophia, was all too cognizant of the unfortunate fact that the long hours of practice were not going to make a great deal of difference. Marietta, bless her, beautiful though she was and possessed of a great stage presence, was never going to sing in Rome and Madrid. She simply did not have the voice. But Andreas did not have the heart to tell her.

“Marietta,” Andreas said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I believe Madam Sophia is right. You’ve been practicing too much. Both you and Sophia need to take a rest. Why don’t you get out of that costume, get dressed up in something attractive and go out for a walk or a carriage ride.” He smiled and added, “The fresh mountain air will be good for you.”

Marietta’s weariness instantly fled. She jumped up out of the chair. “You mean it?” She looked from Andreas to Sophia. Both nodded. Her emerald eyes now sparkling, she mused aloud, “I could go shopping or out to lunch. Or just take a walk. I’d enjoy that so.”

“And it would be good for you,” Madam Sophia said.

“You go, my dear, and enjoy yourself,” said Andreas.

“I will,” Marietta replied. “Oh, yes, I will!”

Marietta felt a great surge of excitement wash over her as she planned her little adventure. She had the entire afternoon to herself. No practice. No rehearsal. Maltese was down in Denver and wouldn’t be back until late evening. She was free to do as she pleased!

Marietta, as happy as a child, impulsively dashed over to Andreas and gave him a big bear hug. The normally reserved artistic director was disarmed by her. He laughed and gave her small waist an affectionate squeeze. She released him and turned to Sophia.

Her arms around the short, stocky voice coach, she said, “Will you be a darling and help me dress?”

A half hour later, a smiling Marietta, fashionably garbed in a bronze poplin traveling suit, stepped out into the warm Colorado sunshine.

Her bright smile weakened a little when she saw both Burnett brothers in the alley. In her way. She wished, just once, she could go somewhere without them following her.

Marietta took a spine-stiffening breath and raised and opened her bronze silk parasol. She stepped up to Conlin Burnett, the older of the two brothers, and told him, “I am going to take a walk. By myself. I do not want either one of you getting in my way. I do not want you dogging my every step. In fact, I want you to just stay right here where you are. Will you do that?”

Con Burnett, twisting his battered hat in his big, callused hands, frowned and said, “Now, Miss Marietta, you know we can’t allow you to go off on your own. Lightnin’ would have our hides. We’re supposed to look after you.”

Marietta gritted her teeth. She was wasting her breath and knew it. Maltese swore he had hired the Burnetts to watch after her. She knew better. He had hired them to watch her.

Marietta whirled away and headed up the alley. The brothers exchanged worried looks and hurried behind her. She reached the sidewalk, looked up the street, then down. The parasol shading her delicate skin, she turned and sauntered up Eureka Street with no particular destination in mind.

Passersby, mostly men, recognized the lovely opera star. They stopped to speak to her, to tell her they had seen her perform. Pleased, Marietta smiled politely, shook some hands and graciously accepted praise and compliments. Her presence caused quite a stir on this still, summer afternoon. Everyone she passed warmly acknowledged her, spoke to her, lauded her.

Except one man.

The block ahead was empty, save a lone man leaning a shoulder against the striped pole in front of Duncan’s Barbershop. He did not look like a miner. He looked like a gentleman. He wore a pair of snug-fitting buff-hued trousers and a starched white shirt, open at the collar.

He was not looking in her direction, so Marietta had the opportunity to study him while he remained unaware. She stopped a few feet from him and stared. The man was tall and lean with broad shoulders, deep chest and slim hips. His hair, neatly brushed and shining in the sunlight, was as black as the darkest midnight. His smoothly shaven face was so deeply tanned it was almost swarthy.

But oh, what a handsome face it was.

High forehead, proud roman nose, full, sensual lips and strong, harshly cut chin. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but she could see the long, black lashes that shaded them.

Marietta, feeling strangely faint, was half-afraid to move closer to the tall, dark stranger. Why, she didn’t know. She swallowed hard and moved cautiously forward. She was holding her breath by the time she reached him.

And she was confused. He had to know that she was approaching him, had to see her moving in his side vision. But he didn’t turn his head to look at her.

Not until the very last second. When Marietta passed directly by him, the man finally looked up and met her gaze. And Marietta thought her heart would beat its way out of her chest. Startlingly sky-blue eyes staring up from under improbably long eyelashes touched her, assessed her, frightened her.

Then quickly dismissed her.

Marietta was nonplussed. She hurried away, flustered and insulted. This darkly handsome man had looked directly at her, but was apparently not the least bit interested. Those beautiful blue eyes did not light up at the sight of her. Those sensual lips did not lift in a flirtatious smile. That lean, masculine body had not shifted, muscular shoulder had not left the barber pole. She had had no visible effect on him.

None whatsoever.

She wandered aimlessly up the street, both disappointed and excited. She was extremely frustrated that the handsome stranger had paid her no attention. At the same time she was strongly intrigued by his utter nonchalance. His obvious lack of interest made Marietta all the more interested in him.

That and the fact that he was a sultry, sexually suggestive, highly threatening male and just the sight of him had made her tingle all over. She wanted the feeling to last. She wanted to be close to him again. She wanted him to make her tingle. And she especially wanted to make him tingle.

Marietta paused half a block past the barbershop and the tall, dark, indifferent stranger. She lifted her chin defiantly, turned about and almost bumped into the lumbering Con Burnett. Her anger flared and she loudly berated him.

“I told you to stay out of my way!” she hissed.

“Sorry, Miss Marietta.”

Cole heard the exchange and grinned. He knew what she was going to do. She was coming back his way. She had noticed him. She wanted him to notice her.

So he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Her heart in her throat, Marietta nervously approached the tall man who still stood there leaning against the barber pole. Cole waited until she was a few steps from him. Then he pushed away from the pole, turned his back on her and stepped down off the sidewalk. He unhurriedly crossed the street.

Marietta couldn’t believe her eyes. It was all she could do to keep from calling out to him and ordering him to come back. She was filled with anger and despair as she watched him casually walk away from her. She continued to stare, longing to know who he was and where he was going and wondering if she would ever see him again.

She blinked when he turned into the silver-floored entrance of the Teller House Hotel and disappeared. She was tempted to follow him, took a tentative step forward, and caught herself. She couldn’t go running after a stranger. Besides, even if she could, the Burnett brothers would tell Maltese.

Marietta sighed, her slender shoulders slumping.

The excitement of her afternoon adventure was gone. She had no particular interest in shopping or having a late lunch. She just wanted to go home. Parasol raised, she walked dejectedly back to the opera house, ignoring the passersby who smiled and called to her.

Back in her private quarters, Marietta undressed, drew on a satin robe and paced restlessly. She was agitated. Fidgety. Unable to relax. She had seen an incredibly attractive man who’d set her pulses to pounding and she wouldn’t rest until she saw him again.

Marietta abruptly stopped pacing, snapped her fingers and said aloud, “I will see him again. I will go to the Teller House tomorrow and have lunch.”

Marietta did just that.

But to her disappointment, there was no sign of the dark-haired stranger. She hurried through her meal and left the hotel. She walked up the street toward the barbershop, hoping to find him leaning against the colored barber pole.

But he was not there.

From the front window of his fourth-floor suite in the Teller House, Cole watched Marietta leave the hotel, walk up the street. Her head was bare and her glorious red-gold hair, dressed elegantly atop her head, blazed in the sunlight.

He watched as she approached the barbershop. And he smiled when she stopped, reached out and touched the barber pole.

She was looking for him.

Soon he would let her find him.

Seven

Cole knew it wasn’t going to be easy to catch the lovely Marietta alone. When she was with Maltese, the scar-faced Lightnin’ hovered nearby. If Marietta went out alone, she was closely shadowed by those two big bruisers, the Burnett brothers. Maltese saw to it that his ladylove was well guarded at all times.

Still, Cole was confident he could find a way around the bodyguards. Impatiently he bided his time, waited and watched. And he smiled when, three days in a row, he saw Marietta venture out. From his fourth-floor Teller House suite he watched her stroll up Eureka Street, pausing before shop windows.

But her interest was not really in the merchandise displayed. She didn’t gaze longingly into the plate-glass windows of the stores. Instead, she covertly glanced around, as if looking for someone.

She was looking for him.

Each day Cole waited until Marietta returned to her private quarters. Then he went out. He explored every inch of the little mountain hamlet, walking up one street and down another. He spoke to no one, attracted as little attention as possible. He hunted for the ideal place for a private rendezvous with Marietta. He found it on his third day out. The Far Canyon Café. A cozy little out-of-the-way restaurant nestled in the sheltering slopes near the top of the hill. The food was good, the wine cellar exceptional, and the high-backed banquettes afforded total privacy.

It was, Cole decided, time to end the little game of cat and mouse. The very next afternoon he dressed in a freshly laundered blue cotton shirt and a pair of dark twill trousers. Cleanly shaven, his hair neatly brushed, he left the Teller House resolved to carry out his mission. His mission was Marietta. Cole stepped out into the scorching June sunshine and looked up the street.

And there she was.

Marietta and her shadows were only a couple of blocks ahead. Cole proceeded cautiously, ducking into doorways, mingling with the milling crowds. All the while advancing, determined to meet Marietta, to talk with her.

He knew his opportunity had come when he saw Marietta enter a little shop on the corner at the far end of the block. Cole picked up his pace, hurried toward the store where the sign above read Lilly’s Ladies Apparel.

The Burnett brothers stood on the sidewalk a few feet from the shop’s front door. But neither noticed when Cole went inside. Their attention was momentarily diverted. An altercation had broken out across the street in front of the Golden Nugget Saloon. A crowd quickly gathered and bets were being placed on the bloodied pugilists. Con and Jim Burnett whistled and applauded, liking nothing better than watching a good fistfight.

Inside Lilly’s small shop, Marietta was alone. There were no other customers. And the shop’s owner, the diminutive Lilly, was in the back storeroom. She’d gone there after telling Marietta about the new shipment of lacy underwear that had just arrived that morning.

“Stay right here, Marietta,” Lilly had said. “I’ll go unpack some of the prettiest things for you to choose from. Shall I?”

“Definitely,” Marietta had replied. “You know how I love the feel of silk or satin against my skin.”

Alone now, Marietta was lifting a delicate white shawl from a display table, when she felt a presence behind her. A chill skipped up and down her spine. She turned, looked up and saw Cole. The shawl slipped from her hand and her heartbeat quickened.

For one long instant they inventoried each other and there was a definite challenge in their glances. Snared by his arresting blue eyes, Marietta automatically smiled and almost imperceptibly nodded to this darkly handsome man for whom she’d been secretly looking for the past four days.

Cole smiled back and asked, “Did you nod to me?”

“Did I?”

“I’m certain that you did.”

“Well, perhaps,” she admitted with a radiant smile.

Cole cautiously approached her. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said in a low, pleasing baritone. “I’m Cole Heflin, one of your legion of admirers, Miss Marietta.”

He offered his hand. Marietta accepted it and felt a quick jolt of excitement race through her as his tanned fingers closed warmly around hers. She knew she should withdraw her hand. She didn’t. She allowed him to continue holding it securely in his own and derived a strange thrill from the innocent act. She was certain this mere touching of hands had affected him too, because a muscle in his firm jaw moved as if he was clenching his teeth. Neither spoke.

They just stood there holding hands, looking at each other. It was a moment of electric silence. But although Marietta delighted in the firm pressure of his hand, she finally made an effort to withdraw her own. Cole tightened his grip. She was secretly glad.

“Then you have been to the opera?” she said, her emerald eyes aglow.

“Every performance since opening night,” he lied.

“Ah, so you enjoy my singing, Mr. Heflin?”

“Words cannot describe,” Cole said with an engaging smile. He gave her hand one last gentle squeeze, released it and asked, “I know it’s awfully forward of me, but would you consider having lunch with me, Marietta?”

She was tempted. He was so compelling, so masculine, so attractive. The good-looking deeply tanned face, the jet-black hair that curled away from his temples. Those hooded eyes, as blue as the Colorado skies. That provocative smile, a smile that lifted one corner of his full lips a little higher than the other. And his hands, such marvelous hands, so strong and warm. Lean, beautiful hands with long tapered fingers. She was tremendously attracted and longed to know him better.

Still, she hesitated. Maltese was down in Denver again today, but his two hired minions, the Burnett brothers, were just outside Lilly’s. They watched every move she made. Lunch with this handsome stranger was out of the question.

“I’m very flattered, but I—”

Cole interrupted, “Leave now and I’ll stay behind. Go to the Far Canyon Café and I’ll meet you there.” Marietta’s brilliant green eyes flickered and Cole knew she was weakening. He continued, “I’ll go around through the alley behind the buildings. When I reach the café, I’ll use the back door, come through the kitchen. It’s almost two o’clock. The café will be deserted at this hour. No one will see us together.”

Marietta took only a second to think it over before she whispered, “I’ll be in the back banquette, away from the street.”

Cole grinned boyishly. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” she repeated, and taking a step closer, glanced nervously out the front windows and told him, “Don’t turn and look when I leave.”

Cole shook his head and said, “The next time I look at you will be across the table at the Far Canyon Café.”

True to his word, Cole kept his back to the street as Marietta quickly exited the apparel shop. She had just walked out the door, when Lilly, carrying several frothy undergarments over her arm, came out of the storeroom, saying, “Marietta, there’s an ice-blue satin nightgown that you…you—” She stopped, frowned, looked about and said to Cole, “Where is the beautiful lady, the red-haired opera singer?”

Cole looked around, shrugged wide shoulders and said, “No one else is here.”

“But that can’t be! Marietta, my best customer, was waiting until I—”

“Ma’am, the shop was empty when I walked in. Now, if you’ll just show me that blue satin nightgown you mentioned. My wife might like it.”

“Oh, indeed she will,” said Lilly, tossing the bundle onto a table and withdrawing the slinky nightgown with a bodice fashioned entirely of delicate lace that left nothing to the imagination.

Cole said, “I’ll take it. Wrap it up and I’ll be back for it later.” He withdrew some bills from his pocket and paid the beaming proprietress.

“Your wife is going to be so pleased, Mr…. Mr….?”

But Cole was gone. He stepped outside. The sidewalk was now empty. He walked to the end of the block, turned and slipped down through the alley. He headed for the restaurant.

Marietta blinked blindly when she entered the dimly lit Far Canyon Café. When her eyes adjusted to the change in light, she saw that she was the only customer. For that she was extremely grateful. If she was very lucky, no one would see her here. No one would ever guess that she had lunched with a stranger, a man who could be a dangerous outlaw for all she knew. The fine hair at the nape of her neck rose and she wondered if she was in danger. If she had any sense, she would leave now before he arrived.

Too late.

No sooner was she seated in a high-backed banquette in a private alcove at the back of the café than Cole Heflin joined her. He slid onto the soft leather seat across from her, licked his thumb and forefinger and extinguished the lighted candle at the center of the table. Smoke from the dying flame wafted and hung in the still air.

Unsmiling, Cole leaned back and gazed at Marietta through the thinning smoke, fixing her with those incredible indigo eyes. He said nothing, just stared at her. His intense scrutiny both embarrassed and pleased her. She could feel the blood rushing to her face and all at once her clothes felt uncomfortably tight.

Cole noticed the pulse in her pale throat throbbing rapidly, saw the high points of color now staining her cheeks.

“Are you too warm, Marietta?” he inquired, shifting on the seat, leaning up to the table. “You look a little flushed.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” she managed to say and silently ordered herself to calm down.

“I wish I could say the same,” Cole said as he reached up and deftly flipped open a couple of buttons going down the center of his shirtfront. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m perspiring.”

“No, of course not,” she said and couldn’t keep from focusing on the expanse of dark, muscled chest that the open shirt revealed.

“There, that’s better,” said Cole, then lifted a hand in the air to signal the waiter.

Soon Marietta relaxed somewhat and began to enjoy herself. Wine flowed into tall goblets of Venetian glass with elegant twisted stems. Crisp salads on gold-banded china and a basket of hot yeast rolls with butter were placed on the table before them. Neither was very hungry. But both drank thirstily of the red wine.

Cole was clever. He put Marietta at her ease, teased her, laughed with her, drew her out. Found out all he could about her without pressing her. Marietta was more than happy to tell him of her triumphs, her plans, her dreams. She had, she told him, been in Central City for a little more than a year. Her residence in the remote mountain village was temporary, she had no intention of staying here long.

She would, she told him, likely be leaving soon to grace the stages of opera houses in much larger cities. Her career in opera was only beginning. She hoped to one day appear in London and Milan. Cole nodded and smiled and listened and acted as if everything she said was of great interest.

Marietta was thoroughly charmed. This clandestine luncheon was, for her, most enjoyable. She couldn’t recall when she’d had such a good time. Sipping her wine and leaning up to the table to listen as he talked, she learned that Cole Heflin was not only the handsomest man she had ever met, he was charming and witty and great fun to be with. In a pleasant wine haze, Marietta was now totally relaxed and happy. Sighing contentedly, she wished that she could sit here in this deserted café with this magnetic man forever. Just the two of them. Drinking, laughing, flirting. It was so incredibly thrilling and downright naughty to be having this secret meeting with a mysterious stranger.

And the danger made the rendezvous all the more exciting.

Holding her stemmed glass out for more wine, Marietta slurred her words slightly when she said, “You know something, Cole, you have just a hint of a Southern accent. Are you from Georgia or Alabama?”

“Texas,” he said, filling her glass.

“Ah,” she replied. “What part of Texas?”

But his reply was a question, “Where were you born, Marietta?”

She didn’t answer and he noted a slight cloud pass behind her eyes. She wrinkled her perfect nose. Then giggled and changed the subject.

“This is the best wine I’ve ever tasted,” she said and licked her lips. Then she tilted her head to one side and asked, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Cole glanced across the café, saw a large Seth Thomas clock on the far wall. “Yes, it’s five minutes of four.”

Marietta’s eyes widened. “You’re teasing me!”

“I would never do that,” Cole said.

“Good heavens, I had no idea it was getting so late,” she said. “I must go.”

Cole shook his head. “Why? The afternoon is young. Let’s order another bottle of wine and some rich, decadent dessert.”

“No. No I can’t,” she said, and started to slide across the leather seat.

“Wait.” Cole stopped her. “Listen to me, Marietta, and let me finish before you speak. Will you do that?”

She smiled and said, “Why, of course, Cole.”

Cole drew a breath, reached across the table and placed his hand gently atop hers. He said simply, “My dear, I’ve come to take you home to your grandfather in Galveston.”

For a moment Marietta stared at him in stunned disbelief. Then her face flushed with anger. She yanked her hand free of his, slid out of the banquette and shot to her feet.

She shouted loudly, not caring who heard her, “Wild horses couldn’t drag me anywhere near that cruel old bastard down in Galveston!”

“Marietta, your grandfather is dying and he—”

“Let him die!” she screeched. “Everybody dies!”

“That’s mighty cold talk coming from the old gentleman’s only granddaughter,” Cole accused. “Let me take you home before it’s too late.”

Her eyes flashing green fire, Marietta snarled, “You are taking me nowhere, Heflin, and you’d better stay away from me! If you don’t, I’ll sic my bodyguards on you and they’ll rearrange that arrogant face of yours! Get out of Central City, you don’t belong here, Texan!”

“I will,” Cole said calmly, remaining seated, “but when I go, you’re going with me.”

Furious, Marietta put both hands on the table, leaned down so that her face was only inches from his and hotly declared, “Not a chance, Heflin. For your information, a very rich and powerful man is madly in love with me and—”

“Maltese,” Cole cut in. “I know. The little silver-haired fellow I’ve seen you with.”

“Yes! I’ll tell Maltese about you!”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will! I’ll go straight to him and—”

Interrupting, Cole said, “You will do no such thing. You’re not about to admit to your aging protector that you secretly met with another man behind his back.”

Marietta had no retort. He was right. She couldn’t dare tell the overly possessive Maltese about this meeting. Fuming, bested, she snapped, “You deceitful bastard, pretending to be a fan!”

Cole grinned. “Sweetheart, I could take lessons in deceit from you.”

“Oh! You can go to blazes, Texan!”

“I probably will, but not before I get you safely home to your grandfather.”

Eight

“Madam Sophia, you of all people know very well that opera is all about the soprano!” stated a disdainful Andreas. “After an evening in the theater, a patron barely recalls the preening tenor, the mezzo or even the forceful baritone. When the curtain comes down, it is the effect of the soprano that lingers!”

“I know, Andreas,” said Madam Sophia calmly. “I’ve done all I can with Marietta. She tries so hard. And she is a wonderful actress. She has a riveting, instinctive stage presence. You have to give her that much.”

“It’s not enough. Marietta cannot sing!” said the artistic director.

Sophia smiled indulgently and waved away his concern. “Well, do not despair. We are not in New York or Paris. This is Central City, Colorado, and in case you’ve failed to notice, the theater is filled every evening.”

The two were having afternoon coffee in Sophia’s comfortable little cottage. Andreas and Sophia had become good friends since arriving in Central City. Veterans of European opera houses, they had a lot in common. Both were alone, both loved the opera and both were very fond of the mercurial Marietta.

Andreas replied, “Yes, the seats are filled, but we know the reason. If Marietta were appearing anywhere but here in this remote alpine village, she’d be playing to an empty house. Marietta cannot meet the vocal demands of grand opera, she hasn’t the God-given talent. She definitely does not possess the voix d’or—the golden voice.”

The rotund Sophia carefully set her coffee cup aside. She sighed and said, “I’m well aware, even if Marietta is not, that she has no bright future in opera. But I am not too worried about her. She is young and full of life and very beautiful. Men are drawn to her like moths to the flame. My hope is that she soon meets and marries someone more suitable than Maltese.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” commented Andreas. “Maltese is one of the richest men in America. She could do worse.”

Sophia shook her head knowingly. “He could never make her happy. Marietta needs a man with fire and passion to match her own. Someone who will not put her on a pedestal and worship her. A devilishly handsome rascal who is consistently and stubbornly all male who will not allow her to dominate him.”

“The way she dominates poor old Maltese?”

“Exactly.”

Andreas mused aloud, “You’re probably right.” He smiled when he added, “I only wish she’d meet such a man tomorrow and leave the opera.”

Andreas chuckled then and so did Sophia.

Cole remained seated after Marietta had rushed angrily out of the Far Canyon Café. He poured himself another glass of wine and lit an expensive Cuban cigar. He calmly considered his next move.

He had no idea what Marietta had against her grandfather, but he knew that she was not going to go peacefully. The prospect of whisking her out of Central City and delivering her a thousand miles south to Galveston was not a pleasant one. Long days and longer nights with an irate woman whom he couldn’t let out of his sight. No stroll in the park, to be sure.

Still, her grandfather had stayed the hangman’s hand and paid him handsomely and he had promised the old gentleman that he’d bring his granddaughter home. Had given his word. He would do just that.

Cole finished his wine and cigar and left the empty café. His chore, for the next several days, was to stay away from Marietta. He intended to let her get lulled into a false sense of security.

The tall, spare man with the long, nasty-looking scar on his right cheek slowly withdrew the knife from its leather scabbard. The razor-sharp blade gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the store’s front windows.

He smiled satanically.

He gripped the knife’s smooth handle, liking the feel of it in his palm. His beady, narrowed eyes gleaming, he slid his thumb and forefinger the length of the blade several times, caressing it as if deriving sexual pleasure from the act.

“You might like this one better,” said Jake Stone, standing behind the counter of Stone’s Weaponry Store. He placed a black-handled, short-bladed knife before his customer. “This one might be easier to handle.”

The man stroking the long shiny blade never glanced at the other knife.

“I’ll take this one,” he said and slipped it back into the leather scabbard.

He was strapping the sheathed knife onto the back of his low-riding gun belt, when the proprietor said, “A good choice, Lightnin’. Perfect for skinning trout or what have you.”

Lightnin’ finally looked up, nodded, paid for the knife and left. He stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk just as Cole happened past Stone’s Weaponry. Cole was lost in thought, head down. The two men collided.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” snarled Lightnin’.

“Sorry,” Cole apologized and hurriedly walked on, silently cursing his timing.

Maltese’s scar-faced bodyguard was the last person on earth whose attention he wanted to attract.

Lightnin’ stared after Cole. He knew everyone in town, so he recognized Cole as a stranger. He wondered what the man was doing in Central City. He meant to find out.

He trailed Cole back to the hotel. After Cole had gone up to his suite, Lightnin’ went directly to the front desk. The clerk looked up and smiled nervously.

“May I help you?” he asked politely, recognizing Taylor Maltese’s evil-looking bodyguard.

Unsmiling, Lightnin’ said, “That tall, dark fellow who just went upstairs. Who is he?”

The desk clerk cleared his throat needlessly. “I’m sorry, sir, but the manager of the Teller House, Mr. Darren Ludlow, has made it a strict policy of this hotel that we not divulge the identity of our guests.”

Lightnin’ looked around. The high-ceilinged lobby was almost empty. Only an elderly couple sat on one of the many sofas. Both were reading. Lightnin’ whipped out the shiny new knife he had just purchased at Stone’s. The blade flashed as he held the sharp point an inch from the frightened desk clerk’s chest.

“I’m making a new policy,” he said. “You have exactly one minute to tell me who that stranger is.”

“Yes, of course,” said the jittery clerk who quickly turned the registration book around so that Lightnin’ could look at it. “The guest to whom you’re referring is Mr. Cole Heflin from Texas.”

“Heflin, Heflin,” Lightnin’ repeated the name, re-sheathing his knife. “When did Heflin get into town?”

“A week…no, eight days ago, I believe.”

“What’s he doing here and how long is he staying?”

“That I couldn’t tell you,” said the clerk, then quickly amended, “I mean, I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

Lightnin’ turned away and walked out of the hotel. His curiosity aroused, he headed for the opera house. The Burnetts were standing guard in the alley. Maltese was upstairs with Marietta.

Lightnin’ went into the downstairs gaming hall. He stepped up to the bar and questioned Harry, the barkeep. Harry told him a Texan had come in for a drink the night of the opera’s debut, but didn’t give his name or say why he was in Central City.

“He ask you anything about Marietta?”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “Ah, he might have mentioned seeing her perform, I don’t recall.”

Lightnin’ scratched the long scar going down his right cheek. “You tell him anything about her?”

“No. I mean, what’s to tell?” The fat man shrugged and shook his head. “I know nothing about her, other than that she stars in the opera.”

Lightnin’ left without responding. He went around into the alley to talk to the Burnett brothers. “Did Marietta go out this afternoon?” he asked.

Con Burnett answered. “She did, but we were with her every step of the way, Lightnin’.”

“Where did she go?”

Jim said, “She went into that ladies shop up on the corner of Eureka and Glory. You know that place where they have all them dainty things for women.”

“Anywhere else?”

“The Far Canyon Café,” stated Con.

Lightnin’s eyes narrowed. “How long did she stay?”

“Quite a while,” admitted Jim, never noticing his brother’s silencing frown. “We just got back here not ten minutes before you and Maltese arrived.”

“Did you go in the café with her?”

The big brothers looked guilty. Con told Lightnin’, “Miss Marietta ordered us to stay outside. Said she wanted to enjoy her lunch in peace.”

Lightnin’ frowned. “Either one of you big, dumb bastards bother to have a look through the front windows to see who else was having lunch?”

The Burnetts exchanged worried looks. Con spoke up. “I’m telling you nobody else went in that café. We’d have seen ’em if they had. Marietta was alone the whole time.”

Lightnin’ looked from one to the other. “All right. But you boys better start keeping a closer eye on that red-haired singer. I don’t trust her. She’s far too young and high-spirited for Maltese.” He paused, kicked at a clump of grass with the toe of his boot and reminded them, “Our only loyalty is to Maltese. If Marietta ever steps out of line, I’d better hear about it before he does. You understand me?”

“Yes sir,” the brothers said in unison.

“I don’t think Miss Marietta would do anything behind Maltese’s back, Lightnin’,” Jim offered.

“That’s your trouble, Jim, you don’t think.” He reached out and thumped the side of Jim’s head. “Start using your noggin or you’ll be out of a job.”

“We will,” said Con. “You’ll see.”

“When I say, ‘Don’t let her out of your sight,’ I mean it.”

“You can count on us,” promised Jim.

Cole wished that when he grabbed Marietta, they could hop on the Colorado Central at Blackhawk and ride the narrow-gauge train down to Denver. But he knew that was out of the question. She would undoubtedly scream and carry on and have him arrested for kidnapping.

So the day after their lunch at the Far Canyon, Cole visited Pollock’s Livery Stable where he purchased a fine-looking black stallion, assuring the stable owner he’d be back for the black within a day or two. He considered buying a pack burro, but decided against it. Once he had Marietta, he would need to make a quick getaway. A mule or burro would slow him down.

From the stable, Cole went directly to Central City’s largest general store. Parker’s Emporium carried just about everything anyone could ever need. Cole picked out a comfortable saddle and a bridle with long leather reins. He shopped around, tossed a couple of blankets on the counter.

He lifted a pair of soft chamois trousers, held them up to his lean frame and saw that they were way too small. He figured they would fit Marietta just fine. He tossed the trousers on the counter and looked for the smallest shirt he could find. He chose a white cotton one with a long tail and sleeves. He snagged two pairs of leather moccasins, one pair for him, one for Marietta. He lifted the moccasins, examined them and placed them on the growing stack of supplies.

Pete Parker came up to Cole, smiled and asked, “Can I help you find anything, my friend?”

“I believe that’ll do it,” Cole replied. “If you’ll add all this up I’ll be back to get it in a day or two.”

“Sure thing,” said Pete, then asked, “You aiming to take yourself a little trip, are you?”

Cole smiled and gave no reply.

The sun was already beginning to wester by the time Cole finished shopping and stepped outside. He squinted in the dying sunlight, reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigar. He bit off the end, spit it out and placed the cigar in his mouth. He scratched his thumbnail against a Lucifer and lighted the smoke, cupping his hands against the slight mountain wind.

He was shaking out the lighted match, when he looked up and saw Marietta. That bright coppery hair instantly caught his attention. She was with Maltese and the pair were coming down the sidewalk toward him. Behind them was the man called Lightnin’.

Cole’s first impulse was to turn and rush away. But that would make him appear to be guilty of something. He stayed where he was. Didn’t budge. Nor did he look at them when they passed. And he hoped that Marietta was clever enough not to look his way.

She was not.

Marietta tried very hard but couldn’t keep from glancing at Cole. He never knew it. Neither did Maltese.

But Lightnin’ did.

The hired bodyguard caught Marietta subtly stealing a look at the dark stranger.

He immediately wondered, Was something going on or had something already gone on between this Texan and Marietta? Lightnin’ sensed trouble ahead. His hand automatically touched the pearl butt of the revolver on his hip.

He would, as soon as he got back to the opera house, threaten the Burnetts with their very lives if they didn’t keep a closer eye on Marietta.

Nine

Cole stayed right where he was until the trio had passed him. Then he snapped into action. He went back inside Parker’s Emporium and told Pete Parker he had changed his mind, that he needed the supplies right away.

“Toss in some beef jerky, a tin of crackers and a couple of cans of beans,” Cole said to Pete. “I’ll take the saddle and bridle with me now and be back for the rest of the things in the next half hour.”

Pete nodded, then asked, “You want some help carrying that saddle?”

“I can manage,” Cole said as he hoisted it up onto a shoulder.

He stepped outside, looked both ways and walked directly down to Pollock’s Livery Stable. At the stables he dropped the saddle and went into the stall where his newly purchased black was penned.

Cole carefully examined the stallion and the big black neighed a greeting and playfully bit at Cole’s shoulder. Cole stroked the stallion’s sleek neck and murmured soothingly into a pricked ear.

Turning to the stable boy, he said, “I’ll be taking the black tonight. Have him saddled and ready to go by nine o’clock. I’ll be back to get him.”

“He’ll be ready, sir,” said the lad with a toothy grin.

Cole ruffled the boy’s hair, then peeled off a bill and handed it to him. He was heading back to Parker’s Emporium, when he passed Lilly’s Ladies Apparel. Cole stopped abruptly, snapped his fingers and turned back. He had, until this minute, forgotten about the lacy blue satin nightgown he had purchased yesterday afternoon.

Cole glanced about, then went inside.

Lilly looked up and smiled warmly at him. “You have come for the beautiful blue nightgown?”

“I have,” Cole said decisively.

Lilly hurried into the back room and returned shortly with a neatly wrapped package. Cole left the shop carrying the package under his arm, feeling foolish, wondering what on earth had possessed him to buy the nightgown in the first place. And why he had bothered to go back and pick it up.

Cole returned to Parker’s, gathered his supplies and headed back to the hotel. As twilight blanketed Central City, Cole began preparing for the difficult journey ahead. After a long relaxing bath, he had dinner in his room, then dressed in riding clothes—dark trousers, gray chambray shirt, gray and black bandanna. And finally he put on the soft moccasins that would afford him not only comfort but the quiet step of an Indian as well.

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