Katherine O’Neal

Katherine O’Neal

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 1993, Katherine O’Neal

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For Bill and Janie

and my wonderful Daphne

And my thanks to JW Manus

who turned my frustration

into this lovely ebook.

Calling
The Last Highwayman
“a
sophisticated, sensual read,”
New York Times
bestselling
author Jayne Ann Krentz said, “Katherine O’Neal is an exciting
writer with a fast, intense and very polished style. She has found
a way to use the hard-edged glitz of Jackie Collins and set that
against a historical backdrop. It could be the start of a new
genre.”

“A whirlwind of adventure/romance that
seethes with dark, intense emotion and wild,
hot
sensuality.” —
Romantic Times

“Katherine O’Neal is the queen of romantic
adventure, reigning over a court of intrigue, sensuality, and good
old-fashioned storytelling. Readers who insist on strong characters
with intelligence will appreciate her craftsmanship.” —
Affaire
de Coeur

“O’Neal provides vibrant characters and
settings, along with plenty of intrigue, daring escapes, 11th hour
twists and steamy romance.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Sensuous and spine-tingling... Superb.” —
Rendezvous

She was running again...

Running with burning feet as her shoes beat a
frantic rhythm on the hot pavement. Running with a beating heart
and heaving lungs as the footsteps gained on her. Closer...
closer... almost upon her. She summoned her last ounce of strength
and surged ahead through the dark night, wearing her panic like a
beacon. Amidst the narrow maze of Chicago’s back alleys, there was
nowhere to hide.

She knew little about her pursuer. Was he
armed? Angry enough to kill? She only knew he was stronger, faster,
larger than she. She felt like a bird with a broken wing being
stalked by a determined cat—to be pounced on and devoured around
the next comer. She couldn’t fight him on his own terms—not with
swiftness of foot or brute strength. She’d have to use her wits.
But to do so, she needed time. Time to recover herself, to catch
her breath.

Abruptly, too exhausted to continue, she
ducked into a doorway and flattened herself against the door. As
she held her breath, keeping her face in the shadows, the man
plunged past her. She caught a glimpse of the thick club he carried
as a weapon. Where he’d found it, she couldn’t guess. Not that it
mattered. Her only concern was to see that he didn’t have a chance
to use it on her.

When he’d passed, she gulped air into her
lungs, fighting back the fear. She couldn’t stop trembling. She
couldn’t catch her breath. But then, she hadn’t known what it was
like to catch her breath since she was thirteen. She wasn’t even
sure she remembered how.

The receding footsteps grew suddenly louder.
He was coming back this way. From this direction, he’d spy her,
huddled in the doorway like a trapped animal. She had to flee. She
must find some way to seize the offensive. Picking up her skirts
once again, she dashed into an alley with the intention of running
out the back way.

But as she dove through the laundry strung
across the alley on lines, she came up against a brick wall. She’d
been running so furiously, she could barely stop herself from
plowing into the enclosure. Darting about, fitfully seeking an
exit, she eventually gave up and collapsed back against the wall.
The small space closed in on her in the steamy night. The alley
stank with the smells of refuse and cheap perfume. Above, the
laughter of women shrilled through an open window. She could hear
the footsteps coming closer, heading for the alley. Ominously, they
stopped, leaving only a chilling silence. As she peeked out from
between the clothing, her heart ceased as abruptly as the
footsteps. Her pursuer stood at the face of the alley, his gaze
darting about him as he beat the club against his palm with mighty
whacks.

There wasn’t time to reflect. She was a
clever woman who lived by her wits. Never had she needed an idea
more than she did now.

If she was going to get out of this alley,
she’d have to risk everything. This particular escape called for a
bluff so daring, it could mean the end of her freedom and her
quest. She peered through the laundry once again to see the man
making his way cautiously down the long, dim alley toward her. In
the face of impending danger, she knew what she had to do.

Wrenching off the red wig, she fluffed her
blond hair and hurriedly ripped her dress so she could step out of
it. Then she pulled a frock from the line. Belatedly, she realized
it was a whore’s gown—bright green satin strewn with feathers and
beads. She slipped it on, assuming her role as effortlessly as she
donned the disguise. There wasn’t time to fasten it. All the
better, she decided. She put her hands on her hips, stepped through
the curtain of gaudy laundry, and sashayed toward him with a
come-hither smile. Miraculously, with her stance, with her
attitude, with the alteration of her features, she had transformed
herself from a dowdy street thief to a woman of surprising beauty
whose very skin radiated sensuality in the stifling heat.

As she waltzed toward him, her lips pouty and
gleaming in the absence of light, the strap of her dress fell from
her shoulder, baring her skin. Using the accident to her advantage,
she shrugged it toward him, moving closer to rub it against him as
she let out a soft purr. He stared at her, transfixed by the vision
that had so unexpectedly crossed his path.

“You weren’t perchance looking for me, were
you, darling?” she asked in her natural English-accented voice.

“I—I was looking for a redhead,” he
stammered.

“I could be a redhead—
for the right
price.
” She let the shimmer of her hair graze his shoulder in a
suggestive slither. “I could be anything you want.”

He seemed rattled by this sudden change of
events. She knew her effect on men, knew the distraction her
sensuality could cause when she so desired. She was counting on it.
“No—I mean—Did you see a redhead running this way?”

“Have you lost one?” she asked, coolly
teasing him with a smile.

He swallowed hard, sweating, struggling to
stay focused as she allowed her backside to brush his hips. “She
robbed me.”

She halted the swaying motion. “You don’t
mean to tell me you’ve no cash?”

His voice came out in a soft growl. “She
cleaned me out, the—”

“Then, little man, whatever are you doing
wasting my time?” She put her hands to his back and gave him a
shove. “Out with you. And don’t come back till you’ve the price of
my company!”

He seemed as startled by her rejection as
he’d been by her invitation. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he
headed out of the alley in the other direction, seeking to regain
his advantage—and his prey.

When he’d gone, she rounded the comer and
sank onto a nearby step. For all that she’d outwitted her pursuer,
the encounter had shaken her. Never before had she come so close to
capture. If not for the dress hanging on the line, her head might
have been bashed in. Her escape had been sheer luck, not good
planning. Next time, she might not be as fortunate.

Fishing in her discarded clothing, she
withdrew the wallet she’d pilfered from the man and counted the
contents. She had enough money for a train ticket, a hotel room,
and a few meals. The impermanence of it all hit her once again.
Once it had been fun, besting arrogant brutes with her brains. But
more and more, she felt lucky to be alive.

Feeling lonely and discouraged, she tossed
aside the billfold and stuffed the money into her bosom before
rising and heading for the train station. Like every other city,
Chicago had become too hot for her.

* * *

She’d asked the ticket agent for the next
available destination. A train for St. Louis was leaving in three
minutes, and one for San Francisco in ten. She’d chosen the latter.
It didn’t much matter where she went. She’d been in a hundred train
stations, heading for a hundred different destinations. She’d been
on the road for so long now, pursuing a man who was as clever as
she in his ability to vanish. She’d followed him over from Europe
and lost him along the way. The trail had been frustratingly cold
now for more than a year. She’d searched New York, Philadelphia,
Boston, even the cowtowns of Kansas—anywhere she thought such a man
might hide. But she hadn’t found a trace.

Now she was tempted to give up. She was tired
of it all—of chasing a phantom who might not even exist. For all
she knew, he could have left the country long ago. He could even be
dead. Sometimes, she thought the whole thing was a delusion,
something she’d made up during the long, lonely nights on the road
to keep herself sane. To keep focused. To give herself a reason to
go on.

She’d never been to San Francisco. Perhaps
she
should
give up the chase. It was likely she’d never find
him. Not after so long. Maybe she should go to San Francisco and
start a new life.

Doing what? a voice inside her asked.
Doing what?

She was making her way toward the platform
when she spied a newsstand. She didn’t like the path her thoughts
were taking. Perhaps if she had something to read...

Suddenly she stopped. At first she couldn’t
be sure what had captured her attention. It was just a blurred
photograph of a group of men on the front page of a newspaper.
Looking closer, though, she understood. One of the men was in the
act of raising his hand to shield his face, as if seeking to hide.
Because she, too, never allowed herself to be photographed, the odd
motion had caught her eye. Acting on instinct, she took up the
paper and brought it closer. Could it possibly be him? She couldn’t
be sure. But what she could see of his face looked as much like the
man she’d been seeking as anyone could.

The shock of seeing him hit her like a blow.
The pain she’d thought had eased with time seized her heart so that
she doubled over. As if someone had kicked her in the stomach when
she wasn’t expecting it. The heartache, the horror, the memories,
flooded her vision so she momentarily lost sight of him in the
white blaze before her eyes. She must be strong—she had to be. Yet
in that moment, she felt shattered anew. Would this living
nightmare ever cease? Not, she determined, bracing herself against
her newly raw emotions, until she’d extracted her revenge.

As her vision cleared, she could taste again
the sweet lust for vengeance on her tongue. Her fingers trembled,
hungering for the feel of his throat beneath them. She clutched the
newspaper so hard, it crumpled beneath her hands.

She looked up to find the newsboy staring at
her. “Who are these people?” she asked, smoothing out the page.

“The Van Slykes are the publishers of the
New York Globe-Journal
. They’re making a tour of some New
York slum.”

Skimming the caption, she read of the Van
Slykes’ desire to help the poor of New York, then found at last
what she’d been looking for. The man with them was identified
simply as Archer, editor-in-chief.

It
could
be him. From what she knew of
his past, it made perfect sense. Still, she couldn’t be sure. Was
it worth a trip to New York to find out?

Studying the picture in a daze, she began to
walk away. “Hey,” the boy called. “That’ll be a dime.”

“A dime!” she cried. It was a scandalous
price for a newspaper.

“It costs more, ’cause it comes all the way
from New York. But believe me, lady, it’s worth the price.”

Worth the price
. If Archer was the man
she’d been seeking for eight wretched years, it was worth any
price.

She paid the boy and headed back the way
she’d come. Somewhere up the line, she heard the last call for her
train. Ignoring it, she returned to the ticket agent. She stood in
line in her feathered green dress with a wildly beating heart. It
didn’t matter that her attire was inciting stares. All that
mattered was she’d rediscovered her purpose. She knew what she had
to do.