No Other Man (40 page)

He offered her a half smile, lifting his shot glass to her,
then pouring her a shot of whiskey as Joe set a glass down for his boss.

"Just tired out, Loralee," he told her.

A ripple of rueful amusement passed over her features as she
returned his smile. "Wish I could make it better for you. But I can't. I
make it a rule never to fall for the men I bed, and you're nearly lethal when
you choose to smile."

He laughed. "Thanks. That sounds like a
compliment."

"It is."

"Lots of women aren't fond of Indian blood."

"Lots of women are."

He raised his eyebrows in an off-hand acknowledgment. He
should have just told Loralee that the world was a wicked, wearying place—and
the hell with falling in love. He'd done it once, only once. She'd proclaimed
undying devotion.

But then her father had spoken. Warned her that she might
never know when Sloan's red blood might tell, when the savagery in him might
break loose, despite his mother's impeccable family lines. The girl's father
had offered an alternative and suggested she marry an all-white boy from
Nebraska who was destined to follow his own father's footsteps into the United
States Congress. No telling where that boy might go. Undying devotion had died
upon the hearth of undying ambition.

The worst part was, he still saw her now and again. Life did
play its tricks. Her congressman had become stout and bald—and lost a lot of
teeth. She'd gotten what she wanted along the political trail, but not at home.
On those rare occasions when their paths crossed now, she tried to rekindle
the past. Maybe she had never realized how much she had hurt him. It didn't
matter. He hadn't stopped enjoying women—he'd only ceased to trust them.

"Want to talk?" Loralee asked him.

His smile deepened; he shook his head. "Loralee, I'm
feeling as restless as a caged tiger at the moment. I'm not good company for
anyone."

"We've just taken in the prettiest little piece of
baggage you ever did see, straight from the East. A beauty. She'd be just what
you need tonight."

For a moment, he reflected on the offer. He thought of Hawk—and
his new wife. The two of them had been at odds—naturally. He knew all about the
way Hawk had acquired his wife, knew how she must feel about Hawk's tricks and
how Hawk felt just because his deceased father had done all the arranging
without telling him. Yet he suddenly felt a stab of envy. Sparks flew between
Hawk and his wife, yet they made a blaze that burned with a curious warmth.
Skylar was a most unusual woman.

He felt any desire he might have summoned for a whore—any
whore, even the most beautiful and talented one in the world—wither away.

"Loralee," he said, and kissed the woman on the
forehead. "I think not tonight. I'm going to take my whiskey, slink into
my room, and drink myself into pleasant oblivion."

"Sloan, I just may surprise you now—"

"Loralee."

"It's on me, tonight. You're a good man, Sloan."

"And a weary, angry one this evening. Break the girl in
in a gentler way, Loralee!"

He picked up the bottle, dropped coins on the bar, and left
the saloon.

He walked across the small yard in between the saloon and
Mrs. Smith-Soames's proper establishment, looking up at the velvety night sky.
Damn, he did need some sleep.

He didn't see anyone as he entered the inn by the side door.
He climbed the stairs to his room, closed the door behind him, and leaned
against it. Nice enough place. A big hearth with a big fire. A handsome set of
library chairs before it. A desk to one side, dressing table to the other. A
huge bed. It must have cost a fortune to have the thing hauled out here from
the East.

Sloan gazed at his bottle of whiskey. Half gone, and the
rough edges of his temper remained. When it was all gone, he just might sleep.

A few minutes later, and he sat before the fire, brood- ingly
watching the swirl of dark amber liquid he had poured into one of the two
snifters he had found in his room. He studied the color of the swirling whiskey
before each swallow.

"To the wrong life!" he murmured aloud, lifting the
glass snifter and watching the firelight play upon it. Glittering gold and
amber. The rough edges were beginning to blur.

What in God's name had he ever thought that he could do? As a
half-breed, he lived not so much in treacherous times as wretched ones. There
would be no real truce now, and if so, what would it matter? The Indians would
be pushed back again and again.

He rubbed his forehead. He was a madman, trying to make some
kind of difference for the Sioux by serving in a white man's army where the
general consensus was that it was all right to murder Indian children because
"nits" made "lice" and Indians were "savages"
while the white men were "civilized."

He was in this frame of mind when his door suddenly opened
and closed. Frowning, his fingers instantly falling upon the Colt sidearm he
had placed on the occasional table next to the chair, he stared at his unbidden
visitor.

He hadn't lit any of the lamps within the room; the brocade
drapes at the windows had been shut. There was only the light from the fire,
which cast a warm orange glow and many shadows over the room. The flickering firelight
only served to enhance the exquisite and stunning beauty of the woman who had
entered.

All right, he thought, so he was, finally, fairly drunk.
Maybe she wasn't so beautiful. She was blurred. As softened as the rough edges
of fate that had been ripping at his soul.

She stood stiffly with her back pressed against the door, her
eyes at first closed as if she were listening for something out in the hallway.
Her hair was glorious: dark and waving with a touch of gold and crimson fire
down her back, over her shoulders. Her face, framed by the thick tendrils, was
an ivory oval, cheekbones high, mouth generous and defined. Her beautifully
arched brows added to the regal perfection of her face. Her skin looked smooth
and flawless.

Her eyes suddenly flicked open. Sloan could hear the murmur
of voices in the hall. It appeared that those voices had alarmed her, and he
realized that she must be Loralee's new "beauty," just in from the
East. Perhaps it was the first time she had been sent over to the inn, and the
appearance of others in the hall had disturbed her.

He'd never seen a woman arrive from Loralee's in quite the
fashion this one did.

Even whores usually dressed to come across the yard.

She was wearing an elegant white robe with chaste and
virginal white lace at the collars and cuffs. She hadn't quite tied the garment
though, and it hung open to reveal white hose, pantalettes, and corset, the
latter laced through with blue satin ribbon. Even taking into consideration the
effect of a corset, she had to be the most incredibly curved female he had ever
seen, elegantly slim, but endowed with ripe, voluptuous breasts and enticingly
rounded hips. He might be deep into the bottle, but this girl was still
extraordinary. He found himself standing. He had told Loralee not to send her
new beauty. Loralee had apparently done so anyway, undoubtedly thinking she
knew damned well what could lighten his mood.

He opened his mouth to tell the woman harshly to go away. To
his own surprise, the words died on his lips. He might be drunk, but only a
dead man wouldn't be aroused by this creature.

She was staring at him, as if she had just noticed he was in
the room. It was a strange gaze she gave him. One something akin to alarm. He
wondered if Loralee had warned her he was half Sioux. But any whore coming west
would have to realize much of her clientele would have mixed blood. Her gaze
moved swiftly from his face to the opening of his white civilian shirt, down to
his black boots.

He wasn't sure why, but a sudden warmth suffused him. Lust.
Straight and simple, he mocked himself. She was something, all right. She'd
make a mint. All a man needed to do was stare at her. Half the deprived fellows
coming out of the hills would explode before ever setting a hand upon her.

"Come in," he said. Was his voice slurring roughly?
What if someone had been coming in to rob him? Would he have swept that Colt
from the table and taken aim quickly enough?

He smiled wryly at himself. He'd wanted the world a

little
bit blurry. It was damnably so. Was the girl real? He'd have to get closer to
find out.

"Wh—what?"
she whispered. Her hand was on the door.

"Come in," he repeated, rising from the chair.

She continued to stare at him.

He
shrugged and took a long sip of the whiskey. What in the hell was she doing?
This was Gold Town. People were shy. Whores weren't shy. Miners weren't often
in the mood for a simpering belle. Business was done here, short and simple.

"To
be honest, I don't want you here, but you've come. So either get out, or get in
and quit clinging to the door."

"I—"

He took
three long strides toward her. "If you don't want to be here, get the hell
out. And if you're going to stay, come into the room and away from the damned
door!"

She
looked as if she might flee at that moment. He could still hear the voices in
the hallway.

"Are you going?" he demanded.

"Now?"
She seemed appalled at the thought. Maybe she was afraid that Loralee would be
furious if she didn't prove her worth. Whatever, he definitely wasn't in the
mood for any games.

"Yes,
now! Damn you, I just said that I didn't want you here. But you are here. But
if you don't want to be here, get out! Is that clear?"

"I—"

"Just get out!"

"No!" She shook her head wildly.

He
caught her arm, mindless of the slight cringe she made, and drew her past him.
He set his hand upon the door bolt and slammed it, then set his hands upon his
hips as he faced her. "You needn't look so damned panicked. You're not
going to be seen with me. No one can get in here."

"No one can get in," she said.

"Of course not."

He tried to curtail his impatience. But hell, this was one
Ntrange
whore, and he'd already told Loralee that his mood was wretched.

She was still staring at him, and the way that she did so was
irritating.

Insulting.

He almost wished that she had gone.

But staring back at her didn't calm the cyclone brewing
within him. The heat of his very basic lust was growing. Maybe Loralee had been
right, had known exactly what he needed. Whiskey to blur the edges. Some good,
fast sex to burn off the fever and passion rolling like the wind within him.
Standing closer to her in the flickering firelight, he was made ever more aware
of her startling beauty. The girl should have been pouring tea in an
aristocrat's dining room, not whoring in a dust-covered mining town. But people
made their choices. The clothing she wore was obviously very expensive.
Apparently, she had rich tastes. Lucky for her, she was probably going to do
damned well out here.

His gaze rested on her throat, the ivory whiteness of it, a
pulse beating against it. His gaze lowered. His insides quickened. Her breasts
were all but spilling over the corset.

He didn't want her to go.

Yet still...

She was looking at him with that same trace of alarm in her
eyes.

He approached her again, grabbing her hand. Long fingers.
Manicured nails. An elegant hand. He drew it to him. Opened a button on his
shirt, and placed her hand against his chest. "Do you have a problem with
Indians?" he demanded.

She jerked her hand free. "Are you an Indian?"

His brows shot up and he looked at her incredulously.
"Do I look Norwegian?" he asked slowly.

She extended a hand, indicating the cavalry jacket he had
thrown across the foot of the bed. "I—thought you were an officer."

"I wonder about that myself," he murmured. He
stared at her again. ' 'I ask you once more, do you have a problem with—"

He broke off. She wasn't listening to him. Again, she seemed
to be paying attention to whatever was going on in the hallway.

The hell with it. He'd drunk too much. The right thing at the
time. Now it seemed that war drums were pounding in his head, coursing through
his body. Loud, hammering, demanding. Sheer forgetfulness was at hand,
appeasement for the thunder pulsing through him.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he took a step, closing the gap
between them. Caught her face between his two hands. Brought his mouth down
hard upon hers. She tasted like mint. Her lips were rich, provocative. He
wanted more of them. He drove his tongue between her lips, drawing her hard
against him. Her breasts rose, lush and tempting, against his chest, which was
bared now. Again he felt the rise of an almost overwhelming desire, stronger
than anger, irritation, impatience, bitterness. The deeper he kissed her, the
stronger his desire became.

Her hands were on his chest, pushing free. He groaned deeply,
unwilling at first to let her go, his desire suddenly so strong that he was
tempted to throw her down upon the bed with the brutal force firing its way
into his being. He made himself free her. "Damn you, go!" he shouted,
shoving her toward the door. She reached it; her fingers fumbled at the bolt.
He thrust past her, opening the bolt.

He heard the voices again. A man speaking. "If I can
find the younger girl first—"

He heard no more because she had spun in his arms, slipping
beneath the one to stand in the center of the room again. He stared at her,
baffled, as she stared back at him. Her eyes huge. Her lips damp, slightly
swollen, very provocative. Her robe all the way open. Her breasts heaving with
each gulp of air she took.

He fought for control. "Woman, if you don't want to be
here, go!" he exploded with impatience.

She focused on him, really focused on him. "I—" she
began, then broke off, and apparently came to some decision. For a moment, her
lashes covered her eyes. "I'm sorry. I—I'm afraid you're right. I was
just—thrown. You are an Indian. Part Indian."