Kitabı oku: «Naughty Marietta», sayfa 2
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!”
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