Delilah's Flame (46 page)

Tabor read the handbill a second time, still disbelieving what it said.

Delilah, Flame of the West, in a special performance at the Paradise Saloon in Sandy Flats.

What the hell was the meaning of it? He had warned her never to become Delilah again. He’d kept his part of that final bargain. The Penn brothers were behind bars for a long time. Lilah Damon had no reason to assume the guise of Delilah. Except one. She really did enjoy playing the seductress.

Tabor tore up the handbill and decided it was no concern of his if she wanted to become Joan of Arc. But as the day lengthened and the time of her performance drew near, his mood grew darker. By dusk his temper had reached a danger point and all the cowhands were steering clear of him.

His eyes blazed and he dented the bottom of the coffeepot slamming it back on the stove after finding it empty and cold. Where the hell was Sarah? She had left the ranch before noon without a word about where she was going. Did she already know about this? Was that why she had cleared out? Hell! She was probably in town to see the performance. He wouldn’t put it past her.

Only there wasn’t going to be a performance. By God! He was a man of his word. And he had warned her. A deal was a deal, and it was time Delilah and/or Lilah Damon learned that.

What had happened to that soft-soled fiancé of hers? A scowl that would scatter cattle set on his face. Couldn’t Fenton do anything about controlling his intended? Temper worsening, Tabor stormed around the house like the irritable bear Sally Ann had labeled him. An hour later, washed and with his clothes changed, he rode into town still wearing the same black look. He
had
warned her.

The Paradise Saloon had gone all-out for Delilah. A huge banner proclaiming the dubious event hung above the front doors. The streets were filled with more horse and buggies than he recalled ever seeing in Sandy Flats. Inside the Paradise, red bunting draped the paneled walls. Baskets of fragrant flowers lined the makeshift stage. The floor had been swept and sprinkled with fresh sawdust. The room was packed with men sitting shoulder to shoulder. The lamps burned low and nothing above a whisper sounded in Sandy Flats’ rowdiest saloon.

Tabor burst through the swinging doors, giving both halves a shove that shook them on their hinges. Hardly a head turned to see the cause of the disturbance. Those that did gave him angry scowls. Tabor could see and hear why. Delilah, all dolled up in pink and silver, strolled the stage and had her audience hypnotized. Her hot, sweet song washed like warm wine over everyone within hearing range. The poignancy in her voice affected him no less than any other man in the room.

Hell! He was a lost man, he said to himself, stopping cold in his tracks at the sight of her. Tabor sighed, and instead of tearing through the crowd and dragging Delilah offstage as he had fully intended to do, he found a stool near the back and sat down to listen and watch.

Her hair glowed a fiery red again, her voice sounded more provocative than he remembered, particularly in the strains of her last number.

She’ll tempt you, she’ll tease you, she’ll raise all your hopes.

Then leave you standing with your arms full of smoke.

So listen to me, stranger, whatever you name,

You can get burned in Delilah’s flames.

Delilah’s flames. Tabor felt them scorching his skin. Delilah had him in her spell again. He was weak as a newborn colt and just as powerless to carry out his threat. The wanting built up inside so fast and hard he could scarcely draw a breath. Why the devil did he have to love her? Beads of sweat broke out on his brow as he saw her extract the small silver mirror from her pocket.

If you choose to love her, you’ve no right to complain,

You’ve had your warning, stranger, of Delilah’s flames.

The turmoil of doubt raged within him. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Delilah flashed that mirror on any man other than him. Fortunately he didn’t have to find out. The bright beam of light shone the invitation on his face.

Half an hour later Tabor found himself knocking at the door of Delilah’s hotel room. In the short wait, his temper had turned on him again. He sauntered in feeling like he had a mouthful of briars. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you like being Delilah too much to give it up,” he said, tossing his dusty hat to the seat of a chair and glancing around. “Where are the two tin cowboys? And do you mind leaving off smashing the bottle on my head this time?”

“Good evening to you too, Tabor. It’s been a long time.” Her words poured out like warm honey. “I don’t use Todd and Seth anymore. I’m taking a more direct approach to my work now.” She smiled invitingly at him. She stretched out a finger and rested it on his chin for a second, then trailed it sensuously down his chest, stopping and tapping her nail on his belt buckle. “You are absolutely right. I do enjoy being Delilah. Oh,” she said, raking her finger up his abdomen and chest again and speaking as if an insignificant thought had occurred to her. “I know you warned me not to be Delilah again, but I found,” she went on deliberately, slowly, hooking her finger beneath his chin, “I missed the physical part of it too much.” She eyed him coyly. “You know what I mean.”

“I damned sure don’t!” he growled, twisting his head away. The touch of that one finger had started a crazy hunger inside him. “You were a virgin when we made love out on the trail.” His dark brows rose swiftly. “Of course I don’t know what you’ve been up to since.”

Lilah could have laughed out in joy. So he had known all along she was a virgin. Why hadn’t he said so? Well, her curiosity would have to wait to be satisfied. First things first.

“Call me Delilah,” she said, half-lowering her lids. “I haven’t been up to anything yet. But I do have a few things in mind for tonight.”

Her bordello moves tormented him. “Like what?” he asked warily.

“Like another poker game.” She brushed by him, rustling the skirts of her pale pink gown.

Tabor turned and followed her with his eyes, still scowling. The poker table was there, the cards laid out, but he had failed to notice anything in the room but her. “I see,” he said curtly. “Just what’s your game this time, Delilah? Are you after the ranch now?”

“Uh-uh,” she replied as she unpinned a cascade of black feathers from her hair. “Papa has a ranch.”

“So what, then?” He shrugged, hoping she couldn’t tell how every little gesture, every little move drove him closer to the edge. “You still have the stallion.”

Lilah just smiled and poured two glasses of brandy. She sat at the table sipping from one, then motioned for him to join her. “I’m going to give you a chance to win the Admiral back. Sit down,” she said. “And deal.”

He didn’t trust her, but he obliged her and sat down across the table and drank the brandy. It burned a streak down his throat but was no hotter than the fire already burning in his blood. Damn the horse! This wasn’t about a horse. This was about something he wanted a hell of a lot more.

“Let’s up the stakes,” he said as he dealt cards.

“To what?”

“To you.” God! She was having an effect on him. Just being in the same room with her was driving him mad. He burned like he had a fever and his head felt like a spinning wooden top ready to drop over on its side. Lilah poured him another drink and he swallowed it quickly.

“I’m agreeable,” she said coolly. “But this time there will be a matter of a wedding ring.”

Tabor’s vision blurred so he could hardly see the cards in his hand. Damned little wench. She had put something in the brandy. But whatever it was made him feel so good that any stakes she wanted would be fine with him. He told her so. His mind went blank for a few moments. He had no idea what went on in the game. Her voice brought him back a little.

“Your cards, Tabor. What do you have?”

Tabor brought the cards close to his eyes so he could read the figures and faces. It took him a while to put them together but finally he had it. “Three kings, and you can’t beat them.” His words slurred and the cards dropped out of his hand.

She smiled wickedly. “Oh, but, Tabor, I can with the aces.” Delilah fanned out her cards in front of his face so that he couldn’t miss them. “And I’ve already made the arrangements with the preacher. He should be here shortly.”

Tabor faded in and out the next few minutes, barely coming to when the Reverend arrived as scheduled and started the ceremony. Reverend Mead thought he had seen nervous bridegrooms before, even drunk ones, but he had never seen one as befuddled as Tabor Stanton. But then, he supposed marrying a woman like Delilah could make a man unsure of himself, maybe even a little loco.

Tabor shook his head, feeling like a man who had stepped outside of his body and watched his life take place before him. He saw Preacher Mead come in, and Sarah with him. He heard himself agreeing to what the preacher asked. He saw himself slipping a ring on Delilah’s finger, then kissing her. And when the preacher was gone, and Sarah was gone, he made love to Delilah with a savoring thoroughness and sweet deliberation he both watched and participated in.

Delilah. Delilah. The delicious onslaught of sensation took him. His body was fire and ice, her hands lighting the flame, her lips cooling the burn. His hands slid with feathery strokes over her skin, from the warm hollow of her throat to the rose crests of her breast. Beneath his palms those tight peaks stiffened with desire and he took them in turn in his mouth, suckling gently, tasting her, drinking in her sweetness.

His fingers slithered down her belly until they probed hotly between her thighs. But that was not enough and Delilah squirmed beneath him, impatiently telling him she had waited as long as she would. Her legs opened to him, her words were of love and forever as he positioned himself above her and dived into the fiery quicksilver pool of Delilah’s flames.

*     *     *

Tabor Stanton awoke twelve hours later and his head cleared in a flash just as Ching had assured Lilah it would. She held out her left hand and admired the gold band she wore.

“Goddammit, Delilah! You cheated!” he snarled, and bolted upright in the bed.

“I know,” she answered sweetly, and edged closer to him. “But we’re married just the same.”

“Dammit!” he growled, realizing the amazing dream he’d had was real. “Which one of you did I marry, that conniving bitch or that sweet little society witch?”

She made a purring sound and kissed him on the face a dozen times before answering. “That’s the best part, darling. You married us both.”

Andrea Parnell is the award-winning author of ten novels, short fiction and articles, with more than one million copies of her books in print. Her works include Gothic, Western, and other historical and contemporary romances. Several of her books have been set in her home state of Georgia. Andrea has received both the Maggie and Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice awards for her writing, and is a member of Novelists, Inc. (NINC) and past president of the Georgia Authors Network. She is fond of cats, travel, overgrown gardens, and old houses with lots of crooks, crannies, and interesting shadows. Please visit her at
www.AndreaParnell.com

from Trove Books

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