Louisiana Laydown (11 page)

“And all I have to do is keep Miss Hamilton safe?” he asked.

“Indeed,” Beares said. “Even Senator Parker, I think, could respect that.”

Fargo nodded, thinking that there was so much going on in this town that was beneath the surface. Everyone’s motives were hidden and he suspected that the person truly pulling the strings was Hattie Hamilton—but what he lacked was proof.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it. For
Mary
and five thousand.”

“Outrageous!” Beares shouted. “You can’t be serious!”

Fargo grinned at him. “Oh, I imagine your ‘most prized trophy’ is worth at least that, isn’t she, Senator Beares?”

“Damn women,” Beares muttered. “Fine. Five thousand. ”

Hattie squealed like a schoolgirl and threw her arms around Beares. “You’re so sweet, Beary,” she said. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“Yes, well, there is that, isn’t there?” Beares asked. He moved to a picture on the wall, removed it, and opened a safe. He took out a wad of cash and counted quickly. “Here’s half now,” he said to Fargo, handing it to him. “You’ll get Fleur and the rest
after
the game is over and you’re ready to leave town.”

“Fair enough,” Fargo said. “There’s just one more thing.”

“What’s that?” they asked, almost in unison.

“Her name is
Mary
, and she doesn’t take another customer from now on.”

“What?” Hattie said. “What difference does it make?”

“Those are my terms,” Fargo said. He held out the money to Beares. “Take it or leave it.”

“What’s it matter, Hattie?” Beares asked.

“I was hoping to . . .” She sighed, then nodded. “Fine, Mr. Fargo.
Mary
won’t take another customer—but she stays at the Blue Emporium until it’s all over.”

“Agreed,” Fargo said, slipping the money into his vest. “I’ll be leaving now,” he added. “If we’re done?”

Beares was looking at Hattie hungrily and he waved Fargo away. “Of course, Fargo, by all means. I’m glad we were able to reach an understanding.”

Fargo nodded and headed for the exit, wincing as he heard Hattie mutter behind him. “Men! They think with their peckers and believe theirs should be the only plow in the field.”

“Of course we do, darling,” Beares replied. “Speaking of plowing . . .”

Fargo quickened his pace, hoping that he’d get back to his hotel room without any other adventures. He’d had more than enough for one day and his head was spinning with all the secrets and lies he’d heard . . . and all the money in his pocket.

Fargo made his way back to the Bayou without incident, his mind working on all the things he’d learned during the day’s events, while his eyes scanned the crowded streets, keeping alert for any sign of trouble. Given how rowdy many of the saloons seemed to be, he somewhat expected it, but other than having to step out of the way of a man headed for an alleyway to throw up, no one bothered him.

Worn out from his day, Fargo nodded briefly to the man behind the counter and trudged up the stairs to his room. What he wanted now was a good night’s sleep. Perhaps in the morning, with a decent breakfast and some coffee in him, he’d be able to figure out what was really going on here—hopefully before the poker game got under way and the powder keg all these people were sitting on blew sky-high.

He started to insert his key in the lock, but the door creaked open when he leaned a hand against it. Instantly awake, Fargo pulled his Colt, shoving himself against the wall and listening for any sounds. The room was quiet and dark, so he spun back into the doorway and kicked it wide open, shoving his Colt before him.

A high-pitched gasp of surprise stopped him in his tracks. “Please! Don’t shoot me!”

“Mary?” Fargo asked, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice quavering. “It’s . . . it’s Mary.”

“Hold on a minute,” Fargo said. He fumbled a match out of his vest, struck it against his thumb and lit the oil lamp. Light warmed the room as he turned up the wick a little bit. He turned to the girl, who was curled up beneath the thin blankets on his bed. Her skin glowed softly in the dim light, a deep, rich brown that reminded him a little of light molasses.

“What are you doing here, Mary?”

“Miz Hamilton,” the girl said. “She told me to come over here before she left the Blue Emporium. I didn’t ask too many questions, but please, don’t hit me none. I still have to work.”

“Ah, hell,” Fargo said.
Hattie Hamilton is one cocky lady
. “I’m not going to hit you, Mary. I don’t treat women that way.” Even in the dimly lit room, he could see she was shaking in fear.

“You promise?” she asked.

“I promise,” Fargo said. He sat down at the foot of the bed—there was nowhere else to sit in the room.

“I’ll . . . I’ll go back now,” she said. “Miz Hamilton said if I didn’t please you, I was to go back and she’d send another girl.” She started to climb from beneath the blankets and Fargo’s heart sped up a bit.

“What!” he exclaimed. “No, wait. I like you fine, Mary. I just . . . I wasn’t expecting you, is all.” He patted the bed. “Stay . . . please.”

She sank back down and seemed to relax a little. “Thank you—”

“Call me Fargo,” he said. “Or Skye, if you like.”

Mary considered this for a moment, then said, “Skye, then. It’s a nice name.”

“Thank you,” Fargo said. He was tired and had absorbed too much information in a short time—he needed to think and to rest.

“Skye,” Mary said, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t understand why Miz Hamilton . . . she ain’t never sent me out like this. I don’t understand.”

Fargo chuckled. “I can’t say as I completely do, either.” He pulled off his boots and unbuckled his gun belt, leaning forward to hang it over the bedpost. “Probably best if we get some sleep and try to figure it out tomorrow.”

“Sleep?” Mary asked. “I thought . . . you don’t think I’m pretty, Skye?”

He looked over the beautiful young woman lying in his bed and smiled. With her dark hair and skin, she looked like a ribbon of chocolate silk against the white of the bedcovers. “I think you’re very pretty,” he said. He got to his feet and undressed, enjoying the sound when she gasped quiet appreciation at his flat, rock-hard stomach muscles and lean form.

He was down to only his underdrawers when she got out of the bed and turned down the lamp until the room was little more than pockets of dark gold light and shadows. The window shade was drawn and the noise from the street below faded into the background as he felt more than saw her come closer, running her hands down his chest.

“You been hurt a lot,” she said. “Lots of scars.”

“I’ve got a few,” he said. Her hands roamed over the terrain of his shoulders, her nails lightly scratching. “But compared to those who gave them to me, I came out okay.”

Her hands found his biceps and she said, “You’re strong.”

She moved lower, her hands seeking his manhood. Even if she wasn’t often given pleasure for herself, she certainly knew how to give it as she stroked him to full hardness, then took him in her warm mouth. Using her tongue, she worked the shaft, base to tip and back again, warm and wet. Her hands found his sac and gently worked on him. Fargo’s hands found her hair and he groaned in pleasure.

Finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he eased away, pulling her to her feet. Mary kept her silence, her eyes wide open. Keeping his own silence, Fargo removed the nightgown, lifting it over her head. Her breasts fell free, rounded and full, but not overly large, with rose-colored areolas and pert nipples. Stepping closer, Fargo lowered his head and took one in his mouth, using his opposite hand to caress and stroke the nipple of the other. He felt them harden.

Her thighs were smooth and muscular, leading down to shapely calves. He knew it was time to please her. Her legs splayed open, giving him full access to her treasures, and Fargo didn’t hesitate to explore the offerings on display to the fullest extent possible. He used his hands, his fingers, and his tongue, touching her, tasting her, arousing her senses everywhere he touched until she writhed on the bed, moaning and begging. Her breath came in short, sharp pants and Fargo knew she was ready, right on the edge of orgasm.

He quickened his pace, moving himself atop her and sliding into her warm center in one smooth motion. She shrieked in pleasure, rocketing to her climax as her hips shuddered beneath him.

“Oh, my God, my God!” she screamed, shoving herself against him. “Eeee . . . Yes, Skye! Yes, oh God, yes!” she screamed as her orgasm hit.

Her body shook beneath him, her hard nipples jutting into the air and the sweat on her skin making it shine. Fargo let himself go when he felt her clench his manhood, the sweet, musky scent of her orgasm hitting his nostrils and filling the air.

In the dim light he saw her small, wondering smile and she curled into the protective curve of his arm, sated and giving off an almost visible glow. After they’d gathered their breath, Fargo gently lifted her up and beneath the blanket, then joined her as she drifted into sleep.

Tired in mind and body, Fargo let himself wind down until sleep came on quiet feet to take him, too. His last thought was one of some concern and he promised himself to think on it more:

If Hattie Hamilton had sent the girl here
before
he’d met with Beares, was it possible that she was playing some kind of game of her own?

But it turned out not to be his last thought, after all. Suddenly he was awake again. He lay there listening to Mary breathing. Snoring, really. The soft, sweet sounds a child makes while sleeping. He smiled, grateful for an image of innocence in a city that knew very little innocence of any kind.

He reached over and touched her hip beneath the sheet. He envied her ability to fall asleep. There were so many angles and lies to sort through in this place. You couldn’t be sure of anybody. Sometimes you even doubted yourself, something Skye Fargo wasn’t used to.

He forced himself to close his eyes. To drive all thoughts of conspiracy from his mind. He wouldn’t be much good if he had to drag through the day, now would he? But when sleep came it was troubled sleep with dreams of shadowy doorways and cards dealt from the bottoms of decks and smiling faces that were not at all what they seemed.

As was his habit, Fargo awoke early and took a moment before opening his eyes, letting his other senses tell him about his surroundings. The streets of New Orleans were beginning the slow process of waking up—unlike frontier towns that often started even before sunrise, New Orleans was a city of night, and it woke like an ill-used prostitute, slow and cranky and stiff.

It suddenly hit him that Mary wasn’t in the bed. He opened his eyes and saw that the room was empty. He sat up, wondering where she’d gone and had just decided to go find her when the door handle rattled and began to turn.

With lightning reflexes, Fargo snagged his Colt free from its holster on the end of the bed and spun back to the door just as it opened.

Mary let out a little gasp of surprise and almost dropped the tray laden with breakfast and coffee she held in her hands. “Oh!” she said.

Fargo eased the hammer back on the Colt and put it away. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know where you’d gone.”

She blushed a bit, her dark-skinned cheeks showing just a hint of rose. “I’m sorry . . . Skye. I thought you’d like some coffee and food.”

Fargo nodded appreciatively. “You reckoned right,” he said. “I worked up a fairly good appetite last night.”

She giggled and stepped the rest of the way into the room, setting the tray on the dresser and pouring coffee for him. Handing him the cup, she looked briefly into his eyes and the knowledge of the previous night once more made her blush. “Here,” she said. “I made it myself.”

Fargo grinned and took the cup, enjoying the hot feel of it in his hands. He took a long sip and tasted chicory—something he hadn’t had in his coffee in a long while. “Mmmm,” he said. “That’s good.” The coffee was rich and black and strong.

He pushed a pillow against the headboard, and leaned back to enjoy the view as she went about the business of making a plate for him and then a smaller one for herself. She was as pretty as a night sky, and he felt his manhood stirring once more.

She turned back to him and must have noticed his condition through the thin sheet.

Setting the plates down, she smiled shyly and said, “Do you . . . ?”

He put his coffee on the floor and pulled her into the bed and his arms. “It’s the best breakfast in the world,” he said.

Pleasuring her, he quickly found, was a pleasure. She was a fast learner and it wasn’t long until once again her cries of joy were echoing in the small room.

When they finished, Fargo got his makings out of his saddlebags and rolled himself a smoke, using a saucer as an ashtray. He wanted a bath and suggested they find one.

“I have an idea,” she said, sitting up in bed and sipping out of his coffee cup.

“What do you have in mind?” Fargo asked.

“Would you take me for a ride on your horse again, Skye?” she asked. “I know a place. . . . It’s private and we could bathe and do . . . other things.”

Fargo laughed. “I think you’ve developed a taste for sex,” he said. “That’s a fine quality in a woman as beautiful as you.”

She laughed, too, though he could sense her embarrassment. “Please,” she said. “I don’t want to tire you, but it is beautiful and private.” She paused, then added, “And your horse is wonderful. Those colors!”

“He’s special,” Fargo said. He didn’t have anything in particular to do today and a ride away from this place in good company might give him time to think about everything he’d learned—assuming Mary let him think at all. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go for a ride.”

“Thank you!” she squealed. “You won’t regret it.”