The Devil of Whiskey Row (11 page)

“Isn't that the problem? He won't be spanking anyone for a long time. At least not with that hand.”

“I don't think it's the spanking so much as the piano playing that he's missing.”

He heard a creak outside his room and then a light tap on his door. He threw it open with a force that caused it to bang against the wall.

Cora jumped back a little, but said nothing, clearly prepared for his ire. She chewed her lip.

“What?” he snarled.

The sound of his voice brought an abrupt halt to the gossip from the bunk room and the girls hurried out and down the stairs, casting him glances under their lashes on their way.

“May I come in?”

His brow wrinkled in surprise, but he stepped back and allowed her to pass. She walked into the room with a swish of skirts, her narrow waist accented in a light blue satin affair. She paced aimlessly through his room, finally coming to sit on his trunk, her two knees pressed primly together in sharp contrast to her revealing costume.

She didn't belong in this hellhole he called his business. He felt an overwhelming urge to press that gold nugget back into her palm and tell her to get herself out of California. He hadn't moved it from the hiding place he'd revealed to her, even knowing she had a propensity to steal. For one thing, he wanted to believe she was trustworthy. But if she disappointed him, well, he'd be glad she got the hell out.

“I truly thought I was going to die that night of the fire,” she said at last.

He didn't answer, but studied her beauty—the smooth, creamy complexion, the shadow of her dimples, the underlying intelligence behind the doll-like face.

“Once I had resigned myself to it, I found I was ready, actually looking forward to it. I wanted to know—you know—about heaven.” She shrugged. “Or hell,” she said in a wry voice that seemed incongruent with her innocent appearance. “I thought I might see my parents again.”

His heart had picked up speed; every part of him was listening intently. She was describing something akin to what he'd experienced after his gunshot wound.

“And then you showed up, and rescued me. And I hated you for it.”

An unnamed emotion swept through him. He crossed the room and pulled her to her feet. She blinked at him, unafraid. “I hate you for it, too,” he growled.

She nodded, unaffected. “I thought so.”

Then he was kissing her, crushing her lips with his own, plunging his tongue into her mouth with the ferocity of a wild animal. With his good hand, he grasped her hair and pulled her head back. Her mouth opened and she panted, her breath too constricted in her corset to sustain much more excitement. He stared down at her.

This again. This cannot be. He did not have sex with his girls.

Why did she bring out the beast in him? He dragged his lips over her face until he reached her ear, which he nipped with his teeth.

“You make me weak,” he said hoarsely.

“You make me strong.”

She did look strong—not the innocent Eliza, but Cora, brave enduring Cora, who understood what it was like to want to die. They were two of a kind, weren't they? He pulled her head back even further, to expose her neck, which he bit and kissed, working his way lower, down the creamy expanse of her heaving chest. He tugged at her dress, trying to free a breast from her corset, but the fingers of his broken hand wouldn't work, wouldn't move as he commanded them. She started to lift her fingers to help.

“Don't,” he gritted.

She clutched at his arms to steady herself instead, because he refused to let go of her hair to use his good hand. After another moment of struggle with the bodice, he released her all at once in frustration, and they stumbled back from each other. He picked up a book from his trunk and hurled it across the room. It struck the bedside table as it fell, overturning the lantern, which crashed to the floor with a clatter of broken glass.

Cora stared at him, still unafraid in the face of his rage.

“Get out,” he panted. “Please.”

When she didn't move, he shouted, “Get out!”

She drew back and some emotion crossed her face before it went resolutely blank.

“I can't—I don't want this.” He was pleading now, willing her to understand. He knew she could.

She nodded and turned for the door, her back stiff, her head held high.

A bitterness welled up in him, then. An old, familiar bitterness. It tasted of love and loss.

And it had nothing to do with anything.

Chapter Seven

“Why don't you see if Daddy Diggs will pay you to play his piano?” Marie suggested.

It was afternoon and Cora had been practicing, trying to learn more of the can-can song. They'd continued playing it as a duet, but it was the only time Jake sat down at the piano and it seemed to make him even more miserable, as if it put his diminished capacity on display for all to see. Or perhaps it was more personal than that. Maybe it was too painful to play, knowing he might never again perform with both hands. He'd refused to give her any further lessons, though he had scratched the music to several songs for her to learn on her own.

Marie's suggestion was obvious—she wanted her off the floor and away from any customers she might draw. The truth was, Cora preferred the piano to whoring, but she wasn't going to give Marie the satisfaction of admitting so. Instead, she ignored her and turned back to the notes Jake had clumsily drawn on the page with his left hand. She stayed and practiced until it was time to get dressed for the evening shift.

In the bunk room, the five of them dressed and primped, pulling on their black stockings and lacing up their corsets.

“Just blow jobs for me tonight, I'm on the rag!” Olive announced.

“Same with me,” said Gigi.

“Me too,” sang Margaret.

“Ah, God. That means I'll be getting mine by tomorrow,” Marie complained.

“I guess that leaves you and Cora for first on the floor tonight,” Olive said brightly.

“When do you get yours?” Marie queried suspiciously, as if Cora had purposely scheduled her monthly courses so she could take business from the rest of them.

“Next week, I guess.”

“That is not fair, is it?” Marie demanded to the rest of them.

Olive snorted, giving Marie a “smarten up” look.

“She'll be on our schedule by next month. It's a given when women live together,” Gigi said nonchalantly.

“Where's the lip paint?” Cora asked to change the subject. It normally remained on the shelf by the looking glass where they primped.

“I put it away with my things. It is mine, did you not know that?” Marie asked.

“Oh,” Cora said stupidly, knowing that Marie was hassling her, but not knowing what to do about it.

“Oh, let her use it, Marie. There's no need to be like that,” Olive snapped.

“It's all right, I don't need it.”

“Yes, you do. It's part of the costume,” Olive said with authority. “Marie, get it for her.”

“It is in my trunk over there,” Marie pointed, without even looking.

Cora sighed and searched the trunk until she found the sequestered lip paint. Yes, Marie had definitely hidden it to give her a hard time. After applying it, she turned to Marie.

“Look, I didn't come here to steal your job. Is that how you feel?”

Marie gave her a sneering look and didn't answer.

“There's enough work for everyone,” Olive said firmly. “There's no competition here.”

“That's right,” Marie said, looking in the mirror and rubbing her lips together. “There's
no
competition.” Her tone implied that Cora couldn't possibly compete with Her Fabulous Frenchness.

Hackles raised, Cora went downstairs determined to score the first customer. She raised her hand in greeting to Mei, who Diggory had hired as an additional barmaid. Mei had not wanted to return to prostitution, nor did she want to leave the Chinese settlement, but she'd been grateful for the wages Diggory had offered her to work behind the bar.

Sam Stryker walked in and despite the way their past interaction had ended, she had him upstairs in fifteen minutes flat.
Eat your stockings, Marie.

* * *

She woke the next morning to the sound of Marie shrieking.

“My money! It is gone! Somebody stole it!”

Scrambling out of bed, she stood in her chemise as a crowd gathered around—everyone asking questions and just gaping at the frantic Frenchwoman, who opened and closed her trunk, digging through her things and then holding her hands up in frustration.

Olive grabbed Cora's arm and pulled her to the side, asking in a low voice, “Did you take it?”

“What? No!”

“Just tell me the truth, and I'll help you. I know you've stolen before.”

“I did
not
take it!” she insisted, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, her palms clammy. How did Olive know she'd stolen before? She felt her cheeks burning with the shame of that.

“What's going on here?” Diggory demanded, entering the room. The crowd parted for him and he stood, imposingly tall and authoritative.

“My money—all of my money—is gone!” Marie wailed. “It was here, in my trunk.”

Then she turned and gazed directly at Cora. “And
she
was digging through my things last night.”

Cora took a step back, feeling slightly dizzy. She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Is that true?” Daddy Diggs asked, his dark eyes boring into her.

“Yes—I mean, no—.”

“Everyone saw you. All of us were here. Remember?” Marie demanded of the other girls.

Gigi nodded slowly. Diggory noted it and looked at Margaret, who also reluctantly nodded.

“Yes, because you put your lip paint away and then sent her to look for it,” Olive said with her hands on her hips.

“I did not tell her to steal my money while she was there!”

Diggory's eyes swiveled to her. Cora stumbled back again and hit the wall. She shook her head quickly from side to side. Joaquin edged up next to her, as if to somehow protect her or declare his loyalty.

He turned back to Marie. “How much money was it, Marie?”

“Two hundred dollars,” she said.

“Exactly?” he said.

Did she detect a dubious note to his voice? With a wave of sickness, she realized that Marie might have staged this whole thing to get rid of her. Daddy Diggs had told her that stealing from the staff would get her cast out on her ear. Perhaps it was a known rule. Maybe he'd enforced it before. Olive had known she'd stolen—what if they all had?

But who would he believe?

He'd already caught her in the act once before, a fact which jabbed her conscience on a daily basis—the shame of his disapproval still smoldered.

“No, it was more than two hundred—I don't know, exactly—two hundred something,” Marie said, sounding angry, and perhaps a touch flustered.

Diggory's expression was inscrutable as he studied first Marie's face, then her own. She felt her cheeks flaming with raw emotion, her throat constricting painfully. She still could not seem to speak to defend herself. Her eyes filled with tears under his gaze.

He crossed the room to her bunk, pulling back the covers, then lifting the mattress. There, under the mattress on the wall side of the bed was a large roll of cash.

Hot indignation coursed through her. “That wasn't—I didn't put that there!” she spluttered.

Wordlessly, he tossed it to a triumphant Marie.

“
She
put that there!” Joaquin spluttered, pointing at Marie, his face red with anger.

“Of course
you
would defend her!” Marie shot back. “You probably helped her to hide it.”

“Come into my room, Cora,” Diggory said grimly.

“But I—” she protested.

“
In my room
.”

* * *

Jake followed Cora into the room and shut the door. She turned to him immediately, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I didn't steal her money, I swear to you. I know I've stolen before and it looks bad—really bad—but this time it wasn't me.”

He listened, keeping his face impassive.

Wringing her hands, she paced the length of the room. “Marie's resented me since the day I arrived. She framed me—put her lip paint away so I had to go through her trunk in front of everyone while we were dressing.”

She stopped pacing and stared at him across the length of the room, her eyes pleading. He remained still, listening. Discouraged by his lack of response, her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes, bowing her head.

When she looked up, her eyes were bleak and resigned.

“I know you must do what you must do,” she said in a shaky voice. “Punish me. Throw me out. I don't really care—I never planned to stay, anyway. I won't miss it one bit. Except, what I do care about—” Her voice strangled and she made a visible effort to regain control of her emotions. “—is what you must think of me.”

She twisted her fingers in front of her, but raised her eyes bravely to meet his.

“I was so ashamed when you caught me stealing from Stryker. It was something we did at Smoochy's—he taught us how to do it—it was a requirement of the job. But… you made me see that—you made me feel—” She stopped, looking desperately around the room as if she might find the right words somewhere hidden on some shelf.

“I was so sorry to have disappointed you,” she whispered, her lips trembling, fresh tears sliding out the corners of her eyes. “I have come to care,” she swallowed, “about what you think of me. I want to be the person you think I am, or who you expect me to be. And so I'm sorry, more than anything, that you think I would disobey you after—ah—”

“After I'd punished you?” he offered gently, slowly crossing the room toward her trembling form.

“Yes,” she whispered. She shook her head vigorously. “Because I wouldn't. You made me feel like there was still good left in me. You helped me to remember who I am. And so I'm grateful to you for that,” she said, hanging her head in resignation.

He took hold of her shoulders, meaning to offer some form of comfort, but as usual with her, his control immediately slipped away.