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The Devil's Kiss
Deloras Scott
The Devil In Disguise Bethany Alexander yearned to experience the real West in all its dusty glory - and who better to show it to her than an honest-to-goodness outlaw? So she'd hired the notorious gunman Cole Wagner to teach her the ropes - never expecting a lesson in seduction from the devil himself.Cole Wagner needed a cover to hide behind. But he didn't count on being saddled with a rich, spoiled - and tempting - heiress who was constantly getting herself into scrapes. His orders were to keep his hands off, but while rescuing her from peril, he couldn't save her from himself.
Acclaim for DeLoras Scott’s previous books (#u5a634a98-1382-564f-a173-c07b0816b8f6)“Listen to me, Beth!” (#ua714a79e-5e67-5c8d-a476-e789e733714f)Letter to Reader (#u084e12ba-95c0-5dc6-93d0-f4dbff201bd7)Title Page (#ufd16aa03-a922-5778-8d79-854fdc727d85)About the Author (#u558593aa-da73-5536-8ecb-f41b53a6af5b)Author’s Note (#uc5674151-5636-5027-8bd6-ea5965a24db6)Prologue (#u1fcedc03-9aee-5275-9e4f-933f5907c39f)Chapter One (#ud7f12fdb-3ccf-58a9-a7b0-8a3fe0f9e548)Chapter Two (#ufa0621a8-bdfc-5a21-88d4-abef495b0876)Chapter Three (#ub4c3971f-0dee-5f09-8b88-4adc04900230)Chapter Four (#u9ded2bcb-1656-535f-bf7c-7086bde276a7)Chapter Five (#ubf1cf9b3-290e-54b3-8dbb-a50edd9f0cd8)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Acclaim for DeLoras Scott’s previous books
Addie’s Lament
“DeLoras ‘superscribe’ Scott scores with this stupendous story.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A fantastic tale.”
—Rendezvous
Timeless
“5
s...her strongest and most impressive work to date.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“...tops her Springtown, and I thought that was super!”
—Rendezvous
Springtown
“...a fresh, entertaining and witty romp...4+”
—Romantic Times
“GOLD 5”
—Heartland Critiques
“Listen to me, Beth!”
Cole’s gaze shifted here and there for any signs of the raiding party. “I’m going to try to get us out of this alive, but I’m going to need your help. Should we meet up with the Indians, I don’t want you trying to outrun them.”
Beth’s panic exploded in her ears. “I’ll not give up without making a run for it!”
She leaned forward, ready to plant her heels in her horse’s ribs, but Cole grabbed the bit. Beth could do nothing as long as Cole held on. She whipped unmercifully at him with the ends of the reins.
“Dammit, Beth, stop fighting me!”
Beth continued to struggle. “I’ll never listen to you again...you yellow-bellied—” All other accusations were left unsaid. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she became very still.
Five mounted hostiles in full plumage were riding toward them. They, as well as their horses, were splashed with all the colors of the spectrum.
Cole stated coldly, “You wanted to see scalpings and you wanted to see Indians. Well, here they are....”
Dear Reader,
DeLoras Scott’s first book, Bittersweet, was published by Harlequin Historicals in 1987, and she continues to be one of our most popular authors. This month she is back with The Devil’s Kiss, a romantic comedy about two misfits who discover love, despite Indians, outlaws and themselves. Don’t miss this wonderful story.
The Trail to Temptation is the second book for Rae Muir, a featured author in our 1996 March Madness promotion. It’s a Western about a star-crossed couple who fight their attraction on a trail drive from Texas to Montana. Awardwinning author Margaret Moore’s The Wastrel, the magical story of a disowned heiress and a devil-may-care bachelor, introduces her new series of Victorian romance novels featuring a trio of “most unsuitable” heroes that she has aptly named MOST UNSUITABLE....
And March 1996 author Tori Phillips returns this month with an unforgettable story, Silent Knight, the tale of a would-be monk and a French noblewoman who fall in love on a delightful journey across medieval England.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope Harlequin Historicals will keep you coming back for more. Please keep a lookout for all four titles, available wherever books are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Devil’s Devil’s Kiss
Deloras Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DELORAS SCOTT was raised in Sutter’s Mill, California—an area steeped in history. At one time it was gold country, and the legacy of wagon trains, cowboys and miners has remained. It’s no wonder she enjoys writing about a chapter of history referred to as the Old West.
Author’s Note
When my parents moved to Sacramento, California, in the fifties, there were still thousands of acres with nothing but rocks left from the mining days. A hundred years ago the miners dredged everything. Especially the soil needed for plants to grow. This bit of knowledge, Sutter’s Fort and a land steeped in history drew my fascination. Now, having lived and traveled extensively across these United States, my interest hasn’t diminished. Of course, everything comes full circle and I am again living in Sacramento, and enjoying that wealth of history.
The idea for The Devil’s Kiss came from old pictures I happened across in a library. A lady of obvious quality was seated on a horse—sidesaddle—a rifle lying across her lap. The picture next to it showed a burly sharpshooter standing beside a towering pile of buffalo pelts. My imagination churned and came up with The Devil’s Kiss.
I love to hear from readers. Please write.
DeLoras Scott
P.O. Box 278042
Sacramento, CA 95827-8042
Prologue
Texas
Cole Wagner watched the freckle-faced young man enter the saloon and sidle up to the bar. It was doubtful the pup had yet reached his seventeenth birthday. Cole’s gaze dropped to the .35 resting in the kid’s holster—hand level for a quick draw. There was a cockiness about him that Cole easily recognized. He had seen it many times before.
“Are you goin’ to call the bet or not?”
Cole glanced down at the cards he was holding. A jack high. He called the wager and drew three cards. Tonight he’d barely been able to stay even in the game, but things were starting to look up. He’d just been dealt two jacks to go with the one he held.
On the other side of the room the kid downed his drink, then turned. Eyes narrowed, he slowly, methodically scanned each man in the saloon.
Cole dropped what was left of his cigar into the spittoon beside his foot. “Tell you what,” he said to the other four players. “Its been a long night, and I have to hightail it to Missouri on the next train. So, I’m going to make this my last hand.” He shoved his stash to the center of the table. “Anyone care to match it?”
The banker shook his head and tossed his cards in. The barber thought a moment before calling. The other two also called, making it the biggest pot of the evening. The three jacks were good and Cole started raking in his winnings.
“Cole Wagner!”
The call was loud and the saloon was small. Everyone heard the name. Cole shoved his winnings into his coat pockets.
“Has old age made you a yeller belly?”
The other players at the table suddenly realized whom they had been sitting with. They made a dash to get away, knocking over several chairs in their haste. It had always amazed Cole how quiet a saloon could become when a gunfight was about to take place.
“Well? You jest gonna sit there? Maybe you ain’t as good as I heard tell?”
The chair scraped the wooden floor as Cole shoved it back and slowly stood. There were some things he just couldn’t abide. Being called yellow was one, and being called an old man was another. He started walking toward the bar, his body a taut spring waiting to uncoil. He smelled the rank odor of unwashed bodies, Rosebud whiskey and stale smoke. Even a whisper seemed amplified a hundred times. “You’d be wise to reconsider, pup.”
“I didn’t ride no hundred miles for nothin’, old man.”
“You’re not even dry behind the ears. It’s too bad you’re not going to live long enough to find out that thirty-two isn’t old.” When Cole came to a halt, there was less than twenty feet between him and the cur. With a resigned sigh he tucked the front of his black longtail coat behind his guns. His hands dropped to his sides ... ready...waiting. “It’s your move, boy.”
Beads of sweat began popping out on the kid’s forehead. As usual, the mutt wasn’t as brave as he was making out to be. Then Cole felt the steel barrel of a shotgun jammed between his shoulders. It had all been a setup. The kid’s partner must have been waiting until he could get behind him.
“I wouldn’t make a move for that gun, Wagner,” the man behind Cole warned. “It makes no difference if I turn you in dead or alive. All I want is the bounty.”
“Damn you, Perkins!” the kid yelled. “What took you so long? Hell, I thought I was fixin’ to get killed!” He grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle and with a shaking hand lifted it to his lips and guzzled the contents.
Cole felt his .45 being lifted from his holster. As the bounty hunter came into view, Cole chuckled. The one with the rough voice was a skinny weasel, had a glass eye and was considerably older than his friend.
“Dammit, Jake, get over here and tie him up!” Perkins yelled.
The kid slammed the bottle down on the bar. As he hurried forward, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his dirty shirt.
“Is he really Cole Wagner?” one of the patrons called.
“The one and only,” Jake boasted now that he knew the outlaw couldn’t harm him. “Or maybe we should call him Sir Outlaw. Look at him. He was talkin’ real big a minute ago, now he ain’t nothin’. I’ll bet I could’ve outdrawn him.” He took the rope Perkins handed him. “He ain’t gonna be seein’ the outside of prison for a hell of a long time. If he don’t get hung, he’ll probably die there.”
“You’d best hope so,” Cole warned, “’cause if I get out, you’re a dead man.”
“Shut up, Jake,” Perkins ordered. “If you gotta act so almighty, do it after we get our money.”
The saloon became a hubbub of voices as the two men marched their prisoner outside. Perkins was being especially cautious. Jake, on the other hand, kept giving the outlaw unnecessary shoves. As Cole swung up on his horse’s back and settled himself in the saddle, young Jake stepped forward, ready to taunt the prisoner again.
With Jake between him and Wagner, Perkins couldn’t prevent what happened next.
The outlaw swung his foot upward, the toe of his boot catching Jake beneath the chin. The boy staggered backward, falling into his partner, knocking him down. By the time Perkins had scrambled to his feet, Wagner had his horse galloping down the road. Perkins fired several times, but the wanted man had already disappeared into the night.
Chapter One
Independence, Missouri, 1874
Bethany Alexander folded her hands in her lap trying to look pleasant, when in reality the chairs in her small hotel suite were most uncomfortable. “I was pleased to see you had the carriages waiting for our arrival.”
The portly man seated across from her smiled.
“Have my other instructions been carried out?”
“I have done everything you requested in your letters,” John Smyth assured the wealthy and very beautiful redhead. “However, I did have a problem with your telegram.”
“Oh?”
“The telegrapher must have misinterpreted your message. It said something about buying an outlaw.”
“What was confusing?”
He cleared his throat. “How do you expect me to do that?”
“I’m the one paying for your services, not the other way around. I’ve decided a bank robber or someone of such a nature would be perfect.”
“Apparently you have not considered the impossibility of such a purchase, or the danger in hiring a man of that caliber.”
“Oh, but I have, Mr. Smyth.” Beth leaned forward, excitement shining in her eyes. “I am looking for a man who can show me the real West, and who better to do that than a real outlaw?” She leaned back in her chair. “I’m disappointed that since my trip from Boston began, I have yet to see a man wearing a weapon on his hip.”
“I can assure you the people hereabouts are just as civilized as they are in Boston. And, contrary to the picture you apparently have in mind, wanted men do not go about sporting hardware on their hips, nor do they make themselves available. They would be hauled off to jail.” Why would a woman of obvious quality even consider such a thing? Smyth wondered. It certainly couldn’t be for the money. Well, it wasn’t any of his concern. When she left Independence, he’d be finished with her.
“If you are unable to get what I want,” Beth said calmly, “I will locate someone better qualified to handle the matter.”
John frowned. “There is a jail, but I wouldn’t recommend—”
Beth stood. “Good. I knew you would come up with something. We’ll leave immediately. I want to get everything settled as quickly as possible so I can be on my way.”
John pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. It had been a tedious day. “Instead, why don’t I look into the matter and report back? I’m certain you would rather rest after your long journey.”
“May I remind you that I stepped off the paddle wheel two days ago? Besides, I can rest after I die.” Beth anointed him with a radiant smile. “Well, are we going?”
“Y-yes, of course, but I doubt we’ll be immediately successful in our quest,” John hedged. “However, given proper time, I’m certain I can find the type of man you are looking for.”
