Devil's Dare. Laurie Grant

      Moments later their father had departed in the buckboard with Abels, admonishing the girls, “Don’t wait up-it might be morning before I’m back, you know.”

      The sisters knew, all right.

      

      He was standing on the planking in front of the Abilene Grand Hotel when she came around the corner, leaning against one of the columns that supported the establishment’s overhanging roof. She knew he had spotted her and was watching her approach, and the knowledge made her pulse quicken.

      Was she doing the right thing? She’d been so sure, when she’d left the house, buoyed by Charity’s encouragement. There was no way Charity would have allowed her to back out of going to supper, in fact. She kept reminding Mercy that she owed Devlin that much, at least, for coming to her sister’s aid yesterday.

      But now she felt very uncertain as she saw Devlin straighten and push himself away from the post, stepping down off the planking to extend his hand to her.

      He looked her up and down. “Miss Mercy, you’re looking pretty as a field of bluebonnets,” he said.

      She found it a strange compliment, seeing as how she was clad in garnet silk, not blue, but she figured that must be high praise to a Texan. They were so proud of their oversize state to the south, with all of its unique features. And then his hand touched hers and their eyes met and she almost forgot how to breathe.

      His hands were work-worn and callused, but they were warm, and the blood flowing through them called to hers. As Mercy stepped up onto the planking from the dirt of the street, holding his hand as if it were a lifeline, his other hand left his side and she saw that he was holding a small bouquet of red roses.

      “For you, Miss Mercy,” he said with a devastating grin. “I had no idea they’d go so well with your dress, too.”

      “Too?” she repeated in confusion, her eyes unable to escape his compelling dark blue gaze. She gathered her white lacy shawl more closely around her.

      His eyes lowered a few inches. “I was thinking of your lips,” he confessed, handing her the bouquet. “They look soft as these petals,” he said, stroking the edge of one bloom in a circular motion with his thumb.

      Mercy felt that caressing thumb as surely as if he had been touching her lips. Involuntarily she licked them, tasting the carmine salve Charity had made her rub on.

      She took the bouquet. “You’re…you’re looking very fine yourself, Mr.—uh, Sam,” she said, remembering last night’s command to call him by his Christian name.

      It was an understatement. He wore black trousers and a frock coat with a dazzlingly white shirt and a black string tie. Last night she had noted that he had had his hair trimmed so that it just brushed his collar; since then, he had apparently trimmed, ever so slightly, the mustache that made him look so ferocious. He smelled of bay rum. “Shall we go in? I’ve got a table waiting,” he said, and ushered her inside.

      A waiter motioned them over to one of the tables away from the window, for which Mercy was grateful, for sitting by the window would increase the chances that someone passing by would see her in there and mention it to her father. She knew from the way that the waiter had eyed her oddly as he handed her a menu that he had recognized her as the preacher’s daughter, but he wasn’t one of the few men who belonged to their congregation, so it didn’t matter. She hoped he wouldn’t refer to her father in front of Devlin, though—she knew he didn’t know her father was a preacher, and she was afraid he might start behaving differently with her if he knew. Mercy just wanted Sam Devlin to be himself.

      

      Sam had noticed the way the waiter had been looking at her, but he’d misinterpreted it. He’d stiffened, thinking the man had recognized his supper companion as Mercedes LaFleche, the sporting woman, and was considering informing him that the Grand Hotel dining room did not serve women “of her caliber,” or some such snobbish euphemism. That would make it awkward as hell for Sam, for then he would want to knock the waiter down, which certainly wouldn’t add a romantic touch to their evening. Mercedes LaFleche probably saw brawling cowboys every night she worked, and was entitled to something a little different when she was taken away from the Alamo Saloon.

      But the waiter said nothing, and left them to peruse the grease-spotted menus.

      He made his decision quickly, then studied her surreptitiously over the menu. He appreciated the fact that she had worn something tasteful and elegant, rather than the gaudy, multiruffled and flounced gowns a woman of her profession often wore. She apparently disliked flashy gewgaws, too, for the simple red earbobs and a cameo on a black velvet ribbon merely called attention to the slender curve of her white neck, rather than to themselves.

      What a different sort of woman she was from the usual run of females who made their living catering to the baser needs of men. She was fine-boned and small, not exactly beautiful—her mouth was too wide for perfect beauty—but she had a quality better than that for which he had no name. Her speech was not “refined,” exactly, but certainly free from the coarse phrases most sporting women used. And she still had the ability to blush. He found that fact incredible, after all she must have seen in her career. No wonder she was such a favorite that she could pick and choose her customers.

      There was a blush blooming on her cheeks now, as if she was not unaware of his scrutiny. “Hmm, what looks good to you, Sam?” she asked him.

      You do, he thought, but I’ll have to wait till later to see about that. “I don’t know—what do you recommend?”

      An anxious frown creased her forehead, and she rescanned the menu. “Umm, I hear the steaks are good,” she offered.

      “You hear? Honey, hasn’t anyone ever taken you to supper here?” he said, before he could think.

      She shook her head, her eyes still fastened on the menu. “No,” she answered in a small voice. “P—” she began, then stopped. “No,” she repeated. “You’re the first.”

      What had she been about to say before she stopped herself? He found it amazing that she had never been here. Maybe the hotel was very recently opened. After all, Abilene had only consisted of a few log cabins before the railroad’s coming brought on the cattle boom only last year. Or perhaps she thought it made a man feel special to have been the first to take her somewhere nice? No, she’d have to be an awfully good actress if the latter was the case—she seemed sincere about what she was saying.

      “Well, then—we’ll do our best to make it a memorable occasion, won’t we?” he said with a wink, and was touched to see her blush again. Maybe she did find him appealing. “I don’t think I’ll have the steak, though—I just spent three months eating beef any possible way it could be fixed. We had beef morning, noon and night on the trail. No, I think I’ll have the fried chicken for a change,” he concluded, just as the waiter returned to their table.

      “Oh,” she said, “how silly of me. Of course you don’t want steak. I…I think I’ll have the steak, though, if that’s all right,” she said, her eyes glued to the menu. “We—I-don’t eat it too often.”

      He was surprised by her meekness. “Honey, you can have anything you want to eat—you can have the whole dang menu if you want it.”

      Did he imagine it, or did the waiter frown at him for the endearment that had slipped out? The old sourpuss! What was he afraid of…that next Sam would start making love to Mercedes right at their table? But the waiter scuttled off and they were alone, so that Sam was free to enjoy the color that had invaded Mercedes’s face again—all because he had called her honey?

      For a moment there was silence, and then she said, “So—you’re up from Texas. Where, exactly? Do you have a family down there?”

      He wondered if she was really asking if he was married, and if he had been, if that would make a difference to a woman of her calling? Probably not, he reasoned. Women like that were used to servicing a man’s needs