It's In His Kiss. Julie Kistler

something that culminated in an enthusiastic “Oooh la la!” every other line. Another, a tall, handsome woman with dark red hair, puffed away on a small cigar as she adjusted the pearl-handled revolver stuck in the garter strapped to her thigh.

      A gun? An exposed thigh? Scandalous. And yet it was the most thrilling thing Rose had ever seen. They seemed so free, so decadent, so…lush. Who knew sin could look this exciting on an otherwise dull Sunday afternoon in a no-account mining town?

      “Miss?” the doorman prompted, tugging at her sleeve. “Wasn’t you wanting to see Miss Arlotta?”

      “Why, yes, I…” As his broad back disappeared down a hall to the left, Rose had no choice but to follow. She consoled herself that she could come back to the parlor and the gambling tables soon enough, once she was a full-fledged soiled dove like the rest of them. She had some lingerie in her luggage, although nothing like what they were wearing. But maybe if she stripped down to her favorite French chemise, the one with the tiny rosebuds embroidered around the neckline, with her brocade corset and her laciest knickers…

      Rose started to feel warm and wicked just thinking about strolling around in her drawers. Maybe she could get one of those guns to stick in her garter, to dramatically reveal at opportune moments.

      But she hadn’t counted on how intimidating Miss Arlotta would be. Quite the dragon in her lair, the madam of this establishment stood behind a large mahogany desk, staring at Rose with hard, shrewd eyes. She had pale, not-quite-yellow hair, the color of lemonade in the summer sun, coiled in high, stiff ringlets across the top of her head. A fake color and fake hair, if Rose had to guess. Miss Arlotta’s dress was even more shocking, with a red satin bodice dipping low in the front and folds of the same scarlet fabric pulled back at her ample hips to reveal a shocking black lace underskirt. But that was an evening dress, and all wrong for this time of day. Not to mention the fact that she appeared to be sporting a bustle back there, when everyone knew bustles had been out since 1890.

      Miss Arlotta sent Rose a shrewd glance. “Never seen a tart with spectacles before.”

      She’d forgotten she was wearing her glasses. Hastily Rose removed them and stuck them in her pocket.

      “How old are you?”

      “Twenty-one.” She told the truth, not sure whether it was better to be older or younger for the purposes of a house of ill repute.

      “You a virgin?” the madam asked boldly.

      Rose gulped. “Well, as a matter of fact, no.”

      “Didn’t think so. That’s good. I run my place on the level, you see. Nobody too young, nobody too innocent, and nobody lying about neither,” she said in a throaty, no-nonsense tone as she came out from behind the desk, circling around Rose, eyeing her up and down and back again. “Five to one, I already got your number.”

      “Five to one? What does that mean?” she asked eagerly.

      Miss Arlotta ignored the interruption. “Your clothes tell me you come from money. My wager is, some handsome gent seduced you hopin’ to get his hands on your daddy’s cash. So Daddy figured out what was goin’ on and kicked you to the curb. You ran to your beau, but he backed away fast without Daddy’s money to sweeten the pot. So now you’re thinking you might like to ply your trade as a doxy to get back at both your no-good man and your pa. Am I right?”

      It was disappointing to be read so easily. Not to mention being called a doxy when there were so many other more romantic choices. Odalisque, fille de joie…Much more interesting than doxy. “I guess it’s a tale you’ve heard before.”

      “I’ve heard most all of ’em.” Miss Arlotta poured herself a shot of whiskey from a bottle on the sideboard. “A little skinny, aren’t you?”

      “With different clothing I think my curves might do,” Rose said quickly, doing her best to hold her head high and slant her chest forward at the same time she pushed back her derriere.

      That got a smile out of the boss. “I suppose you’re old enough to know your own mind,” she declared. “And pretty enough to pull in some male admirers. I also think you got too much starch in your drawers and too much book-learnin’ for the likes of us, but if you want to try, we’ll give you a chance.”

      “Really?”

      “Pete,” she barked out, “take the lady’s bag to the empty maid’s room on the third floor.” Turning back, she added, “It ain’t much, but we’ll move you someplace better if you last any time at all.”

      Pete, the large man who’d shown her in, opened the door behind her, still carrying her bag. Rose swallowed. She hadn’t expected things to move quite so quickly. “When do I, um, begin?” she asked, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. “Will you give me any sort of training?”

      Miss Arlotta arched one pale eyebrow. “I figgered you knew what to do when you walked into a bordello and asked for work. You sayin’ you need instruction?”

      “Well, maybe a little…”

      The madam laughed out loud. “You’re never going to last at this game. You’re the greenest greenhorn I ever did see. I’ll put my money down that you’ll be heading for the hills at, oh, just about one minute after noon tomorrow.”

      “I’m not as innocent as you think,” Rose replied, edging toward the door. But curiosity pushed her to turn back. “Why did you pick that exact time? Why one minute after noon?”

      Miss Arlotta shook her head, not dislodging her tight curls one iota. “Because today is Sunday, we don’t do any business here, on account of it being the Lord’s day.”

      Oh, yes. The Sunday picnic the small boy had mentioned. Apparently, even shady ladies took a day of rest.

      “So,” her new boss continued, “I figure you’ll last through tonight. But come start of business tomorrow, round about noon, when you face off with an actual, real-live man taking off his actual, real-live pants…”

      Rose tried not to blush, faint or otherwise embarrass herself as Miss Arlotta finished up with, “Then, at just about one minute after twelve, I reckon you’ll run screaming for the door.”

      “You know, I have seen a man without his trousers,” she said quickly, trying hard not to let her voice tremble.

      A man, to be precise. One. But thank goodness she had tonight to gather her wits before she saw another one. And then, on Monday, she would come face-to-face with her new profession as a shameless hussy.

      “Right now, you might want to find something else to wear. A lot less, for starters.” Her employer puffed up a little when she added, “I hired a photographer to come by this evening to make a tintype of all of my girls, something pretty for the parlor, to help gents make a choice.”

      Would anyone choose her? Was her lingerie scandalous enough?

      Rose had never been in this kind of competition before.

      “Oh, and what name should we call you?” the older woman asked. “We like our girls to go by something a little more fancy here.”

      A new name? It made her feel mysterious and exciting, to have a nom de plume. Or nom de harlot, anyway.

      “Name?” Miss Arlotta prompted.

      “Let’s see…”

      Trying to think of a pseudonym, Rose suddenly remembered her favorite dime novel, stowed safely in her suitcase with her other most-prized possessions. Little Rosebud’s Lovers by Miss Laura Jean Libbey. The heroine of the book had also found herself ruined and abandoned. Of course, she’d come to a terrible end, it being fiction, but still…It was perfect.

      “Rosebud,” she announced with a smile. “You can call me Rosebud.”

      “That’ll do fine. Welcome to my establishment, Rosebud,” the boss lady said with a wink. She picked up her shot glass and tossed back the whiskey. “I’ll