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  SILVER SEDUCTION

  You’re shivering, Silver,” he said gently. Let me warm you.” He lay down on the bed, still fully dressed, pulled her against his chest, and held her close.

  If you . . . if you want me, I’ll let you.”

  He sighed, and she felt the tension in his big frame. If that’s the way it’ll be, thanks but no thanks.”

  You’re saying no?” She was shocked.

  I’m saying I expect a little passion from a woman.”

  She flushed with embarrassment. I don’t know about that.” Almost shyly, she reached to kiss his lips. Teach me,” she whispered . . .

  QUICKSILVER PASSION

  GEORGINA GENTRY

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  SILVER SEDUCTION

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  To My Readers

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated with warm thanks

  to my friend and former teacher,

  Dwight V. Swain

  whose book, The Technique of the Selling Writer,

  helped me get where I am today;

  and

  to the people of the great state of Colorado,

  who care enough to help keep the legend alive . . .

  Prologue

  In the state of Colorado today, there is a beautiful, snow-capped mountain with an unusual name. It is probably the only mountain in the world named for a saloon girl.

  How this came about is the most beloved and enduring legend of the Rockies. The girl, if she ever lived, is gone these hundred years. But the tale endures, like the mountain itself, because of those who are idealistic enough to believe that true love sees with the heart and is meant to last forever. . . .

  Chapter One

  The boom town of Buckskin Joe,

  Colorado Territory,

  March 1861

  There were only two kinds of women in the W est: the kind men married and the other kind. Not that it mattered because Silver hated men . . . and she had good reason.

  Just like that big bruiser standing in the street below, gawking up at her in the growing twilight. Men. She leaned against the windowsill, toying with her expensive jewelry, and listened to the laughter and music drifting up the stairs. Now that she owned this big saloon, she was safe and would never again be at any man’s mercy.

  She watched the wide-shouldered hombre while readjusting the scarlet plume in her pale blond hair. Dark and too rugged to be handsome; a ’breed, maybe, because he wore his hair cut like a white man. There he stood with his pack burro in the hustle and bustle of the muddy street. Another poor fool looking to get rich in the Rockies.

  Come in and spend that gold dust at my bar, fella, she thought with cold contempt, but you can’t buy me. I recognize that hunger in your eyes. No man will ever hurt me or put his hands on me again.

  It was almost time for her act and it pleased her to do it. Silver went to her dressing table to dab on a light scent of wild flowers, then turned toward a mirror to admire the tight, revealing scarlet dress and all the glittering gold and gems she wore.

  Her ornate room sparkled with mirrors. The walls were covered with them. She checked the heavy eye makeup around her pale aqua eyes and her lip rouge again. A flawless face, Ma had said. Your face will make your fortune, but your beauty won’t last forever.

  The thought troubled her and she looked twice to make sure there were no wrinkles, no lines. But then she was not yet twenty and already rich. She still had her beauty and owned the biggest saloon in town. What else could a woman want?

  Cherokee paused with a weary sigh in the middle of the muddy street, unsure where to find the livery stable to leave his burro. After the trip from Mosquito Gulch, he felt much older than his thirty years tonight. Cherokee felt someone watching him and looked up. The most beautiful girl he had ever seen stood looking down at him. The light behind her silhouetted the ripe body and the hair pale as newly minted silver dollars.

  By damn! He wanted her. Without thinking, he ran his tongue over his lower lip, watching her full breasts swell in the top of the low-cut red dress when she breathed. Yep, he wanted her. But the pleasure of a woman would have to wait until he saw to the comfort of his animal, even though Cherokee ached with weariness himself.

  After months up on the claim, snowed in with his two partners, Cherokee needed a woman bad. Tomorrow he’d get the burro shod, buy his supplies, and get back to work. But tonight he’d buy that girl . . . if she’d take a ’breed. If she turned him down, he’d offer a little extra. All white women were whores, even the ones who pretended to be high-class ladies. The memory made him wince.

  He looked down the street, saw the livery stable sign, and glanced back up. The girl had disappeared from the window. Had he only imagined her? What was a beauty like that doing out here in the wilderness anyhow?

  Many saloons and bordellos lined the bustling streets of this boom town. He made a mental note of this place so he could find it again; Silver’s Nugget Saloon. With his mind still on the mysterious pale blonde, Cherokee Evans hurried toward the livery stable.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pushed through the swinging doors, elbowing his way through the noisy crowd of men. The place swirled with music and laughter. Cherokee took a deep breath of smoke and cheap perfume, then made his way to the ornate bar. Coffee. With cream, if you’ve got any.”

  The short bartender had a face like five miles of bad road and gorilla-like shoulders and arms, unusual for a man with gray in his hair. He paused in wiping a glass and stared back at Cherokee. I must not have heard you right, sport. This ain’t no cafe. And cream? You must have been eatin’ loco weed.”

  He owed the man no explanation of why he no longer drank. Coffee,” Cherokee drawled in a louder voice. I know you got some; I smell it.”

  The men on each side of him turned and looked him up and down. The bartender hesitated. I keep a pot on all the time for the boss, who don’t drink neither.”

  Then I’ll have some out of the owner’s pot.”

  The bartender looked as if he might argue, then shrugged and got out a dainty china cup and saucer, set it before Cherokee, and poured the coffee. There you go, sport. No cream, though. Never let it be said that Silver wouldn’t give a customer what he wanted.”

  Does that include women?” Cherokee sipped the drink, ignoring the curious looks and nudgings up and down the bar as other men noticed. He must not let himself get pulled into a fight. That wasn’t his top priority tonight.

  Sure, we got women,” the bartender nodded, even though the
boss would just as soon not deal in that. Pick you out one from what’s available.”

  I already know which one I want,” Cherokee drawled, but the bartender had moved on down the line to serve the rowdy crowd.

  Cherokee reached for his tobacco, ignoring the grinning, whiskered man next to him. Looky here, boys, coffee in a bar! Next thing you know, Al’ll be servin’ lemonade and sugar cookies!”

  The men up and down the bar laughed and nudged each other.

  He must not lose his temper. A brawl would interfere with his primary purpose—bedding that blonde. Besides, his Cherokee grandmother had taught him restraint. With the saloon full of white men who might relish any excuse to gang up on him, he’d be a fool to start a fight. He should have listened to Grandmother’s warning about whiskey before it caused him to betray a friend.

  Might not be a bad idea.” Cherokee finished rolling a cigarette and grinned. Most of us like sugar cookies.”

  The burly man looked disappointed. You’d let a man say something like that without sluggin’ him?”

  He must not be baited into a fight. The fact that he could kill the man who taunted him would prove nothing. Cherokee took a deep breath to restrain himself and stuck the cigarette between his lips. No offense meant, none taken.”

  One of the others, obviously made bold by Cherokee’s lack of temper, sneered at him. In a saloon, grown men drink whiskey, cracker!”

  Georgia cracker. By damn! How many times had he been called that? He could never get the drawl out of his deep voice, no matter how hard he tried. Well, it was better than Injun,” or ’breed.”

  Cherokee forced himself to grin back. Don’t I look big enough to be a grown man?”

  The others looked him up and down, seeming to be suddenly aware of his size, and drew back.

  First time I been in here,” Cherokee drawled, hoping to distract his tormentors. I’ve been snowed in all winter and was out in Nevada before that.”

  The Nugget’s the best there is, stranger,” a rumpled, mustached man at his elbow said, purtiest girls and honest card tables. Silver won’t allow it no other way. I’m Doc Johnson, the town sawbones.” He held out his hand, genuine friendliness in his old face.

  They shook hands. Here was a yu-ne-ga, a white man who seemed open and friendly. Cherokee said, Honest card games?”

  There was a murmur of assent up and down the bar. Whoever this Silver fella was, the miners in the area really thought a lot of him, Cherokee realized.

  Cherokee blew smoke and looked around. I been a long time up on the claim. I want a pretty girl tonight, but I don’t see one I fancy.”

  He watched the painted, laughing girls moving through the crowd and thought of the blonde in the upstairs window.

  Then you must be blind,” his original tormentor said, laughing. Blind as a bat!”

  He ignored the insult. Getting into a brawl would deter him from his purpose of finding and bedding that girl. The girl I want has hair the color of a silver dollar and the most beautiful face a man could dream of.”

  The bearded one stared back at him a long moment, mouth open. Then he nudged the other man. Didja hear him, Doc? Didja hear who he’s talkin’ about?”

  Oh, hush, Zeke, before you start something you can’t finish.” Doc pulled at his mustache thoughtfully. Stranger, you can put that one out of your mind. That one—”

  Is the best in bed you could want,” the tormentor interrupted, digging the other in the ribs with his elbow. Isn’t that right, Doc? All he’s got to do is ask her when she comes downstairs to sing. Yep, cracker, you just offer that girl money and she’ll rush you right up the stairs. Ain’t that right, boys?”

  Doc frowned but the others grinned. Some of them nodded. Yeah, that’s right.”

  Somehow, Cherokee had a feeling there was a joke here and he’d been left out of it. But then he’d been raised up in the hills by his grandmother and he’d never understood white people very well. He ought to go to the Indian Territory and get himself a virtuous Cherokee wife. But in his heart, he had a weakness for the white ones with light hair. That made him think of his friend’s wife. There was no way to make amends for what he’d done. Guilt haunted him.

  Now he smoked his cigarette and sipped his coffee, watching the stairs. Cherokee had a real hunger burning his groin and that blonde had sparked a fire like he had never felt before. He thought of her breasts, imagined burying his face between them. Her nipples would be pale pink, her skin the color of cream beneath his bronze body. He imagined her silky long hair tangled in his callused hands, her small body writhing beneath him. No matter what she charged, he had to have her tonight.

  A hush fell across the crowd suddenly, even though the off-key piano over by the small stage still banged away. Cherokee looked up from his erotic thoughts and glanced around at the faces turning now toward the stairs. He had never seen such longing and awe in men’s eyes before.

  Slowly he, too, turned toward the stairs. The girl he had seen in the upstairs window stood halfway down, looking around at the crowd. She was even more beautiful and desirable than he remembered, the dress hiding yet revealing her curves, expensive jewelry on her body, the light playing on the fine features. What a perfect face!

  Cherokee tossed the cigarette into the spittoon and pushed his cup away. He must ask her before some other man got to her first.

  But before he could move, she came down the stairs, moving gracefully through the crowd toward the stage while the burly miners applauded and shouted, lifting their glasses in a toast: Silver! Silver! Silver!”

  She acknowledged their homage with a slight nod as she went up the steps and the bald piano player paused, waiting. A hush fell over the crowd and every man seemed to hold his breath as she moved gracefully to the center of the stage.

  Silver. U-ne-ga. He translated it automatically into his native language. Good name for a blond dance hall girl. Was she related to the owner? Cherokee realized that he, too, was holding his breath. He felt suddenly very possessive of her, and resented the other men even looking at her, much less paying money to share her bed. He realized that he’d clenched his fists in anger.

  The piano began to play softly and she leaned against it, looking around the room with pale, aquamarine eyes. Eyes the color of cold Arctic glaciers, Cherokee thought, hard eyes; eyes that had seen too much of life. But her mouth looked full and soft beneath the heavy lip rouge.

  Cherokee watched the light reflect on her pale hair, wanting her more than he had ever wanted a woman before. Even more than he had wanted his white friend’s wife . . .

  For a long moment, the piano played softly and then Silver began to sing:

  I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, borne like a vapor on the summer air ...”

  Cherokee felt the men around him sigh with sadness and nostalgia, perhaps remembering an old love, maybe thinking of a new one. But Cherokee had eyes only for the singer. Her voice came light and high as a brook tinkling down through the mountains:

  . . . I see her tripping where the bright breezes play . . .”

  Her gaze moved from man to man as she sang, and the hardness seemed to melt from her features, revealing a soft, defenseless vulnerability. Her gaze moved to Cherokee’s face.

  He sent her a silent message with his eyes. Sweet darlin’, I want you. I intend to possess your body tonight.

  For a split second, her voice faltered as she stared at him, then looked quickly away. She had gotten his message. Why was she so shaken? Didn’t she take money for letting men have her every night? The image the thought brought him made him grind his teeth with a fury that surprised him. What did it matter if other men had her tomorrow night as long as he could relieve this ache in his groin tonight?

  ... Many were the blithe notes her merry voice would pour, many were the song birds that warbled them o’er. O, I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair . . .”

  Her voice reminded him of a mountain breeze whispering through the blue spruce and the aspen
trees. Yes, she was special, all right; a girl with hard eyes and a soft lips; a whore with a fragile beauty. She finished her song and took a bow. Though her painted mouth smiled as she acknowledged the thunderous applause, her hard eyes looked sad and haunted.

  She left the stage and came toward the bar. Men made way for her, backing up as if careful not to touch the beauty.

  He would ask her now. Cherokee took a deep breath, hesitating, his stoic shyness making him hold back.

  The other men had returned to their cards and roulette, the piano broke into a loud rendition of Oh! Susanna,” and the whores moved once again among the crowds of men.

  A girl with dyed blond hair and a gaudy green dress looked up at Cherokee and smiled. Hello, sugar, buy me a drink?”

  Hell, Nellie,” boomed his tormentor, the cracker don’t even drink his own self! He drinks coffee and wants cream in it yet. For what you got in mind, you need a real man!”

  The crowd laughed and Cherokee forced himself to smile good-naturedly, loath to tear his gaze away from the flawless beauty coming toward the bar. He must not take offense and get into a fight. Nothing must interfere with him getting that silver-haired girl tonight.

  But Silver had paused to talk to some drunken old geezer on her way over. Hank, you had anything to eat?”

  The old drunk shook his head, weaving slightly. What I need, Miss Silver, is another drink. Now if you’ll just extend my credit . . .”

  You’ve had too much already, Hank.” She smiled gently. I’ll have Al get you some food and then you go home.”

  She came over to the bar, the men clearing a space for her. But Cherokee didn’t move. She leaned on the bar next to him. Al?”

  The bartender put down the bottle of medicine he’d been swigging. His ugly face betrayed his adoration as he set a cup of coffee before her.