Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“In an hour, perhaps,” he said, his voice dry. “I am only a man, Celeste. Give me a while to garner my strength.”

Brent still couldn’t believe that he’d shouted her name at the height of his passion. Why? She was only a vague memory, a soft phantom. He hadn’t lied. She likely wasn’t the grisette Celeste painted her, but nonetheless, she would sell herself in any case. To a rich man, a foolish rich man who wanted a beautiful young wife. His jaw seemed to lock until the tension made him wince. He’d pictured an old man’s hands stroking her. “Damn all women to hell,” he said deep in his throat. Was it his fate in life to be drawn to women like Laurel? At least he’d learned over the past nine years to leave them before they could hurt him. Furious with himself, he turned to Celeste and began to return the deep caresses.

“Ah,” she whispered, drawing his mouth to hers. “You are not just a man, Brent. You do such nice things.”

“Yes,” he said, “I do.”

Maggie stood in the center of the opulent room, her gentleman’s receiving room she called it. Maggie’s was nearly completed, as was the Wild Star. Everything looked grand. She’d had the girls’ bedrooms done first, and the gentlemen hadn’t minded at all the smell of paint or the hazardous piles of lumber stacked about.

She frowned suddenly, remembering that Lisette was still suffering from violent cramps. She must ask Saint Morris to examine the girl. In fact, her thinking continued, though she was careful to ensure that the men who paid the exorbitant price to spend the night in her establishment were as clean as possible, it wouldn’t hurt to have Saint give the girls monthly examinations. She wanted no syphilis in her house.

She walked the length of the sitting room to the large black piano. She lovingly ran her fingers over the smooth finish, then sat down and began to strike a few chords.

Major chords. Only happy sounds. I’m twenty-seven years old, Maggie thought, and I’m going to be very rich and I’ll owe it to no one except myself. She smiled at the thought of her stern-faced father, a blacksmith, stepping into her establishment. Self-righteous prig. Horny demanding bastard. Her fingers suddenly settled on a minor chord. Her poor mother, every year of her married life spent pregnant until she’d had the good sense to die, leaving nine children. Maggie had stayed until her father had remarried. She’d then willingly sold her virginity to a rich tobacco planter from Virginia. The money had gotten her as far as Mississippi, where she’d spent seven years of her life as a man’s mistress. He’d beaten her only rarely, given her gifts equally as rarely, and hadn’t made her pregnant. When she’d read about gold being discovered in California, she’d known that was where she was going, where she belonged. She’d saved nearly every cent Thomas Currson had grudgingly paid her, and she traveled to San Francisco in style. Now I’m a businesswoman, she thought, her fingers moving smoothly to a lighthearted tune. I’ll never be a rich man’s mistress again.

Maggie looked up to see Brent standing quietly watching her. She nodded and placed her hands in her lap.

“Don’t stop, Maggie. You play very well.”

She laughed self-consciously and quickly rose from the stool. “I haven’t touched a piano in a long time, too long a time. My mother played beautifully, until—well, until she didn’t have the energy.”

“She was ill, your mother?”

Maggie gave a bitter laugh. “Ill? Yes, I guess you could say that. Now, Brent, what can I do for you? Have you come to admire?”

How closemouthed she was about her past. But it was an unwritten rule of the West. Everyone was entitled to begin again, to bury his past. Just like you, Hammond. “I’ve never seen such a fancy brothel,” he said. “Actually, I wanted to tell you that I’ve got to go to Sacramento to buy the brass railing for the mahogany bar. Can you believe there’s none to be had in San Francisco?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No. When will you leave?”

“Toward the end of the week. It shouldn’t take me more than three or so days. Then, Maggie, we’ll open, officially.”

The pleasure in his voice warmed her. She had never in her life really liked, much less trusted, a man, until she’d met Brent. He was, objectively, a beautiful man, virile as hell, if her girls were to be believed, but she didn’t want his body. She wanted his friendship. She wanted to be part of his dream. She’d seen the loneliness in him that first evening she’d met him in her brothel. The emptiness. He’d opened up to her, and she’d known she was the only person he’d really spoken to. That made her special to him. They complemented each other. A madam and a gambler. She giggled. “Yes,” she said, “officially. James Cora will gnash his teeth in envy.”

“Just so long as Belle doesn’t come in and tear the plac

e down.”

“Doubtful. James and Belle are experiencing one of their marvelous disagreements at the moment. They’re not speaking. Incidentally, I’ve found you a bartender. He’s from New York, more honest than not, and can handle any scum who come in to make trouble.”

“Thank God,” Brent said. “What’s his name? How did you meet him?”

“It was Lucienne who bagged him, actually. His name, if you can believe this, is Percival Smith. He’s bigger than you, Brent, and built like a wine cask.”

“Send him over and we’ll strike a deal.” Brent paused, searching Maggie’s face. “We’ll make a go of it, Maggie, I swear it.”

“I know, Brent. I knew we were a winning team five minutes after I met you.” She felt a knot form in her throat and quickly said, lightly, “When are we going to have another game of chess?”

“Whenever you want to taste humiliation, you’ve got it, lady.”

They grinned at each other, in perfect accord.

“You never told me, Maggie, who taught you.”

Her eyes clouded, but just for a moment. “It was just someone I knew, a long time ago,” she said. Thomas Currson had taught her both poker and chess. He’d had his uses.

She shook her head at him and smiled. “You know, I never asked you why you’re calling the saloon Wild Star. My name, Maggie’s, is pretty straightforward, but Wild Star?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh at me,” he said.