Wildstar

The Diamond Dust Saloon was closed to the public, it being Sunday, but the private parlor boasted a good crowd. Devlin had accepted Ashton Burke's invitation to a friendly game of faro, lured more by the prospect of infor­mation than by the promise of high stakes, limitless cham­pagne, and a distinguished clientele.

He was seated next to Burke when Jessica Sommers made her startling appearance. Devlin watched with rapt attention as she forged a path through the crowd and the haze of cigar smoke. She paused halfway across the parlor, narrowed eyes scanning the company.

The entire room gradually went silent, except for the rapid click of the still-spinning roulette wheel.

"Burke!" she said through gritted teeth when she laid eyes on the fair-haired Englishman, her low tone one of savage anticipation.

Chairs began to scrape as men in the line of fire moved out of the way. Devlin, though, held his place as she ad­vanced, fascinated by the sight of Jessica Sommers up close. Gold, he thought with an odd sense of pleasure. Her eyes were a tawny gold to match her hair. And right now they were flashing like pyrite in sunlight. She was spitting mad and looking for blood.

Beside Devlin the raven-haired Lena, vividly gowned in red satin with paste diamonds and bare shoulders, edged back from her place as dealer at the table. On his other side, Ashton Burke sat unmoving, the epitome of power and wealth in his cutaway tailcoat and opera hat, a thin cheroot clenched between his teeth.

Burke was apparently unconcerned by either his wrath­ful caller or the weapon she carried. He played another card on the green baize table before removing his cheroot, tipping his hat to her politely, and smiling with mocking civility.

"Miss Sommers," he said, his upper-class British accent cultured and clipped. "To what do we owe the honor of this unusual visit?"

"Don't patronize me, Burke. You know exactly why I'm here—because one of your hired guns shot my father in the back and left him for dead. I used to think a snake like you might have a few scruples, but that was low, even for you."

Ashton Burke's smile never wavered yet grew decidedly cooler. "Ah, yes, your father. I was indeed sorry to hear of his . . . misfortune. How does Riley fare?"

"He's alive, no thanks to you!"

"But you are mistaken, my dear. I had nothing to do with his accident, nor did any of my employees."

"Accident . . . ?" Jessica Sommers clenched her teeth, obviously struggling for control. "Don't disgust me. You'd like nothing more than to see Riley gone so you can get your hands on his claim."

"Merely because I offered to buy the Wildstar mine for an extremely generous price is no reason to make unsub­stantiated allegations. Your father's property interests me only from a legal standpoint, to preclude the possibility of conflicting claims, but certa

inly not enough to cause him harm. I suggest you look elsewhere for your malefactor. Now . . . this is a private party, Miss Sommers. If you're quite finished, I will have someone escort you out."

Her hot amber eyes growing hotter, she made no move to leave. "I'm only going to warn you once, Burke. You keep your hired guns away from my father, do you hear me? If Riley so much as stubs his toe without cause, I'm holding you responsible. I'll come after you with this"— she raised the shotgun—"and put so many holes in you that you'll look like a sieve. They'll be able to pan for gold nuggets with you."

Burke's smile faded entirely. "I suggest that you refrain from issuing such dire threats, Miss Sommers. I should hate to have Marshal Lockwood issue a warrant for your arrest."

A silent bystander, Devlin watched the interplay be­tween the firebrand and the silver king with keen interest and perhaps a touch of sympathy. He could almost feel Jessica Sommers's impotent rage and Burke's cool superiority—and the loathing they each felt for the other. Animosity shimmered between them, ripe and dangerous. It was intriguing, the way they'd squared off like two mountain lions battling over the same lair, claws bared—

Curiously, Devlin looked from one to the other, sud­denly struck by the similarities between them. Both had refined features, hardened now by the stamp of determina­tion. Burke's eyes were pale blue to Jess's gold, true, and he was perhaps thirty years older. But they could have been cut from the same cloth.

Devlin tucked away the interesting observation in a cor­ner of his mind, just as he caught a movement at the edge of his vision. A man was moving up behind Jess, out of her range of sight. A lean, black-haired man by the name of Hank Purcell; Devlin had met him briefly an hour earlier. The Colt six-shooter in Purcell's hand was aimed directly between Jessica Sommers's shoulder blades.

Devlin hadn't planned on interfering, but that was be­fore the odds had turned uneven. With a smooth move­ment of his arm, he let the gambler's hideout gun fall from his sleeve, into his palm. The snub-nosed derringer had lit­tle range, but had the power to launch two solid one-ounce balls. One, Devlin shot at the ceiling, raining plaster dust down on Purcell's head. The second he held in reserve as Purcell froze.

The report echoed loudly in the elegant parlor. Devlin saw Miss Sommers flinch, felt Burke tense beside him, but kept his attention on Purcell, behind the girl. "I'd give it another thought," he suggested with deceptive laziness, his thumb holding back the hammer of the small derringer.

Jess spun around to face her attacker, her expression first one of startlement, then disgust as she eyed the weapon in Purcell's hand. "This is how your employees stay neutral, Mr. Burke?"

"Drop the gun," Devlin said as if she hadn't spoken.

Purcell's savage expression turned mutinous.

"It's your funeral," Devlin added amiably. He could feel Ashton Burke's pale blue eyes boring a hole in him, but he wasn't surprised by the silver king's decision.

"Do as he says, Hank," Burke ordered.

Purcell, after another moment's futile delay, gingerly laid the revolver on the floor.

"Now back off, easy." Devlin waited until the man had edged away, hands raised, palms out, before directing a lazy smile at the angry young woman. "Miss Sommers, I imagine this might be a good time to take your leave."

She turned slowly to give him a long glance, those tawny eyes of hers wary and questioning. But she must have thought better of arguing, for her gaze shifted to the silver king. "Don't forget what I said, Burke," she warned softly before pivoting on her heel and making her way to the door.