Wildstar

They reached his floor by way of the outside stairs at the side of the hotel. The hallway was softly lit by crystal wall sconces, illuminating elegant carpeting and expensive flocked wallpaper. Jess, who had never been inside the Di­amond Dust Hotel before, found herself calculating how much it must cost to run a place like this, and wondering about Devlin's success as a gambler. He had to be good if he could afford to put up here.

And the room. Decadent, was Jess's first thought when Devlin had lighted a lamp. The black walnut furniture gleamed, while the wine-colored tapestry drapes glowed. Gingerly she stepped inside, allowing Devlin to shut the door behind her. Above the bureau hung a smokey dia­mond dust mirror in an ornate gold frame, a color theme that was carried out in the trim of the washstand and the headboard of the huge feather bed.

Against her will, Jess found herself staring at that bed, where the wine-velvet counterpane and fine linen sheets had been left in a wild tangle. The image of Devlin sleep­ing there flashed in her mind before she could stop it. Thinking of him sprawled there, naked as he had been this morning, made her cheeks go hot.

When quickly she looked away, her gaze fell on a red feather boa carelessly draped over the arm of a leather chair. That feminine frippery didn't belong to Devlin, she was certain. And she seriously doubted it had slithered up here on its own. Does he often invite women to his room?

Promptly Jess squelched the thought, realizing she didn't want to know.

Devlin didn't seem at all self-conscious about the un­made bed, though, or the evidence left by his female com­panion. When he led Jess over to the chair, he merely picked up the boa and tossed it aside. "Sit down. I'll get you a drink."

"A drink?"

"Would you prefer whiskey or brandy?" he asked as he went to the bureau.

"I don't drink liquor."

"You do tonight. After what you faced today, you need it."

He had a point, Jess thought as she sank into the deep comfort of the chair, resting the shotgun across her lap. Her nerves did feel shaky, and it had not been one of her better days. First the terror of her father being shot. Then the tension of waiting all day to make sure Riley would be all right. Then the strain of standing up to Burke. And now the shock of being alone in a bedroom with a stunningly attractive stranger whom her memory persisted in keeping unclothed.

Blushing in spite of herself, Jess kept her gaze averted as Devlin poured a finger of brandy in a snifter and brought it to her. She had to look up then, which gave her a jolt. The soft, speculative way he was studying her made her feel like she was the one undressed. She wanted to reach up and see if the pins had come out of her hair.

"Here, drink it down," he said gently, offering her the glass.

Jess started to refuse, but there was a force in those gray-silver eyes that scattered her thoughts like chaff in a wind. What was it he'd said?

When she merely stared at him, Devlin smiled, a slow, lazy, sensual curving of his lips. "For medicinal purposes only."

Sweet glory, that lethal smile combined with that velvet-smooth voice could persuade a woman to forget her own name.

In something of a daze, Jess obediently accepted the snifter from him and felt the warm brush of his fingers against her own. Trying not to jump at the startling sensa­tion his accidental touch aroused, she took a tentative sip. Her breath caught as the potent liquor went down, fiery and smooth. It was expensive stuff, even her inexperienced tongue could tell that. Nothing like the rotgut whiskey Clem was so fond of drinking. But then, no two men could be further apart than those two, in either tastes or appear­ance. Garrett Devlin obviously preferred the finer things in life and was willing to spend good money for them; Clem didn't have the money to spend. With his mules, Clem could have earned an excellent living with other outfits hauling ore down the mountainside to the stamp mills, but he had thrown in with her father instead.

"I'll only be a minute," she heard Devlin say. "Let me get my things together."

Nodding, Jess sipped her brandy and watched as he took some garments from the bureau and began filling a carpet­bag. She knew better than to gape, and yet her gaze kept straying to his face. It was sinful, how a man could be that beautiful. His hair was a rich, thick sable—nearly black but with no trace of blue—and fell over a high forehead delineated by heavy, straight eyebrows. Smooth creases carved his face in several places, down the cheeks and around the sensuous mouth, giving his features the sculpted stamp of classical perfection.

He wasn't that old, Jess thought; maybe ten years older than she was. And yet those shrewd, smoke-hued eyes seemed as if they had seen a lot more of life than she had or ever wou

ld. Still, she would bet that life hadn't been the same struggle for Devlin it had been for her. There was a vital authority about him that suggested clearly he would succeed at most anything he attempted, and with relative ease.

Even as Jess made the observation, Devlin paused in his packing. Eyeing the small leather-covered trunk in the cor­ner, he absently placed his hands at his hips, a gesture that called attention to the lean contours of his lower body.

Flustered that she should even notice such things, Jess cleared her throat and said hastily, "I'll send Mr. Kwan over in the morning to pick up your trunk."

"Mr. Kwan?"

"A Chinese man. He helps with the heavy work at my boardinghouse. His wife, Mei Lin, does laundry and clean­ing." Jess hesitated. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Why should I mind?"

"Most everybody in Colorado hates the Chinese."

Devlin gave her a smile that was a bit grim. "When you get to know me better, Miss Jess, you'll find that I'm not 'most everybody.' "

Devlin went back to his packing then, leaving Jess to her contemplations. No. he was certainly was not "most everybody"; he was very little like the men of her ac­quaintance. He had the look of a man who knew the taste of power, and the confidence of someone accustomed to the best. A bit like Ashton Burke, perhaps, Jess thought with a grimace. And yet Devlin moved quietly, in the way of a man who concealed his power rather than flaunted it the way Burke did.

The reminder of Burke made Jess's mouth tighten. It was with grave satisfaction that she saw Devlin withdraw from the trunk a cartridge belt and a pair of Colt Frontier six-shooters with ivory grips and toss them on the bed. She was grateful he was so different from Burke. Unlike Burke, Devlin was kind. Coming to her rescue the way he had, agreeing to help her protect the Wildstar until her fa­ther got better . . .