Naughty Marietta. Nan Ryan
Cole again glanced directly across the street. The Burnett brothers still loitered outside the opera house. They would, he surmised, be waiting when Marietta got home.
Cole pushed away from the building and headed for his hotel. Back at the Teller House he undressed without lighting the lamp, tossing his clothes over a chair. He mulled over what he had seen and heard. And he grimaced.
Old Maxwell Lacey’s beautiful red-haired granddaughter was the mistress of a wealthy, powerful man who was old enough to be her father. And it would not be simple or easy to whisk the gold-digging beauty away from Central City. Not with the lovesick Maltese certain to interfere.
Naked, Cole crawled into bed. He yawned and thought back over the evening. Like a quick jolt of adrenaline came the unforgettable moment when he’d gotten his very first glimpse of the gorgeous Marietta. Cole felt himself stir at the vivid recollection. She was without doubt the most beautiful, the most innocent-looking, the most desirable woman he had ever seen.
He wanted her. Wanted her now. Wished that she was here, naked in his arms.
Cole exhaled with frustration and silently cursed himself. He flopped over onto his stomach and pressed his surging erection into the softness of the mattress. He gritted his teeth, cursed his weakness and waited for this quick burst of unwanted desire to pass. He was annoyed with himself. And he was surprised. It wasn’t as though it had been weeks since he’d had a woman. He’d had one just last night in Denver. What the hell was wrong with him?
Cole waited impatiently for the stirring sexual hunger to subside. All at once he recalled the discordant sound of Marietta’s singing voice. He could hear it ringing in his ears. That did the trick. Desire fled. Heat passed. Cole relaxed.
He heaved a sigh of relief, turned onto his back, folded his hands beneath his head and wondered idly if the beautiful opera singer was in love with the Maltese mining magnate.
No, she wasn’t. He’d bet his ten thousand against it. Harry, the barkeep, had said Maltese purchased the newly built Tivoli Opera House solely so that Marietta could star in all the productions. Marietta was cleverly, cold-heartedly using the lovesick Maltese to further her fledgling singing career.
Cole lay awake pondering how best to get the heartless little gold digger back to Galveston. He decided he’d have to spend a few days in town before he tried anything. He’d watch her closely, check out where she went and when. And with whom. Try to catch her away from her big bodyguards. If he could get her alone for just a moment, he would introduce himself. Tell her he was a fan.
Cole briefly considered courting her, but decided against it. He wasn’t that big a heel. He would simply level with her. Admit that he had come to Central City to escort her home to Galveston and her waiting grandfather.
After all, he wasn’t sure she would refuse to go.
“New York. London. Rome. Amsterdam. Madrid!” exclaimed a glowing Marietta after the morning’s rehearsals. “Andreas, tell me that one day I shall sing in all those cities’ fine opera houses!”
The other players had left the opera house as soon as rehearsals had ended. Only Marietta, Sophia and the opera’s artistic director, Andreas, remained on-stage.
Andreas, a slender, refined man with sandy hair, a pencil-thin mustache and a fondness for the red-haired Marietta, smiled indulgently but was noncommittal.
He said, “My dear child, before you can hope to appear in the opera houses of London and New York, you must spend years mastering your craft. Listening to Madam Sophia, doing as she instructs. Learning, practicing, improving.”
This was not what Marietta had wanted to hear. She sighed heavily and sank onto a chair. “Andreas, you know very well how much I practice. That’s all I do all day, every day. Tell him, Sophia.”
The rotund Madam Sophia agreed. “She works very hard, Andreas. Perhaps too hard.”
The discerning artistic director, like the voice coach Madam Sophia, was all too cognizant of the unfortunate fact that the long hours of practice were not going to make a great deal of difference. Marietta, bless her, beautiful though she was and possessed of a great stage presence, was never going to sing in Rome and Madrid. She simply did not have the voice. But Andreas did not have the heart to tell her.
“Marietta,” Andreas said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I believe Madam Sophia is right. You’ve been practicing too much. Both you and Sophia need to take a rest. Why don’t you get out of that costume, get dressed up in something attractive and go out for a walk or a carriage ride.” He smiled and added, “The fresh mountain air will be good for you.”
Marietta’s weariness instantly fled. She jumped up out of the chair. “You mean it?” She looked from Andreas to Sophia. Both nodded. Her emerald eyes now sparkling, she mused aloud, “I could go shopping or out to lunch. Or just take a walk. I’d enjoy that so.”
“And it would be good for you,” Madam Sophia said.
“You go, my dear, and enjoy yourself,” said Andreas.
“I will,” Marietta replied. “Oh, yes, I will!”
Marietta felt a great surge of excitement wash over her as she planned her little adventure. She had the entire afternoon to herself. No practice. No rehearsal. Maltese was down in Denver and wouldn’t be back until late evening. She was free to do as she pleased!
Marietta, as happy as a child, impulsively dashed over to Andreas and gave him a big bear hug. The normally reserved artistic director was disarmed by her. He laughed and gave her small waist an affectionate squeeze. She released him and turned to Sophia.
Her arms around the short, stocky voice coach, she said, “Will you be a darling and help me dress?”
A half hour later, a smiling Marietta, fashionably garbed in a bronze poplin traveling suit, stepped out into the warm Colorado sunshine.
Her bright smile weakened a little when she saw both Burnett brothers in the alley. In her way. She wished, just once, she could go somewhere without them following her.
Marietta took a spine-stiffening breath and raised and opened her bronze silk parasol. She stepped up to Conlin Burnett, the older of the two brothers, and told him, “I am going to take a walk. By myself. I do not want either one of you getting in my way. I do not want you dogging my every step. In fact, I want you to just stay right here where you are. Will you do that?”
Con Burnett, twisting his battered hat in his big, callused hands, frowned and said, “Now, Miss Marietta, you know we can’t allow you to go off on your own. Lightnin’ would have our hides. We’re supposed to look after you.”
Marietta gritted her teeth. She was wasting her breath and knew it. Maltese swore he had hired the Burnetts to watch after her. She knew better. He had hired them to watch her.
Marietta whirled away and headed up the alley. The brothers exchanged worried looks and hurried behind her. She reached the sidewalk, looked up the street, then down. The parasol shading her delicate skin, she turned and sauntered up Eureka Street with no particular destination in mind.
Passersby, mostly men, recognized the lovely opera star. They stopped to speak to her, to tell her they had seen her perform. Pleased, Marietta smiled politely, shook some hands and graciously accepted praise and compliments. Her presence caused quite a stir on this still, summer afternoon. Everyone she passed warmly acknowledged her, spoke to her, lauded her.
Except one man.
The block ahead was empty, save a lone man leaning a shoulder against the striped pole in front of Duncan’s Barbershop. He did not look like a miner. He looked like a gentleman. He wore a pair of snug-fitting buff-hued trousers and a starched white shirt, open at the collar.
He was not looking in her direction, so Marietta had the opportunity to study him while he remained unaware. She stopped a few feet from him and stared. The man was tall and lean with broad shoulders, deep chest and slim hips. His hair, neatly brushed