Almost a Lady by Heidi Betts

filched, and since she didn't want him looking at it by himself, she had no choice but to stay awake. She'd exchanged the pants and shirt for her shift and robe and now sat on the floor in front of the settee, photographs and papers cluttering the table.
    Brandt sat beside her, sifting through the pages of files she'd copied. For some reason she didn't understand, he found it easier to concentrate while keeping up a normal, totally unrelated conversation. More than once while studying the photographs of the dead girl, he'd hit her with obscure questions like, “What's your favorite color?” and “What do you think you'll want for breakfast?"
    Without looking up from her scribbled notes, he said, “Why did you tell Robert we met in St Louis?"
    Vaguely, through the foggy web of drowsiness, she heard him.
    He nudged her in the ribs with his elbow. Her head fell off the pillow of her hand and her eyes popped open. “What?” she asked, startled. And then she remembered where she was, and who was with her.
    She ran a hand over her face, stifling another yawn. “What did you say?"
    "I asked why you told Robert we met in St. Louis."
    Willow's mouth turned down. “When?"
    "At his office. When he asked where we'd met before, you made a big production of covering up my answer. I was wondering why."
    "Oh. Well, I'd already told him about losing Sammy, and your name hadn't come up. I didn't see any reason to alter my story."
    His eyes darted to her for a fraction of a second before returning to their perusal of the papers in his hand. “Just because we happened to meet in Jefferson City doesn't necessarily mean I had anything to do with your failed assignment."
    She groaned and buried her head in her hands. Logic. At five o'clock in the morning. It was almost too much to bear. Her mind had shut down hours ago. She couldn't even come up with a decent reason not to answer him.
    "Do you remember where you found me in Jefferson City?” she asked.
    "Yeah. In a dark alley, holding some guy at gunpoint."
    "No,” she said wearily. “I mean, after that. Before you knew who I was and you were simply looking for Willow Hastings. Where did you find me?"
    A wide, wicked smile spread across his face. Straight white teeth gleamed in the brightness of several burning oil lamps set throughout the room. “I seem to recall a rather seedy place by the name of the Silver Spur. A small, shadowy room, and a gorgeous brunette with legs that went all the way to Paradise."
    "Yes, yes,” she said, waving off his colorful description. “I'm sure Stella showed you the time of your life, but do you remember finding me?"
    Brandt leaned close, until his breath caressed the side of her face and ear. “I was talking about you,” he whispered. “And your legs."
    She looked at him, wide awake now. Then a modest grin curved her lips. “I didn't think you'd noticed,” she said.
    He snorted, leaning back against the sofa. “A man would have to be dead not to notice,” he scoffed. “And even then, I think he'd put a hold on Heaven just to get one last look."
    The compliment, no matter how coated in pure male egotism, warmed her heart. It felt good to be appreciated—even for only her looks. Even by drunks in a barroom, or arrogant investigative partners.
    "I didn't want Robert to know where we really met because I didn't want him to find out what I'd been doing or where I'd been staying. I was afraid you'd let it slip."
    The papers in his hand forgotten, he focused his undivided attention on Willow. “You mean your supervisor didn't know you were singing in a brothel? Didn't know you kept a room there, as well?"
    "Not exactly,” she answered. “And it wasn't only a brothel. There was a saloon there, too."
    "It was a whorehouse!” he bellowed.
    She cringed at his harsh tone of voice.
    "It's one thing for you to be singing for your supper as part of your disguise, if your supervisor knows. But rooming with a bunch of prostitutes like it's a boarding