The Devil of Whiskey Row by Renee Rose Page B

that night of the fire,” she said at last.
    He didn't answer, but studied her beauty—the smooth, creamy complexion, the shadow of her dimples, the underlying intelligence behind the doll-like face.
    “Once I had resigned myself to it, I found I was ready, actually looking forward to it. I wanted to know—you know—about heaven.” She shrugged. “Or hell,” she said in a wry voice that seemed incongruent with her innocent appearance. “I thought I might see my parents again.”
    His heart had picked up speed; every part of him was listening intently. She was describing something akin to what he'd experienced after his gunshot wound.
    “And then you showed up, and rescued me. And I hated you for it.”
    An unnamed emotion swept through him. He crossed the room and pulled her to her feet. She blinked at him, unafraid. “I hate you for it, too,” he growled.
    She nodded, unaffected. “I thought so.”
    Then he was kissing her, crushing her lips with his own, plunging his tongue into her mouth with the ferocity of a wild animal. With his good hand, he grasped her hair and pulled her head back. Her mouth opened and she panted, her breath too constricted in her corset to sustain much more excitement. He stared down at her.
    This again. This cannot be. He did not have sex with his girls.
    Why did she bring out the beast in him? He dragged his lips over her face until he reached her ear, which he nipped with his teeth.
    “You make me weak,” he said hoarsely.
    “You make me strong.”
    She did look strong—not the innocent Eliza, but Cora, brave enduring Cora, who understood what it was like to want to die. They were two of a kind, weren't they? He pulled her head back even further, to expose her neck, which he bit and kissed, working his way lower, down the creamy expanse of her heaving chest. He tugged at her dress, trying to free a breast from her corset, but the fingers of his broken hand wouldn't work, wouldn't move as he commanded them. She started to lift her fingers to help.
    “Don't,” he gritted.
    She clutched at his arms to steady herself instead, because he refused to let go of her hair to use his good hand. After another moment of struggle with the bodice, he released her all at once in frustration, and they stumbled back from each other. He picked up a book from his trunk and hurled it across the room. It struck the bedside table as it fell, overturning the lantern, which crashed to the floor with a clatter of broken glass.
    Cora stared at him, still unafraid in the face of his rage.
    “Get out,” he panted. “Please.”
    When she didn't move, he shouted, “Get out!”
    She drew back and some emotion crossed her face before it went resolutely blank.
    “I can't—I don't want this.” He was pleading now, willing her to understand. He knew she could.
    She nodded and turned for the door, her back stiff, her head held high.
    A bitterness welled up in him, then. An old, familiar bitterness. It tasted of love and loss.
    And it had nothing to do with anything.
     

Chapter Seven
     
     
    “Why don't you see if Daddy Diggs will pay you to play his piano?” Marie suggested.
    It was afternoon and Cora had been practicing, trying to learn more of the can-can song. They'd continued playing it as a duet, but it was the only time Jake sat down at the piano and it seemed to make him even more miserable, as if it put his diminished capacity on display for all to see. Or perhaps it was more personal than that. Maybe it was too painful to play, knowing he might never again perform with both hands. He'd refused to give her any further lessons, though he had scratched the music to several songs for her to learn on her own.
    Marie's suggestion was obvious—she wanted her off the floor and away from any customers she might draw. The truth was, Cora preferred the piano to whoring, but she wasn't going to give Marie the satisfaction of admitting so. Instead, she ignored her and turned back to the notes Jake had