“I have the sheet music right here,” said the one who was not Desiree. She pulled it out from among the others and held it up.
“Good. Play that.”
She set it on the piano and opened it up, but it was Desiree who put her hands to the keys and began to play.
Call watched her hands nimbly move over the ivories before he lifted his eyes to study her features. It was the shape of her face and the set of her mouth, perhaps the directness of her gaze, that bore the most marked resemblance to Laurel Beth Morrison. He couldn’t say if she had long legs and a no-nonsense stride, but her coloring was not at all similar to Laurel’s. Desiree’s carefully coiled hair was almost too pale to be considered blond. Without powder and rouge, her complexion would have been alabaster. Not a single freckle dared make an appearance. For all that was different, there was still something that made the likeness to Laurel seem reasonable. Something intangible, he thought. Confidence? Independence? He couldn’t put his finger on it and stopped trying. Hank and Dillon had found it elusive as well. Call decided it might be better if it stayed that way.
Mrs. Fry left the card game but not her cards. She introduced herself to Call and invited him to have a drink. When he politely turned down the offer, she asked him if he’d made a selection. “If you’d like to wait, a couple of girls are busy right now, but they’ll be down soon. You might prefer one of them.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’m already partial to ‘Mollie Darling.’” Still leaning against the piano case, he pointed casually to Desiree.
“Ah, that’s Desiree.”
Desiree’s fingers paused.
“No,” said Call. “Don’t stop. Finish.”
Mrs. Fry said, “Why don’t you step over here and we can discuss particulars.”
“In a moment. When she’s done.”
Mrs. Fry was too successful a businesswoman to show annoyance at a customer’s request, although she did pointedly glance at her cards and then back at the table, where the girls were waiting for her.
It was not five minutes later that Call concluded the transaction with the madam and Desiree was leading him up the stairs. She paused once on the steps to make sure he was following. He wondered if he did not seem eager for her company and made an effort to affect some measure of excitement.
Desiree’s room was also not unfamiliar with its mixed scents of perfume and sex and tobacco. Call wondered if she smoked or if the odor lingered from the parade of men before him. Both things could be true. Her mirrored vanity was crowded with pots of cream and rouge, lotions, atomizers, hairpins, and combs. One of the wardrobe doors was open, revealing a space crowded with undergarments and several afternoon dresses and gowns. One white stocking was draped over the lip of a partially open drawer in the highboy. He had an urge to roll it up and stuff it inside. It was a reminder that old habits die hard.
Call realized he hadn’t precisely hidden the urge when Desiree walked over to the chest of drawers, shoved thestocking inside. She turned on him, one pale eyebrow raised as she closed the drawer. A smile played about her mouth.
“Better?” she asked. “If your pleasure is tidying up, sugar, I don’t mind letting you have your way.”
It was the first time he clearly heard her accented voice. The lilt was Deep South. His ear recognized Georgia. He knew it well enough. His jaw tightened. He felt a muscle twitch in his cheek.
“You all right?” she asked. “I can’t tell if you’re sick that you got snake bit or angry about it. Sit down. Something’s got you feeling crossways.”
Call took a breath, steadied himself, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Well, look at that. You’re right where you need to be. How about I get you out of those boots?”
Call put out a hand, stopping her before she dropped to her knees. “I’ll keep them on.”
“Not in my bed you won’t.”
“I have something else in mind.”
Desiree’s frank gaze went to his groin. “Sure, you can leave your boots on for that. Toss me a pillow, sugar. For my knees.”
Call held out a hand again. “No. Not that.” His lips quirked when she revealed her confusion. He pointed to the wing chair next to the cast-iron stove. “Sit there,” he told her. “Or I can, and you can sit here. I want to talk.”
Desiree didn’t move. “You’re an odd duck, aren’t you, sugar? No, don’t answer. It was rhetorical.” Shrugging, she turned and went to the chair. Before she could sit down, she had to remove several petticoats, a horsehair bustle, two towels, and a pair of red kid slippers. She dropped the bundle on the floor and took her seat. “I know you’re itchin’ to put that all away.”
Call chuckled. “You know how to tempt a man.”
“Honey, you’re a disappointment. A handsome fellow like you just wanting to make order of my particulars, well, that’s all wrong.” She looked him over, shook herhead sorrowfully, and said, “You wanted to talk. Talk. But you have to tell me if I’m supposed to listen. You didn’t say anything about that.”
“Listenandrespond.”
She sighed. “Are you certain you don’t want to get out of those boots?”
