Notorious

By Patricia Potter

In 1870s San Francisco, the fierce rivalry between a former gunslinger and a woman running from her past turns into a passionate, undeniable attraction in award-winning author Patricia Potter’s sexy and suspenseful historical romance

Marsh Canton, the scion of a wealthy Georgia family, spent four years fighting the war of a divided nation. When he returned home, he found his family gone and his way of life destroyed. Turning his back on his heritage, he struck out for the west, achieving notoriety as a stone-cold gunslinger. Now, reinventing himself yet again, he arrives in San Francisco to take over the saloon he won in a poker game.
 
Natchez born-and-bred Catalina Hilliard is haunted by her violent past. Dubbed the Ice Queen, she sleeps with a Derringer under her pillow and runs the elegant Silver Slipper saloon. With the help of the local law, she keeps a monopoly on the trade by running all her rivals out of town. She’s about to meet her match in Marsh Canton, who has also spent a lifetime running. But they can’t run forever, and the passion igniting between them has just changed the stakes. Even with the odds against them—and a dangerous man gunning for Marsh—it’s their last chance to make things right and choose love.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Oct 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504021586

Patricia Potter

Former reporter Patricia Potter is the bestselling and award-winning author of more than sixty books including suspense, romance and contemporary romance. Many of her books have made the USA Today, Waldenbooks and Barnes & Noble Bestseller lists and have been selected for the Literary Guild, Mystery Book Club and Doubleday Book Club. She has won numerous awards, including Story Teller of the Year by RT Book Reviews and has received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Just before daybreak …

DENVER, COLORADO

WINTER 1879

Marsh Canton kept his face expressionless. Across the table a man who called himself Darcy wiped nervous sweat from his brow.

About—about that marker … Darcy stammered.

Marsh said nothing. He merely waited.

I … I can’t pay it.

You will, Marsh said coldly, one way or another.

Sweat beaded like tears at the corners of Darcy’s eyes; it dripped down his cheeks. His face was red, mottled from heavy drinking, and his hands trembled. I do … do have something, he managed to say. His expression was a study in fear as he reached inside the breast pocket of his coat.

Instantly a gun was in Marsh’s hand. The movement was so fast, it seemed to onlookers as though Marsh hadn’t moved at all. The three other men at the table pushed back their chairs, and silence fell over the crowd in the Purple Sage Saloon.

No! Darcy shouted. I wasn’t reaching for a gun. I swear it!

The gun didn’t waver. Marsh’s eyes were very dark, framed by hooked black brows that gave him a perpetually lazy look. But no one took Marsh Canton for lazy. He had the reputation of being one of the most ruthless, and deadly, men in Colorado, perhaps in the entire West.

You were saying? Marsh prompted. His words echoed in the cavernous hall, and men inched away even as they tried to position themselves to better hear what transpired.

Slowly, Darcy slid the paper from his coat. A … a saloon. In San Francisco. This is the deed.

And what would you be doing with a saloon in San Francisco?

A debt. I took it, like … like now … in a poker game.

You must have been a better poker player a while back than you are now, Marsh said in a low, contemptuous voice. He hated welshers. But then, he didn’t like anyone much.

He took the deed. There was a legal-looking seal, and the deed appeared legitimate enough. But why in the hell would he want a saloon? He was a gunfighter. One of the best. He brought the highest dollar.

Darcy was sweating even more profusely. Marsh cursed to himself. He wouldn’t get anything else from the man. It was very plain there was nothing more to get. Marsh could kill him. But damn, he was tired of killing—so damned tired.

His last job had made him realize exactly how tired. He had been hired by a rancher who feared a range war was in the making. One of Marsh’s competitors, a man called Lobo, had been hired by an opposing rancher. In the end Lobo and he hadn’t been forced to confront each other, but Lobo had been drawn into a showdown with another hired gun and been shot, his gun hand shattered. In that moment Marsh had imagined himself in Lobo’s place.

Nearly forty now, Marsh knew he was old for a gunfighter. He was losing his edge, those split-second responses. More and more often he awoke from a dream in which he saw himself dying on a dirt street in a worn-out, no-name cow town while people stared as if he were a freak.

And he was a freak. No heart. No soul. A shell of a man. But he didn’t want to die that way, not with an ambitious young gunfighter bending over him as a crowd cheered him on.

He looked at the crinkled piece of paper in his hand. His deliverance, perhaps? A sign? Hell, he didn’t believe in such tomfoolery. Yet …

He smoothed the paper and saw Darcy release a long breath. This had better be real, he said in a voice that rumbled threateningly. Or I’ll find you.

The man’s red face went white, something Marsh would have thought impossible.

It’s real, Darcy mumbled.

Sign the deed, Marsh commanded, pushing it back. The man did as ordered, the signature barely legible because his hand shook so badly.

Marsh Canton took the deed back, folded it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. He stood, casually sliding his gun into its well-used holster. No one moved. He took one careful look around the saloon. Only the usual fear registered on the faces of the men.

He was used to the fear. He expected it. He discovered he was also weary of it.

Marsh turned his back, satisfied that no one would try to stop him.

No one did. They simply watched the lean blackclad figure stalk out of the saloon. And they were damned glad the gunfighter had gone.

No one heard Marsh’s mirthless chuckle as he left the silent crowd behind. The gunfighter was about to become a saloon owner. Maybe the odor of fear and death, which had been his companion for more than twenty years, would no longer shadow him.…

Maybe.

PART ONE

Bright Midnight

CHAPTER 1

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

SPRING 1879

Cat bolted upright, her hand sliding under her pillow to seize the derringer she always kept there. She heard a loud bang, then muted thumping. Fear engulfed her, and she struggled to calm herself.

So much had changed. So very much. But not the fear. Loud noises at night brought it back … along with images of another time when men tramped the hallways and banged on doors. Years later, banged on her door. And forced their way inside.

It wasn’t night, she realized. It was nearly dawn, and the noises that had awakened her were coming from outside, not from within the safe home she’d made for herself above the Silver Slipper Saloon, where she, Catalina Hilliard, reigned. She slipped the derringer back to its hiding place and got out of bed, walking slowly to the window, throwing aside the blowing pale-green curtains as she searched outside for the source of the sound. San Francisco was a raucous town, haven to the newly rich and the recklessly adventurous—a town of mavericks, like her, and the city was never still. But the banging noise was different, oddly compelling and demanding of attention.

The window was open as always. She loved the cold wind that blew off the bay, fresh and tingly, so unlike the humid, almost suffocating, heat of Natchez Under the Hill and so many other towns up and down the Mississippi.

The sharp bang came again, and through the silver glow of an oncoming dawn, her gaze found the culprit: a wooden sign on the building across the street. One end had fallen from its hinge and was banging against the wooden side of the building. She could barely make out the words from the awkward position: Glory ole. It should have been the Glory Hole, but one of the letters had faded, and now the rest of the sign was joining it in ignominy.

The sight almost revived her spirits. She’d had no small part in its present abysmal condition. She’d run four owners out of business, and she would continue to do the same to anyone who tried to revive the saloon.

She’d seen her competition try everything from cheap watered whiskey to prostitutes, two practices she abhorred, and she’d defeated them so completely that no one had tried to reopen the saloon in the past two years. The empty building had sunk into disrepair, most of its furnishings taken to pay the bills of its last owner, and the interior was used now by a variety of human and animal flotsam.

Little remained within its fairly strong walls other than a long scarred bar and a damaged piano too big to cart off. She didn’t even know who owned it, though she had heard that one of the creditors of the last owner had taken the deed.

If anyone did try to reopen it, she would ruin them as she’d ruined the others.

The sign banged again as if to accentuate that vow. No one in his right mind would try a fifth time. Everyone in San Francisco knew the Glory Hole’s history of failure.

With that happy thought, Cat turned away from the window, her hand pushing back the thick mane of dark hair that had fallen partially over her face. She’d been too tired last night to braid it as she usually did, so she would have to fight the tangles. She lit an oil lamp and glanced in the mirror, looking at herself critically. Her face was still smooth, her eyes still a vivid green. No lines yet, thank God, despite late nights and long hours. She was thirty-seven, maybe thirty-eight years old; she didn’t know when she had been born, not the day or even the year.

She knew she was beautiful, but in the past her face and figure had been a curse. They had, however, become assets in making the Silver Slipper successful. Beauty at a distance. Out of reach. No one laid a finger on Catalina Hilliard. People called her the Ice Queen, a name she relished. It was part of the image she had assiduously cultivated. In a few years she wouldn’t have to worry about her looks or her image because she would have enough money to fulfill her heart’s desire. She longed to pull up stakes and move into the countryside, somewhere near the sea, to a place where she could enjoy anonymity and the security that meant to her. A few more years. A few more years without competition.

The Glory Hole sign banged again. Now the noise comforted her, proclaiming her success, her competitors’ failures.

Cat decided that she liked that noise very much indeed.

The lawyer looked at Marsh Canton as if he had suddenly contracted leprosy. Or insanity.

Marsh didn’t much care for the expression on the lawyer’s face or the peculiar feeling he was getting. Something was wrong, very wrong. He fixed the lawyer with a stare that quelled most men.

It had an impact, though not as great a one as Marsh was used to; but then, lawyer David Schuyler Scott was not a man who was easily impressed or intimidated.

The lawyer had been recommended to Marsh by the owner of the hotel where he was staying, a man named Quinn Devereux. Scott was a rarity, Devereux had said, an honest lawyer in San Francisco. Now that Marsh thought about it, Devereux had also looked at him a bit strangely when he’d mentioned the Glory Hole.

You plan to do what? Scott asked.

Take possession of the Glory Hole, Marsh repeated as patiently as he could. His eyes narrowed. This is a legal deed, isn’t it?

Oh, yes. It certainly seems to be. But why don’t you try to sell the property? It would be suitable for … His voice trailed off. What would the property be suited for with the Silver Slipper across the street? Not a home, or a school, or even a respectable store. Respectable women didn’t patronize that area.

A saloon, Marsh finished for him.

David Scott leaned toward his new client. The man disturbed him in more ways than one. He called himself Marshall Canton, and the name had an odd familiarity to it, though David couldn’t place it at the moment. But he did perceive a certain aura of trouble exuding from the man. Trouble and danger. His first impulse had been to turn away Marsh Canton, but Quinn Devereux, an old and valued client, had sent the man to him, and David owed Quinn and his wife, Meredith, a favor or two.

I think I should warn you, Mr. Canton, that the last four owners lost everything they had with the Glory Hole.

Marsh Canton shrugged. Why?

The lady across the street doesn’t like competition, David said.

The lady?

Catalina Hilliard. They call her the Ice Queen of San Francisco. She owns and operates the Silver Slipper.

A woman saloon owner?

Yep, David said, a bit pleased that he finally startled the stoic man across from him. A very pretty one. And a very determined one.

And how does she get rid of her competitors?

Various ways, I hear. An unexpected visit from the police. A small riot. Accusations of watered whiskey and card cheating.

Were they true?

I expect some of them were.

I don’t intend to allow either.

David cleared his throat. He suspected if Catalina couldn’t defeat him by legal means, she’d find extralegal ways to drive him out.

It’s in very bad shape, David said quickly.

I’ll fix it, Marsh countered.

It will take a lot of money.

I have a lot of money.

Frustrated at the way his new client so casually pushed aside objections, David sighed. Canton’s clothes weren’t fashionable, but they were made from expensive fabric. And striking. All black. Shirt, trousers, coat, even his gunbelt. The gunbelt was disquieting in itself; guns were becoming a rarity now in San Francisco, where once they had been as common as boots. His client’s dark gray eyes and ebony hair matched the darkness of his clothes, and the gaze, though steady, was most unusual. David had never seen eyes that betrayed so little; they were like glass, reflecting pools that caught images of others while safeguarding the person behind.

Why, Mr. Canton?

Marsh’s eyebrows arched. Why what?

Why are you so insistent on the Glory Hole?

I won it.

You won trouble.

I’m used to trouble, Mr. Scott.

David didn’t doubt that for a moment. But this was, he suspected, a different kind of trouble. He was acquainted with Catalina Hilliard.

There are other properties, the lawyer said.

Marsh didn’t know why the Glory Hole had become so important to him, but it had. All the way from Colorado he had thought about it, thought that maybe this was his one chance to get away from the gun. It had become an obsession with him, even if he didn’t understand all the reasons why. He did know, however, that when he set his mind on something, nothing changed it. And he had his mind set on the Glory Hole. So he simply said, No.

What do you plan to do with it?

Marsh shrugged. Gambling. Whiskey. What else do you do with a saloon?

And you’re prepared to run it?

Marsh nodded.

You don’t exactly inspire frivolity, David said with the slightest of smiles as he thought Marshall Canton’s eyes alone would daunt most customers. Not to speak of the grace with which he wore the gun, a grace that came only from familiarity and long use.

Marsh’s lips twisted in an approximation of a smile. There was so little warmth in it, David thought, that Canton might as well have frowned.

That’s why I know I need someone else. A front man. I hoped you could help me.

The last was said with obvious reluctance. It was easy for David to see that Marshall did not like asking for help. And for the first time, he warmed up to this client. There was something to say for honesty, for a man who realized his limitations. Perhaps, he said. But why don’t you take a look at it before you make a decision?

It’s not necessary.

David shook his head. I won’t have anything to do with it unless you do.

Marsh stood, studied David with such a measured gaze that he had the sudden feeling he was being sized for a coffin, then nodded. I’ll be back.

David watched him turn and leave the office and felt relieved. Canton wouldn’t be back, not after seeing the condition of the Glory Hole.

Still, he thought, Marshall Canton would make an interesting client. A very interesting client—and an interesting challenger to Catalina Hilliard. David grinned suddenly. His client wasn’t like the others who had tried to make a success of the Glory Hole. Now that he thought about it, there were certain similarities between Canton and Miss Hilliard. Both seemed to have a streak of stubbornness that would make a mule proud, and their eyes …

He was suddenly struck with the thought that both Canton and Catalina had the same look in their eyes: wariness and detachment, a warning not to venture too close. It was part of Catalina’s appeal, that touch-me-not aura that alternately challenged and bewitched.

David Schuyler Scott leaned forward on his chair and rested his elbows on the desk, a thoughtful look on his face.

Marsh took one look at the Glory Hole and understood the attorney’s reluctance to proceed.

A wooden sign dangled on one chain, hitting the side of the building with an occasional thud. He stood transfixed, remembering a similar scene fifteen years before. A thud, just like this one, reflecting the same bleakness …

Someone shouted, and he realized he was standing in the middle of a street, in the path of an oncoming carriage. He moved deliberately to the wood sidewalk, making the cursing driver slow his horses. Danger was a word that had little meaning. He had no fear of death, only a reluctance for a certain kind of dying.

He could touch the sign from where he stood now, and he did, his fingers running over the faded H. Appropriate, he thought, for something essential was missing, too, from his life.

He turned to the front entrance. Only one of the pair of four-feet tall swinging doors remained in front of a substantial door. He tried the solid door and found the lock gone. The door opened easily, and he stepped inside.

He heard a growl. A dog—if you could call it a dog—was rising from where it evidently had been sleeping. It was the ugliest animal he had even seen—as ugly, he thought with dry humor, as the wrong end of a Winchester rifle.

He looked over at a broken window, guessing that was how the animal had entered. The dog was fairly large, his sides bony and scarred, his head not distinctive of any breed and his salt-and-pepper coat layered with dirt. Only the dog’s teeth seemed to be in decent condition, and they were bared threateningly. It crouched, growling, and Marsh spoke evenly. I won’t hurt you, he said as if conversing with a human, if you’ll grant me the same courtesy. His tone of voice pacified the animal, which relaxed slightly and lowered his growling to a warning rather than threatening sound.

Marsh took several more steps inside. There was only a bar and a piano in the huge room. He thought of another piano, one from years back, and looked down at his hands, hands that had once been so facile on piano keys before they had become even more talented at delivering death. He walked over to the forlorn-looking instrument, detouring around the wary dog. He stroked an ivory key and heard a dull thud. The sound sent anguish through him; it seemed to echo his own dead soul.

He shook his head at the morbid thought. He’d given up on his soul and heart long ago. There was nothing left of either in him, nothing of grace or worth. Only survival drove him now, a survival that was becoming more and more difficult.

Like this place. Perhaps he did fit here in this rotting, desolate building. He grinned at the dog, feeling at one with it. The dog cringed, and Marsh chuckled mirthlessly. Don’t like the comparison? he asked in the same conversational tone he had used before, and the dog growled more forcefully.

The dog had a great deal of sense, Marsh thought, as he took a more searching inventory of his property.

Windows were broken, the paint on the walls peeling, and there was the inescapable odor of unwanted visitors. He leaned against the wall and took from his pocket a long, thin cigar, lit it, and studied the interior by the light that filtered in through the broken windows.

He had lied to the lawyer. Well, not exactly lied, but certainly he’d left a misconception. He had said he had money. He did. But not a great deal. He had been well paid for his jobs, but he had expensive tastes, and there had never been any particular reason to save. God knew there wasn’t anyone to leave it to. So he always stayed in the best hotels, ate the best food, and bought the most expensive wines. And he gambled, often not really caring if he won or lost but finding it a way to wile away time. Or to ferret out information.

His gaze went to what remained of a mirror over the bar. Not much. A couple of pieces of glass, just enough to catch a glimpse of his black coat. Jagged pieces of glass … like those he’d found in the charred ruins of his home.

The room started spinning, and he placed his hand against the wall for support.…

He was leading his horse up the once-broad drive that led to the main house, to Rosewood. Both he and the horse were weary and half-starved. The animal had served him well, and despite his need to get home Marsh was damned if he was going to kill the horse to do it.

He fought his anticipation. Anticipation and a terrible gnawing fear. He had passed too many burned and abandoned plantations in this part of Georgia not to worry about what he would find. While fighting in Virginia, he had heard about Sherman’s brutal march to the sea and the subsequent occupation, but the reality of what he had found surpassed any horrors he had imagined.

He’d thought he had few illusions after four years of bitter fighting, but he’d somehow managed to keep his image of home, of the green grass, rich fields, and fine Greek Revival house. But most of all he remembered the gentleness of his mother and sister. His brother and father were both gone, killed in the early days of the war, but a distant cousin had taken on responsibility for the plantation, and though he hadn’t heard from his mother and sister in a year, he’d forced himself to believe it was only because a Union army lay between them.

He took the bend of the road, looked up eagerly, and stopped in his tracks. Where the house had stood, only the skeletons of two of the six chimneys of its fireplaces remained.

There was an eerie silence, perhaps because there was little left to harbor birds or block the slight hot breeze. Even the oaks that had once led to the house were gone … cut for firewood, perhaps, or burned by sparks from other fires.

Of all the outbuildings—the two barns, stables, and slave cabins that had once sat in neat rows behind the great house—only half of one cabin remained, its door listing from a single hinge. It swayed on that hinge, occasionally hitting the partial wall that remained. The sound from that collision emphasized the overall silence, the sense of abandonment and bleakness. The garden his mother had loved was overgrown with weeds, although a few red roses had valiantly fought their way through them. The once-fertile fields were also covered with weeds. Slowly he walked to the small family cemetery shaded by one of the few surviving trees. Looking oddly out of place among the great stone monuments were two simple wooden crosses. Sally Canton and Melissa Canton. Beneath their names was the same month of death. June 1864.

Marsh Canton, a colonel in Mosby’s guerrillas and veteran of four years of some of the most bitter fighting of the war, stood still and felt heat gather behind his eyes. He wasn’t aware he was crying until he felt moisture hit his hand, which still held the reins of the horse. It was then, at that moment, when what was left of his soul died.

He was twenty-five that day.

And he had turned from his heritage and walked away, never to return, not after he discovered exactly what had happened in that month of June.…

He shook his head. He had walked away once. He should walk away again. Once more his gaze moved around what remained of the saloon. Why did it hold an attraction? Why was he so determined to have what he’d sworn didn’t matter to him—a place of his own?

The goddamn deed had seemed a sign of some kind, a start.

A start? More like a finish, he thought wryly as he mentally totalled the cost of renovation. It would take everything he had. He could just ride on.

And do what? Another job? More killing? Christ, it was already too easy. It had been so natural on his last job that it scared him. He had killed two men there, one who had challenged him and the other who had shot a child. Both needed killing, but when he’d left that town and all that had occurred there, he’d known a confusion and gnawing ache he’d never experienced before. Now in a blinding moment of self-examination, he realized he was seizing this opportunity for personal salvation.

The Ice Queen. A woman saloon owner. Apparently she was responsible for the dismal shape of this place. A challenge. Perhaps that’s what he needed to feel alive again.

Hell. He whisked aside the thought. The whole thing was nonsense anyway. He didn’t need this place—especially if it was going to revive memories best left alone.

He dropped the cigar on the floor and crushed it with his booted foot.

Right now he needed a drink. Badly.

And why not across the street? The mirror fragment above the bar reflected his wolfish grin. He unbuttoned his broadcloth coat, sauntered through the door, across the street, and into the Silver Slipper.

CHAPTER 2

The Silver Slipper was everything the Glory Hole wasn’t.

In fact, Marsh thought, it was probably the finest saloon he’d patronized since before the war, when he’d visited the most fashionable ones in Richmond and Washington. It certainly was one of the biggest.

Yards of hardwood floor, polished to a fine sheen, stretched to a rich mahogany bar that spanned the width of the room in the rear. To one side was gambling paraphernalia: two roulette wheels, several poker tables, a blackjack table with an elegantly dressed dealer presiding. To the left was an elevated stage with a piano. Stairs at the back led up to a landing that disappeared into a hallway. Dazzling chandeliers lit the room, light dancing off the mirrors and gleaming floors. Pale-blue velvet curtains framed windows as well as the stage.

The saloon was welcoming, friendly even, and Marsh never before had had that impression in a public drinking place. A table laden with food was near the front door; tables with chairs were placed around the room. Small groups of men, several enjoying the company of pretty hostesses, sipped from frosted mugs, another rarity in western saloons, and Marsh thought the cost of ice must be astronomical.

He went to the bar and hooked his right boot on the brass footrest. The bartender was there immediately with a smile. Your pleasure, sir?

Whiskey, Marsh said, and the man nodded and poured a generous dollop in a clean glass. Marsh was impressed, despite himself. Cleanliness was rare in western establishments. He sipped the whiskey, savoring its fine rich taste. No rotgut here.

You’re new in town? the bartender asked.

Marsh nodded.

The bartender, obviously trained as to when and when not to pursue conversation, looked down at the glass. Another?

Marsh nodded again. He needed it after comparing the Silver Slipper with the Glory Hole. He only wished he had that welsher in his gunsight.

A woman with light-brown hair approached him with an oddly hesitant expression. Like some company?

Marsh eyed her speculatively. She, like the whiskey, was premium. She looked about eighteen or so, a bit young for his taste, but she was very pretty in a soft way, and she had an appealing vulnerability about her. Her eyes were an expressive coffee color, and her smile was appealingly tentative rather than practiced.

If he’d been of a mind for company, he might have sought information from her, but he wasn’t. He was in a foul mood. The unwanted memories sparked by the wreck across the street, and the knowledge he’d been gulled by a tinhorn, fed a simmering anger.

He watched the woman’s face as her gaze met his, and he saw the familiar withdrawal in them. Philosophers said the eyes were the mirror of the soul, and he knew his had become about as black as sin. Not many people looked at him without flinching and inching away. The lawyer had been one of the few, and even he had been wary.

The young woman was moving slightly backward, even as a question remained in her eyes.

Why not? Marsh thought suddenly, changing his mind. The girl was unusual. She couldn’t be as vulnerable as she appeared, not if she worked in a saloon. Perhaps he could learn more about the Ice Queen, who, apparently, was not in the saloon this afternoon.

He nodded and gestured to the bartender while keeping his eyes on her face. Your pleasure?

Champagne, she said, her voice a little shaky.

More like tea, Marsh knew, at champagne prices, but he gave the order to the bartender along with one for another whiskey. That would be his limit. It always was. He held his liquor well, but it was pure stupidity for a gunfighter to drink more. A fraction of a second was often the difference between life and death.

When the drinks came, he took them and followed her to a table where she sat down, her hands nervously taking the glass of champagne.

My name’s Molly, she said, obviously waiting for him to reveal his.

Canton, he said curtly, hoping there would be no recognition. He doubted there would be, for he had not worked in California, but there had been one of those god-awful dime novels about him. Mostly fiction, of course, but with a grain of truth.

First or last?

He shrugged. Just Canton.

The girl looked even more nervous. First time here?

He gave her a slight smile and nodded.

Her gaze wavered, apparently unnerved by what she saw in his smile, in his face. She bit her lip and took a nervous sip of the drink, and he watched with interest. She was nothing like the saloon girls he had met in the past. There was something rather … uncertain about her. He wondered whether there were upstairs rooms, whether the Ice Queen dealt in prostitution as well as liquor, gambling, and bribery. It was a matter of interest, rather than desire. He was becoming intrigued. Shy, frightened bar girls were unusual.

He waited for her next question, not making it easy for her with his hard, steady stare; but then, he never made things easy for anyone.

She was tongue-tied now, whether because of lack of wit or his intimidation, he didn’t know. One hand tapped the table while the other clutched the empty champagne glass.

He gave her as close to a real smile as he could manage. It was meant to disarm, but it apparently had the opposite effect, for the glass shattered, cutting her hand. She gave a sudden cry, and the bartender moved quickly to her side, glaring at Marsh as he wrapped a towel around the wounded hand.

Aw, Molly, he said with real concern. I’ll get Catalina.

Marsh sat back, watching with a bemused air. A skittish saloon girl. A protective bartender. Strange. He looked around, and even the customers were glaring at him.

Was he that frightening these days?

He heard movement above him and looked toward the stairs, his gaze riveted on the woman descending them. Marsh Canton had never been awed by a woman. Christ knew he had seen enough of them and bedded a good many, but the woman who was approaching was unique, and he couldn’t immediately give a reason why.

But he understood why she was called the Ice Queen, and it certainly wasn’t because of her coloring. He had expected her to be blond and blue-eyed for some reason, but her hair was as black as his own and her eyes the most spectacular emerald green he had ever seen. It wasn’t her vivid beauty, though, that caused her to be called Ice Queen. It was an aura that cloaked her, one that proclaimed her separateness from the rest of the world.

The thought was so quick, so certain, that it astounded Marsh. Intrigued him. Fascinated him. Very little did that these days, and the sudden surge of interest surprised him. He rose as she approached.

Her gaze was only for Molly and went directly to the bloody towel. Are you all right?

Molly nodded, a shamed, half-frightened expression on her face. It’s just a little cut. I’m … sorry.

Cat gently unwrapped the towel and examined the cuts; then she looked over at Marsh, as if seeing him for the first time. Anger sparkled like green fire in her eyes. Are you responsible for this?

Of everything Marsh had been accused of in his ill-directed life, hurting a woman had never been one of them, and he stiffened.

But Molly shook her head. No … Miss Catalina, he didn’t do anything.… I was nervous and broke the glass. Marsh recognized the courage

Reviews for Notorious

[Marina Darrigo · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I highly recommend it! Lots of fun!!! Cat and Marsh are pure dynamite! Besides , the story takes you back to an exciting post war San Francisco!

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It was a great book. Written by a great writer about the American west

[dkthain · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Cat Hilliard owns a very successful, very upscale saloon. She will do just about anything to stay on top. Marsh Canton wins the saloon next door in a card game and had decided to give up his former occupation as a hired gun.Cat is willing to pull out all the stops in order to stop Marsh from success and he is willing to try just about anything to stop her. Their game of one-upmanship is very funny but underneath it, Cat is a woman with secrets. She is a fabulously strong heroine and if you’re a lover of the Western, this is one you really should read! Heck, even if you’re not a Western lover, this is still a Very Good Book.