Naughty Marietta

Now Marietta turned her most dazzling smile on her aging suitor and played the coquette, to his delight.

“What did you bring me, you naughty boy?” she purred, swaying seductively toward him, eyeing the bag in his hand. She moved in close, draped one arm around his neck and playfully tickled him under the chin with her long, painted fingernails.

Maltese beamed with joy. He held the bag behind his back and said, “You have to guess, sugar.”

Marietta toyed with the lapels of his custom cutaway, tilted her head to one side and said, “Mmm, let me think. A hat? Jewelry? A red ball gown?” She put out the tip of her pink tongue, licked her top lip and said in a soft, sultry tone, “No, no, I know what it is. It’s shoes!”

It was a game the two of them frequently played. Marietta knew exactly what he had brought her. Didn’t have to guess. Her bewitched suitor had given her dozens of pairs of shoes. Shoes of every kind and color. Soft leather pumps imported from Italy. Saucy satin slippers from Paris. Even a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots.

Now as he laughed merrily, Marietta continued to play her part. She reached around behind him, took the bag, drew it up and peeked inside.

“Would you…put the shoes on for me, sugar?” asked the hopeful Maltese.

“Why, of course, Maltese,” said Marietta. She took a seat on an armless velvet chair and made a big production of trying on the dainty new dancing slippers.

Her enchanted admirer sank onto a sofa nearby and watched as if she were totally disrobing. Marietta, cleverly allowing her long dressing gown to part just enough to give him a fleeting glimpse of a shapely, stockinged knee, winked at the heavily breathing Maltese.

She stretched her long right leg out straight and turned her foot one way then the other, as if she was carefully inspecting the new slipper. From beneath veiled lashes she stole a quick glance at her admirer. Beside himself with sexual excitement, Maltese tugged at his choking cravat. The pulse in his throat beat rapidly.

He’d had enough, Marietta quickly decided. Didn’t want him having a heart attack.

She modestly pulled her robe together, rose to her feet and said sweetly, “It’s such a warm day, isn’t it. Shall we have a glass of icy lemonade? Cool off a bit?”

“Yes,” Maltese managed to say weakly. He drew a clean white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and nervously blotted his shiny forehead. “Oh, yes, sugar, that would be nice.”

Three

Cole Heflin arrived in Denver, Colorado, on a warm, still evening near the end of June. Tired and stiff, he stepped down off the train and took a moment to stretch and unwind. He raised his arms skyward, groaned and lowered them. Ignoring curious stares, he bent forward and touched his toes several times. He straightened, leaned back from the waist and twisted one way then the other.

Once he’d worked the kinks out of his legs and back, he made his way through the crowded train depot and out onto the busy street. Cole walked the short distance to the corner of Larimer and Eighteenth, and the Windsor Hotel. A well-heeled fellow traveler had assured him that the British-built hotel was the very best accommodations Denver had to offer.

Cole stepped into the Windsor’s vast lobby and looked around. His fellow traveler had been right. The Windsor was an oasis on the frontier. Elegant parqueted floors, sixty-foot mahogany bar and full-length diamond-dust mirrors.

The uniformed clerk raised a disdainful eyebrow when the bearded, shabbily dressed Cole stepped up to the marble desk. Cole was unbothered by the man’s high-handed attitude.

“Have a corner suite available?” he asked the scornful clerk.

“Sir, our suites are quite expensive and I—”

“Answer the question,” said Cole with a smile. “Any suites available?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Good. Top floor. Front corner suite will do.” He reached for the register, turned it around and signed it as the snooty young man went to get the key.

“Suite 518,” said the desk clerk and reluctantly handed the key to Cole.

Key in hand, Cole said, “I noticed a haberdasher across the street.”

“Why, yes,” said the clerk, “Miller and Son is one of the oldest—”

“Fine,” said Cole as he took a bill out of his pants pocket and laid it on the marble ledge. “Have someone from Miller and Son bring several suits—size forty-two long—to my suite so I can choose one. Also a white shirt, underwear and pair of black leather shoes, size eleven. And, have a barber sent up. I need a haircut. Think you can manage that?”

The clerk looked anxiously around, then eased the bill off the marble desk and nodded. “Half an hour. Will that be acceptable?”

“Perfect,” said Cole who turned away just as a small group of expensively dressed ladies swept through the lobby on their way to the dining room.

One, an attractive brunette who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty, glanced at Cole, nodded and smiled. Cole winked at her. She blushed and hurried to catch up with her friends.

Cole stood and watched her walk away, liking what he saw, wishing he could get to know her better. She went out of sight and he dismissed her. Eagerly he headed for his suite, taking everything in, admiring the fine furnishings of the stately hotel. The Windsor, with its grand staircases, was built to resemble Windsor Castle.

It looked like a castle to Cole.

Once in his luxurious suite, he admired the elegant furniture, oversize bed and gold-plated bathtub. Cole promptly made himself at home. He stripped off his soiled clothes, flipped the tub’s gold faucets and marveled as running water flowed swiftly into the tub.

After a shave and haircut, a hot bath, a couple of shots of bourbon and a fine cigar, Cole dressed in the new suit of clothes he’d purchased from Miller and Son.

The transformation was dramatic. He hardly recognized himself. His tanned face was smoothly shaven and his shaggy black hair neatly trimmed. The new apparel, a well-fitting suit of lightweight navy flannel, pristine white shirt and maroon cravat, made him look like a gentleman.

Cole laughed at the idea. He was no gentleman.

And he’d like to meet a woman who wasn’t a lady. Perhaps later in the evening he’d stroll down to Holladay Street and visit the famous Mattie Silks.

But first he’d have dinner. He was starving.

Cole went down to the dining room and was shown to a table on the wall. Once seated, he casually looked around. His attention was immediately drawn to a round table where the laughing ladies he’d seen in the lobby were enjoying a leisurely meal.

The attractive dark-haired woman that he had winked at began glancing boldly at him. She smiled seductively then lowered her lashes. Cole leaned back in his chair and returned her gaze. The flirtation continued as he ordered dinner.

When the ladies finished their meal and rose to leave, the shapely brunette hung back and pointedly looked his way.

Without sound, Cole mouthed the words, “Suite 518.”

She flushed, turned and hurried away with her friends.

Cole chuckled.

Dinner arrived—a thick juicy steak, fried potatoes, hot bread and butter—and he forgot the brazen brunette. When he’d finished his meal and left the dining room, he debated the visit to Mattie’s. He decided against it. He was too tired. A night’s sleep was what he needed most.

A half hour later, back in his suite, Cole was naked and ready to crawl wearily into bed. But just as he pulled the top sheet down and put a knee on the mattress, there was a knock on the door. Cole frowned. He wrapped a towel around his waist, tied a loose knot atop his hip and crossed the room to open the door.

Before him stood the bold brunette.

“I…I am not in the habit of doing this sort of thing,” she promptly assured him.

Cole grinned lazily. “Why, no, of course not,” he said as he reached out and gently took her arm. He drew the woman inside and closed the door behind her.

For a moment they stood there face-to-face, neither speaking. Cole towered over the woman. She pressed her back against the solid door and gazed at his wide, sculpted shoulders, his broad chest, the white towel covering him. Her breath was now coming in shallow, anxious little gulps. Her heart was beating rapidly, the swell of her full, pale bosom rising and falling above the low-cut bodice of her snugly fitted suit jacket.