Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) (22 page)

Avoided drama was her favorite kind of drama, Coyote decided, and she had a different kind of plan. A risky kind of plan. It
would
be a challenge getting Alfonso Martine alone. He was always surrounded by Westwood’s men. Their only hope was to distract all of them—they had the prostitutes to aid with this—get close to Martine, and lure him away with a good excuse. At least right now, he wasn’t near Westwood himself, and that already made things a bit simpler.

There was a familiar sound of a click behind her. Coyote tensed, and slowly turned around to stare straight into the barrel of a gun.

“Damn,” she said.

Her eyes moved past the barrel, past the hand that was holding it, and looked at the man standing behind. It was James Westwood, and he was smiling like a fox.

“Miss Webb, what a pleasure to see you here, and in such delightful circumstances,” he said with a warmth in his voice that made her roll her eyes.

Coyote sighed and put up her hands.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me?”

Her hands remaining in the air, Coyote struggled to stand up straight. The dress constricted her movements. Her bosom threatened to pour out of the top, and Coyote decided to risk her life by lowering one hand and hoisting up the corset. Then she saw something new in Westwood’s eyes. Lust.

He motioned with the gun, indicating where she had to go. Another sigh escaped her lips as she walked ahead of him. He grabbed her arm and steered her forward with the cold steel of the gun poking into the soft flesh of her back. She could feel his breath on her neck, and the sensation opened the gate for old memories to flood back into her mind. Gently, he led her to the room he had hired for the night.

Maria looked at her apologetically, eyes wide and wild, like that of a small, furry animal. She could see the prostitute’s ample bosom move up and down rapidly and realized the girl was more afraid than she was. She was sure Maria hadn’t given her away, not on purpose anyway, but she could see the girl still felt guilty. Coyote shot her a reassuring smile to let Maria know that she wasn’t angry. The plump redhead grabbed her negligee and scurried out, her pretty curls bouncing out with her. Coyote could smell the sweet scent of the prostitute’s flowery perfume as she ran by.

Westwood released his grip and walked around to face her. His whole demeanor showed his triumph, and Coyote fantasized about pistol-whipping him in the face.

“Please, sit.” He pointed the gun at a plain wooden chair.

After a long moment’s hesitation, she obeyed. When she sat down, he tied her hands behind her back and to the seat. The rope wasn’t so tight as to sting, but tight enough to keep her restrained.

This is just grand
, she thought.

The chair felt cold against her bare back and through the thin stockings on her legs.

Over his shoulder, she stared at the rest of the room. It was a nice room with a big, four-poster bed, complete with pink and red silk sheets. A lovely flowery scent hung thick in the air—Maria must have sprayed some of her perfume to make it more alluring. Everything was perfectly arranged to be as romantic as possible. Being a prisoner in a prostitute’s boudoir was definitely disconcerting. She was more aware of her own femininity, and felt like the “weaker sex” for the first time in many years. Everything about this situation bothered her. She was too stubborn to be “weak,” but when around Westwood . . . it was always around Westwood when she fell out of her comfort zone; she changed when he was near.

“I have to admit, this was not the place I would have expected to meet you,” Westwood said, smirking. “But I like your choice.” As he pulled back, he let the gun slide ever so softly over the uncovered skin of her leg.

The metal felt cold against her flesh, and the unexpected touch shot pangs of electricity through her abdomen. Then Westwood stood back and took his time to look at her. She struggled to keep her breathing even and her face impassive.

Coyote felt exposed. The revealing dress wasn’t helping her feel any better, but even if she would have been fully dressed, she would have still felt naked.
Maybe slightly less naked though.
Westwood’s hungry green eyes, sizing her up as if she were an appetizer, certainly didn’t help her confidence.

“That is an interesting costume, Miss Webb,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Something in his voice, in his eyes, unsettled her.

“It is a costume, am I correct? You are still a bounty hunter and have not decided to change your profession?” He smiled wickedly, and Coyote knew he was toying with her. She rolled her eyes at him, but said nothing.

“I didn’t think so.” His hand rubbed through his neatly groomed black hair, and he stared at her as if he were expecting her to say something. A thought crossed his mind, and his expression changed; somehow it became almost fragile.

Coyote watched him, amazed that her silence unsettled him. He paced back and forth, shaking off his discomfort. His green eyes met hers, then he took a spot on the bed in front of her.

The mattress was soft, and he sank into the sheets as he sat, staring at her in mute interest. Faint tunes from a piano, boisterous voices, and laughter sounded from downstairs. Coyote pictured the patrons who celebrated their night in ignorant bliss. Hidden in their midst was Caesar, and she wondered how he was doing.

Westwood cleared his throat and broke the silence.

“So this was the plan?” he said. “I expected more from you.”

She could see him searching for emotions on her face, but she kept it blank, though it was a struggle. There had to be a way for her to control her hatred. It was her weakness, and she was painfully aware of it. The gun wasn’t pointed at her anymore, but it didn’t matter. She was tied to a chair, and even if she weren’t, Coyote would be no physical match for him. Nor could she use any weapons—not that she was carrying any at the time, as her outfit wouldn’t allow it. She had her weapon stashed in a more convenient place. Besides, Westwood was too powerful a technomancer for her to even try. She hadn’t found his vulnerability yet, and without a weakness, he could not be defeated. Coyote would have to come up with a better plan if she ever wanted to put Westwood six feet under.

He shook his head, tousling his hair with his fingers, which made him look younger than he was.

“Interesting how you used Maria to keep me busy,” he said. “That was pretty clever, I shall have to give you that. You are a very resourceful creature.” A bemused sparkle graced his green eyes. He scratched his chin, and he shot her an almost coy smile. “I have a particular fondness for that girl, as you must have noticed. She’s special to me, and I know her very well. So well, in fact, that I know when she is acting.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have known she was your ally if she hadn’t been so ill at ease. That is when I knew that tonight was the night you would come after Alfonso.”

Coyote raised her eyebrows. He laughed, but it sounded hollow and bitter. “I could tell she was in on your little scheme from the moment I talked to her. She was a little too eager, and very nervous. Her hands were even shaking a bit. Not that anyone else could tell, but see . . . I really
look
at people.” He stared at her, as if he were trying to emphasize his words.

Coyote held her face straight. She liked playing poker, and she was not about to reveal her cards.

“She told me she wouldn’t help me if I was going to harm you,” Coyote said. Maria might take the rap for this, and that was not what Coyote had intended. “She’s a good girl.”

“She is an untrustworthy whore,” Westwood replied, but oddly enough, there was no malice in his voice, only nonchalance. “They all are.” He waved his hand toward the door, as if the girls were all waiting behind it. “I know they’re untrustworthy, such is the nature of those who sell their bodies for money.”

“Nice to know you think so highly of them.”

“I do . . . and it’s okay. Maria’ll still be my special girl.” There was a wicked glint in his eye. “Unless, of course, you offer to take her place? I’ve always had a soft spot for you.”

Coyote felt appalled, and her poker face made room for a mask of emotions. Her mouth went slightly agape, and she sought the words to answer him. Then she saw his smile and realized he was taunting her, egging her on to show her emotions, forcing her to come out of her shell. It was something he did well. She had fallen for his trick, and she resolved not to do so again. Her face shut out all her doubtful thoughts, and she glared blankly at him.

He snorted and scratched his chin. His left eyebrow raised slightly in mock amusement.

“I didn’t think so,” he laughed. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Coyote noted that he was different from when she had last seen him. He seemed more mature. A small beard graced his chin, his moustache was neatly trimmed but had filled out more, and his green eyes had deepened. There were those little things about him that she did not want to notice. But she did.

“You don’t hold women in very high esteem.”

“Oh, but I do. Even prostitutes. I don’t despise a woman for being untrustworthy.” He stroked his short beard. “Any more than I would despise a man for being untrustworthy.”

“That would be hypocritical of you,” Coyote agreed, “with you being so untrustworthy yourself.”

Westwood laughed so genuinely that it took Coyote off guard.

“You don’t speak highly of these women, though. Is it their profession?”

“Why do you think I don’t speak highly of them? I’m only stating what I know. I don’t look down on them for selling their bodies. It’s business, and I admire a good entrepreneur.” He held up his hands and shrugged with a confident casualness. “You mistake my observations for judgment.”

“You’re a smooth talker, Westwood.” Coyote rolled her eyes at him.

“Enough about the ladies of leisure. Let us talk about you.” The corner of his mouth lifted a little in a crooked smile. “I was pulling your chain earlier. I knew what you were up to before you even came to town, Charlotte.” His voice was warm and soft, and the playfulness had disappeared from his eyes. She could feel him working to break down the invisible wall she had built up around her.

“Don’t call me Charlotte.” She cursed herself for showing how annoyed she was, but she couldn’t help it. It didn’t seem right to have Westwood call her by the name her father gave her.

“I’ll call you what I want to call you.” He sprang to his feet, his voice and eyes unexpectedly fierce. Her tone had struck a nerve with him. “Stop trying to be in control, because you’re not.” He waved the gun, showing that it was in fact
he
who was holding it.

She stuck out her tongue, and regretted it instantly.
You’re better than this,
she told herself
, and you should not let him get to you. You are not that sixteen-year-old girl anymore. You are a grown woman, a bounty hunter.

“Don’t you think I know everything you do?” he asked, crouching down a little to be at eye level with her. “Charlotte, I have spies everywhere, and I have you under constant surveillance.” He seemed to think about his own words and then amended them. “Well, not constant, but enough for me to know where you are at all times. I knew you were coming to Angel Camp before you even arrived.”

She looked at him, but did not show any emotion.

“Granted, I may have lost sight of you when you were here, but I found you again when you dealt with that Outlander’s carriage.”

“You know about that?” Coyote’s curiosity was suddenly piqued, and she forgot that she was trying to play it cool. “What was that?”

Westwood shrugged. “I suspect a freak rip.” He inspected his gun, rubbing the barrel. “My psychics hadn’t predicted it. By the time we were made aware, it was too late. I couldn’t intervene.” His eyes moved from the gun to her face. “Someone stepped in though, didn’t he? There was nothing left of the carriage, or the evidence, by the time my men got to it. Just some very strange stories.”

Coyote squeezed her lips together, a silent communication indicating she wasn’t about to tell what she knew.

“I didn’t think you would tell me.” He shook his head with a sad smile. “It’s a shame, because we could learn a lot from each other’s information.”

“I thought you knew everything you needed to know about me.” Her retort came through clenched teeth and a false smile.

“Alright, I deserved that. I know a lot, Charlotte, but certainly not everything.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I
do
know that Pinkerton is looking for my man, Martine,” he added, “so it wasn’t difficult to deduce who you were coming for.” He shrugged. “Although your plan baffled me a little.”

“I am a baffling girl,” Coyote said, and shot him her most ingratiating smile.

His mouth twitched. “That you are.”

“That I am,” she repeated.

He touched her cheek with his thumb. “You have no idea how special you are to me, Charlotte.”

The power he had over her shifted for the briefest of moments. Suddenly, she was in control, and he was almost pleading with her. The shift confused her, and she saw Westwood struggle with his emotions for a moment before he composed himself again. His posture straightened and he conjured up the arrogant smirk she had seen before. Her moment of control was gone as quickly as it had come. She wanted to say something to him that would hurt him, but he spoke before she had the chance.

“Not that your outfit isn’t very becoming.” He let his eyes glide over her body, pausing at her breasts and thighs. “But that isn’t the way to seduce a Quavar.” He reached out his hand as if he wanted to touch her, but changed his mind.

“They’re immune to this kind of female beauty,” he said, showing undoubtedly that he was not. He cleared his throat again and looked away.

“I should have brought a baby,” Coyote retorted. Her words hit him like a brick, and she saw him flinch.

He stood up, frustrated, waving the gun around as he spoke.

“You assume to know things about which you know nothing, Charlotte,” he said with a thick, agitated voice. His sun-browned hands ran through his unruly hair, and he looked lost for a moment.