Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

through the ballroom doors fifteen minutes ago. His penchant for missed cues was going to jinx this hoax, because Fiona or no Fiona, Rafe had an eight o'clock stage to catch.
    Three summers ago, a bit too drunk to think straight, he'd blustered his way into this very hotel—and the bed of Sheriff Crow's wife. At the time, he'd believed the woman's claim that she was a widow; the good sheriff, of course, had been unsympathetic to his alibi. Needless to say, Rafe would have been breaking rocks at the state penitentiary if it hadn't been for Mrs. Crow's finesse with a lock pick. And since he wasn't particularly interested in mounting another escape from the Leadville Jail, he preferred not to raise suspicions now.
    That's why he was feeling a bit uncomfortable after his encounter with the resident robber "baroness." He might have been flattered by the woman's appraisal if her smile hadn't frozen the moment they'd been introduced. She'd arched a brow over eyes as startlingly blue as sapphires.
    Something about him, Rafe mused, had caused unmistakable disapproval in Miss Silver Nichols. At the time, he'd been relatively certain he hadn't knocked his theatrical whiskers askew, so he couldn't help but wonder what had put her off. Surely it hadn't been anything he'd said, unless, of course, she was the overly virtuous kind who took offense to a man's simple hello. Or maybe she didn't favor East Coast dudes. He prided himself as a mimic, and he knew he'd gotten the Philadelphia accent down pat.
    Half-intrigued, half-irritated, he glanced around the richly paneled, plushly carpeted room until he spied its lone female occupant. She stood beneath the center chandelier, holding court. Three plump stockbrokers gathered around her, each of them a good thirty years older, and three inches shorter, than Silver. In fact, they looked rather like lapdogs panting in the presence of royalty, despite her conservative dress: a high-necked gown of lilac silk.
    Every now and then, Her Royal Highness would incline her perfectly chignoned head, which was a fascination in itself, since her otherwise coal black hair bore a streak of silver. Surely her twenty-odd years didn't make her old enough for the distinguishing mark at her left temple. On the other hand, her youth lent her none of the giggling silliness he'd come to associate with females under twenty-five. There was a sophistication about Silver Nichols that most overindulged women didn't exude until their fortieth year. It was her sophistication, Rafe decided, coupled with those eyes and that hair, that made Silver striking. Her nose was too long, her forehead too high, and her chin too angular for him to classify her as beautiful.
    Still, beautiful or not, he was puzzled to see Silver at an all-male business function. He was even more puzzled to see no obviously preferred beau staking out his territory by her side. Her daddy reputedly had more money than the Rockies had snow, so it seemed to Rafe that eligible bachelors should be standing in line, begging for her company.
    As if to comment on his notions of propriety, she laughed. The low, vibrant peal was as mellifluous as a golden bell, making it hard to mistake in the din of rough male voices. He wondered what the lapdogs had told her, and if, by chance, her gesture toward his side of the room had anything to do with him.
    Then the flash of red fire caught his eye. The ring on her left hand must be worth a king's ransom, but it hinted of rubies, not diamonds. How strange that an heiress her age wasn't even betrothed. Was she risking spinsterhood because she liked playing queen without a king? Or did she have some hideously huge but well-hidden flaw that no fortune could compensate for?
    Rate's curiosity climbed another notch. He was just trying to imagine what feminine flaw could possibly keep him from courting an heiress, when suddenly the double doors banged open. Fred, puffing madly on a cigar, swept across the threshold in a top hat,