“You don’t look like one of the new girls.”
Abby had tried to pick a dress that gave her a moneyed, sophisticated look and yet might be considered enticing. However, her gown was still quite conservative compared to the short skirts and black net stockings of the saloon girls who wandered among the customers.
“Actually, sir, I’m looking for a card game.”
He gave her a predatory stare. Abby supposed not many women wandered into Central City alone.
“I’m traveling with my father, and he retired early,” she improvised. She looked expectantly around the room before giving him her brightest smile. “I wasn’t tired.”
“Well, then, I don’t suppose Mr. Goldman would mind you prettying up one of the poker tables.”
He turned and shouted, “Hey, Star, introduce this lady to the fellows back there.”
Abby wanted time to check the tables and find Dillon, but that was not to be. She recognized the girl walking toward her as the one John Dillon had so sorely used in Golden. Apparently Dillon got her to work the saloons while he gambled. Tonight she looked even more harried. Traveling with John Dillon must not be good for a person’s health. She barely looked up as she walked Abby toward the back of the saloon to a table with several men.
“Joe says she wants to join the game,” Star stated in a flat tone, then turned and left, not once acknowledging Abby. It was time to begin.
“Gentlemen,” she said, applying her finely bred, drawing room charm. “Might I join you?”
“Don’t see no ladies playing poker,” one of the men at the table stated.
“Does that mean you don’t think I belong here, or you don’t think you can take my money?”
Abby smiled sweetly. Several of the other men snorted.
“I can take your money quick as the next. Sit yourself down, lady.”
He slapped the cards onto the table in front of an empty chair.
“I’ll even let you deal.”
Abby sat, opening her reticule to withdraw a large bundle of cash which she laid in front of her and then reached for the cards.
“Why is it you and me always show up in the same town, woman?” A crass voice jerked her to awareness.
She’d known Dillon was at the table, but until the smooth, fluid feel of the cards calmed her, she’d refused to acknowledge him. She glanced from the deck to the four men at the table. Dillon sat two seats to her right. Tonight he looked no different than the men around them in flannel shirt and faded dungarees. Gone was the flashy veneer of a gentleman. There was already a half-empty bottle of whiskey by his elbow. Abby hoped his neglect of his appearance and his drinking were because he was on a losing streak. That would make him careless. She continued shuffling the cards.
“Why, Mr. Dillon, perhaps you’re following me.”
She cupped the watch on the chain.
“After all, I once won this watch from you and, the last time we met, a good deal of cash. Perhaps you’re trying to win it back.”
He laughed unpleasantly. “That watch isn’t worth much. Least not valuable enough to make me come after you for it. Now you, on the other hand…”
He lowered his voice, but even so it sounded loud in the sudden silence. Every man at the table glanced expectantly his way.
“For a chance to have you ride me, I might pay a goodly sum.”
Abby felt her cheeks flush. The men’s crude laughter seemed to egg him on.
“Let’s have a little side bet, shall we?”
He stared at her, eyes narrowed. He tipped back his chair, his hand going suggestively to his crotch.
“I believe this is a poker table, gentlemen. I suggest we play cards.”
Abby breathed again at the sound of Max’s voice.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed dangerously at the sound of Max’s deep drawl, but he wasn’t deterred.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Markham. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t bet if the winner got a little piece of ass.”
Abby looked across the table at Max. She’d come to recognize the twitch in his cheek as a palpable sign of his anger, though his expression never changed and his hands remained relaxed on the tabletop.
“I really cannot tolerate your language in front of the lady.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Markham,” Abby said quietly, wanting to defuse the situation.
“Yeah, besides, if she was a real lady, she wouldn’t be working in a saloon. How about it, Lady O’Brien?” Dillon sneered.
“Even stakes, just you and me. Winner gets to name his reward.”
“Her reward, Mr. Dillon.”
Abby looked around at the other men.
“Sirs, do you mind finding another game while I show this gentleman how to play cards?” Max grumbled, loudly. The other men all shook their heads, but no one left the table.
They all wanted to watch the outcome. Abby began the deal, and for the next hour raked in the winnings from the center of the table. It appeared Dillon had an endless supply of money.
“I think it’s about time I took a turn at dealing.” He sounded disgruntled.
She handed over the deck. A couple of the men disappeared from the table after only a few hands. It seemed the thrill of watching a woman meet her downfall had dimmed, especially when the woman in question had no intention of complying. She chanced a glance at Max. He played the part of the insolent southern gentleman to perfection. He sat slouched in the chair; his head turned more toward her and away from Dillon. His fingers were laced casually across his flat stomach and his long legs were stretched out in front of him. Even though he looked slightly bored with the proceedings, Abby knew he didn’t miss a single movement from across the table.
From the first hand Dillon dealt, Abby began losing. She studied the way he dealt and the precise movements of his hands. She instinctively knew he cheated, but she never saw him do it. She concentrated twice as hard, tried to count cards and keep track of numbers, but her stack of money slowly dwindled. From the corner of her eye, she saw Max stop one of the saloon girls who walked by.
She dipped her head and he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Abby took her eyes off the cards long enough to see him slip some money down the front of her dress. He then swatted her playfully on the fanny and she waltzed off. Of all the nerve. Here she sat with her virtue literally dependent on the turn of a card and he was cavorting with a saloon girl who no doubt offered her body to… Abby didn’t finish the thought. Dillon turned over another flush, and it beat her two pair, though they were aces and tens. She looked at the small stack of gold pieces in front of her. If Max bailed her out again, it would give away the game. A commotion on the other side of the saloon interrupted Dillon as he raked in his winnings. His face turned red with anger.
“Damn bitch,” he muttered, scraping back his chair.
Abby turned. The girl Max had flirted with was having an argument with Star. Abby leaned away from the table for a better look but Max grabbed her upper arm and hauled her to her feet.
“You’re getting the hell out of here, now.”
He propelled her toward the door. Max began cursing the minute they exited the Golden Rose and didn’t quit until they entered the Teller House lobby. Most of what he muttered was too low for Abby to understand, but from his tone, she knew he was livid. She practically ran to keep up with his long stride, gasping for breath by the time they finally stopped in front of his door. Without a word, and still holding her arm, Max fitted the key into the lock and shoved open the door. By the time he thrust her into the room and turned to lock the door, Abby was mad. She heaved a pillow with all her might.
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?”
Max looked stunned when the pillow slid from his face, but the anger was quickly back.
“What if I hadn’t been there?” he shouted. “What if you lost?”
She frowned. “I did lose.”
“Exactly!”
He stormed past her to stand by
the side of one window. She watched him peer out.
“I don’t understand why you’re so mad. We can’t get him to turn his hand if you keep rescuing me every time he tries something.”
“He was cheating. In another hand he would have taken the rest of your money and then what? There’s not a man in that saloon who would have stopped Dillon from hauling your sweet little behind upstairs to collect on his bet.”
“Maybe if he did, I would have learned some important piece of information.”
“Jesus, you can’t be that naive.”
He slid a hand over his face.
“It was a jest, Max.”
She’d known all along what Dillon meant by his bet, but thought to relieve the tension. Apparently Max didn’t have any good humor left tonight. He turned to her. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his cravat askew, his vest unbuttoned. His eyes were darker than a summer storm, his nostrils flared. The look on his face arrested Abby’s next comment. In a single instant as he sucked in a breath and then blew it out, his expression changed from fear to longing to…passion? She struggled to turn the conversation away from the emotions that churned just below the surface.
“Tell me, didn’t you have to learn patience to do your job?”
In the lilting brogue of O’Flagherty, which was in complete contradiction to his blond portrayal of Markham, Max said, “Abigail Faith O’Brien, you would try the patience of a saint.”
A sinking sensation gripped her stomach. He had so many facets—the playful teasing of the Irishman, the seductive charm of the southern rogue, the fierce protectiveness of the investigator—all of which were really part of who he was. When he advanced and she backed toward the door, she came to a startling awareness. No matter the disguise, she was in love with Maxwell Grant.
* * *
Early the next morning, rain rattled the window panes and Max moved to stand near the light. He’d let Abby escape his clutches last night only because he’d been on the verge of taking her in anger, or fear. He wasn’t sure which. In her case, he thought it was a little of both. She made him crazy with lust, scared him with her recklessness and besotted him with her smiles. He would have saddled up and taken her back to Denver today if not for the onslaught of the spring storm. It would be treacherous to travel through the mountains now. He was stuck with her for several more days.
“Damn it, Monty, this is entirely your fault.” Max cursed his absent brother. “As soon I know you’re all right, I’m going to trounce you good.”
His tirade was interrupted by a knock on the door, barely heard above the clap of thunder. When he opened the door, Abby stood wide-eyed and shivering in the dim hallway. He pulled her into the room.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a storm?”
He put another log into the small stove that stood in the corner of the room. One of the advantages of having the best room in the hotel, he supposed.
“Not exactly,” she responded, but her actions contradicted her words. She jumped when thunder rumbled again, shaking the ground beneath the hotel. Abby moved close, stretching her hands toward the heat from the stove. She wore a soft green dress with a little ruffle of lace around the scooped neckline. It was just low enough to entice Max to look closer, the white lace drawing his focus to the smooth swell of her breasts above the neckline. She carried a shawl and she now pulled it over her shoulders to ward off the dampness. Seeing her here reminded him of his dream last night. Abby…him…in bed. He didn’t want to think about it.
“Storms in the mountains can be a might chilly,” he said instead. Thunder crashed, closer this time. He watched Abby’s eyes widen, her gaze shooting to the window then back to him.
“It’s not the thunder you have to worry about,” Max said. “Mother used to say it was just the old man grumbling. It’s the lightning that causes the damage.”
“Somewhat like you?” Abby asked.
“Me? No,” he replied, yet she was at least partly right. He grumbled and growled at her, always afraid she would get into trouble, intentional or not. Yet when he touched her, it was like being struck by lightning—melting his defenses with the fire that she set to blaze inside him. Not one to wax poetic, he was grateful when another knock on the door announced the arrival of breakfast. He bade the young maid enter and began shuffling his papers to one corner of the table.
They’d fallen into a comfortable habit of eating breakfast together while in the Pullman car traveling to Colorado. Max thoroughly enjoyed looking across the table at Abby while he ate. She wore her hair in a simple braid this morning, but that didn’t prevent some tendrils from curling along her neck and against her cheek. He ached to lean across the table and kiss her good morning. To curb his impulses, he picked up the Rocky Mountain News, been delivered with their breakfast. Within seconds, he was absorbed in reading about the latest mining ventures in the area.
“How can you sit there so calmly?”
Abby’s question bounced across the quiet and startled him. He lowered the paper. It was still raining hard. His gaze slid from her half-eaten breakfast to where she paced the small space between one window and the other. She crossed her arms under her breasts as she walked one way, then clasped them behind her back when she spun around and strolled back the other way. He tilted his head to the side, wondering how long she’d been pacing and why he hadn’t noticed when she left the table. If he didn’t even notice such distinct movement right under his nose, was he becoming too old to do his job? But no, only Abby made him relaxed enough to let down his guard. He recalled the night he’d fallen asleep with her in his arms. He slept all night—a first for him. He put the newspaper aside to talk to her.
“What is it you want me to do, Abby?”
“I don’t know.”
Distant thunder accompanied her discontent.
“You’re supposed to be the expert in this kind of matter. We know Dillon is the culprit, so surely there’s something you can do.”
He smiled when she resumed pacing.
“My father isn’t a very patient man. He always thinks everyone should jump when he says, and rush to do his bidding. I learned a long time ago to study my opponent and gather information before making a move. Patience will win in the long run.”
She stopped and narrowed her gaze. He suspected she didn’t like him lecturing her like a reticent child.
“Doesn’t your terrible threesome have anything to say about patience?”
She came back to sit opposite him, cupping her chin in her palm.
“The last time you called them the fearsome foursome. Did you kill one of them off?”
He laughed.
“Wollstonecraft doesn’t count. She’s far too dead already to know much about what’s happening today.”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t possibly have read her work?”
“A Vindication of the Rights of Woman?” Max asked. “It was standard reading material before Monty and I were allowed to attend the university.”
“Your tutor made you read Mary Wollstonecraft?”
“No, my stepmother did.” He grinned. “Are you impressed?”
She sat back, blinking. “Yes, I am. But do you believe in what she wrote?”
“I know you have a hard time believing all men aren’t like the one your mother wanted you to marry. I see nothing wrong with equal education for the sexes. If a woman has the knowledge and fortitude to pursue a man’s profession, such as doctoring, then more power to her.”
“I sense a little hesitation there.”
He shrugged, not wanting to make her mad. Neither did he want to get into a deep philosophical discussion.
“I recall vividly one particular passage of her work. She states that all this equality between men and women will lead to a ‘rational fellowship instead of slavish obedience’.”
“So, what’s wrong with that?” she asked.
“The male species as a whole is not looking for slaves, Abby, but neither are most men looking for fel
lowship when they think about marriage and a family.”
“Well, what in heaven’s name are you looking for?” she asked with genuine mystification. Max knew he shouldn’t have started this conversation. Just looking at her across the table, thinking about marriage and family, made him think very inappropriate thoughts.
“Max, what else is there in a marriage?” she asked again.
“Passion.”
He let the single word hang in the air between them.
“Would you like me to demonstrate exactly what a man wants in a relationship?”
“Oh, my. Well…no,” she stammered. “I believe we’ve already done that.”
He gave a bark of laughter. If she thought the pleasure he’d given her was all there was, she would be quite surprised on her wedding night. And perhaps that was best. Regardless of her wish to be independent, she was too passionate not to fall in love, marry and have a family. If he could just keep his hands off her until they were through with this case…
* * *
Max breathed deeply, the rain-fresh air heavily scented with pine, the crispness effectively cooling his ardor. The sky hung low over the town, clouds obscuring the mountain peaks. An off-key piano clinked in the distance, reminding him that there were other residents in Central City, even though the rainy shroud made him feel quite isolated.
He shrugged into his coat, determined to stay away from the close confines of the hotel room. With her innocent questions and beguiling looks, Abby could drive a saint to sin, he thought, running his fingers through his hair. The action reminded him he was dressed in the flashier silver-threaded brocade vest and stylishly cut coat of Jeffery Markham, but had not yet donned his wig or muttonchops. It wouldn’t do to be caught without disguise. He returned to the hotel.
As he climbed the stairs, he felt the hair on the nape of his neck bristle. He stopped, one foot above the other on the stairs, his hand on the railing. His left hand clutched involuntarily, a pain shooting up his arm as though he’d just hit something with his fist. Monty. With the same conviction he would have if his twin brother stood on the steps looking at him, Max knew Monty was in Central City. His fist clenched again. And apparently Monty was in trouble.
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