“Good. I’ll check in there before I sight-see. Could be we’ll run into each other.”
“I doubt that,” said Roxanne, still smiling brightly but with an edge to her voice. “I have a husband now, remember?”
“As if I could forget!” he said lightly and bowed again. “Nice to have seen you, Roxanne.”
He melted into the stream of passing miners and was gone. Roxanne, still rigid with shock, stood there breathing hard. After a moment she got hold of herself and plunged out into the crowded street, pushing her way through men who, delighted to be shoved aside by a pretty girl, laughed and called to her as she passed.
Straight to the swinging doors of the Last Nugget she rushed, almost lunging through them. There was hell in her heart as her head swung around, surveying the room, and she was panting from fury. The big room was floored with rough boards and filled with tables. Across from her stretched a long mahogany bar over which a huge painting of a reclining naked woman beamed, and nearby stood a player piano. The bartender looked up from polishing his glasses in surprise, doubtless because everyone else had gone down to meet the first river steamer. Roxanne faltered a moment, then started defiantly across the room to ask the bartender where she could find Case. She didn’t need to ask. He was clattering down the stairs.
Midway down the stairs, he saw her. His head came up alertly and he strode toward her, lean and graceful, his shirtfront gleaming white against his somber clothes, his boots shining as if he had just polished them. “At last,” he murmured. “At last you’ve come to town. . . .” His dark face was split by a flashing white smile.
She moved toward him, her reckless face lovely and almost as dangerous as his own. “I want a favor, Case,” she said. “I am prepared to pay for it.”
“Ask.”
She found it surprisingly hard to say. She smoothed back her dark-blond hair nervously and looked down at her hands.
“Bartender, two whiskeys,” called Case over his shoulder, and pulled out a chair at one of the wooden tables for Roxanne. “Did you hear about the gold strike in Nome?”
“Yes, they were howling it from the boat. Will you be going to Nome?”
He shook his head. “No. Dawson’s Canadian soil, but Nome—that’s U.S. Could be they’ll be looking for me up there—if there’s any law in Nome, which I doubt. Anyway, I’m well set up here. . . .” He paused as a sinewy dark-haired girl in a yellow satin negligee trimmed in black lace sauntered down the stairs toward the bar. Well set up . . . Roxanne saw what he meant. Case ignored the girl, was silent as the bartender poured their whiskeys. “This will buck you up.” He handed one to Roxanne.
She took a quick swallow of the fiery liquid and choked. Case gave her a grim smile. “Two winters in the Klondike and you haven’t learned to drink?” he marveled.
“The first winter we were stranded in Fort Yukon,” she gasped.
“Same thing,” he said. His gaze caressed her. Roxanne turned to look at the girl.
“Her name’s Yvonne,” Case said imperturbably. His face was dark and inscrutable.
Roxanne turned away from Yvonne’s murderous glare.
“A long time ago,” she said, choosing her words, “a man did me a great injury. The day has never gone by that I have not wanted to be revenged on him.” His eyes widened at the controlled savagery of her tone.
“I saw him again today. Here in Dawson. I—want to ruin him, Case. I want to destroy him as thoroughly as he destroyed me.”
For a long time Case sat regarding her. “What did he do to you?”
/‘Does it matter?” she asked wearily.
“It might.”
“He raped me—on a dark stairway.” Her laughter was brittle, forced. “He thought I was somebody else.” Case toyed with his glass. “I see,” he murmured dryly. “The ultimate insult. Raped—by mistake.”
She felt angry color stain her cheeks, but she kept her voice steady. “If you will do it, Case, I will be very grateful.”
“How grateful?” There was a whimsical turn to his mouth.
She swallowed and lifted her chin defiantly. “I—I will spend the night with you, Case. Just as I did in Seattle.”
He nodded. “Sounds fair enough. What is it you want me to do?”
“Denby and I are leaving on the river tomorrow morning for San Francisco. He—the man said he was just sight-seeing, so he probably plans to leave on the same boat. Only I don’t want him to catch that boat, Case. I want someone to waylay him in a dark alley tonight and roll him—take his money and his ticket. I want him to have to spend a couple of miserable years here in this frozen hell, broke and unhappy—as I have. I want him to suffer, Case.”
“The way your hand is shaking you’re going to spill that drink.”
Roxanne set the glass down with a clatter.
Case’s smile was mocking. “You’ll have forgiven him by spring.”
Roxanne’s splendid sapphire eyes turned their full glory on him, wide and beautiful with anger. “If I stayed here—which I’m not going to,” she said in a hard voice, “by spring I might decide to kill him myself.”
Case chuckled. He leaned back and smiled at her expansively. She couldn’t read the look in his eyes. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather I killed him?”
A shudder went through her. “No.”
“Too bad,” he murmured. “I could pick a fight with him and shoot him down, but rolling a man in an alley . . . that isn’t my style. Still, for the reward that’s offered . . .” He reached out and his fingers idly stroked her wrist. From the bar the girl Yvonne flung her a venomous look.
Roxanne’s voice hardened. “If you won’t do it, I’ll get someone else.”
“In that case,” he said with a wintry smile, his silver eyes flashing, “you can count on it. What’s the name of this man you hate so much? And where is he staying?”
“His name is Rhodes Coulter.” It was strange to hear that name, which had sung through her head on so many occasions, on her lips again. “And he said he was checking in at the Astoria—the same place we’re staying.”
Case continued to stroke her wrist. She felt the skin prickle lightly at his touch. “You’re sure you can get away tonight? I’d hate for you to miss your boat, Roxanne.”
He meant, she knew, that he’d come and drag her off the boat if she didn’t pay up. Her mouth tightened. “You don’t think I’d welch, do you?”
“Life has made me cautious where women are concerned,” he said gently.
She gave him a withering look and took back her wrist. “Call me when it’s done,” she said and rose. “I’ll be in Marge’s room.”
“Big Marge, the laundress?”
“Yes, she’s staying at the Astoria too. Ask for her. And bring some kind of identification, something you’ve taken from Rhodes so that I’ll know you got the right man.”
“My friends are very efficient,” smiled Case. “I’ll bring you his wallet—minus the money, of course; that will go to pay the hired help.”
“It’s a deal,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. She felt slightly dizzy from so much pent-up emotion. “I must go now,” she said abruptly. “They’ll be looking for me and they mustn’t find me here.”
The girl in the yellow satin negligee moved toward Case as Roxanne hurried out.
Denby and the others were combing Front Street, looking for her. She told them the crowd had swept her down Front Street and she’d been trying to fight her way back; she must have missed them in the crush. They accepted that.
When she could get Marge alone, she said, “Marge, I need a big favor. I want you to pretend to be sick tonight, so I can stay with you.”
Marge stared at her. “I take it you won’t really be staying with me?”
“That’s right.”
“What’re you up to, Roxanne? This sounds like trouble.”
“It’s—personal. Marge. Something that flared up out of the past. I don’t want Denby to know.”
“Som
e man . . . yes, I can see you wouldn’t want Denby to know. Not if you plan to go on livin’ with him.” Marge sighed. “Oh, well, you can count on me, Roxanne.”
She saw Rhodes again at dinner. He came in while they were eating in the hotel’s rough-hewn dining room. He had changed to a dark suit and sported a ruby tie pin. He looked very fit, and very handsome. He bowed deeply to Roxanne.
Roxanne glowered, and he did not approach them, but took a table across the room.
“Who is that?” asked Denby sharply, setting down his fork.
“Who is who?” asked Roxanne indifferently, attacking her moose steak.
“I think he means that man who bowed to you,” said Leighton.
“Nobody bowed to me,” said Roxanne. “He must have been bowing to Marge.”
They had to be content with that.
All through dinner, Roxanne could hardly eat— even though the table was loaded with delicacies just off the boat, fresh onions, fresh-cooked turnips, things the miners hadn’t seen all winter. She kept her head lowered because every time she looked up she found in her line of vision either Denby’s suspicious face or Rhodes’s broad smile. She noted Rhodes had ordered the best dinner the house afforded and seemed to be enjoying it. Obviously he had not fallen on hard times. He hadn’t spent the winter struggling with frozen laundry! There he sat at his ease, his dark hair shining, calm and well fed. She hadn’t known she could hate a man so much. She yearned to take her plate and throw it at him with all her strength.
After dinner Marge complained that she wasn’t feeling well. Roxanne announced piously that she and Denby should go to bed early since they’d be leaving in the morning. Denby looked upset. Later, in their cubbyhole room, he muttered something to the effect that he’d thought to look about the town with Leighton—last chance. Roxanne asked him to wait till she saw how Marge was first, he might have to go for the doctor. When she came back, she declared that she’d better stay with Marge, who was having pains around her heart and refused a doctor. She told Denby to go on to bed when he came in, she’d be with Marge. She turned to leave.
“Don’t you want your nightclothes?” asked Denby.
Roxanne shrugged. “I won’t be needing any. Her bed is too narrow for two. I plan to sit up on a chair all night.” She marveled that she could lie to Denby so coolly.
He actually looked relieved; she presumed he was looking forward to a last toot on the town with Leighton.
In Marge’s room, Roxanne fretted. What if Case’s henchman hadn’t been able to lure Rhodes into a dark alley? Perhaps Rhodes had gone to bed early, then he’d be on the boat tomorrow and out of Case’s reach. Sitting on the bed, Marge darned a pair of stockings and watched her.
Roxanne jumped when there was a light knock on the door.
“That’ll be him” said Marge grimly, and Roxanne gave her a guilty look as she opened the door.
Case was waiting in the hall. He looked very jaunty and very dangerous, his tall frame lounging against the wall.
“Come in,” said Roxanne quickly, and he stepped inside. Marge sat up in surprise when she realized who it was. Everyone in Dawson knew the lean gambler by sight. Case nodded to Marge.
“Does this satisfy you?” He handed Roxanne a black leather wallet with the initials R. C. chased in gold. “There’s plenty of identification inside. He’s a big fellow, broad shoulders. Tall, dark hair, green eyes, strong build. Wearing a black hat with a silver band.”
She nodded wordlessly and without looking at the wallet, stuffed it into her purse.
“Did you—did you have trouble?” Her lips were dry.
Case grinned. “Took four good men to get him to the ground, but they did it. Fought like a wild man. You ought to see what they look like; he damn near killed them.”
“And Rhodes?” She moistened her lips.
“They held him down and poured a Mickey Finn into him—he’s sleeping it off at Kate’s Place—the boys took him there.”
A sporting house . . . they had taken him to a sporting house. Where no doubt he’d be right at home, when he woke up. Only, she thought grimly, this time he wouldn’t have any money to spend.
“Then he’s all right?” she said.
“Only bruised,” shrugged Case. “And sleeping like a baby.”
When he woke up, he’d be stranded in Dawson and he’d have to claw frozen earth out of a smoky hole to make a living—at least until he could get money from the outside. And that would take a long time. It was revenge enough.
“There’s just one thing more,” she told Case grimly. “I want you to get one of the girls at Kate’s Place to tell him that this was Roxanne’s revenge. I want him to know I did this to him. Promise me, Case!”
“Honor bright!” Mockingly he held up his hand. “You must hate this poor devil!”
“I do,” she grated, her fists clenched. “Oh, I do!”
“And now for your part of the bargain,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Shall I escort you back to the Last Nugget? This place isn’t quite luxurious enough for me.”
Marge, who had been a fascinated listener, now opened her mouth. “Well, I’ll be!” she muttered. “I’ll be!”
Roxanne gave her a haggard look. “If Denby comes, don’t open the door. Tell him you’re better, and I’ve gone to sleep and you don’t want to wake me.”
Marge nodded, but Roxanne saw her shaking her head as she left, and heard her mutter, “The Hard Case—who woulda thought it? I’ll be!”
Chapter 26
To hide her face, Roxanne put on a hat with a veil, which she’d borrowed from Marge. Downstairs through the deserted lobby—for all the action was in the saloons at this time of evening—and out into the brief subarctic night, she followed Case. Her heart was in turmoil. It was all madness. Rhodes, pounded to the street and silenced with knockout drops, was lying in some sporting house. Denby was tearing up the town with Leighton celebrating his last night in Dawson. And she, who had been brought up a Southern lady, was slipping through the jostling crowds on Front Street, one hand carefully holding up her dress to keep from muddying the hem. And at her side was the most dangerous man in Dawson, whose reputation for skill with cards and with his famous derringer had preceded him to the Klondike.
None of it could be happening to her. She was bound to wake up.
Through the swinging doors of the Last Nugget they went. The noise was deafening. Roxanne was dimly aware of a crowded room where stomping miners applauded a high-kicking girl with a rouged face and wild, flying black hair. A girl in spangles and black mesh stockings who kicked her high heels and yelled out a song to the accompaniment of the rinky dink piano. Fancy women in gaudy clothes were sandwiched among the miners, laughing raucously, drinking straight whiskey from the bar. The room was blue with cigar smoke, and the very floorboards vibrated to the din.
Her head whirling, Roxanne let herself be led through the crowd by Case. Someone turned and caught sight of her sumptuous bustline. Too drunk to care about consequences, he gave a loud yip of delight and reached for her veil. Case knocked his arm away and reached for his derringer. For a moment a pair of befuddled drunken eyes peered into that dark deadly face, identified him and turned away. Case shrugged and, sticking the derringer back in his belt, pulled Roxanne along after him. Plainly tonight he was not a fighter but a lover.
Her cheeks burning under the black veil, Roxanne walked up the flight of stairs that so many fancy women must ascend with their lovers-for-an-hour. For most of the bars had rooms upstairs that were simply brothels. Looking down at the floor in numbed mortification, she followed Case along an upstairs corridor to a big room that overlooked Front Street.
Case closed the door and locked it after them, lit a lamp, went over and drew the blinds and turned to face her. He looked narrow and tall and limber and intensely alive. She took a deep breath and slowly reached up and took off her hat and veil, tossing them to a table.
She was aware that she was in what was probably the most luxuriou
s room in Dawson. The furniture was mahogany and it matched—except for the bed, which was very fancy and made of gleaming brass.
“Had everything here brought up from San Francisco,” said Case, noting her glance around the room. “This bed—best in Dawson. You won’t have slept in one like this since you left the States. Not,” he added, smiling, “that I intend you to sleep.”
Her fingers brushed the fabric of her skirt. They felt stiff. She hoped he wasn’t going to stand there and watch her undress. Well, even if he did, this was her deal—he had already done his part.
He sensed her nervousness. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes,” she said desperately.
He waved her to a chair and she watched him pour the liquor—expensive, strong—splashing into the glass. He moved toward her in long strides, and she took the glass from him with a hand that shook slightly. He touched its rim to his own. It made a small clinking sound that set her nerves on edge.
“To us,” he said softly. “And to tonight. It may be all we ever have of each other.”
His gaze was sober as he said it, and she lifted the glass to her lips, mesmerized by the pressure of those intense eyes so close to her own. She took a quick gulp of whiskey, and as the hot liquor scalded down her throat she choked.
Case laughed and, leaning over her, touched her cheek. She froze to waiting stillness, clenching the glass in her hand. It was as if Seattle had never been, as if he had never held her in his arms, as if they were strangers again. His fingers moved down her cheek idly, slipped along her jawline, played briefly with her earlobe and a lock of her hair that had come loose, and moved down her neck. She shivered as his fingers reached the base of her neck and slipped beneath the collar of her dress. As deftly as a woman, he had the top buttons undone and his hands roved exploringly across her bosom, across her shoulders, easing the fabric down.
She felt tension rising in her. And with that tension, a need to postpone the moment that he would take her. Desperately she tried to keep him talking.
These Golden Pleasures Page 31