GAMBLER’S TEMPTING KISSES
Charlotte Hubbard
For Mom and Dad, who taught me to believe in myself.
Chapter 1
“Time to send that preacher packing,” Littleton muttered. “I’ve had all the temperance talk I can stomach for one night.”
Dillon Devereau glanced at his partner, who was leaning on the glossy mahogany bar beside him, and smiled to himself. In his black frock coat and gray vest, Abe Littleton resembled a clergyman himself, but he had little tolerance for the men of the cloth who occasionally tried to convert the customers at the Crystal Queen’s game tables. “All right, I’ll get him out of here. The men aren’t paying much attention to him anyway.”
As he strolled toward the stage at the far end of the spacious casino, Dillon nodded to the few customers who were looking at him instead of at their cards. The Crystal Queen was one of Kansas City’s finest gambling halls, and attracted a clientele who dressed and wagered accordingly. It was his lifelong ambition to own an establishment that rivaled the parlors of New York and San Francisco, and not even the thundering admonitions of Reverend Scott could diminish his pride in his self-made success.
“Throw down your cards! Abandon those whiskey glasses and go home to your wives and mothers!” the preacher commanded in a deep, sonorous voice. “Lady Luck’s a fickle heartbreaker, brethren, and I can tell you from my own tragic experience that when you’ve lost the woman who warms your heart and home, you’ve lost everything.”
When Reverend Scott paused, there were only the murmurings of intent poker players, and the rapid clackings of the roulette wheel in the corner. Dillon stopped beside a green-covered faro table to study the preacher, who was pacing the stage like a caged circus cat, gripping his black lapels as he gazed out over the inattentive crowd. Scott was a natural showman, sporting a thick mane of ebony hair with a sunburst of silver flowing back from his temples. His barrel-shaped chest allowed his theatrical voice to resonate around the room without any visible effort on his part. He was gearing up for the hook, ready to impart a personal testimony that would save souls and send coins clinking into the hat he would pass, but a movement to the right of the stage made Dillon look away from the imposing preacher.
The girl was wearing a dowdy calico dress that revealed a figure far too thin for his liking, yet her direct gaze told Dillon that she’d anticipated his purpose and was about to stall him. He crossed his arms, silently challenging her. She smiled coyly at him, and tossing her long, auburn hair, she climbed the stairs and sat down at the grand piano on the Crystal Queen’s stage.
After she played a few soft introductory chords, Reverend Scott glanced impatiently at her. Then he peered into the crowd, spotting Dillon, and narrowed his eyes behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from inside his coat and continued his sermon in a solemn voice. “Yes, my friends, my daughter Charity and I can attest to the grievous pain which comes from the loss of a good woman—and may my tale be a lamp unto your feet. You see, a few days ago I received this letter from my wife’s sister in Leavenworth, and our lives will never be the same.”
Dillon watched, his arms still folded, as Reverend Scott removed his eyeglasses and straightened the withered page. He knew damn well this was a hoax. Yet some of the gamblers were taking note of Charity’s graceful way with the piano, and Devereau enjoyed analyzing a pitch, so he stayed where he stood, listening intently.
“Dearest Noah and Charity,” the preacher intoned with the rhythm of the music. “It grieves me to send such unbearable news, but I can’t neglect my duty to my dear sister’s family. You see, while Marcella was taking some sun and darning our stockings—ever the thoughtful, caring sister despite her debilitating illness—she was abducted from our front porch, in broad daylight!
“My Erroll heard the commotion from his study—looked out to see a huge, dark-skinned Indian slinging Marcella over his shoulder and running to his horse. By the time my husband got out of the house, the savage was galloping toward the river, brandishing a tomahawk with a buffalo’s head carved into its handle. He whooped and hollered obscenities at the men who tried to stop his black stallion.”
The story sounded like the product of an overwrought female imagination, since the Army at Fort Leavenworth had long ago wiped out any warlike redskins around town, but the description of this particular Indian made Dillon turn and stare at Abe. Abe was staring back, and then he straightened his narrow shoulders and strode resolutely across the room.
Dillon turned his attention to Reverend Scott again, listening with renewed interest.
“The sheriff was summoned, but the brutal savage had a head start,” the preacher continued in a voice that was starting to falter. “They—they found pieces of poor Marcella’s clothing strewn along the shoreline, and had to ride several miles down the river before they located her body. Erroll said she’d been ... hacked to pieces ... and it was all the men could do to gather up her limbs and put them in a box for burial. I was too overcome to attend the funeral, and even now I can barely summon the strength to write you about it.”
The gambling hall was enveloped in such a stunned silence that Charity Scott’s stifled sob echoed in the room. She glanced apologetically at her father, and after wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she resumed the quiet hymn she’d been playing.
“This is an outrage!” Littleton whispered as he came up behind Dillon. “Get that charlatan out of here!”
Dillon grasped his partner’s elbow to keep him from storming up to the stage. “Wait—let him finish,” he replied in a low voice. “We know damn well the Indian he’s talking about didn’t butcher anybody, and Scott’s bound to let enough rope slip in the next paragraph to hang himself.”
“But the customers—”
“Shh! They’re eating it up!” Dillon gripped Abe’s slender arm again, glancing at the rapt faces of the men around them. “After Scott finishes, they’ll be talking and drinking—and betting—like there’s no tomorrow. Right?”
Abe shrugged out of Devereau’s grasp and brushed at his coat sleeve. He looked around the busy game tables, noting that the dealers were using this pause in the gambling to restack their decks, and made no further move toward Reverend Scott and his daughter.
The preacher had been watching the two proprietors; he cleared his throat and maintained his melancholy expression as he slipped the folded letter into his pocket. “My friends, if you have even the faintest glimmer of human kindness in your hearts, you’ll understand that I, a man of God, could never fabricate such a bizarre, heartrending story for the sake of milking your pockets. I have taken leave from my pulpit in Jefferson City, and Charity and I are journeying to Leavenworth to console my sister-in-law Magnolia, and to pray over the grave of my dear, departed wife, God rest her soul. We have little money—barely enough for our steamboat passage upriver, let alone a suitable amount to repay Marcella’s headstone and burial expenses. If you would be so kind . . .”
Even before Reverend Scott took his broad-brimmed hat from the piano, the customers were reaching into their pockets. And Abe Littleton was bristling. “He’s a fake if I ever saw—”
“Nobody’s twisting their arms,” Dillon whispered pointedly. “Who are you to question their generosity, when they could certainly take their money elsewhere?”
Abe’s closely trimmed beard rippled as he clenched his jaw, but at that moment a clear, sweet voice made Dillon Devereau forget about his partner’s objections. Charity was playing softly, caressing the keyboard as she crooned the words to a familiar gospel song.
“‘In the Sweet By and By,’” he murmured, and he felt a smile steal across his face as he turned to watch Miss Scott
.
“Sentimental claptrap,” Abe muttered. “Surely you know better than to fall for that waif’s act. She’s as phony as her father.”
Dillon didn’t reply. He was riveted by Charity’s soothing contralto, which was a welcome change from most female singers’ voices. She rendered the song with a grace and an angelic expression that reminded him of his mother, who would’ve sung the tune with the same stirring conviction, were she alive. When Reverend Scott’s black hat passed by, Dillon deposited a thick wad of bills in it.
The customers at the nearby faro table murmured among themselves and grinned knowingly at him as they dropped in their own contributions.
“You’ve gone absolutely mad!” Littleton said in a strangled voice.
“Neither of our girls sings half as well,” Dillon replied matter-of-factly. “If it’s money the Scotts need, I’d let Charity sing for her supper or anything else she wants. She’s damn good, Abe.”
“And she’s a preacher’s girl, for Chrissakes.” His partner shook his head and passed the black hat along without adding to its contents. “Just can’t say no to a woman, can you, Devereau?”
Dillon grinned. “I’ve rarely found a reason to. Now hush. I’m listening.”
With a roll of his gray eyes, Abe surveyed the gambling hall and seemed satisfied that once the men chipped into the Reverend’s collection, they were resuming their games. As his partner walked slowly between the nearby tables, Dillon again turned his complete attention to the slender redhead on the stage, thinking she would be almost attractive if she dressed more fashionably and did something with the wayward auburn waves hanging down her back.
As though hearing his thoughts, Miss Scott played the final, lingering chords of her song and gazed directly into his eyes. Damn, she was straightforward! And she was indeed as skilled as her father when it came to playing a crowd. Dillon flashed her an encouraging smile, placing his hands in his trouser pockets as though he intended to listen all night. Charity responded by executing a graceful run up the keyboard, and then began a familiar hymn that told Dillon exactly what was coming next. Reverend Scott, who’d been watching his hat pass among the gamblers, now opened his arms wide and began to speak above the music.
“God is indeed everywhere. He dwells here in the Crystal Queen as surely as He does in His heavenly home,” his voice rang out fervently. “If any of you have felt the Savior’s hand leading you toward His light this evening—”
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Scott,” Abe Littleton’s shrill voice came from the center of the room. “You’ve done your tricks and you’ve been paid handsomely for them. You may leave by the side door.”
Dillon’s first impulse was to apologize for his partner’s behavior, but he saw a challenge sparkling in the preacher’s eyes so he let the confrontation run its course. Charity was playing more loudly now—victoriously, Dillon thought—as Littleton approached her father.
Noah Scott smiled benignly, as though he’d heard no condemnation but rather the answer to a prayer. With his arms spread wide, he welcomed Abe onto the stage. “Brother Littleton, it is truly gratifying to see you, as the manager of this magnificent palace of vice, come forward to confess your newfound faith in the Lord.”
“Don’t flatter yourself! I’ve come up here to escort you and your daughter—”
“The love of God can lift us from the deepest seas of sin, above the waves of guilt and degradation—”
“Would you listen to me, dammit?” Abe shouted. “And stop playing that piano!”
The Crystal Queen was suddenly as hushed as a cathedral, and Reverend Scott gazed warmly at the man beside him, as though he were deaf to Abe’s insults. “And what is it you wish to confess?” the preacher asked quietly.
Littleton turned toward Dillon, beseeching his help with a frustrated scowl, until he saw the hundreds of elegantly dressed customers watching him from around the spacious, hazy room, some of them snickering. Dillon kept all expression from his face as he returned his partner’s gaze, thinking that any response would make him look as foolish as Abe did.
Littleton blinked and quickly reached into his pocket. “I—I didn’t get to contribute to your cause. You and your daughter have a safe trip.” Before the clergyman could respond to the thick, green roll he dropped into the hat, Abe rushed off the stage, his face inflamed. He disappeared into the storeroom behind the mahogany bar.
After a moment, Charity resumed the hymn she’d been playing, a gospel tune Dillon had recognized as an invitation to come forward before Abe had humiliated himself. When she reached the end of the song and realized that most of the men in the Crystal Queen were again engrossed in their cards, she launched into the refrain, this time singing the words with a lusty spirit that made her soft voice carry to the farthest corners of the room. Dillon saw that even the dealers were looking up from their games with admiring glances, until a slight nod from Reverend Scott signaled her to end the hymn. Charity finished with a flourish on the piano and then folded her hands demurely in her lap.
“We thank you for your time and your indulgence,” the preacher said as he raised his arms in a broad, sweeping gesture, “and we’ll close with a prayer.”
Scott shut his eyes, as did Charity, and while the Reverend pleaded for everlasting mercy on all their souls, Dillon saw that no one but his daughter was paying the preacher any heed. With her head bowed and her face in prayerful repose, Miss Scott looked so fresh and unsullied that the owner of the Crystal Queen felt a sudden urge to protect her from the hardness and vice his livelihood represented, hypocritical as that seemed.
When the benediction ended, Dillon approached the stage and chose his next comments carefully. “You made quite an impression,” he said, looking from the clergyman to his daughter with a polite smile. “Most preachers don’t have such a ... compelling testimony. Or a daughter with such a stirring voice.”
Noah Scott bowed slightly and began to separate the coins from the bills in his hat. “Even men of God can suffer great tragedies, Brother Devereau, and I honestly don’t think I’d have the strength to face this one without Charity. We’ll sorely miss her mother. Your customers’ generosity is indeed a sign that God hasn’t forsaken us in our darkest hour.”
Dillon nodded. He detected no insincerity in the woeful pucker the preacher’s comments brought to Charity’s lips, yet he wasn’t sure he trusted Noah Scott. The man was counting his money with a quick-fingered relish that seemed inappropriate to a man of his calling. And why would such a skilled speaker lack the funds for his wife’s funeral expenses, when he could’ve raised hundreds of dollars in the river towns between the state capital and Kansas City, telling about her horrifying death?
Noting how faded Charity’s brown calico gown was, and the way it stopped short of her delicate wrists, Dillon wondered why a bereaved clergyman’s daughter wasn’t wearing black when the preacher himself was stylishly and appropriately attired. He smiled kindly at her. “It’s none of my business how much you brought in tonight, but if you’d like to earn more before leaving for Leavenworth, I’d be happy to have you perform here, Miss Scott.”
Charity’s smile was brief and bewildered. “Oh, I couldn’t. The songs I sing are hardly suited to—”
“If you read music, we have stacks of it backstage,” Dillon offered. Then he grinned. “And with a voice like yours, I doubt the men would care what you sang. Will you at least consider it?”
“I—I don’t think so, Mr. Devereau.” She glanced nervously at her father. “Papa sent word to Aunt Maggie that we’d be arriving—”
“I told her within the week, not a specific day,” Noah interrupted, smiling indulgently at her. He stuck the money in a leather pouch, which he slipped inside his frock coat. “It seems Brother Devereau has just offered you the perfect chance to witness with your music, daughter. Perhaps you should reconsider.”
“Yes, Papa,” the slender redhead murmured.
Reverend Scott placed his hat jauntily over his silver
-streaked hair and then buttoned his coat. “In fact, if he has the time to talk to you right now, I could get us a room for the night. He seems trustworthy enough, for a sporting man.”
“I’d be honored to keep her company, sir,” Dillon replied evenly. He was used to being considered somewhat disreputable because of his profession, yet coming from this particular preacher, the insinuation was one more item on a growing list of reasons he didn’t like Noah Scott. He offered the red-haired girl beside him an elbow, gesturing toward his private table near the rear exit. “Why don’t I fetch you some punch, and we’ll get better acquainted?”
Charity meekly took his arm, watching her father until he disappeared through the door beside the stage. Then she focused intently on Dillon, her jade eyes flashing with resentment. “I don’t really have much choice, do I?”
Chapter 2
Recalling the submissive expression she’d worn only moments ago, Dillon chuckled. “I won’t force you to sing, Charity. My offer was intended as a compliment, because you have the loveliest, most provocative voice I’ve ever heard.”
Charity’s mouth opened, but words eluded her. She was being escorted between the crowded game tables by the most elegant man in the Crystal Queen: crisp white ruffles peeked out of his frock coat, which was fashioned from brown velvet, and his floral vest was accented with a gleaming gold watch fob. He brushed his blond hair back with long, slender fingers as he smiled down at her. Dillon Devereau was almost too handsome, yet his amber eyes were as gentle as an old hound dog’s and she heard no hint of condescension in his praise.
He stopped beside his private table, still holding her hand beneath his elbow as he waited for her reply.
“I—I could use that cold drink now,” she mumbled.
Dillon grinned as he seated her. “Would the lady prefer that with whiskey or gin?”
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