Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  That she’d used his own words to avoid being seduced didn’t surprise him; that she was actually going to Sol’s took nerve few ladies possessed. Dillon quickly brought her the green satin gown and waited outside her door until she’d put it on. This was crazy. Why he thought he could play a respectable game of poker with her in the same room—even fully clothed, as he’d originally intended—was beyond him.

  It was even more foolish to help her arrange her hair, but when he saw the breeze and sunlight playing in her waves as she brushed them by the open window, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He secured her auburn tresses at the crown with the new combs, and then lovingly stroked them with the tortoiseshell brush until they were shiny and dry.

  Charity smelled sweet and clean, and her smile of thanks nearly drove him to ravishing her right there on the floor.

  During the buggy ride across town, Charity sensed that Dillon had gotten quiet because he, too, was on the brink of giving in to the greatest of all temptations. She tried to think of a topic of conversation that wouldn’t sound suggestive, but what could she say? The man sitting beside her knew exactly what she wasn’t wearing, and she had the feeling everyone they passed on the street knew, too. She flushed furiously.

  “Are you all right?” Dillon asked. “This sun’s awfully hot. I should’ve bought you a parasol this morning.”

  “It wouldn’t make me feel any less . . . naked.”

  Pleased that she wasn’t demanding they return to the hotel, Devereau took her hand. “Underneath their clothing, everyone’s naked, honey,” he quipped.

  “But I feel so depraved.”

  He chuckled and slowed the horse to a walk. “Most people are that way, too,” he said. It was obvious she’d fidget the whole time she was at Goldstein’s, thereby calling more attention to herself, unless he gave her something else to concentrate on. “I’ve got an idea—a way you can help me play better poker.”

  Charity glanced doubtfully at him.

  Dillon considered his plan as he studied her expressive face. She’d never looked lovelier; Charity Scott was the picture of girlish innocence to which the fashionable green gown lent an air of sophisticated grace. But would she be too obvious? “We’ll be playing in Sol’s parlor,” he began in a thoughtful tone, “and there’s a sofa you can sit on. It’s close enough for you to observe our play yet far enough away that we won’t be distracted by your presence. At least not much.”

  His sly chuckle made a grin spread slowly over Charity’s face. “And?”

  “I want you to wait until the third or fourth hand and then drop something—one of your combs, perhaps—and lean down to pick it up.”

  She frowned. “And?”

  Dillon laughed, because he could see she was as intrigued by his idea as he was. “Without being obvious about it, look at the underside of our table. If you see anything unusual, don’t let on,” he added emphatically. “Simply ask Sol if you may play the piano. It’s a beautiful thing—a baby grand.”

  Charity sighed and tugged her dress up by its shoulder. “What am I looking under the table for? I don’t know a thing about gambling.”

  “If you see a spike sticking under there—or two or three of them—play ... ‘The Old Rugged Cross,’ a verse for every nail you see,” he said with a grin. “Sol’s Jewish. He’ll never make the connection.”

  She crinkled her nose. “Why would Mr. Goldstein have nails sticking under his table?”

  “They’re called holdouts, and they have slits large enough to hold a card or two until the player needs them.”

  “He’d cheat you in his own home? That’s—”

  “Those fellows are probably stacking the deck and planning their strategy this very minute,” he replied. “I don’t come to Leavenworth often, so they’ll want to get even today. And when they see you, they’ll assume I’m too enamored to pay close attention to the cards, and they’ll get sloppy. It should be a short afternoon, actually.”

  His smug laugh confirmed her suspicions, and she withdrew her hand from his. “That’s the real reason you brought me, isn’t it?” she asked in a tiny voice. “To help you cheat.”

  Dillon saw the Goldstein home just ahead and thought quickly. “I won’t be cheating, sweetheart—I won’t need to. Once I figure out their game plan, I’ll make them bid against themselves,” he said with an earnest gaze into her eyes. She looked fragile and almost childlike, and he knew he’d better speak carefully or he’d lose her trust forever. “And I do want to be with you, Charity, because I think you’ll enjoy this little caper—and because you’ll pull it off splendidly. I’ve never let a woman help me play, and if I didn’t feel completely confident in you, I’d have left you at the hotel. Please say you believe that.”

  Not sure just how much of his speech was sheer flattery, Charity nodded nonetheless. “May I ask you something, Dillon?”

  “Certainly, sweetheart. Anything at all.”

  She gazed at the stately home they were approaching rather than at the devious rake beside her. “Are you enamored?”

  Once again she’d twisted his own words with her innocence. Since he’d probably never see her after tomorrow, he was tempted to humor her with the line so many women fell for. But when Charity focused her deep green eyes on him, Devereau knew she’d see through any fabrication. “Honey,” he began with all the honesty he could muster, “there are some cards a gambler never shows.”

  As Charity watched the four men lay down their cards at the close of the third hand, she gripped the book of poetry she was pretending to read. Despite the fact that Devereau had lost to each of his three opponents now, he seemed to be the only player who was enjoying himself. Clark, Goldstein, and Enos Rumley wore classic poker-faced expressions as they puffed on their cigars. Dillon shook his head good-naturedly when Mr. Clark collected all the

  chips from the center of the table, then he flashed her a wink, which the other men caught. When they glanced from her to Devereau, Charity returned her gaze to the poetry.

  It was time: Sol was shuffling, and the men were exchanging small talk before the next hand. Charity laid the little volume in her lap to stretch, pointing her toes while she languidly lifted her arms above her head. As she’d hoped, the book slid down her satin skirt and thumped onto the parquet floor between her feet.

  “I—excuse me,” she mumbled when the card players looked her way. Her cheeks prickled with anticipation and she leaned over to retrieve the book, straightening a bent page until she thought the men had returned their attention to the game. A glance at the table’s underside made her pulse pound: not one, but three spikes were wedged into it!

  Charity sat upright, feigning interest in another poem until she felt a stare so strong she couldn’t ignore it. B. C. Clark and Mr. Goldstein were looking fixedly at her bodice, and when she realized they’d seen something far more revealing than she had, her first impulse was to dash out the parlor door. Instead, she managed a demure smile. “Would—would you mind if I played your piano, Mr. Goldstein?” she asked in a low voice. “I rarely see such a fine instrument, and—”

  “Certainly, Miss Scott. Please do,” her host replied with an agitated smile. “Devereau’s told us you put on quite a show—I mean ...”

  Clark and Rumley let out guffaws that they quickly muffled, but not before Charity blushed furiously. Glaring at Dillon, she crossed the richly decorated parlor and seated herself at the baby grand. She felt exposed and ashamed, as though she were parading before these strangers wearing absolutely nothing. As she positioned her hands on the keyboard, she realized she could best avenge her betrayal by giving Devereau the wrong cue. She’d play something loud and raucous, like the O’Leary girls performed at the Crystal Queen.

  “Gentlemen, I resent your implications about Miss Scott’s character, and the way you’ve misrepresented my comments about her as well.” Devereau rose from his chair, looking sternly at each of his opponents until their snickers and grins disappeared. “Regardless of what y
ou’ve heard about her mother, I assure you Charity is a proper young lady and a superb musician. If you continue to make lewd remarks, we’ll leave. Because the way this game’s going, I suspect my companion’s not the only one who’s being compromised here.”

  The parlor got extremely quiet. Sol Goldstein glanced at his partners, nervously clearing his throat. “It was a regrettable slip of the tongue. I never meant to imply that Miss Scott—”

  “We’ll get on with our game now.” Dillon looked over at Charity with an expression she couldn’t read—amusement perhaps, masked by a gaze so intense she wondered if he’d guessed she was about to mislead him. When he sat down again, she began a quiet rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross.” It was the polite thing to do, after he’d defended her honor before he could win his money back.

  She was at the end of the second verse when the maid opened the parlor door to admit Jackson Blue. The fringe on his buckskins quivered when he came to a sudden halt, staring at her as she played. With a slight smirk, he strolled behind the poker players on his way toward the sofa, as though waiting for the hand to end before he spoke to them. Charity continued the hymn, and when she reached the final refrain his flute joined her, rising into an eerie descant that bobbed in triplets and odd rhythms she assumed were Indian harmonies. His instrument was primitive and it sounded flat with the piano, creating a discord that grated at her nerves. When she finished playing, she folded her hands in her lap and tried to ignore him.

  “That was lovely, Miss Scott,” the Indian said with a mocking bow. “What shall we try next?”

  “Don’t humor him,” Dillon replied tersely. “He’s half deaf from firing that buffalo gun for so many years, or he’d know how terrible he sounded.”

  Arching a dark eyebrow, the redskin studied Clark, Rumley, and Goldstein, and was met with icy smiles that nearly made Charity giggle. Then he focused on Devereau. “What a congenial group,” he remarked. “About as fun-loving as a bunch of undertakers—and as passionate as a marriage of convenience. But let me clarify that, Miss Scott,” Blue added with a sly smile. “Devereau’s said time and again that marriage is never convenient for a man. Right, Dillon?”

  Charity watched the suave blond add two more red chips to the kitty with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Did you come here expressly to distract us with your chatter?” he demanded of Jackson. “Or are you passing clues about my cards to these other gentlemen?”

  The Indian’s dark face froze over. “Excuse me. I must’ve come to the wrong house.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the parlor without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.

  Charity winced, wondering what song she could play to lighten the oppressive silence in the parlor. Then Enos Rumley cleared his throat ceremoniously and fanned his cards out on the table. “If anybody can beat this full house, I’ll eat my clown hat,” he said with a chuckle.

  Clark and Goldstein tossed their cards down with resigned sighs, but Dillon gripped his tightly. “I’m

  thoroughly disappointed,” he said in a low voice. “I was telling Charity during our ride over here that you men were out for revenge, but I can’t believe the amateurish way you’ve gone after it.”

  The three partners assumed cautious expressions and Clark spoke up. “What’s wrong with Rumley’s hand?” he asked. “Two queens and three eights. I suppose you’ve got something higher?”

  Dillon stacked his cards face down on the table. “I won’t embarrass you by checking your vests or your sleeves—or the underside of the table,” he added with a wry grin, “but I’ve got a queen of hearts identical to Mr. Rumley’s in my hand. Call my bluff and it’s worth five hundred dollars apiece—if I’m lying.”

  “And if you’re not?” Goldstein challenged.

  “I collect five hundred from each of you for every infraction of the rules I’ve seen in this game. Or you can cut your losses by cashing in your chips to me without any further discussion, and we’ll call it even.”

  The men shifted in their chairs. After studying his stack of chips for a moment, Mr. Clark let out a short laugh. “How do we know that extra queen’s not yours, Devereau? Wouldn’t be the first time you slipped her in.”

  “I never mark my decks with a card pricker,” he replied coolly. “And I think you’ll find that both of these queens have rather pocky complexions.”

  Charity had no idea what they were talking about, but from the high stakes he’d set, she sensed Dillon had caught the men at a scam even worse than he’d predicted. After a moment Mr. Goldstein sighed and reached for his wallet.

  “Count the chips,” he muttered. “There’s no sense in getting ugly at each other over a card game. But I wish to hell we’d finish one.”

  The other men reluctantly followed suit, and after Dillon collected his winnings, he bid them all a cordial goodbye. He was whistling as he escorted Charity to the wagon, and after he vaulted up onto the seat beside her, he grinned broadly. “Not a bad day’s pay for two hours’ work. I’ll split it with you, because without your help I couldn’t have called them on their cheating so soon.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t accept—”

  “Then I’ll buy you the best dinner in town—and one for your father, too, since he’ll probably be waiting for us,” he said as he clapped the reins across the horse’s back. While they rode to the end of Sol’s driveway, he noticed that she was fidgeting with the shoulder of her dress again. He knew better than to tease her about distracting the men with her cleavage, so he lowered his voice. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry my friends behaved so crudely today. I think Sol’s remark really was inadvertent, but there was no excuse for Jackson’s baiting you. It’s to your credit that you remained a lady in spite of it all, and frankly, I think you make one helluva partner. That book was an ingenious prop—less obvious than your comb would’ve been.”

  Charity smiled, tempted to believe his compliments now that he was captivating her with his soulful brown eyes. “You really didn’t need me, though,” she pointed out. “Spotting the duplicate queen won your game, regardless of how many spikes I found for you.”

  “You’re very perceptive for someone who’s never played cards, Charity,” he said with a chuckle. “But it was your piano playing that clinched it for me. I set them up in a bet I couldn’t lose, yet left them a dignified way out after I caught them.”

  Charity shook her head, glancing at the tall brick buildings and the shoppers walking along Delaware Street. “One would hardly guess the four of you are friends,” she mumbled. Then she looked at Dillon, wondering again how much he could hide behind the handsome, mustached mask she’d observed during the game. “Did you have a duplicate queen in your hand, Devereau?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you plant it there?”

  Dillon laughed out loud and hugged her to his side. “No, I did not,” he said firmly. “I’m guessing Enos had the other one stashed in his holdout until he played his full house, thinking no one would realize he’d used cards from a second deck. A trick only a tinhorn would try.”

  Scowling, Charity was sure she’d never figure out the complexities of Dillon Devereau’s profession. “But Enos seemed like such a nice man when he was in his clown costume this morning.”

  “None nicer. Has a wife and three little girls he gets downright gushy about,” he replied. “But he’s not as proficient a gambler as Clark or Goldstein. The fellows who try the most desperate tricks are usually the ones who can least afford to lose.”

  She nodded, feeling honored that Dillon was sharing his secrets as though he considered her intelligent and trustworthy—an equal. They were enveloped by the shadows of the livery stable, and Charity became very aware of his nearness as he guided the horse into an empty stall at the rear of the building. She longed to look into the future, to know if their paths would ever cross again after she and Papa boarded the steamer for Jefferson City tomorrow.

  As though reading her thoughts, Dillon fastened the reins and turned to her. �
�I’m glad the poker game ran short,” he murmured. “I’m looking forward to having dinner with you—to being seen with such a pretty young woman, even if her father’s sharing the table with us. Please say you’ll join me, Charity. It’ll make up for the unpleasant afternoon I put you through.”

  Charity lowered her eyes, too enthralled by the husky timbre of his voice to trust her emotions. “Actually, it was rather interesting to watch you play,” she admitted softly. “Mr. Goldstein and the others looked ready to lose, from the dealing of the first cards.”

  “I have a reputation for being merciless,” he said with a rakish grin. “I should’ve warned you, but it’s too late now.”

  He claimed her lips, holding her so tightly she could feel the warmth of his hands through the satin gown. It was an intimacy she’d never experienced, and as his palms roamed over her back and shoulders, Charity let go of her inhibitions and kissed him as boldly as she knew how.

  Dillon felt her offering up her heart and soul—her trust—and even though he’d be taking more than Charity really wanted to give, he couldn’t resist the last chance he’d have to taste her sweet surrender. Slipping a finger beneath the neckline of her dress, he caressed her shoulder and let his hand drift lower, following it with hungry, urgent kisses. When he cradled the curve of her breast in his palm and then nuzzled its tender pink bud, he felt her tighten with apprehension. But instead of pushing him away, she ran her fingers through the hair at his nape and let out a tentative sigh.

  Charity’s heart was hammering so hard she thought it might burst. It was wrong to let Devereau touch her this way, yet even as his moist tongue teased her breast into a firm, aching peak she knew he’d stop—if she had the strength to ask him. She glanced nervously around the dusky stable but saw only horses and wagons. Dillon was fondling her other breast now, still caressing the first one while he took her into his wet, warm mouth. Charity giggled loudly before she could stop herself.

  He glanced up, kneading her delicate roundness with inquisitive hands. “What’s so funny?”