Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “What a convenient way to advertise,” Charity mumbled. “Are you sure we won’t be overrun by customers?”

  Dillon laughed and opened the door closest to them. “No one comes to this floor except by invitation,” he assured her, “and Mattie promised we’ll be undisturbed. We have adjoining rooms,” he added, gesturing toward the door Noah was to use, “so unless we’re leaving the building, we have no need to venture into the hallway to see each other.”

  “Lead us not into temptation,” the Reverend intoned with a roll of his eyes. He lowered his end of Devereau’s trunk and then carried his own suitcase into the next room.

  Charity gazed around, grinning. It was a corner room, and the curtains were a gaudy print that complemented the fuchsia bedspread. A gold plaster cupid dangled from each corner of the four-poster. The picture above the washstand was a nude reclining on a couch, her hand draped suggestively between her legs. Her coy smile reminded Charity of Phoebe Thomas. “I could never feel at home in a room like this,” she said in a low voice.

  “I’ll see that you never have to.” She looked hot and tired from the long wagon ride, and Dillon enfolded her gently in his arms. Would the next hours bind them together or tear them apart? He should have warned them that Marcella might be married to Powers—that bigamy was another of Maggie Wallace’s many sins—before they came so far to confront her. Noah would probably accept such a situation, heinous as it was. But Charity would have good reason to demand a divorce when she found out how long he’d known about her mother.

  He held her close, gathering his courage. “Sweetheart, there are a few things about your mama ...”

  “Have you looked outside?” Noah exclaimed as he entered their room. “The parade’s over, and there are more contests than Satan has sinners!”

  Dillon sighed and released his wife so she could view the spectacles below them. He sensed again that the Reverend had a trump hidden up his sleeve and that he was stalling for time—which wasn’t such a bad idea. Searching for Powers and Maggie was impossible, crowded as the streets were, so they’d be better off watching the day’s events from the room. It might be the last time he saw Charity smile.

  Devereau opened his trunk and brought out a pair of binoculars. “Try these. Lean out the window and tell me what all you see.”

  She gave him a delighted smile as he raised the sash. “You won’t let me fall out?”

  “Of course not. How would it look if my wife tumbled out a whorehouse window?”

  Charity giggled and flashed her husband an exaggerated wink. “Hold tight, now. We wouldn’t want to embarrass Papa.”

  When she stuck her head out the window, Devereau got an inviting view of her blue gingham bottom, pointed flirtatiously at him. She come a long way since she’d first gaped at him at the Crystal Queen; she remained girlishly demure, yet was wise to her own womanly power over him. He glanced at Noah, who was engrossed in watching the contests himself, and then grasped Charity by her hips. The crowd below roared its approval, and he couldn’t help chuckling. “What do you see, honey?”

  “Firemen in red union suits, having a tug-of-war,” she chirped. “And beyond that’s the greased pig contest and a pie-eating race. Oh, Dillon—so many people!”

  Positioned against her as he was, Devereau could think of only one person and the havoc she was wreaking while she wiggled against him. He kneaded her waist, wishing her father would watch the festivities from his own window. He longed to hold her close in this exotic bed, to strip away her clothes and pleasure her until they both cried out, before too much truth brought their tenderness to an end.

  She swiveled, making him grit his teeth against a bolt of desire. Charity was aiming the binoculars above the crowd now, past the storefronts to the residential section. “Such grand houses,” she murmured, “and people celebrating on their lawns. Too bad they can’t see the games, like we can.”

  Trying not to sound wolfish, Dillon said, “Perhaps your father would enjoy using the binoculars, honey. From his room he could see—” His words were cut off when Charity stiffened abruptly. She was trembling as she stared fixedly at something he couldn’t distinguish from this distance. If he hadn’t anticipated her, she would have whacked her head when she jerked back through the window.

  Charity’s heart was beating wildly and she nearly dropped the binoculars. It couldn’t be, yet she’d seen it with her own eyes!

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Devereau grasped her hands and was shocked at how cold they felt. “Did you see a burglary, or a shooting? You’re pale as a ghost.”

  Indeed, she felt as though she’d seen a ghost, a spirit swathed in white with a smile that was at once alluring yet frightening beyond comprehension. Charity tried to speak, but all she could utter was, “Mama.”

  “Daughter, you must be mistaken!”

  “Let me see those,” Devereau said as he grasped the binoculars. While Scott was repeating his litany of reasons they’d never find Charity’s mother, he adjusted the focus. He found the lawn party his wife had been observing: long refreshment tables draped in linen ... a gathering of guests, fashionably dressed, as though for a ... oh Jesus, they just got married!

  Dillon’s thoughts raced. Marcella was wearing an elegant white gown and stood beside a dark, dapper man in a dove-gray suit, and Charity had reached the only logical conclusion. How the hell could he explain? What could he possibly say to prevent Charity and Noah from rushing into this powder keg situation with their fuses lit?

  He gazed earnestly at his wife. Her eyes were glazed and she offered only feeble responses to her father’s suggestions that she’d seen a woman who merely resembled Marcella Scott. “After all, daughter, you were only eight when your mother succumbed to—”

  “Stop it, Papa,” she said bitterly. “You knew all along she didn’t have consumption. I-it’s Mama and Erroll Powers at that . . . reception, isn’t it, Dillon?”

  He’d never directly lied to her and this was no time to start. “Yes, I believe it is.” He gripped her trembling fingers, praying for the right words. “Charity, we should think carefully before we—”

  But Charity’s thoughts were years away. Goose-bumps prickled up her spine. Her mouth dried out, and the words of the awful letter that started them on this journey sped through her mind, read by Mama’s own voice. A rush of emotion rendered her speechless: despite all her lies and tricks and sins, this woman in a wedding gown was her mother—the mother she’d presumed dead and had mourned, the mother she’d longed for while she was growing up. The mother whose letters couldn’t replace the smiles and hugs Charity had ached to share.

  He’d read the faces of men in desperate straits, and Dillon saw his wife’s attitude change within a heartbeat. Where she’d once stood strong, demanding explanations, Charity now quavered vulnerably. He should have listened to Jackson Blue and never brought her here. “Honey, I know you’ve missed her a lot—”

  “Missed her?” Charity gasped. “I thought she was dead, and now we have a chance to make up for all the—”

  “She’ll rip your heart out,” Dillon insisted, gripping her slender shoulders. “This is the worst possible time to barge in—”

  “God deliver us,” Noah muttered, and Devereau knew without looking that the preacher had spied his wife. Scott came back into the room looking as bleached as his shirt. His eyes were wide behind his spectacles; he raked his fingers through his hair, looking as though he, too, were shaken to the core.

  Then the Reverend composed himself, and with a beseeching gaze he said, “Charity, I know how you’ve needed a woman’s love—how lacking I’ve been as a parent. But before you go running to that . . . party, full of questions, I have most of the answers you need. I—I should have explained about your mother long ago, but I—”

  “Yes, you should have!” Charity snapped, “and all you’re doing now is stalling me again! You can’t preach another revival, or tell me to wait a day and recover my strength, because when that party’s over,
Mama will be gone! I’m going to see her, and touch her, and by God she’ll know I’m on to her tricks! Stay here and soak in your own sweat if you want to, but I’m leaving.”

  Dillon caught her arm as she whirled toward the door. “Charity, you can’t go alone.”

  “So come with me! This is your big day, too, as I recall.” Her pulse was thundering through her head, and as she rushed down the stairs, she was too worked up to think straight. She had no idea how to get to the party, where she’d undoubtedly be thrown out, but Dillon’s footsteps behind her—and Papa’s!—were the insurance she needed. Elegant Mr. Devereau and the imposing Reverend Scott were never refused admittance, so once they found the right house . . .

  “This way, Charity,” Dillon directed. “We’ll never get through the crowds out front.”

  Walking rapidly past the back sides of saloons and stores, Charity forced her two companions to stride along at a breathless pace. “When’s the westbound train leave?” she gasped.

  “I don’t know, but we could ask at one of these—”

  “Forget it! We’ll get there in time—we have to!” She recalled at least two blocks of houses before the lawn where the party was going on; she’d recognize it by the border of honeysuckle bushes, and then they’d slip in. ...

  “Charity, whoa!” Devereau gripped her arm, keeping his voice low. Noah looked ready to pop, he was so bug-eyed, and his wife apparently planned to make a grand entrance that would get them all thrown out. “That’s the yard, right ahead of us,” he said with a nod. “We should sidle in behind the refreshment tables, as though we’ve been here all along. You two sip some punch while I—”

  “But she’s my mother, and I—”

  “—make my way through the reception line,” he finished firmly. “Your mother doesn’t know me, and Powers won’t cause any commotion in front of all these guests. I’ll ask her to step inside, before

  she spots you. You’re the last people she expects to see, you know.”

  Charity’s heart was pounding so hard she thought her ribs would shatter. Papa was fidgeting with his collar, looking utterly foreign to her in his agitated state. “All right, we’ll wait,” she replied in a strained whisper. “But what if someone asks who we are?”

  “Tell them you’re friends of the bride,” he suggested with a rueful grin, “and exclaim over the lavish refreshments. Just don’t give yourselves away.”

  Papa looked absolutely mortified, and food was the farthest thing from Charity’s mind, but he’d given them a logical answer. They walked slowly toward the honeysuckle hedge, Dillon first, and let him lead the way to the deserted buffet nearest them. “I’ll dip out some punch and make my way to the porch. Sit here until I give you a nod.”

  Before she could reply, he was mingling with the other well-dressed guests, cup in hand, and she was left with Papa. They were fools to come here. She stuck out like an urchin at a grand ball, and her hair fluttered uncontrollably in the hot breeze. Charity accepted the punch Papa handed her and sat down at a small table in the back of the yard, avoiding the eyes of the other guests.

  “Charity, I hope you’ll understand about—”

  “Please don’t talk, Papa,” she pleaded. “Let’s just watch for Dillon’s signal. We’ve come too far to mess things up now.”

  She panicked when she lost sight of her husband’s stylish checked jacket. But there he was, almost up to the veranda where Mama and Erroll Powers smiled gaily at their guests. Charity thumped the ground with a nervous foot; she felt like a watch wound so tightly that its works would explode. Dillon had only a few places in line to go. What would she say to a mother who’d faked her own death, cavorted with Indians and whores, and had now married another man? What could she say to Mama, who looked as beautiful as her fondest memories from a childhood cut short?

  Devereau struggled for an appropriate opening line. Marcella was standing on this side of Powers; he hoped he could lure her into the house before Erroll recognized him. Some men nearby congratulated the host for throwing this last-minute reception—for the surprise visit of a Kansas Pacific attorney, they said—and they speculated over the promotion that was undoubtedly coming his way.

  Powers, you raven-haired snake, he thought as he stared at Erroll’s dapper face. Sixteen years had passed since the bastard’s gunfire burned his father’s gambling hall to the ground, but time had been kind to the con artist. His wavy hair was still coal black, his eyes a blue that sparkled like ice above a thick mustache and a mouthful of even, white teeth. He touched Marcella’s arm as though he were her husband, yet Dillon sensed a coldness that precluded any chance of matrimony. Erroll’s maid and Maggie had their fantasies about this long-standing relationship, it seemed, but Devereau knew at a glance that the women were just two more victims of the shyster’s magnetism.

  Or was Marcella smart enough to latch on to Erroll’s wealth another way? Dillon studied the woman who so closely resembled his wife: her upswept hair was darker than Charity’s, with the help of henna dye, he suspected. Her lithe body appeared youthful in the maidenlike dress, but the lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed her upon closer inspection. It was a hard mouth, lacking warmth. Her face was made up, destroying the innocent beauty he’d come to love about Charity, and her eyes glimmered a pale, catlike green.

  But when Marcella flashed him a flirtatious grin, Devereau knew why Scott had fallen for her, and how she’d duped an entire tribe of Indians. How many Kansas Pacific employees would be caught with their pants down when it was discovered that she’d distracted them so Powers could raid the company coffers?

  “Hello,” she purred, her voice perfectly suited to a Magnolia. “I don’t believe we’ve met—and I’m so glad you could come today.”

  He immediately forgot the list of this woman’s sins—nearly forgot how to talk, he was so taken by her. “Dillon Devereau,” he managed, kissing her hand to regain control of himself. Everything he’d endured with the Scotts these past weeks had culminated in this moment, and only the smoothest of maneuvers would get Marcella into the house without causing a stir. “I—I was wondering if we could discuss some business,” he said suggestively. “It will require but a moment, and I hate to take Mr. Powers from his guests.”

  Marcella’s glance flickered over him, as though she assumed him to be another kowtowing railroad executive. Yet when the wary moment passed, she was all sunshine . . . sultry, languorous sunshine. “I’m sure I’ll find your business highly refreshing,” she replied, running her tongue along her upper lip. “Some of these things get so ... long.”

  Her last words tugged at Dillon’s fly buttons. “Shall we step inside?” he suggested, glancing at Powers as though he shared Marcella’s devious intentions. “Your fair skin will take a beating in this merciless sun.”

  Marcella chuckled coquettishly and turned from Erroll’s side. When Dillon reached the door, he pulled his gaze from her swaying, white hips long enough to jerk his head at Charity and Noah. The sight of his wife’s anxious face reminded him that Marcella was Charity’s mother, for God’s sake, and he had no business flirting with—

  “Are you all right, Mr. Devereau?” she asked in a honeyed voice. “Perhaps a neck spasm I can ease away while we discuss our . . . business?”

  “Probably just my collar buttoned too tightly,” he replied as he reached around her for the doorknob. But when she froze beside him, staring toward the far end of the lawn, Devereau knew he was in trouble. “Perhaps we can find a cozy alcove—”

  “What the hell are they doing here?” She glared wickedly at Dillon, all resemblance to magnolias gone. “This business of yours stinks, Mr. Devereau, and whatever it is, you damn well better not get Erroll involved. I refuse to—”

  “Is this gentleman bothering you, Maggie?” Powers inquired behind them. His voice was as rich and deep and deadly as Dillon recalled from his youth, and he had no answer for the jet-haired man whose expression demanded one.

  Erroll’s deeply tanned face re
flected annoyance and then startled recognition when he came face to face with Devereau. He glanced at Marcella, quickly following her gaze to the two figures who were hurrying through the crowd. In the blink of an eye Dillon’s scheme had collapsed. Powers’s scowl told him he didn’t know Scott or Charity, but he certainly realized they were connected to Maggie.

  Rather than ask questions, the con artist retreated, wary of being exposed in front of railway officials. Reverend Scott and Charity were only a few steps away, their faces taut, and Marcella was growing paler by the second.

  “Erroll, please, I can explain,” she pleaded, but her consort was descending the porch stairs, staring at Charity as though she were a ghost.

  Dillon sensed they were about to witness a fireworks display like no Fourth of July had ever seen. He opened the door and slipped a firm arm around Marcella’s waist.

  “I’m not going inside with any of you goddamned, scheming—”

  But Charity stepped onto the porch, blocking Marcella’s escape. Her hair was an untidy mass of waves and sweat trickled down her dusty cheeks, yet Dillon recognized the strength in those jade eyes as daughter faced mother for the first time in ten years. “We have to talk, Mama,” she stated quietly.

  Marcella stared at Scott for a moment, but it was Charity who held her attention. After an endless silence, during which Devereau felt Powers and the entire gathering watching them, she relaxed against his arm. She preceded him into the house, but he sensed Marcella would turn like a trapped tiger the moment the door was closed.

  Chapter 20

  Charity followed Dillon and Mama past the curious kitchen help, who were preparing more trays of sandwiches and cakes, into the unoccupied dining room. It was an elegant, airy salon with stately furnishings and a glittering chandelier above the table, a room like the ones her mother was undoubtedly accustomed to entertaining in. Except now Mama was standing before the pink marble fireplace with her arms crossed tightly beneath her breasts, facing the mantel.