That’s what he told himself one more time, and then he rose, disgusted with the way her memory taunted him, and with this emptiness of his own making. Dillon headed for the parlor car, hoping some other poor fool was as desperate for entertainment as he was.
* * *
“But Mr. Devereau requested a private car, and I have strict instructions—”
“Mr. Devereau didn’t know I was going to join him,” Charity insisted quietly. She and the colored porter were being watched by all the passengers in the crowded railroad car, so she concocted a story she hoped would get her out of the limelight.
“I bought a second-class ticket and dressed in this poor old calico gown so no one would spoil my surprise. It—it’s our first anniversary!” she added with sudden inspiration. “He has so much on his mind he forgot it, and he’ll be so embarrassed if you tell him why I’m on board.”
The uniformed porter shook his head. “I don’t know, Miz Devereau. Mr. Dillon, he looked mighty preoccupied, and he told me that under no circumstances was I to—”
“Then I’ll go from car to car until I find the right one,” Charity replied. She reached for her suitcase, pleased to see he wasn’t going to release it. “Or you could tell me how many cars I’ll pass through to get there. I promise I’ll tell him I gave you the slip, so you won’t get into hot water for helping me—”
“Oh no, Miz Devereau, that won’t be necessary.” He flashed her a purposeful smile and started toward the rear of the car. “If he thought I wasn’t payin’ attention, I’d get in hot water for sure. Like tea leaves in a pot, Miz Devereau. Watch your step here, ma’am.”
Charity followed the muscular porter and kept her grin to herself. They passed through several passenger cars, an observation car, and a dining car, where the delicious aromas reminded her of the breakfast she hadn’t eaten so she could make this train. When they entered a parlor car, she saw her escort stiffen: Dillon sat at a small table playing poker with another gentleman, his back to them. The colored man walked on through, silent as a cat on the prowl, and two cars later he stopped and grinned at her. “We made it, Miz Devereau. Surprise intact.”
Charity giggled at his conspiratorial expression and handed him a folded bill. “I owe you a thousand thanks, Mr.—”
“Hollister. George Washington Hollister at your service, ma’am,” he replied, “but I couldn’t take this much money, just for—”
“And do you have family back home, Mr. Hollister?” She smiled kindly, knowing exactly how put-upon he felt because she’d donated more than was expected.
“Why, yes ma’am, I do. My wife Lettie and four little children.”
“Buy Lettie something special for the next time you see her.” Charity reached for the door handle and gave him a smile that was warm with a new pleasure—that of being able to afford such a gesture. “I really appreciate your help, and I assure you that Mr. Devereau will, too.”
She stepped into Dillon’s private car and gaped, taking in the grandness of it. The walls were papered in green and ivory stripes, and wing chairs and a table were arranged near the window on one side. There was a bed, a copper tub, a wash stand, a table for eating on and two chairs . . . Charity blanched, wondering if, since Dillon assumed he was a free man, he’d brought along some female company.
But the only luggage she saw was his. His frock coats and trousers hung neatly near the wash stand and his boots stood at attention beneath them. Everything looked so tidy she felt like an intruder. What would she do if Devereau didn’t take her back?
Refusing to accept such a possibility, Charity took the cream-colored gown from her suitcase and
shook the wrinkles out of it. She donned a daring set of pink underthings Dillon had bought her, and then pulled the sides of her hair back with the tortoiseshell combs. A look in the mirror confirmed it: a night’s rest and a mischievous plan were giving her a fresh radiance. Dillon would have to want her. She would leave him no choice.
Charity returned to the parlor, stepping carefully between the train’s cars as they clacked along the tracks. Devereau was still engrossed in his poker game, so she slipped over to the organ she’d noted when she was following Mr. Hollister. Nodding to a cluster of curious people, she seated herself, pulled a few stops, and set the volume at its lowest point. Then she began to pump the foot pedals and play softly.
As she’d hoped, a grandmotherly woman nearby asked if she knew any hymns, and Charity sang “Amazing Grace” in a low, reverent voice. Other people requested songs, too, as they gathered around the organ to watch her play. She couldn’t see Dillon anymore, but when a swarthy gentleman in a tattersall suit asked if she knew anything a little catchier, she grinned and raised the organ’s volume.
“ ‘You never miss your sainted mother . . . till she’s dead and gone to heaven,’ “ she crooned in her torchiest voice. Her audience chuckled, following her dips and swells, exactly as she’d planned.
Devereau wasn’t aware of when his heartbeat had started to accelerate, but he suddenly lost track of which cards he held. That voice . . . like the touch of his mother’s hand across the years . . . but it couldn’t be Charity!
“Well now, lad, d’ye mean to finish this ’and, or shall I just take yer money and be done with it?” the Scot across the table teased. “Per’aps that lass’d give ye a tumble. Or per’aps she’d prefer the likes o’ me, rich as I’ll be.”
Dillon shook himself out of the spell Charity’s contralto was casting and stood up. “Take the money, but the lady won’t give you a second glance,” he said as he collected his deck. “She’s got a face like an angel and a tongue as pointed as Satan’s tail.”
His opponent grunted and picked up the money. “Sounds to me like she’s put a mark on yer tail, lad.”
Dillon didn’t respond—didn’t care that the man was walking away with a kitty that should have been his. He turned toward Charity with a heart so full of questions he couldn’t see straight. He’d said his farewells and put his wife behind him. He’d made his reasons for leaving clear enough that any besotted young woman could comprehend them. Yet here she was.
Devereau eased between her admirers, gazing at red hair that shimmered past silk-covered shoulders. He had to reach an understanding now, and get her off this train. Her enthralled listeners might keep her performing for hours, so when she finished the barroom ballad he called out, “ ‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ Key of E flat.”
Charity held her breath. Her eyes closed and her fingers found the introductory chords—a monumental feat, because she felt Dillon standing behind her now, and smelled his familiar, masculine scent. She opened her mouth, praying the right words came out. “Beautiful dreamer ...”
“. . . wake unto me,” Dillon’s tenor joined in, and Charity soared with the sublime joy that comes when souls unite in the heartsong written only for them. The ladies sighed and the men looked on enviously as the simple song ended with Dillon’s note ringing clearly above her own. She gazed up at him in sheer happiness, but his golden eyes met hers only for a moment.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he said to their audience, “this angelic creature and I have a rendezvous—with destiny, if you will.” He guided Charity between her adoring observers until they stood on the platform that led to the next car. His grip tightened, and above the racket of the rushing train he said, “And just what the hell are you doing here?”
The spell they’d cast in the parlor car was blasted away by the hot Kansas wind, and Charity wondered if her destiny included being shoved off the train. Devereau’s face was taut as he waited for her answer. “And just what the hell kind of question is that, from a man who sneaked off in the dead of night?” she retorted. “You figured you’d justify your exit by leaving me a ludicrous amount of money—is that it? Well, I won’t be paid off like some whore!”
He should have realized a woman unaccustomed to having even pin money would feel insulted by his settlement. “You needn’t have chased me onto this train to return it,” he reasoned.
“You could’ve deposited it—”
“You think that’s why I’m here?” she hollered above the clacking of the train. “That hurts, Dillon. You have your faults, but I didn’t think being cruel was one of them.”
Charity swung open the door to the next car and stalked through it, leaving him more devastated than he wished to admit. He hadn’t intended to hurt her, and the unshed tears in her eyes tugged at him until he followed her to his private car. All hopes for a clean break were gone. He couldn’t allow her to lay claim on his heart again, yet he couldn’t let her go before she understood why she shouldn’t accompany him to San Francisco.
Charity perched nervously on one of the wing chairs by the window. She’d been a fool to think Dillon would be hers again for a song! His sweet harmony wrapped around her heart for those few ecstatic moments, but it was all for show: her audience couldn’t see how he’d glanced at her with eyes as cold as gold coins. Destiny, he’d told them! He didn’t know the meaning of the word, and she’d have to define it in terms he’d understand. She stood up and reached for the top button of her dress.
Devereau entered his car quietly and watched her from the closed door. Her back trembled as she stared out the window, her hand at her throat. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he had to cut this reunion short before they both got hurt. “I thought we had an agreement,” he began in a low voice. “We married, temporarily, so you could find your mother and pacify your father. I provided for your independence, upholding my end of the deal—a deal you certainly reminded me of when it was to your advantage. But now—”
“When has anything been to my advantage?” she interrupted in a ragged whisper. “All I wanted was to see my mother, and between you and Papa my course was pretty well mapped out—until you both left me! Maybe I’d like to be asked what I want, instead of being forced to choose from the same options Mama has as a woman alone.”
She was manipulating his emotions, yet Devereau had never considered the consequences of their agreement from her perspective, and her words stung him. He should have settled her in a more likely town than Dodge and gotten her studio started . . . which would have meant a deeper entanglement, and he would have lost Powers’s trail. “I assumed you’d return home with your father. He certainly needs you, so why did you follow me?”
“What about what I need, Dillon?” Charity turned to face him, allowing the silk dress to float down over her bare shoulders. “All my life I saw to Papa’s wants. Then you came along and showed me how to love and be loved, and I can’t just walk away from that.” Looking into his unreadable gambler’s mask, she could only hope she was making an impression rather than making an ass of herself. “And maybe you’ll need me more than you think, come time to deal with Erroll Powers.”
Devereau couldn’t argue with her logic, but damn her! She didn’t want to be treated like a whore, yet she stood before him wearing only a lacy pink camisole and pantalets, her motive as transparent as her lingerie. He did need her—a need he had to repress for both their sakes—but her heartfelt voice and lovely body made it difficult to continue a rational conversation.
He shifted, longing to take the combs from her hair. “What about the divorce papers?” he asked in a strained voice. “You’re not a woman who ignores the spiritual or legal ramifications of—”
“They’re not valid unless I sign them. And I don’t intend to.”
“But we agreed!” he protested lamely. “Charity, we found your mother, and we’ve parted ways so you could lead a safer, more respectable life. No strings, we said!”
The argument was going nowhere, so Charity stepped out of the silken puddle around her ankles. Having few cards left to play, she grasped the pink ribbon threaded through the neckline of her camisole. “Do you see this, Dillon?” she whispered as she approached him. “This is a string.”
He let out a tortured sigh, watching her delicate lingerie slither down over the soft, rounded breasts he’d so often caressed. He was an idiot to let Charity continue this seduction, yet she was surprisingly adept at it ... she removed her combs and then shook her auburn waves until they curved invitingly around her shoulders.
“And do you see this?” she continued coyly, offering him the daintily tied bow at the waist of her pantalets.
Dillon nodded and swallowed hard.
“Are you man enough to pull it—to claim me as your lawfully wedded wife?” Charity asked in a purposeful tone. “Or shall I use that money to hire the best attorney in San Francisco, so I can sue you for all you’re worth?”
His jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t! On what grounds?”
“Desertion!” she blurted. “And I’ll find a witness, because whoever loaned you all that cash knows you left like a thief in the night—and so does that Dodge lawyer! And if I tell Papa what you’ve done, his state government friends will shut down the Crystal Queen before you can say ‘ace of spades.’ You think about that!”
Devereau was finding it difficult to breathe, much less think, about anything except the half-naked spitfire standing before him, her hands on her hips. Where had this preacher’s girl picked up such pluck?
It didn’t matter. Charity had outmaneuvered him with her intellect as effectively as she’d trapped him with her innocent beauty, and he closed the distance between them with two strides. Grasping the ribbon she’d taunted him with, Dillon pulled her against him. “This sort of shenanigan’s beneath you, sweetheart,” he murmured as he slipped a hand behind her head.
“And beneath you is exactly where I want to be,” Charity quipped. “But only if we remain married. Permanently, without any deals.”
“You’ll see a side of me you won’t like when I tangle with Powers,” he insisted against her silky hair. “It’ll get nasty. I may not survive.”
“My money’s still on you, Mr. Devereau.” She drew her hand down the front of his crisp white shirt and then grasped him where his arousal was most apparent. “Say yes. It’s all or nothing.”
Dillon closed his eyes against his rising exasperation and then clutched her lingerie, lifting it until he was sure she suffered the same exquisite torment she was dishing out. He kissed her with all the pent-up hunger of the past several days, not letting up until she squirmed to breathe. “Two can play this game, little lady,” he rasped, “and you’re at the end of your uh, string. We’ll renegotiate in San Francisco. That’s my final offer.”
Charity knew not to push her luck. She hadn’t won, but she’d earned the right to remain Mrs. Dillon Devereau, which was victory enough for the moment. Reaching for his lips, she wrapped her arms around his neck and surrendered to the desires he awoke with each touch of his inquisitive hands.
But instead of kissing her, he pulled away. “I have to hear you say it, honey. We’ll renegotiate in Frisco, or I’m setting you out at the next stop,” he said in a firm voice. “No wishful thinking or delusions. No complaints that I left you without a choice, or entrapped you before you had a chance to know Dillon Devereau at his worst.”
Charity couldn’t imagine complaining about the debonair gambler or the life they’d share, so why did his words sound so ominous? Dillon’s amber eyes held her gaze, revealing just how seriously he took this change in his plans. “All right,” she said quietly, “we’ll reevaluate. After you’ve dealt with Erroll Powers.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmured, coaxing her willowy legs around his midsection. “I hope you won’t regret it.”
Tempered by her playful come-on and his solemn demands, their lovemaking took on a special urgency. Devereau clasped her against his hips, undulating in an embrace that made them both frantic. He buried his face in her soft breasts and pleasured each puckery nipple in turn, rejoicing in her glorious, lilac-scented warmth. In his callower days he’d have sworn that a woman was a woman, regardless of the commitments they shared, but now he knew there was no deeper joy than loving this woman for a little while longer.
Charity moaned and allowed his tongue to searc
h out the sensitive areas along her jaw. Even fully clothed, Devereau excited her; their hips meshed in a mating dance that made its own rustling accompaniment. When her husband took a faltering step backward, she realigned her weight against him. “I forgot about your ribs,” she whispered. “If you want me to get down ...”
He tightened his hold on her. “My ribs haven’t felt this good since the last time we made love, honey,” he replied. “It’s that other bone you’d better be thinking about. Get me out of these clothes.”
Charity unfastened his buttons as quickly as her trembling hands would allow. When she knelt to remove his boots and pants, his male finger beckoned and she flickered her tongue along its length. He smelled of musk and cloves, and when he tugged her up off her knees, she stepped willingly into his embrace.
Knowing how she loved to be wooed slowly and thoroughly, Dillon kissed her with a deep, smoldering passion. He felt the cloth binding being loosened from around his ribcage, all the while sampling the sweet silk of her inner lips. His tongue dueled with hers, and Charity’s throaty giggle sent him over the edge. With one swift movement Dillon lifted her onto the bed and slipped her pantalets off.
“You’d be doing me a big favor if we could skip right to the good part,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll have whole days to—it’s been so long ...”
Charity arched to meet his advance, her need matching his own. She felt like a glove that was a size too small, yet the intensity of his initial thrust was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Silently they writhed on the bed, joined in the eternal rhythm of life. A moan started low in her chest and increased until she was clutching and clawing and crying out like an alley cat in heat.
Devereau plunged, lost in the animal abandon of the woman in his arms. She found her release and begged for his, clinging until the last spasms were only a smile that lingered around her closed eyes. He rolled them slowly onto their sides, unable to speak for the sheer ecstasy they’d shared. And to think he’d nearly doomed himself to living without her!
Gambler's Tempting Kisses Page 27