Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  At least he can’t hold his pistol to his head, she thought grimly. Her throat closed up in agony, and against the yearnings of her heart and soul, Charity walked out the door.

  She was vaguely aware of the refreshing breeze coming off the water, such a contrast to hot Midwestern winds. The streets were lined with small shops and markets, yet she had no interest in the unusual local wares. Having no idea where she was going, Charity wandered in no particular direction. A strong odor of dead fish assaulted her near the water’s edge; strange languages floated in off the piers, yet she felt no curiosity about the foreigners who spoke them. When the sun sent slanting shadows across her path, she stopped in a small café to make plans for the evening. San Francisco streets were no place for a young woman alone.

  Charity ordered a seafood chowder and sat at a back table, assessing her situation. She felt terrible leaving Dillon, defenseless as he was. Who had fed him his supper? Who would dress his hands and tend to his other necessary functions? He was too busy wallowing in his losses to call someone in, and that aspect of him had caught her completely by surprise. Never had she imagined the flirtatious, decisive Dillon Devereau as a victim of his own pity.

  He seemed so sure Erroll Powers would leave town before he could challenge the con artist at cards—unless he came after Dillon first. He thought Mama would track him down, too, and if either scoundrel found him, he’d be a sitting duck. Charity bit into her bread, trying to make sense of all these contradictions. If only she could convince Devereau to defend himself until his hands healed. . . .

  By the time her stomach was filled with the rich chowder and tangy sourdough bread, Charity’s outlook had improved. She found a room as the sun was setting over the Bay, making millions of diamonds as the sky deepened from afternoon blue to lavender dusk. Gazing at her own diamond, Charity suddenly knew what she had to do. She went to bed early, praying for guidance and rest—and for the audacity to save Dillon’s life.

  Devereau gritted his teeth against the pain that still scorched his palms, hugging his salvation against his chest. The fire had died hours ago and he had no way to strike a match, so he was headed for bed. After the agonizing search for accessible food, he’d found something better: a decanter of whiskey, nearly full. He thanked God that the previous tenant had forgotten it, and propped himself against the headboard.

  He held the decanter in the crook of his arm, tugged the cork out with his teeth, and balanced the bottle between the most padded parts of his bandaged hands. The first swallow scorched his empty stomach. His hands burned like hell itself when he lifted the liquor to his lips, but he’d soon be too far gone to care.

  Again Devereau heard the hateful words he’d hurled at Charity, and he took a long pull on the bottle. Ordering her to leave was the best thing for her, because he would despise himself even more as the pointless days wore on. He recalled her retreat to Winthrop Street—she looked so crushed and pathetic—and he swallowed another mouthful. The whiskey tasted mellower now, and its warmth was spreading from his stomach to his legs.

  For the hundredth time he cursed himself for not being wiser to Marcella’s wiles. Would the she-dragon sweet talk her way into Erroll’s good graces again, or come at him by herself? One of those fates was inevitable. But just as he imagined Powers laughing maliciously and cornering him, or saw Marcella drawing the pistol from her pocket, Charity’s face would float before his mind’s eye. A comforting image, yet the most haunting of all because of the shame it brought him.

  Devereau also recalled his parents’ faces, probably because he hadn’t been to San Francisco since shortly after their deaths. They would have liked Charity ... he heard his mother’s voice rendering “In the Sweet By and By,” joined by his wife’s contralto, and the beauty of their harmony sent tears streaming down his face.

  It was the whiskey making him weepy, it was his own goddamned stupidity that had set him up for this fall ... it was Charity who stood like a beacon in the Bay fog, if he would only follow her light. But he’d sent her away, to strange streets filled with untold dangers—yet the dark alleyways offered more protection than his blackened soul would provide. It was for the best. . . .

  Dillon slipped into a stupor where he envisioned his wife keeping watch by the bedside. The damndest part was, even though his whole body felt numb his hands still pulsed with fire—until she took them in her own soothing grasp and held them, smiling in spite of it all.

  For the first time in three days, he slept.

  When Charity opened the cottage door two days later, a powerful stench nearly knocked her backward. The windows were all shut, yet she shivered as she surveyed the empty bottles strewn between the kitchen and the bedroom. She needed to air the house and build a fire and set the crocks he’d used for chamber pots outside—so many things should be done first that she was glad Devereau was passed out on the bed.

  Only when she was lighting the lamps did it occur to her what other odor still pervaded the house. Charity rushed to the bedroom, guilt and fear making her tear at Dillon’s bandages. The sickening sweetness of putrefied flesh made her gag as she ran to the back door with the soggy bandages. On an impulse, she stuck the wash basin under his hands and poured whiskey over his oozing palms, rubbing them briskly with a cloth, praying gangrene hadn’t already started its death march across her husband’s hands.

  Devereau came to with a disoriented cry, thinking his palms were submerged in molten lava. He swore the phantom who blurred before his eyes was a nightmare, until he realized no imaginary demon could inflict such god-awful pain. “What the hell’re you doing?” he gasped.

  “Saving your sorry life,” Charity snapped. She forced the ten fingers to uncurl, scrubbing each one until she was satisfied it was free of rotting skin.

  “I sent you home. Jesus God, that hurts!”

  “Lucky for you I didn’t listen. Had you gone through another night with these hands wrapped, you’d have lost them,” Charity lectured. “As it looks now, though, the blisters and dead flesh are gone and your palms are healing nicely. You can thank me later.”

  Could this virago be the dear Charity who’d kept him company in his dreams? Devereau squinted at her through the haze in his head, and then dared to glance at his hands. They were throbbing miserably, yet even to his bleary eyes they appeared to be mending. “I need a drink,” he rasped.

  “Too bad. I disinfected your hands with it.”

  “You what?” He sat up too suddenly, then fell back with the painful realization that he was hungover. “That was Scotch. Overby has remarkable taste for a landlord.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoyed it, because you’ve guzzled your last.” Charity carried the empty bottle and the basin to the kitchen, and found a crock of fresh water and some bread Mr. Overby had apparently left for him, too. Damn that Devereau for spoiling her homecoming! Yet when she returned to find him only half-conscious, pale and emaciated beneath the crumpled sheets, her resentment gave way to remorse. She had, after all, left him, knowing he couldn’t care for himself.

  With utmost tenderness she doctored his hands and let him sleep. The next morning she checked on him, dressed, and went to the market for the day’s food.

  Devereau drifted into consciousness, smelling bacon and biscuits in his dreams. It was the whiskey, torturing him beyond his limits. A pale blue image swam before his half-open eyes and he could hear the damn sizzle—

  He jerked, fully awake now. Charity was pulling a chair to the bedside while balancing a tray in her other hand. Where had she come from? He recalled a ghastly dream in which a spiteful vixen had rubbed his hands raw, yet his palms felt only stiff and sore now, a controlled pain that no longer dominated his every thought.

  Humility had never been his strongest suit, but he knew a miracle had occurred during the night, and that this woman in the prim gingham gown was responsible. Charity was silent yet smiling as she held half a steaming, buttered biscuit so he could take a bite of it.

  She watched him ea
t four biscuits, three eggs, and a half a pound of bacon between gulps of coffee. His whiskered face was shadowy—almost sinister—beneath his unkempt hair. His bloodshot eyes searched hers as he ate, but Charity was determined that he would speak first. She deserved that much, after all he’d put her through.

  Dillon sat straighter against the headboard. Groveling wasn’t his style, yet he owed her his gratitude—and he hoped he didn’t drift off before he discovered the reason for Charity’s catlike grin. “So ... once again I told you to leave, and once again I’m beholden to you for ignoring me,” he began in a low voice. “Was it my gracious send-off, or my impeccable housekeeping that convinced you to stay?”

  Charity unfolded the newspaper she’d carried in on the tray. “Neither. I was at the station, ready to board the train,” she replied with a perfectly straight face, “when this caught my eye. I knew you’d want to see it.”

  Devereau shot her a suspicious glance before focusing on a boldly outlined column printed in large letters. “Well, I’ll be—read it. My eyes are playing tricks.”

  With a demure smile, Charity began. “To Dillon Devereau, who I know damn well has followed me, colon. We’ll settle your mistaken notion about your father’s death one week from today, Friday, July nineteenth, at the Pacific Club. I’ll see you at nine o’clock sharp, with your bankroll and your accountant in tow. Erroll Powers.”

  Devereau’s head clunked against the headboard. “Damn! What’s that bastard up to?”

  “Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” Charity replied with a shrug. “Maybe he thinks you’re going to sic the authorities on him, and he’s enticing you to meet him privately instead.”

  “Powers is never straightforward,” Dillon grunted, “and I haven’t contacted the police because I’m betting he’s assumed a new identity.”

  “Probably so. Which is why he’d feel safe signing his own name to that ad.”

  Devereau studied the young woman beside him, puzzling over the ad’s ulterior meaning. Gambling had been outlawed in San Francisco, which was why Powers hadn’t mentioned poker specifically. But Erroll’s intent was implicit and his name was known to anyone who recalled his father’s death, and he was obviously planning a winner-takes-all confrontation. Dillon read the column again, chuckling as he laid the paper aside. “Powers’ll just have to be disappointed, because I’m not falling for it.”

  Charity scowled. “But—it’s the perfect chance to—it’s exactly how you planned to bankrupt him, isn’t it?”

  “That was before Marcella ruined my hands. She’ll see that ad, too, and they’ll both jump me.”

  “Not with the crowd this is bound to attract,” Charity reasoned. “Erroll probably set it up at a men’s club for his own protection. Mama’ll be peeved if you win all his properties, Dillon.”

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye, wondering how she came up with such astute comments. “No dice. They’ll have to settle it between themselves, because I won’t be there.”

  Charity stacked his dishes on the tray. “What’ll you tell Abe, then?” she asked cautiously. “I wired him, asking him to come to San Francisco with your money and deeds. I thought I’d better contact him so—”

  “You what? Littleton’s coming here?”

  “—he could find somebody to run the Queen and make the train ride, by Friday.” She challenged the anger she saw rising in his eyes by staring boldly at him. “I was looking out for your best interests, Dillon. Figuring you wouldn’t pass up the chance to win Erroll’s millions. You were in no shape to send the telegraph yourself.”

  “Well you figured wrong! How dare you . . .” Scolding her took more energy than he’d anticipated, and he fell back onto the mattress. “Get over to that telegraph office and tell Littleton not to waste his time.”

  “You do it! I have a history of not listening to your commands, remember?”

  Devereau glowered. “I suppose you signed my name to that message?”

  “Of course. Why would Littleton believe me?” Charity looked him steadily in the eye, reminding herself that he deserved to be squirming this way. “Besides, he’ll be someone to drive you to the Pacific Club, a cool head in case Powers gets ugly. No one needs to know your hands are injured—you can wear these over your bandages.”

  She pulled out the pair of large kid gloves she’d concealed in the biscuit basket and dropped them proudly on his chest. “We’ll cut your hair and have Abe shave you, and you’ll look as cunning and formidable as ever. A gambler has to have presence, you know.”

  He had to give her credit for trying, but he wasn’t at all pleased. “As always, my dear, you’ve considered every angle except the obvious one,” he stated coolly. “I can’t hold a damn deck, much less deal or play out a hand.”

  “That’s where I come in.” Charity paused, and then gave him a confident smile. “You’re going to teach me to play poker this week, Dillon. I’ll hold the cards for you, and you’ll indicate which ones to play by a set of signals we’ll set up.”

  “You? I’ve seen how you shuffle and—”

  “My clumsiness will be the perfect foil—”

  “—I’ll be damned if the Crystal Queen and my other holdings are going to ride on your game.”

  “—and Powers will be so distracted, assuming I’m fouling you up, that he’ll mess himself up instead.” She flashed him her brightest smile. “It’ll work, Dillon. You’ve said yourself we make a helluva team.”

  He studied her freckled, guileless face and wondered how best to tell her this plan was a bust. “Powers won’t buy it. He’ll say it’s another way to cheat, by—”

  “How could an awkward, fumble-fingered preacher’s girl cheat?” she demanded coyly. “And if you tell me what to look for, we’ll catch him at it. He certainly won’t let Abe sit in for you—”

  “Well, that’s a point, but—”

  “—and after all the attention this game will attract, he can’t refuse to play. Especially when word gets out to any spectators at the club that his opponent’s wife is shuffling and dealing,” Charity insisted. “He’d be laughed out of town for not accepting such a sure bet.”

  Devereau was half ready to believe her, ready to fall for the sparkle in Charity’s jade eyes. And it was the situation he’d dreamed of for sixteen years: settling his old score with skill rather than weapons. “I ... it just won’t work. Too many ways to slip up.”

  Charity stood up suddenly, dumping the tray on the bed, and stalked to the kitchen. So that’s the man behind the facade, she thought bitterly. No gratitude, no gumption. No faith in how we can outfox Powers if we work together. This is MY life we’re playing for, too, Mr. Devereau.

  Dillon stared after her. He understood her deep disappointment in him—hell, he was disappointed with himself—and he was truly touched by her valiant efforts to make his biggest wish come true. But there was more money and property at stake than she knew, and that advertisement might be a front for the most colossal con Erroll Powers had ever pulled.

  And yet, as he considered the way Charity’s reasoning made the pieces fit, he had to admit the situation was . . . terribly tempting.

  With great effort he wriggled to the edge of the bed, giving his legs a chance to quit shaking. He shuffled very slowly, and had to rest against the kitchen doorway, which was just as well because Charity was indulging in a little cry. Devereau smiled ruefully: being married to a bastard like himself would reduce anyone to tears. And he sensed that the future of their marriage was as much an issue here as avenging his past. “Charity?”

  She shuddered and wiped her face with her sleeve.

  “You wrote that advertisement yourself, didn’t you? So I’d get my pitiful ass out of bed and be a man again. Your man,” he added softly.

  Her lack of response was all the answer he needed. Dillon crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms very carefully around her trembling body. She smelled like lilacs and bacon and that indescribable freshness that belonged solely to Charity
. “I should have known you’d go to any lengths to save me from myself,” he murmured against her ear, “yet again I underestimated you.”

  Charity’s heart was hammering against the arm that held her. “That’s a dangerous mistake for a man in your profession, Mr. Devereau.”

  Dillon felt a blessed vitality bubbling within him again, and he turned her so she could see his sincere, if haggard, smile. “And we’ll be sure Erroll Powers makes that same mistake next Friday. We’ll whip the pants off him, honey. You and I together.”

  Chapter 26

  Devereau’s spirits rose daily as he explained the intricacies of poker to his wife. Her memory was phenomenal; she asked excellent questions and posed situations in which Powers might corner them. His fingers itched to hold a hand so he could test her more thoroughly, but he had to settle for talking her through the proper moves as he sat close beside her.

  Charity delighted in his praise—and in the way he nibbled her ear as he studied the cards. “This’ll never do come game day, Devereau,” she teased when his kisses made her squirm. “Powers is bound to object. So think of a simple system that won’t give away which cards we’re discarding.”

  Dillon considered her suggestion for a moment. “We’ll play five-card stud, so let’s number each hand from left to right. If you’re to get rid of that deuce and the eight, for instance, I’ll murmur ‘one’ and ‘four.’”

  “That’s easy enough. Then he’ll deal me two new cards,” she said as she picked a pair from the deck. “I really think this’ll work, Dillon. Except maybe for my shuffling.”

  He watched her clumsy attempt at mixing the deck, shaking his head as cards slipped out and flipped over. “Nimble as your hands are from playing the piano, I can’t understand this problem,” he said with a sympathetic smile.

  “My fingers aren’t as long as yours. And they certainly aren’t as sensitive,” she said ruefully. “I could practice with these shaved cards until the Second Coming and I still wouldn’t be able to tell an ace from a three.”