Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  His fingers twitched with the memory of that fractional difference. “There are ways around that,” he replied patiently. “And like you said before, who would expect a preacher’s girl to be a card sharp? My question is how you propose to get into the Pacific Club in the first place.”

  “Through the front door,” she quipped. “Mr. Acree will be eating out of my hand. You’ll see.”

  “Mr. Acree? How do you know him?”

  Charity shrugged. “I pounded on the Club’s door the other day, and when he politely tried to throw me out, I asked him if he remembered your father. He was pleased to reserve you a room—said he always suspected foul play and was glad the issue was finally being resolved.”

  Devereau remembered the Club’s butler as a pudgy fellow with a temper that snapped like a bear trap. Charity would no doubt ply her innocent magic come time to enter the exclusive club’s male domain, but her halfhearted effort at shuffling told him something else was bothering her.

  “What is it, honey? You’re not getting cold feet only two days before the showdown, are you?”

  She thumped the deck face down on the parlor table and looked at him. “What if Powers doesn’t take the bait? What if Mama’s told him about your hands and he knows we’re setting him up?”

  “That’s possible. And he might shy away because he thinks Kansas Pacific detectives saw his name in the paper,” he replied in a thoughtful voice. “But the chance to ruin me financially will appeal to him. We’ll attract an audience who’ll be betting among themselves on the outcome of this contest, and Erroll can’t resist playing to a crowd.”

  Charity nodded, hoping he was right. How foolish she’d feel if, after all her scheming, she and Devereau and Abe were the only players to show up!

  Devereau slipped his arm around her. “Quit your worrying and kiss me,” he murmured, “because on the slim chance that we lose to Powers, we’ll still have each other. That means more to me than any fortune, Charity.”

  Charity succumbed to a kiss that indicated Dillon was his proud, passionate self again. She missed his caress, but his inquisitive lips found the places where she loved to be touched. His hair was longer, thick and soft when she wove it between her fingers, and as he moved his mouth firmly over her breasts, her intense longings made her squirm against him.

  “Honey, it’s been so long,” he whispered. “Can we find a way—”

  A pounding on the door startled them apart, and a young male voice called out, “Delivery for Mrs. Devereau, from Carter’s.”

  Charity gave her husband an apologetic grin and rushed to the door. “Yes—please bring them in. I can’t wait to see them!”

  The husky lad carried two large white boxes to the parlor table, his eyes widening when he saw his tip.

  “Thank you! And be sure to tell Mrs. Carter how much I appreciate her promptness.” Charity nearly burst waiting for the delivery boy to leave, because she was about to give herself a rare treat. She lifted the lid of one box and then eagerly opened the other. “Oh, Dillon . . . they’re lovely.”

  He wasn’t sure what was exciting her, but he loved the way it lit up her face. “And what wonders have you wrought now, my love?”

  She turned to him, her eyes a vibrant green. “I’ve had two dresses made. I—I hope you like them.”

  Devereau savored the sight of his wife, who was unfolding a lavender silk gown with gleeful reverence. As she held the dress up against her body, he congratulated himself for choosing such a perfect color. “Try it on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I can’t wait to see you in it.”

  Charity rushed off, and after hearing a hurried rustle of silk in the bedroom, Dillon watched her emerge like a fairy princess. The gown flowed about her, beribboned in purple with white lace at the throat and sleeves. Her transformation from waif to society woman was startling and extremely gratifying. “You’ve never looked lovelier,” he whispered. “If only I could . . . touch you.”

  His poignant wish made her stop turning about. “You will, Dillon. Someday soon. I—I’ll try the other one now.”

  Devereau swore at himself for dousing her excitement, but damn, it was difficult to experience her newfound glory with only his eyes! He wanted her desperately; sitting beside her as they practiced poker drove him to the edge of insanity. And as she floated before him now in a more daring dress of green stripes, he knew precisely why she’d chosen its design. “Powers won’t be able to sit still on Friday, much less look at his cards,” he murmured.

  She was demure yet dazzling, adorned in a princess-style gown that made her eyes shine like gemstones. The bodice dipped provocatively, displaying her soft, peachlike skin above a column of ivory buttons that rose and fell with her breathing.

  Dillon rested his wrists on her shoulders. Why, after years of chasing well-heeled women, did he suddenly have to possess this woman with the freckled nose and hair that was mussed from changing dresses? “Charity,” he breathed, “Charity, I’m going to love you now—going to take this dress off you with my teeth ...”

  His kiss rocked her head back, and Charity reeled with the intensity of his longings. Dillon’s lips followed the curve of her neck, leaving a trail of moist heat in their wake. She sucked in her breath, grasping him for balance when his tongue slithered beneath her bodice to tease each of her breasts. And then he was indeed unfastening her dress with his insistent mouth.

  The power in his lips made her pulse pound. She drove her fingers through his silky hair, watching him gnaw at the ivory buttons and the flesh underneath as though he were a dog with a delectable bone. It was dangerous, this burst of animal passion. Charity gazed down at her gaping dress, suddenly concerned about what was coming over him. “Dillon, stop—please,” she begged in a ragged whisper.

  Thinking he’d nipped her too hard, Devereau glanced up at his wife’s urgent face.

  Charity prayed for words that wouldn’t wound him. “I—I want you Dillon,” she stammered, “but if you keep on this way, you won’t be able to look at this gown without remembering how you took it off me.”

  “What’s wrong with that? You’re my wife.”

  His puzzled tone made it hard to continue, but she had her reasons. “Think of how much rides on our game—how much you stand to lose over a stray thought. Distraction is your worst enemy, Dillon, because you won’t have the feel of the cards to fall back on.”

  “Honey, I’ve had other beautiful women around me when I played, and I’ll control my thoughts—”

  “But they didn’t have anything to lose,” she pleaded. “What if I drop the cards when you wink or look at me that . . . that way? You know how clumsy I can be!”

  He studied her for a long moment, suspicious of her sudden mood change. “Are you saying you don’t want to be loved by a man with maimed hands?” he asked stiffly. “Don’t lie to me, Charity. I’ll know.”

  Charity closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “I’m saying that you don’t even have to be in the same room to make me quiver,” she breathed. “Your body’s like a powerful engine, Dillon, and once it’s got me going I can’t just shut it off.”

  Devereau stood up slowly, wondering where she’d acquired this talent for bluffing—a talent he had little room to condemn. “I never realized how profoundly you were affected by my attentions,” he said in a flat voice. “I don’t enjoy being halted halfway through an explosion, but I’ll try to keep myself in check.”

  He’d assumed his gambler’s facade again, and Charity couldn’t tell if he accepted her excuse or if he was seething. But she’d made a valid point, and her little ruse had saved them both embarrassment: this morning she found out she wasn’t pregnant, and it seemed an ... indelicate time to lead him on. She hoped he would forgive her, and be even hungrier for her after they confronted Powers.

  Abe Littleton’s arrival the next day gave them more important things to think about anyway. Devereau’s partner stepped into the house, his bearded face registering contempt for Charity’s calico dress and then
horror when he saw Dillon’s wrapped hands. “Good God, what happened to—how do you expect to play—”

  “Won’t you have a seat? Charity’s made us some lemonade,” Dillon said with a gracious gesture. He looked his friend over, grinning suddenly. “Damn, but it’s good to see you! How are things at the Crystal Queen?”

  “Fine, but had I known—”

  “This won’t be a waste of your time, Abe. After my run-in with Marcella Scott, Charity concocted a scheme to fleece Erroll Powers. She saved my life,” he added as his wife went into the kitchen. “She’s not the clingy fortune hunter you made her out to be in Kansas City.”

  “Run-in? Charity was behind that telegram?”

  Dillon smiled. “We met up with Charity’s mother and Powers in Dodge City, and Marcella caught me off guard on the train ride out here,” he explained, displaying his bandaged hands. “But Charity—she’s my wife now, did I tell you?—pulled a very creative fast one, and we’re set to challenge Erroll Powers tomorrow at the Pacific Club. Damn glad you could make it, Abe.”

  His partner’s jaw dropped. “Devereau, that’s the most—insane! You’re insane to let her lead you into this—like a lamb to the slaughter!”

  “What a biblical analogy,” he quipped, fondly watching his wife carry a tray of lemonade and cookies to the parlor table. “But when I catch you up on all that’s happened, you’ll see that once Charity sets her strategy, her opponent doesn’t stand a chance.”

  As they approached the Pacific Club, Charity longed for some of her husband’s optimism. What if Acree didn’t let her in? All their practicing would be for nothing, and Dillon would be the laughing stock of San Francisco. She clung to his elbow as the portly butler swung the door open and extended his hand.

  “Mr. Devereau, sir, you’re the image of your father—God rest his soul,” the old gentleman added. “So glad you’re here to show Powers what a real man’s made of. He’s already making a nuisance of himself with his bodyguards and his infernal instructions.”

  Charity kept a polite smile on her face. One worry was behind her, but the next few moments would determine the success of their scheme.

  Devereau smiled ruefully at Acree. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m unable to shake your hand. I’ve had a nasty accident.” He held his two gloved palms up and watched the butler’s eyes widen.

  “But sir, how ever do you plan to—”

  “I’m going to handle the cards,” Charity replied quietly, “while Dillon makes all the decisions. It’s the only way he can play, since Mr. Littleton can’t sit in for him.”

  Acree batted his eyes. “That’s impossible. Ladies—even well-intentioned ones—are never allowed within these walls.” The butler glanced nervously behind him, where Charity saw several nattily dressed club members watching them with expectant faces.

  At Dillon’s purposeful look, she put on her most charming, wide-eyed smile. “What my husband is too modest to say is that Power’s own lady-friend caused this accident. She held his hands against a boiling stock pot, knowing full well the two men were to play out their fortunes at the game table.”

  Charity paused to let the butler’s horrified stare intensify. “We’re counting on your sense of decency and justice, Mr. Acree. Dillon may have lost his very career because of this treachery, and if I can’t hold his cards, he can’t avenge the loss of his father.”

  Acree fidgeted. “This is highly irregular, sir. I don’t think I can—”

  “Ask those men behind you,” Devereau suggested. “Charity will be beside me during the entire match. No one’s privileges or privacy will be compromised by her presence.”

  Looking befuddled, Acree went to confer with the crowd of onlookers that was gathering in the foyer. Devereau kept his grin to himself as Acree spoke of his dilemma; it was obvious that several members saw their own sport for the day vanishing if this showdown wasn’t played out. And moments later, with a prim smile, the Pacific Club’s butler was escorting Charity to the upstairs room he’d reserved. Only one hurdle remained, and Dillon hoped fervently that Power’s greed was greater than his desire to cry foul play.

  The salon was arranged as he’d anticipated: a circular oak table stood ready in the center, with desks for the two accountants on either side. Erroll was conferring with his henchmen, who would undoubtedly stand inside the door and pass word about the game’s progress to their counterparts in the hallway. Devereau had a hunch they all sported a weapon or two, just as he knew Erroll had arrived early to rig the room.

  When the door closed, Powers looked up with a condescending grin. “Already breaking the rules, I see. Young lady, this is no place for a pretty little wench to—”

  Powers’s attitude was more than she could tolerate. “I wouldn’t be here if Mama—Maggie—hadn’t scalded Dillon’s hands,” she asserted. “And for all I know, you put her up to it. So you’ll either let me hold his cards, or we’re on our way home.”

  The bodyguards fell silent, while a slow, cocksure grin spread across the shyster’s face. “So you penned that ridiculous column in the newspaper,” Powers replied coolly. “The only reason I dignified it with my appearance was because you and Devereau did me a big favor in Dodge. Scared the bejesus out of me at first, but it was the perfect chance to ditch Maggie—or whatever the hell her name is. A cunning woman, but she suffers such delusions. Thinks I’m enamored enough to overlook her ulterior motive for latching on to me.”

  “Well, I don’t suffer my mother’s delusions,” Charity stated as she sat down next to Dillon. “So either you allow me to play, or you explain to Mr. Acree and the others that you’re reneging on the challenge you issued in the paper.”

  Erroll’s face hardened slightly when he realized he was cornered. “Doesn’t your little consort know her place, Devereau? A man with any pride wouldn’t allow his lady to state his conditions for him.”

  It was plain that Powers intended to insult them for the entire match—a common method of distraction. “It appears my wife has assumed her rightful place—beside me,” Devereau replied firmly, “so let’s stop this quibbling and get on with our game. My accountant, Abe Littleton, has come, prepared with a substantial sum of money and the papers to my holdings. Not that I’ll need them. I suggest we play until one o’clock, with a short recess around eleven.”

  Powers made a show of pulling out his gold pocket watch. “Fine by me. Four hours should be more than sufficient time to ruin you.”

  “And to compensate for your earlier arrival,” Devereau continued in a businesslike tone, “I insist we play with new cards from the club’s bartender.” His insinuation was met with the briefest flicker of disdain, which confirmed Devereau’s suspicions about the deck being stacked and marked.

  “All right. Bart—” he instructed a man wearing a brown suit, “go get us four sealed decks. Although I doubt Mrs. Devereau can handle even one of them.”

  “How astute of you,” Charity remarked sweetly, accenting the word’s first syllable. “We’ll do our best not to try your patience, Mr. Powers.”

  Erroll sat down across from them and pulled an expensive cigar from his pocket. He took his time lighting it, letting his eyes wander along her revealing neckline. “You’ve got your mother’s mouth,” he said with a hint of admiration. “If I’d known she had one like you waiting in the wings, I’d have—”

  “Dumped her even sooner,” Charity finished. “She knows you pretty well, Mr. Powers. And if you thought she had a tenacious streak—ah, here come our cards. What’s the ante?”

  “Five hundred dollars. Ladies deal first.”

  His barbs were taking their toll, and when she broke open a fresh deck, her hands felt even more awkward than usual. Dillon had warned her to remain calm above all else, because even with unmarked cards Powers could bring all sorts of other devices into play. On an impulse, she divided the deck, cocked the edges against her thumbs, and let fly with a force that sent several cards tumbling off the table. “Oh, dear! I’ll just
. . .”

  She retrieved the stray cards, giving Powers an ample view of her cleavage while she confirmed Dillon’s predictions: two holdouts were stuck to the table’s underside, secreting a queen of hearts and its ace, as well as other face cards. Charity righted herself and smiled coyly. “I believe the cards got a better shuffle that way than I could have given them in fifteen minutes! Five card stud, Mr. Powers?”

  Erroll sucked on his cheroot until the end glowed like hellfire. “Take off those damned gloves, Devereau. If this is a hoax, my men will be escorting you and this bubble-headed hoyden to the street.”

  Anticipating this challenge, Dillon had left his right hand unbandaged. He peeled the glove off slowly, wincing with the pain.

  The sight of his red, ravaged skin made Erroll grimace. “How in God’s name—”

  “Marcella clasped my hands to a boiling stock pot,” Devereau replied as he replaced his glove. “So now that your obvious advantage has been established, we’ll continue.”

  He scooted closer to Charity and glanced briefly at their cards. As he’d hoped, the con man was glowing with overconfidence—the only weapon he and Charity could count on if they were to carry this challenge off. “One and four,” he murmured.

  Charity discarded, after replacing two of Powers’s cards. The seven and five she drew did nothing to improve their paltry hand, and Charity suddenly realized why Dillon’s unreadable expression was such an asset. Even if her husband did his damndest to bluff Powers, Erroll could read her face at a glance!

  “Two thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll see your two thousand and raise it one more,” Dillon stated, and the two accountants came forward to place the bundles of money in the center of the table.

  Charity nearly fainted. They’d invested thirty-five hundred dollars on the first round, on nothing higher than a nine! It was all she could do to hold the cards, and a warning glance from Abe told her how desperate she looked.