by Sharpe, Jon
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Senator Deerforth grandly announced, “let the games begin.”
Onlookers were not allowed within six feet of the tables. The crowds were well behaved. Anyone who caused a ruckus or interfered with the players in any way was summarily, and often roughly, ejected.
Fargo got down to the business of playing poker and shut out everything else. His first hand wasn’t promising. He ended up with a pair of twos. The next hand he had nothing. And the one after that. He was beginning to think it was an omen when he was dealt three kings and two tens. After that, his luck changed.
By six that evening only Aces O’Bannon was left. Aces had more chips and he was growing cocky. The next hand he bet heavy on two pair and lost to Fargo’s three of a kind.
“You’re a devil with the cards and that’s for sure,” O’Bannon complimented him.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Fargo said. He wet his throat with whiskey but only a swallow. He’d been nursing a glass all afternoon.
O’Bannon gazed about them. “’Tis a fine affair, this tournament of the senator’s, is it not?”
Fargo wasn’t in the mood for talk. All he did was grunt.
“Come visit New Orleans sometime and I’ll treat you to a night you won’t soon forget.”
“I’ve been there.”
“Then you know the charms of the Creole girls. I can introduce you to one who will make you forever glad you’re a man, if you get my drift.”
“O’Bannon?”
“Yes, laddie?”
“Shut the hell up.”
O’Bannon colored and gripped the edge of the table. “I was only being friendly.”
“Play cards,” Fargo said.
It was O’Bannon’s turn to deal. He did so with fluid ease, the cards an extension of his fingers.
Fargo detected no evidence of cheating. He had a pair of fours, a seven, a jack and a king. He asked for three cards and was glad he had a poker face—he wound up with two more fours.
O’Bannon toyed with his chips, stacking and restacking them. Finally he said, “I have to go with my gut and my gut says I’ve got you beat. How much do you have there?”
Fargo told him.
O’Bannon counted out the amount and pushed the pile to the center.
Fargo didn’t hesitate. “All in,” he said, adding his chips to the pile.
“A flush,” O’Bannon declared, showing his hand. He was so confident he reached for the pot.
“Not so fast,” Fargo said. “You must have indigestion.” He turned his cards over.
O’Bannon swore. From then on he played recklessly, seeking to recoup his winnings. He lost that much faster.
A straight sealed O’Bannon’s fate. He shook hands and made for the bar.
Fargo had twenty thousand in chips. It wasn’t the most he’d ever won but it was close. Unfortunately, the rules didn’t let players cash out early. It was winner take all. He had to see it through to the end.
Five other players had been eliminated. He could claim any of the seats and continue. Trying to decide, he glanced from table to table.
Lacey caught his eye. She grinned and blew him a kiss.
8
Fargo joined her table. Inside of two hours only she and he were left. They battled back and forth and neither gained an advantage. At midnight Senator Deerforth announced that the first day of the tournament was officially concluded and they would resume the next morning at nine.
Fargo rubbed his eyes and leaned back and stretched. Lacey was regarding him with an amused expression. She hadn’t said much while they played. She was always serious about her cards.
“Tired, handsome?”
“Not really,” Fargo said. He’d taken part in games that lasted two days or better.
“Me either. How about you be a gentleman and treat me to a meal?”
There was only one restaurant in town and during the tournament it stayed open twenty-four hours. Fargo ordered beef and potatoes. Lacey preferred eggs and bacon.
“So have you figured out who’s trying to kill you yet?” she asked out of the blue while they were waiting for their food.
Fargo shook his head.
“It isn’t me,” Lacey said, and laughed.
“I’m glad you find it so funny.”
“Oh, I don’t. Believe me. I like you, Skye. You try so hard to resist my charms. That’s funny.”
“Why?”
“You, of all people.”
“You’re used to men falling all over you.”
Lacey sat back, her eyes crinkling. “It’s not that. It’s you. Skye Fargo. The great lover. You have a reputation, you know. Let me see. How does it go?” She tapped her chin and pretended to be trying to remember. “Ah, yes. You’ve never met a female you haven’t bedded.”
“There have been a few,” Fargo allowed.
“There have been a hell of a lot more than that. I bet you can’t remember them all. I bet you’ve lost count.”
“Why are we talking about this?”
“Because I’m trying to spark interest.”
“In what.”
“Me.”
Fargo stared.
“I was thinking that you and I could go back to my room and spend the night together.”
“Just like that? You come right out with it?”
“Why not?” Lacey said. “Does it always have to be the man who makes the first move?”
“True love, huh?”
“Damn you,” Lacey said, but she was smiling. “I need rest. I need to sleep so I’ll be fresh for the tournament tomorrow. And the best way I know to relax and drift off is to go to bed with someone.”
“You just happened to pick me?”
“God, you have a suspicious mind.”
“I know you, Lacey. What was it Vin said? There’s no end to your tricks.”
“This isn’t a trick. All I want to do is fuck you.”
The waitress brought their plates. Fargo was famished and dug right in. He didn’t pay attention to his companion until she cleared her throat.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Don’t play games. Have you made up your mind? Is it yes or is it no?”
“I’m still thinking.” Fargo forked a thick piece of meat rimmed with fat into his mouth and chewed with relish.
“Most men would leap at the chance.”
“Most men don’t know you like I do.”
Lacey delicately broke off a small piece of scrambled egg and speared it and placed it in her mouth.
Fargo tried not to think of her breasts and how it would be to have his hands on them. He ate some more and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee.
“I’ve always liked you,” Lacey said.
“Stop it.”
“Can’t we call a truce? Our lovemaking would have nothing to do with the cards. In the morning we’ll go our separate ways and your life will go on as usual.”
Fargo tried to recollect the last time a woman had to talk him into climbing under the sheets with her, and couldn’t.
“What are you grinning about?”
“How damn silly life can be.”
“You think I’m silly for wanting to go to bed with you?”
“I think you’re as good-looking a woman as I’ve ever come across but I don’t trust you any further than I can throw a buffalo.”
Lacey’s luscious lips curled. “A compliment at last.”
“You’re forgetting the trust part.”
“I give you my solemn word that this isn’t a trick. What more can I say?”
Fargo looked at her breasts and at her mouth and at her hair and heard himself say, “We go to my room, not yours.”
“Deal,” Lacey said.
9
It was that damn perfume of hers. It got into a man’s head and wouldn’t let go.
Lacey sashayed past and over to the bed and tossed her bag on the dresser. She put her hands on her hips and arched her
back and her breasts pushed against her dress. “Like what you see?”
Fargo shut the door. The mansion was quiet. Everyone else was already in bed.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Unbuckling his gun belt, Fargo placed it beside her bag. He walked over and stood in front of her but didn’t touch her.
“What are you waiting for?” she impatiently asked.
“Hell to freeze over.”
Lacey tapped her foot and frowned. “If you’ve changed your mind, say so. I’ll go to my own room.”
Fargo called her bluff. He stepped aside and motioned at the door. “See you in the morning.”
A red tinge spread from Lacey’s neck line to her hair. “You son of a bitch.”
Fargo stood there. She glared and stamped her foot and then she stared and when he didn’t say anything, she snorted and laughed.
“You’re playing with me, aren’t you?”
Fargo cupped her breasts and squeezed. Lacey gasped and stiffened. He squeezed harder and her eyelids fluttered. Suddenly she was pressed against him, her mouth hungrily glued to his, panting in her need. Her fingers found his hair and his hat fell to the floor.
Sliding his hands under her backside, Fargo lifted her and swept her onto the four-poster bed. He set her on her back and took off his spurs.
Lacey scooted up so her head was on the pillow. Her beautiful features framed by a golden halo of hair, she crooked a leg and languidly moved it back and forth. She crooked a finger, too, and touched the nail to her red lips. “Now this is more like it,” she said huskily.
Fargo stretched out beside her. He ran a hand from her neck to her waist and she mewed. When he kissed her, her mouth was molten. Her tongue darted and probed. He sucked on it and she sucked on his. He began to undo a row of tiny buttons that ran down the middle of her back. It took a while. There were dozens.
Fargo kissed her neck, her ear. He nipped a lobe. He ran his other hand through her hair and was pricked by a silver hairpin he’d noticed earlier. Without thinking about it, he plucked the hairpin out and let it fall.
For her part, Lacey’s hands were everywhere. She pulled at his buckskin shirt and slid a hand underneath. Her fingers roved over his washboard gut and up his broad chest.
At last Fargo got the dress down around her waist. He eased her chemise off one shoulder and low enough to expose a breast. Her nipple popped free and he devoured it. He swirled it with his tongue and lightly bit it and she ground against him and cooed.
Lacey bit him. She bit his ear and his neck and she sank her teeth into his shoulder.
Fargo grew warm all over. Below his belt a bulge swelled. When Lacey brazenly placed a hand on his pole, it throbbed. Baring her other breast, he lavished his tongue on both. She tasted of powder and perfume.
Rising onto his knees, Fargo peeled off her dress and then the chemise. She had on stockings but he left those on. Her shoes joined his spurs on the floor.
Lacey returned the favor. She pulled off his shirt and threw it down and eagerly slid his pants around his shins. She couldn’t get them any lower because of his boots. As his member came free she gasped.
“Good Lord. I had no idea.”
She fondled him and cupped him, and Fargo’s throat constricted. He pressed his lips to her shoulder, to her melons, to her flat belly. She pressed hers to his neck and shoulders.
Abruptly dipping, Lacey looked up at him and grinned, then applied her mouth.
Now it was Fargo who gasped. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back and let the exquisite sensation wash over him. She knew just what to do. It took every ounce of selfcontrol he possessed not to explode. After she had been at it a while, he pulled her up and kissed her and dropped his hand to the junction of her thighs. He ran a finger along her slit. She was wet and ready. He touched her tiny knob and she shivered. He rubbed, and she thrust her hips at his.
Fargo inserted a finger. He inserted another. She held herself still and scarcely seemed to breathe. When he stroked, her bottom came up off the bed and she smothered an outcry. Her fingers enfolded him and her hand mimicked the rhythm of his. Their mouths were twin volcanoes.
A considerable while passed before Fargo eased between her legs. She hooked her ankles behind him and looked into his yes.
“Yes. Do me.”
Fargo ran the tip of his manhood up and down, wetting it. With a flip of her hip she sought to impale him but he pulled back.
“Quit playing games, damn it,” Lacey said.
“I aim to please, ma’am,” Fargo replied, and drove up into her to the hilt.
Lacey’s eyes widened and her mouth parted and her back bent into a bow.
“How was that?” Fargo said, holding himself still.
Lacey moaned.
“There’s more yet,” Fargo told her, and settled into a rocking motion. The velvet feel of her inner walls brought him to the brink but he held off. Under them the bed tossed as if on a storm-swept sea. Above them the canopy shook. Again and again he rammed into her. She clamped her legs and their two bodies became a single machine, thrusting and counterthrusting, their passion rising until they were poised at the cusp.
“Now,” Lacey pleaded. “Please.”
“Ladies first,” Fargo said, and reaching between them, he touched a finger to her.
Lacey gushed. She churned. She dug her teeth and her nails into him. She pushed her face into a pillow to muffle her moans.
Fargo let himself go. When he eventually came to a stop and collapsed on top of her, he was caked with sweat. Rolling off her, he lay on his side.
“That was nice,” Lacey said dreamily, her eyes half-shut, a finger playing with her hair.
Fargo grunted.
“We should have done it years ago.”
Closing his eyes, Fargo was content to drift off. The long day and the full meal had caught up to him. Just as he was about to slip under, she jabbed his jaw with a fingernail.
“You’re not going to sleep on me, are you?”
“I was thinking about it,” Fargo said.
“I can’t say much for your stamina.”
Fargo looked at her.
“Well, I can’t.”
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I’d just like a second helping. We don’t have to be at the saloon until nine and I’m not tired yet.”
“I am.” Fargo turned his back to her and nestled his chin on a pillow. He half expected her to argue but she didn’t and soon he slipped into dreamland. He slept soundly, much more so than usual, so soundly that he didn’t wake up at the crack of day as he usually did.
Sunlight was streaming in the window when Fargo finally opened his eyes. He felt sluggish and couldn’t quite focus. He went to sit up and heard a peculiar sound and discovered his right arm wouldn’t move.
He was handcuffed to the bedpost.
10
Suddenly Fargo was wide awake. He swore and tugged and hurt his wrist. Turning, he saw an impression on the quilt where Lacey had been lying.
Fargo opened his mouth to shout but didn’t. He’d look the fool. Once word spread he’d be a laughingstock. After venting his spleen with a string of curses, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself and bent over the cuffs. Clearly stamped on both bracelets was the word WILSON; they were manufactured by the T. H. Wilson company. He was familiar with them. Law officers used Wilson cuffs a lot. It took a special key with a round stem to unlock them.
Fargo rested his chin on his arm and pondered. Why Lacey had done it was obvious. The rules stated that the tournament started at nine sharp. Anyone who didn’t show up was disqualified. There were no exceptions.
The angle of the sunlight streaming in the window suggested it was past seven, probably later. He had to undo the cuffs and get to the saloon and he didn’t have a lot of time.
The cuff fit so tight around his wrist that slipping his hand through was out of the question. He’d need grease or oil to make it slippery enough, and even then he�
�d lose a lot of skin and some flesh besides.
The post was too thick to break. He could kick it for half the day and it would hold up.
No, Fargo decided, he had to undo the cuffs. But how, when he didn’t have the damn key? An idea occurred to him. Shifting, he hiked at his right pant leg and slid his left hand into his boot and palmed his Arkansas toothpick.
Toothpicks were different from most knives in that most had a single sharp edge but toothpicks were double-edged and came to a fine point.
Fargo inserted the tip into the keyhole. It went in a quarter of an inch and he felt it press against the mechanism.
He pushed but nothing happened. He twisted to the right with the same result. He twisted to the left and thought he could feel something give but the cuff didn’t come unfastened.
Fargo did more swearing. He sat back and noticed a gleam on the quilt where Lacey’s head had been; it was the silver hairpin.
Fargo slid the Arkansas toothpick into its ankle sheath and snatched up the hairpin. A lot of women used them but not many could afford hairpins made of sterling silver. He slid it into the keyhole on the cuff and moved it from side to side and twisted one way and then the other. Once again nothing happened. He slid it a fraction farther and turned it as he would a key and there was a slight click. Elated, he pulled on the cuff but it stayed fastened.
Fargo slumped on the pillow. He didn’t know how much time he had but it couldn’t be a lot. He had to get the cuff off and get to the Cosmopolitan or he’d forfeit his five thousand dollars and any chance of winning. His temper flared, and in a burst of anger he stuck the hairpin into the hole and pushed harder and twisted almost savagely.
There was a louder click and the cuff popped open.
Quickly, Fargo found his shirt and was soon dressed with his gun belt around his waist. He opened his door and ran to the stairs. Someone was in the parlor, humming. He was more interested in the grandfather clock in the hall. “Seventy thirtyseven,” he said out loud, relieved. He’d thought it was a lot later.
“Who’s there?” a female voice said, and out of the parlor came young Roselyn Deerforth, as cute as could be in a pink dress with a matching pink bow in her hair. “Oh. Mr. Fargo. Are you feeling better?”