To Love a Scoundrel

by Sharon Ihle

He'd been dismissed, Brent realized as he took a moment to check the shine on his high-laced shoes. Bending down to dust off the taut Congress gaiters, Brent conceded to the captain's opinion. "I'll get out of your way, then. Remember, though—at the first sign of trouble, too short and three long whistles. Right?"

  "Right. Go on now and have a good time," Dazzle said, waving over his shoulder. "And don't forget to listen for the signal when we pass under the bridge."

  Finally able to manage a smile, Brent pushed his way through the door, then descended the steep spiral staircase leading to the hurricane deck. There, instead of continuing on down through the boiler deck to the grand saloon where most of the passengers were celebrating in full force, he walked to the stern and leaned over the polished wood rail. The huge paddle wheel, painted bright red and highlighted with three white rings, churned the gray waters, kicking up a frothy wake.

  Brent stared out toward the St. Louis skyline as the buildings grew smaller and wondered if he had finally found his niche, that special area in which he could excel and, in the bargain, make enough of a profit to restore the family plantation to its original grandeur. If he did succeed, then what? He would, he thought with a grimace, be subjected to a renewed effort by his family to seek a bride and begin a family of his own.

  Brent thought of the women he'd known, of those still considered suitable by the Connors family, and slowly shook his head. Not likely he'd be settling down soon, given the prospects. Not likely at all. Instead of accepting a new way of life after the war between the states, instead of recognizing the changes that needed to be made, most of his neighbors' daughters seemed to want to go on living as if nothing had changed. They actually preferred living in the fantasy world of an antebellum society, apparently unconcerned that clinging to the past left them dangerously blind to the future.

  "Southern women," he muttered into a fresh spray of water. He simply wasn't in tune with them, couldn't abide their silly games and fluttering eyelashes. The day Brent Connors decided to go after a gal with a lasso, she would have to be tough enough to jerk the rope out of his hands. Not likely to happen, he thought again, this time with a chuckle. Not in these parts anyway.

  A sudden image of Jewel, the woman with many fathers, came to mind. Now there, he thought with a dash of admiration, was a tough little lady. The last time he saw her, she had cursed him like a deckhand as she stomped down the road to Topeka, leaving a trail of her own blood while Brent was hard-pressed to keep up with her. By the next morning she'd been gone, leaving her poor daddy behind—to work alone.

  Tough, he thought again. Tough as old jerky. But she could also be cold, he remembered—colder than the Chicago wind in January. He thought back to the gunshot wound he'd inflicted. Her only reaction had been one of anger. Not once had he seen even the hint of a tear in her alluring green eyes. He'd expected a hysterical, wailing woman when he saw the blood on her sleeve, but she'd surprised him and lit into him instead.

  She was tough all right. And cold. Brent suddenly wondered about the old coot pretending to be her father. Was he actually her husband? Her lover? Brent shook off an uncharacteristic stab of jealousy at the idea. It seemed unlikely that the balding gnome in Topeka was strong enough to tame the auburn-haired wildcat. Had anyone ever peeled away her tough hide and found a soft vulnerable woman beneath? Did such a woman even exist beneath that intriguing combination of wit and beauty?

  Feeling a twinge of regret, wishing he'd had the chance to find out, Brent spun around and rested his back against the high rail. Suddenly eager to think of something besides the green-eyed temptress, he glanced up at the twin stacks. Also painted bright red, they loomed up nearly seventy feet into the sky, then gracefully bloomed, their chimney tops cut to resemble a crown of coiled plumes.

  Black smoke spewed out of the stacks as the steamship neared the Eads Bridge, and Brent grinned in anticipation. The bridge, completed two years earlier, brought a steady influx of railway traffic from all directions. That traffic, ever growing, had cut into the already dwindling steamship business and threatened to bury it forever. But not if Sebastian Steamship lines could help it, he thought, knowing he'd gambled his entire savings on the public's love of luxury over convenience. A moment later, on cue as the twin stacks passed under the bridge, the fancy new five- toned whistle blew, announcing the ship's presence to any who cared to make note of her passing—and arrival.

  Satisfied by the signal, Brent shook a triumphant fist into the air, then continued on his way to the grand saloon. When he stepped inside the magnificent cabin and his feet sank into the expensive Brussels carpet, he paused and hung his hat on a brass peg. "Luxury" and "opulence" were pale words to describe the scene, now that the ship was filled with glamorous guests. He'd divided the 300-foot cabin, designating the bow end for the entertainers and the stern half to games of chance, three championship billiard tables, and the bar. Tomorrow, after the celebrations had died down, he would separate the entertainment area from the gambling parlor with a large partition, but for now the room was open and enormous. Both halves were awash with light from twelve ornate oil-lamp chandeliers, and the saloon sparkled with a carousel of rich colors from stained-glass skylights. The cabin was the very height of elegance, an overt display of extravagance.

  Brent took a deep breath, hardly able to believe it all belonged to him. The rich aroma of the fresh-sawn hardwood paneling and cherry ceiling drifted under his nose. Mingled with the scent, expensive perfumes and smoke from countless panatela cigars teased his senses, filling his chest with pride. He was home.

  Ready now to blend in with the crowd, Brent stepped into the room and greeted the crowd in a seductively rich drawl. "Ladies, it's a real pleasure to have you on board. Gentlemen," he added as he shook their hands, "please be sure to take advantage of our fine new bar. We've stocked the finest cognacs and brandies available."

  Brent continued on his way, introducing himself to those he didn't know, and reacquainting himself with those he'd met before. He glanced over to the poker table and was relieved to see them crowded with card players. Then he looked up at the stage. A banjo player strummed along as a magician performed his sleight of hand for an enthusiastic audience. The backdrop for this and other acts was a huge ruby-red velvet curtain trimmed with gold cord. The heavy material swayed, gently following the rhythm of the river as the ship glided slowly atop the water.

  Walking toward the polished mahogany bar in the stern for a visit with his saloon manager, Brent noted that several well-dressed gentlemen had already stepped up to the rail in search of a quiet midmorning nip.

  All was as it should have been. Laughter and gaiety surrounded him, putting life into his dream. Perhaps he'd worried needlessly about the welfare of the Delta Dawn, fretted in vain over the maiden voyage of the Sebastian Steamship Line's flagship—its only ship.

  With renewed enthusiasm, Brent continued toward the bar. Then his eye caught something out of the ordinary, some little thing that hadn't been there before boarding began. What was it? he wondered, baffled. He slowly scanned the length of the saloon once again, and this time he spotted the disturbing object.

  There, amidships, nestled between the round poker tables and theater chairs, stood a small square table that had apparently been taken from the dining saloon. It was covered with a gaudy green and gold drapery edged in black fringe. In the center of the table a crystal globe nestled like some giant egg in one of the Dawn's engraved silver bowls.

  Facing the bulkhead, an empty chair waited for its first customer. Opposite it, a high-back Windsor armchair sat unoccupied. Directly behind the table, tacked to the wall, was a sign: Madame Zaharra, the Gypsy Fortune-Teller. Fortunes Told with Dice, Dominoes, and Cards. Palm Readings and Much More. Two bits.

  "What the... hell?" Brent's puzzled gaze returned to the bar, but Tex, his manager, was busy filling orders. He glanced back at the table just in time to catch sight of a head of unrestrained auburn curls bouncing along. When the owner of those flowing
locks emerged from the crowd and revealed the rest of her enticing body, Brent felt his blood turn cold.

  "No," he muttered as he studied her back. It couldn't be—could it? That hair, loose and flowing, was like hers, even with the little cap of black lace draped over the crown, but what about that garish outfit? Why would Jewel be dressed like a peasant?

  Whoever she was, this was certainly no lady. She was costumed in a gauzy yellow drawstring blouse he could only guess was scooped in front to reveal the swells of her bosom. Long black lacy gloves met the sleeves of the blouse at mid-arm and matched the fabric tied around her waist in a wide sash. A diaphanous sequined scarf washed in hues of violet, rose, and soft canary yellow was draped across her shoulders, the tails flowing out behind her skirt like streamers. The hem of that wild paisley printed skirt was scandalously high. It fell to just above her shoes, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of her ankles as she worked her way to the table.

  This was definitely no lady, he thought again. And even though she'd never pretended to be entirely proper, this couldn't be Jewel.

  Brent continued to watch her as she slid into the Windsor chair and turned to face the passengers. Then his breath froze in his throat. When he finally managed to speak, Brent's voice was hoarse. "No. It can't be Jewel—not again."

  But it sure as hell was.

  Uncertain exactly what propelled him—anger, shock, fascination, or a combination of all three—he caught his breath and pushed his way through the crowd.

  * * *

  Unaware that Brent Connors was bearing down on her, Jewel unwrapped the deck of cards she'd just gotten from Tex. After tossing the paper under the table, she split the deck and had begun to shuffle the cards when an indignant male voice startled her.

  "Jewel?" Cards shot up in the air. A few hearts and spades bounced off Brent's brocade vest as he added in a deceptively gentle voice, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Taken aback at first, Jewel stared up at him with huge round eyes, her mouth dropping open.

  "Well? I know you can do better than that. Now, what the hell do you think you're doing, and how did you get aboard this ship?"

  When she was able to react like a detective again, Jewel stood up and stepped out from behind the table. "Don't think you can push me around, mister. I have every right to be on this ship. What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, jabbing her index finger into his shoulder. "Running into you once or twice may be a coincidence, but this is ridiculous. I'm beginning to think you're following me. What are you up to?"

  "Me?'' Brent circled her wrist with his hand and jerked her toward him. The sudden movement set the rows of cheap gold coins attached to her long necklace jingling. Through the clatter he warned, "You ought to be more careful who you mess with. I may be a southern gentleman, but if you think you can stand there poking me and get away with it, you got another think coming. I might just snap an irritating finger like that in half."

  "Or blow it off, Mr. Sharpshooter?" she blurted out recklessly.

  Brent's honey-brown eyes narrowed and darkened like cold hard molasses. "You've got one more chance to explain yourself before I pick you up and toss you overboard. I suggest you don't test my patience any further."

  Jewel's stubborn jaw tensed. Her expression slowly became thoughtful and calculating. She wrenched her hand free and began to wave it toward the bar, threatening Brent as she tried to get Tex's attention. "This is one gamble you never should have taken. You've just bought yourself a passel of trouble. I wouldn't wager your entire stake on what's going to happen to you when the saloon manager gets over here and I tell him how badly you've been treating me."

  More amused than angry, he turned toward the bar and caught Tex's eye. With a short nod, he beckoned the man, then looked back at Jewel. His eyes soft and warm again, Brent spread his legs and drew a toothpick from his vest pocket. Using his tongue in a deliberately sensual fashion, he slowly moved the bit of wood from one corner of his mouth to the other.

  "What's so damn funny?" she demanded. "You're the one who's about to get tossed off this boat, not me."

  Brent said nothing. Instead, he contented himself by watching her dig her own grave. His grin broad enough now to produce his dimples, he folded his arms across his chest.

  Jewel glanced toward the bar and was relieved to see the manager approaching them. Looking back up at Brent, she mimicked his confident smile. "There's a fellow about twice as big as you on his way over here now. He's going to wipe that grin off your face before you even know what hit you. What do you think of that, you shined-up dandy?''

  Brent pulled the toothpick from his mouth, thinking she was in deep enough now to plant herself and a team of horses. His dimples split his cheeks, plunging to depths never before reached as he heard his manager shuffle up beside him.

  "Yes, Mr. Connors?"

  "Mr. Connors?" Jewel sputtered, cocking an eyebrow at Tex. "Where do you get off calling him—a man who is probably a stowaway—anything? I signaled you for a reason. I demand that you have this man removed from this boat. He's just a two-bit gambler and I wouldn't be surprised to find he also cheats at cards." She sniffed and lifted her chin as she added, "He also insulted me. Please have him ejected."

  Tex, a giant of a man who doubled as the bouncer, took off his visor and scratched his head. "Mr. Connors? What's going on? What do you want me to do?"

  Brent held the toothpick in front of Jewel's face and snapped it in half. Then he turned to acknowledge Tex. "How did she get on board?"

  "I hired her this morning, boss. I didn't think you'd mind, since you approved all the other acts I booked."

  "I thought our entertainment budget was depleted."

  Tex grinned, exposing a patchwork of neglected and missing teeth. "She signed on for room and board and whatever she can make from the passengers. Won't cost us anything but a few meals. I didn't think you'd mind."

  Feeling left out, as if she'd never been a part of the discussion, Jewel elbowed her way back into the conversation. "Why do you care if he minds or not, and what's all this 'boss' talk? I thought you were the boss, Tex."

  "I am in the saloon cabin, ma'am," he explained. "But Mr. Connors is the boss over all of us. He owns this steamship."

  Her smile as counterfeit as the twenty dollar bills she'd tracked down in the past, Jewel kept her paralyzed gaze on Tex. "How very nice for him," she managed through a jaw so tight it would barely move. "How very, very lovely indeed. I guess I won't be needing you after all, Tex. I was just funning with Mr. Connors here. Thanks for taking part in my little joke."

  Tex's eyebrow's drew together and he looked at Brent. "Mr. Connors?"

  "Go on back to the bar, Tex. Thanks for coming over. I can handle this from here on out."

  "Yes, sir." The puzzled giant began to move away slowly, then turned and hurried back to his post, shaking his head as he made his way across the long room.

  Working to overcome her shock and wondering how, or if, she would keep her new job, Jewel reached over and lightly touched Brent's vest. "Nice fabric. Very expensive. It suits a big handsome man like you."

  Again he circled her wrist with his fingers, but this time he held her arm up between them. "You have a decision to make and make now. You can come along to my cabin quietly and explain exactly who you are and why you are on this ship, or you can take a swim. Which will it be?''

  "Why... stars and garters," she said in her best southern accent, "you don't leave a girl with much of a choice." Jewel stared up at him, pouting and fluttering her eyelashes. "I can't swim, you know, and going to your cabin is—how shall I say it?—not exactly the kind of thing a proper young lady—''

  "Spare me the innocent act, all right? Are you coming with me or not?''

  "Well, suh—"

  "And get rid of the phony accent. If there's one thing I can't stand besides liars, it's southern belles. Now, what's it going to be?"

  "I, ah... see." She shrugged. "In that case, I suppose a trip to
your cabin is in order. I'm sure once I explain everything, you'll—"

  "I'd just love to hear your story this time, but in private if you don't mind." Brent glanced around the saloon, noticing they'd already drawn more than a couple of curious stares. He began to walk away and was relieved when he heard her fall into step behind him.

  Intent on dreaming up a story that would best serve her purpose, Jewel barely noticed the throngs of fancy ladies cautiously glancing her way as she wove her way through them. She kept her mind on business and her gaze on Brent's stiff shoulders—and caught glimpses of his taut behind when the tails of his coat split as he swaggered up the stairs. After they had passed through the Texas deck where the passengers staterooms were found, then up to the hurricane deck, Jewel's attention was drawn to a part of the ship rarely seen by guests. Smaller than the other cabins, the area set aside for officers' quarters was every bit as opulent as the rest of the ship.

  After glancing around the carpeted communal sitting room, Jewel watched as Brent unlocked a pair of polished rosewood doors. Above the porcelain knobs two oil paintings depicted the Delta Dawn and a view of the Mississippi at dusk. The river painting included huge cypress trees rising up out of the swamp, appearing ghostlike in the shrouded light. Jewel was engrossed in the Spanish moss hanging from the trees when the doors parted, depriving her of the view.

  "Be my guest," Brent said with a smirk.

  She took a breath and muttered, "Why, thank you, sir," then sashayed past him into the sumptuous stateroom.

  He closed the double doors, then turned and issued an order. "Have a seat in front of my desk and we'll get down to business."

  Regarding him over her shoulder, Jewel assessed the room before she took another step. The cabin reeked of money and elegance—everything she had supposed a man like Brent Connors was not. How could she have been so wrong about him? This was not the room, or the ship, of a two-bit gambler. She took slow steps toward a blue velvet armchair, making note of the filigree work on the ceilings, the gilt and ornate scrollwork above the doors and windows, and the heavy walnut furniture.