To Love a Scoundrel

by Sharon Ihle

  When she turned toward another set of double doors leading, she supposed, to the master bedroom, Jewel shook her head. She'd been so sure Brent was nothing more than a dandy, a lost southerner without a plantation to call home. As she continued toward the chair, she noticed an exceptionally well crafted billiard table clothed in blood-red felt. Again she wondered how she could have been so wrong.

  "Sit," Brent said from across the desk.

  "Huh?"

  "I believe you heard me, Madame... Zigzag?"

  "Zaharra," she corrected him as she slid onto the blue velvet chair.

  "I'm a fairly patient man," Brent drawled as he glanced beyond her to the elaborate cuckoo clock attached to the wall. "I can spare five minutes for your little story. Let's hear it."

  Thinking fast, she recalled the way he'd stared at her cleavage the first time they met. Jewel pushed her shoulders back and encouraged one sleeve of her low-necked blouse to slip down her arm. Then she leaned forward and began jerking on her chair in an effort to move it closer to the desk.

  The act drew the expected response from Brent. His eyes lit up as her breasts jiggled and fought for a way out of the confines of the gauzy yellow material. This might be easier than she thought.

  Brent cleared his throat of a sudden frog and looked into her calculating green eyes. The sight was no less disconcerting than the swell of her breasts, but when he thought of her numerous disguises and her obviously crooked reasons for using them, he managed a stern tone. "My patience is wearing thin. I said I would listen to your story, and I will, if you'll get on with it. Then I will have you removed from this ship—and perhaps arrested as well."

  "But that won't be necessary," she said, buying a little time in which to determine the best way around him.

  "Then please tell me this: Why do I find a very proper Harvey Girl, the daughter of a kindly old gentleman, dressed up in this... this"—he waved a hand in her direction, unable to come up with a name for her Gypsy costume—"silly getup?"

  "Oh, that." She laughed, still stalling for a little more time. "I can see how you'd misunderstand, after Topeka and all."

  "By 'all,' may I assume you are referring to Chicago? You see, I haven't forgotten that little incident, either."

  "Ah, well, yes, I suppose I am." Jewel's smile was strained as she realized what she was up against. Brent Connors wasn't going to be swayed by her feminine wiles as easily as she'd hoped. He wouldn't accept just any old thing she said as fact. Out of time and ideas, she laid her cards on the table.

  "All right, Mr. Connors. I can see you're running a little short of tolerance, and I don't blame you one bit."

  Brent kept his silence. Reaching into his vest, he withdrew a toothpick and popped it into his mouth. Fascinated, he gestured for her to continue digging her grave.

  "I really haven't been quite the liar you think, sir," she began, her eyes wide and as innocent as she could make them appear. "Everything I told you about Chicago was true, and the same goes for Topeka." Deciding just a dash of helplessness would work in her favor, she tempered her earlier act. Her voice softer, lower, she absently rubbed at her injured arm as she told her tale. "After you shot me, I didn't have much choice but leave when my father ordered me to. I was no good to him, no good to... anybody." She slumped dramatically and raised a lace-gloved hand to her brow.

  Brent stifled the urge to berate her and to demand that she drop the act. A spurt of residual guilt pushed a sigh from him instead. "Again I apologize for my poor aim. How is your arm? Healed by now, I hope."

  "Nearly," she said, her voice even lower. "It was broken, you know. I was forced to wear a cast for several weeks, but even without it, I'm afraid I simply do not have the strength I need to perform my usual chores." She raised her chin, issuing the barest of pouts and mournful glances. "It is very difficult to serve meals and clean the homes of the rich with only one good arm. I took this job because it requires little physical strength. I don't plan to cheat anyone. I hope that's not what worries you."

  "Oh, good Lord," Brent groaned under his breath.

  "Pardon me, Mr. Connors?"

  "A crooked judge wouldn't pardon you if you offered him this ship and your considerable charms. You're just not to be believed."

  "But I'm telling the truth. I really do need this job—desperately. And I swear—get me a stack of Bibles—I swear that I will not cheat a soul on this ship. I'm just here to tell fortunes and watch all the rich folks have a good time. I swear.''

  "I can certainly attest to that," he muttered through his thick mustache. "The things I've heard come out of your mouth could make the captain of this ship blush."

  Jewel bit her lip and began to lecture herself in her mind—don't lose your temper, don't let him get the best of you, get even with him some other time—over and over until she was certain she could speak in a pleasant tone. Then she smiled sweetly and said, "I do apologize for any vulgarisms I may have uttered in your presence. Life has been extremely trying for me lately."

  Brent stared at her for a long moment, a mixture of disbelief and admiration in his expression. Finally he shook his head, removed the toothpick from his mouth, and dropped it into the ashtray. Then leaned across his desk and said, "You're either bolder than a June bug courting a bullfrog or so feebleminded you actually think I'm gullible enough to believe anything you've said."

  Suddenly wishing she could spill the entire story to him, Jewel felt the corners of her mouth waver as she tried to control the smug grin. "There's nothing else I can say," she admitted finally. "I wish you would believe me and let me keep the job. I promise you won't be sorry."

  "I've been sorry since the first day I set eyes on you."

  Her head flew up and her brows lifted.

  "Fascinated, too," he added when he saw her injured expression.

  Again fighting an irrational grin, Jewel began to push her chair away from the desk. "If that's all, then, I'd best be on my way to the—"

  "We're far from done, Madame Sahara."

  "But for heaven's sake. What else can I do or say?" she cried, frustration threatening to crack her calm. "I've bared my soul to you, been as honest as I can, and given my assurance you have nothing to worry about. Can't you just trust me a little?"

  Brent's laughter was more of a chortle. "You surely don't expect that from me."

  "All right," she grumbled. "I'll confess that you have cause to doubt me, but if you really knew me, you'd realize that I can be trusted. I'm really an honorable person. It would mean a lot to me if just this one time you'd believe that."

  More intrigued than ever, Brent cocked his head. "I wish I could. Talk. Maybe you can convince me if you tell me all about yourself. Start with your real name."

  Caught off guard by the proposal and by the sincerity in his brown eyes, Jewel began to pick at a red and purple paisley pattern on her muslin skirt. If she'd been dealing with anyone else, some other man, her next move would have been routine. She would simply have beguiled him with her charms, hinted at her sensual nature and made promises she had no intention of keeping. Instinct told her that if she was foolish enough to make those promises to Brent Connors, he wouldn't rest until he'd collected.

  The very thought of him sweeping her into his arms and demanding his due sent a surprising ache of desire throughout her. Jewel's shoulders slumped as she realized that she probably wouldn't put up much of a fight if she tried such a dangerous tack. Her plan to charm the handsome gambler could easily backfire. It would be an extremely foolish ploy. Why did the thought intrigue her so?

  "Jewel Flannery," she finally said, deciding that honesty—as much as she could tender without revealing her occupation, anyway—was her best weapon with Mr. Brent Connors. "I was born in Chicago too many years ago to still be unmarried, but I am and I wouldn't have it any other way."

  Startled by her candor, Brent felt his mouth open. Regaining his composure, he studied her, looking for signs of duplicity. She appeared to be remarkably in control and as f
resh and guileless as a baby. Knowing she was anything but, he proceeded with caution. "May I ask why a lovely young woman, one who is usually dressed a little better than you are today, is so happy to be single at such an advanced age?"

  Jewel bristled. "Are you suggesting I'm too long in the tooth to attract a husband, sir?"

  "Oh, no, ma'am," he said, taking in her untamed appearance, the casual way her hair was arranged, the loose provocative clothing that no lady in her right mind would have considered donning. "You're quite attractive. I only meant to ask why you prefer life without a man to call your own."

  "That,"—she spit the word out like a bad peanut—"is none of your business. But just for the record, please note that I've had plenty of men to call my own. I've just never seen any reason to marry one of you puffed-up jackasses."

  "Puffed up? Are you including me in your highly inaccurate opinion of men?" he said, indignant.

  "If the saddle fits..." She waved her gloved fingers at him and looked away.

  Brent scowled, then caught sight of her upturned mouth and haughty demeanor. Unable to help himself, he laughed.

  "All right," he said. "I guess I had that coming. Your personal life is none of my business, and that's really not the kind of honesty I was looking for." Or was it? he suddenly had to ask himself.

  "Then if that's all," she said crisply, preparing to take her leave.

  "I'm sorry, but it's not. You've lied about too many things." Giving himself a minute to prepare, Brent paused before he resumed his interrogation. "Flannery. That's not the name you gave me in Topeka. It's not the name of your elfin father, either. Would you mind clearing that little mystery up for me?"

  Jewel let out her breath in a long slow sigh. What was it going to take to satisfy this man? Her entire life history, real or imagined? Choosing her words with care she grudgingly admitted, "Mac isn't my father."

  "Now, there's a surprise."

  Having expected that response, she went on. "Mac was only watching out for my welfare when he agreed to pose as my father. He's a good friend, that's all."

  "A very good friend, I would think, since he was kind enough to share his suite with you," Brent blurted out, as unreasonable anger tore through him.

  Her own temper flaring, she snapped back. "He's an excellent friend. Nothing more."

  "Of course he is," Brent said sarcastically. "Why shouldn't I believe that when I stop to consider how easily you slip in and out of any man's room?"

  Jewel pressed her lips together hard enough for the naturally rosy heart-shape to flatten and turn white. Done with the conversation and with him, she stood up. "I've been more honest than a pompous jackass like you could expect. I'd like to go back to work now."

  "I'm not through with you yet."

  "Oh? What else could you possibly want to know? My age when I received my first kiss? Or perhaps you'd like the name of the man who stole my virtue."

  "That's enough." Brent pushed back from the desk and stood up so abruptly that the French carved chair toppled over with the force. He circled the glass-topped writing desk, intending to seize her wrist or an arm, but for some reason as he approached her, he impulsively clasped her into his arms instead.

  "Enough lies," he demanded, wondering through a sudden fog what in hell he was doing. "Why don't you just admit what you really are? Confess that you're a cheap little thief who uses any man who'll bed her to get what she wants."

  "Why, you"—Jewel struggled against his strength and worked to get her good arm free so she could drive her fist into his cocky mouth—"miserable son of a bitch. How dare you—''

  "Tell me I'm wrong," he challenged, pinning her arms to her sides and pressing her body against the full length of his. "I'll be happy to let you go if you'll give me give me one good reason why you broke into my room and spent half the night under my bed."

  Jewel went limp at the request she'd been dreading, the only one with which she was unprepared to comply. She worked to catch her breath now, struggling to ignore the steel hardness of his muscles pressing against her body through the thin cheap material of her blouse. Unable to think clearly, to formulate yet another story, she threw herself on his mercy. "I wish I could tell you, but I can't and that's the God's honest truth."

  Inches from her sensuous mouth, freckle-kissed nose, and pleading eyes, Brent was a mass of contradicting responses. He could feel himself melting and hardening at the same time. His body urged his mind to believe her, but it also sent warnings. Signs flashed in his head: Danger—Bridge Out. She's a thief—take her to the nearest jail and forget her, his brain insisted. She's beautiful and voluptuous, and I want her more than I've ever wanted anyone, his body pressured. Take her, you fool.

  "Please believe me," Jewel went on, suddenly desperate to make him trust her. "I meant you no harm." She hesitated, watching his eyes darken as he lowered his head. "I was not in your room to rob you. Please know that. I..." Her gaze suddenly shifted from his eyes to the thick sable wings of his mustache. He drew within an angel's kiss from her face. She looked into his eyes for only an instant before that mouth beckoned her gaze to return, begged her lips to meet his.

  Then he plunged his fingers into her hair and began stroking the back of her head. "Oh... oh, Brent, I..." That was all she could manage before he captured her mouth.

  She had one last rational thought as she met his heat, his passion: This is surely a match made in hell. Her response, devoid of her usual reliance on the dramatic, both frightened and thrilled her, intrigued and alarmed her. The flames of hell were flaring in her loins, heating her blood to temperatures she'd never even dreamed of. Brent Connors had to be the spawn of the devil to work this kind of magic on her. What else could it be? How else could she be feeling so much so fast? How else could she explain it? The man was only kissing her. Why was she coming apart so easily?

  As she grew desperate to slow things down, Jewel sensed one last beam of logic striving to light up a glimmer of insight. She was very close to losing the one thing she'd always been able to count on—her own control. Against all that her body longed for, she tore herself out of Brent's arms.

  "I have to go now," she gasped as she raised her gloved hand to her swollen lips, soothing them, convincing them this was for the best. Then, before he could reply or move, she jerked open his door and ran out of the room.

  Choking for air, strangling on emotions too complicated to sort out, Jewel scrambled down the stairs to the Texas deck, where she wheeled around the corner and ran headlong into a startled passenger.

  "Oh, my dear—pardon me," Harry Benton said as he caught the distraught woman. "May I be of some assistance?" he suggested, noting the flushed cheeks and the frightened-rabbit glaze in her lovely green eyes.

  Grateful for the support, Jewel nodded and allowed the stranger to steady her trembling body for a moment. Then, knowing she must look a sight, guessing her cheeks were on fire and her mouth was bruised and swollen, she pulled away without meeting the man's gaze. "Thank you, sir," she mumbled under her breath. "I must have taken a little seasick." Then she spun around and continued on down the hallway toward her stateroom.

  Puzzled, Harry watched her retreating figure. "Excuse me, my dear," he called after her. "Would you please tell me—am I missing out on some kind of costume party?"

  Chapter 7

  Reba Thomas slid the glass of Chivas Regal across the bar top and waited for the nattily dressed customer to pay up. He dropped a single coin on the polished mahogany, then turned and walked away without so much as a thank you.

  "Enjoy the drink, Mr. Big Spender. I hope you choke on it," she muttered under her breath.

  "Talking to yourself again, Reba?" Tex asked from behind her.

  "Beats talking to the highfalutin passengers this voyage has managed to attract. I shoulda stayed on at the Gilded Bird in Natchez. I don't fit in with these folks."

  "Ah, Reba, don't be so hard on yourself." Tex poured two frosty mugs of beer, then added as he passed behind her,
"Give 'em a day or two to get used to the idea of a woman mixing their drinks. They'll come around."

  "Humph. Like I'd care if they did." But she did care. At least she thought she did. Despite all she'd done during her forty-two years, respectability had never quite found its place on Reba's list of accomplishments. Why should it matter now? she wondered. Brent Connors, came the answer. He had given her a chance, perhaps her final chance, to rise up from the gutters of humanity. She'd taken him up on the offer, and now she felt she owed him something. But this wasn't working. Whatever had made her think she had what it took to be accepted by society's darlings?

  "I ain't got the patience," she muttered to herself. "I've got no stomach for these high-society types who think I'm nothing but trash." She grabbed her bar towel and began to wipe down the storage wells, even though she'd done so only a few moments before. Then she caught sight of a new customer standing at the end of the bar.

  Another high-society type, she decided as she tossed the rag into a bucket and started in his direction. Black silk top hat, tails, gray cravat, ruffled dress shirt, nose held at an upward angle, looking as if he'd sniffed a rotten egg. He was just another highfalutin, snob—too good to give her the time of day much less a tip. He would get what he paid for, she decided, what they'd all paid for.

  Harry Benton was too busy selecting the perfect bar stool to notice Reba's approach. He chose the wooden stool with padded black leather seat nearest the wall and slid onto it. From there he could study the crowd, his brain busy assessing and rating the financial status of the clientele, without worrying about other customers crowding in around him.

  "What'll it be, mister?"

  Amazed to hear a sultry feminine voice, Harry turned his head toward the sound. "My dear, what a pleasant surprise," he said, unable to keep his gaze from lingering on her marvelous, if slightly overblown, attributes.

  "I split the duty with Tex," she explained brusquely. "So what'll it be?"