To Love a Scoundrel

by Sharon Ihle

  Harry spun around on the stool until he faced her. She was lovely in a timeless sort of way, even though the lines from her not altogether pleasant diary were deeply etched around her eyes and mouth. Her hair, bleached a pearly white, was piled high atop her head and fastened with a royal purple feather that matched her velvet gown. She was common, probably available to any man with the correct change, he thought absently—but somehow, Harry realized, surprising himself right down to his patent leather shoes, she was absolutely breathtaking.

  Suddenly feeling frisky, he raised his stunted pinky and waved it, making sure she noticed the large diamond ring almost covering the pint-sized finger. "What would you suggest, my dear?"

  Unimpressed, Reba began wiping a crystal glass with a fresh bar towel. "I'm not your dear, and I wouldn't have the slightest notion what you drink."

  Nonplussed, Harry was momentarily at a loss for words. His impeccable manner of dress coupled with a faint accent that suggested all of Europe rather than a particular country, never failed to charm the ladies. Why did this one seem impervious to him? Even more curious, why would a woman of obviously common breeding attract him so?

  Reba replaced the glass, waiting for her suddenly silent customer to order, and began to tap a polished fingernail against the bar. "Give me a holler when you've made up your mind," she muttered before twirling away.

  "No—wait," Harry said, too fast, with far too little inflection in his voice. "I believe I'll have a cognac."

  "Any particular brand?''

  "Whatever you're having. I'd like to buy you a drink, my dear."

  Cocking her hip, Reba raised one eyebrow over an ice blue eye.

  "Forgive me," Harry said, instantly aware that he'd blundered. "Perhaps I can better refrain from offending you if we exchange introductions. My name is Harrison Poindexter, but you may call me Harry. And you are...?"

  Her eyebrow had dropped down to its original arch, but both blue eyes bored into him before she finally said, "Rebecca Thomas. My friends call me Reba. You may call me Miss Thomas. And by the way—thanks for the drink. Don't mind if I do." She stared at him for a long moment, her painted mouth lifted at the corners, then turned and slowly strolled down the plankway to where the bottles were propped up in bins.

  "Mon Dieu,'' Harry breathed to himself, appreciating the seductive roll of her hips as she walked, even though he suspected the movement was deliberate. "What a woman."

  Content just to watch her, to be the prey rather than the predator for a change, Harry broke into a smile that brought his pencil-thin mustache absolutely level. When Reba returned carrying two glasses, he accepted his and raised it in a toast. "To your extraordinary beauty and what just may be a very memorable trip."

  Her first impulse was to toss the drink down and walk away, but Reba hesitated, stopping for once to access the situation before reacting. Did he know her from somewhere? Did he think she could be purchased for ten minutes, or even for the entire night, as she once could have been? Or was he just being friendly?

  Suspecting that the answer lay somewhere in between, Reba lifted her glass and touched it against Harry's. Then she winked and returned the toast. "Here's to customers who know how to tip well. Bottoms up." She raised the glass to her lips and downed the cognac in one gulp.

  So completely captivated that his eyes were shining like those of a lad peeking through the keyhole at a whorehouse, Harry exclaimed, "Bottoms up indeed," and tossed the drink down.

  He closed his eyes as the cognac spread its heat, and when he opened them again, Reba's manner had completely changed. She'd gone from day to night, from storm clouds to sunshine. She smoothed the front of her white apron and produced a smile.

  "Well, now, my dear," Harry murmured huskily, forgetting himself again. "To what do I owe this sudden—" He cut off his words when he realized he wasn't the cause of her new mood. She wasn't even listening to him. Following her gaze, he sagged as a younger man, his dark good looks marred by a frown, approached the bar.

  "A whiskey, Reba. Make it a double," he said as he slid onto a stool next to Harry.

  "Sure, Bre—Mr. Connors. Coming right up." She did a half curtsy, grinning and fussing with her hair, then hurried over to the backbar.

  In no mood to mingle with the customers, Brent ignored the man on his left and swiveled his head until he had a clear view of the Gypsy's gaudy little table. Still unoccupied. "Damn," he muttered, wondering why he hadn't just gone after Jewel and let things take their natural course.

  "Tough day at the poker tables, son?" Harry inquired, eager to assess his competition.

  Brent wheeled around, cognizant of his duty to his passengers, and offered his hand. "No, just looking for someone. I'm Brent Connors, president of the Sebastian Steamship Line."

  "Is that so? What an honor, sir. Harrison Poindexter at your service." Accepting the greeting, Harry made a fast study of the man. Thirtyish and apparently very rich, if he held such a prestigious position. Married? Harry glanced at the man's fingers and found them unadorned. Too bad, he thought. The challenge of stealing the wife of such a virile-looking chap was almost as interesting as the spoils he might have garnered.

  Brent gave him a mock smile. "Very nice to meet you. I do hope you're enjoying your journey so far."

  Reba returned with the whiskey at that moment, and as she handed it to Brent, Harry said, "I am having a wonderful time indeed, sir. In fact, everything has brightened considerably in just the last few minutes."

  The innuendo was lost on Brent as he quaffed the whiskey. He wasn't interested in small talk or wealthy passengers. He was preoccupied by thoughts of a green- eyed vixen who'd set him on fire, then fled from the scene of the crime. A pyromaniac of the heart, he suspected. As a southern belle, a woman like Jewel Flannery could have destroyed the entire Confederacy without benefit of the Union army, he decided, his dark thoughts shadowing his eyes and twisting his features.

  Weaving her fingers through the towel she used to wipe the crystal, Reba ventured, "Everything okay, Mr. Connors? Can I get you something else?"

  Brent glared into his glass, hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "Have you seen that little Gypsy fortuneteller in the last fifteen minutes or so?"

  Reba checked up and down the length of the bar, rattling the platinum-blond ringlets spiraling off her crown in the process. With a shrug she looked back to Brent. "Didn't know we had one."

  "Excuse me, sir," Harry interrupted, his eyes shining again. "Did I hear you mention a fortune-teller?"

  Brent turned his head toward the stranger and nodded.

  "Aboard this steamship?" Harry said, his excitement growing.

  His interest in the man suddenly piqued, Brent turned all the way around and faced him. "Yes. Have you seen her?"

  "No, I don't—Wait a minute. Maybe I have," he said thoughtfully. "Not twenty minutes ago I ran into a young lady on the cabin deck who may be the one you're looking for. I thought she'd been to a costume party, but perhaps—''

  "Reddish brown hair, yellow blouse, black—"

  "Black lace cap on her head? That description fits the poor young woman I collided with."

  "The poor young woman?" Brent said with a grimace. "That's hardly the way I would describe her, but I think we're taking about the same one."

  "When does she work?" Harry asked, feeling more vital than he had in months. "Where is she set up? It's been ages since I've had a decent palm reading, not to mention a comprehensive dream interpretation. Does she analyze tea leaves as well?"

  His expression guarded, Brent exchanged puzzled glances with Reba, then gave her a barely noticeable shrug. Coughing to hide a sudden burst of laughter, Brent said, "You're asking the wrong person, friend. I wouldn't know tea leaves from chewing tobacco."

  "That's all right," Harry said with a wave of his hand, too alive with excitement to care about Brent's fit of whimsy over his beloved hobby. "Most people don't understand even the basic aspects of forecasting their own destiny through a simpl
e cabalistic chart. I can hardly expect a layman such as you to appreciate the value of a truly expert palm reader."

  "Hardly." Brent wondered what in the hell the man was talking about. "Reba?'' He pointed to his glass and nodded emphatically.

  "Now then," Harry went on. "Where can I find this gem of a woman?"

  "If you'll recall, I mentioned that I was looking for this jewel of a woman myself."

  "Yes, yes. Quite correct." Pressing his index finger to the shallow valley where the halves of his mustache almost met, Harry pondered his next move. "A schedule," he blurted out. "You must have a schedule of her working hours. May I see it, please?"

  "Ah, quite frankly," Brent said with a frown, "she was hired this morning by someone other than me. I'm not even certain I plan to offer the Gypsy's services."

  "Oh, but you must," Harry said, jumping off his bar stool. "You'll do your passengers a great injustice to have such a treat aboard ship and not let her ply her trade."

  Brent frowned, then opted for something close to the truth. "The fact is, I'm not sure this girl's capable of telling your fortune. I have no way of guaranteeing her... authenticity."

  Harry bowed slightly. "Allow me to perform that task, sir, if you please. I would be most honored to check the Gypsy's credentials. I'm certain I can tell if she's a fake. It would take a very smooth operator to put one over on me."

  Then you've never met an operator like Jewel Flannery before, Brent thought as he mulled over the idea. Unable to find a reason not to accept the man's offer without having to explain the whole story, he let out a sigh. "As long as you're set on having the fortune-teller remain aboard, I suppose it would be best if you check her out. But let me give you a word of caution: Don't say I didn't warn you if she takes you for every penny you're worth."

  Harry's resounding laughter came from deep inside, hinting at his secret life without revealing it. He did his best to remove the smugness from his grin as he vowed, "I believe I shall be able to parry any moves a little slip of a girl like that may try on me."

  "Uh-huh," Brent drawled, suddenly looking forward to the match. "Better sharpen your sword, in any case."

  "Mr. Connors?" Reba said as she refilled his glass. "Is that the gal you're looking for?"

  Following the direction of her gaze, both Brent and Harry spotted the mass of auburn curls moving past the shoulders of the taller passengers. Glancing at each other, the two men smiled, each entertaining his own thoughts, both filled with the same excitement.

  "One more thing," Brent said, holding up a finger. "I have a point or two to make with the little lady before she tells your fortune. You wait here. I'll give you a signal when she's ready to see you."

  "As you wish," Harry replied, his appreciative gaze again sweeping over the buxom bartender. "I'm sure I can find a way to entertain myself while I wait."

  Brent slid off the stool, leaving Reba with an order as he made for the gaudy little table. "Mr. Poindexter's drinks will be on the house today. See that he doesn't go away thirsty."

  Across the room, Jewel sat in the high-backed chair and watched as Brent chatted at the bar. Soon, she supposed, he would turn around and discover her. Then he would march up to the table, and... what? Toss her overboard in front of his distinguished passengers? Hardly. If she read him right, and she had to admit she'd been unable to figure him out as easily as she could most men, he would agree to some kind of compromise, something they could both live with. Hoping she was right, and that her body and mind could block out what had happened in his suite, Jewel took a deep breath as he crossed the room and approached her.

  His usual grin in place, Brent reached for the spindle- backed chair across from her and bowed slightly. Then he spun the chair around, straddled the seat, and lowered himself onto it.

  "Well, well, well," he drawled. "I see you didn't jump ship after all."

  "Why would I do a thing like that?" she said, careful not to meet his gaze. "I've got a job to do. I was under the impression you were going to let me do it as long as I didn't annoy any of the passengers."

  "As it turns out, you're right about that."

  Trying not to look too surprised, she smiled and said, "Thank you. I promise, you won't be disappointed in me."

  "I don't plan to be." When she didn't rise to the bait, he went on. "There is one little stipulation to your employment, however." Her attention and gaze finally drawn to him, Brent explained. "There's a gentleman on my staff"—he added the embellishment to make his proposal more authentic—"who just happens to be an expert on this fortune-telling business. If you can satisfy his requirements and prove that you're not here to reverse rather than predict my customers' fortunes, then I'll agree to keep you on."

  Jewel gave him a short nod and began to shuffle her cards. If his employee wasn't too much of an expert, she thought with her usual confidence, her problems with the handsome gambler might just be over.

  Glancing up at him, her green eyes sparkling, Jewel said, "I certainly can't object to that. What are you waiting for? Send him over."

  "In a minute," Brent said, popping a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. "You and I have some unfinished business to take care of first."

  Jewel drew her brows together. She banged the deck of cards against the table to stack them up as she said, "I don't understand. I thought we just settled—"

  "I'm not talking about tea leaves. I'm referring to"—Brent hesitated, making a deliberate perusal of her mouth, then her bosom—"us. You and I, sweet lips." He moved the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other as he waited for her shocked reply.

  "Oh," she said in a small voice as she carefully returned her attention to the cards, "that."

  Jewel had expected this conversation. Her smile slightly crooked, she slowly raised her eyes and boldly caressed his features with her gaze. After lingering on his mustache, appreciating his full, slightly parted lips, her languid green eyes drifted down to his hands. She broke into a broad grin as she studied them one finger at a time. Exhaling an exaggerated sigh, she finally said, "I guess we do have a little unfinished business at that."

  Stunned by her reaction, Brent let his mouth drop open, and the toothpick fell to the floor. Trying to cover his shock, he moistened his suddenly dry lips, then cleared his throat. "What do you think we ought to do about it?"

  "Do we have to do anything?"

  "Oh," he said, more in control, his confidence returning, "I definitely think we should. It'd be a real pity to let all this... this energy between us go to waste."

  "Hmmm," she murmured, her voice soft and low. "I suppose you're right. How shall we handle it?"

  Suddenly feeling like a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher, Brent curled his fist and coughed into it before he was able to say, "Why don't we just head up to my suite? We can finish our, ah, the conversation there."

  "You really know how to turn a girl's head, don't you, Mr. Connors?" Jewel said as she resumed shuffling the cards. "How terribly original of you."

  Again he coughed, but his mind was a sudden blank. "I... well, ah..."

  "Why don't we both just think about this awhile?" she suggested, wondering how long she would be able to put him off, how long she would want to hold him at bay. "Why don't we get this little test out of the way first? Then we can concentrate on other things."

  Trying to ignore the heat building in his loins, Brent wiped his palms on his trousers and stood up. "Sounds fair to me. And just for the record,'' he said as he turned toward the bar and beckoned to Harrison Poindexter. "I'm beginning to hope you are on the up-and-up. Be a real shame to have to toss a lovely little lady like you overboard. A real shame indeed."

  Caught by his words, the sudden change in his manner, Jewel began to wonder who had been teasing whom, but before she could come up with any answers, the employee was upon them.

  "My dear, this is an honor," Harry said as he joined them and slid onto the chair. "Do you need to know my name, or is anonymity better in this case?''
>
  Barely noticing his features, Jewel glanced up at him and shrugged. Then her gaze swept over to Brent, and she fell into her Gypsy accent. "Veil, Meester Connors? Zees ees your leetle test. How do you vish me to proceed?"

  Brent rolled his eyes, but managed to reserve comment on her latest characterization. "Just read Mr. Poindexter's cards or whatever it is you do with them."

  She turned her attention to her customer. "Ees zees all right weeth you, sir?"

  But instead of answering her, Harry pressed one index finger to his lips and narrowed his eyes. "My goodness... I believe we've met somewhere else, my dear. Have you done my chart before, perhaps?"

  Finally looking directly at him, she stared into his smoky green eyes and caught her breath. There was something familiar about him, some little thing she couldn't quite identify. "I do not sink ve have met, sir."

  "Oh, but, my dear, I'm quite sure that we have. I never forget a face—especially one as lovely as yours."

  The stranger wrinkled his aristocratic nose, blending the light scattering of freckles into small islands. Why did he seem so familiar? she wondered again. She felt as if little kitten paws, their claws weak and pliable, had begun to hopscotch up her spine. Jewel shrugged them off, then smoothed her long black lace gloves.

  "Shall ve proceed?" she said as she dealt the cards in threes using only her left hand in accordance with the Gypsy rules.

  "Yes, I suppose we should," Harry agreed, still busy searching his memory.

  Fifteen cards lay face down in a semicircle on the table. Jewel flipped over the king of clubs, the card she'd chosen to represent Mr. Poindexter, then turned up a group of three cards. "I see here zat you veel have a change of profession soon, but eet veel be a hard time."

  "By golly, I have it," Harry blurted out. "Philadelphia. Not two weeks past at the Fairmount Hotel."

  Stunned, Jewel dropped the accent and stared across the table. "What are you talking about?"

  "My dear, I never miss a good lover's brawl. You and your fellow were having a bit of a spat, and you had your arm in a cast. Did you ever let the rascal back in for the night?"