by Sharon Ihle
"Forgive me," he said, facing and then joining her at the door. "I wasn't thinking. Of course we should use the house equipment. I want this to be fair, just as you do." He turned the brass and porcelain knob, then pushed the door open. "Ma'am?" he said with a gallant sweep of his arm.
Holding her head high, but still avoiding his gaze, Jewel stepped across the threshold. You're in over your head, dummy, her inner voice warned as she made her way down the stairs, thinking of the long, muscular legs beneath Brent's tight pin-striped trousers. Way over your head. Her hands began to shake as she thought ahead to the game. What if he wouldn't let her break? What if he did, but she couldn't manage the trick she'd done so many times in the past? Doubts plagued her all the way down to the saloon. What if she did lose? She finally considered that a distinct possibility. What if he took her up to his suite and tore off her...?
"Why don't you have a seat?"
Jewel jumped at the sound of Brent's voice.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Have a seat here at the bar while Tex sets the table up." He turned as if to walk away, then hesitated and looked back at her. "How much money do you have on you?"
"Money?" Jewel wrinkled her nose.
"Look," he explained under his breath. "You may not care about your reputation, but I do—and I care about the reputation of this ship. If we don't make some kind of wager in front of these folks, they'll assume the worst—however true it may be."
"Oh," she said, not certain if she ought to be insulted or flattered. Jewel dug into the deep pockets of her skirt and pulled out the only coin she carried. A twenty dollar gold piece.
"That'll do," Brent said, eyeing the coin. "Hang on to it until it's time to decide on the break." Then he spun on his heel and disappeared.
Keeping a careful eye on Brent, Tex, and the tables, Jewel considered his words. He'd said he cared about preserving not only her honor but also the reputation of his ship. Those were not the words of a crook, she thought, not the declarations of man in partnership with Harry Benton, either. Her confusion about the handsome gambler was increasing. Who, she wondered again, was this Brent Connors? Out of the corner of her eye, Jewel noticed a round blond woman approaching.
Reba leaned an elbow on the bar and said, "Are you resting a spell or looking to wet your whistle?"
"Oh, I'm only—" Jewel interrupted her own sentence as she noticed her trembling fingers and felt butterflies unfolding their gossamer wings in her stomach. "Ah, how are you fixed for peach brandy?''
"Got some of the finest on board."
"Bring me a glass, please—and hurry."
"Right away," Reba said, rapping her knuckles on the bar. When she returned a few moments later, the Gypsy was staring out at the crowd, looking as nervous as a blind man at a gunfight. "Here you go, honey. Got some troubles?"
"The likes of which you wouldn't believe," Jewel said before she took a long sip of the liqueur.
"Oh, honey, believe me, I've either heard or done it all. Nothing you could tell me would be a surprise."
"It's too bad I don't have time for a little side wager." Jewel laughed, relaxing at last. "I believe I've got a story to top them all." She reached into the folds of her skirt to collect some money for the bill, then remembered her bet. "Oh, dear. I'm afraid I don't have—"
"That's all right, honey," Reba assured her, feeling a kinship with the cheaply dressed woman. "This one's on the house. I don't think Mr. Connors will mind."
Jewel laughed. "I'm pretty sure he'd mind a great deal, but what Mr. Brent Connors doesn't know surely won't hurt him." Then she downed the rest of the brandy, nearly choking on the warm liquid as she suddenly heard his voice coming from behind her.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that, sugar pie," he whispered into her ear. Then he glanced up at the bartender. "Reba? Is there something I should know?"
"Oh, no, not really, Mr. Connors. The Gypsy, she didn't have any money on her, so I let her have one drink on the house. Didn't figure you'd mind."
Brent spun the barstool around and peered into Jewel's eyes. "Just one, you say?"
"One," Reba affirmed.
"Good," he said, his gaze locked on Jewel's. "I don't want you to default on me. You ready to play?''
"As ready as I'll ever be."
Brent grinned, his confidence on the rise, and wondered how or if she would try to back out. "Let's go, then," he said, more gruffly than he'd intended.
Jewel hopped off the stool and followed him over to the billiard area. As she walked, she took huge gulps of air, calming her nerves, steadying herself for the concentration she would need. When they reached the table, Brent stopped and turned to her.
In a loud crisp voice, he said, "Let's see your money."
Jewel reached into her pocket for the gold coin, then flipped it onto the rich green felt.
Brent produced a like amount and said, "Do you want to flip for the break, or shall I?"
Using an innocent, almost childlike voice, Jewel said, "Oh, my. I thought, you know, as a gentleman, you'd just automatically give me the break." Then she inclined her head toward the gathering crowd and fluttered her eyelashes, making herself look as young as she sounded.
Rubbing his hand across his mustache, Brent regarded the men clustered around the table, gauged their expectations, and cursed under his breath. Damn her green eyes, anyway. Left with no choice, he began to back away from the table, but as he passed behind her, he whispered, "That's the last trick you'll pull on me, you hear?"
Jewel turned and smiled. "Why, thank you, Mr. Connors. Don't mind if I do break." Then she whirled around, her full Gypsy skirt billowing out behind her, and walked to the head of the table. "Would you mind explaining the rules concerning ship movements? What if the balls start rolling of their own accord?"
Brent pulled up a stool near the far end of the table and explained as he sat down. "We consider the rocking of this boat our third player. If the balls move, they stay where they land—except for the eight. If it drops into a pocket, it gets spotted. All right with you?"
"I guess so," she said gaily as she made her way to the rack on the wall behind her. There Jewel made a great show of choosing her stick, fussing over the pretty ones, complaining about the drab ones. The onlookers, their legions growing by the minute, began making side bets, laughing among themselves, wondering why a championship shooter like Brent Connors would be wasting his talents on a woman, for heaven's sake—a woman!
Finally settling on a medium-weight stick with a horsehair wrap and mother-of-pearl inlays, Jewel snatched a cue ball off the rack and strolled over to the table.
"Well," she said lazily, waving to Brent from across the table, "are you ready?"
"Most definitely," he said, catching the gleam in her eye, the hint of her sensual nature in her upturned mouth.
Keeping that seductive smile in place, Jewel placed the white ball on the table and began to line it up with the cluster waiting a few feet away. She turned her head this way and that, her tongue peeking out the side of her mouth, then suddenly stood up straight and walked around the table.
Leaning over the triangle of balls, she frowned. "How's a girl supposed to make the eight ball on the break to win the game? That rack-job is way too sloppy."
Brent sighed heavily. "The odds of me making the eight on the break aren't very good, and for you, it's an even more unlikely event, but if you wish, I'll have Tex tighten it up a bit more."
"Please do," she said, facing him, her smile secretive, sanguine.
As Brent signaled Tex, his gaze met Jewel's. Trapped, unwilling to free himself, he looked into the emerald depths of her eyes and saw the jubilation lurking there. Oh, good God, he thought, stunned by the realization. She actually thinks she can do it. She has done it before.
Delighted by what she saw in Brent's expression, Jewel blew him a kiss, then returned to the head of the table. All business now, she waited until Tex finished his job and moved away from the table. Then she positioned the cue
ball and drew a bead on the target. Mentally shutting out the noise, she studied all the angles and made her calculations, even though she realized this shot had more to do with luck than anything. When she was finally ready, Jewel drew back the stick and drove it into the cue ball.
The ivory sphere shot across the felt and exploded into the nest of balls, scattering them in all directions. Jewel held her breath as several of them, including the black eight, began to rattle against the leather pockets. A few balls, both striped and solid, dropped down into the pouches. The eight wobbled at the edge of the precipice, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd. Then it came to a sudden standstill, as if too frightened to follow the leader.
Jewel rushed to the site and stared down at the ball, willing it with her gaze to fall into the hole. It remained at the lip, its round white eye staring back at her, mocking her.
"Sorry, sugar. Nice try, though," Brent whispered into her ear as he walked by.
"No, wait," she called to him. "We have to wait a few minutes—it could fall in, you know."
Brent leaned over the table and studied the angle. "I hate to tell you this, little lady, but since it hasn't fallen in yet, the only chance of that happening is with a little help from the waves. But of course, you know what we'll have to do then, don't you?"
"Spot it," she grumbled. Jewel glanced around at the crowd, at the expectant expressions, and heard the groans and laughter of the pitying men. Now she would have to play the game, test her rusty skills against those of a man who probably made his living at a billiard table. Her best—her only—chance lay in her ability to rattle him, but she would have to make damn sure she didn't allow him to do the same to her.
Taking several reviving breaths, Jewel calmly walked the circumference of the table. After choosing the balls sitting in the most strategic positions, she turned back to Brent.
"I'll take the stripes," she said with a confidence she didn't feel. Then she selected her best shot and drove the cue ball into a yellow and white stripe. The ball ricocheted off the corner pocket, then rolled impotently toward the center of the table. "Damn,'' she muttered to herself. Where was her usual panache, her normal coolness under fire?
"Tsk-tsk," Brent clucked as he held out his hands to his bouncer. He waited until Tex had sprinkled just the right amount of talcum powder into his palms, then finished the sentence as he rubbed his hands together. "Tough luck, lady. I'll try to put you out of your misery as quickly as possible."
Carefully fitting a chalking cup to the tip of his cue stick, Brent slowly twisted it back and forth, caressing and stroking it as he grinned at her from across the table.
Jewel stepped back, alarmed by a sudden spurt of desire. Things were not going as planned, she fumed. Then she realized why. Brent Connors had planted that damn feather again, that mental tickle she'd had in her drawers almost since the first day they'd met. What would it take to relieve it, she wondered recklessly—going to bed with him? Should she just forfeit the game, pay up, and then get on with her life? She watched, absently running her tongue between her lips, as he expertly drilled the three ball into the side pocket. She flinched at the sound, at the masculine thrust behind his drive, and chanced a look into his eyes.
Brent returned her gaze, his brown eyes smoldering, guessing her thoughts, laughing. Laughing?
The feather reversed itself, moved up into her mind, and began jabbing her with its quill. Damn you, Brent Connors, she thought. I'll decide when, and if, you'll get a chance to relieve that tickle. For now she had to find a way—and no means were too devious—to beat him at his own game.
Smiling, Jewel began walking toward him as another of his solids dropped into a leather pocket. When she neared, he inclined his head and whispered, "Looks like you're in for a drubbing, sugar."
Jewel waited until he lined up his next shot before she answered, "That doesn't sound so bad. It's been a long time since I had a really good drubbing." Then she continued walking, smiling to herself when she heard his gasp and the squeak of a miscue.
She whirled around, her mouth a perfect O. "Oh, my. Did you miss?"
"Yes," he hissed from between his teeth. "And I'd appreciate it if, from now on, you'd refrain from talking while I'm shooting."
"Sorry." Jewel shrugged and turned her attention to the table. His mistake had left her wide open, set her up for at least two or three shots—if she could keep control of herself. She wiped her palms on her skirt and methodically began to remove the striped balls.
His confidence in his own abilities sinking, his hands shaking, and feeling uncharacteristically indecisive, Brent rested his elbows on the bar. Her luck would run out soon, he thought, loosening the collar of his shirt. It had to. Trying to gain the advantage, he waited until she circled in front of him for her third shot before he leaned over and whispered, "Enjoy yourself while you can—you're in for a very long night."
Jewel's knuckles blanched as she tightened her grip on the stick. Holding her breath and her words, she took aim and shot. The target ball careened off one of the solids, then spun dangerously close to the eight. She whirled around and glared at Brent.
He pushed away from the bar, lightly brushing against her as he whispered, "Strawberries and champagne all right with you for breakfast?'' Then he waltzed down to the other end of the table, calling for talc, baiting her with his seductively expressive eyes.
Jewel gritted her teeth and waited for her next chance. It came when he was down to his last ball. Again waiting for the critical moment, she leaned in close and said in a breathless sigh, "Actually, I prefer bathing in champagne to drinking it. Don't you?"
Barely able to stop the shot before he miscued again, Brent turned to her and took a deep breath before he said, "Why don't you have a seat and let me finish this game?"
Even though he managed to appear calm, perspiration had collected on his brow, giving him away. His hands, still trembling and unresponsive, felt as if he'd dipped them in ice water. Brent loosened his cravat and inhaled the stale air. "Tex?" he choked out. "More talc."
Jewel waited for him to dust himself with yet more powder, then closed in on him. "I'll be leaving now, but I want you to know something before I go sit down."
"Can't it wait?" he said warily.
"Nope." Then she pushed out her bottom lip and said, "I want you to know I'm pulling for you, Brent. I really do hope you win this game. In fact... I'm counting on it."
Then she slithered out of his range, but not out of his view.
Chewing on his lip, wondering how he could have soaked through a new dusting of powder already, Brent forced his attention back to the table. His final ball, the four, was sitting a mere two inches from the side pocket. It was a shot he could make in his sleep.
Grinning as he thought ahead to the spoils of his victory, Brent took aim through eyes fogged with desire, and drove the cue ball toward the four. The ivory globe remained in place, unscathed.
Groaning heavily, Brent slid his palms down over the expensive fabric of his trousers and left another trail of chalky white handprints. Shaking his head, he gestured for Jewel to resume shooting, then dragged himself over to the bar.
Their money in jeopardy, Brent's friends and customers gave him a wide berth and whispered among themselves as Jewel managed to sink her final two balls. A pregnant calm shrouded the group when she began to stalk the eight ball, examining the apparently simple shot from every angle.
Finally sure of the best strategy, Jewel searched the crowd for a pair of worried honey-brown eyes. She found them at the end of the bar. She smiled, then opened her mouth to announce the final resting spot for the black ball—for the death of his hopes for the night—but hesitated.
More than concern flickered in those expressive eyes. Jewel could see the expected frustration as well, but it was tempered with something else—regret? She glanced around the room at his incredulous friends. How would they react when she won? Would they ridicule him or commiserate with him? Laugh or buy him a drink an
d urge him to forget about it?
Suddenly angry for having these compassionate thoughts, with him for forcing her to put herself in this ridiculous situation in the first place, Jewel said, "Eight ball, side pocket." Then she took aim and fired.
The ball struck harder than she'd intended, but it was right on target. The cue ball lightly kissed the eight, nudging the black beauty into the correct pocket.
Jewel turned to face Brent and took a bow.
Behind her the crowd let out a collective gasp. Before she could spin back around, Jewel heard the clatter of ivory against ivory. Knowing what she would find, curiously resigned to the thought, she chanced a look back over her shoulder. The white ball was nowhere to be seen. She'd scratched on the eight.
"Congratulations, my dear," Brent said as he approached, his voice high pitched and odd, the sound loose and watery. "You lose."
Unable to meet his gaze, she gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgment. "What time?"
Brent glanced at the crowd of onlookers, grateful their attention was directed at Tex and the settling of their bets. Then he whispered, "Eight o'clock. That should be close enough to sundown to suit us both."
Again she nodded, but still refused to meet his gaze. "See you at eight," she said, preparing to take her leave.
Before she could move, Brent slid his index finger under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. Badgering her, trying to get some kind of reaction, he said, "I'll have a light supper brought to my suite—something cold we can nibble on when we get time."
Jewel jerked her chin away and glared into his playful brown eyes. "Don't bother on my account. You know how easily I get seasick."
As she began to walk off, Brent caught her elbow and whispered one final order. "Be sure and wear something soft and slinky—something without buttons or hooks."
Then he released her and watched, laughing, as she hurried through the crowd muttering to herself.
Swept by laughter, relief, and a giddy sense of anticipation, Brent shook his head and studied her retreating figure. There goes one tough little lady, he thought with admiration. Cold, too, he reminded himself. Was this one of her many identities? Was it an act? Or was she as cold as she was tough?