To Love a Scoundrel

by Sharon Ihle

  "I think I know," she whispered, sensing his confusion.

  Suddenly feeling awkward and ashamed of his impulsive, dishonorable behavior, Brent rolled over and turned his back to her.

  He began to pull on his trousers as he said, "Forgive me. That shouldn't have happened."

  Jewel sat up and tucked her breasts back inside her chemise. Casting furtive glances his way as she worked at piecing her shredded blouse together, she said, "There's no need for you to apologize. After all, isn't that why..." She left the sentence unfinished, unable to say the words she knew were no longer true. This hadn't been the spoils of war, compensation for some foolish bet. She'd taken what she wanted. So had Brent. And while neither of them was likely to admit it, what had happened between them had absolutely nothing to do with a game of billiards.

  "The reason doesn't matter," he said, angry with her for dismissing it all so casually, with himself for having lost control. "This simply should not have happened." His trousers finally on, held together at the waist by his white-knuckled fist, Brent climbed to his feet and examined the ruins of his shirt.

  Over his shoulder he said, "I'll give you some privacy while I change my clothes. Do you need anything? A robe or..."

  Jewel glanced down at her bosom, realizing she couldn't leave his room in such a state. "My blouse, what's left of it, is in tatters. I could use a drape of some kind if you can spare it. A shirt will do."

  Appalled to think he was capable of such savagery, Brent forgot himself and wheeled around, catching her gaze, stopping his heart. Filled with remorse, he hunkered down beside her and glanced at her exposed breasts. She was flushed but, as far as he could tell, unmarked. "I can't believe I did that to you. If I've hurt you in any way... If you need—"

  "Brent," she interrupted gently, "you didn't hurt me at all. In fact, I don't believe I've ever felt quite so... so healthy."

  Brent swallowed hard, then lightly brushed her cheek with his fingertips. Speaking softly, his voice as rich and dark as molasses, he murmured, "I sincerely hope you're telling the truth. I couldn't live with myself if I thought I'd hurt you."

  "Please," she said, uncomfortable with all this apologizing. "Let's just forget about it."

  "Not likely. Not likely at all." He stared into her eyes, smiling, until crimson roses bloomed on her cheeks and she looked away. His dimples firmly in place, Brent stood up, forgetting about his damaged clothing.

  "Oh," Jewel choked out through a burst of laughter as his trousers slid down over his hips. "Sorry about that. Maybe I can mend them for—'' Unable to go on, thoughts of her previously inept attempts with a needle and thread making her laugh even harder, Jewel squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her stomach.

  Looking away from her, Brent pulled up his trousers and started for his room. "Sorry about your blouse"—he waved his hand as he walked past her, irrationally unwilling to discuss something as intimate as her underwear—"and whatever else I may have damaged. I'll replace the items."

  "That won't be necessary," she said, laughter still sparkling the words. "Why don't we just call it even?"

  Trying to look as dignified as he could, he gave her a short nod before he said, "As you wish, my dear." Then he stepped into his bedroom.

  Watching his retreat until he disappeared behind the closed door of his bedroom, Jewel drew a long breath and shook her head. This night was to have been her way of bringing him to heel, of controlling him with that which he wanted so badly. It should have worked. She should have been able to escape, unscathed, unimpressed. Jewel remembered the words she'd mouthed into the looking glass—"You're a dead man, Brent Connors."—and nearly laughed out loud.

  She stumbled to her feet, still tingling from their love- making, and adjusted her clothing. There had been no corpses in this room tonight, she thought, amazed to realize the embers of passion were flaring in her again, only two very alive, extremely lusty, and voraciously greedy people. And there was no denying the result of her plan either. She had set a trap for Mr. B. S. Connors, but she had fallen into it right along with him.

  Now what? she suddenly wondered. How would those two lively people conduct themselves in the future? Could she ever look at him again without thinking of this night, of the incredible way he'd made her feel? And what about Brent? Would he still insist on dropping her off at Cape Girardeau? If he'd been as deeply affected by their love- making as she had how could he put her ashore?

  The door to his bedroom opened, and Jewel turned away, her pink cheeks tattling on her again. As he approached, the sound of the boat's whistle joined his footfalls. Using only one of its five tones, the Dawn sent two short and three long notes into the sultry night air.

  Brent froze in his tracks. "Oh my God. The Dawn's in trouble." Startled into action, he resumed his march across the room, tossing a shirt into Jewel's arms as he passed her. "Sorry, but I have to go to the boiler room."

  "Why? What's wrong?" she said, alarmed by the concern in his expression.

  "Probably nothing," he hedged as he reached the double doors and turned back to her. "Make yourself comfortable. Have some supper. Do whatever you like. I'll be back as soon as I can." Brent spun around, jerked open the doors, then looked back in the room one more time. "I know I've been saying this a lot tonight, but I really am sorry to have to leave you like this. It can't be helped." Then he blew her a kiss and closed the doors.

  Mouth open, eyes unblinking, Jewel stared at the doors, then glanced down at the garment in her hands. What was going on around here? she wondered. Was the whistle a routine signal, or was the steamship in trouble? Should she stay—or go?

  Jewel glanced at the profusion of edibles on the table, then remembered the terms of the bet: She was supposed to stay all night long. She shrugged. Whether Brent chose to return or not was inconsequential. She was obliged to keep her end of the bargain—wasn't she?

  Ignoring her inner voices, Jewel stripped off the remains of her blouse and slipped into Brent's shirt. It hung down to her knees, but she gathered it up and tucked it inside her skirt. Determined to keep her feminine side hidden for the balance of the evening, Jewel strolled over to the marble table and examined the offerings.

  She chose a plump oyster, plucked it from its shell, and downed it in one swallow.

  "Ummm," she moaned, unaware until that moment how hungry she'd been.

  After pulling up an armchair upholstered in burgundy velvet, she took a seat and filled her plate with ham, rolls, and relishes, leaving the boiled tongue for Brent. When her appetite was sated, Jewel wrapped a couple of ladyfingers in her napkin and pushed out of the chair. As she walked away from the table, the champagne bucket caught her eye. Hesitating for a moment, she stared at it, licking her lips, then shook her head and continued on her way to Brent's desk. She'd had enough excitement for one night.

  She took a bite of the sweet cake, then cocked her head and slowly circled the glass-topped desk. Thoughtfully chewing, she glanced through his notes and calendar, hoping to learn more about the handsome gambler, but finding nothing. She finished the ladyfinger, then studied the napkin in her hand. A sketch of the Delta Dawn was embroidered in the center, along with "Sebastian Steamship Line, B. S. Connors." Brent Sebastian? Why had he named the company Sebastian instead of Connors? she wondered idly.

  Jewel wadded up the napkin and glanced around the room. The door to Brent's bedroom beckoned. He'd told her to make herself comfortable and to do whatever she liked, hadn't he? Why not have a peek? She was, after all, expected to spend the night. Surely he didn't plan to keep her on the floor the entire time. Shaking off a sudden flutter in her lower body, trying to think of herself as a detective, not as a woman, Jewel dropped the napkin on the table and casually strolled over to the door. It wasn't quite closed.

  Nudging the polished walnut door open with her toe, she gasped as she got the first glimpse of Brent's enormous bed. The custom-made, extra-long and double-wide mattress rested on an elaborate brass frame, but its cover w
as the thing that caught her eye. It was a patchwork of alternating squares of rich charcoal velvet and shiny silver satin. On either side of the bed, overlooking the river, floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with billowing charcoal velvet lined with smoky gray. The dressing table, freestanding looking glass, chiffonier, and upholstered rocking chair were all made of polished walnut and accented in brass.

  "I'm impressed, Mr. Connors," she commented as she walked through the room running her fingers along the freshly oiled wood. "Very impressed."

  Suddenly feeling coltish, deliciously feminine, and mischievous all at once, Jewel turned on her heel and rushed back to the dining table. With no further hesitation, she plucked the wine bottle from its icy nest and began to wrestle with the cork. By the time she'd loosened it enough for it to emerge under its own power, she'd shaken the bottle so much that the cork exploded from the glass sheath, spraying champagne everywhere, soaking Brent's shirt and most of her skirt.

  Giggling to herself, undaunted by the unexpected shower, Jewel grabbed a crystal glass and a couple of clean napkins and hurried back into the sumptuous bedroom.

  * * *

  Several hours later Brent crept back through the double doors along the first hint of dawn. The lamps were still turned up, and some of the food had been eaten, but there was no sign of Jewel. Had she gotten tired of waiting for him and gone to her own stateroom? Or...?

  He glanced toward his bedroom. Not certain what he would do if she was in there or how he would feel if she wasn't, Brent quietly made his way to the door and pushed it open.

  Jewel, dressed only in her camisole and torn drawers lay curled in the center of his bed on his pewter-colored silk sheets. He breathed a long sigh, acknowledging it was from relief, not exasperation, and wondered if he should announce his presence. As he silently made his way across the room, he noticed the bottle of champagne resting belly up on the night table and the rumpled napkins and crystal glass scattered across the carpeted floor.

  Amused, touched, and more than a little eager to learn what she'd been up to all night, he slid the rocking chair over near the bed and eased down on it. Giving himself some time to collect his thoughts, he stared down at her. He could have returned to his cabin hours ago, he admitted with a twinge of regret, but staying away had seemed to be the proper thing to do at the time. Now he wasn't so sure. Had he been chivalrous—or a damn fool?

  She looked impossibly tiny and defenseless lying alone in his big bed. Her hair, a deep rich sorrel, was spread around her, across his pillow, and down over her nearly nude shoulders. In slumber, her thick lashes brushing the rise of her freckled cheeks, she looked almost like a child, oddly vulnerable somehow. Was that a true side to her nature, one she'd been able, up to now, to hide from him? Did she conceal this gentle, susceptible side of herself from everyone or just from him? Finally accepting what he'd known since he first saw her on the ship, that he was trapped like a three-legged possum in a bog, he let his breath out in a sigh.

  The sound reached Jewel's subconscious. She rolled over on her back and stretched her arms high above her head, where they stayed as she slipped back into the dark abyss of slumber, into an enticing wish-dream state where she could actually will her mind to produce the fantasy of her choice. Her choice that night, and probably for many to come, she acknowledged from the logic sector of her mind, was Brent Connors. Brent and his wonderfully exciting hands and mouth. Brent and the marvelous way he'd made her feel. Brent, with a feather for a whip. All he needed to do was wave that plume her way, and she would be his—anytime, any place.

  Jewel lowered her arms, catching the pillow between them, and buried her nose in the flannel-covered down. She inhaled the hint of bayberry, the scent of the man himself, and issued a faint moan. Her smile serene, satisfied, she murmured through a sigh, "Brent."

  Feeling guilty about watching her as she slept, Brent leaned forward, intending to announce his presence, but then she lowered her arms past her full, partially exposed breasts to her thighs, where her torn drawers afforded him just the tiniest peek of her auburn thatch and the satiny skin beneath. Once again she stretched, languidly, sensuously, twisting her hips from side to side as she slid her fingers along the length of her body on the return journey to the pillow.

  Good Lord, he groaned inwardly, knowing he'd never get this sight out of his mind, her out of his heart. Thoughts of Jewel, of the way it felt to be inside her, of her fluid, natural movements as she responded to his touch, were destined to be a part of him for the rest of his life. Desire, intense and demanding, suddenly raged throughout him in a fire storm of passion. Brent leaned back in the rocker, struggling to get hold of himself, determined not to risk taking her like an animal again.

  He looked around for a distraction, anything to keep him from staring at her beautiful face, from gawking at her luscious body. He found it on his pillow—on her hand. Not certain of what he saw, he leaned forward again and examined her little finger. It seemed to be exceptionally short, even for a pinky. He glanced at his own hand, at the graduating dimensions, then back to hers. It was definitely smaller than it ought to be—and just about the cutest thing he'd seen since his niece, using her voice as only a cocky two-year-old could, and begun calling him Unkee Bent. He was bent all right, he laughed to himself, twisted, to have thought he could waltz in here and watch Jewel without so much as—

  Green eyes flew open, startling Brent, popping Jewel to an upright position like a catapult. "Holy hell," she cried, snatching the sheet and covering herself. "What are you doing in my bedroom?"

  "I—" Brent glanced at his surroundings, no longer sure he trusted his own mind, then said, "This is my bedroom. I belong in here."

  Jewel's memory caught up with her at the same time her headache did. She managed a sheepish "Oh," just before a bolt of lightning split her forehead in half. With a heartfelt groan, she collapsed back on the pillow and held her forearm across her face.

  Brent grabbed the empty bottle and waved it in the air. "Did you have a good time last night?"

  "Shut up," she muttered. "Go away and leave me alone."

  "This is my suite, remember? You go away."

  One watery green eye peeked out from under his arm. "In a minute. Is the boat all right?" she asked, buying a little time for her pounding head.

  "The boilers overheated, but we got them under control. Everything's new—the crew, the machinery. I think they just need a little time to get used to each other, but things should be all right from here on out."

  "Umm. That's wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."

  Brent stood up and banged the bottle down on the table. Laughing as she winced, he started toward the door. "Why don't you get dressed? I'll have some breakfast brought in for us."

  Just the thought of food brought bile to her throat, but she held her tongue. As soon as Brent closed the door behind him, Jewel sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. What in God's name had possessed her to drink an entire bottle of champagne? her brain screamed. But she knew the answer. She'd tried to drown thoughts of Brent and their explosive passion, dilute them into pleasant memories she could deal with. It hadn't worked. Now she had to figure out a way to control herself for the rest of this trip, and she had to do it with the worst headache of her life. Her legs wobbly, her mouth tasting as if she'd mopped the floor of a saloon with her tongue, Jewel slowly dressed herself.

  Then she trudged out of the bedroom and headed for the double doors, muttering as she passed Brent, "If my time is up, I'd just like to go to my stateroom. I couldn't eat a bite, but thanks for the offer."

  "Wait a minute," he said, catching her as she reached for the doorknob. "There's something I'd like to say, and we need to discuss a few things."

  "Can't this wait?" she said wearily. "I'm really in no condition for a debate."

  "Then just listen. That's all I really want from you right now, anyway."

  Jewel glanced up into his eyes, stunned by the sincerity, the sensitivity, she saw
there. "I'm listening," she said with a softness that surprised her.

  "What happened last night... I just—"

  "Can't we just forget about last night?" she cut in, alarmed at the direction the conversation was taking. "I think it would be better for us both if we did."

  Brent raised one eyebrow, then slowly shook his head. "Maybe it would be better for you, but not for me. I don't know what goes on in your mind, but I do know my own. I can't just forget what happened here or how I feel about it today."

  "Oh, Brent," she cried, not ready for this conversation, unwilling to search her own heart for her true feelings. "I don't want to know how you feel. Please don't tell me. Maybe you're making too much of this. It was just a silly bet, and even if the payment got a little out of hand, that's still the way we should look at it—as a payment, a way to settle the score."

  Cold. The word leapt into his mind unbidden. Was this an act? Was she hiding something? Was there another man in her life? A husband, perhaps? Brent shook off the thought, but not his suspicion. This was not the same lady he'd seen asleep on his bed a few moments ago. Where was the sweet, guileless woman who'd turned his world upside down? How could he find the real woman, the truth? Too far from the answers he sought, Brent decided to let her think he was as unaffected as she—for now.

  He popped a toothpick into his mouth and shrugged. "Most women—certainly most southern women—would demand much more than a short memory from me right now. They would expect me to restore their honor with a proposal of marriage."

  "Marriage?" she nearly strangled on the word. "Please save yourself the trouble and embarrassment of showing me your misguided chivalry. My honor is just fine the way it is, thank you."

  Again he shrugged. "Then we just forget about last night?"