by Sharon Ihle
"That's right," he snapped back, anger running his tongue. "I forgot—you're a professional. A coldhearted professional. And what am I? Answer me that, Miss Detective. Just what part will I play in all this?"
"That's not fair," she said, snatching the sheet off the bed and covering herself. "I've got a job to do. I'm just trying to do it to the best of my ability."
"Regardless of who you hurt in the process?"
Jewel glanced up at him, and her heart constricted. "I don't want to hurt you, Brent. I never asked you to care about me."
"No, you sure as hell didn't," he agreed, deep in thought. "But you have to admit you did lead me on a little. What about the pool game? Did you wager your body in the name of professionalism or was it something else?"
"I don't have to answer a question like that."
"Then answer me this: Today, here in this bedroom, just what did that have to do with your job?"
"Nothing, Brent." Cornered, unable and unwilling to offer any more of herself, she blurted out, "I have needs, like everyone else. Please don't think of what happened between us as anything more than that."
"Needs," he said softly, before raising his voice and shouting, needs?""Needs? Is that what I am to you? Just someone to see to your personal
"Stop it," she shouted back, her hands cupping her ears. "You're not being fair. I refuse to discuss this any further until you calm down and think it through."
Brent was uncertain what controlled him now—anger, hurt, or hopelessness—but his rage reached a new plateau. He clenched his teeth and quietly said, "I have to agree with you. There is nothing to be gained by continuing this conversation. Will that be all? Is there anything else I can do for you? Any little need I can fulfill before I leave? Some room service, perhaps?"
Her breath was a painful ache in her throat as Jewel's fists curled around the sheet. "Yes, there is. If you care about me at all, lay off Harry Benton. He's mine."
Something in her tone—not the anger, but a desperation of some kind—gave him pause. In spite of it, Brent slowly shook his head. "Sorry, but you're asking too much."
"Please," she begged, all anger gone from her tone. "I'm serious. Leave him to me."
Brent stood staring at her, longing to go to her, to hold her in his arms and to feel her softness against his chest. She looked oddly vulnerable, so truthful and childlike. Then he reminded himself what a great actress she was. Steeling his heart, he said, "Benton owes me and my family. I can't let up on him until I get back what he stole from us. If you won't tell me who he is, I'll just have to find out for myself."
"Oh, please," she cried. "I promise I'll get your belongings back after I've dealt with him."
Brent cocked his head and took a toothpick from his pocket. There was something more here than her job, some sense of desperation he couldn't fathom. Jabbing the toothpick in the air he said, "Why is capturing Harry so damned important to you? Has he got something on you?"
"Don't be absurd," she snapped.
"Then stop being such a hypocrite. I thought you were going to start being honest with me."
" I am. I have been." She stumbled around, trying to find a way to remain truthful and keep her secret at the same time.
"Or perhaps you are honest only when you choose to be,'' he suggested as he broke the toothpick and tossed it on the carpet. "Take your time getting dressed. I'll give you some privacy now. Good day."
As he turned to leave, panic gripped her, and Jewel blurted out the words she'd never breathed to another living soul. "I have to get him myself because... because Harry Benton is my... my father."
Brent had just plucked his hat off the dresser when the final words reached his ears. He spun around, positioning the derby on his head. "What did you say?"
Unable to repeat the loathsome words, horrified that she'd said them at all, she lowered her gaze and hung her head.
"I see," he grumbled. "So that's how it's going to be." He turned, opened the door, then tossed over his shoulder, "If that's how you want it, that's how you shall have it. Maybe things between us are going a little too fast for me, too." He crossed the threshold and slammed the bedroom door behind him.
"But," she sputtered as she heard the doors to the suite open and close, "but Harry Benton really is my father."
This time the words were met with silence. Cold, hard silence. For the first time since she could remember, tears sprang into her eyes, then spilled down over her freckled cheeks. They rolled slowly at first, stinging her flesh like great drops of acid. Then they seemed to join forces, surprising her with the strength of their numbers, terrifying her with the depth of anguish behind them.
Tears she'd been saving for too many years to count raged out of her, soaking the muslin sheet, washing her body anew. Jewel Flannery Benton cried until she could cry no more.
Chapter 12
Brent leaned over the ship's railing just outside the saloon deck and stared down at the Mississippi. Deep in thought, seeking a way to rid himself of this rage, he glared at the water, wishing it could dilute his anger.
He was still there thirty minutes later, still furious enough to turn the Dawn's enormous paddle wheels by hand if he had to, but now he understood. Now he was able to direct his anger where it really belonged. At himself.
"Hell," he muttered under his breath. "I got exactly what I asked for." Here was a woman tough enough to jerk the lasso right out of his hands, Brent thought. Was it her fault if that strength also made it possible for her to turn the rope into a noose?
The river flowed on by, dispassionate and undaunted by his sudden fit of laughter as he realized he had indeed given her enough rope with which to hang him. Had he pushed her too far this time, injured her pride, and stepped on her professional toes? Gotten too personal? Tough as she was, Jewel Flannery was also a very frightened young woman. Skittish as a young colt caught in its first thunderstorm. What was she so afraid of? How would he ever earn the trust of the green-eyed hellcat who'd managed to steal his heart and bankrupt his mind? His blood still boiling, as much with thoughts of her as with the remnants of a quiet fury, Brent made his way to the bar and slid onto a stool.
"Can I get you something, Mr. Connors?" Reba asked as she approached. Brent turned his melancholy gaze her way, and she gasped, stepping away from him. "Lord, Mr. Connors, are you all right? You got some problems with the Dawn?"
"No," he muttered. "Things are just fine. Business is good. So good, in fact, I feel like celebrating."
"Yes, sir. What can I get you? Some bourbon?"
"That'd be just fine. Bring the bottle."
"Yes, sir," she said, her worried glance flitting from here to there, landing on anything and everything but him. "Right away, sir."
"Thanks," he managed with half a smile before turning his attention to the gathering crowd. The Dawn was filling rapidly. Brent took his watch from the pocket of his vest and checked the time. The ship would shove off soon. The poker and billiard tables would be surrounded by moneyed guests, who would expect his presence and good-natured encouragement. He would have to stroll among the passengers, praising their wagers, laughing at their jokes, and generally pretending to have a good time. He would have to do this even though his thoughts would be with a woman named Jewel Flannery. Thoughts that were turning more serious—and permanent—every time he saw her.
"Here you go, sir," Reba said, cautiously sliding the bottle toward him. "Mind if I join you? Maybe a little company would put you in better spirits."
"Oh, I'm not really in bad spirits. I guess I'm just a little pensive." Brent poured himself a glassful of bourbon and quickly downed it before he glanced at his concerned barmaid. Then inspiration lit his eyes. Reba was tough in her own way, not easily fooled or pushed around by anyone. In some ways she was a lot like Jewel. He leaned forward and said, "Mind if I ask you a question?"
"'Course not."
"If you were a single gal, and of course you are, what would you think my intentions were if I asked you
to come on out and visit the family plantation when the Dawn pulls into port at Greenville?"
"You mean if you asked me to spend the night at Sumner Hall and meet your folks?"
"Yes, I guess that's what I mean."
"Oh, Mr. Connors," Reba said with a definite twitter in her voice. "Why, I'd think you were sweet on me, I suppose. I'd be real flattered."
Brent stared down at the polished bar and shrugged. "But would you feel that I was pushing you? Would you feel cornered? Would you think I was trying to get some kind of obligation from you?"
"Well, I don't know." She poured herself a shot, then refilled Brent's glass. "It's kinda hard to say when you're just speculating. Just what is it you're trying to do here, Brent? Ask me to your home or what?"
"Oh, good Lord, Reba, I didn't mean to confuse you. I was just wondering what you'd think about a man who'd do that. Forget I mentioned it." Eager to get past the suddenly awkward moment, he raised his glass and tapped the rim of hers before taking another pull on the numbing liquid.
Still confused, clinging to a ray of hope, Reba said, "I want you to know that I'm here for you anytime you want. I'll always be here for you—just like you were there for me in Natchez."
Brent looked up into her ice blue eyes. "Thanks, but you don't owe me a thing. You'd have left the Palace on your own, even if I hadn't offered you a job. Enough talk about old times. How are people treating you aboard ship now that they're used to you?"
She raised her eyebrows, grateful for his understanding, and smiled. "They're treating me pretty good, almost like I'm as human as they are. One in particular, Harrison Poindexter, is sniffing my trail like an old coon dog on his last hunt."
"That a fact?'' he asked, amused. "And just how fast are you running?"
Although she thought she'd lost the ability long ago, Reba blushed and looked away, shrugging, "I don't know. A little slower than I can, a little faster than I want to."
Brent took another swallow of liquid fire, then suggested, "Slow down, have yourself a good time. Hell, we don't get that many opportunities for happiness. Might as well take them when they're offered."
"Maybe I will," she said, taking a sip of her own drink.
Cognizant of the suspicious gleam in Reba's eyes, Brent changed the subject. "What about the rest of the passengers? Are they still giving you trouble?"
"Nah, they're even starting to tip a little better. That might be 'cause I hold my hand out after I give em their drinks," she added with a chuckle.
His voice still a little stiff and unnatural, Brent laughed along with her before he said, "That may be the reason, but I think it's more likely that they just appreciate an honest woman. You're a rare breed, Reba. To you and all like you." He saluted her with the glass, then downed the remaining bourbon.
"So that's it," she said catching him off guard. "You were asking me how you ought to behave 'cause you're sweet on some woman, right?"
Brent shuddered as the alcohol raced throughout his system. Then he narrowed one eye at the bartender. "You are an astute judge of men, Reba dahlin', but I strongly suggest that you drop this line of questioning."
"Uh-huh," she murmured with a knowing nod. "It's not that little Gypsy, is it?"
"Our friendship will not guarantee your safety if you persist in pursuing this," he warned as he poured yet another glass of bourbon. "You'd best let it be."
"But, Mr. Connors," Reba persisted, "Why her? She's nothing but trash, not even close to being good enough for a man like you."
Brent finished the drink and slammed his glass down on the counter. "I'm going to forget you said that because I realize you don't know the woman, but that's all I want to hear from you, understand?"
Alarmed by the depth of his emotions, surprised at his apparent level of involvement with the fortune-teller, Reba took a backward step. "Lord, Mr. Connors, I didn't realize. I just thought you and she, you know, were just having a little fun and games. It never crossed my mind that it could be more."
"Let it be," he insisted in a deceptively quiet tone as he reached for the bottle once again. "Not one more word about it." Brent poured another glass of bourbon, satisfied the conversation was at an end, but before he could bring it to his lips, a familiar voice called to him from behind.
"Mr. Connors? Oh, good, it is you," Harry Benton said as he rushed up to the bar. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I wanted to make sure I caught you before the Dawn left port."
Brent swiveled around on the stool. "I hope you haven't forgotten something ashore, Mr. Poindexter. We'll be leaving in a few moments."
"No, it's a little more serious than that." Harry looked past Brent's shoulders, trying to assure himself of their privacy. Reba read the message in his expression and moved on down the bar. "We've got a bit of a problem," he finally said, satisfied they would be unheard.
"We do?"
"Well, actually, you do. There's a thief aboard this ship. I assume you are the man to whom I should report any criminal activity."
Harry Benton, Brent thought, excited. Poindexter has stumbled over Harry Benton. "You most certainly have come to the right man. What's he done and where might I find him?"
"It's a she," he whispered, leaning in even closer. "I caught her going through my things. I bound and gagged her so she wouldn't start screaming and disturb your other passengers. I left her tied to the bedpost in my room."
"A woman?" Brent said, strangling on the word, pretty sure he knew which woman Poindexter was talking about. "And you actually caught her in your cabin?"
"Incredible, isn't it? And, if you don't mind my adding, a little disgusting. However," Harry sniffed, "the deed has been done, and now I must ask you to dispose of her. It's that little fortune-teller. I should have known she wasn't quite right, but I did so want to believe in her."
"So it is Jewel," Brent finally choked out, his thought processes slowed by the bourbon. "You've got Jewel tied up in your room?''
"I most certainly do. I caught her not ten minutes past." Harry narrowed his eyes and studied Brent Connors, suddenly wondering if he shouldn't have meted out the girl's punishment himself. "I have noticed you've taken more than a passing interest in the Gypsy. Will you have a problem bringing her to task for her indiscretion?''
"No, of course not," Brent said absently as he hopped off the bar stool. "I'm just wondering why she'd go through your room. What on earth could she have been thinking of?"
"I believe she thought to rob me," Harry said impatiently. "Now will you see to her, or do I have to take care of this."
"I'll take care of the matter immediately," Brent said, shaking his head to clear it. "May I have your key, please?'' Harry deposited the brass key in his host's hand. "It's the California Room. And I do expect you to return with a full report on this girl, you know, what her punishment will be, where you intend to leave her, all of it."
"Certainly, Mr. Poindexter," Brent said, suddenly wondering what the man's reaction would have been if he'd said "Mr. Benton."
"You wait right here. This shouldn't take too long." As Brent turned to leave, he called out to Reba. "Mr. Poindexter's drinks will be on the house today."
"Why, thank you," Harry said, settling in at the bar. "I'll be right here, in that case."
"Good," Brent said, tipping his hat. "I want to know exactly where I can find you." Then he took off for the passenger deck.
There could be only one answer, Brent thought to himself as he hurried to the stateroom: Harrison Poindexter was, in fact, Harry Benton. Why else would Jewel have put herself in such a position? Why would she riffle through a passenger's belongings? What possible purpose other than the pursuit of Harry Benton?
Brent was still asking himself those questions as he unlocked and opened the door and stepped into the stateroom. But when he saw Jewel struggling against the silk ties that bound her to a solid walnut bedpost, the questions and their answers suddenly seemed insignificant.
"Good Lord Almighty," he said thickly.
/> She turned. Her eyes widened as he approached, but the cravat Harry had used as a gag kept her from saying anything but "Mumphhh. Greeaz?"
Brent reached for her, distress hoarsening his usually melodic voice. "What were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed."
"Mufferenn—ake oaf!"
His features tense, concern carving deep grooves in his brow, Brent ignored the gag and slid his hands around behind her. After releasing the scarf from the bedpost, he reached down to untie her wrists. When she began to turn to accommodate him, Brent hesitated, then stopped her movement. "No. Wait a minute. We need to get a couple of things straight before I do something stupid like turn you loose."
"Gwat?" Jewel narrowed her eyes in warning. "Brmph."
"Sorry, but I've got some things to say, and I don't think you'll let me say them unless you remain my captive audience."
Jewel rolled her eyes and groaned.
"I knew you'd agree with me," he said taking her into his arms. "I want you to know that I've finally realized how difficult I've made your life and, to some extent, your job."
Again she rolled her eyes, but this time she added a weary nod.
He grinned sheepishly. "I'll take that to mean you're usually a much better detective than you've been since you met me?"
Again a moan accompanied by vigorous nodding.
"Well, I'm here to tell you how really sorry I am and to inform you that things are going to change. I've decided that from now on, as long as you're on the Harry Benton case, anyway, I'm your partner. We'll work together toward the capture of Harry Benton.''
"Moffed drmmfdV' she said against the gag as she stomped his boot with the heel of her shoe. "Drwell?"
"Hey," he complained, rubbing his injured foot against his pant leg. "Is that anyway to treat your new partner?"
"Brmphhh," she warned, one eye narrowed to a slit.
"Apology accepted. Now for the details of our new alliance. First I think we ought to set some rules. I could use your help with them. Can you keep a civil tongue if I remove the gag?"