by Lisa Cooke
He took the strip of fabric and wrapped it around her instep, careful to secure it so the shoe wouldn’t flap against her foot.
She stood and took a few practice steps before she smiled up at him. “Perfect.”
The shoe was perfect.
Everything else had gone to Hell.
In less than two days, she was going to lose the tournament, then disappear from his life forever. Of course, that was what he’d wanted. She’d been a royal pain in the ass from the first moment he’d met her. Nagging about lessons, needing to be rescued at every whipstitch. Batting those big green eyes at him and, let’s not forget, dragging him around by his balls. The ball dragging he would not miss one bit.
And worst of all, she had distracted him to no end. There had actually been days, entire days, when he had forgotten about the bastard who’d killed his family. Soon that nonsense would be over.
In two days, he’d be back on his own, and little Miss Lottie Mace would be out of his life for good.
Hell.
Chapter Twenty-three
What luck! The next little town had a riverboat heading to St. Louis, and there was room on board for all three of them. It was wonderful. Lottie didn’t want to admit it, but her shoe gave her fits, and her gown was too heavy for all that walking, not to mention the heat.
So why wasn’t Newt smiling? “They’re leaving in about an hour. We should be in St. Louis by morning.”
“You mean the captain is going to travel at night? Isn’t he afraid of mud flats?” She’d had enough experience with those not to want a repeat.
Newt finally smiled and said, “This boat is much smaller than the Belle. She should ride above most any flats.”
It was hard not to notice the boat was smaller than the Belle. As far as she could see, there were only two decks, and they appeared to be full of cargo. A few men loaded wood from the riverbank as a crusty older gentleman—she assumed he was the captain—walked around barking orders. But she couldn’t find any other passengers.
Uh oh.
“Umm, Newt?”
He stood with his hands in his pockets, whistling as he looked out over the river.
“This isn’t a passenger boat, is it?” she asked.
He stopped whistling and grinned sheepishly. “I don’t believe it is.”
“Where are we going to sleep?”
Dyer took that opportunity to return from wherever he had wondered off to. “I found an area at the back of the boat where there’s an overhang for shelter.”
She raised her brow. “An overhang?”
Newt winked. “Think of it as an adventure.”
As if she hadn’t had enough of those for two lifetimes. “We have to sleep outside on the deck?”
“Last night we slept out under the stars.” Dyer’s reminder didn’t really make things better.
“But—”
“And here there’s no crazy, donkey-eating man with a gun.”
He had a good point with that one. She sighed. “Well at least it’s not raining.”
God had a sense of humor. It showed itself at the most unusual times, but even at the risk of being disrespectful, sometimes she didn’t think it was all that humorous. The sudden rumble of thunder clearly marked this as one of those times.
Dyer grabbed her hand, hurrying her to the overhang. It was no more than four feet high and quite narrow. Newt crawled in first, leaving a space between a pole and the side of the boat for Lottie and Dyer. The space was tight, and the only way they could both fit was for Dyer to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her against his chest.
She tried to keep her distance, as though there were any, but when the deluge finally hit, she found the warmth of his chest comforting. She hated storms. Lightning made her skin crawl, and thunder was a little too boisterous for her liking. She used to hold her locket for comfort. Now she guessed she’d have to hold Dyer.
The up and down movement of his breathing and the patter of rain against the tin roof lulled her eyes into closing. Of course she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not under these circumstances. Not in a million years . . .
Dyer shifted his shoulder against the pole and pulled Lottie down more comfortably on his chest. She’d been asleep for at least an hour, and from the lack of sounds coming from the other side of the pole, Newt must have dozed off as well. She made a tiny cooing sound and splayed her hand against the front of his shirt. His flesh tingled under her touch and in several other places as well. A crash of thunder caused her to flinch even in her sleep.
“Shhh,” he whispered, pulling her closer and laying his hand on top of hers. He was just comforting her.
That’s all.
Just letting her know she wasn’t alone. The fact that meant he too wasn’t alone . . . well, that was just a coincidence. He placed a kiss among the blonde curls that tickled his chin and closed his eyes.
One more day.
Chapter Twenty-four
Newt spotted Dyer as soon as he stepped into the foyer of the Grand Hotel in St. Louis. He’d spent the afternoon resting in his hotel room, but as it came closer to time for the game, his concern for Lottie brought him out of his lair.
“The way I got it figured,” Newt said without bothering with a greeting, “one of us needs to be at her first table and another needs to be at the last.”
Dyer shook his head. “I had already come to that conclusion, but I’d hoped you would talk me out of it. I don’t know if we can continue to do that here.”
“It’ll be hard, but we can even the odds a little if we take out the other players.”
“That’s easier said than done. The best in the East are here to night.”
“Yeah, but we’ve come too far to back out now.”
Newt was right. Lottie had her entry fee and had done everything she could to learn the game. Reluctantly, Dyer had to admit, she’d improved. But now that they’d made it this far, he had to question the sanity of their plan. Lottie was gambling a lot more than a thousand dollars on this night. And even though he still had no idea why, he knew it was damned important.
“What if we can’t do it?” Dyer asked, not really expecting an answer.
“Then I got a feeling that something really bad is going to happen to her, and I don’t even want to think about that.”
Neither did Dyer, but he knew it would be in his mind with every card that was dealt.
Lottie absently tucked an errant curl into her chignon and fought the urge to run. The main ballroom of the Grand Hotel more than lived up to its name. Rich oriental carpets covered much of the glistening marble floors. Yards of red velvet draped the tall windowed doors that lined an entire wall of the huge space. The doors were propped open to allow the cooler breeze of the summer evening to enter the room, but the flicker of candles was the only evidence Lottie could find of that breeze.
Waiters in fancy black suits carried trays of champagne to the scores of people milling about the tables.
The excitement in the air was palpable.
The fear in Lottie’s gut was paralyzing.
She had tried to find comfort in the knowledge that Abe Johnson was wounded. Maybe he was dead and her problem had already resolved itself. But there was one fact she couldn’t overlook. She couldn’t be certain he was the blackmailer—she could only pray that he was.
Several faces in the room were familiar. The obnoxious Mr. Joseph Cullen stood next to one of the doors, a glass of champagne in one hand, a smoldering cigar in the other. He talked to a woman who stood with her back to Lottie, but based on her expensive gown, she wasn’t the poor help.
She saw Wayne Dawson and waved as he made his way across the room.
“I wanted to wish you luck, Miss Mace.” Wayne smiled and took her hand to kiss the back.
“Thank you, Mr. Dawson. I’ll take all the luck I can get.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rabbit’s foot. “My daddy gave me this when I was a boy, but I want you to have it.”
“I c
an’t take your good luck charm.”
He shook his head and smiled. “I don’t know why you’re doing what you’re doing, but I’ve got the feeling it’s important.” He placed the foot in her hand. “They say luck gets stronger when you pass it on.”
The grubby little charm was oddly reassuring, and even though she didn’t believe in those sorts of things, knowing someone else pulled for her helped calm her nerves a bit.
“How did y’all get off the Belle?” she asked.
Wayne chuckled. “Several of us swam to shore after the yawl boat disappeared.”
Her face heated with embarrassment. “I apologize for that. We would have returned it, but—”
“It’s all right, Miss Mace.” He smiled. “It was a situation where every man was for himself . . . or herself, as the case may be. All that matters now is that you win the tournament.”
“Aren’t you playing?”
“No, I just came to watch. I’m afraid I’m not good enough for this crowd.” He tipped his hat and walked away, leaving her alone again.
She took a deep breath and crossed the room to the gentleman who had taken her entry fee earlier that day. The games were to begin in just a few moments, and she needed to find her table. Her gaze locked with the tall, dark-haired gambler heading her way. Dyer smiled, and suddenly she wasn’t alone.
She returned his smile, then froze when the woman talking to Cullen turned and grabbed Dyer’s arm as he walked past. Mimi Anderson flashed her most beguiling smile at Dyer, complete with a coquettish wave of her fan. Lottie was too far away to hear the exchange, but Dyer’s return smile spoke volumes. Evidently, he was no longer angry with the beautiful Mrs. Anderson. Lottie tore her eyes away, unable to stand the sight of him with his paramour.
“You have a lot of nerve, Mimi.” Dyer pulled his arm out of Mimi’s grasp and pasted on a smile for the sake of propriety.
She fluttered her lashes and pouted her lips. “Really, Dyer, you can’t still be angry with me, can you?”
If she only knew. “Your little prank did a lot of damage.”
She leaned into him at just the right angle to give him a healthy glimpse of her healthy cleavage. “Apparently not. You’re both here and in fine shape.” She shrugged. “No harm done.”
“Now that you mention it, it did give me a perfect opportunity to get closer to Miss Mace.” He tipped his hat and walked away, unable to contain his grin. Mimi had that coming, though she wouldn’t see it that way.
“Gentlemen!” Mr. Stevens, the owner of the hotel, shouted above the crowd. “It’s time to begin the games.”
The room echoed with cheers as the players hurried to find their seats. The tables quickly filled, and Dyer was forced to take a seat two tables away from Lottie. He caught Newt’s eye as he grabbed the last seat at her table. They exchanged silent nods of understanding, then took their places.
Eight tables with eight players each. The final winner at each table would advance to the last table, and the winner would walk away with twenty-five thousand dollars. Of course, Mr. Stevens would get a hell of a lot more than that, but then, it was his tournament.
Dyer took one last look at Lottie’s table while the dealer shuffled his cards. Once the game began, the world would cease to exist. He wanted his last glimpse to be of her. Evidently, she wanted the same thing. Their gazes locked for a moment. He gave her a wink. She gave a soft smile before he turned and faced his dealer. He had never wanted to win at the tables more than he did this night. He’d never had a reason before.
“Are you gentlemen ready?” the dealer asked.
Dyer’s pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit it as the cards were dealt. Ready? Hell yes. He’d never been more ready in his life.
It was more than she could fathom, really. She’d hoped she was ready. She’d prayed she was ready. But now she had actually proven it.
“Gentlemen and er . . . madam,” Mr. Stevens announced. “We will take a thirty-minute break before we begin the last round. Your chips will be moved for you.”
Lottie stood, surprised to find her legs sore from sitting so long. The big clock at the front of the room declared it was half past two. She’d been playing poker for five hours? Yet instead of being exhausted, the blood hummed in her veins with more excitement than she’d ever felt. She’d hated the fact she’d beaten Newt in the last hand, but she needed the money more than he did.
“It’s a shame you can’t take your winnings and go home now.” She knew that voice. Its purr from behind her brought a smile to her lips.
“Eight thousand dollars isn’t enough, Mr. Straights. Besides, I think you’re just saying that because you know I can best you.”
She turned around expecting a rejoinder, but was met instead with an expression she could only describe a solemn.
“Eight thousand isn’t enough? Must be some amazing gowns you’re wanting, Miss Mace.”
Gowns? Oh yes, that was what she had told him. “Of course. A woman can’t have too many fabulous gowns, can she?” She hoped she sounded flippant, but it was obvious he didn’t believe her. He probably never had.
“Why?” he asked.
It was a very short question to ask so much. But she hadn’t made it this far to give it all away, despite the fact she wanted to tell him everything.
Every little detail.
All of it.
But of course she couldn’t, so she smiled instead and said, “I’m just like everyone else. I’m here for the money. Isn’t that enough reason?”
She quickly turned away before he could ask her another question. She had almost buckled under the last one.
She barely had time to relieve herself before returning to the final table and the other seven players who wanted the pot. None could want it as much as she, though. It simply wasn’t possible.
She took her seat, waiting for the others to join the table. Of the other seven men, she knew two. Dyer and the obnoxious Mr. Cullen. She fought to contain a giggle. She’d just noticed she thought of him as “the obnoxious Mr. Cullen.” as though it were a title. Not too unlike “the honorable so and so,” only without the honor. Luckily, he sat far enough to her right that she didn’t have to look at him or suffer his stares. The obnoxious Mr. Cullen raised the hair on the back of her neck by his mere existence.
The others took their seats, and the dealer shuffled the cards. A crowd gathered around the table, though many of the observers had already turned in for the night. Once their particular player had lost his money, they had no reason to stay.
Mimi Anderson stayed, still poised and beautiful. Not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her gown. The smoldering looks she gave Dyer were positively scandalous, but Lottie had more important things to worry about.
She had a plan, and it had worked so far. She would fold early in each hand, allowing the overzealous players to eliminate each other while she waited to pick up the pieces. It had worked well at the last table. She had only played the hands destined to win until three were left in play. Then she’d simply outplayed them. She had become a master at reading their tells.
Dyer watched Lottie out of the corner of his eye. She had surprised him. There were only three left at the final table—Lottie, Joseph Cullen, and himself. She had folded early in most hands, which had kept her in play, but had also kept her chip level quite low. He knew what she was doing. He also knew it was suicide. One bad deal could wipe her out.
He glanced at Cullen. He knew the son of a bitch well enough to know he had a good hand. He always smiled when he did and joked about taking home the loot. Less experienced players assumed he was bluffing. After all, who would be stupid enough to announce his good fortune to the world? Joseph Cullen was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t any of them.
“Fold.” Dyer slid his cards facedown to the dealer and glanced across the table at Lottie. Follow my lead, Lottie.
She smiled at him and laid her cards facedown in front of her.
Good. She understood.
Then she slid her pile of chips to the center and said, “I’m all in.”
Damn.
Dyer watched her closely as Cullen called her bet and revealed his winning hand. All color drained from her face, and her lips parted slightly as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t. Clamping her mouth shut, she stood to leave.
“Th—Thank you, gentlemen.” She looked directly at Dyer, but he knew from the emptiness in her eyes she didn’t see him. He wanted to follow her, to make everything better. But Cullen’s laugh glued him to the seat.
“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart.” Cullen raked in the chips from the center of the table. “Maybe later you can earn a little of this back.”
Dyer pulled his gaze from Lottie’s retreating back and riveted it on the son of a bitch sitting across the table. Nothing would make him happier than to ram his fist down Cullen’s throat, but there were too many witnesses . . . right now.
“Are we ready, gentlemen?” the dealer asked.
“Yeah,” Dyer answered around his cheroot, “and getting readier by the minute.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Each step of Lottie’s booted foot down the marble staircase to her room echoed like a bullet being dropped into the chamber of a rifle. It was fitting. Like a firing squad announcing her fate in case anyone in the area had missed her failure firsthand.
Click. The first assassin loaded his gun and readied to shoot her for losing.
Click. And the next raised his gun to his shoulder to take aim for her stupid mistakes.
Click. Daddy was now in the sights, unable to run away.
Down she stepped, and with each step her heart sank lower until, luckily, she ran out of stairs. With a trembling hand, she absently reached for her locket, then winced as the memory of that loss added to her already devastated soul.
“What do I do now, Momma?” she whispered, but for the first time in her life, she suspected Momma wasn’t listening. Lottie couldn’t blame her. The question had no answer anyway.
Hand shaking, she slipped the key into her lock and entered her empty hotel room. She had enough money to make the trip home, and in the morning she would go to the train station to secure passage. But to night she would sit in her room, staring into the darkness while she prayed for a miracle.