by Nora Roberts
Thanks to me, of course.
I’m happy to have set those who belong to me on the right path. Home and family. Whatever a man, or a woman, makes in this life, that is the base, the foundation of everything else.
So where are the rest of my great-grandchildren, I’d like to know?
Not that we haven’t made some progress there, but a man can’t live forever. Not even a MacGregor. I’ve seen five of the children of my children wedded now. And the babies I—that is, Anna—frets for are coming along. We have four bairns to fuss over, and two more on the way. And a joy they are to us—if only they’d visit more often.
But children must have their own lives, after all. That’s what I’m seeing to. In my own fashion.
I’m arranging for young Duncan—the second son of my lovely Serena and our handsome Justin—to make his life. Oh, the lad thinks he has one, and just the way he wants it, too. Sailing up and down the Mississippi on his gambling boat, free as a bird. Oh, a clever boy is Duncan Blade, and a charmer as well. He runs the Comanche Princess with a steady hand, for there’s good business sense behind that quick, sly smile. And woe to the man who sees only a pretty face and crosses him, by God. The boy carries MacGregor blood, after all.
No prim, shy miss would do for him. He needs a woman with grit, someone with sass. And I’ve just the one.
All I’ve done—to respond to those who would call me a meddler—is put them together for a time. Just as I did the boy’s mother and father so many years back. Makes me sentimental to think of it. And it’s like a circle closing, isn’t it, to give my daughter’s son the same opportunity?
We’ll see what he does with it.
And if he doesn’t do it fast enough, why, I believe Anna and I might enjoy a few days on the river. I’m a gambling man myself.
Part Two
Duncan
Chapter 11
Duncan Blade played the odds. Whether they were long or short didn’t matter, as long as he knew them, and the pot was rich enough.
And he was a man who liked to win.
Gambling was in his blood, both from the MacGregor Scot and the Comanche Blade. Nothing suited him better than running the Comanche Princess. That in itself had been a gamble. His parents had dealt in hotels, of the stationary sort, all of his life. Atlantic City, Vegas, Reno and more. The riverboat had been Duncan’s dream, one he’d conceived, planned and nurtured. He understood his family trusted him to make it work.
He had no intention of disappointing them.
From the docks in Saint Louis, he stood, hands tucked in his back pockets, and studied his true love.
The Princess was a beauty, he mused, with long, graceful lines, wide decks and fussily fashioned railings. She had been built to replicate the traditional riverboats that had once steamed up and down the river, carrying passengers, supplies—and gamblers. Her paint was fresh and blindingly white, her trim a hot and sassy red. Beneath the charm was power. And along with the power was luxury.
Duncan wanted his passengers relaxed and happy. The food would be plentiful and first-class, the entertainment top of the line. Cabins ran from cozy to sumptuous. Each of the three lounges provided stunning views of the river.
And the casino … well, the casino was, after all, the heart of it all.
Passengers paid for the ride—and for the chance to win.
The Princess would sail from Saint Louis to New Orleans, with stops along the way in Memphis and Natchez. Those who chose to stay on board for the full two weeks from north to south and back again wouldn’t be bored. And whether or not they disembarked as winners, Duncan knew they’d have gotten their money’s worth.
For now, he had the anticipation of another run. Around him, crew worked to load cargo and supplies in the blistering July heat. He had paperwork to do, details to check, but he wanted to take this moment to watch the action. On board, more crew members were swabbing decks, freshening paint, polishing brass and cleaning glass.
The Princess would sparkle by late afternoon, delighting the passengers who streamed up the gangplank.
Everything was in place. Almost.
Behind the amber lenses of his shaded glasses, his deep brown eyes narrowed. The new headliner he’d contracted had yet to show. She was now nearly twenty-four hours late. And if she didn’t make it within another four hours, they’d be preparing to sail without her.
Annoyed with having his enjoyment of the moment spoiled, Duncan pulled the flip phone out of his pocket and once again called Cat Farrell’s agent.
He paced the docks as he waited for the connection, his strides long and loose. His looks bespoke his heritage—tall and dark with dark gold skin, eyes of deep brown heavily lashed and lidded, and the straight black hair of his Comanche ancestors. His face was narrow, sculpted with high, sharp cheekbones and a long straight nose. The mouth was firm and full, and given to quick smiles.
But he wasn’t smiling now. “Cicero? Blade. Where the hell is my talent?”
Brooklyn jangled through the receiver as Cicero whined an answer. “She ain’t there yet? Hey, I’m telling you, the kid’s reliable. Something slowed her up, that’s all. She’ll be there, and she’ll knock you out, I guarantee.”
“Pal, you guaranteed me she’d be here yesterday at noon. She’s got her first performance tonight. Don’t you keep in touch with your clients?”
“Sure, sure, but Cat … well, she goes her own way. Worth every penny you’re paying her, though. More. You got her while she’s climbing. Give her another year, and—”
“I don’t give a damn about next year, Cicero. I deal in the now. And right now I don’t see your client.”
“She’ll get there. She’ll get there. Look, your brother liked her fine. She blew them away in Vegas.”
“My brother’s a lot more tolerant than I am. You get her here—in one hour—or I start by suing your butt off for breach of contract. And then I’ll get nasty.”
Duncan disconnected on the resulting sputters, slipped the phone back into his pocket and started across the docks toward the boat.
His brother Mac had indeed approved of Cat Farrell, Duncan thought. And he trusted Mac’s judgment without question. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so quick to take his grandfather’s additional glowing recommendation of her and hire her without an audition.
She looked good, damned good, he thought, bringing the image of her photo to his mind. Sleek and sexy—and the demo tape Cicero had sent him proved she had a voice to match.
But that wasn’t doing him any good if the bloody woman didn’t show.
The teenager striding toward the gangplank caught his attention. Battered jeans, lopsided backpack, scarred tennis shoes. A zebra-print baseball cap was pulled low over her forehead and round-lensed dark glasses were perched on her nose. He let out a sigh. It was a pity, he thought, that kids didn’t have more of a sense of fashion.
He lengthened his stride to cut her off before she could board.
“Sorry, honey. You can’t go on there. No passengers until after three, and you’ll need your parents with you to get on.”
She shifted, stood hip cocked, and tipped down the little sunglasses with one finger. He felt a quick jolt seeing the eyes behind them. They were a pure and piercing green, with a thin shimmer of gold circling the pupils.
Put a few years on her, Duncan thought fleetingly, and the eyes alone would drop men to their knees. To his amusement those eyes skimmed up, down, then up again before latching on to his with a bold arrogance he couldn’t help but admire.
“And who would you be?”
It should be illegal for a female to have a voice like that before she turned twenty-one, Duncan decided. All that husky promise belonged in a ripe and experienced woman. “I’m Blade. She’s mine,” he said, with a jerk of his head toward the boat. “And you’re welcome to come back when you’re legal, darling.”
Her lips curved with the same easy arrogance she carried in her eyes. “Want to card me, Blade? I’ve got my ID in here somewh
ere.” She reached around to pat her backpack. “But since we’re running a little behind, why don’t we skip it? I’m your headliner, sugar.”
She stuck out her hand as his eyes narrowed. “Cat Farrell. And I was twenty-five last month.”
He could see it now, he supposed. If he used his imagination. The eyes should have tipped him off. But there hadn’t been a dusting of freckles across her nose in the photo, and there had been a wild waterfall of deep red hair. He couldn’t see a trace of it now, and wondered how she’d managed to stuff it all up under the ugly cap she wore.
“You’re late.”
“Got hung up.” She flashed a smile. “I shouldn’t have let Cicero talk me into that gig in Bakersfield. Missed my flight, had to reroute. Pain in the butt. Listen, I’ve got a cab back there full of my stuff. You want to take care of that for me? I’ll go take a look at the setup.”
“Hold it.” He took a firm grip on her arm before she could turn away. “Stay.” He had the satisfaction of seeing annoyance flicker in those remarkable eyes before he strode over to one of the crew and gave instructions for Cat’s luggage to be transferred on board.
“We’ll take a look at the setup,” he told her, then took her arm again and walked her up the gangway. “And afterwards, we’ll have a short lesson on how to operate this new and amazing device called the telephone.”
“Nobody told me how witty you were,” she said dryly. But because she wanted the job, badly, she bit back another sarcastic remark. “Look, I’m sorry. Sometimes you run into obstacles when you travel, and I ran into a few. I got here as soon as I could.”
And damn Cicero, she thought, for not giving her more of a window of time to get from California to Missouri. Missing her flight had meant she’d had to settle for puddle jumpers and delays all the way across the country.
She hadn’t slept except in snatches in the last twenty-four hours, hadn’t eaten except what she could grab and swallow in a few minutes. And now she had this cover of GQ razzing her for being a little late.
But he was a Blade and he was a MacGregor. Between the two names was enough power to give her career the exposure and the boost she’d worked for for her entire life.
It would be a good gig. The decks were spotless, she noted, the rails romantically reminiscent of balconies in the French Quarter she’d seen in pictures and movies. Glass gleamed. Obviously Duncan Blade ran a tight and tidy ship.
He pushed open one of a set of double doors painted a glossy red, and gestured. Cat stepped in ahead of him, fisted her hands on her hips and scanned the room.
Like the exterior of the boat, it radiated charm and tradition. Round tables were set close enough for coziness, but with enough room to keep elbows from bumping. The lights in the audience area were dripping chandeliers, and the carpet was that same vivid red.
The bar in the far rear corner was fluidly curved. Stylish, Cat thought, with the added benefit of opening a traffic pattern. Stools gleamed with brass fittings, and the mirror behind the bar glittered.
She walked toward the stage, approving of the polished parquet flooring, noting with a quick shiver of delight her picture on the bill poster set on an easel to the side, in front of a gorgeous Steinway.
Hitting center stage, she turned, shut her eyes, drew breath. And belted out the first two bars of “Stormy Weather.”
Still in the rear, Duncan had to fight to keep his mouth from dropping open. She had a voice that went straight to the gut and managed to fill the room without benefit of a mike.
“You’ve got good acoustics in here,” she told him.
He had to take a breath himself. “You’ve got good pipes in there.”
She grinned. She knew exactly what she had. Her voice was all she’d ever had, and she intended to ride it to the top. “Thanks, sugar. My little claim to fame. I’ll need to run a sound check, a short rehearsal. You point me to my dressing room, my cabin and a sandwich, and I’ll get to work.”
“You’ve got a performance in …” he glanced at his watch “… eight hours.”
“I never miss a cue.” She slipped off her glasses, hooked the earpiece in the neck of her T-shirt. “I’ll do my job, Blade.”
He intended to make sure of it. “Dressing room’s backstage, between the main lounge and the casino.”
“Smart,” she said as he came toward her. “Get people buying drinks in here, then wandering out and dumping bucks at the tables. Suckers.”
He arched a brow. “I take it you don’t drink or gamble.”
“Not as a rule. Drinking dulls the brain and gambling—when the house holds the edge—means losing. I don’t like to lose.”
“Neither do I.” He showed her through another swinging door, turned to the left down a short corridor. “This is yours.”
Hers, she thought. It had only been a little more than a year since she’d had her first personal dressing room. It still gave her a secret thrill. No more days of sharing space with strippers or chorus dancers. No more fighting for a place at the mirror or pawing through a jungle of costumes for her own.
Hers, she thought again, and studied the small, organized space.
Lighted mirror, long counter, padded stool, clothes rack. And God bless America, a neat sofa. “A little cramped,” she said with a shrug, because she wanted to dance. “But I’ll manage. I could use some help getting my wardrobe in here.”
“You’ll get it. But let’s give you the lay of the land first.”
She went reluctantly. She’d have enjoyed sitting on that sofa, locking the door and just grinning for a while. Instead, she followed him out, through the casino with its tables of green baize, its colorful wheels and glittering slots.
This, Cat imagined, was his stage. However casually he was dressed—and she imagined he thought of the tailored slacks and white silk shirt as casual—he was the perfect image of the traditional riverboat gambler.
And she didn’t imagine he often walked away lighter in the pocket.
“Two performances a night,” Duncan told her as they wound their way through and back out on deck into the brilliant sun. “Your days are pretty much your own, though we encourage staff to socialize and mingle with the passengers. You’ll take your meals belowdecks with the crew. Breakfast from six to eight, lunch eleven to one, dinner five to seven. I promise you won’t go hungry.”
“That’s good to know. I’ve got a big appetite.”
He glanced down at her. She was wand slim, though the photos had shown off some very attractive curves. Duncan knew and appreciated the engineering of female undergarments and what they could do to augment a figure.
“You can use the health club, also belowdecks. You pay for your drinks, and since you don’t drink—as a rule—I shouldn’t have to tell you that you get drunk on board, you get one warning. Next time you’re off.”
He took stairs leading down, and turned into another corridor. “Passenger cabins. We can hold a hundred twenty full bookings and another hundred fifty day stops when we’re in port.” He stopped by a door, opened it. “First class-cabin,” he explained, and let her wander in.
“Well, well.” It was more spacious than she’d imagined, with a generous bed, plush seating area. The furnishings looked antique—genuine stuff, she imagined. The flowers were fresh, and a neat balcony curved out behind a pair of French doors and offered a view of the river. “Must cost a bundle.”
“You get what you pay for. People come here to relax, to be entertained, and we give them their money’s worth.”
“I bet you do.” One day, she thought, one fine day she’d stay in a room like this. And when she did, she’d stretch out on the bed naked as a baby and laugh until her ribs cracked.
And she’d forget all the two-bit motels, the cramped rooms and fleabag hotels that had come before.
“Well, sugar, since I don’t think employees get such jazzy digs, where’s mine?”
“Down one level.” He stepped back, but as she passed through the door, their shoulders b
umped.
He even smelled rich, she thought with mild irritation. She imagined she smelled just the way she felt. Like tired rags. If she didn’t get that sandwich soon, she was going to pitch forward on her face and humiliate herself.
Been hungry before, she thought as she once again followed Duncan down a flight of steps. Just think about something else. Anything else.
Like what a very fine butt Blade has. Definitely first-class all the way. Her quick snort of laughter had him glancing back.
“What?”
“Nothing. Since I keep ending up behind you, I’m just enjoying the view.”
His left eyebrow winged up—a skill she’d always admired. Then, like lightning, his grin flashed. Whoa, Cat thought, secret weapon. Very effective.
“Next time we’ll switch places,” he said easily, then opened a door. “This is yours.”
It was less than half the size of the cabin he’d just shown her, and the tiny window afforded light but little else. Still, it delighted her to see the space, the single narrow bed, the spotless floor. Her trunk sat there, filling most of the room.
“We’ll have that stowed for you when you unpack. It won’t seem as crowded.”
“It’s fine.” More than fine, she thought. It smelled clean. There would be no drunks hollering at each other in the next room, no need to shove a chair under the doorknob so she could sleep with both eyes shut.
She glanced into the tiny bathroom and found no problem with the doll-size sink or the skinny shower stall. Everything there, no matter how small, gleamed from fresh scrubbing.
For the next six weeks, she thought, it was all hers.
“I’ll manage okay. Now about that sandwich?”
“I’ll have something sent down.” He was already an hour behind schedule. “Take an hour, get yourself settled. I’ll arrange for your sound check. We’ll keep the main lounge closed until four. That’s all the time I can give you to rehearse, so be on time.”
“I’ll be there, sugar.” She walked to the opened door, leaned on it in a silent invitation for him to leave. “And I’ll need some bottled water—no bubbles, no flavors, just straight mineral water.”