by Nora Roberts
He cocked that brow again. “Anything else?”
“Well.” Her lips curved slowly as she skimmed a finger down the front of his shirt. “Time will tell. Thanks for the tour.”
If she wanted to play, he mused, he was good at games. He flicked a finger under her chin, leaned down just close enough to see her eyes sharpen. “Sweetheart, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
He strolled away, grinning.
Chapter 12
He loved the night best. And the approach of it. July meant long, steamy days with sun blasting off the wide, dark waters of the Mississippi. And it meant hot nights with teasing breezes.
It meant action.
The passengers had boarded, and the cast-off party had set the tone for a fantasy period of enjoyment, of pleasure, of reliving those adventurous times when stern-wheel boats ruled the river.
He’d done his meet-and-greet, gauging faces, from the blissful honeymooners to the sharp-eyed hopefuls who dreamed of beating the odds. As twilight approached, Duncan felt that canny little thrill of beginnings.
A large chunk of his life had been spent in hotels, stationary buildings in cities and resorts. He’d been content, and he’d learned the family business, discovered a knack for it. But he’d also discovered that he preferred freedom of movement, change and the unexpected.
His mother often laughed and said he’d been born a century too late. He’d been born to ride the river.
He rode it now as the Comanche Princess glided south, cruising lazily through the water and leaving the restrictions of land behind. He could have piloted the grand boat himself—another thing he’d learned. He wasn’t a man to put control in other hands without knowing how to take it back if it became necessary.
But he’d handpicked his captain himself, and his crew. Now he could enjoy the moment, satisfied that what was his ran well.
He passed through the casino with a winking nod to his casino manager. Gloria Beene had a sharp eye, a nimble brain and a dreamy Southern accent that disguised her ruthless efficiency.
And she filled out her trim tuxedo just fine.
Duncan had stolen her from Savannah, hiked her salary and had considered pursuing a more … personal relationship. Until both of them discovered they’d begun to think of each other more as family than lovers.
“Nice crowd tonight,” Gloria commented. “Heavy on the slots.”
“The cruise packages like to play their complimentary tokens in the machines—to start. We’ve got two honeymoon couples. You’ll spot them. If they breeze in, see they get a free bottle of house champagne.”
“Will do.”
“I’m going to check out the new talent next door, but I’ll be round and about for the next few hours.”
He wandered through, appreciating the music of the slots, the ruffle of cards, the clink of dice. Circling, he finished his early evening sweep, then stepped through to head for the main lounge.
He stopped, checked his watch, then frowned at Cat’s dressing room door. He hadn’t heard a peep out of her since he’d left her hours before. And her track record didn’t inspire him to trust she’d be ready on time.
He gave a quick, one knuckle rap on the door. “Five minutes, Miss Farrell.”
“Got it. Shoot. Give me a hand, will you?”
Duncan pushed open the door—and discovered exactly how it must feel to take two barrels of a shotgun straight to the gut.
She stood in the center of the room in what he supposed some generous soul might call a dress. What there was of it was the same vibrant green as her eyes. It left her shoulders bare in a kind of frame for a waterfall of smoky red hair.
Baggy, ragged jeans hadn’t warned him that she had silky legs that must end somewhere in the vicinity of her ears. But the short, tight skirt and mile-high heels showed them off to marvelous advantage.
“Well,” he murmured. “Don’t you clean up nice.”
Cat stopped tugging on the zipper and turned to give him a delicious view of bare back. “You bought the package, sugar, now help me tie the bow. This damn thing’s stuck.”
“Let’s see what we can do about that.” He stepped toward her, noting that with those glamorous eyes expertly highlighted, that mouth slickly painted, she no longer looked like a teenager.
And she smelled exotic, stunningly sexual.
What was a man to do, Duncan asked himself, but enjoy the moment?
“Sometimes you have to go down—” his knuckles skimmed over her skin as he slid the zipper low “—before you go up.”
She didn’t shiver, and was more surprised than annoyed that for one slippery moment, she wanted to. Reminding herself she knew just how to handle his type, she turned her head and shot him a sultry smile. “Oh, I’ve been down, and I like up a lot better.”
“Maybe you’ve never been down in just the right place.” Unable to resist, he trailed a fingertip along her spine. “Nice back, Farrell.”
“Thanks.” Oh yeah, she wanted to shiver. Damn it. “Nice face, Blade. Now you want to get me into this dress before I miss my cue? My boss gets bitchy if I’m late.”
“I’ll have to put in a good word for you.” It amazed him just how much he wanted to peel the dress away, to discover what other miracles had been hidden under the dumpy street-urchin clothes she’d traveled in.
He was close enough, focused enough to see the awareness of that in her eyes. And unless his ego was skewing his vision, a glint of curiosity.
She kept her gaze level, though the skim of those fingertips on her back made her want to turn and find out just how clever they could be.
“It would be a mistake,” she said evenly.
“Yeah.” With some regret, he slid the zipper smoothly into place. “It would.” He stepped back, took a good, long survey. “Looks like it might be worth it, from where I’m standing.” But he turned and opened the door. “Break a leg.”
“I always try to break both.” She started by him, then followed impulse and stopped with their bodies close and framed in the doorway. Very slowly she trailed a finger over his mouth, then smiled. “Too damn bad.”
She walked away, counting her heartbeats, stopping behind the turn of the stage. Waiting. Instead of blocking out those low, liquid pulls the encounter with Duncan had caused, she used them, focused on them.
When the stage went black, she moved onto it, hit her center mark. Counting, still counting. And closing her eyes, began to sing, a cappella in the dark.
She started soft and dreamy, just her alone, her voice stroking the words, her heart breaking on them. Then the music slipped in to join her. The key light winked on, spotlighting her face, holding, holding, then spreading to cover her as her voice built.
Seduction, Duncan thought as he watched her. Her voice might have been wistful, achingly sad as she sang of wanting someone to watch over her, but it was all seduction.
And the audience was caught in it.
He imagined the women would weep and the men would want.
God, she could make a man want.
He rubbed the side of his finger over his mouth where she had stroked. That little flick had gone straight to his loins. Dangerous woman, he decided. Edgy woman. It was his bad luck he had a weakness for edgy, dangerous women.
He listened until the last notes died away, until the audience exploded with applause. Then he turned and walked back into the casino, where he knew the odds were in his favor.
* * *
Cat didn’t surface until noon. After the second show, she’d stripped out of costume and creamed off her makeup. As the adrenaline rush performing gave her drained, she’d stumbled to her cabin and had fallen facedown on her bed. And had slept like a stone.
She woke to the shimmer of sunlight through her window, the gentle rhythm of the boat. And the desperate demands of an empty stomach.
By twelve-thirty she was showered, alert and down in the kitchens. She’d already made friends with one of the cooks. In every hotel, nightclub or dive she�
��d worked, Cat had made it a policy to get chummy with the person in charge of food.
You ate better that way.
Charlie from New Orleans was a ridiculously skinny Cajun with a huge mustache, snapping black eyes and three ex-wives. Cat heard all about them as she shoveled in the inspired shrimp étouffée he’d heaped on a plate for her.
She chased it down with mineral water. Caffeine made her jumpy. She chatted and ate in the bustling confusion of the kitchen, barely noticing the waitpeople rushing in and out.
Lunch, she imagined, was being served on the promenade deck, in the dining room and in the staff lounge. She preferred the kitchen, and helped herself to a warm roll.
“So, Charlie, tell me about the boss.”
“Duncan?” Charlie eyed one of his line cooks to be certain the mushrooms were being sliced appropriately. “Good man. Smart. He says to me, ‘Charlie, I want food dreams are made on.’” Amused by the memory, Charlie gave a cackling laugh. “He wants food like poetry, so that’s what I give. He pays for it, ’cause he wants the best. He don’t settle for less than that, chère. Not Duncan Blade.”
“I bet.” Cat munched on the roll.
“Got an eye for the ladies.” Charlie wiggled his eyebrows. “Smooth moves. Slick. They don’t catch him, no. Not like me. Me, I look at the lady too long, I get a ring in my nose.”
She laughed. “But not Duncan.”
“Nosiree—he gives them a tickle, then slips away while they’re still sighing.”
“Not everyone’s ticklish.”
“Oh, everybody, they got a spot, little girl. Always a weak spot. Me, I got too many.”
But she didn’t, Cat assured herself as she left the kitchen to stroll out on deck. When a woman had reason enough, she could cover over those weak spots until they hardened like rock. Then she could be the one to slip away.
When you had only yourself to depend on, you had to be quick on your feet.
Leaning on the rail, she watched the flow of the river. It was good to be out of the crowds, she thought, away from the city and the noise. To breathe thick fragrant air, to feel the drowsy heat of deep summer.
She could use a few more gigs like this, with the benefits of a smooth ride and lazy afternoons. And Charlie was right. Duncan Blade wasn’t stingy. The salary she’d earn over the next six weeks would nicely augment her savings. A little more of a cushion, a little more distance from those days of scrambling for a few dollars more to make the rent on some dingy little room.
She’d never be poor again, she promised herself. Or desperate again. Or afraid again. Catherine Mary Farrell was on her way up.
From the deck above, Duncan watched her. She had her arms folded on the rail, her hip cocked, her feet crossed at the ankles. She looked as lazy and contented as a cat in a sunbeam.
So why was it that just looking at her made him tense?
She didn’t resemble the sultry seductress of the night before—not with that ridiculous cap on her head, her long flow of hair tugged ponytail-style through the back loop. Her T-shirt bagged over her hips—what there was of them—and her feet were bare.
Of course, those ragged, hemmed shorts showed off a great deal of leg.
But it wasn’t how she looked, he decided. It was … the attitude. She stood there radiating absolute confidence, a woman who didn’t give a single damn who looked at her or how. And he supposed that kind of attitude equaled style.
“Hey! Cat Farrell!”
She turned, and despite the bill of the cap and the sunglasses, lifted a hand to block the laser beam of the sun. She saw him above, his dark mane of hair ruffling in the breeze. The khaki slacks and light blue shirt showed off a slim and agile build.
Doesn’t the man ever look less than perfect? she wondered.
“Hey, Duncan Blade.”
“Come on up?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you.”
She smiled, cocked her elbows on the rail and leaned back. “Come on down.”
It was, he supposed, one of those times when surrendering a little battle could lead to losing the entire war. “Up,” he said simply. “My office.” He had time to see her shrug before he stepped away from the rail.
He waited, knowing she’d take her time. He knew he would have. Behind him, passengers lounged on the deck or escaped to the cool lounge for the afternoon talk on the history of the river.
Others—many others, he knew—were huddled in the casino, listening to the music of the slots.
When she swaggered up the steps, he simply gestured her up the next flight.
“There a problem, boss?”
“Nope. How was your morning?”
“I don’t know. I slept through it.” When she reached the top, she looked around. “Good thing I like heights.”
“Come on in.” He opened a door, waited for her to pass through first.
Obviously he didn’t like to be closed in, Cat thought. The office wasn’t particularly large, but it was ringed by windows that brought the sky inside. She walked across the room, passed the lovely old mahogany desk, through the small sitting area with its curve-backed chairs and glossy tables, and took in the view.
“It’s a killer,” she murmured.
“Keeps me from getting cranky over paperwork. Want something cold?”
“Water.”
With a shake of his head, he opened a minifridge, selected a bottle. “Is that all you drink?”
“Mostly.” She turned back when she heard water hitting glass. “So, what’s the deal?”
“I looked over your press kit and materials again this morning.” He walked to her, offered the glass.
“So?”
“So, they’re very professional, well written, and they don’t say a lot.” He sat down, kicked out his legs, slipped a slim cigar from his pocket. “Tell me more.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
She sat, kicked out her legs in turn. “You hired me, I delivered. What else?”
He flicked on his lighter, watched her through the haze of smoke. “Doesn’t say where you’re from.”
“Chicago. South Side. The projects.”
He lifted a brow. “Rough neighborhood.”
“How would you know?” she said with a slow, sharp smile. “MacGregors don’t cruise in their limos through rough neighborhoods.”
Ah, sore spot, he mused, and casually blew out smoke. “The MacGregor worked in coal mines and spent a good part of his youth in neighborhoods as rough as the South Side. My father’s Blade, part Comanche, and he fought his way out of places that make your projects look like paradise. I come from people who don’t forget their roots.”
“That’s you, Duncan. I’ve ripped mine clean out.” She watched him from behind the shield of her dark glasses as she sipped water. “What are you looking for here?”
“More,” he said simply. “Where’s your family?”
“My father’s dead. Drunk driver killed him. I was eight, he was twenty-nine. My mother’s in Chicago. She waits tables. And what does that have to do with my job?”
Rather than answer, he leaned forward, quick as a snake, and pulled off her glasses.
“Hey.”
“I like to see who I’m talking to.” He set them aside, leaned back again, pleased to have put that gleam of temper in her eyes. “I’ve got a contract with you for six weeks, with an option for six more. Before I decide whether or not to exercise that option, I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
Another six weeks, she thought. Steady work, steady income with room and board for three full months. She could nearly double her savings, certainly double the check she sent to her mother every month. And it could very well lead to another contract with another MacGregor-Blade arena.
Not a flicker of the thrill it brought to her, of the hope it had burning like a torch in her heart, showed on her face as she slowly smiled.
“Well, in that case, sugar, my life’s an open book. What do yo
u want to know?”
Chapter 13
He’d pushed the right button, he decided. Money was, for some, the sweetest of talk. With another woman, he’d have waltzed around the objective, led her gradually to the point he wanted, and done it all with charm, finesse and a good deal of canniness.
He didn’t think any of those would work with Cat. “Is there a man?”
Her brows lifted in mild amusement. “Well, you get right to it, don’t you?”
“Just a matter of adjusting my stride to the person I’m walking with, darling. Is there?”
“There’s no man unless I want there to be.” She sipped again, taking her time and making him certain she spoke no less than the truth.
“No man—at the moment,” he continued. “You don’t drink—as a rule. Don’t gamble. No vices, Cat?”
Now her eyes danced over the rim of her glass. “Is that what I said? You drink, gamble, and I imagine there’s a woman when you want there to be. Does that mean you’re riddled with vices, Duncan?”
“Good point.” Absently, he picked up a coin from the table and began to fiddle with it. “You impressed me last night.”
“In the dressing room?”
His grin flashed in sheer appreciation. “Oh yeah. And onstage. You’ve got a hell of a talent.”
“I know.”
He inclined his head. “The fact that you do know, and use it, is in your favor. Where do you want to take it?”
“As far as I can go, and then some.”
“Why aren’t you recording?”
She caught a drop of water from her top lip with her tongue. “Record producers have been beating down my door,” she said dryly. “I just ignore them.”
“You need a new agent.”
She snorted out a laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I can help you.”
Slowly, she lowered her glass, set it aside. Those marvelous green eyes had gone cold and brittle. “And just what do you want for your percentage?”
The fingers that had been casually manipulating the coin went still. “I don’t barter for sex. I don’t pay for it, and I don’t play for it.”