To Love a Scoundrel (14 page)

Jewel went limp at the request she'd been dreading, the only one with which she was unprepared to comply. She worked to catch her breath now, struggling to ignore the steel hardness of his muscles pressing against her body through the thin cheap material of her blouse. Unable to think clearly, to formulate yet another story, she threw herself on his mercy. "I wish I could tell you, but I can't and that's the God's honest truth."

Inches from her sensuous mouth, freckle-kissed nose, and pleading eyes, Brent was a mass of contradicting responses. He could feel himself melting and hardening at the same time. His body urged his mind to believe her, but it also sent warnings. Signs flashed in his head: Danger—Bridge Out. She's a thief—take her to the nearest jail and forget her, his brain insisted. She's beautiful and voluptuous, and I want her more than I've ever wanted anyone, his body pressured. Take her, you fool.

"Please believe me," Jewel went on, suddenly desperate to make him trust her. "I meant you no harm." She hesitated, watching his eyes darken as he lowered his head. "I was not in your room to rob you. Please know that. I..." Her gaze suddenly shifted from his eyes to the thick sable wings of his mustache. He drew within an angel's kiss from her face. She looked into his eyes for only an instant before that mouth beckoned her gaze to return, begged her lips to meet his.

Then he plunged his fingers into her hair and began stroking the back of her head. "Oh... oh, Brent, I..." That was all she could manage before he captured her mouth.

She had one last rational thought as she met his heat, his passion: This is surely a match made in hell. Her response, devoid of her usual reliance on the dramatic, both frightened and thrilled her, intrigued and alarmed her. The flames of hell were flaring in her loins, heating her blood to temperatures she'd never even dreamed of. Brent Connors had to be the spawn of the devil to work this kind of magic on her. What else could it be? How else could she be feeling so much so fast? How else could she explain it? The man was only kissing her. Why was she coming apart so easily?

As she grew desperate to slow things down, Jewel sensed one last beam of logic striving to light up a glimmer of insight. She was very close to losing the one thing she'd always been able to count on—her own control. Against all that her body longed for, she tore herself out of Brent's arms.

"I have to go now," she gasped as she raised her gloved hand to her swollen lips, soothing them, convincing them this was for the best. Then, before he could reply or move, she jerked open his door and ran out of the room.

Choking for air, strangling on emotions too complicated to sort out, Jewel scrambled down the stairs to the Texas deck, where she wheeled around the corner and ran headlong into a startled passenger.

"Oh, my dear—pardon me," Harry Benton said as he caught the distraught woman. "May I be of some assistance?" he suggested, noting the flushed cheeks and the frightened-rabbit glaze in her lovely green eyes.

Grateful for the support, Jewel nodded and allowed the stranger to steady her trembling body for a moment. Then, knowing she must look a sight, guessing her cheeks were on fire and her mouth was bruised and swollen, she pulled away without meeting the man's gaze. "Thank you, sir," she mumbled under her breath. "I must have taken a little seasick." Then she spun around and continued on down the hallway toward her stateroom.

Puzzled, Harry watched her retreating figure. "Excuse me, my dear," he called after her. "Would you please tell me—am I missing out on some kind of costume party?"

Chapter 7

Reba Thomas slid the glass of Chivas Regal across the bar top and waited for the nattily dressed customer to pay up. He dropped a single coin on the polished mahogany, then turned and walked away without so much as a thank you.

"Enjoy the drink, Mr. Big Spender. I hope you choke on it," she muttered under her breath.

"Talking to yourself again, Reba?" Tex asked from behind her.

"Beats talking to the highfalutin passengers this voyage has managed to attract. I shoulda stayed on at the Gilded Bird in Natchez. I don't fit in with these folks."

"Ah, Reba, don't be so hard on yourself." Tex poured two frosty mugs of beer, then added as he passed behind her, "Give 'em a day or two to get used to the idea of a woman mixing their drinks. They'll come around."

"Humph. Like I'd care if they did." But she did care. At least she thought she did. Despite all she'd done during her forty-two years, respectability had never quite found its place on Reba's list of accomplishments. Why should it matter now? she wondered. Brent Connors, came the answer. He had given her a chance, perhaps her final chance, to rise up from the gutters of humanity. She'd taken him up on the offer, and now she felt she owed him something. But this wasn't working. Whatever had made her think she had what it took to be accepted by society's darlings?

"I ain't got the patience," she muttered to herself. "I've got no stomach for these high-society types who think I'm nothing but trash." She grabbed her bar towel and began to wipe down the storage wells, even though she'd done so only a few moments before. Then she caught sight of a new customer standing at the end of the bar.

Another high-society type, she decided as she tossed the rag into a bucket and started in his direction. Black silk top hat, tails, gray cravat, ruffled dress shirt, nose held at an upward angle, looking as if he'd sniffed a rotten egg. He was just another highfalutin, snob—too good to give her the time of day much less a tip. He would get what he paid for, she decided, what they'd
all
paid for.

Harry Benton was too busy selecting the perfect bar stool to notice Reba's approach. He chose the wooden stool with padded black leather seat nearest the wall and slid onto it. From there he could study the crowd, his brain busy assessing and rating the financial status of the clientele, without worrying about other customers crowding in around him.

"What'll it be, mister?"

Amazed to hear a sultry feminine voice, Harry turned his head toward the sound. "My dear, what a pleasant surprise," he said, unable to keep his gaze from lingering on her marvelous, if slightly overblown, attributes.

"I split the duty with Tex," she explained brusquely. "So what'll it be?"

Harry spun around on the stool until he faced her. She was lovely in a timeless sort of way, even though the lines from her not altogether pleasant diary were deeply etched around her eyes and mouth. Her hair, bleached a pearly white, was piled high atop her head and fastened with a royal purple feather that matched her velvet gown. She was common, probably available to any man with the correct change, he thought absently—but somehow, Harry realized, surprising himself right down to his patent leather shoes, she was absolutely breathtaking.

Suddenly feeling frisky, he raised his stunted pinky and waved it, making sure she noticed the large diamond ring almost covering the pint-sized finger. "What would you suggest, my dear?"

Unimpressed, Reba began wiping a crystal glass with a fresh bar towel. "I'm not your dear, and I wouldn't have the slightest notion what you drink."

Nonplussed, Harry was momentarily at a loss for words. His impeccable manner of dress coupled with a faint accent that suggested all of Europe rather than a particular country, never failed to charm the ladies. Why did this one seem impervious to him? Even more curious, why would a woman of obviously common breeding attract him so?

Reba replaced the glass, waiting for her suddenly silent customer to order, and began to tap a polished fingernail against the bar. "Give me a holler when you've made up your mind," she muttered before twirling away.

"No—wait," Harry said, too fast, with far too little inflection in his voice. "I believe I'll have a cognac."

"Any particular brand?''

"Whatever you're having. I'd like to buy you a drink, my dear."

Cocking her hip, Reba raised one eyebrow over an ice blue eye.

"Forgive me," Harry said, instantly aware that he'd blundered. "Perhaps I can better refrain from offending you if we exchange introductions. My name is Harrison Poindexter, but you may call me Harry. And you are...?"

Her eyebrow had dropped down to its original arch, but both blue eyes bored into him before she finally said, "Rebecca Thomas. My friends call me Reba. You may call me Miss Thomas. And by the way—thanks for the drink. Don't mind if I do." She stared at him for a long moment, her painted mouth lifted at the corners, then turned and slowly strolled down the plankway to where the bottles were propped up in bins.

"Mon Dieu,''
Harry breathed to himself, appreciating the seductive roll of her hips as she walked, even though he suspected the movement was deliberate. "What a woman."

Content just to watch her, to be the prey rather than the predator for a change, Harry broke into a smile that brought his pencil-thin mustache absolutely level. When Reba returned carrying two glasses, he accepted his and raised it in a toast. "To your extraordinary beauty and what just may be a very memorable trip."

Her first impulse was to toss the drink down and walk away, but Reba hesitated, stopping for once to access the situation before reacting. Did he know her from somewhere? Did he think she could be purchased for ten minutes, or even for the entire night, as she once could have been? Or was he just being friendly?

Suspecting that the answer lay somewhere in between, Reba lifted her glass and touched it against Harry's. Then she winked and returned the toast. "Here's to customers who know how to tip well. Bottoms up." She raised the glass to her lips and downed the cognac in one gulp.

So completely captivated that his eyes were shining like those of a lad peeking through the keyhole at a whorehouse, Harry exclaimed, "Bottoms up indeed," and tossed the drink down.

He closed his eyes as the cognac spread its heat, and when he opened them again, Reba's manner had completely changed. She'd gone from day to night, from storm clouds to sunshine. She smoothed the front of her white apron and produced a smile.

"Well, now, my dear," Harry murmured huskily, forgetting himself again. "To what do I owe this sudden—" He cut off his words when he realized he wasn't the cause of her new mood. She wasn't even listening to him. Following her gaze, he sagged as a younger man, his dark good looks marred by a frown, approached the bar.

"A whiskey, Reba. Make it a double," he said as he slid onto a stool next to Harry.

"Sure, Bre—Mr. Connors. Coming right up." She did a half curtsy, grinning and fussing with her hair, then hurried over to the backbar.

In no mood to mingle with the customers, Brent ignored the man on his left and swiveled his head until he had a clear view of the Gypsy's gaudy little table. Still unoccupied. "Damn," he muttered, wondering why he hadn't just gone after Jewel and let things take their natural course.

"Tough day at the poker tables, son?" Harry inquired, eager to assess his competition.

Brent wheeled around, cognizant of his duty to his passengers, and offered his hand. "No, just looking for someone. I'm Brent Connors, president of the Sebastian Steamship Line."

"Is that so? What an honor, sir. Harrison Poindexter at your service." Accepting the greeting, Harry made a fast study of the man. Thirtyish and apparently very rich, if he held such a prestigious position. Married? Harry glanced at the man's fingers and found them unadorned. Too bad, he thought. The challenge of stealing the wife of such a virile-looking chap was almost as interesting as the spoils he might have garnered.

Brent gave him a mock smile. "Very nice to meet you. I do hope you're enjoying your journey so far."

Reba returned with the whiskey at that moment, and as she handed it to Brent, Harry said, "I am having a wonderful time indeed, sir. In fact, everything has brightened considerably in just the last few minutes."

The innuendo was lost on Brent as he quaffed the whiskey. He wasn't interested in small talk or wealthy passengers. He was preoccupied by thoughts of a green- eyed vixen who'd set him on fire, then fled from the scene of the crime. A pyromaniac of the heart, he suspected. As a southern belle, a woman like Jewel Flannery could have destroyed the entire Confederacy without benefit of the Union army, he decided, his dark thoughts shadowing his eyes and twisting his features.

Weaving her fingers through the towel she used to wipe the crystal, Reba ventured, "Everything okay, Mr. Connors? Can I get you something else?"