To Love a Scoundrel (18 page)

Delighted by what she saw in Brent's expression, Jewel blew him a kiss, then returned to the head of the table. All business now, she waited until Tex finished his job and moved away from the table. Then she positioned the cue ball and drew a bead on the target. Mentally shutting out the noise, she studied all the angles and made her calculations, even though she realized this shot had more to do with luck than anything. When she was finally ready, Jewel drew back the stick and drove it into the cue ball.

The ivory sphere shot across the felt and exploded into the nest of balls, scattering them in all directions. Jewel held her breath as several of them, including the black eight, began to rattle against the leather pockets. A few balls, both striped and solid, dropped down into the pouches. The eight wobbled at the edge of the precipice, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd. Then it came to a sudden standstill, as if too frightened to follow the leader.

Jewel rushed to the site and stared down at the ball, willing it with her gaze to fall into the hole. It remained at the lip, its round white eye staring back at her, mocking her.

"Sorry, sugar. Nice try, though," Brent whispered into her ear as he walked by.

"No, wait," she called to him. "We have to wait a few minutes—it could fall in, you know."

Brent leaned over the table and studied the angle. "I hate to tell you this, little lady, but since it hasn't fallen in yet, the only chance of that happening is with a little help from the waves. But of course, you know what we'll have to do then, don't you?"

"Spot it," she grumbled. Jewel glanced around at the crowd, at the expectant expressions, and heard the groans and laughter of the pitying men. Now she would have to play the game, test her rusty skills against those of a man who probably made his living at a billiard table. Her best—her only—chance lay in her ability to rattle him, but she would have to make damn sure she didn't allow him to do the same to her.

Taking several reviving breaths, Jewel calmly walked the circumference of the table. After choosing the balls sitting in the most strategic positions, she turned back to Brent.

"I'll take the stripes," she said with a confidence she didn't feel. Then she selected her best shot and drove the cue ball into a yellow and white stripe. The ball ricocheted off the corner pocket, then rolled impotently toward the center of the table. "Damn,'' she muttered to herself. Where was her usual panache, her normal coolness under fire?

"Tsk-tsk," Brent clucked as he held out his hands to his bouncer. He waited until Tex had sprinkled just the right amount of talcum powder into his palms, then finished the sentence as he rubbed his hands together. "Tough luck, lady. I'll try to put you out of your misery as quickly as possible."

Carefully fitting a chalking cup to the tip of his cue stick, Brent slowly twisted it back and forth, caressing and stroking it as he grinned at her from across the table.

Jewel stepped back, alarmed by a sudden spurt of desire. Things were not going as planned, she fumed. Then she realized why. Brent Connors had planted that damn feather again, that mental tickle she'd had in her drawers almost since the first day they'd met. What would it take to relieve it, she wondered recklessly—going to bed with him? Should she just forfeit the game, pay up, and then get on with her life? She watched, absently running her tongue between her lips, as he expertly drilled the three ball into the side pocket. She flinched at the sound, at the masculine thrust behind his drive, and chanced a look into his eyes.

Brent returned her gaze, his brown eyes smoldering, guessing her thoughts, laughing.
Laughing?

The feather reversed itself, moved up into her mind, and began jabbing her with its quill. Damn you, Brent Connors, she thought. I'll decide when, and if, you'll get a chance to relieve that tickle. For now she had to find a way—and no means were too devious—to beat him at his own game.

Smiling, Jewel began walking toward him as another of his solids dropped into a leather pocket. When she neared, he inclined his head and whispered, "Looks like you're in for a drubbing, sugar."

Jewel waited until he lined up his next shot before she answered, "That doesn't sound so bad. It's been a long time since I had a really
good
drubbing." Then she continued walking, smiling to herself when she heard his gasp and the squeak of a miscue.

She whirled around, her mouth a perfect O. "Oh, my. Did you miss?"

"Yes," he hissed from between his teeth. "And I'd appreciate it if, from now on, you'd refrain from talking while I'm shooting."

"Sorry." Jewel shrugged and turned her attention to the table. His mistake had left her wide open, set her up for at least two or three shots—if she could keep control of herself. She wiped her palms on her skirt and methodically began to remove the striped balls.

His confidence in his own abilities sinking, his hands shaking, and feeling uncharacteristically indecisive, Brent rested his elbows on the bar. Her luck would run out soon, he thought, loosening the collar of his shirt. It had to. Trying to gain the advantage, he waited until she circled in front of him for her third shot before he leaned over and whispered, "Enjoy yourself while you can—you're in for a
very
long night."

Jewel's knuckles blanched as she tightened her grip on the stick. Holding her breath and her words, she took aim and shot. The target ball careened off one of the solids, then spun dangerously close to the eight. She whirled around and glared at Brent.

He pushed away from the bar, lightly brushing against her as he whispered, "Strawberries and champagne all right with you for breakfast?'' Then he waltzed down to the other end of the table, calling for talc, baiting her with his seductively expressive eyes.

Jewel gritted her teeth and waited for her next chance. It came when he was down to his last ball. Again waiting for the critical moment, she leaned in close and said in a breathless sigh, "Actually, I prefer
bathing
in champagne to drinking it. Don't you?"

Barely able to stop the shot before he miscued again, Brent turned to her and took a deep breath before he said, "Why don't you have a seat and let me finish this game?"

Even though he managed to appear calm, perspiration had collected on his brow, giving him away. His hands, still trembling and unresponsive, felt as if he'd dipped them in ice water. Brent loosened his cravat and inhaled the stale air. "Tex?" he choked out. "More talc."

Jewel waited for him to dust himself with yet more powder, then closed in on him. "I'll be leaving now, but I want you to know something before I go sit down."

"Can't it wait?" he said warily.

"Nope." Then she pushed out her bottom lip and said, "I want you to know I'm pulling for you, Brent. I really do hope you win this game. In fact... I'm counting on it."

Then she slithered out of his range, but not out of his view.

Chewing on his lip, wondering how he could have soaked through a new dusting of powder already, Brent forced his attention back to the table. His final ball, the four, was sitting a mere two inches from the side pocket. It was a shot he could make in his sleep.

Grinning as he thought ahead to the spoils of his victory, Brent took aim through eyes fogged with desire, and drove the cue ball toward the four. The ivory globe remained in place, unscathed.

Groaning heavily, Brent slid his palms down over the expensive fabric of his trousers and left another trail of chalky white handprints. Shaking his head, he gestured for Jewel to resume shooting, then dragged himself over to the bar.

Their money in jeopardy, Brent's friends and customers gave him a wide berth and whispered among themselves as Jewel managed to sink her final two balls. A pregnant calm shrouded the group when she began to stalk the eight ball, examining the apparently simple shot from every angle.

Finally sure of the best strategy, Jewel searched the crowd for a pair of worried honey-brown eyes. She found them at the end of the bar. She smiled, then opened her mouth to announce the final resting spot for the black ball—for the death of his hopes for the night—but hesitated.

More than concern flickered in those expressive eyes. Jewel could see the expected frustration as well, but it was tempered with something else—regret? She glanced around the room at his incredulous friends. How would they react when she won? Would they ridicule him or commiserate with him? Laugh or buy him a drink and urge him to forget about it?

Suddenly angry for having these compassionate thoughts, with him for forcing her to put herself in this ridiculous situation in the first place, Jewel said, "Eight ball, side pocket." Then she took aim and fired.

The ball struck harder than she'd intended, but it was right on target. The cue ball lightly kissed the eight, nudging the black beauty into the correct pocket.

Jewel turned to face Brent and took a bow.

Behind her the crowd let out a collective gasp. Before she could spin back around, Jewel heard the clatter of ivory against ivory. Knowing what she would find, curiously resigned to the thought, she chanced a look back over her shoulder. The white ball was nowhere to be seen. She'd scratched on the eight.

"Congratulations, my dear," Brent said as he approached, his voice high pitched and odd, the sound loose and watery. "You lose."

Unable to meet his gaze, she gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgment. "What time?"

Brent glanced at the crowd of onlookers, grateful their attention was directed at Tex and the settling of their bets. Then he whispered, "Eight o'clock. That should be close enough to sundown to suit us both."

Again she nodded, but still refused to meet his gaze. "See you at eight," she said, preparing to take her leave.

Before she could move, Brent slid his index finger under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. Badgering her, trying to get some kind of reaction, he said, "I'll have a light supper brought to my suite—something cold we can nibble on when we get time."

Jewel jerked her chin away and glared into his playful brown eyes. "Don't bother on my account. You know how easily I get seasick."

As she began to walk off, Brent caught her elbow and whispered one final order. "Be sure and wear something soft and slinky—something without buttons or hooks."

Then he released her and watched, laughing, as she hurried through the crowd muttering to herself.

Swept by laughter, relief, and a giddy sense of anticipation, Brent shook his head and studied her retreating figure. There goes one tough little lady, he thought with admiration. Cold, too, he reminded himself. Was this one of her many identities? Was it an act? Or was she as cold as she was tough?

Would she even show up at his suite tonight? Or would she instead find a way to jump ship, after taking Mr. Poindexter and others like him for all she could?

Brent drew a toothpick from his vest pocket and began to chew on it as he considered the only thing of any interest to him now. Tough or cold, real or fake? Suddenly he couldn't wait to solve those little mysteries for himself.

Chapter 9

Jewel stood at the door to Brent's cabin, afraid to knock.

She'd had four hours.

Two hundred forty minutes in which to ponder the upcoming ten or twelve hours. To think about that segment of time in which she had promised to relinquish her body to Brent Connors.

Now she was out of hours. Out of minutes.

Out of time in which to think of Brent, to imagine his big hands caressing her, teasing her, to dream of sliding her mouth across his, to brush against his mustache. Jewel ran her tongue across her upper lip, shivering as desire blossomed, trembling as her muscles contracted and expanded. Her legs felt heavy, swollen. She moved her right foot, easing her legs apart, seeking relief from the congestion in her lower body. But it didn't help. If anything, she was more frustrated, more engorged.

Jewel raised her hand and brushed her fingertips across the painting of the
Delta Dawn.
Relief, if she was to find any this night, lay just beyond the door. Beyond the brass knocker with the angel Gabriel suspended in the center, beyond the metal tapper she'd thought of striking several times, but hadn't yet found the courage to do.

Why had she made that stupid bet in the first place? How could she—a professional woman, a
lady
for heaven's sake—have wagered her body, her intimate self, for a mere chance at trapping Harry Benton?
How could she have done such a thing?