To Love a Scoundrel (20 page)

Barely hanging on to the last weak thread of his sanity, Brent was no longer interested in arguments. He tugged at her drawers, vaguely aware of the shrieks of ripping fabric, unable to distinguish whether the protest came from her underthings or his trousers. Or both.

Then at once they were free of clothing from waist to knee, as unfettered as they would take time to be. Brent lowered himself, hesitating only for a moment before he drove into her.

"Oh, Brent," she cried out, her voice weak, strangled. "Hurry Brent. Please hurry...
hurry."

Every part of her body seemed to move of its own volition, but her hands, her needy fingers, seemed to be the most frantic. She dug into Brent's buttocks, her nails leaving moon-shaped welts, and urged him onward and faster, guided him closer, deeper. Oh, how she wanted this man, needed his touch. Had she ever needed anything or anyone like this before? She was swirling, lost, consumed by Brent, by his magnificent body, reduced to a quivering mass of nerve endings and demands. Jewel was beyond thought or questioning now, could only feel, wanted only to touch and be touched.

Without warning but with an intensity she'd never before known, the first wave of spasms struck, arching her back, forcing her nails deeper into his flesh. She tried to speak, to tell him, to thank him, to beg him to go on and on, but her mind was liquid, a gelatinous mass of pure pleasure as the spasms increased, moved on to higher and higher levels.

Brent loomed above her, watching her face, loving the joy radiating out from her features. He wanted to encourage her to go on, to lose herself with him, but his own voice, the rubble his mind had become, was lost in the chaos of his body. His pulse leapt and fluctuated wildly as she took what she wanted from him. Intense heat—hers, his, he couldn't be sure—sent the blood spurting through his veins at a reckless pace. Then it all came together in a series of white-hot jolts that shook him right down to his toes. Someone cried out in an anguished moan. Someone groaned in sweet agony.

And then silence. Damp, eerie silence punctuated only by the lapping of the water against the ship and their frantic gasps for air.

Jewel tried to think, to pull herself together, but all she could do was feel. A few lingering spasms pulsated quietly, fading along with the pounding of her heart. Brent's damp shoulder moved against her open mouth as he tried to control his breathing. Above them, a huge glass chandelier swayed gently—along with them or with the movements of the ship? she wondered through the mist of her mind. Then, too soon, as quickly as everything had happened, Brent pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at her.

His eyes were swimming in a lazy haze. A lock of his sable hair, nearly black from his exertions, curled down over his forehead. He was in shock. A man emerging from solitary confinement into the bright sunlight. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes.

Jewel was still there, he realized. She was real, not imagined, and she was aglow with the rewards of their frantic lovemaking. Brent was touched, struck dumb, and slightly disgusted with himself all at once. "I—" He gave it up, knowing that even if he could find his voice, his brain would be unable to help him put a sentence together.

"I think I know," she whispered, sensing his confusion.

Suddenly feeling awkward and ashamed of his impulsive, dishonorable behavior, Brent rolled over and turned his back to her.

He began to pull on his trousers as he said, "Forgive me. That shouldn't have happened."

Jewel sat up and tucked her breasts back inside her chemise. Casting furtive glances his way as she worked at piecing her shredded blouse together, she said, "There's no need for you to apologize. After all, isn't that why..." She left the sentence unfinished, unable to say the words she knew were no longer true. This hadn't been the spoils of war, compensation for some foolish bet. She'd taken what she wanted. So had Brent. And while neither of them was likely to admit it, what had happened between them had absolutely nothing to do with a game of billiards.

"The reason doesn't matter," he said, angry with her for dismissing it all so casually, with himself for having lost control. "This simply should not have happened." His trousers finally on, held together at the waist by his white-knuckled fist, Brent climbed to his feet and examined the ruins of his shirt.

Over his shoulder he said, "I'll give you some privacy while I change my clothes. Do you need anything? A robe or..."

Jewel glanced down at her bosom, realizing she couldn't leave his room in such a state. "My blouse, what's left of it, is in tatters. I could use a drape of some kind if you can spare it. A shirt will do."

Appalled to think he was capable of such savagery, Brent forgot himself and wheeled around, catching her gaze, stopping his heart. Filled with remorse, he hunkered down beside her and glanced at her exposed breasts. She was flushed but, as far as he could tell, unmarked. "I can't believe I did that to you. If I've hurt you in any way... If you need—"

"Brent," she interrupted gently, "you didn't hurt me at all. In fact, I don't believe I've ever felt quite so... so
healthy."

Brent swallowed hard, then lightly brushed her cheek with his fingertips. Speaking softly, his voice as rich and dark as molasses, he murmured, "I sincerely hope you're telling the truth. I couldn't live with myself if I thought I'd hurt you."

"Please," she said, uncomfortable with all this apologizing. "Let's just forget about it."

"Not likely. Not likely at all." He stared into her eyes, smiling, until crimson roses bloomed on her cheeks and she looked away. His dimples firmly in place, Brent stood up, forgetting about his damaged clothing.

"Oh," Jewel choked out through a burst of laughter as his trousers slid down over his hips. "Sorry about that. Maybe I can mend them for—'' Unable to go on, thoughts of her previously inept attempts with a needle and thread making her laugh even harder, Jewel squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her stomach.

Looking away from her, Brent pulled up his trousers and started for his room. "Sorry about your blouse"—he waved his hand as he walked past her, irrationally unwilling to discuss something as intimate as her underwear—"and whatever else I may have damaged. I'll replace the items."

"That won't be necessary," she said, laughter still sparkling the words. "Why don't we just call it even?"

Trying to look as dignified as he could, he gave her a short nod before he said, "As you wish, my dear." Then he stepped into his bedroom.

Watching his retreat until he disappeared behind the closed door of his bedroom, Jewel drew a long breath and shook her head. This night was to have been her way of bringing him to heel, of controlling him with that which he wanted so badly. It should have worked. She should have been able to escape, unscathed, unimpressed. Jewel remembered the words she'd mouthed into the looking glass—"You're a dead man, Brent Connors."—and nearly laughed out loud.

She stumbled to her feet, still tingling from their love- making, and adjusted her clothing. There had been no corpses in this room tonight, she thought, amazed to realize the embers of passion were flaring in her again, only two very alive, extremely lusty, and voraciously greedy people. And there was no denying the result of her plan either. She had set a trap for Mr. B. S. Connors, but she had fallen into it right along with him.

Now what? she suddenly wondered. How would those two lively people conduct themselves in the future? Could she ever look at him again without thinking of this night, of the incredible way he'd made her feel? And what about Brent? Would he still insist on dropping her off at Cape Girardeau? If he'd been as deeply affected by their love- making as she had how could he put her ashore?

The door to his bedroom opened, and Jewel turned away, her pink cheeks tattling on her again. As he approached, the sound of the boat's whistle joined his footfalls. Using only one of its five tones, the
Dawn
sent two short and three long notes into the sultry night air.

Brent froze in his tracks. "Oh my God. The
Dawn's
in trouble." Startled into action, he resumed his march across the room, tossing a shirt into Jewel's arms as he passed her. "Sorry, but I have to go to the boiler room."

"Why? What's wrong?" she said, alarmed by the concern in his expression.

"Probably nothing," he hedged as he reached the double doors and turned back to her. "Make yourself comfortable. Have some supper. Do whatever you like. I'll be back as soon as I can." Brent spun around, jerked open the doors, then looked back in the room one more time. "I know I've been saying this a lot tonight, but I really am sorry to have to leave you like this. It can't be helped." Then he blew her a kiss and closed the doors.

Mouth open, eyes unblinking, Jewel stared at the doors, then glanced down at the garment in her hands. What was going on around here? she wondered. Was the whistle a routine signal, or was the steamship in trouble? Should she stay—or go?

Jewel glanced at the profusion of edibles on the table, then remembered the terms of the bet: She was supposed to stay all night long. She shrugged. Whether Brent chose to return or not was inconsequential. She was obliged to keep her end of the bargain—wasn't she?

Ignoring her inner voices, Jewel stripped off the remains of her blouse and slipped into Brent's shirt. It hung down to her knees, but she gathered it up and tucked it inside her skirt. Determined to keep her feminine side hidden for the balance of the evening, Jewel strolled over to the marble table and examined the offerings.

She chose a plump oyster, plucked it from its shell, and downed it in one swallow.

"Ummm," she moaned, unaware until that moment how hungry she'd been.

After pulling up an armchair upholstered in burgundy velvet, she took a seat and filled her plate with ham, rolls, and relishes, leaving the boiled tongue for Brent. When her appetite was sated, Jewel wrapped a couple of ladyfingers in her napkin and pushed out of the chair. As she walked away from the table, the champagne bucket caught her eye. Hesitating for a moment, she stared at it, licking her lips, then shook her head and continued on her way to Brent's desk. She'd had enough excitement for one night.

She took a bite of the sweet cake, then cocked her head and slowly circled the glass-topped desk. Thoughtfully chewing, she glanced through his notes and calendar, hoping to learn more about the handsome gambler, but finding nothing. She finished the ladyfinger, then studied the napkin in her hand. A sketch of the
Delta Dawn
was embroidered in the center, along with "Sebastian Steamship Line, B. S. Connors." Brent Sebastian? Why had he named the company Sebastian instead of Connors? she wondered idly.

Jewel wadded up the napkin and glanced around the room. The door to Brent's bedroom beckoned. He'd told her to make herself comfortable and to do whatever she liked, hadn't he? Why not have a peek? She was, after all, expected to spend the night. Surely he didn't plan to keep her on the floor the entire time. Shaking off a sudden flutter in her lower body, trying to think of herself as a detective, not as a woman, Jewel dropped the napkin on the table and casually strolled over to the door. It wasn't quite closed.

Nudging the polished walnut door open with her toe, she gasped as she got the first glimpse of Brent's enormous bed. The custom-made, extra-long and double-wide mattress rested on an elaborate brass frame, but its cover was the thing that caught her eye. It was a patchwork of alternating squares of rich charcoal velvet and shiny silver satin. On either side of the bed, overlooking the river, floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with billowing charcoal velvet lined with smoky gray. The dressing table, freestanding looking glass, chiffonier, and upholstered rocking chair were all made of polished walnut and accented in brass.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Connors," she commented as she walked through the room running her fingers along the freshly oiled wood. "Very impressed."

Suddenly feeling coltish, deliciously feminine, and mischievous all at once, Jewel turned on her heel and rushed back to the dining table. With no further hesitation, she plucked the wine bottle from its icy nest and began to wrestle with the cork. By the time she'd loosened it enough for it to emerge under its own power, she'd shaken the bottle so much that the cork exploded from the glass sheath, spraying champagne everywhere, soaking Brent's shirt and most of her skirt.

Giggling to herself, undaunted by the unexpected shower, Jewel grabbed a crystal glass and a couple of clean napkins and hurried back into the sumptuous bedroom.

* * *

Several hours later Brent crept back through the double doors along the first hint of dawn. The lamps were still turned up, and some of the food had been eaten, but there was no sign of Jewel. Had she gotten tired of waiting for him and gone to her own stateroom? Or...?

He glanced toward his bedroom. Not certain what he would do if she was in there or how he would feel if she wasn't, Brent quietly made his way to the door and pushed it open.

Jewel, dressed only in her camisole and torn drawers lay curled in the center of his bed on his pewter-colored silk sheets. He breathed a long sigh, acknowledging it was from relief, not exasperation, and wondered if he should announce his presence. As he silently made his way across the room, he noticed the bottle of champagne resting belly up on the night table and the rumpled napkins and crystal glass scattered across the carpeted floor.