MM01 - Valley of Fire (13 page)

Rick noticed her toned-down look. Although he had never believed for a minute that she really had liked the sleazy outfit, he was glad to see changes. They helped ease his conscience over buying the ridiculous costume in the first place.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Lead me to the tables.”

“Do you think that's where he’ll be?”

“I
know
that's where he’ll be. If there's a big game going on, Lucky will be right in the middle of it.”

 o0o

The elevator whisked them downstairs to the casino. It was decorated with purple carpet, pink marble columns, a life-size statue of Elvis, and as many chandeliers as there was space on the ceiling. Las Vegas's idea of elegance, Martha Ann thought. Still, the gaudy scene tugged at her.

She had grown up near Vegas, had spent many hours in front of the felt-covered tables. Her future had once hinged on the roll of the dice. She felt a familiar surge of adrenaline, a clamoring of excitement, an itch to try her luck.

“Do you gamble?” she asked Rick.

“Yes. But not with money.”

“Oh.”

“Why don't we walk around the casino and see if we can spot Lucky?”

“We’ll be less conspicuous if we play.”

“Fine. I have nothing against a game or two.”

They walked to the roulette wheel, and Rick plunked down a dollar. One spin of the wheel, and his dollar was scooped up and added to the hotel's treasury. He lost four more in quick succession.

“I don't seem to have the touch.”

“A spin of the wheel is a quick way to lose money.”

Rick glanced around the casino. The sounds of gambling were all around him—the clink of money against the slot machines, the occasional buzzing when one of the machines gave up a small portion of its wealth, the calling of the croupiers, the excited high-pitched chatter of the gamblers.

“It seems to me that all of it is a quick way to lose money.” He took her elbow and steered her away from the roulette wheel. “Maybe I'll have better luck with keno.”

“Ugh.”

“Was that a comment on the game or on my skills?” Rick grinned.

“Keno is too tame for me.”

One eyebrow arched upward. “You play?”

“Some.”

“Mrs. O'Grady, you never cease to amaze me.”

“You have to remember that I had a little exposure to gambling when I was growing up.”

“Just what every growing girl needs.” He chuckled with appreciation. “Tell me, Mrs. O'Grady, if you had a stake—say one hundred dollars—what would you do with it?”

“Turn it into a fortune. Anyway if I hit a winning streak, Lucky might come to us. He never could resist a hot game.”

“This I gotta see.” He peeled off five twenties and handed them to her.

“You can add it to my tab.”

“I'm willing to gamble. If you lose it, I'll put it on your tab. If you win, I'll call it even.”

“What will you get out of that deal?”

“Pleasure, my dear. Pure pleasure. And that's a bargain at any price.”

He led her to a table where a large crowd of people were cheering on a tall man in a Stetson and cowboy boots. With every roll of the dice, he came up a winner. His spirits were high, his money pile was growing, and his shooting hand was hot.

Martha Ann Riley took him on. She sidled up to the table as cool as you please, never batting an eyelash at the stares she got in her outrageously provocative outfit.

The lady was pure class, Rick decided. His conscience hurt him over the outfit. Tomorrow he'd make amends.

At first Rick got in the game himself. He wasn't a gambler, but he didn't mind losing twenty or so if he was having fun. He called it entertainment.

Soon, though, he pulled out to watch Martha Ann. She was good—better than good—she had the touch. Her stack of winnings grew higher and higher. She was fun to watch and fun to be with. Her exuberance seemed to infect the whole table.

“Roll 'em, lady,” they yelled.

“Atta girl.”

“Break the bank!”

“Heeere
she goes. Hot dang!”

By the time she pulled out, she was flushed and laughing.

“Let's cash in,” she said.

“You're still winning.”

“I always quit while I'm ahead.”

“Smart lady.” He fingered the chips she had handed him. “How much do you think we won?”

“We?”

His smile was devilish as he looked at her. “You couldn't have done it without me, sweetheart. I was your head cheerleader.”

“If you're going to be my cheerleader, we need to get you some new clothes—tights and a tank top and a couple of pom-poms.”

“I draw the line at tights, but I'll show you my pom-poms if you like.”

She punched his arm. “You're terrible.”

“I try.”

The easy friendship took them both by surprise. Somehow she had forgotten her role as pregnant wife and he had abandoned all pretense of being a rogue. It felt good to both of them.

“Do you know something? You're not as bad as you make yourself out to be, Rick McGill.”

“Tell me more. I love to be fawned over.”

“I don't fawn, but I'm not above giving a little compliment now and then.”

“Go to it, sweetheart. I want my head to get big enough to wear one of those Stetsons.”

She laughed. “You'd look awful in a Stetson. You're not the type.”

“What type am I?”

“My sister says you're a blond Clark Gable.”

“You have a sister?” He knew good and well she had a sister. He merely wanted to hear the truth from her. Though why the truth was important, he couldn't say. Nor did he want to know.

“Yes.” Careful, she told herself. She was supposed to
be
her sister. In a manner of speaking. She put her hand on her forehead to see if she was coming down with an attack of something disastrous. Something called I-can't-lie-to-this-man-anymore. “Her name is Evelyn.” She watched his face to see how he took that news.

“Nice name,” he said without a flicker of emotion.

Good, she thought. She'd told the truth, and nothing terrible had happened.

Rick handed their bundle of chips to the cashier on the other side of the window and turned back to Martha Ann. “Is your sister married too?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact she is.”

“What's her name?”

“I already told you—Evelyn.”

“I meant her married name.”

He handed her a big wad of bills, and she could swear there was a devilish twinkle in his eye. As a matter of fact, he looked like a big cat toying with a mouse.

How much did this man really know, she wondered. After all, he was a private eye. The best according to rumor. What was to prevent him from checking up on the Riley girls?

Oh, help. Had this rogue, this unscrupulous keeper of bordellos known all along that she wasn't married to Lucky O'Grady? If so, then he wasn't a wife-chaser after all.

Of course, there was still his ill-gotten wealth.

The money rustled in her hand as she folded the crisp new bills. Who was she to talk? Here she was holding a handful of gambling winnings and condemning Rick McGill for his money-making methods. Good grief, was she turning into a hypocrite?

“Martha Ann?”

“What?” Her head jerked up, and she found him staring at her in a most disconcerting way.

“I asked you what your sister's married name is.”

There was nothing she could do except go on pretending.

“Her husband's name is... Charles Madison Mitchum... the third.”

“Hmmmm. I know some Mitchums from Tupelo. Is he—”

“He's not from around there. His family is from... New York. They're in the... import-export business. James is out of town a lot.”

“I thought you said his name was Charles.”

“It is. James Charles.” Oh, help. What had she said?

He was grinning like a possum at a picnic.

“Look, this isn't helping to find my own husband.”

“Ah, yes. Lucky. Why don't we walk down the Strip and check the other casinos?”

He took her elbow, and they wound their way past the gaming tables and the milling mob of tourists toward the revolving front doors.

“By the way, Martha Ann, does Lucky know he's going to be a father?”

“Well... no. I barely know I'm going to be a mother.”

Rick grinned. “Is that so? Just found out, did you?”

She waved her hand airily. “Of course, I suspected it. Women know these things almost instinctively. But I didn't
really
know it until... that day in the creek.”

He reached down and patted her stomach. “I'd say that baby knows how to make an entrance.”

“Michael's a smart kid.”

She grinned. It didn't seem to matter what sort of crazy carrying-on Rick McGill was doing, she always found his company to be exciting, stimulating, and altogether wonderful. She sighed. She supposed she was one of those women who were destined to fall in love with a man, not because of what he was but
in spite of
what he was.

They walked together down the street. Blazing neon signs cast red, blue, yellow, and green shadows over their skin. Rick reached down and caught her hand. He didn't hold it captive like a fragile and unwilling bird: He linked his fingers through hers in a simple let's-be-friends fashion that was totally endearing.

Holding hands. That's what love was all about, she thought. She was so happy, she forgot to look for Lucky.

Chapter Eight

They didn't go back to their hotel until three a m. Standing in front of Martha Ann's door, Rick gazed down at her. He didn't know why he wasn't scheming for ways to get into her room and into her bed. All he was feeling at the moment was tender concern for a woman who was looking for her sister's husband, a woman who was sweet and funny and feisty and exciting and breathlessly passionate.

He tipped her chin up with one finger and looked into her eyes.

“We’ll find Lucky, sweetheart.”

“I know we will. Tonight is just the beginning.”

The words sounded prophetic to him. He guessed he must be getting dotty in his old age. What's more, calling her 'sweetheart' was no longer a calculated imitation of movie bad boy Humphrey Bogart. By George, when he'd said it this time, he had
really
meant it.

“That's right. Just the beginning.”

How could a man resist those blue eyes? He slid his hand down her throat and across her shoulder. With gentle pressure he pulled her closer. She' settled her head on his shoulder as if it belonged there. And perhaps it did. He didn't know anymore.

“A hug for luck,” he said.

Her laughter was muffled against his neck. “Or is that a hug for Lucky?”

He tightened his hold. Lord, this woman could cuddle better than anybody else in the world. He squeezed her just a little tighter.

“How about a hug just between friends?” His voice had gotten husky, and he knew that if he didn't pull away, a hug wouldn't suffice.

“Sounds good to me.”

They swayed together a while, enjoying the closeness of two naturally affectionate people who understood the joys of touching.

Finally Rick spoke. “I'm sorry about the clothes, Martha Ann. I’ll get you some decent ones tomorrow.”

“It doesn't matter. These suit the occasion quite well.” She chuckled again, and her warm breath sent shivers skittering over his skin. “Actually, I'm foolishly flattered that an old girl like me can still look halfway decent in a costume this daring.”

Rick hugged her even closer, then stepped back. “Do you mind if an old boy like me tells an old girl like you what fun tonight has been?”

“You've made it so.”

The long look they exchanged was full of a thousand unspoken feelings. Even without touching they seemed to be melting into each other. Finally Rick shook his head like an old dog coming out of anesthesia.

“Good night, Martha Ann.”

“Good night, Rick.”

“See you in the morning.”

Her hand shook as she fitted her key into the lock. She bit her lower lip and forced herself to calm down. Finally the key went in, and she opened the door. Inside her cool dark room she leaned against the doorjamb. She felt limp. What Rick McGill hadn't been able to accomplish in several days of torrid kisses and steamy seduction, he had been able to do in the space of a few hours simply by holding her hand and hugging her.

She was dreadfully, irrationally, irreversibly in love with a scoundrel. The thought made her groan aloud. Of course, she'd done nothing but lie to him from the moment they had met. There was no way a man could ever trust a lying woman, let alone fall in love with her. Her web of lies had saved her. Or had they trapped her? She was too confused to know anything right now.

She undressed and went to bed, but she didn't have high hopes that her personal plight would look much better in the morning.

 o0o

Rick and Martha Ann spent the next two days searching religiously for Lucky O'Grady. They haunted the gambling casinos and the smoky nightclubs. But all they accomplished was parlaying Martha Ann's hundred-dollar stake into an impressive figure—$4,198.50.

On the third day they decided to take a break.

They bought picnic supplies, rented a car, and set out for the mountains.

“There's a wonderful cave in these mountains,” Martha Ann told Rick as they drove along. “It's called Crystal Cave by ordinary folks, but the local tribes used to call it the Magic Music Cave.”

“Why was it called that?”

“One of the legends had it that Native Americans could go there to hear the music of their spirits.”

“Search for identity?”

“Precisely.”

The car they had rented was a convertible. Rick propped his left arm on the door, enjoying the feel of the hot sun on his skin. They were going at a sedate pace, the better to enjoy the view, but still the wind ruffled their hair and whistled around their ears. He glanced at his passenger. Dressed in her own clothes, wearing little makeup that he could tell, she looked like a breathless view of the sunrise at daybreak.

He laughed with the sheer exuberance of living. Shoot, he thought. By the time he got back to Tupelo, he'd be in such a poetic mood, he'd have to sit down and write a song—or a book of poetry. Or heck, why not even a whole love story? Everybody else was doing it.