Nan Ryan (18 page)

The deep blue eyes of the silver-haired man across the table from Johnny snapped with righteous indignation, then quickly softened with understanding. Johnny’s description of Nevada was all too close to the mark and the fifty-five-year-old silver king had, within hours of meeting her, become extremely protective of the tiny porcelain-skinned girl with the jet-black hair and large blue eyes who fancied herself madly in love with the dark-haired young sport now facing him.

Ignoring Miss Annabelle’s stern admonition to stay away from Johnny’s cabin, Nevada had gone there as soon as her thrilling shipboard afternoon with King Cassidy had ended. Pounding on Johnny’s stateroom door, she rushed in out of breath as soon as it opened. Distracted at once by the sight of him naked to the waist, with shaving soap covering his lower face, a white towel draped around his neck, she swallowed and began telling him her exciting news.

“You’ll never in a million years guess who I met this afternoon!”

Johnny, slowly closing the door after her, absently toweled foamy white lather from his face. “Jesus, Nevada, you’re not supposed to be out meeting—”

“Will you stop it! You sound like Miss Annabelle.” She came to him, picked up a comer of the white towel, and smiling foolishly patted at a dab of lather clinging to the left corner of his mustache.

And she momentarily forgot her news. Standing so close to Johnny, with his broad, bare chest mere inches from her upturned face, it was hard to think, hard to breathe.

He loomed over her, so tall and powerful and appealing. Overwhelmed by his potent masculinity, she inhaled and swayed helplessly to him.

Johnny swiftly took her shoulders, set her back. “Don’t! You’ll get us both in trouble.” He released her and took a step backward.

Entranced, attracted, Nevada eagerly followed. “No one need ever know, Johnny.” She lifted a shaking hand to his chest and sighed as her fingers made contact with hard warm flesh and crisp dark hair. The pleasure was fleeting.

Johnny’s long fingers encircled her wrist and he swiftly pulled her hand away. His dark face set in harsh lines of annoyance, he clung tightly to her wrist, drew her across the room to a brocade-covered chair, and deposited her there.

“Don’t move from that chair,” he ordered, shaking a finger in her face.

She frowned but stayed put, her eyes following him as he showed her his back. Taking a fresh shirt from the mahogany chest, he put it on and turned to face her, buttoning it up to his throat.

“Now,” he said, rolling up the shirtsleeves over dark forearms, “what’s this about you meeting someone?”

Nevada’s eyes again flashed with excitement. She told Johnny of her newfound friendship with the silver king and about how they had become acquainted. King Cassidy had, for some reason, chosen the very same deck chair that she had chosen.

“What is it?” she asked, when Johnny, rolling his eyes heavenward, began to laugh. “What’s so all-fired funny?”

Charmed by her genuine enthusiasm and marvelous ignorance, Johnny came to her, crouched down on his heels before her. Putting a hand on either arm of her chair, he said, “Ah, darlin’… darlin’…” He caught himself using the endearment, and thinking that Miss Annabelle would rightfully have his head for backsliding, quickly amended it. “Nevada, Mr. Cassidy preferred the deck chair you occupied, because it belongs to him.”

“The deck chair’s his?” She laid her pale hands atop the brown ones resting on the chair arms. “Johnny, this can’t be.”

He grinned and said, “He doesn’t actually own it, but the deck chairs are chosen and engaged for the duration of the crossing. Paid for. You were obviously sitting in Mr. Cassidy’s chair.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Moses!” Nevada exclaimed, twisting at the dark hairs on the back of Johnny’s hands. “King must think I’m a real dunce.”

Johnny laughed. “I believe that’s Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph.
” He rose to his feet, bringing her up with him. “It’s my fault, I failed to tell you where our deck chairs are located. Tomorrow I’ll show you, so you won’t be taking someone else’s.” He was guiding her toward the door.

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” she said.

“You are leaving now, before Miss Annabelle catches you in here.”

She balked like a mule. “But I’ve not told you everything about King Cassidy. He’s very rich, owns silver mines all over Nevada, and …”—she paused for effect—“he gambles!” She gave Johnny a smug look.

“No?” he teased. “Imagine that.”

“Guess what else?”

“I give up.”

“He’s waiting in the gentlemen’s smoker to meet you this very minute!”

Johnny cocked his head, his interest piqued. “Are you telling me King Cassidy wants a game?”

“Hellfire, I can’t do everything. You have to help a little. Isn’t it enough that I’ve told him about you and set up this appointment between you?” She sighed as though explaining something to one who was dim-witted. “I didn’t tell him you’re a gambler, I was afraid of scaring him off.”

“Good thinking,” Johnny admitted.

“I just told him that you’re my … I told him we’re traveling to London together and that I’d like him to meet you.” Nevada kept it to herself she had confided to King that she was in love with Johnny. Her eyes sparkling, she added, “He has invited us all to dine at his table this evening. Isn’t that great?”

Skeptical, wondering just what this silver baron wanted, and suspicious that it might be the tempting little Nevada, Johnny said, “I’ll meet the gentleman, but don’t count too heavily on dining with him tonight.”

“Why not? He’s a fine man and I like him a lot and I know Miss Annabelle will too and I promised him that—”

“We’ll see,” said Johnny. “Now, go. And don’t tell Miss Annabelle you’ve been roaming the decks collecting strangers.”

Now Johnny, seated across from the silver-haired gentleman, felt that he was the one on trial. Where he had once been dubious of the silver king’s intentions toward Nevada, he had quickly learned that the middle-aged gentleman had his own suspicions.

King Cassidy’s dark blue eyes were steely when he slammed a fist down on the marble-topped table and said, “All this talk of sensuality and such. Why, Nevada is a child, goddammit!”

“Sir, tell me you don’t see—”

“I do, I do,” King reluctantly agreed. “It’s the God’s truth that she is … what did you call her, a woman-child?” He tossed off his glass of slivovitz, made a face. “It’s all the more up to us to keep her out of peril.” His dark blue eyes narrowed as he fixed them on Johnny. “Nothing personal, son, but when I was your age—”

“We’ve a chaperon traveling with us, King.” Johnny kept his voice level, but felt that now-familiar twinge of irritation and guilt.

“Mighty fine! And that’s as it should be.” King pushed back his chair, signaling the end of the interview. Rising, he said, “Did Nevada relay my dinner invitation?”

Johnny rose, pulled some bills from his pocket, dropped a couple on the table. “She did and we’ll be honored to join you. Shall we say nine?”

King Cassidy grinned and stroked his silver goatee. “Why don’t we make it earlier?” He paused, looked Johnny dead in the eye, and added, “I guess Nevada failed to mention the fact that I enjoy cards.”

Johnny grinned too. “She might have said something to that effect, sir.”

King Cassidy roared with laughter. “You better watch that child, Johnny.” His blue eyes atwinkle, he added, “And you better watch
me
, son. Eight to five says I’ll beat you tonight.”

Johnny watched King Cassidy walk away, the silver-headed malacca cane hooked over his bent arm, his silver hair gleaming under the skylight. Slowly Johnny sat back down, a pleased smile curving his full lips beneath the black mustache.

King Cassidy.

The
King Cassidy.

Johnny Roulette had known that Cassidy would be aboard the SS
Starlight
. He had been tipped off about the silver baron’s booking on his first night in New York. And had wasted no time in making certain he too would be on the Cunard liner when it departed for England.

King Cassidy’s wealth was legendary. So was his penchant for any and every game of chance and it was said that he won and lost with the same good grace, with equanimity.

Johnny’s smile broadened.

Thanks to Nevada’s ignorance of shipside protocol, it would not be necessary to bribe some passenger to exchange deck chairs. Johnny had been prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of “just happening to be” in the deck chair next to King Cassidy. Striking up an amiable conversation with the rich Nevadan. Choosing as his opening subject the felling stock market or Presidential politics or silver prices or beautiful women.

Anything but gambling.

Now none of that was necessary. He’d be dining with King Cassidy this very evening, and afterward they would join a game or play heads-up poker.

Johnny’s smile broadened.

Nevada really was his lucky charm.

At half past seven, in the vast chandelier-lit dining hall, with its walls of hammered glass and cast-glass panels and two-story-high ceiling with arabesqued marble arches, Nevada Marie Hamilton, radiant in an exquisite gown of pale pink satin, sat across the damask-draped table from the silver king.

On her right, Johnny, debonair in black evening clothes, was ordering dinner for them at King Cassidy’s request, the French rolling off his tongue without effort or accent.

Directly across from Johnny, Miss Annabelle, a shawl of Irish lace draped around her thin shoulders, was smiling shyly at their silver-haired host.

Famished as usual, Nevada dug into her broiled quail on toast with such gusto that Miss Annabelle cleared her throat in censure.

Chewing a huge mouthful, Nevada apologized with her eyes and caught King grinning indulgently. Waiting until Miss Annabelle’s attention returned to her filet of halibut, Nevada winked and lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug.

It was a lovely evening for them all and Nevada noticed that Miss Annabelle was more animated than usual. She smiled a lot and there were spots of high color in her cheeks when King Cassidy, addressing her, looked straight into her eyes.

Over the caramel custard Nevada innocently suggested that they all go dancing after dinner. And openly pouted when King Cassidy said, “Not tonight, child. Perhaps another evening.”

“We should be getting back to our stateroom,” said Miss Annabelle, both relieved and disappointed.

“We’ll see you ladies safely there,” offered King Cassidy, rising to pull out Miss Annabelle’s chair.

The moon had risen. It glinted silver on the dark Atlantic waters. A strong breeze was blowing out of the north, swirling locks of Nevada’s loose hair about her face. Soft music wafted from the open portholes of the main ballroom. It was a breathtakingly beautiful night.

Nevada, clinging to Johnny’s arm, strolled dreamily along the slightly rolling decks in the moonlight, pretending they were lovers on their way to the privacy of their stateroom. A few yards in front of them, Miss Annabelle and King Cassidy walked together, talking quietly, the sound of Miss Annabelle’s gentle laughter rising on the winds.

Nevada whispered to Johnny, “I believe Miss Annabelle likes King, don’t you?”

“She seems to,” he replied casually.

Nevada stopped abruptly.

Johnny slowed, turned back. “What is it?”

“Do you like me, Johnny? Do you care at all about me?”

Johnny sighed.

She grabbed his arm and urged him to pause at the ship’s railing. “Well, do you?” She leaned back against railing. A thick lock of glossy hair blew directly over her mouth.

Johnny brushed the hair back off her face and gently cupped her cheek in his hand “Yes,” he said. “I care.”

“Then kiss me. Kiss me just this one time and I’ll never, ever ask you again as long as I live, I swear it.” Meaning only to placate her, Johnny didn’t hesitate. He bent his dark head and brushed his tips softly to her cheek.

But Nevada quickly turned her head, sliding her mouth around to meet his. She grabbed his satin lapels and kissed him hungrily, hotly, her lips open, her tongue sliding along his closed white teeth, anxiously seeking entrance.

Abruptly pulling free of her embrace, Johnny wrapped his hands around the varnished railing on either side of her, enclosing her inside his arms. His dark eyes black with anger and desire, he said, “When in God’s name are you going to give up?”

Breathless, trembling, she replied, “When are you?”

18

“I have wanted,” he said in a drowsy drawl, “to do this all evening.”

His long dark fingers skimmed along the top edge of her snug satin bodice, lightly brushing her skin.

She trembled.

Nevada didn’t remember coming here, couldn’t recall slipping down the dim wood-paneled passageway, but here she was. With Johnny. Alone with him inside his shadowed stateroom, the rustle of satin and the pounding of her heart the only sounds in the warm silence.

Her back was pressed against the carved wood of the closed cabin door and Johnny, his black eyes smoldering beneath thickly lashed lids, towered over her, his wide, black-jacketed shoulders blocking out the suffused light from a lone lamp burning behind him by the bed.