Nan Ryan (25 page)

She bit her bottom lip when his fingers lifted while his palm remained and began to move in slow, seductive circles over the aching crest that was rapidly growing taut from his touch. It was while that talented palm rubbed the highly sensitive center of her breast that Nevada became heartstoppingly aware of Johnny’s rock-hard erection against her buttocks through the thin batiste of her gown.

Eyes closed again, she instinctively pressed closer to his intense heat and hardness, squirming with spiraling erotic pleasure and heightening expectation. As if this movement of her body had been the silent invitation his was awaiting, Johnny’s slim hips began a slow, surging motion. A lazy rhythmic thrusting of his naked throbbing tumesence against her barely covered bottom.

Nevada gloried in the sleepy, languid prelude to lovemaking. Her aroused body bemoaned the loss when Johnny’s warm palm deserted the nipple he’d coaxed into hardness. But then it trembled with ecstasy when, with all five fingers, he gently began to pluck at the desire-darkened bud.

Nevada lay there in the warm, sleepy darkness and thrilled to the exquisite touch of the only lover she’d ever had. Wrapped in his strong arms, pressed to his naked strength, she felt as if she were a fine instrument being expertly played by a talented virtuoso. His beautiful long-fingered brown hands stirred in her a divine symphony of passion. A sweet yearning that would soon grow so intense, she would turn in his arms and offer her very soul to him.

As if her master had read her thoughts, Johnny’s hand left her breast and Nevada felt herself being gently turned onto her back. Eyes dazed with ecstasy, she got only a glimpse of Johnny’s dark face as it lowered to hers.

Not even bothering to open his sleepy eyes, Johnny’s warm lips covered hers and his tongue made lazy circles around the interior of her mouth.

The slow hot kiss continued as he took a handful of her nightgown and began bunching the fabric in his fist.

Nevada sucked at Johnny’s thrusting tongue and felt the soft batiste rising steadily up her tensed legs. Slowly, surely he worked the gown up until it lay in wispy folds around her hips. Deepening his sultry kiss, Johnny’s hand moved up under the raised gown and came to rest on her stomach.

As he’d done with her breast he caressed her fiat, bare belly with the tips of his fingers and his palm, stroking languidly, awakening sensitive, quivering flesh. On fire, Nevada writhed and squirmed and undulated. Her legs eagerly parted to him, anxious to receive his hand, longing for those magic fingers to touch her where the heat was fiercest.

Johnny’s caressing hand began its expected descent. It closed over her, cupped her gently for an instant. Then as he swept his fingers through the dense black curls between her thighs, his mouth left hers, moved to the side of her throat.

Breathless with excitement, Nevada murmured his name. “Johnny … Johnny—”

“Nevada?” Johnny’s shocked eyes finally opened and he came completely awake. “Nevada!”

24

The Master of the Spinning Wheel glanced at Nevada as the tiny white ball came to rest on number eleven. Her number. And the uniformed croupier announced in crisp Oxford tones, “A repeater, ladies and gentlemen. Number eleven has come up once more.” Smiling at Nevada, he said more softly, “The lovely lady from the Colonies has won again.”

The dealer pushed four stacks of square red checks her way and one of the two men standing directly behind her chair said in a low, rich baritone voice, “What did I tell you, Ben?” Then Johnny’s dark hand touched her bare shoulder and he spoke to her. “Tip the boys and let’s get out of here, Nevada.”

“You are amazing, my dear,” Ben Robin told her as Johnny stayed behind to cash in their winnings.

He looked at the lovely young woman smiling up at him, thinking that she bore little resemblance to the heavily painted, cheaply gowned strumpet Johnny had taken off the
Moonlight Gambler
. Still, he mused thoughtfully, she’s the daughter of a drunken river rat and the apple never falls far from the tree. It would be unlikely that the dark-haired beauty could actually fool Britain’s aristocracy.

Ben Robin guided Nevada away from the green felt roulette table. They crossed the large gray-carpeted gaming room with its floor-to-ceiling murals and lighting elements trimmed with gold leaf and cut glass. In the mirror-lined main lobby Ben draped the warm cape around Nevada’s bare shoulders and he said, “You’re responsible for making my arrival in London a very pleasant one indeed and I’m most grateful.” He grinned and added, “I thank you very kindly, Miss Hamilton.”

Nevada was about to make a proper reply when Johnny joined them, swirled his black cloak around his wide shoulders and said, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go to Crockford’s and challenge their baccarat dealer.”

Nevada said little on the ride through the rainy London streets, wedged between Johnny and Ben. The two men laughed and talked and made foolish wagers on anything and everything. They would, she thought idly, bet on the time of day. Since Ben Robin’s arrival the two gamblers had made wagers on when the rain would stop, whether King Cassidy would come by the Claridge’s suite, even on what color gown Nevada would choose for the evening.

Smiling, Nevada was more than content to listen quietly as the pair talked of the upcoming poker game.
The
game. The big one that had brought them to London and would soon draw master players from around the world. The game scheduled for the night after Guy Fawkes Day, November 5th.

Nevada was more than a little grateful that Ben Robin, the wealthy hotel owner from Memphis, Tennessee, and a sporting friend to Johnny, had shown up early for the action.

Robin’s weekend arrival had miraculously sprung her from a kind of prison far worse than those with bars on the windows. Since that dreadful night two weeks ago when she had fallen asleep in Johnny’s bed, Johnny had been so distant to her that she had wondered if he would ever forgive and forget.

The sight of him looming naked and dangerous before her, his voice as hard as his predatory eyes, was still vivid enough to make her cringe. Never had she seen a man as angry as Johnny had been that cold morning.

Flint-faced, his black eyes were deadly mean when he had snatched the covers off her and forcefully jerked her from the bed and set her on her bare feet. Trembling, she had stood before him, frightened, unsure what he might do next.

He had reached out, clutched the ribbon-laced opening of her gown, and twisting the filmy bodice in one tight fist, jerked her up onto her toes even as his dark, enraged face bent to hers. Blinking with fear, she had clutched at his wrist and hoped he didn’t mean to choke the life from her.

His voice as cruel as his face, he said, “If I had wanted you in my bed, you’d have been there.” The tendons in his powerful neck stood out in high relief and his strong hand wrenched the batiste bodice so fiercely, she heard the fabric tear. “And if you really wanted to become a lady, you’d keep your damned legs crossed!”

He hauled her up into his arms and marched out of the room. She knew better than to try and defend herself. He was far too angry to listen. Through thinned lips he continued to lecture her as he crossed the sitting room, the heart in his naked chest hammering forcefully against her trembling breasts.

“Do all our plans for you mean nothing? Do you want to be a child of the river all your life, looked down on by the gentry? Do you have so little pride and self-respect you’d be happier as one of the
Gambler
girls? Do you?” He strode into her room, went straight to the bed, and dumped her onto it. “Answer me!”

Struggling up onto her elbows, Nevada looked up at his face and saw the cold intensity, the determination. His black eyes were so murderous that she nervously lowered her own. And found herself looking straight at Johnny’s still rigid masculinity, pulsating with power and passion.

Struck by the fascinating fact that a man could be as angry as Johnny was with her and yet still obviously desire her, Nevada said honestly, her own blood still high, her need for this dark, dangerous man as potent as ever, “I am a child of the river. And so are you. For all your mysterious past, you’re just a river rat like me. We’re two of a kind. Why deny it?” Her eyes crawled back up to his face. “Why deny ourselves?”

“Damn you!” Johnny shouted. “I’m going to make a lady of you if it kills you.” He jerked the counterpane from Miss Annabelle’s empty bed and swirled it around his nakedness. “If it kills me!” And he turned and stormed from the room.

Since that morning his cold demeanor had frightened her far more than his dark, fiery anger had. He was coolly polite when, later that same day, he had escorted her to the hospital to visit Miss Annabelle. And with Miss Annabelle’s recovery and return to the Claridge’s suite three days later, Johnny couldn’t wait to take his leave.

She had seen him only once in the following week and then he had ignored her as pointedly as if she were no more important than a piece of the furniture. The neglect would most surely have continued if not for the arrival of his old friend and boon gambling companion.

Out of the blue three days ago Johnny and Ben had come by the suite in the late evening and Johnny, as though he and Nevada had never had a cross word, suggested that perhaps she might like to join them for dinner and the opera.

Nevada had been mystified. And pleased. And she wasted no time slipping into one of her most elegant gowns. Radiant, she’d hugged Miss Annabelle, then happily joined the two men in the sitting room, expectant, eager.

And soon found that an even more pleasant surprise was awaiting her. Lady Ashley would not be joining them. It would be just the three of them.

They had gone to a small, charming restaurant on the south bank of the Thames and Nevada, catered to by Johnny and Ben as well as the capable staff, felt for all the world like the regal lady Johnny insisted she become.

Now, driving toward Crockford’s on this cold rainy night, Nevada felt almost indebted to the light-haired, easygoing Ben Robin. Thanks to him, Johnny’s cold neglect had totally disappeared. She was sure Ben Robin’s presence was responsible.

In fact, Ben Robin’s presence in London did have something to do with Johnny’s sudden change of heart. But if Nevada had known exactly what that something was, it would have broken
her
heart.

Court Circular for November 9:

Our sovereign lady, Queen Victoria, will honor the Scottish-born scientist Alexander Graham Bell at a formal reception and dinner at Buckingham Palace.

Johnny’s dark eyes lifted from the newspaper. He lowered
The London Times
and took his first drink of morning coffee. He set the cup down and smiled. Nevada, looking very sleepy, had come into the drawing room. Her rose silk robe was haphazardly tied, the tousled dark hair spilled around her shoulders, and she was barefoot.

“’Morning,” she mumbled, sliding into the chair across from him.

“’Morning, yourself,” Johnny said warmly, and grinning, held up the folded
Times
between thumb and forefinger. “Know what this says?”

Frowning and yawning at the same time, Nevada shook her head.

Johnny returned to the announcement he’d just read and read it again to her.

“So?”

“So it happens I’ve come by invitations to the Queen’s reception for Mr. Bell.”

Her sleep-droopy lids opened wide. “Invitations to Buckingham Palace? I don’t believe you. How? Where? Why would the Queen invite—”

“King Cassidy says you’d like to see the palace,” Johnny cut in.

She stared at him, astonished.

Carelessly he said, “Would you like to go to the reception for Alexander Bell?”

Silence.

“Nevada?”

Speechless, she watched his full lips stretch into a grin.

Looking straight into her widened eyes, he repeated the invitation.

“I want to take you to Queen Victoria’s dinner at the palace.”

Still she said nothing.

Johnny continued in a warm, level voice, “You don’t have to say yes now. The occasion—three weeks from Wednesday—is formal, of course, and it might be a bit stuffy.”

“And Lady Ashley?” Nevada finally spoke, still staring at him.

“What about her?”

“She resents my tagging along.”

Johnny gently shook his dark head. “She won’t be coming.” He smiled. And did not mention that Lady Ashley was responsible for producing the Queen’s invitation. Lady Ashley was on the Continent and would not return to London until after the Bell reception. “Only be the two of us. Just you and me.”

“No Lady Ashley? No Ben Robin? Not even Miss Annabelle?”

“Just you,” he drawled lazily, “me, and the Queen.”

The three weeks leading up to the big event were wonderful for Nevada. Johnny took a renewed, nattering interest in every thing that she said and did. He was waiting each morning to share breakfast with Miss Annabelle and her and stayed for her daily lessons.

He complimented her on her table manners, he nodded his approval when she read to him in French, he grinned and followed her gently swaying hips with his dark eyes when she practiced walking about the carpeted suite with a book atop her head.