Texas Hold Him (2 page)

If only she had a new gown to wear so Mr. Straights wouldn’t think she was destitute, but this was her best and it would just
have to do. The little money her family had went for more important things than finery. She adjusted her bonnet ribbon under
her chin and tucked her ever-escaping curl back into her bun before she headed up the ramp to board the boat and find the
Texan’s cabin.

“Excuse me?” she asked a freckle-faced boy who mopped the deck. “Could you please tell me where I could find Mr. Obediah Straights’s
cabin?”

The boy stopped his mopping and grinned at her. “You mean Dyer?”

“I believe he goes by that, yes.”

“Up two decks. Cabin ten, but I don’t think you want to go up there.”

She pursed her lips. “I need to speak with him, and I don’t have time to wait for him to come to me.”

The boy chuckled and returned to his mopping. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Charlotte headed for the stairs, her stride filled with purpose. Who cared if Mr. Straights hadn’t properly groomed for the
day or his cabin was a mess?

She walked across the deck, reading the numbers on the red cabin doors until she came to cabin ten. A deep breath helped to
calm the butterflies in her stomach. She hated the thought of knocking on a strange man’s door, but she didn’t have enough
time for a proper introduction. A riverboat gambler probably wouldn’t recognize the impropriety anyway. She rapped lightly
on the door and waited . . . and waited.

“Hmmm,” she muttered before knocking a little harder and adding, “Mr. Straights? Are you in there?”

A grumbled curse sounded from inside the cabin, but again, no one answered her knock. She took her reticule and thumped it
loudly against the door. “Mr. Straights, I need a word with you—”

Suddenly the door jerked open, and she found herself face to face, or more accurately, face to chest, with a very tall, half-naked
man. He stood before her barefooted and wearing only a pair of trousers he hadn’t even bothered to fasten all the way. They
rode low on his hips, and his flat, muscular belly drew far more attention than she should have permitted.

She took a step back and forced her gaze up to his face. There was simply too much bare skin in her direct line of vision
to deal with at this hour of the morning. But no matter how much she tried, her eyes flickered to the smooth hard muscles
on display before her, as though proper decorum no longer existed.

He ran his hand through his black hair and glared down at her with eyes equally as dark. His scowl could have scared the stripe
off a skunk.

“Well?” he asked, with a deep Texas drawl that had the potential to be pleasant, but most likely not in this century.

She cleared her throat, forcing her voice not to show how his near nakedness affected her. What kind of gentleman would open
a door in that state?

“Are you Mr. Obediah Straights?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well.” She flashed her brightest smile and willed her voice not to shake. “I need a word with you if you would please get
dressed and meet me in the lounge?”

He held his hand up to stop her. “I’m sorry, Miss . . . ?”

“Mace. Miss Lottie Mace.” She smiled, pleased that the perfect pseudonym popped into her head.

“Miss Mace,” he repeated, without the smile. “I find it interesting that you would like to speak with me, but I happen to
be busy at the moment and have no desire to get un-busy.”

Lottie stared at the closed door in her face. “Well, I never,” she muttered, looking around for something more substantial
to strike on the door.

A small ax leaned against the side of the cabin. She picked it up and hefted its weight, debating only a moment about smashing
it through the door. Instead, she
took a deep breath, grasped the head firmly with both hands and swung the handle side into the wood. It made a loud noise,
sounding surprisingly like a gunshot as it slammed into good old number ten.

“
What the hell?
” He jerked open the door with another scowl that would have made the skunk do more than just lose its stripe.

Luckily, she wasn’t a skunk.

She squared her shoulders and lowered the ax. “As I said, I have a business proposition to discuss with you.”

He folded his arms across his chest and casually leaned against the doorframe. His burning gaze raked slowly up her body.
The intimacy of it made her heart pound and a blush heat her cheeks. By the time his eyes reached hers, her mind was numb.

“Well, princess,” he drawled, the shadow of a beard adding a dangerous touch to the already wicked curl of his lip. “I’m not
one to normally turn down a proposition offered by a beautiful woman, but my bed happens to be already occupied.”

“Dyer? Are you coming back, honey?” cooed a voice from behind him.

Dyer stepped aside to allow Lottie a glimpse into his room and the tousled lady who shared his bunk. “You’ll just have to
wait your turn, sweetheart.” He winked at Lottie and closed the door.

Speechless.

Not a word most would associate with Charlotte Mason. Yet not a single solitary retort came to mind. Amazing, really.

She dropped the ax and returned down the steps to the lower deck, too shocked to react. The more she walked, the more the
shock changed to anger and the
anger to fury. By the time she reached the first deck her mind returned, and she thought of at least fifty things she wished
she’d said.

The mopping boy grinned up at her as she walked by. “Told ya,” he teased, proving one didn’t need a great deal of intelligence
to mop a deck.

She started to give him a piece of her mind but decided if she was going to deal with Mr. Obediah Straights, perhaps she needed
to keep all of it.

“What time will the gamblers most likely begin their games?” she asked.

“’Bout seven or eight to night,” he answered, still grinning as she turned away.

“Well, Mr. Straights,” she muttered under her breath. “I think it’s time you learned a lesson or two yourself.”

Dyer flipped open his gold watch to check the time before returning it to the pocket of his red silk vest. Eight o’clock.
The penny ante games would’ve started about an hour ago. The serious gamblers, however, would just now be boarding the boat.
Time to make his entrance into the gaming room.

He tugged at the cuffs of his white shirt before brushing a non ex is tent speck of dust off the sleeve of his black jacket.
His suit cost more money than most of the sorry lot who came aboard would earn in a year. But he had an image to maintain,
and there was nothing of value he needed to spend his fortune on anyway.

The glare of the setting sun on the muddy waters of the Mississippi left an orange trail streaking across the river. It would
be dark in a few moments, and that suited Dyer just fine.

Dark was his most comfortable place to be.

“Dyer, honey?” The syrupy voice of the woman he’d slept with the night before pulled his thoughts back from a maudlin place
as she sidled up beside him and slipped her arm through his.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Maybe his wink would hide the fact he couldn’t remember her name. “Decide you wanted to come back for
another night of adventure?”

She batted her blue eyes prettily, as women were wont
to do in his presence, slid her hand inside his jacket and pressed it possessively against his chest. “Well, sugah, I just
love to watch the games, and you are so good at them. Of course, my momma would have an absolute fit of the vapors if she
knew I was here.”

Dyer gently pulled her hand from under his coat, disguising the removal by holding it in his own. He was not now, nor would
he ever be this woman’s possession. He winked at the little socialite, thinking her momma would have more than just vapors
if she had any idea her precious Southern belle was such a hellcat in bed.

“If you’ll excuse me, darlin’, I need to go inside and earn my keep.” With a tip of his hat, the way any proper Southern gentleman
would do, he walked the short distance across the deck to the doors of the gaming room.

He didn’t look back to see if . . . what’s her name . . . realized he’d just dismissed her. She probably didn’t. Those spoiled
little rich girls never believed he was only interested in them for the short haul. Life had left him with more complications
than he could impose on any gal, spoiled or not, and she was better off without him.

The room glowed with the lights of the kerosene lanterns and the leftovers of the setting sun that poured through the open
doors from the deck. A buzz of excitement already hummed through the air as an occasional voice talked and laughed above the
general din of the crowd.

Saloon girls in their gaudy low-cut gowns wove their way through the tables, delivering drinks and advertising their wares
to any of the interested patrons. Their knee-length skirts revealed shapely silk-clad calves that often distracted the less
focused gamblers, making Dyer’s job a little easier.

He scanned the room for his first game. He wasn’t interested in the novices who came on board convinced they could earn their
fortune in one night of gaming. They rarely had sufficient money to make it worth his time, but if they were unlucky enough
to sit at his table, well . . . all’s fair in love and poker.

Dyer lit a cheroot and clamped it between his teeth, the curl of his smoke adding to the cloud already drifting across the
room. He grinned. This was his world, a place where a man could live for hours on whiskey and excitement, and could go from
king to peasant in the flash of a card. Here, the only thing he had to lose was money, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass about
that anyway.

Dyer didn’t travel the rivers to find a fortune.

His search was much more personal.

His attention drifted to the area of the room where the high rollers usually played. Some of New Orleans’ finest sat in their
fancy suits with their fat wallets, their cheeks already flushed from the heat in the room and perhaps a little too much whiskey.

Dyer sauntered over to an empty chair at the table. “You gentlemen mind if I join you?”

A heavy man with a perspiring brow and a smile that flashed around his cigar gestured toward the chair. “Of course not, sir,
as long as you have enough to ante up.”

Dyer tipped his hat and removed his wallet. He fanned his thumb across the bills and pulled out his ante to pitch to the table.
A careful glimpse of enough money to pique their interest always got him access to the best games.

“That be enough?” he asked, taking his place at the table.

The men chuckled and welcomed him to the game.
They quickly introduced themselves around the table, ending with Dyer, but he gave only his first name on the off chance some
may have heard of him. He had only been in New Orleans three days, but he’d had an uncanny run of good luck here, and news
traveled fast.

“What’s the game?” He glanced around the table, quickly sizing up his opponents. No one he knew or would likely remember in
the morning.

“It’s a new game called Texas Hold’em,” the man named Charles answered. “Heard of it?”

Puzzling his brow, Dyer pretended to think. “I’ve played it once or twice. I think I remember how.”

“Basically,” Charles explained, “you’re dealt two cards that you can use in any combination with the five cards the dealer
lays on the table to make the best hand.”

“Yeah, I remember now.”
Remember?
Hell, he was a Texan.

He picked up the cards dealt him. A pair of jacks. Damn. Not a bad start, but he had to lose this one. It never set well with
the others for him to start out winning. Lose two hands, win one and lose two more—then clean out their wallets. His victims
never saw it coming.

He stayed in the game until the dealer laid the next four cards on the table, and the river card revealed another jack.

Damn.

He laid his cards facedown on the table and slid them toward the dealer. “Fold,” he said, with a slow shake of his head.

He watched with interest as the hand played out. The winner, with his whopping pair of eights, raked in his earnings. The
others no doubt thought he studied the game, but in fact he studied them. Within thirty minutes,
he knew the tells and playing styles of every man at the table.

Time to win.

He accepted his drink from the saloon girl, trying to remember if he’d slept with her. She sure acted like he had, but he
couldn’t think about that right now. So far he’d lost more than he’d won, and he never ended the night in negative numbers.
He picked up his hand, careful to mask all emotion from his face before he made his wager.

“Mr. Straights?” A frighteningly familiar voice caught his attention.

He grimaced and reluctantly looked up to the woman who stood by his shoulder. The crazy lady who’d attacked his door that
morning waited beside him with reticule in hand. They really needed to be more careful about whom they allowed aboard.

“Good evening, Miss Mace,” he said, surprised he remembered her name. “Back to wreak vengeance on another part of the boat?
I’m told the paddle wheel has been a bit fresh lately.”

She squared her shoulders and raised her chin a notch. “I realize this morning you were a little preoccupied.” She blushed
prettily and glanced away for just a second before continuing, “So I thought it would be more convenient to speak with you
this evening.”

He lifted a brow. “Well, Miss Mace, as you can see, I’m busy right now as well. Maybe some other time.” He had no desire to
get involved with someone’s Sunday school teacher, regardless of how pretty she was. He returned his attention to the game.
Maybe his rudeness would put her off once and for all.

It didn’t.

“Then I shall wait.” She stepped back to stand against the wall just a few feet away from the table, directly in his line
of vision.

He couldn’t help noticing how out of place she appeared, clutching her reticule in front of her like a lifeline to the world
of decency. The dark blue dress she wore didn’t hide the lush curves of her body, despite its modest cut. Though it was of
expensive materials, the slight wear indicated it had seen better days.