To Love a Scoundrel (16 page)

"Fine," Brent bit off the word, anxious to have the charade over with. "Just get on with it, please."

Pricklings of foreboding loomed up inside her, making her uncomfortable and dry-mouthed. Unable to determine why she was having these feelings, again Jewel glanced up at Brent. His expression was rigid, unreadable. Somehow she managed a wan smile and held out her hand to receive her customer's palm.

Finally out of time, wondering why she was so reluctant to perform the fortune-telling feat with which she had the most experience, Jewel sighed and looked down at the man's palm. Then she brought her index finger to his life line and began her reading.

"Zees line ees sometimes called zee heart line, or cardiaca." She slowly drew her fingertip from the fleshy base of his thumb toward the outer edge of his hand, preparing her prophecies. Then she suddenly stopped, her finger frozen, her mind steeped in a horrifying discovery it couldn't accept.

"Madam Zaharra?" Harry inquired. "Have you detected some unfortunate message? I am prepared to accept any predictions you care to make. Please do not concern yourself with my fragile mental condition. I can take anything you may have to say."

The cat she'd imagined now grew to a mountain lion. It seemed to pounce on her shoulders, crushing the air from her lungs, then dragged its claws through her awareness, tearing the logic from her mind.

"I say... Madam Zaharra?" When he got no answer, only the glassy-eyed stare of the young woman across from him, Harry glanced up at his host. "I don't know what to make of this."

Bending over, Brent peered into her eyes, noted the clouds muting their clear green color. Her cheeks were red, but her complexion was waxy and pasty. "Jewel? What is it?"

Suddenly aware, all
too
aware of the hand she held in her own, she dropped it as if his flesh had burned hers.
Harry Benton?
her brain screamed. Dear God, how could she have been so blind?
Harry Benton.
She glared at him, committing to memory the features that were so like hers, and then returned her gaze to his stunted pinky.

Suddenly overcome, Jewel curled her hands into fists and stifled a sob. Unable to swallow the muffled cry that followed, she pushed out of her chair and ran from the room.

Chapter 8

Sitting at the vanity in her cabin, Jewel stared at her reflection in the walnut-framed looking glass, then banged her fist against the matching dressing table. Something hot and acid-like stung her eyes. Leaning forward, she noticed a glassy sheen and blinked to clear her suddenly blurred vision. Again she banged her fist against the dresser.

"I will not cry—not cry over that miserable man. I'll never cry over Harry Benton," she vowed, swallowing a sob.

Tired of watching herself, of comparing the features she shared with the man who'd sired her, Jewel eased her head down on her folded arms and sighed as she plotted her next move. She'd quite literally had Benton in the palm of her hand, and what had she done? She'd turned and run away like a baby.
A baby.
Now what? Had she bungled the assignment? Had nearly ten years of planning and plotting her revenge just gone up in smoke?

"Oh, holy hell," she moaned, "what am I going to do now?" How could she ever convince Harry she was a professional fortune-teller after she'd behaved so stupidly? Then she thought of Brent, of her lack of credibility with him. How would he react? He would be furious with her at the least. He would probably—Jewel sat up straight, cutting off her self-recriminations.

Why was Harry Benton working for Brent Connors? Were they running some giant scam aboard this ship? Gathering all of society's finest so they could fleece them all at once? Jewel's shoulders slumped. That didn't really seem likely. And yet, she had to remind herself, the first time she'd seen the handsome gambler, he'd been lurking in Scotty's room—a suite the dead crook had probably shared with Harry at some time during their visit to Chicago.

"Damn you, Brent Connors, just who are you?" she muttered, as frustrated with him as she was with herself.

Then a new thought came to her, a way of vindicating herself. This was all Brent's fault. If he wasn't so damned attractive, so busy trying to seduce her, she wouldn't be in this mess. She would have noticed Harry the minute she stepped on board this ship, if not in Philadelphia. She was sure of that much. Almost.

Jewel stared back into the mirror. "Get hold of yourself," she mouthed. "Forget the shock of finding, of
touching,
Harry Benton, and work on a way to remain on board this ship." Now more than ever, continuing the voyage was imperative. What were her chances, she wondered, of convincing Mr. B. S. Connors to keep her on? What part of her would she have to compromise this time in order to—

The door to her stateroom suddenly rattled as someone pounded on it, startling her out of her thoughts. "Yes?" she called out, cross and irritable. "Who is it?"

"You know damn good and well who it is," Brent Connors shouted from the other side of the door. "But don't bother getting up. Just be sure your crooked hide is in my office in five minutes. You got that? Five minutes."

"All right," she shouted back.

"Fine," came the retort, accompanied by yet another thump of his fist against the door. Then silence.

Again Jewel looked into the mirror, this time, amused. "Whatever shall I do with him?" she asked herself. "How can I get back into his good graces and ensure my position on this ship? How far am I willing to go to achieve my goals?"

She thought of Brent's weaknesses, of the things that seemed to attract him to her, and suddenly Jewel's eyes flashed with excitement. Grinning broadly, she stood up and removed the scarf, her lace gloves, and the cap. Reaching for the ivory-handled brush, she fluffed her hair and positioned a few curls across her shoulders. Then she loosened the drawstring around the neck of her blouse, revealing even more of her full bosom.

Stepping back a few feet, she twirled around before the looking glass, studying her appearance from every angle. With a satisfied smile, Jewel winked at her reflection and said, "You're a dead man, Brent Connors. By the time I'm done with you, I'll own you... and I might just own this ship as well."

* * *

When he heard a light tapping at his door, Brent rushed to it and nearly tore it off the hinges in his haste to be done with the auburn-haired trickster once and for all.

"Get in here," he ordered, deliberately ignoring the little pout she wore and the expanded cleavage. After she swept on by him, he slammed the door and turned on her. "I'm done with believing you and done letting you turn me and my passengers into fools. I'm putting you off at our first stop, Cape Girardeau."

"But Bre—"

"Don't bother. I'm not listening to any more of your lies. I brought you in here to make certain you know where I stand and to inform you that you will be under arrest until we dock."

"Arrest?" she gasped, clutching her bosom. "But what on earth for?"

"Fraud, for starters. I'm sure we can find other charges if necessary." In spite of his vows, his fickle gaze slid down to where her fingers were pressed between her breasts—and lingered there as she tried to plead her case.

"I really don't understand," she said, drawing in a huge lungful of air. "I have not committed fraud against anyone. If you're referring to my sudden departure during the palm reading, I can easily explain that."

"I'm sure you can, now that you've had time to think about it, but I guess you didn't hear me. I'm simply not interested in hearing the story." Too close to her for his own good, Brent wheeled around and stomped over to his desk. "As soon as I can spare the personnel, I'll arrange for someone to guard you. In the meantime I'd appreciate it if you'd just have a seat and leave me the hell alone." He grabbed his logbook and made a great show of studying it.

Smiling to herself, Jewel strolled over to the billiard table, then slowly circled it, running her fingers along the soft felt railings as she walked. "This is very unfair of you, Mr. Connors. I thought you were going to give me a chance to prove myself, but the second I took sick, you gave up on me. Not fair at all."

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Jewel saw him raise his eyebrows, but he continued to stare at his work, silent and brooding. "I don't know what else I could have done, given the circumstances," she went on, her voice purposely weak and breathless. "I suppose you would have preferred it if I had simply sat there and thrown up all over Mr. Poindexter and his diamonds. Would that have made you happy?"

"Please," he said heavily. "I have requested that you spare me any more of your wild tales. I simply cannot abide hearing another of them."

"But, Brent, this is not a lie. I haven't gotten used to the motion of this ship yet. I've been seasick since I got on board. Believe me, my hasty departure was only to save you and the gentleman from a perfectly horrible fate, not to mention a dreadful embarrassment to myself."

Don't listen to her, his mind warned as he mulled over her words. She fooled you once, she'll fool you again! He returned to his work.

Swallowing a surge of anger, Jewel puckered up her mouth and tried another tack. She reached inside one of the table's leather pockets and drew out a colored ivory billiard ball. Tossing it in the air and catching it over and over, she sashayed toward Brent's desk. When she reached it, she caught the ball one last time, then slammed it down on the glass top.

"Hey," he objected, leaping out of his chair. "What are you doing?"

"I thought you were a gambling man," she challenged.

"I am," he answered automatically, checking his desk top for damage. "It's just that I've taken my last chance on you."

"But you haven't given me a real chance," she countered, hoping she'd assessed him correctly. "So I'm not asking for any more chances. Why don't we make a bet instead?"

"A bet?" he said quietly, more interested than he would admit—definitely more than he should have been. "What kind of bet do you have in mind?''

Jewel shrugged, although she knew exactly where she was going. "I only know what I want: I want you to trust me and let me go on with my fortune-telling for the rest of this trip. If I win the bet, you give me your trust and your assurance that you will not interfere in my business in any way."

"A damned tall order, lady."

Again she shrugged, this time leaning forward slightly. "Not to me it isn't, because I know I can be trusted. It really isn't much of a wager if you know me."

Brent choked out a laugh, then circled the desk and propped his hips against the walnut edge. "And me?" he inquired, watching her from beneath drawn brows. "What do I get out of this bet when you lose?"

Drawing her lips into a coquettish pout, she said, "Whatever it is you want from me."

Brent slid his finger inside the collar of his shirt and loosened it. "Anything?" he managed through a suddenly tight throat.

"Anything," she said softly, her eyes wide and innocent.

Brent took a deep breath and furrowed his brow. "Ah, if we were to actually make this idiotic wager, what would we bet on? A game of showdown or something like that?"

"Ummm, I don't know," she said, piloting the conversation through imaginary snags. After taking a quick, unnecessary glance around the office, she reached across the desk and retrieved the shiny red ball. "I've got it—why don't we play a game of billiards?"

His mouth drier than an entire field of cotton, Brent glanced over at the table, then back at her. He was finally able to produce his voice, but it was high and incredulous as he said, "You play?"

Her eyes heavily lidded, her gaze fastened on his mouth, she said breathlessly, "Yes—a little. Do you?"

Brent's hands, the same ones that had deftly garnered him the Natchez billiards championship three years in a row, began to sweat. Trying to look sincere and unimpressed with his talents, he said, "A little. I enjoy a good game, but I'm pretty much an average player."

"Then you agree to the bet?"

"Sure," he said easily, knowing he was finally about to catch her in a trap of her own making.

"Great." Jewel stuck her hand out, setting the rules as she prepared to shake on them. "Straight eight, call your pockets?''