To Love a Scoundrel (17 page)

His confidence wavering slightly, Brent hesitated. "Ah, sure, but we have to set the wagers before we shake."

"That's an excellent idea. You first."

Brent cleared his throat—twice—then came right out with the demand he knew she'd never accept. "One night
alone
with you in my suite."

Jewel gasped. "All night long?"

Brent puffed out his chest, almost sorry the game was about to end, and stipulated, "From sundown to sunup."

Jewel stared into his honey-brown eyes as she considered his proposal and hoped that her trick-shooting talents were still as sharp as they'd once been. Then she tossed him a wicked smile and said, "All right."

His chest rapidly shrinking inside his shirt, Brent gulped. This was too easy, he thought, frantically trying to figure her game, equally eager to believe her. How could she possibly go through with this? What made her think she could get away with it? He glanced at her, gauging her manner, judging her sincerity. She was calm, still smiling at him in the way that turned his gut inside out.

Why did she seem so confident? he suddenly wondered. What would she do when it came time to pay up? Or worse, he thought, his mind filling with panic, what if she actually won the game? Was it possible that she was as good as or even better than he was at billiards? No—she couldn't be.

To make certain he understood her demands, he cocked his head and said, "And all you want—should you win, of course—is what?"

"To continue on my way down to New Orleans with no further interference from you, period. Does that sound too difficult?"

Brent strangled on the air he breathed. Coughing into his fist, he collected his wits and decided to call her bluff. "Perhaps you didn't understand the terms of my wager. I'd hate to win the game and find that you and I weren't thinking exactly the same thing."

"I'm a big girl, Mr. Connors. I know what you expect—you want me to spend the night with you in your bed. To put it more bluntly," she added, trying to ignore a sudden case of internal gooseflesh, "you expect to make love to me all night long." She raised a skeptical eyebrow by way of punctuation, then looked away.

After clearing his throat yet again, Brent restated her wager. "And all you want is to continue your fortune-telling business? I find this extremely hard to believe."

"I want your assurance that I'll be left alone. And by the way, don't worry about me backing out on the deal if that's what's troubling you. I never renege on a bet, and I have no intention of doing so this time. It might even get a little interesting—should I lose, that is."

His breathing suddenly became labored, and the air seemed too thick to find passage in his throat. Brent heard himself say, "I always try to oblige a lady—you've got yourself a deal. When do you want to play?''

Jewel shrugged. "Might as well get it over with. How about now?"

"Fine," he said, swallowing hard, trying to look as businesslike as she did. He stood up straight, surprised to find his legs wobbly. "After you. Choose your weapons and we'll toss for the break."

"Oh, no, Mr. Connors," she said, waving her finger in the air. "Do you take me for a complete idiot? I'm not about to play this game in your cabin. I don't want any cheating or rigged balls on the table. We'll play downstairs in the saloon with a crowd watching so we both know it's all on the up-and-up."

He shook his head, muttering, "You realize, don't you, what a large and perhaps bawdy crowd we'll draw if you insist on playing downstairs? It isn't done, you know. Ladies simply don't play billiards in public."

"Most ladies wouldn't wager their bodies for a boat ride either, but I have my reasons. Besides, I really don't give a damn what the other passengers think, do you?''

Unable to hide a grin of admiration, Brent shook his head and said, "Not in the slightest." Then he wiped his damp palm on his trouser leg and stuck out his hand. "So we have a deal?"

"A deal," she agreed, clasping his hand and shaking it slowly but firmly. Suddenly all too aware of his touch and of what would happen if she lost the bet, Jewel pulled her hand away and began to walk toward the door. When she realized he wasn't following, she stopped.

Not trusting herself enough to turn and look him in the eye, she said into the air, "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"My, ah..." Brent groped around for an excuse, anything but the real cause—the fact his body was on fire for a woman who belonged in jail—and his obvious arousal at the thought of quenching those flames in her softness. Turning his back to her, Brent shoved his hands in his pockets and forced his clumsy legs to move him past the billiard table.

"I, ah," he continued, stammering, "ah, thought I'd bring my lucky cue downstairs."

Jewel whirled around at this. Brent was standing at the window, his back to her, staring out at the river. "Come on, now, Mr. Connors. I thought you said you'd be fair. You must realize I don't have my own stick with me. Shouldn't we both use the house equipment?"

Brent fought to keep from thinking of her, of the game, and mostly, of the prize. He thought instead of the battle the
Dawn
would have against the Mississippi. He imagined the snags, the dreaded sawyers rising up unexpectedly and gripping the hull of his new ship, tearing open her bowels, killing her. Brent shuddered, but it was finally with something other than desire.

"Forgive me," he said, facing and then joining her at the door. "I wasn't thinking. Of course we should use the house equipment. I want this to be fair, just as you do." He turned the brass and porcelain knob, then pushed the door open. "Ma'am?" he said with a gallant sweep of his arm.

Holding her head high, but still avoiding his gaze, Jewel stepped across the threshold. You're in over your head, dummy, her inner voice warned as she made her way down the stairs, thinking of the long, muscular legs beneath Brent's tight pin-striped trousers.
Way over your head.
Her hands began to shake as she thought ahead to the game. What if he wouldn't let her break? What if he did, but she couldn't manage the trick she'd done so many times in the past? Doubts plagued her all the way down to the saloon. What if she
did
lose? She finally considered that a distinct possibility. What if he took her up to his suite and tore off her...?

"Why don't you have a seat?"

Jewel jumped at the sound of Brent's voice.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Have a seat here at the bar while Tex sets the table up." He turned as if to walk away, then hesitated and looked back at her. "How much money do you have on you?"

"Money?" Jewel wrinkled her nose.

"Look," he explained under his breath. "You may not care about your reputation, but I do—and I care about the reputation of this ship. If we don't make some kind of wager in front of these folks, they'll assume the worst—however true it may be."

"Oh," she said, not certain if she ought to be insulted or flattered. Jewel dug into the deep pockets of her skirt and pulled out the only coin she carried. A twenty dollar gold piece.

"That'll do," Brent said, eyeing the coin. "Hang on to it until it's time to decide on the break." Then he spun on his heel and disappeared.

Keeping a careful eye on Brent, Tex, and the tables, Jewel considered his words. He'd said he cared about preserving not only her honor but also the reputation of his ship. Those were not the words of a crook, she thought, not the declarations of man in partnership with Harry Benton, either. Her confusion about the handsome gambler was increasing. Who, she wondered again, was this Brent Connors? Out of the corner of her eye, Jewel noticed a round blond woman approaching.

Reba leaned an elbow on the bar and said, "Are you resting a spell or looking to wet your whistle?"

"Oh, I'm only—" Jewel interrupted her own sentence as she noticed her trembling fingers and felt butterflies unfolding their gossamer wings in her stomach. "Ah, how are you fixed for peach brandy?''

"Got some of the finest on board."

"Bring me a glass, please—and hurry."

"Right away," Reba said, rapping her knuckles on the bar. When she returned a few moments later, the Gypsy was staring out at the crowd, looking as nervous as a blind man at a gunfight. "Here you go, honey. Got some troubles?"

"The likes of which you wouldn't believe," Jewel said before she took a long sip of the liqueur.

"Oh, honey, believe me, I've either heard or done it all. Nothing you could tell me would be a surprise."

"It's too bad I don't have time for a little side wager." Jewel laughed, relaxing at last. "I believe I've got a story to top them all." She reached into the folds of her skirt to collect some money for the bill, then remembered her bet. "Oh, dear. I'm afraid I don't have—"

"That's all right, honey," Reba assured her, feeling a kinship with the cheaply dressed woman. "This one's on the house. I don't think Mr. Connors will mind."

Jewel laughed. "I'm pretty sure he'd mind a great deal, but what Mr. Brent Connors doesn't know surely won't hurt him." Then she downed the rest of the brandy, nearly choking on the warm liquid as she suddenly heard his voice coming from behind her.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, sugar pie," he whispered into her ear. Then he glanced up at the bartender. "Reba? Is there something I should know?"

"Oh, no, not really, Mr. Connors. The Gypsy, she didn't have any money on her, so I let her have one drink on the house. Didn't figure you'd mind."

Brent spun the barstool around and peered into Jewel's eyes. "Just one, you say?"

"One," Reba affirmed.

"Good," he said, his gaze locked on Jewel's. "I don't want you to default on me. You ready to play?''

"As ready as I'll ever be."

Brent grinned, his confidence on the rise, and wondered how or if she would try to back out. "Let's go, then," he said, more gruffly than he'd intended.

Jewel hopped off the stool and followed him over to the billiard area. As she walked, she took huge gulps of air, calming her nerves, steadying herself for the concentration she would need. When they reached the table, Brent stopped and turned to her.

In a loud crisp voice, he said, "Let's see your money."

Jewel reached into her pocket for the gold coin, then flipped it onto the rich green felt.

Brent produced a like amount and said, "Do you want to flip for the break, or shall I?"

Using an innocent, almost childlike voice, Jewel said, "Oh, my. I thought, you know, as a gentleman, you'd just automatically give me the break." Then she inclined her head toward the gathering crowd and fluttered her eyelashes, making herself look as young as she sounded.

Rubbing his hand across his mustache, Brent regarded the men clustered around the table, gauged their expectations, and cursed under his breath. Damn her green eyes, anyway. Left with no choice, he began to back away from the table, but as he passed behind her, he whispered, "That's the last trick you'll pull on me, you hear?"

Jewel turned and smiled. "Why, thank you, Mr. Connors. Don't mind if I do break." Then she whirled around, her full Gypsy skirt billowing out behind her, and walked to the head of the table. "Would you mind explaining the rules concerning ship movements? What if the balls start rolling of their own accord?"

Brent pulled up a stool near the far end of the table and explained as he sat down. "We consider the rocking of this boat our third player. If the balls move, they stay where they land—except for the eight. If it drops into a pocket, it gets spotted. All right with you?"

"I guess so," she said gaily as she made her way to the rack on the wall behind her. There Jewel made a great show of choosing her stick, fussing over the pretty ones, complaining about the drab ones. The onlookers, their legions growing by the minute, began making side bets, laughing among themselves, wondering why a championship shooter like Brent Connors would be wasting his talents on a woman, for heaven's sake—a woman!

Finally settling on a medium-weight stick with a horsehair wrap and mother-of-pearl inlays, Jewel snatched a cue ball off the rack and strolled over to the table.

"Well," she said lazily, waving to Brent from across the table, "are you ready?"

"Most definitely," he said, catching the gleam in her eye, the hint of her sensual nature in her upturned mouth.

Keeping that seductive smile in place, Jewel placed the white ball on the table and began to line it up with the cluster waiting a few feet away. She turned her head this way and that, her tongue peeking out the side of her mouth, then suddenly stood up straight and walked around the table.

Leaning over the triangle of balls, she frowned. "How's a girl supposed to make the eight ball on the break to win the game? That rack-job is way too sloppy."

Brent sighed heavily. "The odds of
me
making the eight on the break aren't very good, and for you, it's an even more unlikely event, but if you wish, I'll have Tex tighten it up a bit more."

"Please do," she said, facing him, her smile secretive, sanguine.

As Brent signaled Tex, his gaze met Jewel's. Trapped, unwilling to free himself, he looked into the emerald depths of her eyes and saw the jubilation lurking there. Oh, good God, he thought, stunned by the realization. She actually thinks she can do it.
She has done it before.