Gambler's Tempting Kisses Read online

“I do not indulge in alcoholic—”

  “I know that, Miss Scott, and I wouldn’t think of spiking your drink,” he answered with a chuckle. “I was only teasing. Trust me.”

  Charity could no more trust Dillon Devereau than she could fly, yet the dimple winking in his right cheek kept her from stalking out of the room. And as he made his way through the congested aisles, Charity chided herself for acting like such a shrew. He probably had been making fun of her, but he’d complimented her, too. And how long had it been since a good-looking man—or any man—had shown the least bit of interest in her?

  As she awaited her host’s return, Charity gazed around the huge gambling hall. The walls were covered with gold wallpaper flocked in a scarlet pattern that was repeated in the elegant swag draperies. The mahogany bar gleamed in the light from dozens of wall sconces; the beveled mirror behind it reflected the room’s opulence. And everywhere there was crystal! The chandeliers dripped with prisms that glittered like diamonds; the crystal ashtrays were etched with an intricate design resembling a woman’s face.

  And in the center of all this splendor, surrounded by green tables where fashionably dressed gentlemen studied their cards and chewed their cheroots, a glass statue rose up from a bubbling marble fountain. She was larger than life, this crystal queen—which made her voluptuous nudity all the more awesome to Charity. When she saw Dillon easing between his customers with their refreshments, she fidgeted with an ashtray so he wouldn’t catch her gaping at the statue.

  “Still here, virtue intact?” he asked lightly. He placed two tall glasses on the table and sat down across from her. “I hope punch is all right.”

  “It looks delicious. Thank you.” She drank deeply of the rosy liquid, which was tangy-sweet with chips of ice floating in it.

  Dillon studied her for a moment, wondering why he felt so drawn to this impoverished-looking girl. “Miss Scott, I—”

  “Please, my name is Charity.”

  With a nod, he sipped his whiskeyed punch. “Charity, I realize I’ve put you in a compromising position. I didn’t intend to offend you or back you into a corner your father wouldn’t let you out of. Can you excuse my insensitivity?”

  She almost forgot to swallow her mouthful of punch. He’d read her situation perfectly: her father always set her up as an example of a virtue so mortally unattainable she wanted to scream. Papa would expect her to be appalled at the goings-on in this opulent den of iniquity, and he’d want a report of how she’d railed against their sins, just as Jesus had overturned the tables of the money changers in the Temple.

  Charity also realized that her host would see through any self-righteousness for the act it was. “Mr. Devereau, this doesn’t mean I want to perform here—though it’s a glorious place!” she added quickly. “I appreciate what you said about my singing. And . . . and I’m sorry I’ve been behaving like such a jackass.”

  Dillon choked on a laugh. “If your father heard—”

  “It’s in the Bible, you know,” she said lightly. “But I save it for special occasions.”

  He leaned back in his chair, pleased that he’d relieved her resentment. Her light drawl tickled his ears and her impish grin made her look carefree and childlike. Since she’d be leaving when her father returned, he decided to learn as much as he could about her aunt in Leavenworth without upsetting her. “I’m sorry you stopped by here under such unfortunate circumstances,” he began quietly.

  Charity looked away from the sympathy in his expressive eyes. She would not blubber in front of this man!

  Dillon chose his next words carefully. “Your Aunt Magnolia must be beside herself, since your mother was her constant companion.”

  “Tor the past ten years,” she said with a rueful nod.

  “And the way she went...” He observed a slight shudder as the girl across from him widened her woeful green eyes.

  “Are there many Indians in Leavenworth, Mr. Devereau?” she asked in a tight whisper.

  “I should think not. And I’m sure they’ve caught that one by now,” he stated firmly. Resisting the urge to clasp her hand, Dillon continued his questioning cautiously. “You’ll be a great comfort to your aunt, Charity. I’m sure her husband’s done his best, but women are much better at consoling than men are.”

  “I—I hope so. This’ll be the first time I’ve ever seen Aunt Maggie.” Charity sniffled, and when she saw Dillon’s questioning scowl she added, “It was because of Mama’s consumption, you see—she was afraid I’d catch it, and Papa insisted he needed me at home, so I’ve never gone to visit her. Yet I think Mama lived a full life, even if she was practically an invalid. She wrote to us every month, telling now they were sewing for the orphans, and what book Maggie was reading aloud in the evenings. Mama sounded so . . . happy.”

  Dillon nodded solemnly. “And your Aunt Maggie probably felt better knowing she’d brightened an invalid’s life. Sisters grow very close when they share each other’s burdens.”

  Charity brightened. “They’re twins, you know. And they looked so much alike they sat in for each other in school, and their teachers couldn’t catch them. And they lied for one another!” she added with a giggle. Dillon’s dimple winked, which inspired her to keep him entertained for as long as she could, so she’d have memories of his handsome smile during the dreary days ahead. “Would you like to see a picture of them? I have it in my suitcase.”

  He knew he should be making his collection rounds among the dealers, yet the sudden sunshine in Charity’s smile rendered her suggestion irresistible. “Yes, I’d like that, if it won’t upset you to show it to me.”

  Charity quickly made her way toward the stage, before Devereau’s sympathy got the best of her. A haze of cigar smoke had settled over the Crystal Queen and the vast gaming room was surprisingly quiet, considering the crowd it housed. Two girls around her own age were setting up for an act, eyeing her haughtily as she opened her luggage. Their blond topknots fell in tight ringlets, and their scanty scarlet costumes molded their figures into such exaggerated hourglasses that Charity wondered how they could breathe, much less perform. She pulled the photograph from between her folded underthings and returned to the table.

  “Those are the O’Leary sisters,” Dillon said as she seated herself. “They deal faro in the afternoons and sing at night . . . when the customers are too liquored up to notice how they sound.”

  Charity glanced toward the stage. “If they’re so bad, why’d you hire them?”

  “They’re Abe’s nieces.”

  “Ah.” His subtle humor was like a spring breeze blowing through her gloomy life. Fearing she’d bore him if she dwelt on her sadness, Charity put on a smile and handed him the framed photograph. “That’s Mama in the chair, and Aunt Maggie standing beside Uncle Erroll.”

  Dillon recognized Miss Scott’s angular features in the women’s faces, which were eerily identical, right down to the saucy sparkle in their eyes. Except for being dressed differently, they could’ve been the same woman. “Your mother doesn’t look sick.”

  “That was taken when she was first diagnosed,” Charity explained. “They wanted a photograph made in case Mama started, well . . . wasting away. And now my aunt has consumption, too.”

  Nodding, he gazed into Charity’s intense green eyes. “When you get your growth, you’ll be every bit as pretty as your mother,” he reassured her. “Your father must be very proud to—”

  “I’m eighteen, Mr. Devereau, and my growth shouldn’t be of any concern to you. If you don’t—”

  “I’m sorry. I seem to have twisted my compliment into an insult. Again.” Grasping the hand that was about to snatch the photograph away, Dillon did his best not to chuckle. Wounded pride was making Charity’s lip quiver like a child’s ... a very sweet, kissable child. “Well—at least you have this to remember your mother by,” he said.

  Charity pressed her lips together, determined not to cry. Dillon Devereau was so suave she wasn’t sure he’d been poking fun at her figure, yet ho
w could someone with her sheltered background believe anything a gambling man said? At the sound of a raucous duet, she glanced toward the stage to see one O’Leary sister’s breasts shimmying above the keyboard while the other shook her backside toward the audience.

  Oblivious to the nightly stage act, Dillon was studying the photograph again. Something about the pose struck him as odd, although it seemed perfectly logical that an ill woman would be seated while her sister stood beside her husband. Erroll was a dapper, dark-haired man with a gaze that met Dillon’s as though he were staring out of the paper and glass—and across the miles and years as well. Devereau’s insides tightened. It couldn’t be Erroll Powers—not with a wife and invalid sister-in-law in Leavenworth—yet the unusual name and the uncanny resemblance couldn’t be mere coincidence either.

  He cleared his throat. “What does your uncle do, Charity?”

  “He’s a lawyer. A very successful one, Mama always said.” She turned her attention from the bosomy blond sisters to smile at him. “I’m looking forward to seeing their huge house, and strolling through the rose gardens, and—I mean, Mama made it all sound so grand. Seven bedrooms, and a library! Can you imagine?”

  Dillon had no trouble picturing the sort of house Erroll would own, and at the risk of revealing too much, he lowered his voice. “What’s your aunt’s last name, Charity?”

  Her brow furrowed. “It’s been years since I heard Mama say . . . I—why? Do you know them?”

  Shrugging, Dillon released her slender hand. “He resembles a man I knew in California, but after all these years . . .” Miss Scott’s probing gaze was making him wish he hadn’t pursued the subject, and he had to reweave his story quickly. “Come to think of it, his name wasn’t even—”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Charity demanded. “You think Papa made that story up, so people would feel sorry for us and donate—”

  “I never said any such thing. I was merely asking about your family to make conversation while—”

  “Well, other people believe it! And it’s my mother we’re talking about,” she said vehemently. “So if you’re going to make fun of me and call my papa a liar, you can just go to hell in a hand basket, Mr. Devereau.”

  It wasn’t the first time an enraged young lady had sent him to the devil, yet Charity’s indignation made him shake with pent-up laughter. She wasn’t the sniveling, holier-than-thou preacher’s daughter he’d expected, and he sensed that her loyalty to her father was sincere, if misplaced.

  “I’m not doubting you, Charity,” he began in a conciliatory tone, “but perhaps your aunt’s condition has affected her reason. The Indians were driven from Fort Leavenworth more than—”

  “Aunt Maggie’s illness has nothing to do with it,” Charity replied crisply. “Uncle Erroll watched that savage carry my mother off. Maggie was merely reporting what he saw, as best she could.”

  She had him there. Yet Erroll’s involvement, not to mention the role of the Indian with the buffalo tomahawk, made the story even more suspect. Dillon stood up slowly, smiling at her. “I’ve been a poor host, badgering you with questions when you’ve suffered such a horrible loss,” he murmured. “Your father should be back any minute now, so instead of upsetting you, I’ll go—”

  “No! I didn’t mean to—please don’t leave me.” Embarrassed that she’d broken down in front of this handsome yet confusing man, Charity buried her face in her hands and shook with silent sobs.

  Dillon wished he’d never fallen for her alluring voice. She probably was playing him for a fool, and with nearby customers watching them, he couldn’t very well abandon her. He swung his chair around and sat down to rub her quaking shoulders. “Charity, I’m sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be. I’m the one causing all the commotion.” His hands were warm on her back, and as she smeared the tears from her eyes, she tried to explain her predicament. “I—I’m just tired,” she said with a loud sigh. “We’ve been five days on the river, stopping in the little towns so Papa could preach. It’s his duty to proclaim the Gospel wherever he goes, you see. And it sounds awfully selfish of me, but I just want to make my peace at Mama’s grave, and sleep in a real bed.”

  His heart went out to her, and although he realized he was behaving like a first-rate sucker, Dillon pulled her gently into his arms. She nuzzled against his shoulder as he stroked her auburn hair. With a few of the gossamer strands tickling his cheek and her delicate body resting against his, Devereau thought it a crime that Noah Scott was putting his duty to the Gospel ahead of his concern for a grieving daughter. Because of the June heat, Marcella’s remains would have been interred immediately—no time to wait for her family to arrive from downstate. But the preacher had extended their trip by two full days to speak along the way, claiming he was too short of cash to repay his wife’s funeral expenses. The whole story smelled funny. And as he felt Charity’s shoulder blades beneath her faded calico dress, he resented the Reverend’s remarks about human kindness and generosity even more.

  Charity stirred from the cocoon this handsome stranger had created around her. His velvet shoulder made a fine pillow, and she would have gladly gone on inhaling his bracing, masculine scent—cloves, she thought—but the men around them were starting to pay more attention to her than to the dreadful-sounding song coming from the stage. “Thank you, Mr. Devereau,” she mumbled, “but what would Papa say if he saw us this way?”

  With her angelic face so close to his, Noah Scott’s reaction was the furthest thing from his mind. Dillon loosened his hold on her. “Perhaps you’re right. He thought I was trustworthy—for a sporting man—and this won’t look good at all.”

  She had to force herself to stop gazing into his golden-brown eyes. “It is pretty terrible.”

  “Being seen with me? Well, I’ll admit a lot of ladies have—”

  “No, that singing. I’ve heard starving cats that sounded better,” she said with a tentative smile.

  Charity’s eyes gleamed like polished jade and he was again caught up in the emotions she displayed so freely. Her laughter was low and melodious, and as the O’Leary sisters reached a dismal finale, he found himself chuckling as hard as she was. “My offer still stands. But I can understand why you want to be moving along.”

  Her lips parted, yet Charity’s words were lost in the wonderment of being so close to a man who seemed genuinely interested in what she said and how she felt. His gaze wandered along her jawline and rested on her lips. Was he going to kiss her?

  Dillon saw surrender written all over her beguiling face, and the urge to make love to Charity Scott drove every other thought from his mind. He could invite her to the kitchen for another glass of punch, and then he’d lure her up the back stairs to his apartment. She was so starved for affection she didn’t even realize she was holding her breath as she gaped at him. “Sweetheart, would you like another—”

  One of the O’Leary sisters shrieked and brought Dillon to his senses. He stood up to look over the heads of his customers, and saw Noah Scott staggering into the Crystal Queen, holding the side of his head as he peered desperately at the faces around him.

  “Papa! Oh my God!” Charity rushed from the table and pried her way between the men who were helping her father to a chair. “What happened? Who on earth—”

  “Give him some air!” Dillon insisted as he followed her through the curious crowd. Scott’s right eye was swollen nearly shut and the side of his face was turning a nasty reddish-purple. That his spectacles had survived the blow was a miracle Devereau decided to speculate about later. “Somebody bring him some water,” he ordered. “Reverend Scott, how did this happen?”

  The preacher grasped his daughter’s hand and looked woefully up at them with his good eye. “Heathens!” he gasped. “As if taking our money wasn’t enough, they hit me, too. I was entering the Pacific House Hotel to register, when they attacked me from behind.”

  “Oh, Papa,” Charity murmured. She gingerly stroked his hair back from his batter
ed temple and took the damp cloth Abe Littleton offered her. “Hush now, and get your breath. Then you can describe who robbed you, so Mr. Devereau can notify the authorities.”

  “But I didn’t see them! The cowards sneaked up behind my back, or I’d have reported them myself.”

  Devereau had a feeling the preacher wasn’t admitting the most pertinent details about the incident, and Abe’s glance told him his partner shared his suspicions. Kansas City was a raucous town at night, especially here on Main where the saloons and gambling houses were clustered, but the sight of a man entering a hotel would hardly provoke a scuffle—and the Pacific’s burly night clerk would have stopped it.

  Charity held the cold compress to her father’s swollen eye, gazing at him anxiously. “How much did they take?” she whispered.

  “All of it. Just grabbed the pouch from my pocket and left me holding my head.” He winced when she touched the cloth to his bruise, and then he removed his glasses and gave Dillon a rueful smile. “Sorry to cause such a stir, Brother Devereau, but nothing like this has ever happened to me. When I catch my breath, Charity and I will be on our way. If you could direct us to the nearest mission ...”

  “I’d be pleased if you’d stay here tonight,” he said in a low voice. Dillon sensed the preacher was fishing for just such an invitation, yet he had his own motives for extending it.

  Charity’s eyes widened. “But this is a—we couldn’t stay in a—”

  “The Crystal Queen’s a gambling hall, Miss Scott, not a brothel. And I’m offering you my private quarters.”

  “Well, of course it is. I didn’t mean to imply . . .” The suave proprietor had a sparkle in his eyes, and Charity realized the devilish Mr. Devereau had just put her in another compromising position. Papa couldn’t afford to refuse his hospitality, so she was forced to appear grateful for it despite their host’s devious intentions. He could have easily put them up somewhere else, rather than under his own roof, where he could lead her into temptation. “Thank you, Mr. Devereau. You’ve been most generous,” she mumbled.