Gambler's Tempting Kisses Read online

  Dillon fought a grin and looked over at Abe, who was scowling. “Have Samson put fresh linens on my bed and fill the tub with hot water. I’ll help Reverend Scott upstairs as soon as he feels able.”

  With a stiff nod, Littleton disappeared. The men around them returned to their game tables, murmuring among themselves about thieves on the streets and policemen who were never around when they were needed. When he saw that Noah was ready to stand up, Dillon reached for his elbow.

  “Thanks, but I’m not a cripple, Brother Devereau. Merely a bunged-up fool for having walked the city streets after dark,” Scott muttered while he rose to his full height. He glanced around the vast casino, gripping his lapels as though they’d give him the strength to climb the stairs. “Which way do we go?”

  “Your spectacles are in your pocket, Papa,” Charity murmured, and she glanced knowingly at Dillon. “He can’t see beyond his nose without them, yet he tries—”

  “That’s quite enough, daughter,” the preacher snapped as he donned the steel-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Devereau is no doubt tired of us interfering with his customers’ entertainment. Shall we go?”

  Dillon gestured toward the back of the hall, where the private stairway ascended from the kitchen. “I’ll have Samson bring your bags,” he said, masking his irritation with the low voice he used to control unruly customers. He didn’t expect Scott to be all smiles after being robbed—if that was indeed what had happened—but his gruffness toward Charity was inexcusable. And the Reverend was nearsighted in more ways than one if he couldn’t see the holes in the story he was spinning.

  Charity felt the gamblers’ curious glances as she passed between their tables, and after the way Papa had rebuked her, she wanted to disappear into thin air. It was obvious Mr. Devereau thought little of her father and was glad to be ushering them out of sight, as though they were poor white trash off the streets . . . which wasn’t so far from the truth right now. Charity climbed the carpeted stairs and then stood aside to let Dillon lead them to his rooms.

  Noting her gloomy expression, he opened his door and waved Noah in ahead of him. “If you can think of anything you’ll be needing, let Samson know,” he said with a nod toward the colored housekeeper. Then he took Charity aside and whispered, “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you somehow. I’ll be happy to cover your steamer fare to—”

  “You’ve done too much already.” She looked him steadily in the eye, unable to keep the color from rising into her cheeks. “We may not be as wealthy as you are, Mr. Devereau, but we Scotts pay our own way. We’ll be out of your rooms bright and early, looking for—”

  “If that’s Brother Devereau you’re talking to,” the Reverend’s voice came from inside the apartment, “ask him what time you can start work tomorrow. After church, of course.”

  As the flames rose in her face and her eyes sparked with angry pride, Dillon was surprised he didn’t see steam coming from Charity’s ears. He gave her a slight bow, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast, whenever you’re ready.”

  Shortly before midnight, Dillon watched his partner approach the bar with the strut of a frustrated bantam rooster. He poured another whiskey for himself and one for Abe, putting on his most congenial smile.

  “First you allow Scott to solicit from our stage and then you humor another of his lies by lending him your apartment,” Littleton said in an exasperated whisper. “Those leeches might hang on for days, Devereau.”

  “I doubt it. No respectable clergyman would sit idle while his daughter earned their steamer fare in a gambling parlor—on Sunday.” Dillon sipped his whiskey, chuckling. “But then, we both know Reverend Scott’s somewhat less than respectable. How do you suppose he got that shiner?”

  Abe downed his shot in one swallow. “I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn. What concerns me is you, letting that girl moon over you. She’s trouble, Dillon.”

  “She’s eighteen and innocent to the core,” he replied with an easy grin. “And a girl named Charity has to have some goodness in her. In fact, I find her rather refreshing.”

  Littleton snorted. “Charity—that’s exactly what she’ll live on all her life. And now that she’s in your room, where’ll you sleep?”

  “You’re implying I don’t know what to do with a woman in my bed?”

  “Dammit, Devereau, you let those people make an ass of me, and now they’re suckering you. I don’t see—”

  “Correction—you made an ass of yourself, Abe,” Dillon replied. “You can’t tell me that with all the revivals you and Voletta attend, you didn’t recognize that hymn as an invitation to be saved.”

  His partner grunted and poured them another round. “I don’t go to those things unless I can’t get out of it. Nothing but a bunch of hysterical women with too much time on their hands.” Abe eyed Dillon cautiously as he quaffed his second shot. “Don’t tell me you’re taking on religion these days.”

  “I say my prayers, like any high roller,” he replied with a shrug. “Maybe you could do with a little churching, Abe. I won this hall from you on the flip of a card and a prayer, as I recall.”

  “Don’t remind me,” the little man replied sourly. “But mark my words, your luck’ll change if you don’t show Noah and his dear daughter to the door.”

  Chuckling, Devereau decided to play devil’s advocate to relieve the evening’s monotony. “At least the Reverend made no bones about the money being for his own use. He could’ve said it was for the widows and orphans.”

  “And you’ll justify that con artist’s lies before you’ll stick up for me? Thanks, pal,” Abe jeered. “Nice to know where I stand, compared to—”

  “Nice to know my partner can be counted on for a little fun when the evening gets slow.” Clapping him on the back, Dillon drained the last drop from his shot glass. “You’re probably right, though—I’m starting to go off the deep end. I need a vacation from this place. So I’m planning to escort the Scotts to Leavenworth.”

  Before Abe could lecture him again, Dillon strolled out from behind the bar and began picking up cash from the dealers at the various tables. When he’d placed the bundled money in the storeroom safe, he ambled toward the stairway, smiling to himself. He needed a clean shirt for tomorrow, and his clothes were in the armoire beside the bed where Charity was sleeping.

  After listening at the door, Dillon eased the lock open and slipped inside his dark apartment. When his eyes adjusted to the shadows he saw that Noah was snoring upon the sofa, his mouth hanging slack. Even in the dimness, the preacher’s right eye looked as gruesome as a war wound, and Dillon again wondered what he’d done to deserve the beating he received.

  He glanced toward his bedroom, glad to see the door was ajar. Devereau removed his boots, and then crossed the parquet floor as silently as a tiger on the prowl. Once inside his bedroom, he paused to savor the sight he’d been imagining for the past few hours.

  Charity was bathed in moonlight, stretched gracefully down the center of his bed with her long, slender legs on top of the sheets. She mumbled something and turned onto her back; Dillon remained in the shadows until her breathing was deep and even again. Her muslin nightgown had ridden up her thighs, and as the breeze from the window teased at its hem, he gripped the cool iron footboard to keep himself under control.

  The scent of clove soap still lingered, mixed with Charity’s own subtle fragrance. Dillon stepped toward her, unable to resist the fragile beauty that stole his breath away as he gazed at her moonlit face. Without even realizing it, he let his hand come to rest on her knee.

  A loud, grumbling snort came from the front room, and Dillon stood stock-still. He heard Scott rearranging himself on the sofa, and then all was quiet again except for the pounding of his own heart. He knew he should take a shirt from the armoire and leave, before either of the Scotts awoke and discovered him here. Yet his fingertips followed the curve of Charity’s inner thigh, delighting in her softness as they approached her slender hips.

&nb
sp; Dillon paused, his hand beneath her gown. He was trembling with anticipation—he, who never needed such illicit means or satisfying his curiosity about a woman. It was the risk of being caught that excited him, and yet Charity had whetted his appetite hours ago with her boldly innocent gaze and her low, vibrant voice.

  Wavering between depravity and honor, he gave in. His fingers skimmed the delicate skin of her thigh until they found the patch of springy curls. She was still sleeping peacefully. Without the slightest idea what he’d do if she awoke, Dillon eased his hand lower.

  Charity’s lips parted and she smiled as though she were having the sweetest of dreams. She moaned softly, arching against his palm with an abandon that nearly made him cry out with wanting her. Quickly he withdrew his hand and let her gown flutter down over her legs again, and then he removed a shirt from the armoire. He was almost to the door, his heart pounding wildly, when her restless stirring made him glance back at her.

  Charity stretched with the complacency of a napping cat, and then her arm fell toward him, her graceful fingers extended in a silent invitation. “Dillon . . .” she mumbled, and then she nuzzled the pillow.

  Devereau rushed past the snoring Noah Scott, snatched up his boots, and didn’t breathe until his apartment door was closed behind him. He leaned against the wall, every bit as exhilarated as when a comely San Francisco whore had ushered him into manhood. Charity Scott, for all her prim cotton clothes and strict religious upbringing, had responded to his touch with a wanton wildness that made his pulse roar! He had to possess her—had to probe the redhead’s intimate mysteries until they were no longer a challenge, so he would tire of her and get on with his life. Yet as Dillon strolled down the hall, he wondered if he’d ever stop hearing her whisper his name.

  Chapter 3

  “I will not be a part of some—wiggling—act!” Charity exclaimed. She yanked at each sequined, feathered costume hanging on the rack in front of her, and then shoved it back into place. Devereau was leaning against the doorway or the small backstage room, obviously amused. “Dressing like a hussy wasn’t part of the deal. I agreed to sing, not to show myself off.”

  “And sing you shall,” Dillon replied suavely. He ran his fingers over a lavender dress that would flatter her immensely. In his mind he saw its softly gathered neckline dipping over her bare shoulders, but only the sweet young nymph of his midnight fantasies would try it on. The Charity Scott standing before him now was more likely to slap him. Smiling, he walked over to the spinet. “Let’s find you a few songs and worry about your costume later. We’ll come up with something.”

  As Charity watched the lithe gambler lift the top half off a pile of sheet music, she was more frustrated than angry. He was right: neither the blue gingham gown she was wearing nor her dress of brown calico was suitable for a performance on the Crystal Queen’s stage. She made do with only two outfits each season, and her limited wardrobe was a perennial source of friction—vanity, Papa called it, and he refused to buy her new fabric until her clothing was nearly threadbare. Gazing at her benefactor’s colorful cravat, gold brocade vest, and pinstriped trousers made her realize how dowdy she must look to him, which in turn made her wonder why he was taking time to set up her act.

  “I can find some music, or I’ll ask the O’Learys to help me,” she said quietly. “You must have more important things to do, Mr. Devereau.”

  Dillon patted the round piano stool and took the chair beside it. “I can watch men lose their money any hour of the day or night, but I seldom get to hear someone sing the way you do, Charity.”

  She frowned. “The Crystal Queen never closes?”

  “Nope. Nonstop sport for whoever can afford it.”

  Charity studied his face before she sat down. He looked fresh and rested, disarmingly handsome in his shirtsleeves. “But when do you and Mr. Littleton sleep? You were both here last night.”

  “We’re night owls,” Dillon replied with a chuckle. “I nap during the day, and since Abe has a wife, he usually goes home around midnight and returns after breakfast.”

  “And Mrs. Littleton doesn’t complain? I’d think she’d die of loneliness.”

  Dillon hid a smile and started thumbing through the music in his lap. “When she gets tired of supervising the servants, she does mission work at her church. And when she feels Abe’s neglecting her, she comes in to fetch him. Creates quite a disturbance until he takes her out on the town, and then two or three weeks later she’ll come in erupting with frustration again.”

  “Like a volcano?”

  He laughed out loud and selected a few popular ballads. “Voletta the Volcano! That’s incredibly accurate, sweetheart.” Dillon was still chuckling as he looked into her lovely green eyes. Charity was so naive, yet so innately intelligent about some things . . . and he wished she’d laugh more often. Seeing that a rather morbid song was next in the pile, he quickly stacked it against his vest.

  Charity plucked the sheet out of his lap and read the title. “‘You Never Miss Your Sainted Mother Till She’s Dead and Gone to Heaven?’ How . . . odd.”

  “I’ve heard ballad singers make grown men weep with that one,” he replied with a shrug, “but under the circumstances, I didn’t think you’d enjoy it.”

  His eyes had the look of a long-suffering hound dog’s again. Why was he being so kind, when she and her father had caused him such an inconvenience? Charity opened the music, and noting its low range and easy accompaniment, she set it on the music rack. The next piece was an old favorite, so without opening it she played a soft arpeggio and began to sing. “Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me . . .”

  From the first notes, Dillon was captivated. Her voice and hands flowed with a fluid grace; she appeared to be floating above the music rather than thinking about it, and as she sang of starlight and dewdrops, Dillon felt his desire for her stirring all over again. Charity’s eyes were closed now and her dreamy contralto coaxed him into the final chorus. “Beautiful dreamer . . . awake unto ...me.”

  His clear tenor harmony had Charity gazing into a rapt expression that both frightened and fascinated her. Dillon Devereau’s eyes shone like gold only inches from hers. His lips parted, and he gazed at her with a silence so eloquent she wondered if he could hear her heart pounding. His face was freshly shaved around his mustache, and she smelled the spicy soap she’d used last night as well as the starch in his snowy-white shirt. His hand was warm on her back, and as his eyes closed for the kiss she desperately wanted, Charity held her breath.

  “Dillon! Where on earth are you?” a shrill voice interrupted them from the hallway. “I simply must speak with you about—”

  Startled from a reverie where Charity was already surrendering to him, he rose from his chair. “Be ready for an eruption,” he said with a wink.

  The petite woman who bustled through the door filled the tiny room with the overpowering scent of gardenia perfume. Dillon performed the introductions, and Charity knew from the quick, dismissing glance she received that Voletta Littleton would waste little time talking to her.

  “You’re Reverend Scott’s daughter?” she asked as she daintily tucked her parasol under her arm. “How inspiring, to be in a prominent evangelist’s family. Dillon, I can’t tell you how exited I was when I heard the Reverend was here. I simply must meet him! We can’t let him leave town without inviting him to preach, for heaven’s sake!”

  Charity caught an amused sparkle in Devereau’s eye as Mrs. Littleton gushed on. Noah Scott’s reputation often caused such outbursts among the faithful, and she smiled politely at these ladies because their generosity put food on the table. Voletta’s animated conversation made the tight curls at her temples quiver, along with the ruffle at the neckline of her rose silk dress. She was bustled and beribboned in the height of fashion, yet Charity had to hold her breath to keep from laughing. The two purple birds on Voletta’s feathered bonnet pecked each other’s heads each time she nodded to emphasize a word.

  “If I talk to him now, I’m s
ure we can post handbills and erect a tent in time for a revival tonight,” she was insisting. “When my friends hear I’ve talked with the Reverend Scott—”

  “You’ll have to ask the preacher himself about this,” Dillon suggested as he steered her toward the door. He gave Charity a quick smile as he offered Mrs. Littleton his elbow. “Last time I saw Noah, he was in the kitchen with his after-dinner coffee.”

  When their voices faded in the hallway, Charity fanned the air to clear away Voletta’s cloying perfume. She spent the next hour immersed in the music Dillon had stacked on the chair, enjoying the familiar melodies she seldom got to play because Papa insisted upon gospel songs and hymns. Rather than being upset by “You Never Miss Your Sainted Mother,” Charity chuckled as she imagined the sentimental style in which it was meant to be sung.

  She was experimenting with a conclusion to “Old Folks at Home” when she felt a presence in the doorway. Charity turned to find Mr. Devereau gazing at her. His tawny eyes gave the impression that he could read her mind; she decided not to ask what he was thinking about, because she sensed the answer was related to the delicious dream she had last night. “Hello,” she murmured shyly.

  Dillon smiled. “I hated to turn Voletta loose on your father, but he seemed receptive to the idea of holding a tent meeting. They were talking nonstop, so I didn’t figure they’d miss me.”

  Again he’d chosen to be with her rather than to attend to his casino business, and Charity was pleased. “I think I’m ready to—”

  “I know you’re ready, sweetheart.” He sat down beside her, keeping his hands to himself in case Voletta and the preacher burst in on them. “And Mrs. Littleton has solved some of our problems. Your father will collect enough at tonight’s revival to pay your steamer fare, and Voletta is sending a dress or two over for you. She’s close to your size, so I asked . . . what’s wrong, Charity?”

  Humiliation bit her cheeks. “You told her I had no clothes?”