Gambler's Tempting Kisses Page 4

  “I explained that you’d packed hastily for the trip to your aunt’s, and you hadn’t expected to perform in public.” He reached for her hand, but then thought better of it and laced his fingers over his crossed knees instead. “Voletta was pleased to help—flattered that one of her gowns will grace the stage Noah Scott’s to preach from tonight.”

  Charity sighed, anticipating her father’s reaction to this gesture. “Will they arrive in time for me to wear one this afternoon?”

  “They’ll be here within the hour. We sent one of the kitchen girls after them.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  Once again Dillon resented the way Reverend Scott arrayed himself like a peacock while he kept his daughter looking like an impoverished sparrow. He raised Charity’s chin with his thumb until she gave him a reluctant glance. “You’ll play and sing wonderfully no matter what you wear, honey,” he whispered. “I thought you’d enjoy looking like the fine young woman you are. We can’t have the congregation thinking you’re about to do a wiggling act, now can we?”

  His expression was deadly serious, except for the flicker of his dimple, and Charity felt a laugh bubbling up from the bottom of her soul. She shook with it, loving the sound of Dillon’s laughter as it mingled with her own. “I talk like a preacher’s daughter, don’t I?”

  Dillon released her chin with a tender squeeze. “No one can fault you for being exactly who you are, Charity. In a world where there’s damn little honesty, you’re a breath of spring air.”

  He would have continued his flirtatious banter, but Katrina from the kitchen was entering the little room with two huge boxes in her arms. Dillon rose to take them from her, and he turned to Charity with a grin. “Shall we see how these fit? Unless I miss my bet, you’ll be every inch as elegant as Mrs. Littleton—only prettier, because you carry yourself more gracefully.”

  Knowing that flattery came as easily to Dillon Devereau as breathing did, Charity still felt a glow spreading through her. She watched him set the boxes on his chair and then her mouth dropped open. He was lifting a gown of deep green satin from the top one with an appreciative whistle.

  “Voletta chose well,” he said as he held the dress up to her shoulders. “Let’s see if the other one suits your coloring as perfectly.”

  Charity clasped the shimmering gown against herself, marveling at its richness. Never had she worn anything so extravagant, and yet Mr. Devereau’s arching eyebrows told her the remaining gown was even lovelier.

  “Perfect for a summer afternoon,” he murmured as he parted the tissue paper. “The customers will think an angel descended from heaven to sing on our stage.”

  She sucked in her breath. The cream-colored silk faille floated out of the box in layers that did indeed resemble angels’ wings. The bodice was adorned with ivory embroidery, and a row of tiny pearl buttons ran from the collar to the dropped peak at the waist. Charity cleared her throat. “That wasn’t her wedding gown, was it?”

  “No, no—Voletta fancies herself in light colors,” Dillon explained. Noting the way she was clutching the satin dress, he congratulated himself for asking this favor of his partner’s wife. “Shall we save the green one for the revival? This silk’s more suitable for afternoon.”

  Charity nodded and hung the gown on the costume rack, arranging its forest-green skirt so it wouldn’t wrinkle. It was best not to be too happy about wearing such finery, since Papa would never let her keep the gowns, but . . . silk and satin . . . luxury she’d never dared to think about even for a wedding dress.

  “I’d like you to be onstage in about an hour,” Devereau said as he draped the pale gown over the spinet. “Shall I help you change?”

  Charity whirled around to face him. “You most certainly will not! If you think I’ll let—”

  “I wasn’t making advances, Miss Scott,” Dillon said with a chuckle. “Most ladies have a servant or a sister hold their gown while they slip underneath the skirts. It keeps the fabric from wrinkling.”

  Although her ignorance embarrassed her—and the suggestion was practical—Charity shook her head. “Leave it there on the piano, thank you. And if you come back in less than fifteen minutes, I—I’ll take your clothes to sing in!”

  Devereau laughed low in his throat and turned toward the door. “How can I let such a dare go unanswered? I’ll see you in five minutes, sweetheart.”

  With an exasperated gasp, Charity quickly shed her gingham dress. She had no crinolette to support the dress’s voluminous bustle, so her profile would be as hopelessly frumpy as her muslin camisole and pantaloons, but it couldn’t be helped. She slipped her arms beneath the billowy ivory skirt until she could stand straight and the dress fell gracefully around her.

  She was staring at herself in the mirror, amazed that Mr. Devereau had gauged her figure so accurately, when she saw that the handsome blond was smiling behind her. Charity grabbed the bottom pearl button, wishing she didn’t have more than a dozen left to fasten.

  “You look lovely,” he whispered as he approached the young woman. And as he took in her tumbling fingers, and the wedge of drab muslin beneath her embroidered bodice, and the blush that accented her wide green eyes, Dillon knew he’d remember this glimpse of Charity Scott forever. As though mesmerized, he lifted her auburn waves out of the back of the dress and let them drift over her shoulders.

  Charity’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers were trembling so badly she had to pause with her hands between her breasts, staring into Dillon’s reflection, because she was unable to do anything else.

  Longing to help with her buttons, he crossed the small room and opened a decorative box on the top of the piano instead. “I think the O’Leary girls keep some hairpins here,” he said in a voice that sounded strangely tight. Noticing her perplexed frown, he carried the chair over to the mirror. “I admit I’m better at removing these things, but between the two of us we’ll give you a presentable upsweep. All right?”

  She could only nod, fascinated, as he stood behind her with a brush poised over her hair. Did he do this for every woman he knew . . . for his mistresses? Charity sat very still as he brushed sections of her hair into graceful twists, which he pinned at her crown. As he continued around the back of her head, his breath fell on her bare neck and sent goosebumps skittering down her spine.

  Who was that green-eyed girl in the mirror? And why did her heart beat in triple time when Dillon rested his hands on her shoulders with a satisfied smile? Charity didn’t know, but she was more wildly happy than she’d ever been in her life, and she wished this wonderful moment would last forever.

  Dillon forced himself to talk so he wouldn’t give in to the maddening desire to kiss her exquisite neck. “Charity, I would be honored to—when we get to Leavenworth, I—”

  “Well well now, wouldja looky ’ere!” a heavy Cockney accent rang in the little room. “Dillon’s got ’imself a sweet young lady friend, ’e ’as!”

  “Aye, and she looks ready to drop ’er drawers, too. Maybe we oughtn’t intrude,” came the reply.

  Charity’s cheeks burned when the O’Leary sisters eyed her with knowing grins. They stood before the costume rack, unbuttoning their clothes as Dillon cleared his throat.

  “These are the O’Leary girls I was telling you about,” he began quickly. “This is Faith, and her younger sister, Hope.”

  “Pleased to make yer acquaintance,” the older blonde said with a chuckle. She let her blouse flutter to the floor and extended her hand to Charity, her ample, camisoled bosom bobbing with her handshake.

  “Like we always say,” the younger girl quipped, “when yer in a place like the Crystal Queen, if y’ain’t got Faith an’ ’ope, yell soon be relyin’ on charity!”

  Before Dillon could make amends, his red-haired companion rose to her full height with resolute grace, smiling sweetly. “Where would any of us be without charity?” she asked in a low, controlled voice. “Why, some of us rely upon it for our very jobs, don’t we?”


  Dillon was grinning, ready to applaud, but Miss Scott wasn’t finished.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” she continued as she offered her hand to Hope. “I’m Charity, Reverend Scott’s daughter. But then, you already knew that.”

  The younger O’Leary’s jaw dropped and she turned to find a costume. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

  The tiny room grew so silent Dillon thought he heard claws slipping out of their sheaths. He offered Charity his elbow, hoping to avoid a spat. “Shall we gather up your music and go out to the stage now?” he asked lightly.

  “I don’t need any. Thank you.”

  Charity walked ahead of him, her pulse pounding victoriously. She paused at the entryway to the Crystal Queen’s main salon, taking in the roomful of studious gamblers. Most of the men were sitting at round tables playing poker, or at rectangular green layouts she knew were faro games. Her eyes widened as a newcomer reached up and lovingly fondled the crystal statue’s breast before tossing a coin into the fountain at her feet.

  “He did that for luck,” Devereau explained when he saw Charity’s color rise. “But you obviously don’t need the queen’s help, as neatly as you handled the O’Learys.”

  Charity smiled at him, her heart swelling when she saw the fond approval in his eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, and before she realized what he was doing, she saw her hand being raised to his lips.

  From then on, it was as though she floated in someone else’s body. Somehow she climbed to the stage and played the grand piano, but Charity had only the vaguest idea of what songs she was performing. The applause was scattered, and a few men deposited money in a crystal bowl at the edge of the stage. She glanced up to see Dillon leaning against the bar, gazing steadily at her, and it seemed that the girl in the cream-colored silk must indeed be someone else, to have such an elegant admirer. Smiling to herself, Charity played the introduction to her next song.

  Before she’d sung the first line, Dillon straightened with anticipation. A slow smile spread across his face as she crooned “You Never Miss Your Sainted Mother Till She’s Dead and Gone to Heaven” in a low, sultry voice that had gamblers looking up from their cards with appreciative smiles. With her neck arched proudly and the pale silk sleeves flowing around her arms, Charity Scott resembled a graceful swan. That she could set aside her grief, after dealing with the O’Learys’ rudeness, and assume the role of the virtuous ballad singer every high-class casino featured, only added to Dillon’s admiration for her.

  As she played the closing chords, a figure in black came through the door beside the stage. Devereau strode toward Noah Scott, determined the reverend wouldn’t spoil the mood his daughter had so effectively created. Several customers were making their way toward Charity’s crystal bowl now, and the clergyman’s dour expression made Dillon walk faster.

  “She’s done a wonderful job,” he said as he reached Scott’s side. “I’m paying her double what my regulars get.”

  “She keeps all of her tips, too?” Noah inquired as he watched the bills pile up in the bowl.

  “Certainly. She’s earned every dollar.”

  When Charity looked beyond the throng of smiling gentlemen at the stage’s edge and saw her father’s grim expression, she knew she’d timed her last number poorly. Before he could chastise her, she launched into a rousing rendition of “Oh! Susanna,” inviting the customers to join in with her. Their spirited voices made her feel better, but she knew not to invite trouble. “I really must stop now,” she said as she curtsied to them, “because my father and I need to prepare for a revival tonight—and we hope you’ll all come. Thank you for your generosity!”

  The applause was loud and enthusiastic as Charity picked up the overflowing bowl of money. She descended the stairs with one hand on top of it to keep the bills from fluttering off. “I must not’ve sounded as nervous as I felt,” she said happily.

  “You were wonderful! They want an encore,” Devereau replied as he added his applause to the crowd’s.

  “Mrs. Littleton has spent the past three hours arranging for a service by the river,” Reverend Scott said above the din. “It behooves us to get ourselves in a more spiritual frame of mind, daughter.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Charity said, though she knew her smile still reflected the fun she’d had.

  “Let’s put your money in my vest for now, and when Brother Devereau pays you—”

  “Perhaps Charity should keep it herself,” Dillon interrupted quietly. He read the disapproval on Scott’s badly bruised face, but he continued as he reached into his pocket. “Considering the way you lost your money last night, it’s wise not to carry it all in one place. Thugs might come at you again, Reverend, but who would suspect your daughter had any cash, much less attack her for it?”

  Charity tried not to grin as she watched her father’s disgruntled expression. When she saw that her handsome benefactor was handing her fifty dollars, she nearly dropped her crystal bowl. “I can’t take—”

  “Yes, you will,” he stated as he closed her fingers around the money. “And under the circumstances, I think I should escort you to the revival tonight. Pickpockets and thieves love a crowd, you know.” Reluctantly he let go of her and glanced at Noah. “What time shall I meet you?”

  The reverend scrutinized him with his good eye for several seconds. “The service begins at eight.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you right here at seven-thirty.”

  As Noah Scott’s voice rang out over the congregation, Dillon glanced at the people around him. The torchlight nickered in their faces; they were listening so intently they didn’t wipe the sweat from their brows or even swat an occasional mosquito. When the reverend paused—something he did often, and effectively—there was only the sound of the tent flapping in the welcome breeze that was starting to blow in from the river.

  “Brothers and sisters, the family as we know it— civilization as we know it—is on the verge of collapse,” Scott declared in a dramatic whisper. “And it’s up to us, as God’s chosen people, to set the world back on His straight and narrow path to salvation. Your presence here tonight tells me that you’ve heard His call, and that you’ve come here to better understand your part in God’s eternal plan. We can save the world with Christ’s help, my friends.”

  “Amen!” came a shout from the back.

  “Hallelujah!” someone else cried.

  Reverend Scott gripped his lapels and slowly strode across the makeshift stage, his good side to the audience. “And we’ll start right here in Kansas City—gather with the saints by the mighty Missouri River—while my daughter Charity leads us in the fine gospel song of that name.”

  Charity situated herself at the piano. Her green satin gown shimmered in the flickering light, and as she played through the rousing chorus, Dillon noted nods of approval from the audience. He stood up to join in the singing, again aware of how confidently Miss Scott performed, how she shone with an ethereal beauty when she closed her eyes to let the music carry her with it. And he was more intrigued with her than ever.

  But it was her father who stole the show. When the worshipers had settled back into the closely crammed wooden chairs, Noah Scott immediately appealed to their sympathies. With his thick hair flowing back from his battered face, he launched into the tale of his wife’s untimely demise at the hand of a brutal savage. Since the audience was made up mostly of women, Dillon heard several gasps when the preacher recounted the gory details about Marcella and continued with the story of the thieves who’d beaten him the previous evening. Scott was pulling out all the stops, imploring the ladies to campaign against the gambling and drinking that caused the moral decay he’d been a victim of, and the disintegration of their own dear families as well.

  Devereau wasn’t surprised to see that the collection plates were heaped high as they passed down the rows, and no sooner had Charity begun the invitational hymn than the women were flocking to the center aisle. Like moths to a flame, Dillon thought when he observed their en
thralled expressions. Scott’s voice rose theatrically as he blessed each one, clasping her hands between his own and gazing deeply into her eyes. It was animal magnetism, lusty and unrestrained, and Noah was clearly enjoying his work as much as his followers were.

  During the next hour the blessings and declarations of faith became steadily louder and more fervent. Despite an occasional outburst of religious ecstasy from the front of the tent, Dillon’s attention remained focused on the auburn-haired girl playing the piano. His mind told him that Charity Scott, despite her humble upbringing, was far above him and that their worlds could never be reconciled, but his heart wouldn’t let her go. It was foolish for a man of his profession to entertain such notions, yet the memory of her willowy body responding to his touch blocked out all rational thought. He wanted Charity, and he wanted her now.

  “Mr. Devereau?”

  Dillon was startled out of his fantasies by the whispering of his name, and when he realized it was Charity standing in the aisle beside him, he knew that both God and Lady Luck were listening to his prayers. “Yes? What is it, sweetheart?”

  She lowered her gaze and whispered, “Papa thinks we should take the money back to your apartment now. There’s a storm blowing in, and he’s almost finished.”

  Nodding, Dillon followed her to the stage. He and Noah had agreed to this plan of action on the way to the tent meeting, so after the generous stacks of cash in the collection plates were stashed in a money pouch, he gave the clergyman a wave and escorted Charity outside.

  A flash of lightning made her jump. “We’d better hurry. If this dress gets rained on—”

  “Plenty of time,” Devereau assured her while he tucked her hand under his elbow. “If we rush, you might stumble. I’d have to catch you up and carry you to God only knows where,” he added with a mischievous chuckle.

  Charity laughed. She was exhilarated from the energy a revival always generated, and as she looked up into her escort’s rakish grin, her heart beat even faster. The clouds parted, and the full moon tinted Dillon’s hair a pale gold; a streak of lightning gave his face a mysterious glow as he gazed down at her. “Are you really going to Leavenworth with us, Mr. Devereau?” she asked.