CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Montana won two hands easily, folded early in the third, and lost a maddening fifteen hundred dollars on a bluff she should have smelled standing a mile downwind. The atmosphere, as Tarrington predicted, was definitely grittier after the short break. Norman Smith chose the role of observer instead of participant, and while he amused himself winking at the hostess and tossing back shots of whiskey, the remaining four players concentrated all of their energies on winning. The air behind the closed draperies became increasingly hot and smoke-filled. The tension and strain seemed to feed upon itself and build until Montana could feel it in the muscles across her back and shoulders. She had announced upon returning to the game that she would be departing at two A.M. whether she was ahead or behind. With an hour still to go, she wondered if her patience would last.

There was no more light banter. Lyle Swanson had stopped humming, twitching, and tapping. Whitney’s glowering countenance dominated the table and set an undertone of mistrust and belligerence. He studied every play like a hawk; he consumed an amazing quantity of liquor, which only served to make his mood blacker, his remarks blunter. It was distracting enough that Montana was more inclined to lean toward caution where she should have capitalized on several glaring opportunities.

She lost the next three hands in a row, one to Swanson, two to Tarrington.

The latter, true to his word, ignored her completely and focused on winning—which he did very well. He swore as fluently as Whitney, drank as heavily, and smoked his accursed little cigars until Montana thought her eyes would catch fire. He lavished tips and attention on the brunette waitress who showed her appreciation by practically spilling her breasts into his hands each time she bent over to replenish his drinks. Once, when a cloth napkin fell in his lap, she took so long to retrieve it, both Swanson and Whitney stared. Tarrington only smiled. And the waitress’s eyes grew to the size of saucers.

Montana counted the minutes and held her patience in check. As luck would have it, when it came to play the last hand, she had the deal again and could barely keep the relief out of her voice as she called for the others to ante up. Despite her losses, she was still ahead on the night. It would have given her a warm feeling to see a few thousand more pried out of Tarrington’s billfold, but she was more than content with her profits.

“You aim to deal those cards or shuffle the spots clean?” Whitney growled.

Montana glanced over and deliberately shuffled several more times before dealing. She set the deck aside and scanned the hand she had given herself, smiling inwardly when she saw the two aces, two kings, and the six of diamonds, as honest as the day they were printed.

Whitney seemed less pleased, but since he had abandoned his tactic of taking one or none, he tapped the table twice and said, “Two.”

Swanson drew two also, but Tarrington only stared across the table at Montana and grinned. “I kind of like what I see; I’ll stand pat.”

Whitney and Swanson were instantly on guard. He had stood pat twice before and bluffed them out of several thousand dollars apiece.

“They say a blind man only stumbles into the same wall once,” Swanson muttered.

“Is that what they say?” Tarrington mused.

“Indeed. And then his instincts tell him when to avoid it. Mine, sir,” he said, tossing down his cards, “are buzzing like a nest of hornets.”

Montana met the Yankee’s gaze as he dismissed the banker with a small shrug.

“Dealer takes one,” she said, discarding the six of diamonds and picking up the eight of clubs.

Whitney opened with a bet of two hundred.

“Your two hundred,” Tarrington drawled easily, “and two thousand more.”

Smith, sitting back in the shadows, leaned forward in his chair and perked to attention. “What am I missing?”

“Nothing yet,” Tarrington said blithely. “But you’re about to witness the second surrender of the Confederacy.”

Montana slid her thumb along the top edge of her cards and glared across the table. She knew he was baiting her and she knew she should have shrugged him aside as casually as he had dismissed the banker’s jibe, but it was the last hand …

“Twenty-two hundred to stay,” he reminded her with a soft, whiskey-induced hiccough. “About as much as what was left in the Rebel treasury when we took Richmond, if I’m not mistaken.”

Smith guffawed and pulled his chair closer.

“Your twenty-two hundred,” she said quietly. “And five thousand more.”

Whitney grinned for the first time all evening and displayed a row of childishly small teeth overlaid by thick pink gums. He threw his cards face down and folded his arms over his chest. “I might just sit back and enjoy this. You two deserve each other.”

Tarrington drew on his cheroot, clouding the air over the table while he debated the bottomless blue of Montana’s eyes. He remembered then where he had seen the color before. Not in the warm, tropical waters of the Caribbean, where he had first guessed, but in the cold heart of an ice flow he had once encountered on a whaling expedition out of Boston.

He counted out the five thousand in greenbacks, then went to his billfold for an additional ten thousand.

Montana curled her fingers around the gold locket, her thumb smoothing over the scrolled letter M. The stakes had risen with a breathtaking lack of warning, no thanks to her own reckless behavior. If he was running a bluff, it would cost her nearly everything she had just to find out. On the other hand, if she called, there would be thousands of dollars sitting under the glare of the oil lamp.

“Well, Miss Montana Rose? Unless my arithmetic fails me, you have enough to cover the bet, with a little left over for a pretty new frock. I don’t know how much experience you have playing this man’s game, but I’ll give you the same advice I gave young Scott: You might want to play it smart and quit while you still have something to brag about.”

Her instincts were screaming at her to back off, that she had been set up as neatly as Paul Whitney in the earlier rounds—as easily as she herself had set them all up. Greed sent her eyes to the center of the green baize tabletop, to the rich pile of coins and greenbacks that awaited her decision. She had the cards. She wanted the money. It was all or nothing.

She pushed her bet into the middle of the table and laid her cards face-up beside it, spreading them to show three aces and two kings.

“Goddamn full house!” Swanson’s eyes bulged and his jowls twitched. The balding dome of his head glowed a deep, exuberant red as he slapped his hands flat on the table. “Goddamn aces and goddamn kings!”

Montana smiled, if only to ease the strain in her jaw. She was on the verge of sharing some of Swanson’s laughter when she saw Michael Tarrington begin to lay his cards on the table, one by one.

King. Queen. Jack. Ten. Nine. Of spades.

She stared at the flush in disbelief and horror.

“Sorry, Montana,” he said easily. “But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, talking through lips that felt numb and wooden. “You did warn me. But then that’s all part of the game, isn’t it?”

When she had watched his long, elegant hands gather the last of the bills and coins to his side of the table, she collected her own meager sum and stood.

“Well, gentlemen, that has unquestionably finished me for tonight. I thank you for an enjoyable and entertaining evening. Perhaps we will meet again another time.”

She walked stiffly from the alcove, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears, it drowned every other sound. Voices, movement, laughter, conversations swirled around her as she started down the stairs to the main salon, but she took no notice of anything or anyone. She felt, in fact, as if she were pushing her way through a huge vat of water, with everything moving slowly, and every sound muffled and blurred except for that of her own voice.

“Stupid,” she hissed. “Stupid!”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” a voice echoed in her ear.

Montana whirled around, unaware she had stopped halfway down the stairs or that Tarrington had come up behind her.

The sight of his gloating smile cleared her senses like a cold, hard slap in the face and she spun away from him, hurrying the rest of the way down the staircase. Force of habit made her gather up her flaring skirts, but the sudden forward lurch she took to get away from Tarrington put her toe in her hem and would have sent her sprawling headlong off the bottom landing if not for the hand that was suddenly, firmly at her elbow.

“Allow me,” he said, steadying her against the muscled wall of his chest.

“Let go of me this instant,” she whispered fiercely.

“Not until you get a grip on yourself. And not until we talk.”

“We have nothing more to say,” she spat.

“I think we do.” His voice was insistent and so was the hand that remained clamped around her upper arm, guiding her out onto the deck. She either had to follow along or cry out in pain and create a scene. Screaming and clawing his face to bloody ribbons would have made her feel better, but they were drawing enough attention as it was.

Once out on the relative privacy of the deck, however, she wrenched her arm free and put several paces’ worth of shadowy distance between them.

“Thank you very much for the escort. Now, will you leave me alone, or must I call for assistance?”

“Are you certain I can’t get you a glass of water, or something a little stronger, perhaps?”

“No!”

“Pray, don’t tell me the lady gambler with the nerves of steel cannot take a loss in stride?”

Montana bristled at the sarcasm. “I can take a loss, Mr. Tarrington. What I cannot endure is a Yankee scoundrel who gloats over his winnings.”

“It was not my intention to gloat. I only wanted to make sure you were all right. You looked a little shaken when you left the table.”

“I’m fine,” she retorted. “Thank you. Now will you please take your pious concern elsewhere and find some other poor unfortunate to dazzle with your barbarian wit and charm.”

“Yes,” he murmured, arching a brow, “you are feeling better.”

“Then will you please go away and leave me alone!”

“No,” he said quietly. “I may be a Yankee scoundrel, but it has been quite some time since I allowed a beautiful—and somewhat distressed—young woman to find her own way home. This is neither the time of night nor the type of city to wander around without an escort.”

“As it happens, I already have an escort,” she snapped. “A very impatient one at that, so if you don’t mind—”

“Impatient and invisible?” asked Tarrington, glancing pointedly along both lengths of the deserted deck.

“He won’t be invisible much longer. Especially if I scream.”

Tarrington moved closer, his long legs slicing through the stream of light that escaped the salon window. “Come now, I don’t frighten you that much, do I?”

“It would not be fear that prompts me to scream, sir, but sheer frustration!”

He was close enough to see her face clearly in the light from the salon window. She was angry, to be sure, but also frightened of something—or someone—and Tarrington’s jaw set itself in a grim line. He should have known.

“So. You have an escort. How will he take it when he finds out how much of his money you lost?”

Montana felt the heat rise up her throat and bloom in her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Surely you can’t take a man’s loose change, increase it to nearly twenty thousand dollars, then lose it all— and more—in one misguided hand … and expect him to be amused. I know I wouldn’t be.”

Montana simply glared and did not offer comment.

“I suppose my question is, what kind of a temper does he have?”

“What possible business is it of yours?”

“None whatsoever,” he admitted with a twist of a smile. “Yet I can’t help feeling mildly responsible for what happened.”

“Why? You won the hand fairly.”

Tarrington laughed softly. “My dear Montana Rose: My flush was about as honest as your three aces. If you were half the card player I was given to believe you were, you should have known that. Moreover, you should have seen it coming.”

“You cheated?”

His grin was broad enough to smooth out the dark fur of his moustache and reveal a gleam of strong white teeth. “I prefer to call it protecting my interests.”

“Call it what you want,” she protested in amazement. “It’s still cheating.”

“So is shaving kings and queens with your thumbnail, or dealing twos and threes off the bottom of the deck, or accidentally dropping an extra ace onto your lap.”

Montana opened her mouth for an immediate denial, but she saw a muscle flicker in the hard angle of his jaw and she knew he was not so perfectly composed as he would have had her believe. He was angry—furious, to judge by the jeweled gleam in his eyes. He was also far too big, too proficient with the Remington he wore beneath the long skirt of his coat, and too damned close for comfort.

“I … had no choice,” she admitted brokenly. “I had to do what I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She started to moisten her lips and when she saw his eyes drop to follow the movement of her tongue, she knew suddenly that his anger wasn’t all caused by her chicanery with the cards. He was still prickly from her curt dismissal of his supper invitation and belligerent because he now knew why.

“When I lose,” she said evenly, “my … escort … becomes very angry indeed.”

“Are you saying he beats you?”

She bowed her head and lowered her lashes as if the weight of such a confession was too much to bear. She ran her tongue across her lips again, leaving them shiny and wet, and, for added poignancy, drew a deep enough breath to send his gaze—if it was not there already—to the creamy smooth half moons of her breasts where they swelled over the scalloped edge of her bodice.

“Believe me,” she whispered, “I did not want to … to …”

“Cheat,” he supplied dryly.

“To protect my interests, but there was so much money at stake, and I knew … if I won it … he would … well … he would leave me alone tonight.”

Tarrington watched her in silence. The tears were there, gathering along the lower fringe of her lashes, glistening like droplets of liquid silver. No doubt they would make the blue of her eyes almost too painful for a man to endure without feeling his insides melt into a sorry, self-deprecating puddle. And here they come, he thought. Brace yourself, lad.

So much time had lapsed without a response of any kind, Montana risked a glance up at him through her lashes. He was just standing there with the devil’s own arrogance stamped on his face, not the least affected by her tears or her misery, not even by the breathtaking view he had down the front of her bodice.

“Having already complimented you once tonight on a flawless performance,” he murmured, “isn’t it rather shameless of you to try it again?”

Montana’s eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“I mean—” He tucked his forefinger under her chin and tilted her face up, bending his own dark head so that their mouths were only a mere inch or two apart. “You’re a very good actress, but I’m not buying it. Not the contrition, not the quiver in the voice. The tears are a nice touch, but I grew up in a household ruled by five sisters and a mother who could turn their water on and off like spigots whenever they wanted to weasel something from the men in the family. So I would suggest you drop the act or I may just be tempted to beat you myself.”

“I don’t doubt you would,” she said through her teeth.

“On the other hand”—his grip turned into more of a caress than a restraint and his voice became a husky invitation—“if you really wanted to muddy up my mind with other thoughts, you could so something far more inventive with that lovely mouth of yours than sulk.”

She lowered her gaze a fraction and it was no longer the smoldering gray of his eyes that held her, but the suggestive closeness of his lips. “I could, could I?”

Instead of answering, he drew her against the hard contours of his body, molding her to him in a way that made her aware of the potent energy he possessed in every muscle, bone, and sinew. She felt crushable. Crushed. And as she watched his mouth descend toward her, she could not help but wonder how many other women he had bent to his will.

The kiss was just a fleeting thing, a teasing brush of his lips to give her the taste and promise of his heat. His moustache tickled and she was not sure she liked the sensation. It smelled of tobacco as well, and whiskey, and it was easy for her to remain detached even as he nibbled here and there as a prelude, she imagined, to a bolder conquest.

He must have felt her eyes watching him, for he leaned back and met her gaze with wry amusement.

“It would be more enjoyable if we both participated.”

“I imagine it would be more enjoyable,” she murmured, “if I were kissing the hind end of a goat.”

If her words, or the honest sentiment behind them, startled him, Tarrington’s laugh gave no indication. He released her and straightened to his full height, then, while she watched in wary silence, he pulled out his fattened billfold and started counting out a sheaf of greenbacks.

“Here. This is the amount you came with—five hundred, I believe, or near enough. Maybe your partner won’t be quite so angry with you if you break even on the night. Go on, take it. And next time, save your acting abilities for someone who does all of his thinking from between his legs.”

Montana’s temper flared hotly in her cheeks as she took an enraged step back. “How dare you! I do not want your charity, nor do I need your sympathy! And I wouldn’t take your filthy Yankee money if it was the difference between life and death! It is satisfaction enough for me to know you had to cheat to win it from me. As for what you have between your legs, sir, I warrant you’ve had far better actresses than me beneath you wishing you could think a little more and boast a little less.”

She started to dart past him and almost made it when his hand snaked out, skidding across her bodice before finally catching a solid hold on the edge of her sleeve. She twisted sideways against his grip and his fingers slipped again, but before he could make a second grab for her, she lashed out with a sharply heeled shoe and kicked him savagely on the shin.

Tarrington swore and jerked back to avoid the subsequent flurry of small, bunched fists. By the time he recovered his balance, she was free and running along the deck. He took a step to follow but she was already swallowed into the shadows—shadows that may or may not have been concealing her mysterious “escort.”

He cursed again, fluently and graphically, and leaned against the deck rail. His shin stung like someone was holding a lit torch against it, and sure enough, when he looked down to assess the damage, the fabric of his trouser leg was torn, the edges darkening with blood.

He was still clutching his billfold in his hand, and it was while he was replacing it in his jacket pocket and searching out his handkerchief that he saw the bright glint of gold lying on the oak planking. It was a locket. Her locket, he was maliciously pleased to discover, probably torn loose when she had erupted like a she-cat. He snatched it off the deck and snapped the two halves open, but the portraits of the man and woman inside offered no clues to the identity of the owner.

He did have a sudden image, however, of long slender fingers caressing the warmth of the gold, brushing over the stylized M for luck.

“What a shame,” he murmured. “I wonder how you’ll manage now without it.”

His fist closed around the locket and he was about to throw it over the side, but something made him hold back at the last moment. The locket and the broken chain went into his pocket instead, tucked there with a muttered promise.

“I haven’t finished with you yet, Montana Rose. Not by a long shot.”