CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

Montana Rose paused in her familiar spot under the arched entryway that led into the main salon of the Mississippi Queen. The tables were, as usual, crowded to capacity, but she felt no exhilaration, took no pleasure in the sights and sounds of money, power, and rivalry. If anything, she felt tawdry and uncomfortable in the low-cut emerald gown. Months ago she had thought it elegant and rich, the velvet luxuriant, the flounces and tucks an extravagant necessity to win attention. Now she felt like glaring back at anyone who stared too long. The gown was too tight, the bodice pushed her breasts too high, and the velvet, even though it had hung out all night and she had brushed and steamed it through most of the afternoon, was shiny in places where the cheapness of the fabric was beginning to tell.

There was a showboat docked adjacent to the Queen, and frequent bursts of applause, music, and singing echoed across the jetty, becoming lost the instant one stepped from the deck into the din of the gambling salon. Where Montana stood, she could still hear both the music and the shouts of the gamblers. It was distracting—almost as distracting as the knowledge that Wainright was on board the showboat, enjoying the one performance even as another was about to begin. He had met her on the dock and handed her a fat sheaf of money—ten thousand in cash—and wished her luck with a flat, oily grin. Montana had been more unnerved by the meeting than she cared to admit, and did not notice Captain Benjamin Turnbull until he was standing beside her.

“Goddamn, girl. Aren’t you just the sight for sore eyes,” he exclaimed, planting a large, furry kiss on the back of her hand. “I was beginning to believe some of the stories I’d heard. Some said you moved out West to San Francisco. Some said you’d grown weary of the game and retired. I even heard one story you’d fallen overboard and drowned.”

Montana smiled wanly. “I assure you, I am alive and well. As for retirement, I have been seriously considering it lately, although I’m not so sure San Francisco would be my first choice. I was thinking more of New Orleans or Baton Rouge.”

“New Orleans,” he said promptly. “I guarantee you would shine brighter than any star in the sky.”

“Ahh. But what if I didn’t want to shine? What if I just wanted to … slip out of sight for a while? A long while, with no one any the wiser for it?”

“My dear Montana.” He lowered his voice and raised the back of her hand to his mouth again, tickling her with his beard as he murmured, “Should you want to slip away … should you want to vanish completely, you can count upon my utmost discretion to make any arrangements you require.”

“There would be two of us. Myself and a child.”

His eyes betrayed the faintest glint of surprise before descending again into the warm, dusky cleft between her breasts. “It could be done.”

“How much would this … discretion … cost me?”

He smiled and straightened. “I make it a point never to talk business with so many large ears flapping around. If you are serious, we can discuss this later on tonight after—I presume—you have concluded your own enterprises.”

“I would be pleased to meet with you later, Ben. And you’re right. I was hoping for a little excitement in my life tonight. Anything interesting going on?” she inquired casually, gazing slowly around the main salon.

“The usual,” he said with an easy shrug. “Fat, lazy businessmen with nothing better to do with their time. Couple or three might interest you.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s about it,” he agreed.

Montana met his gaze directly. “I heard there was a big game tonight. An exclusive.”

“Where the blazes did you hear that?”

“Is there?”

Ben frowned, drawing his bushy black eyebrows into one solid, thick line. “Hell, Montana, it’d cost you five thousand just to walk into the room.”

“I brought ten,” she said, patting the fringed satin reticule that hung from her wrist. “Can you get me in?”

Turnbull scratched fiercely at his chin. “I don’t know—”

“For double your usual percentage, of course.”

His eyes narrowed. “Set yourself down over there. I’ll see what I can do. No promises, now.”

“None expected,” she agreed, and found a seat at an empty table along the wall. She followed the captain’s burly shoulders through the crowd and up the staircase that led to the second-level tier of curtained alcoves. He disappeared into one of the private booths and was gone so long she began to worry she would not be admitted.

Twenty minutes later Captain Turnbull emerged.

“I had to wait for a hand to play out,” he explained when he joined her. “A goddamned big one too—twenty-two thousand and change in the pot, by my estimate. You sure you want to swim in them waters with five hungry sharks, all out for blood?”

“Will they take me?”

“Two of ’em knew your name already. Two didn’t want any part of fussing with a woman.”

“And the fifth?”

“He’s got eyes like a dead fish and hands quick enough to draw a gun as soon as an ace. Said as how he didn’t care so long as your money was green.”

“Paul Whitney,” she murmured.

“You know him?”

“We’ve met.”

“Well then … at least you’ll know what you’re up against.”

“So I’m in?”

“You’re in.”

Montana stood and accompanied Ben back across the salon. They climbed the stairs in silence, and at the top, he stopped her again. “I’ll check on you as often as I can, but if it gets too hot in there for you—”

She reached up and patted one of the hairy cheeks. “I can take care of myself. But thank you for worrying.”

“Yeah, well, ain’t a one of them in there angels.”

The hissed warning came just as the curtain opened and a hostess hustled through balancing a tray of empty bottles and dirty dishes. She recognized Montana and nodded to the captain as she held the curtain aside for them to enter.

With Ben’s caution still tickling the nape of her neck, Montana saw, seated under the glare of the hooded oil lamp, the pale, cadaverous visage of Paul Whitney. He was dressed all in black as he had been at their last meeting, the wide brim of his hat shielding both his eyes and the angry white scar that traced from one temple to the other. He looked up as she entered and their eyes met. He kept staring as she came fully into the private room, his hands working instinctively to stack the enormous pile of chips he had won into neat columns.

“So. We meet again, Miss Rose,” he said in a cold, lifeless monotone. “No limits and we don’t allow credit of any kind. Cash only. Five grand to buy in and when that runs out … so do you.” He stacked the last chip and leaned back. “In or out?”

“In,” she said, and started to open her reticule, her mind already scanning back over their last encounter. She remembered his ploy of playing hands where he only needed to draw one card. She also remembered the small pearl-handled derringer he had produced in the blink of an eye.

Her gaze scanned the faces of the other men seated around the table and her recollections stopped there … crystallized, more to the truth of it, becoming suspended like a pattern of frost on a window pane. The frost, the sparkling pattern seemed to form a glittering halo around the last face she would, in her wildest of dreams or nightmares, have expected to see there.

He had his back to her. Even so, there was no mistaking the broad, powerful shoulders, the thick chestnut waves of his hair, the slim, inordinately long and fragrant cheroot he held balanced in the square-tipped fingers of his left hand.

Michael Tarrington was supposed to be halfway to Louisiana by now hunting Ned Sims. He was not supposed to be in Natchez, playing poker on board the Mississippi Queen.

His expression, when he turned slowly toward her, was equally frosted and liberally laced with fury and disbelief. She was supposed to be safely ensconced behind the walls of Briar Glen, tucked into a feather bed reading bedtime stories to a sleepy, tow-headed four-year-old. She was not supposed to be on a gambling boat, flashing a wad of money and a come-hither smile at men who had already undressed and raped her with their eyes.

Michael’s eyes were the color of a harsh winter sky, slate gray and threatening a storm of epic proportions. His mouth was a thin slash, so bleak and forbidding it sounded as if he had to squeeze every word through clenched teeth.

“Montana. This is indeed a surprise. I hadn’t heard you were back in business.”

She found her voice somewhere and replied, “I hadn’t heard you were back in Natchez.”

Whitney spread his hands inquiringly. “We here to reminisce about old times … or play cards?”

Montana’s hand tightened around the wad of money she had partially withdrawn from her reticule. Had Wainright known Michael would be in the game? Was that how he knew Briar Glen was debt-ridden? Because he knew Michael had gambled his way to the brink of ruin?

She wanted to turn and run. Wainright should have told her. She would have been better prepared if he had told her how truly heavily the odds would be stacked against her.

At least you’ll know what you’re up against. Ben’s words. The echo of them was still whispering in her ear as she leaned forward and placed the sheaf of money on the table.

She saw Michael’s eyes flick down and his mouth, if it was possible to do so, became even thinner, speculating, she supposed, on where she had come by such a large amount of cash.

“Gentlemen,” she said evenly. “Let’s play cards.”