Nan Ryan (20 page)

“Right this way, miss,” said the impressed head waiter and led her straight to King’s table.

King Cassidy sat alone at a square table against the east wall, studying a gold-tasseled red leather menu. He looked up as Nevada approached him.

“My dear, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, rising and smiling warmly at her. “I had no idea you’d be up this early.”

“’Morning, King,” she said, and slipped quickly into the chair held out for her. As soon as King Cassidy had reclaimed his chair, Nevada eagerly leaned forward. “Well?”

He looked puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t know—”

Nevada signed impatiently. “Last night’s poker game! Who won?” She held her breath.

King smiled at her. “Certainly I would not want to sound like a braggart, but—”

“Will you kindly get on with it! Who won? You or Johnny?”

“I did,” he said firmly. “Now, what can I order for you? The flapjacks are light and delicious.”

Nevada sounded casual when she said, “Ah … did you win a lot?” She picked up the red leather menu.

King stroked his silver goatee. “Nevada, it’s bad form for a gambler to disclose the amount he takes from an opponent”

“That makes sense.” She said, then smiled and added, I’ll bet you’re a good gambler, King.”

“I’ve gambled a lot and it’s a great life,” said King, pausing to grin impishly before adding, “when you’re winning.”

She laughed easily and then listened intently as King Cassidy recalled the various players he had bucked up against through the years.

“Some players play the game primarily on its mathematics: the chances of a certain card coming up, the size of the pot versus the size of the bet that may win it, and so on. Others rely on people-reading: how a player acts in a certain situation, whether it’s possible to confuse him or to bluff him out with an outlandish bet.”

Nevada, nodding eagerly, said, “Go on. Go on.”

“In cards, as in life, the instinct type of gambler is the most fearsome because he’s likely to bet you all his money with nothing. Or he might call you with all his money with ace-high. He’s like a lion—everybody’s afraid of him.”

“Which kind of player are you, King?” Nevada asked with interest.

“I’m of the people-reading category,” he said.

Nevada laid aside the menu, shook out her napkin. “And Johnny?”

King Cassidy’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “The boy’s definitely a lion. Dexterous and dangerous, that’s John Roulette. A big, fearless cat.” He shook his silver head and laughed heartily.

Nevada laughed with him. And when the laughter had subsided, Nevada asked, “Will you and Johnny play again tonight?”

“I can’t speak for Johnny. We’ve been invited to sit in on a big game.” He leaned back in his chair. “The competition will be quite stiff. It will be a game that offers the kind of opposition Johnny needs to sharpen his teeth as a world-class poker player.”

Nevada felt herself becoming hopeful and excited. Impulsively she placed her hand on King’s forearm and asked, “These … gentlemen, would they … ah … object to having a lady present during the game?”

King Cassidy covered her hand with his. His silver eyebrows lifting inquiringly, he teased gently, “Any lady we know?”

“Not a real lady. Me. Could I come to the game with Johnny?”

“My dear,” he said with calm authority, “if John Roulette brings enough money, he can have an entire harem, so long as they remain quiet and don’t go looking over any shoulder but his.”

She was the only female present.

She sat quietly atop a velvet stool just right of Johnny’s chair, her left hand possessively riding his right shoulder. The private salon with its dark mahogany paneling and wine-red carpet and private bar and bartender was definitely a man’s domain, but Nevada felt right at home.

She was unbothered by the whiskey drinking and the cigar smoking and the occasional muttered oath of a player with a second-best hand. Raised in an all-male environment, Nevada was at ease and completely happy spending the night with Johnny and King and four other skilled and serious poker players.

The reaction to her presence had been mixed, at first. King Cassidy and the rich New York furriers, the Nolan brothers, had no objection. But the Philadelphia steel magnate was incensed, saying he refused to play with Nevada present Johnny had smiled and coolly replied, “If the lady goes, I go.” The wealthy Pennsylvanian, anxious to have a go at the dark Mississippi gambler, promptly reconsidered and acquiesced.

Lastly, there was the handsome and rich blond scion of an Ohio carriage-building family, who was on his way to England to marry a distant young cousin of Queen Victoria’s. The blond man smilingly welcomed Nevada’s feminine presence. And foolishly spent more time studying her than his cards.

Johnny, unreadable as he always was when playing high-stakes poker, unwittingly thrilled Nevada, by intermittently taking the small hand she placed atop his shoulder and holding it warmly in his or pressing it to his lips, allowing the silkiness of his mustache to brush back and forth over her sensitive palm.

It meant nothing to the stone-faced poker player beyond a desire to draw on the luck she brought him. Not for a second did he consider that the idle gesture made Nevada’s heart pound. When, on a folded hand, Johnny leaned back to relax, he nonchalantly draped his long arm across Nevada’s lap. His cool black eyes never leaving the baize, he thoughtlessly patted and squeezed her leg through the silk gown, his long, dark fingers sliding around to stroke the sensitive back of her knee.

Nevada thought she would expire with joy.

Later, after Johnny had cast off his jacket, loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves, Nevada had grown so attuned to the slightest movement of his shoulder, the faintest pull of the muscle and sinew, she could almost have told what kind of hand he held without even looking. That too thrilled her. She alone knew when Johnny was tense.

The competitors seated around the table saw only a player who, with the passing of the long evening and the growing of his dark whiskers and the sleepy drooping of his heavily lashed lids, looked even more formidable and cool and unreadable.

His expression remained the same, no matter the cards he drew. But the warm hard muscles beneath Nevada’s fingers bunched and tightened and shared with her his secrets. It was a wonderful heady experience, strangely intimate. And Nevada, her eyes riveted to his dark rigid face, felt as close to Johnny as if they were making love.

Her gaze slowly lowered to the white shirt half open down his dark chest and she felt her breath grow short. What, she wondered anxiously, would Johnny do if she unobtrusively slid her hand up over his shoulder and down. Carefully gauging what his reaction might be, she wisely waited for an opportune moment.

It was Johnny’s turn to deal.

He fanned the deck faceup on the slick baize, his brown hands as deft and sure as a surgeon’s. His face obscured behind a cloud of rich blue cigar smoke, he dealt the well-shuffled cards out to the players, then placed the deck facedown before him.

He picked up his own cards. With the quick, sure movement of his thumb, he spread them barely enough to read what they were before once again pushing them together. It was done so quickly, Nevada never saw what he was holding.

The cigar still stuck between his even white teeth, his black eyes devoid of expression, he waited for the first bet to be made. Nevada, her palm pressed to his shoulder, knew before Johnny’s turn came, that he was going to call and raise.

“To you, Roulette,” said one of the New York Nolans.

“Call your hundred,” said Johnny. “And raise you five hundred.” He slid his chips over the green baize.

The betting was spirited and heavy. Not one of the six players dropped out. The pile of chips at the table’s center grew higher. And higher.

On the last round of betting, King Cassidy, the blond Ohioan, and one of the Nolan furriers dropped out. Johnny, the remaining Nolan brother, and the Philadelphia steel magnate called.

Nevada’s hand gently moved over Johnny’s back to his left shoulder. Then up and over. Pausing, she waited to see if she was a bother to him. So intense was he, his attention so snared by the game, he never noticed when she slipped her fingers into the open collar of his white shirt.

For a moment she let her hand lay atop his prominent collarbone. Then drawing a shallow breath, she rose from her stool to stand directly behind Johnny. She moved her hand slowly but steadily down, down until it rested directly over Johnny’s heart.

There her hand stayed, pressed firmly to the warmth beneath which Johnny’s heartbeat drummed heavily against her open palm. Nevada was not quite sure what excited her most, the tickle of his crisp chest hair or the heat of his flesh or the beating of his heart. It was the same fierce beating that she had felt that night on the
Gambler
when they had made love. And now, as then, it seemed to become her own as it pulsed through her fingertips just the way it had pulsed through her naked breasts then.

If the muscles of his back had revealed a measure of Johnny’s tenseness, the rapid pounding of his heartbeat told her so much more. Her own heart in her throat, Nevada stood leaning for support against the back of his chair, knowing beyond a doubt that her dangerous lion was intent on taking the large sum of money resting on the table.

With nothing in his hand.

Nevada’s heart raced with Johnny’s as the betting grew fierce, the stack of chips taller, the tension in the room almost palpable. It seemed to her it would never end, that none of the three would ever drop out. And, if they did not, then Johnny would be the loser.

The blond Ohioan finally shook his head and tossed in his cards, saying, “Gentlemen, it’s getting a little too steep for me.”

The Philadelphia steel magnate grinned. Johnny Roulette’s deadpan expression remained the same. The magnate said, “What about you, Roulette?”

His heart thumping against Nevada’s hand, Johnny called the smiling Philadelphian. And raised yet again. The smile left his opponent’s face. The man straightened nervously in his chair and studied his cards.

There was total silence in the room. No one said a word or made a move.

“Goddammit!” The bested Philadelphian finally exploded and angrily threw in his cards. Then said almost immediately, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to show me what you have?”

Johnny gave no answer. Just fixed him with a cool stare. Then purposely fanned out his cards so that Nevada, and no one else, could see what he was holding. A pair of deuces. The seven of diamonds. The king of clubs. And the ace of hearts.

Nevada didn’t smile, gasp, or register any emotion. But her fingers reflexively tightened over Johnny’s drumming heart.

The lion had bluffed.

And won.

20

The trouble began in London.

The day of their arrival had started as one of exciting promise. A brilliant sun, the likes of which was rarely seen in the British Isles, shone brightly down in greeting on the gleaming white hull of the SS
Starlight
as it berthed at Southampton.

Nevada, her cheeks aglow and her eyes sparkling, stood at the crowded railing, clinging to Johnny’s arm with one hand, waving with the other. The crossing had been wonderful. Johnny had spent nearly all his time with her. He had been fun and charming and Nevada was sure it was only a matter of time before his heart belonged entirely to her.

On the dock Johnny hurried them aboard the boat train for the long ride into London. The train was very crowded; not enough room for them all to sit together. Johnny found a couple of seats together and insisted King Cassidy and Miss Annabelle take them.

Then he grabbed Nevada’s hand and, running interference for her, pulled her along behind him, searching for a place to sit. The car was full. They went forward into the next one. And the next.

Just as the train was pulling out of the station, Johnny spotted one vacant seat at the very front of the car, beside a dozing elderly man. He quickly guided Nevada to it. She sat down and Johnny, assuring her he would be fine, stood in the narrow aisle with a shoulder propped against the forward wall as the locomotive picked up speed. Tired from a long night of poker, Johnny’s dark head was soon sagging on his chest, his drowsy eyes closed.

Nevada shot up from her seat and pulled on his sleeve. His eyes came open. “What is it?”

“You,” she said, smiling up at him. “You’re dead tired. Take the seat and I’ll stand. I’m not the least bit sleepy.”

Johnny shook his weary head and closed his eyes. “Sit down, Nevada.”

She didn’t. She said, “I know—you take the seat and I’ll sit on your lap. I’m not very heavy.”

Drowsy dark eyes came open again. Johnny grinned. “I am a bit fatigued.”

So Johnny carefully crawled over the old sleeping gentleman, slid into the seat, and pulled Nevada down on his lap, wrapping his long arms around her waist and lacing his fingers together.

“You comfortable?” she asked.

Leaning his dark head back against the tall padded seat, he grinned at her. “Wake me in London.”

“I will,” she said, and smiled fondly as his thick lashes restlessly fluttered, then swept down to rest on the high brown cheekbones.