Nan Ryan (4 page)

Most disturbing of all was the fact that with only the slightest movements of his big lean body, the dark handsome man was expressing emotion and sensuality with an extraordinary potency. So powerful was the language of his body, Nevada was weak and awed and ready to follow him anywhere, though they’d not yet spoken a word.

She had, she knew beyond any doubt, met her rich, handsome gentleman her very first night onstage. Now all she had to do was make Johnny Roulette realize that he was meant only for her. Maybe he could see it too. He was looking at her as though she was special, as if she were already his sweetheart. And she would be, if he wanted her, because she sure wanted him to be her man.

Excitement and hope building, Nevada, looking straight into Johnny Roulette’s flashing dark eyes, sang the closing line of her song, never suspecting that the sad, mournful words might prove prophetic:

He was her man, but he done her wrong.

4

The song had ended. The heavy red velvet curtains were slowly descending. The crowd of captivated men whistled and clapped and shouted for more!

All, that is, but one.

The darkly handsome Johnny Roulette neither whistled nor clapped nor shouted for another song. Instead the tall, smiling man casually turned and walked away as the curtain came down.

The billowing curtain was immediately raised so Nevada could give the enthralled crowd a few extra bows. But she gave no bows or kisses; she was too preoccupied with looking for the tall, deeply tanned man with the coal-black hair.

But Johnny Roulette was gone.

Nevada’s hopes came crashing down with the second lowering of the red curtains. What should have been a moment of glory and triumph was instead one of disappointment and confusion.

Heartsick, she made her way to the dressing quarters and managed to smile bravely when Lilly and Belle and Julia and Betsy all crowded around to offer their sincere congratulations. Guiding Nevada into the cramped quarters, the women were all talking at once but Nevada, distracted, caught only a word here and there. She did hear enough to know they were all keenly aware that Johnny Roulette was aboard the
Gambler
.

A loud knock didn’t silence the excitedly chattering women, but when Lilly opened the door to admit Stryker, the enormous bouncer lifted a hand for quiet. He looked over Lilly’s head at Nevada and stated calmly, “Miss Hamilton, Mr. Johnny Roulette has requested your company for supper.”

Nevada’s heart was beating alarmingly fast. She clung to Stryker’s arm as he guided her through the crowd and when she spotted Johnny Roulette at a dice table, his back was to her. Stryker abruptly stopped, turned to Nevada, leaned down and said into her ear, “You’re safe as long as you’re on board the
Gambler
, Nevada. I’m always around, even when you’re not aware of my presence, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Nevada, wondering what this big fierce-looking man was going on about.

The giant Stryker smiled at her. “I know. All the same, I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Before she had time to respond he was again guiding her through the crowd of gamblers and in seconds she stood directly behind the tall, dark-haired Johnny Roulette.

Stryker spoke his name. Johnny slowly turned around and Nevada stopped breathing. Close up, he was even more handsome than she had realized.

“Miss Nevada Hamilton,” Stryker said, “meet John Roulette.”

“Nevada, do you like dice?” Johnny Roulette asked with a grin, reaching for her hand, and Nevada felt her cold fingers being firmly gripped by his warm ones.

Looking up into his dark, flashing eyes, she said honestly, “I’m not sure, Mr. Roulette. I’ve never shot dice.”

Gently pulling her closer, Johnny said, “Then, sweetheart, it’s high time you gave it a try.” Putting a long arm around her narrow waist, Johnny shook hands with Stryker and said, “Thanks, Stryker. I’ll take good care of her.”

“You do or you’ll answer to me,” said Stryker. Then he turned and walked away.

“You’ll protect me from Stryker, won’t you, Nevada?” Johnny teased, leaning down so close his warm breath ruffled a curl near her right ear. He smelled of whiskey, but Nevada didn’t find it offensive. Quite the opposite; it was a pleasantly familiar scent she associated with another big, smiling man who used to kiss her good night and make her feel safe and loved.

“The point,” Johnny Roulette was saying as he lifted her hand, turned it over, and deposited two black-dotted ivory dice in her soft palm, “is to throw a seven for me. Think you can do that, sweetheart?”

“I’ll sure try,” said Nevada.

“That’s good enough for me,” he said, leaning over and placing a tall stack of red chips on the green felt of the table’s front pass line. He grinned at Nevada, picked up his bourbon glass, and said, “We’re all waiting, darlin’. Just fling those dice to the other end of the table.”

Nevada didn’t hesitate. If Johnny Roulette wanted a seven, she’d do her damnedest to give him one. Her tiny hand flew right out and she let go of the dice. The twin cubes struck the table’s wooden frame, clattered, spun dizzily, and finally rolled to a stop. One showed a three, the other a four. Nevada had thrown the seven.

While the croupier paid off the bettors, Johnny, his grin wider than ever, said to Nevada, “That’s good, darlin’. Now, how about an eleven?”

“Whatever you say, Johnny,” she answered confidently and wasted no time throwing one. Then she repeated. Then threw another seven. Then got six for a point and bucked it, tossing a six right back. And all the while her heart was drumming with excitement as the unsmiling croupier kept pushing chips across the table and Johnny Roulette, his hand possessively riding her waist, kept laughing and praising her and drinking his whiskey.

A half hour later when Nevada finally sevened-out, Johnny Roulette threw back his dark head and laughed loudly as she exclaimed, “Damnation! Johnny, I’m sorry.”

Enchanted, he hugged her to him and said, “Honey, you just made me ten thousand dollars.” He kissed the top of her dark head and added, “You’re my Lady Luck. I’ll never let you out of my sight.”

Johnny’s careless statement thrilled and pleased the smitten Nevada. She never wanted to be out of his sight, nor to have him out of hers. So she didn’t question him when, telling the croupier to collect his winnings and hold them, Johnny turned her away from the table and, guiding her across the crowded hall, said from over her head, “Let’s order us some French champagne and oysters and get better acquainted.”

She wanted nothing more than to get better acquainted with this dark, compelling man. And she suddenly realized she was quite hungry. She’d had nothing to eat since boarding the
Gambler
.

In minutes Nevada found herself on the upstairs balcony, preceding Johnny through one of the heavy carved mahogany doors. Inside, she gasped at the opulence that greeted her. She stood in a stateroom where a sparkling chandelier cast honeyed light on a sofa and chairs upholstered in plush navy velvet and a deep carpet of the same hue. The walls were covered with a shimmering beige silk and one entire side was accordion doors that were open and folded back to allow a spectacular view of the lights along the river.

In the center of the room a round table, draped in beige damask, was set for two. The fragile china and heavy sterling and sparkling crystal were finer than anything Nevada had ever seen. A heavy carved silver candelabra graced the table’s center along with freshly cut white roses.

After knocking on the door, a white-coated steward entered bearing champagne in a silver ice bucket, and by the time Nevada was seated across from Johnny at the table, the waiter had returned with dishes of steaming bouillabaisse, a heaping platter of oysters and shrimp, a basket of hot breads, and an assortment of cooked vegetables and fresh fruits.

“Johnny,” said Nevada, looking up at the smiling man who was watching her from across the table, “there’s so much food! How will we ever eat it all?”

He gave her a slow, lazy grin and his black eyes took on an appealingly drowsy expression. “Darlin’,” he murmured, his voice deep and low, “we can always finish it at breakfast.” His sleepy-eyed look disappeared and his black eyes gleamed devilishly, but Nevada missed his meaning.

Deftly, Johnny popped the champagne cork and poured. Handing Nevada a glass, he stopped her when she started to drink. “Hold on, sweetheart. I want to propose a toast to you.” He raised his glass and said, “To my beautiful Lady Luck.” He touched her glass with his and they drank, Johnny downing his quickly, Nevada sipping hers cautiously.

Watching the tiny dark-haired beauty behave as though she’d never before tasted champagne, Johnny was quietly amused. Apparently she’d chosen, this evening, to play the role of the innocent. Perhaps she thought that’s what he found appealing. And still in a warm haze of bourbon, he did find the mixture of make-believe innocence and blatant voluptuousness to be powerfully seductive. Remarkably there was a freshness about this painted miniature doll that seemed almost genuine.

But smilingly watching her sip the bubbly wine as if for the first time, Johnny was glad her seeming vulnerability, her air of chastity, was nothing more than a well-acted role. What the hell, he’d be glad to play along, treat her as though she were a refined young lady allowing her only lover to take her to bed. There was no denying she was a tempting sensual beauty and he had no objection to taking his time. They had the entire night. He would go along with her little game.

It suited him just fine.

Rising, Johnny asked Nevada’s permission to remove his jacket. Smiling happily, she said, “Certainly, Johnny.” She watched, fascinated, while he shrugged out of it, drawing her attention once again to the impressive width of his shoulders and chest. When he tugged at his black silk tie, slid it from under the stiff white collar, and tossed it atop a navy velvet chair, she simply sighed and took another sip of champagne.

Returning to the table, Johnny struck a sulphur match, set the candles aflame, then turned out the gaslight chandelier overhead, casting the intimate room into soft romantic candlelight.

“Better?” he inquired softly, looking down at her.

“Perfect,” Nevada replied.

Dropping back into his chair, Johnny corrected her. “Not quite perfect.”

“It’s not?”

“No. You’re too far away.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Come here, darlin’.”

Nevada felt her pulse speed. Quickly she took a big gulp of champagne, rose, and circled the table. When she stood directly before him Johnny smiled up at her, slowly put his hands to her small waist, and felt his fingers overlap in back, his thumbs touch in front. Grinning, he languidly slid one thumb down until it rested atop the small indentation of her naval.

“God, you’re a tiny little thing,” he said, his black eyes warming with desire.

“God, you’re a great big thing,” Nevada retorted saucily, her naturally impudent spirit enhanced by the champagne she’d consumed.

Johnny Roulette loved it. Laughing heartily, he pulled her between his spread knees, wrapped his arms tightly around her, and pressed his face into the softness of her satin-draped bosom.

Deeply inhaling her sweet fragrance, he said into the softness beneath his cheek, “That I am, sweetheart.” He lifted his head, boldly kissed the bare swell of her breast above the shimmering blue satin bodice, and Nevada trembled. His warm lips against the bare flesh, he said, “I don’t know …” He inclined his dark head toward a closed interior door. “What I have in mind may be impossible for us.”

Weak and dizzy from the wine and the man and shocked at the frightening heat his lips were spreading through her entire body, Nevada had no idea what he was talking about. But she was certain that nothing was impossible for Johnny Roulette and her. So she said breathlessly, looking with wonder down upon the dark head bent to her, “We can do anything we set our minds to.”

That brought more liquored laughter from Johnny. Giving her bare bosom one last kiss, he lifted his head, gently urged her down to sit on his left knee, and laced his long fingers around her waist. “Baby, it’s our bodies I’m talking about. I’m twice your size.”

“What difference does that make?” asked Nevada, totally baffled.

“None. You’re right, it makes no difference,” said Johnny. “I’ve never objected to a female assuming the superior position.” And he promptly envisioned this tiny raven-haired charmer in bed, gloriously naked and seated astride him. “Matter of fact, it might be fun for you to be the dominant one right from the beginning.” Grinning, he reached up, plucked a tiny blue satin bow from Nevada’s dark curls, looked at it intently for a minute, and dropped it on the table. “Kiss me, Nevada.”

Nevada stared at him.
Superior? Dominant
? What in blazes was he talking about? He was not making a great deal of sense but his full sensual lips beneath that sleek black mustache certainly were tempting. She had wanted to kiss this big handsome man since the first moment she saw him.

And after all, it wasn’t as though she had never been kissed before. Why, only last winter she had been kissed by Jimmy Bradford, the young hand her daddy had hired temporarily, and before that she had been kissed by a planter’s son, Harry Douglas, when she and her papa had delivered racehorses to the Douglas plantation below Baton Rouge.