The Gambler (15 page)

He could hear the gasp this caused, and knew that she was suddenly afraid. Damned if his anger hadn't reached the forbidden level where it showed on his face. Damned if he hadn't frightened her.

"I'm sole possessor of your mother's Bible."

"No." She made the denial softly, like a hopeful prayer.

He waited a moment, assessing every nuance. "Do you have it, then?"

She blinked. It was amazing how she could look suddenly very innocent and pathetically vulnerable. "It's lost in the hay at the livery."

He shook his head slowly.

"Yes. I sent a letter to the stable owner, telling him to save it for me. I'll go back after..."—she swallowed—"after you're gone."

"No need to go back," he said with quiet finality.

They stared at each other, face to face, without breathing.

"You lie."

Raven allowed himself the slightest smile and dipped his hand toward his pocket. She gripped her stick in both hands, pointing it at him as if it were a bloodied bayonet held by a trained and deadly soldier of fortune.

"Don't move," she ordered tersely.

He considered laughing, but one look at her expression made him think better of that idea. Instead, he lifted his hands upward, palms out, remembering how she liked him to think her to be quite deadly. "Get it yourself, then," he suggested evenly.

Her eyes went wide and her body tense. Suddenly he realized her thoughts. She would have to touch him to retrieve the precious Bible herself. She hated to be touched, and she hated touching. He almost smiled.

Charm drew a deep breath, making her bosom rise slightly above the deep neckline of her gown.

Damn! The thought of grinning swiftly fled from Raven's mind. This situation could not possibly be considered arousing, he told himself sternly. It could not, not even under the most celibate living conditions. And yet his body seemed to be blatantly disagreeing. He could feel the hard edge of desire unfurl within him, tightening and erupting, making him angry at his own weakness. "Get it yourself," he repeated.

"I'll get it!" she snapped, then nervously licked her lips.

Raven watched the pink, sharp tip of her tongue dart out. He felt ridiculously tense at the thought of her touch. Maybe she did deserve to be taught a lesson, but he would be a fool to be the one to teach her. If he was aware of anything, it was the limits of his restraint. "Fine," he said nevertheless.

She took a stilted step forward. "Wh—where is it?"

"My pocket." He remained very still. Desire was a great deal like anger; it made fools of men.

Charm shifted her stick nervously into her right hand. She seemed suddenly aware that his present clothing had only two pockets, both of which happened to be in his pants. "You're lying," she whispered, but the now familiar words were weak and faint, as if she believed his statement more than she believed her own.

"No, Miss Charming," he countered, watching her. "I'm not lying. It's in my pocket."

She gave a disbelieving shake of her head, then darted a furtive glance down past his abdomen to his pockets. Raven waited, only watching her eyes as they lifted rapidly back to his.

"It's not there," she denied, but all the color that had drained from her cheeks rushed back now in a sweeping tide of hot blood.

Raven allowed himself the freedom of a half grin. "I'm flattered, sweetheart, that you think me so well-constructed, but I fear you overestimate my... appeal. The Bible
is
in my pocket."

Her eyes were round as goose eggs and her jaw dropped. A gentleman would have mercy on the fairer sex, he thought dryly. Thank God he wasn't one. "'Course if you're afraid—"

"I'm not afraid of you," she said quietly, her face red.

There was something in her tone that made the grin slip from Raven's face. He tried to convince himself this was a bad idea, for he could feel his
own
hot blood surging, albeit in different places than
hers.
For a moment, good sense flooded back to him, and he moved slightly, intent on retrieving her Bible before things got out of hand. But again she thrust the stick toward him, making him stiffen with anger.

"Which... which pocket?" she breathed, not looking down, but holding his gaze with her own.

"Oh for Christ's sake, woman, let me get it," he said. Apparently, his better sense hadn't completely abandoned him after all, and the ache in his nonthinking parts hadn't driven him past the point of reason. But he made himself a promise. The first town he came to, he would find himself a woman. Someone willing and soft, with no particular proclivity toward deadly weapons.

"You may think me dense," she said, "but I'm not so foolish as to let you get a hand on your gun."

Raven raised his brows in wonder. "
That's
what you're worried about? You think there's a
gun
in my pocket?" The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on him, and yet he felt frozen in place, waiting.

She scowled, apparently not willing to answer. "Which pocket?"

"Left." Raven tried to keep his tone normal, but what was considered normal to most of the world was not applicable when one was dealing with the killer woman. His words came out low and gravelly.

She swallowed. He could see her throat contract. Despite the circumstances, he thought it a lovely throat, slim and graceful, running smoothly downward toward... heaven. Oh, hell! He had to get a grip on himself, he reasoned, but just then she stepped up close, took a deep inhalation, and reached for him. Raven felt her knuckles graze his waistband and slip lower, down along the taut length of his abdomen with nothing separating him from her but the thinnest bit of cloth. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists against the rampant sensations. It was a snug fit. Raven could feel the slight tremble of her fingers as she thrust them into his pocket, searching. There was a moment of breathtaking anticipation.

"That's no Bible!" she exclaimed and snatched her hand away.

Breath rushed back into Raven's lungs.

"Where is it?" she demanded.

"You were a little too far to the right," he said, his own voice hoarse.

They stared at each other, unspeaking. But finally Raven shrugged, grappled for nonchalance and turned to stride back to the vest he'd left upon a log. Dipping his hand inside the breast pocket, he pulled forth her Bible to hold it aloft. "Quite a bit too far to the right," he added.

"You!" The single word came out on a windy gasp, with anger, frustration, and embarrassment all mixed together to procure a neat little package of shame.

Raven watched her, trying to enjoy the obvious show of her emotions. "I only said it was in my left pocket," he explained soberly. "Surely you can't blame me if your own uncontrolled..."—he smiled—"lust... made you assume it was on my person."

Upon later consideration, Raven thought his smile quite foolhardy, and though he knew he'd intentionally provoked her, he doubted if she had planned to lunge for the purloined Bible. But lunge she did, causing him to sweep it quickly up over his head as she dove on past. She stumbled, coming to a careening halt near the log and turning like a cow pony.

His smile became more honest as he continued to heft the coveted volume. She was breathing hard, which caused her lovely breasts to rise and fall rapidly with each inhalation. The movement caught his attention, galvanizing a hard core within him.

"Give it back," she said, but he barely heard her.

Raven drew a deep, steadying breath. "What'll you give me for it?" he asked quietly. It was the last thing he had meant to say.

There was a moment's silence, then, "What do you want?" she whispered.

Her response startled him even more than his own had, for had he not known better, he would have sworn there was the trace of desire in her tone. He found himself lost in that thought, in her eyes, in the hard, gripping feel of physical need. "What are you willing to give?" The question was barely audible to his own ears and yet she seemed to hear it for she answered in a convoluted sort of way.

"It's all I have of my mother's."

Except for the miniature portrait she'd taken from him, Raven thought, but other ideas quickly nudged that fact aside as he tried to decipher her meaning. Was she suggesting what he thought she was? That the Bible was irreplaceable, and therefore worth a great deal? Lust gripped him a bit harder, squeezing out the remnants of his practical sense.

"If I did... it..." Her voice was as soft as autumn thistledown. "Would you let me go?"

Raven mentally frowned. He'd
already
promised to let her go. It had been a lie. She knew it. So why now would she be prepared to believe he would change his ways and set her free if she gave herself to him? Could it be that she wanted to do it? Could it be she felt the hard grip of desire just as strongly as he?

"Would you let me go?" she asked again and blinked.

It was the blink that brought Raven back to reality, for he'd seen that provocative innocence before. Hell, they'd played this entire game before. And not so long ago. Somehow, even at their first meeting, she had made him believe she wanted him. Look how
that
had turned out. He'd been lucky to escape with his life, much less his manhood. He thought himself experienced, even jaded. But next to her he looked like a babe in swaddling.

"You
are
Chantilly Grady," he said, stifling the scream of his desire and keeping his tone hard and flat. When in doubt, sound businesslike... or lie. But in this case, the truth was not only more practical, but more unbelievable than a fabrication. "I owe it to your aunt... to you." He pushed her small Bible into his pants pocket, though it was a tight squeeze. "I promised if you were alive, I'd return you to the home of your mother." He drew a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. "I promised."

She blinked again, looking disoriented for just a moment before the spark of fire returned to her eyes. "Why do you keep spouting such outrageous lies? Do I look so dense as to believe your fairy tales?"

For a moment he'd found a semblance of calm. But he'd learned the hard way that she could raise his anger like no one else. Raven gritted his teeth. "What if I paid you?"

"What?"

"Come with me," he said, keeping his tone carefully even. "When we reach River Bluffs, if you find you don't want to stay, if you find it's all a lie, I'll pay you, just for your trouble."

For a moment words failed her. "I don't want your filthy money. I want to return to my father. He needs me."

Raven took the two strides between them before he could stop himself, and though he felt like shaking her, he only allowed himself to grab one arm and hold it in a steady grip.

"Jude's not your father," he said, teeth clenched as he glared at her.

She gasped and tried to pull away, but he refused to loosen his hold, though her haughty expression had fled, and terror now ruled her face.

"You still expect me to believe that?" Her words were no more than a shaky whisper. "You expect me to believe
you
and not Jude who's cared for me all my life."

"Not
all
your life," Raven said. "What about your mother? What about the woman in the portrait? Caroline Grady. She had eyes like yours. Bright as an April morning, Eloise said. And her hair was long, like yours."

Perhaps he imagined it, but it seemed she paled a shade. "I don't believe a word you say. Not a word," she said hoarsely as she tried to jerk away.

Raven held her fast. "I don't give a good God damn if you believe me or not!" he rejoined. "You'll come along. If I have to shackle you like a runaway slave and carry you every step of the way."

But with a twist and a jerk she was free and running. He reached her in a dozen strides, but as he dragged her about, she turned wildly and stabbed him.

Pain slammed through Raven's chest. He staggered, stunned by agony and shock. Charm drew back the branch with a gasp and stared at the bloody end in horror.

Charm backed away, dropping the stick, feeling her limbs go numb and cold with fear.

Raven gazed at the tattered, bloody hole in his shirt, then swore aloud and advanced. Terror screamed through Charm's system and she shrank back. Ready to feel his wrath in the power of his fists, she weakly raised an arm to ward off his blows.

But the attack never came. Instead, the arm she'd raised for protection was wrenched from her face, and suddenly she was dragged toward the leopard-spotted gelding that waited in the distance.

The hours passed like an endless nightmare. Charm rode in front of Raven, with her knees on either side of the saddle horn and her back to his chest. Despite the double load, the gelding moved quickly and freely beneath them, and yet each step was agony for Charm. Though the unnatural position burned her thighs and bottom, it was Raven's frightening wrath and proximity that made the journey most unbearable.

Where were they going? And what would he do to her when they reached their destination? She hadn't meant to stab him, but the old, familiar terror had seized her and she had struck out without thought.

The day wore on. Raven had found a small cache of food in the saddle bags. They ate sparingly, taking a little bread and chewing on the dried jerky as they rode. It tasted and looked rather like salty leather and caused them to stop several times at fast-flowing streams where they slaked their thirst and watered the horse. Even at these times, Raven didn't speak.

The sun was hot, the air still. Fatigue weighed heavily on Charm. She'd slept very little on the previous night and found now that she was losing the battle to stay awake and alert. She knew better than to trust the man behind her, but finally the tune of
Old Dan Tucker
eased her tension. It was Jude's favorite ditty. Although he sang in a husky, out-of- tune voice, she had always loved to hear him sing, for it made her feel secure. Charm snuggled deeper under her quilt, but found suddenly that there was no quilt, and that the voice was not Jude's. It was Raven's. Fear and memories sparked and converged. She caught her breath and lifted her gaze to the dark, solemn eyes of the man behind her. With a start, she jerked her weight away from his chest, hearing his half-concealed groan of pain caused by her movement.