To Love a Scoundrel (41 page)

She was, they had decided, half whore and half lady, wholly capable of bringing Skinner to his knees with the shrug of one soft white shoulder. She and Harry apparently had figured on everything but Brent's objections to their methods. Now here he was, threatening to throw away what might be their only chance of recovering his family's jewels over a little display of flesh.

Touched by his concern, yet equally worried about his determination, Jewel lowered her voice and tried to assure him. "I'll be all right—really I will. You must turn back. You know we can't let Skinner see you with me. That would ruin everything." She gently laid her hand on his forearm and implored, "Please, Brent, go back to the dock and wait for Harry and me on the
Dawn.
This shouldn't take too long."

This time he listened and carefully thought over her suggestions. But in spite of his good intentions, Brent was unable to see anything but the woman he loved bared for all the world to see. He narrowed his thoughts to the overt exhibit of her generous breasts, the picture of availability she presented, and finally to the reactions of every man who happened to pass close enough for a view of her charms.

His determination renewed, Brent issued an ultimatum. "I will not leave you alone. I'll stay out of Skinner's sight, but I am going to follow you to the Purple Turtle, and I will continue to follow you after you get him to agree to help you. You hear?"

Jewel rolled her eyes, sighing when she realized arguing any further would be pointless. Shaking her head, she said. "I hear you, Mr. Connors. If you insist on jeopardizing this job, please be sure you stay out of sight. Understand?"

"Understood," he agreed, enormously relieved.

"Fine, then. I'm going now. I don't want to see you or hear from you until we're back on the ship." She began walking away, waiting for his reply, but there was none, Jewel turned back. "Brent?" she said, too late to notice he was nowhere in sight.

Smiling to herself, feeling more cherished than smothered, Jewel wheeled around and continued on her way to the Vieux Carre. Although she fought to keep her attention on the part she was about to play and not on the charming houses along her path, again and again she found herself admiring them. Each home, no matter the size, seemed to have a little inner court alive with the vivid hues of abundant shrubs and flowers. Rows of balconies beckoned to her with the heavy scent of the numerous varieties of flora peeking through the intricate iron lace railings. Almost too soon, she arrived at Bourbon Street. Now only a block from her destination, she forced her attention to the gathering throngs.

The sounds of music and gaiety filled her ears as Jewel made her way past the shops and stores that seemed crammed on top of one another. She began to encounter men who had never heard the word "gentleman," much less expected it to be applied to them. Ready for them, she was able to ignore the expected whistles and grunts of those few, and most of the pedestrians were late afternoon shoppers who were either uninterested in or unimpressed by her charms. Several feet ahead she spotted a large turtle fashioned from cast iron and painted a bright, garish purple. Squaring her shoulders, Jewel picked her way through the sparse crowd and peeked through the swinging doors of the saloon.

A large upright piano graced the wall to her right, its bench unoccupied. The center of the room was filled with card tables and games of chance, but only a handful of men lounged there. On the back wall, the expected portrait of a nude woman spanned several feet of decaying plaster.

Beneath it, its counter top scarred and pitted by discarded cigarettes and careless knives, the bar stretched the entire length of the wall.

Sitting on one of the dozen or so stools facing the nude was Harry. Beside him a woman with hair the color of an overripe orange stood with her back to the bar, her elbows draped on the counter.

Taking care to avoid any eye contact with the woman, Jewel shifted her gaze and settled on the man who best fit the description Brent had given her of Skinner. After drawing a deep breath, as much to save her lungs from the clouds of acrid smoke hanging in the stale saloon air as to expand her bosom, she pushed her way through the doors and stepped inside the darkened room.

Slowly making her way to the table nestled in the farthest corner, she caught the attention of a man with slicked-back hair and reptilian eyes. "Mr. Skinner? Is there a Mr. Skinner in this bar?" she called out, innocently glancing around the room.

"Over here," he rasped, his ruined voice bubbling over in his throat like cheap champagne. "Who wants him?''

Jewel turned toward the sound, aware that Harry's eyes were on her, and gave the stranger a coquettish pout. "Are you Mr. Skinner?"

"Maybe. What's it to you?"

As she approached him, a booming voice from behind her said, "If he ain't the fella you're looking for, honey lips, I am."

Never breaking stride, Jewel shut her ears and mind to the chorus of guffaws and ribald laughter that followed and pulled up just short of the gambler's chair.

Speaking softly, with just the hint of a giggle in her voice, Jewel leaned forward slightly and said, "Oh, I do hope you are Mr. Skinner. I'm desperate for your help, and I'd be ever so grateful if you could spare me a few minutes."

The reptilian eyes shone with the barest suggestion they might be human as he gestured her toward a chair. "Sit a spell, woman. What kind a trouble you in, and who sent you here?"

Shuddering at the thought of even touching a piece of furniture in the establishment, Jewel demurred. "I would so like to join you, but I don't have time. You see," she said, fluttering her eyelashes, "it's my sister, Mr. Skinner. She said you might remember her and help her out."

"Your sister, you say?"

Jewel nodded. "Lillibeth Benton—remember? I'm her sister, Marabelle."

Skinner lowered his pockmarked face as he rolled, then lit, his twenty-fifth cigarette of the day. He finally shook his head and stared up at her, his eyes flat and cold again. "Sorry, gal. Name don't mean a thing to me."

"Oh," she said, giggling, "you've just got to remember Lillibeth. 'Course, she was just a baby a couple years back and has filled out some since then. She told me she spent some real special time with you. You must remember her. She's lots prettier than me with that gorgeous silky yellow hair of hers just a-streaming down her back. Oh, and surely you remember her big blue eyes and soft round... well, you know what I mean. Lillibeth is heaps prettier than me."

"That right?" The legs of Skinner's chair groaned as he scraped them backwards across the wooden floor. He pushed himself upright, then drove his index finger into his left nostril. Regarding Jewel as he probed for the source of his irritation, he finally withdrew his finger and wiped it on his grease-stained trousers before he said, "I still can't say I remember this Lillibeth gal, but if she insists she knows me, maybe I'd best look her up. You say she's in trouble?"

"Just a little." Jewel shrugged, impulsively backing away.

"What'd she do?" he rasped, his smile showing as much snarl as grin.

Still backing away, she said, "Not much. It's like this, you see. She, ah, just wanted to show this fella over on Canal Street a little fun, you know. It's getting real hard for a gal to make a living these days."

Those eyes showing more radiance than they appeared to be capable of, he advanced on her. "What'd she go and do—rob him while he had his pants down?"

"Well, Mr. Skinner, like I said"—she giggled nervously—"it's getting real hard to earn a living in these parts, and Lillibeth and I are just a couple of innocent gals."

"Don't get all in a twitter," he said as he took a long drag of his cigarette, then crushed it out beneath his bootheel. "Sounds real interesting," he rasped through a sudden fit of coughing. "Real interesting, indeed. Where is she?"

Backing away in earnest now, certain that at any moment he would touch her, Jewel gestured for him to follow. "Lillibeth's over on Canal Street, like I said, but if this fella has his way, he's gonna drag her off to the sheriff, so we don't have much time. Come on."

"I'm a coming, gal. Just make no mistake about what I expect in return." Skinner caught up to Jewel and gripped her arm. Jerking her toward the doors, he stated his terms. "Once I persuade this poor fella to let her go, I expect you gals to come down here to the Purple Turtle and work for me a spell. Month or so ought to do it."

"A month?" she gasped.

Skinner stopped just short of pushing his way through the doors. "If that don't suit you, then
you
go convince the poor fool that you and your sister are pearly white and pure as fresh-picked cotton."

"A month will be fine," she agreed. Resisting the urge to grin or to peek back inside and see how Harry was doing with the Cajun woman, she followed Skinner through the doors and out into the late afternoon sunlight.

Inside the bar, Harry's gaze flickered over the top of Monique's head to the swinging barroom doors. Jewel and the vile gambler were out of sight. Confident his eloquence had kept the redhead too attentive to realize that her boss had left the bar in the company of another woman, Harry smiled.

"And you know what else, my dear?'' he said, baiting the trap. "If you'll let me paint a small sample portrait of you right now, I shall make a gift of it, free of charge."

"Yeah?" She giggled, completely captivated by the dashing stranger. "But won't I have to strip down to my gooseflesh to do that?"

Harry laughed, adjusting the large plum-colored beret he'd donned for the assignment. "Please rest assured, my dear, that you will be painted in the most modest of costumes. I have several drapes suitable for a portrait such as this.'' He gestured to the nude above the bar and went on. "I also have a completely private dressing room, which will guarantee your privacy."

"Umm, I don't know," Monique said, hesitating. "I'd sure like to have my picture hanging up there instead of that homely no-name we got there now, but I don't know if my man will agree to it." As if to answer the question herself, she glanced around the room. "Maybe if I ask him. Oh, looks like he's gone."

"Too bad," Harry said, feigning disappointment. Then he lit up with excitement. "Or perhaps it's not so bad. Maybe we can incorporate an element of surprise."

Monique squinted up at him, crinkling the corners of her eyes as if she'd suddenly been struck blind. "Huh?"

His expression one of patience, Harry cleared his throat and said, "Mademoiselle, I suggest that we paint you as a gift to your beau, a surprise of sorts. How could he then resist engaging me to enlarge such a portrait to replace this"—Harry flipped a disdainful wrist in the direction of the amateurish nude—"this rubbish?"

Monique's dusty blue eyes rivaled the sparkle from her emerald and diamond necklace as she stared up at the portrait and imagined herself gracing the place of honor. Pressing her fingertips against her painted mouth, she giggled, "How long would it take?"

"If we hurry and catch the last of the sunlight, no more than two hours."

Her giggles increased, and she squeezed her shoulders up with delight. "Sounds swell, but I got a little problem with doing it, Mr. LeBonde. Skinner always tells me to keep away from Jackson Square and you types. He says your kind can't be trusted and that you artist folk carry every manner of disease."

Harry raised an indignant chin, but didn't dare take even one extra breath of the stale tobacco-laden air. "My dear, apparently you haven't been paying attention to me. Jackson Square is a lovely place in which to paint a landscape, I suppose, but I am Paris-trained and a consummate artist. I have taken a suite at the St. Louis Hotel. It is there in my room that I have created my studio. I believe you will find my credentials impeccable."

Her features crumpled once again with confusion, Monique focused on the one name she did understand—the St. Louis Hotel. "You really got a suite at the St. Louis?''

"Most assuredly," he said, sliding down off the stool with unerring confidence.

Grinning broadly, Monique turned back to the bar. "Hank? Be a pal. I'm working on a right fancy surprise for Skinner. When he comes back, tell him I had some errands to run and that I'll be gone for a couple of hours."

"Sure thing, Monique," the bartender answered, barely acknowledging her, not even glancing in Harry's direction.

Pleased the assignment was working so smoothly, Harry flared his painter's smock out behind him as if it were a satin evening cape, then turned and escorted Monique out of the dingy bar.

* * *

In the opposite direction and several blocks to the west, Jewel and Skinner approached the foot of Canal Street. Comfortable in her presence now and confident of his plans for the evening, he linked his arm around her waist as if she were his best girl. When he came to a stop just before the intersection, he pulled Jewel up tight against his body and made a more careful study of her.

"You sure that li'l sis of yours is prettier than you, Marabelle?"

"Heaps." She choked the word out, gagging on the breath of a man whose teeth had gone to decay.

"Once we round that corner, no telling what kinda trouble we'll run up against," Skinner went on, fondling a lock of her hair. "You and me could have us a real good time right now and let your sister find her own way outta her troubles. Yes sir, we could do just that." He leered as he lowered his head and began to nuzzle the lobe of her ear.