To Love a Scoundrel (11 page)

"I'm afraid it's this or office work," Allan said softly. "If you should get lucky and stumble onto Harry during this little trip, the worst danger you'll face is a possible broken heart. Harry may be a lot of things, but he's never resorted to violence of any kind. If you guard your feminine nature and remember that he can charm the fangs off a rattler, you shouldn't be in any danger."

Jewel's laugh was bitter as she listened to the unnecessary warning. Harry Benton had done much worse than break her heart. He'd sealed it off, strangled the emotions, and destroyed the delicate capacity to love, then left it to dry up and vanish like a puff of dust. The heart she carried in her chest now was nothing more than a machine, an organ that beat only to sustain her life. How could Harry Benton possibly do it any further damage?

"What do you say, Jewel? Ready for a trip down the Mississippi?"

With less than her usual enthusiasm, she resigned herself to the new assignment and gave Allan a tiny smile. "I suppose it's better than sitting around here watching the dead skin flake off my arm."

"Oh, Jewel," Allan said with a grimace.

"Sorry, but that's what seems to be happening."

"Just keep lotion on it. It'll be back to normal in a couple of days." Allan reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Now that you've decided to accept the job, I have to tell you that you'll have one small problem on this assignment. Given your talents, I'm sure you'll find a way to solve it."

"Oh?" Her interest finally piqued, she pulled her chair closer to the desk and cocked her head for a better look at the paperwork.

"This is your steamship ticket, but unfortunately it's only good for a round-trip on the
Illinois Eagle,
leaving here in the morning. It arrives in St. Louis the night before the
Delta Dawn
shoves off. That's where your problem comes in."

Jewel regarded his sheepish expression, the bad-boy glint in his eye, and said, "Let's have it."

"I'm afraid I was unable to secure passage for you on the
Delta Dawn.
The maiden voyage is sold out."

"For heaven's sake, Allan," she said with a huge sigh, "I thought I had a real problem." Jewel grinned, alive with a sense of adventure. "I'll find a way to get on that ship if I have to sign up as a cook."

"I sincerely hope you're able to find another means," Allan said, shuddering as he recalled the only time he'd had the misfortune of eating one of her home-cooked meals.

Knowing exactly what he was referring to, Jewel lifted her chin defensively and said, "You think I couldn't pull it off? Besides, my cooking isn't so terrible if you consider I never set foot in a kitchen until I graduated from college."

"Tell it to someone else," Allan said, laughing. "I've eaten your biscuits, remember? They plugged up my entire system for a month. There's a reason you were never allowed in the kitchen back home."

"Yes, there is," she snapped back in jest. "But just because a girl is raised in a houseful of servants, it doesn't mean she can't learn to cook."

"In your case it does."

Jewel began laughing and conceded, "Maybe I'd better look for some other kind of employment aboard that ship." She reached for the papers and pulled the handbill out of her reticule. "Interesting... It looks as if this boat has a little bit of everything going by way of entertainment. There's even mention of a couple of circus acts."

Allan shook his head. "Too dangerous until your arm is completely healed. Maybe you can get a job as a singer."

"The steamship company would have to be pretty desperate to hire me. I cook better than I sing." As she spoke, Jewel studied Benton's file. Even though she'd read it often enough to repeat it verbatim, she picked through it, looking for something, anything, to use as bait. Maybe if she stopped chasing Harry, encouraged him to seek
her
out, he would be an easier weasel to snare. "What do you see mentioned on this handbill that would satisfy Harry's hedonistic nature? If he actually signed on for this maiden voyage, there must be something that will bring him out of hiding, force his hand—and snap him into my handcuffs."

"Just about everything and anything, as long as it has to do with money and women. But don't forget," he warned. "Whatever you decide on will have to help gain your passage at the same time."

"I realize that," she concurred, looking for the perfect combination.

And then, although she'd known about this peculiar personality trait for years, it leapt into her mind as if for the first time. Jewel grabbed the Benton file and hastily read through it again. When she found the words she sought, the simplicity of the solution practically slapped her in the face.

"That's it," she cried out, knowing she'd found Harry Benton's Achilles' heel. "Why didn't I think of this before?"

Allan cocked his head and followed her finger as she trailed it across the paper. With a thoughtful frown, he glanced up at her. "You're not thinking of—"

"Oh, yes, I am." Her green eyes alive and sparkling with enthusiasm, she ran her tongue along her upper lip. "That man doesn't have a prayer, Allan."

"But are you sure you can pull it off?"

Her expression predatory, confident, Jewel assured him. "Harry Benton hasn't got any more chance with me than a snaggle-toothed spinster with a big bank account has with him."

Chapter 6

St. Louis, Missouri

June 18, 1876

From his lofty perch in the pilothouse, Brent Connors kept a nervous watch as Captain Randazzo maneuvered the
Delta Dawn
away from the crowded dock. Even though he was aided by two pilots, 340 feet of steamship was a tremendous bulk to guide into the traffic lanes.

Paulo, a veteran pilot who'd promised Brent he knew every old snag and low-limbed cottonwood tree along the banks of the river, gripped the immense wheel along with the captain. Watkins, a cub whose knowledge was limited to textbook descriptions, kept a lookout for other ships and small craft.

Brent held his breath until the steamship backed into the main canal and started down river before he released an uneasy sigh of relief. He had sunk every dollar he had in the world into this boat, he thought as his fingers searched the nearly empty pockets of his gray-striped trousers. Had he chosen the crew wisely? Or would this newly formed team run the paddle wheeler up on the first sandbar they came across—or, worse, sink her in the deepest parts of the river?

Captain Randazzo—Dazzle, as he was called—turned and smiled at his boss. "We managed that without a collision. I expect we can get her downriver in one piece—that is, unless her boilers blow."

"Good Lord, Dazzle," Brent said, flinching. "Don't even think a thing like that, much less say it. You trying to bring us bad luck?"

The captain opened his mouth, and his laughter, deep and rumbling, seemed to roll up and spew out from his round belly. "I've had both your share and mine of bad luck over the last few years. I'm due for some good. Why, when I think of last year and the time that tornado tore them stacks right off the Texas deck of the—"

"Some other time, please," Brent said, his voice wavering. "No disaster stories today."

With a sharp salute and short nod, the captain walked over to his specially built high chair and climbed up the step. Settling onto the wooden seat, he glanced over his shoulder. "You're looking too much the southern gentleman to be hanging around in the wheelhouse. Why don't you go on down and mix with your passengers? We can handle her."

Brent shrugged, and then straightened his long-tailed coat of the finest broadcloth. Glancing at his reflection in the wheelhouse window, he tilted his shiny black top hat just a bit to the left and smiled. He was, he decided, as fresh and crisp as the new coats of blue paint on the decks of the
Delta Dawn—
and as much a maiden as the ship when it came to navigating the waters of the Mississippi.

Still concerned about the perils ahead, Brent approached the captain. "You sure you don't need me up here? I don't know a lot, but I can keep watch on the—"

"Begging your pardon, boss, but what I don't need up here is another pair of virgin eyeballs, if you get my meaning."

"I admit I don't know much about snags and things, but I can watch out for other boats."

"That's why we got a cub aboard. Believe me, Mr. Connors, if I'd a needed another mate, I'd have asked you to hire one." Dazzle narrowed one ebony eye at his boss, and then lit a fat cigar.

He'd been dismissed, Brent realized as he took a moment to check the shine on his high-laced shoes. Bending down to dust off the taut Congress gaiters, Brent conceded to the captain's opinion. "I'll get out of your way, then. Remember, though—at the first sign of trouble, too short and three long whistles. Right?"

"Right. Go on now and have a good time," Dazzle said, waving over his shoulder. "And don't forget to listen for the signal when we pass under the bridge."

Finally able to manage a smile, Brent pushed his way through the door, then descended the steep spiral staircase leading to the hurricane deck. There, instead of continuing on down through the boiler deck to the grand saloon where most of the passengers were celebrating in full force, he walked to the stern and leaned over the polished wood rail. The huge paddle wheel, painted bright red and highlighted with three white rings, churned the gray waters, kicking up a frothy wake.

Brent stared out toward the St. Louis skyline as the buildings grew smaller and wondered if he had finally found his niche, that special area in which he could excel and, in the bargain, make enough of a profit to restore the family plantation to its original grandeur. If he did succeed, then what? He would, he thought with a grimace, be subjected to a renewed effort by his family to seek a bride and begin a family of his own.

Brent thought of the women he'd known, of those still considered suitable by the Connors family, and slowly shook his head. Not likely he'd be settling down soon, given the prospects. Not likely at all. Instead of accepting a new way of life after the war between the states, instead of recognizing the changes that needed to be made, most of his neighbors' daughters seemed to want to go on living as if nothing had changed. They actually preferred living in the fantasy world of an antebellum society, apparently unconcerned that clinging to the past left them dangerously blind to the future.

"Southern women," he muttered into a fresh spray of water. He simply wasn't in tune with them, couldn't abide their silly games and fluttering eyelashes. The day Brent Connors decided to go after a gal with a lasso, she would have to be tough enough to jerk the rope out of his hands. Not likely to happen, he thought again, this time with a chuckle. Not in these parts anyway.

A sudden image of Jewel, the woman with many fathers, came to mind. Now there, he thought with a dash of admiration, was a tough little lady. The last time he saw her, she had cursed him like a deckhand as she stomped down the road to Topeka, leaving a trail of her own blood while Brent was hard-pressed to keep up with her. By the next morning she'd been gone, leaving her poor daddy behind—to work alone.

Tough, he thought again. Tough as old jerky. But she could also be cold, he remembered—colder than the Chicago wind in January. He thought back to the gunshot wound he'd inflicted. Her only reaction had been one of anger. Not once had he seen even the hint of a tear in her alluring green eyes. He'd expected a hysterical, wailing woman when he saw the blood on her sleeve, but she'd surprised him and lit into him instead.

She was tough all right. And cold. Brent suddenly wondered about the old coot pretending to be her father. Was he actually her husband? Her lover? Brent shook off an uncharacteristic stab of jealousy at the idea. It seemed unlikely that the balding gnome in Topeka was strong enough to tame the auburn-haired wildcat. Had anyone ever peeled away her tough hide and found a soft vulnerable woman beneath? Did such a woman even exist beneath that intriguing combination of wit and beauty?

Feeling a twinge of regret, wishing he'd had the chance to find out, Brent spun around and rested his back against the high rail. Suddenly eager to think of something besides the green-eyed temptress, he glanced up at the twin stacks. Also painted bright red, they loomed up nearly seventy feet into the sky, then gracefully bloomed, their chimney tops cut to resemble a crown of coiled plumes.