Nan Ryan (42 page)

But forget she would.

She had to. She couldn’t go back and change Johnny’s childhood, no more than she could change her own. Nor could she change the man that Johnny had become. An irresponsible wanderer, content to spend his life roaming from one town to next, one card game to the next, one woman to the next.

Nevada had spent the first part of her life on the river with a handsome, irresponsible wanderer. She had no intention of spending the rest of it the same way.

39

Sleepy and sinister, his great size filling the small room, his deceptively lazy manner belying the power and passion within him, Johnny’s constant presence at Jess’s bedside proved to be a continuing distraction to Nevada.

But a deadly danger no longer.

Finally she understood fully what made Johnny tick, what had made him the man he was. And the man he was—reckless and handsome and more fun than anybody she’d ever known—would never fall in love and marry.

Johnny had told her as much the night they met, but she had been far too naive and foolishly in love to listen. She was now no longer the naive, foolish girl he’d taken off the
Moonlight Gambler
. For that matter, she wasn’t the same woman who’d slipped out to Johnny’s
garçonnière
less than a week ago.

Not that she regretted that last indiscretion. She did not. If she lived to be one hundred years old, she would remember, with embarrassed pleasure, that glorious love-filled night atop Johnny’s big bed with the summer moonlight setting the diamond-and-sapphire necklace ablaze.

And she had a gambler’s hunch and a woman’s keen intuition that that heated night of lovemaking would have to sustain her for a lifetime. She knew instinctively that the man she was going to marry would never, ever do the things to her, say the things to her, that the highly passionate Johnny Roulette had.

Well, so be it.

Nevada had at long last made peace with herself. She had put her obsession with Johnny behind her, and along with it her guilt for betraying Malcolm. Although what she had done was certainly sinful, it was not as though she and Malcolm were already married. She would be, she silently vowed, a good and faithful wife to Malcolm Maxwell.

The peace Nevada had made with herself fairly radiated. Her newfound air of calm authority pleased the man who was to marry her. Malcolm was relieved that his sometimes frighteningly volatile and aggressive fiancée had overnight become a less intimidating, more composed young lady.

That same serenity had the opposite effect on Johnny. Highly perceptive, he knew by the look in her eyes, by the calm dignity she displayed in his presence, that he had finally lost her. And he didn’t like it one bit.

It was on a quiet afternoon when Johnny was seated at Jess’s bedside that the crushing truth finally hit him full force. He’d been dozing in his chair when a light touch on his right shoulder awakened him. He opened his eyes to see Nevada, beautiful and serene, looking calmly down at him.

She said, “I’m here, John. And you may go.”

John
? Since when did his sweet, fiery little Nevada call him John? She didn’t love him anymore. Jesus God, Nevada didn’t love him! She didn’t love him, but he loved her. The tables were completely turned.

“Is something wrong?” Nevada softly inquired.

Smiling at the sad irony of it all, Johnny, rising, said truthfully, “Yes, sweetheart, something is wrong. Shall I tell you what it is?”

Tilting her chin up, Nevada looked him squarely in the eye, a self-assured woman, his equal. “If you wish.”

“I love you, darlin’. I love you and I want you to love me,” Johnny said. His heart was galloping in his broad chest.

Nevada’s blue eyes did not flicker with surprise, excitement, or joy. She did not tremble and sway to the tall broad-shouldered man. She simply smiled benevolently but said in a firm, clear voice, “That, John, is your misfortune. I’m sorry, truly I am.”

Johnny stood there, reeling from the blow of the words she had delivered with such uncaring ease. He felt as though someone had delivered a mean one-two punch right to his solar plexus. He sucked anxiously for air and fought to keep his balance.

“Are you all right?” she asked evenly, and it sounded to him as though her voice were coming from far away.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Johnny replied. He shook his dark head and walked away. He crossed the yard to his
garçonnière
in a daze, threw himself down atop his big bed, ran his hand over his face and through his hair. He shivered in the afternoon heat.

He tossed and turned. He rose and paced. He cursed and ranted. And finally Johnny began to smile, a slow, nervous smile.

Marry Malcolm? How could she?

He still had a month to get her back. And get her back he would. He loved her, really loved her. Loved her deeply, passionately, loved her so much he was totally vulnerable and defenseless. Loved her so much he would be willing, if she’d have him, to marry her and settle down.

From the moment they’d met, Nevada Marie Hamilton was, always had been, always would be, his. She’d be no other man’s wife, not as long as there was a breath left in his body.

Nevada did not lose her place in society when word got out among the upper crust that Miss Marie Hamilton had been nursing the Maxwells’ old sick servant back to health. On the contrary, she was applauded for her show of selfless compassion and the city’s blue bloods murmured that Malcolm Maxwell was indeed a very lucky man to have such a mature and sympathic sweetheart.

Nevada found it amusing and secretly satisfying that she could seemingly do no wrong. She had openly defied the formidable Quincy, and yet the woman who was to be her mother-in-law was going out of her way to be congenial to her. Malcolm, bless him, was making an obvious attempt to be more attentive, more affectionate, after she had flatly told him it was high time he start behaving a bit more like a man soon to marry.

Johnny wanted her—she could see it in his black, brooding eyes anytime they were in the same room—but she was amazingly unmoved and untempted. The prospect of a few stolen hours in his arms no longer held any charm for her.

She wanted respectability and commitment. And the next time she lay naked in a man’s arms, it would be in the arms of her husband.

“You know what I think?” asked Denise.

“I’ve a feeling you’re about to tell me,” Nevada answered with a smile.

The two young women were lying on their stomachs across Denise’s silk-hung bed in the quiet of the lazy summer afternoon.

Denise sat up, hugged her knees to her chin. “I think that I shall give up attempting to attract Johnny Roulette’s attention.”

“Mm, might be a good idea,” Nevada replied noncommittally.

Denise sighed dramatically. “Know why I’m giving up, even though Johnny is the most charming man that God ever created and I shall never, ever find another who has the …”

“Denise—”

“Well, all right, but … now don’t get angry. Promise?”

Nevada nodded.

Denise stretched her legs out before her, twisted her flaming red hair atop her head, and exclaimed, “Johnny Roulette wants you, Marie Hamilton!”

Idly plucking at the silken fringe bordering the bed’s counterpane, Nevada remained totally calm. She yawned and said, “Denise, you really should take up writing romantic stories. I’ve never known anyone who possessed the talent for making things up the way you—”

“He wants you, Marie,” Denise cut in. “He does! I know he does, damn him! So … what are you going to do about it?”

Nevada languidly turned over onto her back and folded her arms beneath her head. “I’m marrying Malcolm in less than a month.”

Denise crossed her legs beneath her Indian-style and peered down at Nevada. “I know that, but couldn’t you make love to Johnny Roulette just once before you marry, so you’ll know what it’s like? Lord, I would, if he wanted me! I just know it would be the most wonderful experience a woman ever had and I’ve daydreamed so many times about how it would feel to—”

“Denise”—Nevada rolled to a sitting position—“let’s go downstairs and have something cold to drink.”

“What do you think? Would you give yourself to Johnny in the name of sweet passion—”

“From what I understand,” interrupted Nevada, rising from the bed, “John Roulette’s true passion is gambling.”

“Mm, could be,” mused Denise. “That reminds me, I overheard my daddy’s tailor talking about an upcoming high-stakes poker game. Said the biggest gamblers from up and down the river will be in town to board the steamer
John Hammer
when she puts into St. Louis next month. I’ll bet Johnny will be dealing, don’t you?”

“If there’s to be a game, John Roulette will be in it.” She sighed. “The last part of him to the will be the hand that throws the dice.”

Denise laughed, then shook her head, saying, “I can think of another part that—”

“Denise!”

“Well, can’t you? Don’t you think Johnny is—”

“John Roulette is reckless. Out for a good time and he usually finds it.”

“And that brings me back to you. That absolutely gorgeous man wants you, and I feel you owe it to yourself to just find out—”

“Denise, I’m marrying Malcolm, not John,” Nevada smilingly cut her off. “You have the wrong brother.”

“No.” Her friend corrected her and her face grew serious. “
You
have the wrong brother.”

The doctor said Jess’s recovery was truly amazing. Less than a week after taking ill he was completely out of danger. The grateful patient credited the two people who had been constantly by his bedside, Johnny and Nevada.

While Miss Annabelle had graciously offered to sit with Jess and even Malcolm and Quincy had looked in on him once or twice, it was Johnny and Nevada who had pulled him through the crisis.

Johnny was glad the old man was feeling better, but with the return of Jess’s health Johnny lost the opportunity to be with Nevada. He tried every trick in the book to get her alone but Nevada was having none of it.

The innocent, adoring woman who had willingly followed him off the
Moonlight Gambler
and across the ocean to England was forever gone. In her place, a self-possessed, don’t-trifle-with-me young lady consistently kept him at arm’s length.

The days rapidly dwindled away.

Two events loomed just head, events of major importance in the lives of Johnny and Nevada. The first was a high-stakes poker game to be played aboard the palatial steamer
John Hammer
. The second, to take place only forty-eight hours after the poker game, was Nevada’s wedding.

The week of both events rolled around. Johnny had finally faced the sad facts. He wasn’t going to get Nevada back. She didn’t want him, didn’t love him, didn’t care if he lived or died.

There was only one thing to do. Clear out. Leave St. Louis. Drift on before he was forced to watch
his
woman walk down the aisle to become Malcolm’s bride. Leave before his jealous eyes could hit to Malcolm’s bedroom windows, knowing that the lovely Nevada was inside, in Malcolm’s bed, in his arms.

All through the afternoon excitement kept building in the hotels, bars, and other businesses in St. Louis. It was Thursday. The day of the big poker game down on the levee. The gleaming white paddlewheeler
John Hammer
had steamed into port at dawn, its blasting whistle like a seductive siren’s song to the anxious gamblers waiting in the city’s finest hotel rooms.

Johnny Roulette, a man who had always felt his heart beat faster when he sat down at a green baize table, was alone in the dimly lit bar of the Southland Hotel. Seated in shadow at a small marble-topped table along the paneled back wall, he shared none of the exhilaration of the laughing, talking gentlemen lining the long polished bar.

“Going to be quite a game,” one sport said.

“All the New Orleans and Natchez boys up for it,” said another.

“Biggest thing to happen in St. Louis since last year’s Democratic convention,” someone exclaimed.

Morose, Johnny picked up his glass of brandy, sipped it idly. And looked up when a white-jacketed waiter set a shot glass of whiskey before him with the words that “a fellow gambler insisted on buying you a drink, sir.”

Johnny nodded, shrugged, and didn’t bother explaining that he did not drink hard liquor. Instead he picked up the shot glass and tossed the whiskey back in one swallow, then held up the glass in salute to whoever was responsible. When another was sent to his table he drank it just as rapidly.

And so it was that a slightly tipsy Johnny Roulette, on returning home, ran into an unsuspecting Nevada later that afternoon in the silent corridor of the townhouse. Carefully placing a blue porcelain vase of cut flowers on a table beneath a huge gilt-trimmed mirror, Nevada gasped with alarm when she lifted her head and saw in the mirror a towering, grinning Johnny rapidly advancing on her.

She immediately whirled about to make her exit, but Johnny was too quick for her. He took a step forward, his arm shooting out, and he caught her fragile wrist in his long, encircling fingers. Nevada’s nervous gaze flew up to his dark face.

His raven hair was disheveled and falling onto his forehead. His tie was askew, his jacket unbuttoned. His black eyes were twinkling and he was grinning foolishly. She knew at once that he had been drinking. And told him as much.