by Macy Beckett
“You’re the best,” Allie told her sister. “Just keep thinking of Vegas.”
“For all the sleep I’ve sacrificed, you should hire me a stripper. One of those beefy cowboys whose chaps rip off with one tug.”
“For you, I’ll hire a whole posse.” Before Allie could offer to throw in a bonus construction worker, her cell phone chirped to announce a text message. Glancing at the screen, she recognized the number to the Natchez fire department. “Gotta go. But thanks for holding down the fort. I owe you, big.”
Dev grumbled, “It’s a good thing I love you,” and disconnected.
“Love you too, baby,” Allie said into empty space. She tapped her cell phone screen, and it rewarded her with the message she’d been waiting for.
Hey, Allie. RE: the mobile device you supplied, it’s possible that a faulty battery overheated and ignited the bedspread, resulting in a fire. But please note that without examining all the evidence, we cannot officially . . .
That was all Allie needed to hear.
She pumped a fist in the air and hopped off the bed to slip on her shoes. Finally she had proof that otherworldly forces had nothing to do with Regale’s fire, and she couldn’t wait to show Marc, even if it was ten o’clock at night. She tucked her phone in the back pocket of her jean skirt and headed for the door. When she slung it open, she stopped short at the sight of a gleaming nose ring.
Mrs. Gibson stood at the door with her knuckles poised to knock. The woman jumped in shock and pressed a hand over her heart. “How’d you know I was here?” she asked. “I didn’t have a chance to knock yet.”
Allie released a shaky laugh. “I didn’t. I was on my way downstairs.”
“Oh, well, I won’t keep you.” The woman lifted an old hardback Bible for show. “I just wanted to share something real quick.”
Allie hoped Mrs. Gibson wasn’t one of those missionary types. “Thanks, hon, but I’m Catholic. My soul’s already spoken for.”
“Nothing like that,” she assured Allie. “I found this Bible in our nightstand drawer. Usually I don’t notice them when I travel, but I felt prompted to pick it up, and look what I found.”
She opened the faded cover and showed Allie an inscription on the inside. In beautiful handwritten script, it read May those who seek comfort find it here. —E McMasterson, North River Steamer.
Allie didn’t see the connection. She looked to Mrs. Gibson for understanding.
“That was my grandfather,” the woman explained, her eyes welling with happy tears. “I don’t know how it ended up here, but this belonged on his riverboat. If we hadn’t lost the honeymoon suite and been reassigned to a different room, I never would’ve found it.”
Allie felt her cheeks break into a warm smile. “See? I told you there are no accidents. This is a message of comfort from your grandfather’s spirit.”
Mrs. Gibson hugged the book to her chest. “Do you think the captain would mind if I took it home with me?”
“Not one bit,” Allie said. “That’s a gift, and it belongs with you. I’ll replace it myself if I have to.” Stepping into her room, she bent to reach into her backpack and pulled free a gris-gris bag for love and luck. “Here,” she said with a wink, handing the sachet to Mrs. Gibson. “Now get back to your room and enjoy that sweet husband of yours.”
After sharing a quick hug, they walked together until they reached the stairwell and parted ways. Allie jogged down the stairs to the casino, figuring that’s where Marc would be. She was right. She found him alone with Nick in the dimly lit room, the tops of their heads illuminated by a lone spotlight above the bar.
Marc had let down his hair and pulled off his tie, which rested atop a nearby barstool along with his captain’s hat and jacket. He grinned at his brother while clinking his glass in a toast. When he tipped back his cola, a visible patch of tanned skin at the base of his throat shifted, trapping Allie’s gaze for several long beats.
She couldn’t stop imagining how his skin might taste beneath her lips or how he’d smell of sunshine and shaving cream. But more than that, she loved seeing him relaxed and happy for once. It lifted the corners of her mouth as she strode toward the bar.
“I take it the tournament went well,” she called across the open room.
Nick whipped his head around and gave her a smile, then pointed behind her to the door. “Hey, Allie. Lock that, will you? We’re closed till morning.”
She spun on her heel and did as he asked. By the time she reached the bar, Nick had poured her a shot of something she couldn’t identify in the dim lighting. Marc pushed out a stool for her and grabbed a nearby bowl of lime wedges.
“Tequila,” Marc said with a mischievous grin.
Allie lifted a palm. “No, no, no. That’s my kryptonite. A few shots of that and I start leaking IQ points out my ears. There might even be table dancing.”
In response, Nick quickly procured a bowl of salt.
“C’mon, Allie-Cat,” Marc said. “Celebrate with us. The tourney from hell is finally over.”
She nodded at his glass of cola. “Why aren’t you partaking?”
“Because I have to stay sober enough to pilot the boat in case of an emergency,” he said. “You and Nicky don’t.”
“Go ahead, darlin’.” Nick tipped aside his blond head and pointed to the spot below his ear. “I’ll even let you lick salt off my neck.”
Allie didn’t have to tell him thanks but no, thanks. Marc did it for her in the form of a peanut hurled at his brother’s head. After deftly batting aside the tiny missile, Nick hopped down from his barstool and backed toward the door.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” Nick teased. “I’ll leave you two alone . . . so you can find more interesting places to sprinkle that salt.”
This time it was Allie who pegged him with a peanut. He took the abuse with a grin and vanished out the doors, locking the handles behind him.
“I didn’t mean to break up your party,” Allie said, pulling her cell phone from her back pocket. “I just wanted to show you this.” She tapped her message button and turned the screen to face Marc.
Squinting, he leaned in and read, If that overgrown weasel asks about me, remind him that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his chest with a sharp knife. Marc wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t get it. Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“What?” Allie glanced at her phone and discovered a new text from Devyn. “Oops, wrong one. My sister’s not exactly turning cartwheels at the idea of running into Beau.” She pulled up the message from the Natchez fire department and handed Marc the phone. “Read this one.”
Marc scanned the text and nodded thoughtfully. “Huh. Faulty battery.” Then he added a casual, “Good to know,” and went back to sipping his Coke.
Good to know? How did he not see what a big deal this was? Allie shook the phone in his face. “This proves I didn’t cause the fire.”
Marc sucked a drop of cola from his bottom lip. “Nobody said you did.”
“Oh, come on. You were all thinking it.”
He shook his head. “Not me.”
“Liar,” she said, lifting the shot glass to her lips. “I saw it all over your face that day in Regale’s suite.”
“Naw, honey, that was pain,” Marc said with a grimace. “I had a raging case of blue balls.”
Allie sputtered tequila into her fist and choked on a laugh, doing her best not to snort liquor up her nose.
“But Regale believed it,” Marc went on. His impish twinkle faded as he dropped his gaze into the glass of cola. “And you stepped up and left the galley to keep him on board.” He peeked up at her with respect in his eyes. “That was mighty big of you.”
Allie threw back what remained of her shot, wincing at the burn. She cleared her throat. “I know how important the Belle is to you.” The dark circles beneath his eyes proved he’d run himself ragg
ed this week. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you turn in?”
He flapped a hand and poured her another shot, waiting until she downed that one, too. “I’m all keyed up. I need to unwind first.”
At least they agreed on one thing. Marc needed to blow off some steam, and Allie was happy to help—they were even in the perfect place for it. “Then let’s play a game.”
Marc glanced over her shoulder to the rows of dormant slot machines and empty roulette tables in the darkness. He pressed his lips together as if weighing her suggestion and finding it intriguing. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Well,” she began. “You’re probably tired of poker.”
He nodded in agreement. “Especially the Texas variety.”
Which left blackjack, but then they’d have to take turns representing the house, which didn’t sound like much fun.
“I don’t know a lot of card games,” Allie admitted. “We could play Go Fish.” She’d meant it as a joke, but Marc’s lips tugged in a wide smile that drew out the cleft in his chin. He seemed to take it seriously for a moment, then laughed in a low, masculine chortle that turned her thoughts from gaming to sinning.
“Haven’t played that in a while,” he said, nudging another tequila shooter in her direction. “What should we wager?”
“Do we have to bet?”
“Of course,” he said. “That’s half the fun.”
In general, Allie didn’t carry much cash, and what little she had was in her suite. “I don’t have any money on me.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want your money.”
She glanced around the bar for ideas, then pointed at a bowl of salty snacks. “We could play for pretzels.”
“Pretzels?” He scoffed in offense. “What are we, twelve?”
Allie scowled at him. “Well, what do you want?”
His gaze took a slow trip down the length of her body, from shoulders to toes and back up again. Her skin heated as she began to understand the stakes he had in mind. “I wouldn’t object to seeing what you’ve got on under those clothes.”
Reflexively, Allie darted a glance at the strong contours of Marc’s chest, barely visible as shadows beneath his white dress shirt. Truthfully, she wouldn’t mind seeing what he was hiding either. “Are you suggesting we play Strip Go Fish?”
He answered by toasting her with his Coke and eyeing her shot in a silent message to drink up.
“Right here in the casino?” she added.
“The door’s locked, and the cleaning crew isn’t scheduled to come around till third shift.” He nodded to a dark corner on the opposite side of the room. “We can sit back there if you want. That way nobody will spot your bare-naked backside through the glass doors.”
Allie pointed at him. “I think you mean your bare-naked backside.” Which she was going to enjoy ogling—immensely.
“Sugar, you’re going to be very cold, very soon,” he teased. “So you’d better take another shot.”
“I will have another, but only to prove I can still trounce you half-drunk.”
She tossed it back, then slid off her barstool, feeling warm and floaty as she led the way to a round table in the corner. Marc found one of those battery-operated candles that mimicked a flame’s flickering glow and set it on the table, so he could “see what he was winning.” They continued their Go Fish trash talking until they’d found a pack of cards and settled in their chairs.
“Wait,” Allie said while Marc shuffled the deck. “First we should make sure we’re starting out with the same number of clothes.” She counted her polo shirt, bra, skirt, panties, and clogs. “I’ve got five.”
“Are we counting socks and shoes as one item?”
She shook her head. “Separate.”
“Then I’ve got six.”
He quickly remedied the injustice by unbuttoning his dress shirt and pulling his arms free. Beneath it, he wore a white T-shirt that fit him like a second skin, stretched unmercifully tight across his broad shoulders. Even in the dim light, his bunching chest drew Allie’s eye and watered her mouth.
She swallowed hard. “That’s better.” So much better.
Marc caught her staring and faked a stretch to show off the inside curves of his biceps, then turned it up a notch, flexing them so they strained the hem of his T-shirt sleeves. A hint of dark ink peeked at her from beneath the fabric.
Oh, heavens. Allie loved a good tattoo, especially on a properly muscled body. She wanted to see all of it . . . and hunt for more.
“You’re not distracted, are you?” he asked with a smirk.
“Not one bit,” she lied. “Prepare to lose your other shirt, Captain.”
Chapter 10
“Got any fives?”
“Go fish,” Allie said, twirling her hand in a take it off motion. She hoped Marc would remove his T-shirt this time. When she’d rejected his request for threes, he’d simply shrugged and kicked off his shoes, mirroring her first move. Shoes and socks were always the first things to go in stripping games.
“Whatever.” He set down his cards and reached below the table to peel off his socks. “Now we’re both barefoot.”
Allie’s mouth pulled into a frown, but she reminded herself that he didn’t have any more barriers left. By default, it would be the shirt or the pants next. “Got any twos?”
His teeth flashed white in the darkness, a wicked grin providing his answer. “You get a line; I’ll get a pole. We’ll go fishin’ at the crawdad hole.” He waggled his brows at her shirt. “Lose that top, sugar.”
She reached for the deck to draw a card and accidentally knocked the pile askew. Maybe she’d overdone it with that last tequila shot, especially on an empty stomach. After drawing a ten, she placed her cards on the table and pushed to standing. “I’ll keep the shirt for now.”
“The skirt, then?” he asked, his voice thick with teasing. “You think you’re safe because we’re sitting down, but I can always peek under the table.”
With great deliberation, Allie unbuttoned her denim skirt and lowered the zipper. She didn’t intend to play it seductive; the tequila had simply clumsied her fingers. But when she glanced up to find Marc transfixed by her labored movements, his neglected Coke poised at his lips, she took extra care to roll down the waistband and smooth the fabric over her hips inch by meticulous inch. By the time the skirt dropped to the floor and revealed her black satin panties, Marc looked ready to choke on an ice cube.
Even though she’d lost an article of clothing, she felt victorious. She ran her hands over the tops of her thighs and let him get an eyeful before lowering herself to her seat and telling him, “Go ahead and peek, baby. I’m not shy.”
Marc kept his gaze above the table’s oak rim, but he seemed to have trouble swallowing his cola. “Nah. I’ll wait for the full monty.” He fanned out his cards and studied them for far too long before asking, “Nines?”
Allie sat straighter and smiled. “Nope! Say good-bye to that T-shirt.”
He muttered a curse under his breath. “Lucky for you, I’m not bashful either.”
Marc reached behind his head to grab hold of his collar and pulled off the thin garment with one brisk motion. He shook back his hair and followed with some more trash talk, but his words faded into obscurity as Allie stared at his naked chest.
God bless, he was a sight to behold.
She’d seen him shirtless a time or two, back in high school when he’d run track and played on the soccer team. He’d turned her head then, all lean and solid and tanned. But gorgeous as he’d been, there was no comparison between that boy and the man sitting before her now.
Marc’s shoulders had broadened with time and hard work, rounded with muscles that made her want to hold on tight for a wild ride. She could almost feel the heat of his smooth, hard chest against her own, the ripple of his abs pressed to her flesh.
/>
It was suddenly too hot inside the casino. Allie fanned herself with her cards.
“Like what you see?” he asked with a grin, clearly pleased with himself. When he leaned back in his chair, the tattoo on the inside curve of his tight biceps winked at her—a fleur-de-lis symbol. Allie’s gaze traveled across his torso to another tattoo directly over his heart. This one was burgundy and poorly formed, like a splash of wine staining his skin.
She pointed at it, ignoring his teasing. “What’s that?”
He glanced down at himself and chaffed a thumb over the spot. “This right here?”
Allie nodded.
“A birthmark,” he said. “Must be hereditary, because my daddy and brothers all have it. Pawpaw, too.”
Allie tipped her head and studied the mark, finding it odd that the Dumont men would share the same skin irregularity. Allie didn’t remember much from her high school genetics lessons, but she didn’t think birthmarks ran in families. “All in the same place?”
“Yep.” He shrugged. “Same shape, same color, same location.”
She didn’t recall seeing it when they were kids. “Has it always been there?”
“Since the day I was born.” Marc leaned forward as if to get down to business. “Now quit stalling and move it along. I want that top on the floor.”
“Fine,” she said. “Got any queens?”
Grumbling, he handed over the queen of hearts, but when Allie asked for an ace, he released a low chuckle and pointed at her polo shirt. “Go fish.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she told him while unfastening the buttons below her collar. “I have bikinis that show off more goods than this bra.”
She pulled the polo carefully over her head so as not to snag a curl and placed it in the chair beside her. True to her word, two stretchy panels of black satin covered her breasts, displaying nothing but a deep line of cleavage.
Apparently, that was enough to render Marc speechless. He held up three fingers in a wordless request for cards while shamelessly eyeballing her boobs.
A few moments later, it was Allie’s turn to gape at the sight of Marc in a pair of tight gray boxer briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. They hugged the tops of his strong thighs and drew her gaze upward to the trail of dark hair encircling his navel and dipping below a waistband of cotton so thin it should be a crime. Allie caught herself biting her lip in disappointment when he sat down, something that didn’t escape Marc’s notice.
