“Hey, quiet down.” He grasped her upper arm, and his expression became threatening.
“Let me go, you bully!” she said loudly. More people turned to stare at them. Kristin knew she was putting herself in what could turn out to be very grave danger, but she had no choice. The man was going to force her out of the club now if she didn’t do this. And once out, she knew there would be no way of getting back in. Raising a ruckus, making a scene, was the only way.
She began fearing that her hopes were to be dashed and that she had gotten herself into hot water as the pit boss began pulling her toward the stairs. “You’re hurting my arm!” she declared loudly.
“I’ll hurt more than that,” he growled, his eyes darting to the left and right.
She continued making a scene, when suddenly a tall figure loomed up before her, cutting her short and halting the henchman’s forward motion.
The man wore an elegant tuxedo, which couldn't hide his muscular build. He had black hair and a face that was more than handsome. It was rugged and potently masculine. He had a square jaw and a contemptuous mouth. His brow was quite pronounced above his dark eyes.
He was glaring at Kristin with one eye narrowed, his hands on his hips. He had appeared before them so suddenly, it was as if he had materialized out of thin air. The henchman had to stop short to avoid running into him.
“What’s the trouble?” the tall man asked in a quiet, masculine voice.
“Boss, the dame here is raising a ruckus. I’m trying to show her the way out.”
“He’s trying to break my arm is what he’s doing! Look at the grip he has on me!”
Her false anger seemed to slide off the tall man’s hard, knowing features without registering. His dark eyes beneath the jutting brow looked at her coldly, instantly sizing up the situation.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to . . . to. . . . Who are you, may I ask?”
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
People were still standing around, staring at them. Kristin thought that since the scene she was causing had interrupted the gambling, the tall man would almost certainly welcome the chance to get her out of the main gambling room.
“Can we go into your office to talk?” she asked. She was certain that this was Dallas Hunter.
“No,” he said.
“I ... I came to ask for a job.”
“You can’t have one. Anything else?”
“I’d like to talk to you, please.”
“I’m busy.”
For an instant she felt like screaming: what have you done with my brother! But she knew this was not the way. Behind him, she saw the office he had come out of. Standing in the doorway, watching them, was a beautiful woman who was dressed elegantly. So that’s the type he’s interested in, Kristin thought.
“Blackie, escort the young lady to the door. Politely."
“Yessir, Mr. Hunter.”
“Leave word that she’s not to be admitted again.”
“Right.” The henchman named Blackie began pulling Kristin toward the stairs again. She did not resist. When they began descending down to the exit on the first floor, though, she turned back for an instant to look at Dallas Hunter. He was disappearing into his office, his arm guiding the beautiful woman in before him.
All right, thought Kristin. If that’s the way to play the game. . . .
CHAPTER 3
The gown she bought was silver lamé, shiny and extremely slinky. It made her blush just to see herself in the dress shop mirror. It clung to every curve, emphasizing the contrast between her slender frame and her full, shapely bosom. The gown was sleeveless and had a cowl front that dipped very low, exposing a good deal of her cleavage. It was backless too, meaning she had to buy a special slip to wear under it.
But it was worth it. The effect was truly stunning. Even the clerk whistled softly as she checked the dress for fit while Kristin stood before the mirror.
“I don’t know who you’re out to kill,” said the girl, “but this gown sure will do it.”
“I feel embarrassed wearing it,” Kristin admitted.
“You’ll get over it. You’d better if you don’t want to ruin the effect.” She smiled in a friendly way, but her eyes were pure business as she imparted some of the wisdom she had learned from selling high fashion clothing to upper class ladies.
“You can’t let the dress dominate you, as you’re doing now. You’re letting yourself be cowed by it. The only sort of woman who can wear a dress like this is one with true beauty, like you have. But the only sort who can wear it effectively is one who has beauty and the self-assurance that goes with it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean?”
“Stand straighter. Raise your chin. Pull your shoulders back. You’re hunching forward slightly, unconsciously. You’re doing this, you see, because you’re not used to wearing anything so revealing, and you subconsciously want to compensate for the show of cleavage.
"You don’t have to tell me you’re not used to wearing this kind of dress.” She smiled. “I can see it. But I can also see that you have the poise and grace that can bring it off perfectly if you just stop being so intimidated by the style.”
Kristin knew that what the girl was saying was true. Just wearing the dress would not accomplish what she wanted to accomplish. She would have to wear the dress and also act the part. She threw her shoulders back proudly now and raised her chin slightly.
She saw that her usual open, bright expression wouldn't work for the sort of image she needed to project. She deliberately erased her usual expresdsion. And she raised her eyebrows in an aloof manner.
“There!” exclaimed the girl, smiling and clapping her hands. “How haughty you are! How arrogant! You learn quickly, I’ll say that for you. Oh, I’d love to see the man who’s the target you’re zeroing in on. The poor sap doesn’t stand a chance.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Kristin softly. “But I don’t think you are.”
She remembered how tough and hard-boiled Dallas Hunter had looked. He probably ate little girls like her, a dozen a day. But at least this dress, coupled with her new poise and false image, would give her a fighting chance.
Later that evening she was in a cab on her way to the Crimson Club, her stomach knotted with anticipation and tension. She knew what she was getting into. She knew what would happen if her plan succeeded. Deep in her heart she almost wished the plan would fail so she could be spared that particular fate. But frightened and adverse as she was to what might lie in store for her, she knew she had to go through with this. Chad’s life might depend on it.
She caught the cabdriver looking at her hungrily in the rearview mirror. She expected him to make some lewd comment, but instead he did something totally unexpected: He lowered his eyes and appeared humbled. Thanks to the way she had made herself up and the way she carried herself, she looked like a woman of class and breeding. The cabdriver was actually intimidated. For all he knew, she could be the wife or mistress of a very highly placed, powerful man.
He could not see whether she had a wedding ring, for she wore long white gloves that came up to her elbows. She wore gold earrings, and at her throat was a diamond necklace. It was the most expensive piece of jewelry her mother had owned. Kristin’s father had given it to his wife on the day their first child, Chad, was bom.
On the clasp was a tiny inscription: To Molly, with love. Actually, Kristin’s own legal name was Molly Kristin Fleming. She had been named Molly in honor of her mother, though no one had ever called her anything but Kristin.
Kristin moved her hand up to touch her hair, and she felt sharply saddened. She had, very reluctantly, had it bobbed—cut short in the latest avant-garde fashion. This made her look older than her years, and much more sophisticated than she felt.
It left her slender neck bare, highlighting the beauty of her profile. And, for the first time, she had even added touches of makeup to her eyes and cheeks. Kristin wore no coat,
even though it was chilly out. She had none that did justice to her flashy, expensive silver gown, and she could not afford to buy one.
“Here we are, ma’am,” said the cabby, stopping in front of the Crimson Club. She tipped him and got out.
The first important test came when the peephole opened after she knocked on the club door.
“Granny sent me,” she said to the visible eye. She did not smile. She was playing a role and she had to stick to it no matter what. When the door did not open at the password, she looked away, appearing bored and unconcerned, as if harboring no doubts whatever that she would be admitted.
There was a long hesitation. Then the door opened fully. The doorman bowed to her and said, “Good evening.” Kristin nodded as she passed by him. He was the same thin, mustached man who had been on the door yesterday and had received instructions to not admit her again. He did not recognize her. She had passed her first test.
When the maître d’ started to seat her in the dinner club, she told him not to bother, that she had come for the upstairs room. He bowed solicitously and watched her ascend the stairs.
The gambling activities were going full blast when she arrived. The room was filled with smoke, the sound of talking, the clicking of dice and the shuffling of cards. The gamblers were all well-dressed, but the strain of several hours of tension was evident in the rumpled look adorning some of the men’s clothes, or the out-of-place curls and strands of hair hanging down from the women’s coiffeurs.
Kristin went straight to the exchange window and traded in 300 dollars for stacks of blue 20 dollar and red ten dollar chips. She did not bother getting any chips of lesser denomination. She could not afford to lose this money. It was the major part of her life savings. But she viewed it as an investment—an investment that might save Chad’s life.
She wanted to give the impression she was adventure seeking, and the way to do it was to gamble recklessly. Also, she had to have a believable reason to come here tonight. Otherwise, she would be thrown out again.
She knew she might be thrown out anyway, and soon. Blackie, the thug who had escorted her out yesterday, had noticed her. He had squinted his eyes and stared, not quite believing it was really the same girl. She did not return his look, which would have given her away for sure.
Instead, she placed a very large bet, 100 dollars, on the color red, and another 50 on the “odd” designation. The bet was placed by putting her chips on the green felt roulette table, over the desired designation. Other players were placing their bets. As soon as all the bets were placed, the wheel was spun.
Blackie came up close to Kristin now, still looking at her scrutinizingly, as if not believing his eyes. The wheel came to a halt, and the steel ball landed in a slot. “Number nine,” called the croupier. “Number nine is the winner.” A few subdued groans greeted his proclamation, as well as a few exclamations of joy. Kristin watched in amazement as her $150 was pushed over to her by the croupier’s long-handled rake, along with $150 more. She had just made $150 in less than a minute. It was hard to believe.
Blackie touched her on the shoulder. She turned to look at him haughtily, as if impatient at his interruption.
“Uh . . . pardon me, uh, ma’am, but . . . aren’t you the same woman who was here yesterday?” he stammered.
“I’m busy,” said Kristin coldly. “I came here to gamble. Do you mind?” She turned back to the roulette table and put her original $150 and her newly won $150 on the even and the black designations this time.
Blackie didn’t know what to do. He glanced at the croupier. The expression he got back was one of warning, making him even more cautious. Don’t monkey with the big bettors, the expression seemed to say.
The main problem Blackie faced was one of class distinction. He would not hesitate at all to be rough and forceful with Kristin as she had appeared yesterday, for he knew she was not of a high social station. Now, though, this woman he was looking at could easily be a “society dame,” as he referred to them in his mind. He frowned, bewildered, and left.
When he returned a few minutes later, Dallas Hunter was proceeding him down the aisle. He did not have any trouble deciding whether or not this was the same girl he had kicked out of his club yesterday. He recognized her instantly, but his eyes showed that the effect of her transformation was not lost on him. His expression was one of admiration for something done very skillfully, and he was displaying a look of piqued interest. He took a place next to Kristin at the table and stood watching her, silently. All the players were standing; there were no chairs at the roulette wheels.
Kristin had doubled her initial buy-in, but now she was losing part of her winnings. “Nine, red,” called the croupier when the ball settled into its slot in the wheel. Kristin watched as her bet was raked in by the croupier’s rake. She took another 200 in chips and put them on the green felt of the roulette table.
She wished she could concentrate on what she was doing. This was a very unusual and exciting experience for her. Seeing such large amounts of money coming and going—and knowing that it was hers and that she could not afford to lose it—would have been worth concentrating on. But all her attention was focused on the tall, hard featured man at her side, even though she took great pains to not let him know she was in the least concerned by his presence. She pointedly ignored him.
“Twenty-seven, red!” called the croupier. She had won again! Her 200 plus 200 more were raked in to her.
“I told you not to come back here,” Hunter said to her, quietly. His voice was low enough so that no one else heard or paid any attention. The other players were all too involved in the game.
“I like gambling,” Kristin answered, keeping her eyes on the felt play area of the roulette table, not looking at him. “This is a gambling club, isn’t it?”
“I don’t believe you like gambling. I don’t believe you’ve even done it before.”
“Nineteen, red!” called the croupier.
Kristin turned to Dallas Hunter for the first time. “For someone who hasn’t done it before, I’m taking a good deal of your money.”
Hunter shook his head, still expressionless. “You just gave yourself away again. Any real gambler knows that the amount you’re winning is not what we call ‘money.’ It’s what we call ‘petty cash.’ ” He waited until her next bet was finished. She won that also. Then he said, “Pick up your chips and come with me.”
She did as he asked, slipping her chips into her purse and turning toward his office. She made a point of concealing her delight at suddenly being so much richer than she had been earlier. Hunter nodded and held his hand out, indicating for her to precede him across the casino floor.
When they reached the padded, quilted leather door at the far end of the room, Hunter reached forward and opened it for her. She entered the richly paneled, expensively appointed room. He followed her in, then shut the door. He moved over to the large, polished mahogany desk and sat casually on the edge of it. He lit a cigarette from a silver case and then stared at her, silently.
Finally he said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, babe, but I don’t like it.”
“I came here to gamble.”
“Yeah. And yesterday you came to get a job. Yesterday you needed the fifty cents an hour a cocktail waitress makes, and today you’re putting down two-C bets. What’s the story?”
“I never said I wanted the job because I needed the money. I said I wanted it. Period.”
“Uh huh. The lady likes to slave away for peanuts. Protestant work ethic and all that, huh?”
“The lady likes adventure,” she said. “Fast action. Excitement. New worlds to conquer.” She looked at him haughtily, defiantly, putting a challenge into her eyes. She felt thrilled to see him staring back at her with an equal intensity. The thrill came from succeeding in her role, from having him accept her on the terms she was trying to present herself as. It didn’t come from anticipating a sexual situation. That only terrified her, even though she realized she
was pushing herself in that direction. She instinctively knew it was the only way she might succeed in arranging to he with him long enough to get the information she needed.
He stared at her challenging blue eyes for a moment, then casually stood up from the desk and came toward her. He stood close, looking down at her in a powerful, sexual way. When he put his finger to her bare shoulder and slowly drew it down and across her cleavage, stroking the exposed part of her bosom, she flinched.
Hunter grinned and bent his head forward, as if to kiss her. Kristin steeled herself for this, forcing herself to remain still, to not jerk her head away as she would under any other circumstances. Instead of kissing her, though, he just looked in her eyes, knowingly.
“You can’t bring it off, babe. You can doll yourself up to look the part of a sophisticated woman, but you don’t have what it takes inside. Look at you standing here all tense, like a statue, sacrificing yourself to get whatever it is you want. Tell me now: What the hell is it you really want? You’ve got me curious.”
“I told you already,” she insisted, trying to put force into the words that still sounded like a feeble protest. “And I’m not as little girlish as you obviously think.” To prove this, she suddenly rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. Then she quickly backed away. Her expression said, There, does that prove it to you?
He said nothing. He looked grim. He came to her, grasped her hair in his fist and jerked her head back. His lips descended on hers, brutally hard, searingly. He forced her mouth open and kissed her passionately. It was so sudden and strong and sensual, it made Kristin moan in response.
When he released her, she backed away, her eyes wide.
“That’s a kiss,” he said. “What you did was something else entirely.” His expression was cold, but Kristin sensed that it was partly false, that the man himself was not cold and heartless.
“Look, kid,” Hunter went on, “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying; so I’ll have to spell it out for you. You’re a nice little girl, and the dress you wore and the way you had your hair yesterday suit you a lot better than this getup you’re wearing now. If you’re not careful, someone’s going to take you up on your offer. Then you’ll really be in trouble.”
Passion's Wicked Torment Page 2
