These Golden Pleasures

by Valerie Sherwood

  Seattle was a “hot town,” they’d been told, and so it proved to be. Roxanne had never seen so many saloons and bars in her life. The hilly city on Puget Sound was literally bursting at its seams. Daily, every kind of conveyance brought people into the city, and the trains were always jammed. On the waterfront the shipyards resounded to the noise as a “Klondike fleet” was hastily thrown together. Advertised proudly as floating palaces, these ships would make the four thousand two hundred-mile round trip and sail right up the Yukon to Dawson City. Denby told Roxanne they couldn’t afford to wait for that luxury. Along with other impatient souls, he rejected the rich man’s route and chose instead to enter the Klondike by the nearer back door, sailing up the inland waterway and crossing the mountain passes to the high lakes that fed the headwaters of the upper Yukon. From these lakes the current would sweep their boats down to Dawson and the Land of Gold.

  Roxanne hardly cared. She had spent some time wondering whether Case, who had kept so close to Denby during the train ride, would lose interest in them once they reached Seattle. With mingled excitement and dread, she observed that when they checked into the Globe Hotel, Case was right behind them. “Close to the docks,” pointed out Denby. “Well recommended.” She wondered if Case had recommended it.

  While Roxanne unpacked, Denby prowled the stores of Klondike outfitters on Front Street. He was chagrined at the prices, which had doubled and tripled overnight, and came home to tell Roxanne indignantly he’d been charged a dime for his regular five-cent cigar.

  Worse, he’d discovered all sailings were booked for the foreseable future. What few tickets there were had been bought up by scalpers, who were offering them for exorbitant prices. He’d found a man who had two tickets but wanted fifteen hundred dollars apiece for them—ten times their worth, Denby fumed. Roxanne’s heart sank; she didn’t know how much his brother had sent him, but she was sure Denby couldn’t afford three thousand dollars for their tickets.

  That evening Denby told her he was going to play poker with the boys. She knew that meant Case. She’d seen the men seated around a table already playing cards as she passed his room.

  Denby came back late, looking dispirited, and stumbled into bed without touching her. She presumed he’d lost.

  The next day she strolled about hilly Seattle, admired the view from Queen Anne Hill, the blue lakes and bluer skies, and studied the suddenly overworked shipyards of Puget Sound, where the noise of hammering never ceased. All the tired old tugs and scows and paddle-wheelers were being refurbished to make the trip to Alaska. Many of them didn’t look seaworthy even to her landlubber’s eyes.

  At the docks she ran across Case. He was standing, tall and somberly dressed, beneath the wheeling sea birds, his gray eyes studying some far distant spot. A moment later he turned and saw her. Feeling breathless, Roxanne watched him approach.

  “Mrs. Barrington.” He made a formal bow, but the gaze he bent on her was anything but formal—it was hot and penetrating. Roxanne’s blood pounded in her ears. He was so damnably attractive, she could feel herself blushing.

  “Have you—have you been able to book passage to Alaska yet?” she asked, when the pulsing silence between them became unbearable.

  “My ticket was waiting for me when I arrived. I wired a friend to pick it up for me.”

  “That’s what we should have done,” said Roxanne in a breathless voice. “But we didn’t know anybody here. Which ship is yours?”

  “The North Star” He indicated the best-looking steamer of the lot. “She leaves tomorrow.”

  Roxanne’s eyelids fluttered as that steady gaze returned to hold her fast. “How nice to have friends. . . .”

  “My friend picked up two tickets,” he said dryly. “She was going along with me, but then something else came up, so she’s left me with one to spare.”

  She! So his friend was a woman. . . . Her unruly heart pounded indignantly. She forced herself to think of Denby, desperately prowling the steamship offices. “Would you sell your extra ticket?” she wondered.

  Case smiled—a flashing smile that lit his hard face like winter sunshine breaking across the ice. Boldly those metallic gray eyes traveled from the top of her head where her jaunty little sailor hat perched atop her hair, gleaming gold in the sunshine, down her lovely face, pausing at her luminous blue eyes, caressing her cheek where the color came and went beneath her sheer skin, past her slightly parted, expectant lips. His gaze continued down the white column of her throat that pulsed slightly under this inspection, on across the gentle swell of her young breasts and past them—moving slowly along her narrow waist and softly curving hips to her elegant legs—now outlined in her long-skirted suit by the strong wind from Puget Sound.

  “I’d give you my extra ticket, Mrs. Barrington,” he said softly, in a voice that left no doubt as to his meaning, “if you’d share my stateroom.”

  Looking up into his dangerous face, the thought of what sharing his stateroom would entail went through her almost like physical pain. Under the pressure of those steady eves, her clothes seemed to disappear, her hat to float away and her hair, loosed miraculously from its pins, to cascade joyously about her suddenly naked shoulders. She imagined herself swaying toward him, clad only in a silky gown, filled with desire. Saw herself melt into those lean arms, saw herself pressed against that lithe, hard body. Then her gown too floated away as their naked figures, clasped in passion, toppled slowly toward the bunk.

  Her senses rocked—then righted themselves as reality returned. She was standing on the Seattle dock with both feet planted firmly on the boards. She was a married woman and this man before her was deep trouble. Cheeks flaming from fear that he might have seen an answering glow burning deep in her own eyes, she said hastily, “I meant—for my husband.”

  Case threw back his head and laughed. “No, I’d planned to share my stateroom with something softer than a husband.” His narrow gaze continued to study her flushed face. “But I wouldn’t mind wagering the ticket, Mrs. Barrington. You might tell your husband that.”

  He bowed again and left her. Roxanne, her heart thudding, stood on the wind-whipped waterfront and watched him go, a lean somber figure moving rapidly away from her . . . just as tomorrow his ship would depart from her, moving out into the broad Pacific. Her hands clenched at the thought of his leaving. She didn’t want him to leave. She walked about, trying not to face the truth, trying to let the brisk salt wind cool her hot cheeks. But before she left the docks for her hotel, she had admitted it to herself, told herself it was only because she found her nights with Denby so—so unsatisfying. Whatever the reason for it, the truth was there before her as she hurried along: She wanted the lean gambler from nowhere, wanted him desperately.

  As she walked, she recalled what he’d said about wagering his ticket. Was he saying he’d allow Denby to win the ticket because of her? Pack Denby off to the Klondike while he missed the boat and lingered in Seattle . . . with her? She looked down in hot mortification at the thought and found that her hands were shaking. She twisted them together to steady them.

  Her thoughts pricked at her. Why shouldn’t she let this happen? More than Case wanted to linger in her arms, Denby wanted passage to the Klondike. Why should she not give him his heart’s desire?

  She was still fighting a fierce internal battle with her turbulent emotions when she got back to her hotel room and found Denby lying on the bed, his arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a disgruntled expression.

  “Roxanne, did you know people are even stealing tickets to Alaska?” he asked moodily. “Just like they’ve stolen all the dogs in this town to use them pulling sleds up there.”

  “I know.” Roxanne took off her hat and tossed it on the dresser, smoothing her hair, studying her reflection nervously in the mirror. “I ran into that man you gamble with—the one called Case.” Her voice was casual but it had a ragged edge. “He told me he has an extra ticket on the North Star and he’s going to wager it.” She swall
owed. She could hardly believe she had actually said it.

  Denby sat up, his face alert. “Case told you that?”

  She nodded. “At the docks just now.”

  “The North Star . . . Roxanne, that’s a big steamer.” He got up and walked restlessly about. Roxanne watched him miserably, wondering if she’d done the right thing.

  Denby was very quiet at dinner. With a worried frown, Roxanne observed his resolve build. She almost threw her arms around him and begged him not to go when he announced shortly after dinner he was going down the hall to play cards with the boys.

  After he left, she climbed into bed. Too restless to read, she lay in the dark while unbidden thoughts of Case, of his vigorous, sinister, totally-male charm, played in her mind. Now she knew what it was to desire a pirate or a highwayman. The feelings of all those women in the novels she had read were suddenly clear to her. She wanted Case because he was dangerous and he was there. She lost herself in glorious imaginings of Case’s warm, lean body next to hers. She sighed and moved gently in the bed, her flesh atingle with yearning. Down the hall, she told herself dreamily, he was dealing out the cards. He was losing his ticket to Denby, thus arranging Denby’s departure, and their lover’s liaison. In guilty happiness, she drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke to the sound of the door opening. Denby staggered in, the light from the hall illuminating his haggard face. She didn’t have to ask him to know that he had lost.

  “Oh, God, Roxanne, I lost a thousand dollars,” he muttered, and flung himself onto the bed, his shoulders shaken by uncontrollable sobs. When she tried to comfort him, he shook her off. Jumping up, he grabbed a whiskey bottle from the dresser and began taking big gulps of the fiery liquid. “I stayed till the last, Roxanne, trying to win it back—but I couldn’t. The game’s over and I’m down a thousand. And there’s no chance to win it back, because tomorrow morning Case is sailing on the North Star.” He gulped more liquor. Finally, turning up the bottle, he poured the remainder of its contents down his throat. Roxanne watched him in alarm, expecting him to have a heart attack. Instead he threw the bottle at the wall, where it crashed with a report that made her jump.

  “Damn Case,” Denby muttered thickly. “I think he cheats!” And stumbled to the bed and swayed dizzily. Roxanne leaped forward to break his fall. With difficulty she got him turned over, got his feet on the bed, got his shoes off; he was dead to the world. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, it was better this way. Then he wouldn’t have to face the consequences of what he’d done until morning.

  But for herself, she knew a blackness of the soul. She felt used, tricked, cheated. And guilty. There was no excuse for what she had done. Between them, she and Case had set the trap that had destroyed her husband.

  Bitterly she stared at Denby, lying passed out on the bed. He looked young and helpless and defeated. Out of a black rage, she clenched her hands achingly. Damn him, Case had used her! Used her to destroy Denby! As if she hadn’t done enough to Denby in Augusta. . . .

  Her fury mounted until it throbbed in her head. She began to pace distractedly. Fool that she was! Case had played with her. Oh, he had known the devastating effect of his masculinity on her, had seen her response flare up in her eyes. He’d never meant to send Denby away so that he could stay in Seattle with her—he’d only meant to lure Denby into his poker game so he could win a thousand dollars!

  Damn him! On a gust of rage, Roxanne pulled on her clothes and, with hell in her heart, stormed down to Case’s room, striking the door a vicious blow with her fist.

  Case answered her knock attired in a white shirt open at the front, and dark trousers. Behind him the room was empty. The players had all gone home. Only a table littered with chips, glasses, and bottles and surrounded by straight chairs betrayed that they had been there. Over one chair were draped Case’s vest and coat. She guessed that he had stayed up to pack for the morning, when his ship would weigh anchor for the Land of the Midnight Sun.

  To her utter fury, he did not look at all surprised to see her. His unsmiling poker face exhibited no emotion as she spun past him into the room. With one violent sweep of her arm, she cleared the poker table— bottles, glasses and chips all flying into a litter of broken glass on the floor. She whirled to face him, panting.

  He was watching her with a little smile on his dark lean face. “Quiet, you’ll wake the hotel. Remember your reputation, Mrs. Barrington.”

  She dashed toward him, her arm upraised to strike. That arm was caught in a grip of steel, held fast. Her brilliant eyes smoldered up at him as his amused face came close to her own. “You tricked me!” she cried wildly.

  “Tricked you?” Case’s dark eyebrows rose. “Your husband fancies himself a gambler, Mrs. Barrington. He wagered a thousand for a ticket worth fifteen hundred—and lost. That’s all.”

  Bitter and contemptuous, Roxanne’s laugh rang out. “I might have known you’d say that—a man like you!” She jerked free and turned to go.

  His lean body blocked her path. “It was my way of bringing you to me,” he said softly.

  She caught her breath and looked up at him, this man who was leaving for Alaska in the morning. Complex, cold, calculating, he stood before her. His white shirt sleeves were rolled back, and she could see his lean forearms. The top buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned to reveal a hard, muscular chest. Those tarnished silver eyes bored into hers.

  . . . my way of bringing you to me, he had said. And here she was. Feeling the pressure of his steady gaze, the force of his strong relentless will. Desperately she wanted to hate him, but as she stood there so close to him she could feel her anger being swept away, lost in the hot fire of another emotion. They faced each other in the dim light, a man and a woman, silent, rapt. Theirs was a confrontation of wills as they stared at each other—and in the end her eyes were the first to drop. Her lashes wavered and fell to make dark wings across her soft cheeks. She stood uncertainly, hands clenching and unclenching, her round breasts rising and falling with her ragged breathing.

  “Roxanne.” His voice was low, compelling. “Look at me.”

  Scarlet, she turned her head away. He took her slender shoulders in his hands, and she shivered at the contact with those strong, delicate fingers—fingers whose sensitive touch could differentiate between the thickness of two cards or feel the spots on the dice as he rolled them out on a green felt table. “Roxanne.” Again that coaxing voice caressed her. “Look at me, Roxanne.”

  Against her will, she found her head tilting upward and her eyes, now big and dark and distrustful, looked into his.

  “I must go,” she said hoarsely.

  “Oh, God, you remind me of someone else,” he muttered. “So long ago. . . .” And clasped her to him almost roughly and buried his face, in a sudden fierce gesture, in her hair.

  Roxanne’s whole body trembled. There, pressed against him, for a terrible moment another man’s face stormed through her consciousness. But it was not Denby’s accusing face that rose before her—it was Rhodes’s. Rhodes whom she had loved so wildly, and who had betrayed that love in Baltimore.

  With a sob, she relaxed against Case as his grip tightened possessively about her. Tingling, she felt his hands moving over her body, felt her dress loosened suddenly, felt it eased down around her shoulders, slid down over her hips.

  “I never meant—” she whispered.

  “Hush,” he said. “Don’t talk.” And set his mouth over hers, rendering speech impossible.

  Roxanne—accustomed only to Denby’s inept love-making—responded throbbingly to that kiss. For the first time in so long, she was being held in a man’s arms—not a boy’s. A dangerous man, whose kisses scorched her and whose fingers seared her white skin as they traveled exploringly against her silk chemise, fumbling with the ribbon that held the top of it. The bow gave and the satin ribbon slipped away easily. His deft right hand came into fiery contact with her breasts as he brushed aside the top of her undergarment impatiently. She felt her skin prickle as
the silk slid down her back and came to rest on her hips.

  His lips left hers as he fitted a hand around the small of her back and with his other hand brushed away her silky slip so that it rustled down to the floor.

  “No,” she said, recoiling. “No, I—”

  “I understand why you came. You want your husband’s losses made good. I am prepared to give you that.”

  “But I’m not—” She stopped, feeling dizzy. What had she been about to say? That she was not a harlot? But was she not behaving like one? Her price was merely higher.

  A hot wash of shame flooded over her, flushing her pale skin, and she could not meet his eyes. For he had reminded her of Denby’s existence, something she had for the moment forgotten. Yet . . . she had wronged Denby by delivering him into Case’s hands, and now she must make that right. What other way was there? She must set aside the consideration that she was doubly wronging him by what she was about to do. This was the only way to get the ticket for which Denby had gambled a fortune and lost.

  Case stepped back and looked at her, as she stood, her garments tumbled at her feet, like Venus rising from a foam of cloth and silk. His silver eyes flamed to molten metal as they traveled boldly up and down her figure, naked except for silk stockings held by pink satin garters and high-heeled satin shoes. His avid gaze rested tenderly on her straight slender shoulders, her pearly pink-tipped breasts and hand-span waist, her softly rounded hips and tapering elegant legs. He reached out a hand and touched lightly, experimentally, the soft silky triangle of dark-blond hair between those lovely legs. Roxanne quivered and felt her stomach muscles contract. In sudden panic she would have turned and run then—no matter what the cost, but he swept her up against him, crushed her lips and breasts exultantly against his hard muscular body, and a breathless moment later they were on the bed.

  “Let me help you get these off.” His hand shivered down her thigh, snapped a satin garter softly. The impact of that snapping garter rocked her senses, already swimming. She clung to him as, with a low laugh, he pulled off her shoes and eased the satin garters down around her legs. And then the stockings, ever so slowly, his hands exploring as he went.