Covert Cowboy

by Harper Allen

  Con stared at his friend. “You haven’t lost it at all, have you, Cap?” he rasped. “You’re still the sharpest knife in the drawer, and then some. Sharp enough to cut me, at least.” He attempted to keep the annoyance from his voice. “How long have you known?”

  “A few days.” All of a sudden Wiley’s casual manner dropped from him like a glove. He met Con’s glare, his own normally mild brown gaze sparked with fury. “You know what really gets my goat, Burke? Not the fact that you kept this up your sleeve, although that’s bad enough on a sensitive investigation like this one. But what’s harder to swallow is that you underestimated me. That shows incredible arrogance on your part. Like I said, maybe I made a mistake about you.”

  A few moments ago he’d shrugged the exact same accusation off, Con acknowledged. This time it stung, and not only because it was a slur on his own capabilities.

  If he’d learned one thing over the years, he told himself in chagrin, it was that friends were harder to come by than a straight flush in a game of Cincinnati draw. He’d been lucky enough to have had two of them—men he would unhesitatingly go to the wall for, men he’d known would go to the wall for him, too, no questions asked. One of those friends had been Roland. The other was the tough and loyal man confronting him right now with some hard home truths. And although Charpentier had been taken from him by DeMarco, if Wiley washed his hands of him it would be no one’s fault but his own.

  “First cousin once removed to Sky. A tenuous relation by marriage only to Marilyn. Her stepmother’s my aunt.” He cleared his throat. “Hell, Wiley, have I been that big a jerk?”

  “You know you have.” Although Longbottom’s tone was crisp, it lacked its previous antagonism. “The Delacroix sisters, right? The eldest being your mother, Felicity, then Celia and finally your aunt Jasmine.”

  “Maman likes people to assume the age order is reversed, but yeah, they’re sisters.” Con looked away. “Celia’s the only one who moved away from Louisiana. She ended up in Colorado with her first husband, Dr. Edward Grace, who came close to destroying her before she found the courage to divorce him.”

  “As a boy you used to stay summers with Teddy Grace and your aunt, didn’t you?” Wiley’s question wasn’t posed as such, and with a disconcerted start Con realized the director had done his research. Longbottom went on. “And if I’m correct, you had one last visit with Celia after her marriage to Samuel Langworthy—coincidentally, at a time when Marilyn was also in Colorado, visiting her father. Goddammit, Con, the woman knows you! How could you have jeopardized this case by keeping something like that from me?”

  “It probably wasn’t even necessary to use a fake ID and name. She doesn’t remember me,” Con said tonelessly. “I doubt Marilyn remembers much about that visit to her father. She was five years old and her world had been ripped apart. I was only a couple of years older than her, but even so, I knew I’d never seen anyone so fragile. Or so beautiful,” he added in an undertone.

  He felt something cold pressing against his palm. Looking down at his hand, he saw he’d unconsciously retrieved the silver dollar he carried in his waistcoat pocket. “Even if you kick me off the case, Wiley, I’m sticking close to Marilyn and I’ll track down DeMarco before he decides she’s another liability he needs to get rid of. Yeah, I wish the relationship was something other than it is between us, but if she learns I’m the nephew of the woman she feels was responsible for taking her father away from her all those years ago, she’ll think I’ve played her for a fool.”

  “Haven’t you?” The older man looked troubled.

  Con shook his head. “Marilyn Langworthy’s the reason I never married, Cap. I’d sooner break these ten gambler’s fingers of mine than hurt one hair of her head.”

  He hesitated. Longbottom was a friend, yes, but not even Charpentier had guessed at the secret he’d carried around most of his life. He’d only ever told one other person what he was about to tell Wiley, and that other person had been Marilyn herself. He took a deep breath and went on, his tone harsh.

  “She doesn’t remember me, but like I said, I remember her. And I remember her telling her brother, Josh, that when she grew up she was going to have a family of her own that no one would be able to tear apart. I can’t give her children. If I’d met Marilyn in the normal way we might have gotten past the Aunt Celia thing, but we never could have created the family she needs so much. I wasn’t going to be the man who took that dream away from her.”

  Wiley exhaled. “But now the picture’s changed. She’s carrying the child she’s wanted all her life.”

  Con nodded. “That’s right, the picture’s changed.” He held his friend’s gaze expressionlessly. “So am I off the case or not?”

  “What I told Colleen stands.” Wiley reached past him and opened the door of Con’s car. “Looks like there’s some nasty weather brewing, Burke. You’d best be heading back before the driving gets hairy.”

  He stood there, a short man, balding, and carrying a little too much weight for his stocky frame. Wiley Longbottom was true blue, Con thought. He was a friend.

  “This reporting-in schedule.” Con slid in behind the wheel and inserted his key in the ignition. With a grimace he jacked the car’s heater all the way up and set the fan’s blower on high. “Every few days suit you?”

  He looked up in time to see Wiley grin. “That’d be fine. And Burke?”

  Con grinned back, relieved that they were on their old footing again. “What?”

  “I hope you run into Tony Corso at that gambling club he frequents. If you do, good luck at the card table.”

  “Hell, I always was lucky at cards.” Con’s grin faded. He shrugged, and moved the gearshift into reverse. “It’s my love life that’s been shot to pieces lately. But I’m workin’ on that, Cap. I’m workin’ on that.”

  “COULD I LOOK more out of place?” Marilyn muttered as she lowered herself into the chair the maitre d’ was holding out for her. She sat down before he had a chance to push it closer to the table, heaved herself slightly off the seat again, and sat down for the second time. She looked up to see Con waiting politely before he took his own seat.

  “The eagle has landed,” she snapped. “Or the blimp, I should say. Tell me again why I’m here, Con.”

  “Because I wanted the pleasure of your company,” he said without missing a beat. “What you drinking, cher’? Perrier? Soda and lime? Bourbon and branch for me,” he told the waiter hovering by his elbow.

  “Soda and lime, I suppose.” Marilyn heard the peevish note in her voice, but couldn’t suppress it.

  Whereas once upon a time her svelte pre-pregnancy self would have glided into this room like a swan, surveyed the competition and basked in the comforting knowledge that she had every other woman there beat hands down in the elegance department, right now her confidence was nonexistent.

  She’d expanded to the point where she couldn’t fit into any of her dressy dresses, so when Con had dropped this last-minute dinner date on her earlier today she’d had to go out and scour the stores for something to wear. She’d despairingly come up with what she had on now—a deep purple, shot-silk tunic-like affair with, heaven forbid, a Nehru collar. It billowed over elastic-waisted pants in the same shot-silk fabric. It was designer. It had cost too much. Every other female in the room seemed to be wearing backless and skintight and black—exactly the kind of dress pre-pregnancy Marilyn would have worn to an exclusive club.

  “Merde, the rings.”

  Before she knew what he intended, Con reached into his pocket. The next moment he’d lightly grasped her hand and was slipping something over her finger. It was a plain gold band, she saw, a match for the one he was suddenly wearing himself.

  “Is this a joke?” She started to tug the ring off, but he laid his hand over hers.

  “It’s not a joke, it’s a disguise.” He lowered his tone. “You asked why you had to come here with me tonight, cher’. Aside from the fact that I really did want to take you out for dinner,
I need to look like a married man, especially later when I wander on out back to the gaming room and ask to sit in on a couple of hands of poker.”

  “I don’t—” Seeing his warning look, Marilyn fell silent as their waiter returned with the drinks order. As the man left she went on impatiently. “I don’t get it. I thought we were on the lookout for Tony. If he shows up he won’t be fooled into thinking you and I are a married couple, and if he doesn’t come here tonight, why bother trying to convince strangers?”

  “Because without you I look like a pro, honey.” Con shrugged. “With a very pregnant wife at my side I just might be taken for an amateur ripe for the fleecing, and the local sharks are gonna think they smell fresh meat. I won’t have any trouble joining a game.”

  “Except that as soon as you walk away with the whole pot your cover’s blown,” she said skeptically. “Which means you won’t be invited back again anytime soon.”

  “Yeah, you right, like they say back home.” A slow smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Losing on purpose takes almost as much skill as winning. If and when our high-rolling friend does turn up, I’ll have established such a reputation as a free-spending rube he won’t be able to resist getting in on the action.”

  He frowned. “At that point I start playing it by ear. All I want is an opportunity to get close to the bastard.”

  “And all I want is to stay as far away from him as I can.”

  Marilyn pressed her lips together, wishing she hadn’t been so frank. She picked up her menu, scanned the selections, and laid it back on the table again. “Pan-fried trout,” she said decisively. “And don’t let me even look at the dessert cart when they wheel it by afterward.”

  “Why not?” He looked genuinely astonished. “They probably don’t hold a candle to New Orleans desserts, but what does? Indulge yourself, cher’.”

  “I’d rather fit into a size four again one day,” she answered promptly. “If I keep indulging myself, as you put it, outfits like this will become a staple in my wardrobe.” She gestured with distaste at the shot-silk tunic.

  “That’s new?” His tone was carefully noncommittal, but looking up quickly, Marilyn was sure she detected a glint of humor in the green eyes watching her. “Did you buy it today?”

  “No, I waylaid the Pakistani ambassador to the United Nations and made him hand over his outfit.” Her eyes shot daggers at him. “Of course I bought it today. And I hate it, but at least it’s big.”

  “Damn straight it’s big.” Now the humor was impossible to miss. “I can barely see what you look like underneath all that, cher’.”

  “That’s the whole point.” She frowned. “Let’s talk about something other than me and my beach-ball figure. What’s so great about New Orleans desserts?”

  Across the table from her he leaned back in his chair. “The same thing that’s so great about the city herself, sugar. They’re sinful and decadent and sexy as hell. Berries Artesia. That’s served in a syrup made with Pinot Noir wine and vanilla bean. Or Creole bread pudding with whiskey sauce—you eat that and then you have to say ten Hail Mary’s because it’s just so wickedly good.”

  He grinned. “I’ll bet even you couldn’t resist my specialty, though. Chocolate crepes with fresh strawberries. The trick to them being you feed the strawberries to your sweetheart by hand, one by one.”

  “And then you go to church and say penance?” she asked weakly. The man was talking about food, she told herself. There was no need to get all hot and bothered over a discussion on recipes, for goodness’ sake.

  One dark eyebrow lifted. “Oh, no, darlin’ heart,” he drawled. “Then the two of you go to bed and sin all night long.”

  Now hot and bothered was appropriate, Marilyn thought, feeling a delicious tingling sensation right down in the very tips of her toes, and a dizzier, darker warmth spreading upward from her thighs to the pit of her stomach. Now he wasn’t talking about food—or if he was, it was so tangled up with a completely different delight that she wasn’t sure where one left off and the other began. She looked swiftly down at the pink linen tablecloth to hide the heated color she could feel in her cheeks as their waiter approached.

  She had a problem, she told herself as Con gave first her order and then his before proceeding to ask a question about one of the restaurant’s wines. Her problem was she didn’t know how to handle a man like Con Ducharme, for the simple reason that she’d never known anyone remotely like him before. She glanced through her lashes at him. Take right now, for instance—he and the French-accented waiter were discussing the lineage of a certain Burgundy as if the fate of the world hung upon it, but unlike other escorts she remembered from her dating past there was no pretension or snobbery about Con’s interest. He just liked good wine, the same way he liked good food—the steaks he’d grilled the night he’d made dinner at her apartment had been perfect—and the same way he liked women. He was a sensualist, she thought. And she didn’t have the first idea of how to go about being sensual.

  She had a sudden vision of the type of woman who would be able to match Con sexy smile for sexy smile, languid indulgence for languid indulgence. That woman would be dark-haired and sloe-eyed, and when she laughed she would lean forward across the table and lay polished fingertips on his hand to establish a physical contact between them.

  That woman wouldn’t be pregnant. So she wouldn’t have to keep reminding herself that Con Ducharme, as devastatingly good-looking and sexy as he was, had to be kept at arm’s length. She wouldn’t have to worry that if he ever found out the baby she was carrying was—

  “And when Josh gets in, you can be sure he’ll take a hard look at that very issue, Dwight. We can count on your newspaper’s support, then?”

  “Only if you promise to give me a chance next week to win back what you just took off me, Samuel. Good God, man, I really thought I had you until that last hand.”

  A wave of laughter rippled through the group of older men who were making their way from the direction of the gaming rooms at the far side of the restaurant area toward the exit. A strong scent of bay rum cologne and the lingering odor of expensive cigars trailed in their wake as they passed by.

  “Something the matter, cher’?” Con’s eyes were on her, his features shadowed with sharp concern. Marilyn managed a stiff smile.

  “Not really.” She nodded her head at the broadest-shouldered man in the group as he clapped a companion heartily on the back and exited the restaurant.

  “Except that was my father, Samuel Langworthy. He saw me, Con. He saw me…and he walked right by as if he didn’t care to know me.”

  Chapter Six

  “Not the most exciting evening for you, sugar,” Con apologized as he stepped aside to let Marilyn exit the elevator first. Absently he held out his hand for her door key. She bent to unlock her apartment herself.

  “It got a little boring when you were on that winning streak for a while,” she replied. “But then you started losing. It was well worth it just to see the frustration in your face.”

  “Let me.” Gently he nudged her aside. “Not just being a southern boy here, hon. DeMarco has an uncanny sixth sense where his survival is concerned, and he may already guess someone’s on his tail. From now on I want you to be extra cautious when you come back here after being gone for any time. If something seems out of place or if it just doesn’t feel right when you walk in, leave immediately and use your cell phone to call me. Like I said before, you’re a link between him and the Langworthys that he might want to eliminate.”

  “Because I’m carrying Tony’s baby,” Marilyn said, looking away. “I guess you’re right.”

  She waited while he went ahead of her into the loft apartment. The open concept of the ground floor made his security check a matter of seconds, and with a reassuring smile at her he took the metal stairs two at a time to the second level and the bedrooms, disappearing briefly from view as he strode down the hall.

  He was right, the evening hadn’t been exciting. Tony hadn
’t appeared at the club, and during the four hours that Con had played cards she’d spent her time making desultory conversation with other lost souls whose escorts had temporarily abandoned them for the gaming tables.

  But all the while her nonencounter with her father had lingered unhappily just beneath the surface of her thoughts, despite Con’s suggestion during dinner that Samuel’s seeming slight had been inadvertent.

  “He probably didn’t see you, cher’. He wouldn’t be expecting to run into you here.”

  “We made eye contact. But he was with his political cronies—the ones he’s rallying to Josh’s cause, although I’m sure Josh is quite capable of mustering his own support without resorting to the backroom deals men of my father’s era think are necessary. And I’m an embarrassment to him.”

  She’d placed a hand on the swell of her belly. “When Holly was pregnant with Sky the campaigning hadn’t gotten underway. But with the election coming up this month the media spotlight is as hot as it’s ever going to be, and Father’s afraid that if it focuses on Josh’s unmarried and pregnant sister it could be detrimental to his chances.”

  She’d added slowly, “Josh himself hasn’t said anything along those lines. I sometimes think he and I might have been friends if we’d had the opportunity to get to know each other. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Con? You’ve never mentioned.”

  He’d seemed to hesitate before replying, but when he’d spoken his manner had been easy. “My mother’s a belle, just like you say your stepmother Celia is. You probably know what that’s like.”

  “I’m not close to my father’s wife, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.” She’d tried to keep her tone detached. “I know next to nothing about her background.”

  He’d looked thoughtful. “Well, Felicity’s one of those legendary charmers men shoot each other over, with about as much maternal instinct as a butterfly and twice as flighty. My father adores her, but then, about the only parenting he ever gave me was to teach me how to play poker with a straight face. They spend most of their time jetting from one party capital to the other all over the world, since Skip was born one of the idle rich. I love them, but I knew early on I was the adult in the family and that they weren’t going to provide me with any siblings.”