Lucky Devil

by Patricia Rosemoor

  “Do I know you?” Something about him seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Flora told me your name. Said you and that Lucky fellow were the only people here right now other than me. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. Alcohol would only put me to sleep, Mr….”

  “Name’s Adair Keating.”

  “You’re alone?” she asked, thinking it odd he’d appeared out of nowhere.

  He grinned, his teeth white against his tan. “All by my lonesome. I work as a stuntman. Just finished shooting some hard riding scenes for a new Western, Call of the West, this morning. Maybe you saw us over by Cathedral Rock.”

  “Actually, I’ve been riding myself around here today.”

  “Nice place. I wasn’t in a rush to get back to the earthquakes and floods and brushfires in Los Angeles, and one of the locals told me about the Macbride Ranch. I figured I’d check it out.”

  “Then you’re just here for the day?”

  “At least a few days. I haven’t decided how long, actually.” He sauntered toward her. “Thought I’d play it by ear. I’m an impulsive kinda guy.”

  Staring into his blue eyes gave her a funny feeling. “I swear I’ve seen you before.”

  “Maybe in a movie.”

  He did have movie-star looks, even though he was only a stuntman. “Maybe…but I was thinking more like in person. When was the last time you were in Las Vegas?”

  He hesitated only a moment before saying, “Right before this assignment. We mighta passed each other in a casino or something.”

  “Or something.” Unable to place him, JoJo started for her room. “I need to get cleaned up before I go into town. I smell like horse.”

  “Flora said she’ll have dinner ready at seven. You will be back? I hate eating alone.”

  Though she’d figured on getting a bite in town after hitting some of the galleries, Adair’s hopeful expression was so charming she changed her mind.

  “I’ll be here,” she promised. “Though be prepared for a rain cloud.”

  “You really think it’s going to rain?”

  “A figure of speech,” JoJo clarified—she was thinking of Lucky’s making an appearance.

  And she couldn’t help but wonder where the mystery man had gotten himself off to in the meantime.

  LUCKY PORED OVER the intricate plans spread across the table in the Wrangler’s Roost, as the old ranch house had been nicknamed. The place was well-worn but comfortable and, thanks to several additions, provided a private room for each of the men who lived on the property. And since those men were gone for a few days—all except Zamora, who was busy seeing to the horses and repairs on the outbuildings—the Roost gave them the privacy they needed.

  “So what do you think?” Eli asked, leaning back in the heavy wood chair across from Lucky.

  They’d been working on the plans all morning, but no matter how he looked at it, Lucky came to the same conclusion. “It’s gonna take more up-front money than we have.”

  “You got resources.”

  “No.”

  “Hey, the old man would be proud.”

  “I don’t want him to be proud. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

  “Aah!” Sounding disgusted, Eli swiped the air with an open hand. “You got some serious thinking to do.”

  “I’ve had years to think on it,” Lucky said calmly.

  “But this is your shot, man. Our shot. Makes all the other jobs we’ve done kids’ stuff.”

  “But we’ve done them on our own.”

  “And what have we got to show for it?”

  “Independence. A family’s supposed to be made up of parents and their kids, not a whole organization. If I can’t have one without the other…”

  Not that Eli hadn’t heard Lucky’s opinion before. They never had agreed on this one. Eli was an old-time grifter at heart. He’d never pass up a likely opportunity. Then again, he’d always been small-time, had never dealt with the likes of Sally Donatelli.

  “You got to think about the future,” Eli was arguing. “And what you’re owed.”

  He was starting to sound like a broken record. Lucky felt his temper rising, but kept it in check. He needed Eli. He couldn’t do this alone. Rather, he didn’t want to.

  “Nothing is going to change my mind.”

  “Not even the woman?”

  The woman.

  Lucky couldn’t believe his father’s nerve. He’d known Sally had someone on his tail—he would have been surprised if it had been otherwise. But Sally didn’t know his younger son if he thought a pretty face would bring him back to the fold. He wasn’t Nick. No female was going to manipulate him on someone else’s orders.

  “Especially not the woman,” he said finally. “So help me, before I’m through with her, JoJo Weston will wish she’d never left Las Vegas.”

  JOJO WAS STILL WONDERING about Lucky’s whereabouts after a cozy dinner for two with Adair. She’d made Flora go home once the food was ready, insisting they could serve themselves and take care of the cleanup.

  Adair Keating proved to be charming company, unlike that provided by the dour owner of the ranch. He seemed taken that they had show biz in common. JoJo felt as if she was doing all the talking, though, telling him about her favorite Broadway musicals. Somehow he never got around to telling her about his adventures in the movie trade.

  And every so often, despite the gorgeous man’s constant attention, JoJo found her mind wandering, speculating about what Lucky was up to.

  She really did need to get her head examined.

  “We could make a fire, have an after-dinner drink,” Adair suggested as he scraped plates and she loaded them into the dishwasher.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’m bushed.” She was tired, but more important, she felt the need for some time alone. “I haven’t had a really good sleep in weeks, but I think tonight’s the night.”

  “It’s not even nine.”

  “And I’m not even unpacked.” She added the dish detergent and started the washer. “I hate living out of a suitcase.”

  “Then I guess I’ll see you at breakfast. Any idea of what you want to do tomorrow?”

  JoJo figured she must be crazy, but she said, “I came alone to chill out. Know what I mean?”

  “Uh-oh. You just broke up with a man.”

  “You nailed it.” Not that she was about to give him details.

  He made an apologetic gesture. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.”

  “No, don’t feel like that. I enjoyed dinner. Now I need some space.”

  “I got the picture.”

  And he didn’t seem too disappointed, thank heavens. “Good night.”

  JoJo was as good as her word. She spent the hour unpacking and organizing her clothes and cosmetics. She was something of a neatnik. Too organized for Sasha all those years they’d shared a New York apartment. Grinning, she wondered how the honeymoon was going.

  About to stuff the big suitcase in the closet, she remembered the mail she’d pulled out of her box on the way to the car. She unzipped the side compartment and emptied the contents onto the mattress. Once her bags were out of sight, she plopped down into the middle of the bed and began sorting mail. Bills. Magazines. Letters.

  She read the missive from her mother first, friends next. Finally she got to an official-looking envelope from Abrams and Horowitz, a New York law firm. She set it on the spread and stared at it. Somehow, she didn’t think she was going to like the contents—not that she would know until she read whatever was inside.

  Grabbing it, JoJo ripped open the envelope, pulled out the letter and reluctantly began to read.

  Dear Miss Weston:

  With regret we must inform you of the passing of Oliver Phipps. On the morning of June 3, he had a massive heart attack and never recovered.

  Mr. Phipps regarded you highly and…

  JoJo couldn’t read the rest. Tears blurred her vision. She folded the letter and shoved it back in its e
nvelope, as if by doing so, she could deny the contents. But she’d read enough. Dear Oliver dead. She could hardly believe it. He’d been old enough to be her father, certainly, but he’d had the spirit of a young man.

  A spirit that was now gone forever.

  And she’d never had the chance to say goodbye, hadn’t contacted him once since she’d met the man she thought she was going to marry.

  JoJo wept. Tears poured out of her until she was drained. Dehydrated.

  She cleared the bed of the mail, got into a pair of loose, satiny pajamas and climbed under the covers. Memories assaulted her. An hour later, she was still staring up at the ceiling in the dark with no hope of sleep. That drink Adair had offered her sounded good right about now.

  Rising, she rinsed her face with cold water and pushed at her messy red curls, too dispirited to do more.

  The house was dark but for the soft glow of burning logs in the fireplace. Her gaze immediately went to the breakfront, her legs following automatically. Feeling numb inside, she opened the doors that hid the bottles of liquor.

  “You could see better if you turned on the dining room light.”

  Her heart lurched as she whipped around to find Lucky sitting in a chair, staring at her.

  “What are you doing, sitting in the dark like that?”

  “Waiting for you,” he said ominously.

  Chapter Three

  JoJo’s hand shook as she poured herself a brandy, but she wasn’t certain if her sudden nerves came from the bad news about Oliver or from the bad news sitting in the chair before the fire. If Lucky expected her to turn tail and run back to her room, he would be sadly disappointed. Instead, she took the chair opposite, curled one leg under her and let the bare toes of the other reach for the warmth of the fire.

  A small sip of the brandy started a fire inside her, as well. She let the liquor trickle down her throat. The slow, syrupy warmth made her feel a bit better.

  Gradually, her vision adjusted so she could see more than just a male silhouette created by the fire’s glow. The golden light camouflaged Lucky’s scars and softened his features. But the pale eyes that reflected flames at her were hard as agates. She noted he was drinking, as well.

  Wondering if he were drunk, she finally asked, “So what made you think you’d see me tonight?”

  Lucky sounded perfectly sober when he said, “I figured you’d scurry out of hiding as soon as you heard me come in.”

  “Are you really that arrogant or are you just pretending?”

  “Why play games?”

  “I’m not playing at anything. And I didn’t have a clue you were anywhere around.”

  His laugh was low and harsh, raising the hair at the back of her neck. He was staring at her relentlessly, as if he had some reason to dislike her. Undoubtedly, it was her type he didn’t care for. He probably preferred his women docile and deferential. He’d probably expected her to leave the moment he’d suggested she do so.

  “If you’re not playing games, then why,” he asked, “did you come out, dressed so…provocatively?”

  “What?” She glanced down at herself, half-expecting to see several buttons of her pajama top undone. But the garment was intact. “I wouldn’t call my wearing a pair of loose pajamas provocative.”

  His stony gaze traveled down her length. Slowly. Lingered on her bare foot.

  “You’re a woman who knows what men like.”

  From what she could see of his expression, JoJo gathered Lucky was serious. She’d never thought of herself as some kind of femme fatale, but maybe the fact that she was a show girl sparked his fantasies…not that she’d told him what she did in Las Vegas. Somehow, he must have figured it out, though. Men didn’t fall over themselves when they saw her, not as they did over the statuesque Sasha. Self-consciously, she pulled her free leg up, hugging it to her chest, placing something of a barrier between them.

  “As I said, I had no clue that I wouldn’t be alone.” She took another sip of the brandy.

  “So you drink alone often?”

  “I rarely drink at all.”

  “Then why tonight?”

  Not knowing why she chose to tell him, she said, “I just learned a friend of mine died.” She sloshed the brandy around in its glass. “I was having trouble sleeping.”

  Silence. No wisecracks? JoJo was relieved. She looked up, realized Lucky was studying her, as if he were searching for the truth.

  Finally, he nodded and said, “I’m sorry.”

  She sighed. “So am I.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Not to him with his smart mouth. But who else was there? And keeping it inside was already eating at her. “Yes,” she said tentatively, thinking she would blow Lucky out of the water if he so much as said the wrong word. “His name was Oliver Phipps. Though his business was real estate rather than theater, he helped raise money for new productions. He loved Broadway musicals.”

  “And you loved him?”

  “Very much. He was a good, kind person. A warm, caring man. He’d suffered a lot of tragedy—the deaths of his wife and only daughter—and yet he focused on the positives in life. He was an inspiration. It’s impossible to be indifferent to someone like that.”

  “Then why did you leave him?”

  JoJo recognized the tension in Lucky’s question, as if he had a personal stake in the answer. Had some woman broken his heart when she left him? That could be why he’d been giving her such a hard time— on general principle rather than because of some more personal reason.

  “I wasn’t in love with him. Marrying a friend…it just wouldn’t have been right.”

  “A lot of couples have less going for them.”

  “Maybe my expectations are higher,” she said, and then thought about the way she’d let another man suck her in. “More likely, I’m just plain stupid.”

  Lucky had no comeback.

  JoJo drained half her glass and stared into the fire as if the flames could give her answers to questions she’d been asking herself for the past two months.

  Maybe Lucky was right, and she’d made a big mistake turning Oliver down. But she’d wanted more than the quiet caring they’d had for each other. She’d wanted high romance, to be swept off her feet.

  And that’s exactly what Marco Scudella had done. In the guise of Mac Schneider, he’d fulfilled all her romantic fantasies. Their courtship had been whirlwind, and she’d been swept along without a single suspicion that he’d been using her to get at Lucky’s brother.

  So what did that say about her judgment?

  Oddly enough, JoJo realized that while she felt betrayed, she wasn’t brokenhearted, almost as if she’d known underneath that her relationship with the cheerful blackjack dealer had been too good to be true. Or maybe the very quickness of it all had cast a glow of unreality over the situation. The danger she’d put herself in had been very real. If it hadn’t been for Lester imprisoning her to protect her, she would have married a murderer.

  Wondering if any other woman had ever been so foolish, JoJo splashed back the rest of the brandy.

  LUCKY FELT his animosity for JoJo Weston deflate a bit. It was hard to be angry with a woman who was so obviously mourning a man she’d cared about. A man with some means. A man she hadn’t married, though she’d indicated he’d wanted to marry her. If she wasn’t guided by money, what then? Everyone had motivation for their actions.

  Lucky was too disenchanted with the whole business of romance to believe in the kind of love portrayed in books or movies. He’d been soured on the idea early in life. The women who’d gravitated to the Donatelli brothers had always wanted something from them. Usually things money could buy. Less often, influence. But always something.

  His years away from Las Vegas hadn’t taught him any different. His fancy had been caught by a few women, mostly on the rodeo circuit, but none who’d cared for him. They had stuck around not for what he could buy them—like the others—but because of the fake glamour attached to w
hat he did for a living, his skill often making him the center of attention. A subtle kind of usery, but usery no less.

  And JoJo Weston wouldn’t be any different, he told himself. Her arriving at the Macbride Ranch directly after he had was no accident.

  “So, are you going to the funeral?”

  She gave him an odd look. “You’d do anything to get me off this property, wouldn’t you?”

  “If you really cared about your friend, I’d think you’d want to—”

  “He died more than a week ago, so there’s no funeral for me to go to.” Sudden tears lent a sheen to her eyes.

  Fearing she was about to cry, Lucky clamped his mouth shut. Nothing was more irritating than a bawling woman. JoJo sniffed a few times, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were still sad, but free of tears.

  “I can’t figure you for Nick’s brother.”

  “What’s to figure?”

  “For one, he’s a nice person.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “If the shoe fits…”

  He had to unclench his jaw to ask “What else?”

  “Nick doesn’t judge people so quickly.”

  “Who said I’m judging you?”

  Her laugh was tinged with irony. “That’s exactly what you’ve been doing from the moment you attacked me. Another thing—Nick’s a gentleman.”

  “I didn’t attack you.”

  “Do you always put your hands on strange women?”

  He gave her a slow grin. “Some of them even like it.”

  “And you can’t even be serious when it counts!”

  “Why should it count, JoJo?” he pressed. “Why are you really here?”

  “I told you—”

  “Exactly nothing.”

  JoJo sighed. “Sorry if my presence bothers you. You’re not driving me away from this ranch, but I guess we don’t have to be in the same room.”

  She rose unsteadily, the brandy undoubtedly making her weave as if she might fall.

  Instinctively, Lucky whipped out of the chair and grasped her arm. She started, and the empty glass fell to the Navajo area rug with a thunk. No doubt, she’d choose to put the worst light on this action, too.