Promises Reveal Page 8

  “And if you lose?”

  “Well, then, sweetheart, I’ll wear it.”

  Her brows rose as she eyed the bit of lace escaping from the satchel. “It’ll be worth another sip to see you in that.”

  Oh no, she wasn’t getting off that easily. “It’s got to be more than a sip. You’ve got to give yourself time to get used to the taste.”

  “How much time?”

  “You have to finish the glass.”

  She contemplated the two fingers in the glass and, with a small grin that showed she had no appreciation for the potency of whiskey, said, “Agreed.”

  Another sip and another grimace and then, “So what do we do now?”

  He could think of several things all within easy reach. Undoing the buttons on her blouse, tasting the lightly scented hollow of her throat, untying the ribbon at the top of her camisole, cradling her breast in his hand, plumping it to the pleasure of his mouth.

  He looked at the innocence in her eyes. She had no idea of the thoughts running through his head. He sighed. Either Evie was a complete innocent or playing preacher had totally blunted his dangerous edge. “Well, we could stand here staring at each other.”

  Her lips twitched on a suppressed smile. “Or?”

  “What makes you think there’s an or?”

  “I’ve been studying you, remember? You always have an alternative.”

  The room was getting dark. Taking a sulphur from the bureau top, he lifted the lid off the oil lamp, struck the match, and lit the wick. Holding it up so the flare of light played over her expressive face he noted the apprehension, the anticipation, the sheer joy of life that surged so strongly within her. No wonder Pearl couldn’t control her. Evie wasn’t a woman who could ever be forced into anything. She had to be coaxed.

  “Well, I was thinking we could play some cards.”

  Five

  “YOU’RE CHEATING.”

  Wood creaked a protest as Brad settled into the ladder-back kitchen chair with that deceptively easy way of his and eyed Evie with the same casual nonchalance. Cards snapped against the gleaming wood table as he made a bridge of his hands and the cards tumbled between, going from two piles to one with a hypnotic simplicity that spoke of long practice. “What makes you think that?”

  “The way you’re handling the cards, for one.”

  “You’re calling my honor into question because I know how to shuffle cards?”

  He made it sound so preposterous.

  She frowned at him, taking a distracted sip of her whiskey, ignoring the taste and burn as she watched him pick up the pack.

  “Nobody’s that lucky. You’ve beat me four hands in a row.”

  His right eyebrow went up and a smile played about his lips. “I could just be that good.”

  “No one’s that good at cards. Especially a minister.”

  “Why especially?”

  As if he didn’t know. “It’s your job to discourage people from gambling.”

  “To hear you tell it, it’s my job to keep people from having any kind of fun.” He shuffled the cards so fast she couldn’t really see much beyond a blur of motion. That could be because she wasn’t wearing her glasses for up close things or because a comfortable lethargy was invading her limbs. It had been a long day. She smothered a yawn.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Do you want it to be?”

  Sometimes. “Why do you keep answering a question with another question?”

  “Probably because, as you seem to have already decided on the answers, it saves time.”

  She sighed as he split the deck with a smooth maneuver of his fingers that fascinated her. He was right, she did. But only because it was easier to think she’d married a dull-as-mud minister, rather than the real man she suspected lurked beneath his profession. “I do do that, don’t I?”

  It was his turn to look surprised. “Yeah.”

  Taking another sip of her whiskey, one big enough to burn all the way to the bottom of her stomach, she confessed, “I’m not a big fan of preachers.”

  “I noticed.”

  Up until the wedding, she’d thought she’d been pretty quiet on those particular views. “You did?”

  “I saw the painting, remember?”

  “What on Earth do you dislike so much about the painting?” She flopped back in her chair, glad the high back was there to support her spine. For some reason it felt about as substantial as dandelion fluff. “I put shadows in to give you mystery, painted it from an angle looking up to give you grandeur. I spent hours just getting the color of your hair right.” Capturing the sun-streaked blonds and browns had been a real challenge. She frowned at him. “You have a very difficult hair color, but I captured it perfectly.” Looking him over, she felt a spurt of satisfaction. She really had, including how his hair tended to fall over his brow, giving him a sexy, dangerous look completely out of place on a man of God. “I captured you perfectly.”

  The cards slid together with a clench of his fingers. “So you keep telling me.”

  Could he be that vain? Was that the problem? Did he want to look even more attractive than he was? “You know there’s a limit to how much even I can do to enhance reality.”

  There was a pause. He started dealing with efficient moves, the cards flying across the table with a speed that could imply anger. “Uh-huh.”

  She decided to change the subject. “You’re very adept at card handling.”

  “It keeps my fingers limber.”

  Picking up her cards, she glanced up from the dismal mismatch of a two and a king. He probably had aces in his hand. “Why do you need your fingers limber?”

  There was another almost infinitesimal pause in which she had the distinct impression he was thinking fast, but then it was gone, and that easy smile was back on his lips. “In case anyone tries to take back their contribution to the collection plate. The church doesn’t run on good graces alone.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone stealing from you.” She picked up the rest of her cards.

  He glanced over. The blue backs of the cards deepened the blue of his eyes until they almost appeared black. “You can’t?”

  Rats. A three, a four, and another two. She shook her head and took another drink. A pair of twos might as well be nothing against Brad’s overwhelming luck. This one didn’t burn so badly. “No. The McKinnelys would kill him.”

  Might that have been a bit of surprise in the twitch of his eyelids? Why? He had to know the McKinnelys would protect him. They were known to be very protective of their friends, and from everything she’d seen of Brad and the McKinnelys, they were friends. “They will, you know. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  His mouth twisted. “Good to know you think I need them to hide behind.”

  “They’ve been trained to handle trouble. They’re marshals.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “It still makes them more than capable of protecting you.” It occurred to her, belatedly, that he might be having an issue with her thinking he needed protecting. “Everyone in town, actually,” she tacked on hastily.

  He grunted and rapped the deck on the table. His “How many?” was sharp.

  “Two.”

  She placed them on the table and bit her lip. Poker wasn’t the easy game he’d painted it when he’d proposed it as an option. The element of luck was so much higher than with bridge. And she, apparently, had very bad luck.

  “Holding your breath isn’t going to make that straight happen.”

  How did he know she was trying for a straight? “It can’t hurt. Nothing else seems to be working.”

  “It’s a sucker’s bet.” With a motion of his hand, he indicated her discarded cards. “Sure you don’t want to take it back?”

  “And do what?”

  “Fold.”

  And let him have her share of the brownies she’d anted up? She didn’t think so. “I’m comfortable.”

  His smile reached his eyes. “There are more brownies in th
e basket.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She pinched a crunchy edge off the nearest. “These are mine.”

  He caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips, catching the crumbs on the tip of his tongue, holding her gaze as he took them into his mouth. Not once did his mouth meet her hand, but the knowledge that it would take very little initiative, either on his part or, more shockingly, hers, to alter that seared deep. “Not yet they’re not.”

  She tugged her hand. He didn’t let go. Suddenly, she was very aware of the breadth of his shoulders, the latent strength behind his grip, the nearness of his lips, the solitude of the house. The fact that this was their wedding night. “You haven’t won them yet.”

  “Neither have you.”

  Jerking her arm free she reached for her whiskey, an odd breathlessness making it hard to talk. “Fine.”

  She took the last three swallows in a rush, coughing and wheezing as the fumes burned her nostrils from the inside out.

  Fanning her face, she choked, “What do you have?”

  His finger brushed down her cheek in a touch as soft as the smile that ghosted his mouth. “Three aces.”

  There was something odd about him knowing that, but odd wasn’t nearly as fascinating as the tingles that radiated outward from that brief touch. It meshed so well with the fascination he held for her on other levels. The fascination that had her admiring once again the sculpted perfection of his lips—not too thin, not too wide, but full enough to give a smile depth, thin enough to give anger emphasis. He had a very expressive mouth and if one watched it as much as she did, one soon learned to read his moods. Right now, he was amused by a joke only he understood. The way he always seemed to be. “Why am I not surprised?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been playing poker for a long time.”

  “It’s a simple game.”

  “With a lot of strategy behind it.”

  A coherent thought burst through the fog as he reached for the brownies. There was no way he could have known what those three cards had been. He hadn’t even turned them over. She slapped at his hand. “You forgot to mention cheating.”

  With those lightning reflexes that always startled her, he caught her hand on the upswing of the next swat. “I was careless?”

  She was entirely too conscious of his fingers lacing between hers. “You didn’t even look at your cards.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yet you knew what they were.”

  His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, once, twice, and then lingered, pressing lightly on the pulse. “Yes, I did.”

  “Because you cheated.”

  “I prefer to think of it as influencing fate.”

  “You’re not supposed to influence fate.”

  “I like to hedge my bets.”

  “Preachers aren’t allowed to bet.”

  “I do.” Propping his elbow on the table, he brought her hand within inches of his mouth. A mouth she could easily imagine kissing hers. “Are you going to tell?”

  Humor lightened his gaze, softened his expression, tempted her wild side, aroused her. “What will you give me if I don’t?”

  “A chance to get even.”

  “Are you going to cheat again?”

  “You never know. I tend to hedge my bets every chance I get.”

  “That sounds like a warning.”

  “I’m a fair man.”

  “And that was fair warning?”

  “Pretty much. You going to have a problem with that?”

  At the moment she couldn’t think of a single reason she should. Her head felt too heavy, her eyelids weighted. It felt right to lean into his hand. Right that his hand open and his broad palm cup her cheek. “Not if you teach me to cheat, too.”

  Even talking was hard.

  “You’d be lousy at it.”

  She blinked. “I’m never lousy at anything I attempt.”

  “You care too much to lie with equanimity.”

  “I want to cheat, not lie.”

  “They go hand in hand.”

  “Then I’ll learn.”

  “I’m not sure I want you to.”

  Forcing her eyes open, she frowned at him. “Because I have to be the perfect minister’s wife. Boring!”

  His chuckle wafted across her cheek. When had he gotten so close? “You might have to be a little restricted during the days, but I guarantee your nights will be anything but boring.”

  “Big talk.”

  His chair scraped back as he stood. “But I’m a big man.”

  Yes, he was. She craned her neck back, squinting against the blurring of his expression. “I think I need some more whiskey.”

  He took the glass out of her hand. “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Being boring already?”

  “Just stating the obvious.”

  “Says you.”

  The sexy smile left his lips. “Yeah. Says me.”

  “Why are you frowning?”

  He helped her to her feet, which was good because the room started swaying as soon as she stood. “Because I overestimated your tolerance for drink.”

  She caught his arm and closed her eyes. “I’m past chuckler?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Good. Because I feel rather floaty.”

  “That might be because I’m carrying you.”

  She opened her eyes. Disappointment shot through her. So he was. “Darn.”

  She’d been enjoying the illusion that she could float, but then again, she decided as she absorbed the fact that he was carrying her with so little effort, there were benefits to this, too. Being carried made her feel dainty and feminine. Something she’d never had the opportunity to experience. Snuggling in, she decided to enjoy it.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The bedroom.”

  There was something she was supposed to remember about that. She wrestled the memory from deep within the haze. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d be too much.”

  Of all the things Brad expected her to say, that wasn’t it. “Too much?”

  “You’ll want to take over, and I don’t want to be taken over. I want a nice, malleable husband.”

  That she could boss around and control. Turning sideways to get through the doorway, Brad shook his head. Evie would be miserable with a man like that. She enjoyed a challenge too much to spend her life with someone who’d let her walk all over him. That would truly bore her.

  Belatedly, her arms came around his neck. He stopped beside the bed. She glanced around the room. “Why are we here?”

  “In this room or this house?” He thought the room was pretty obvious so he wasn’t surprised when she answered.

  “This house. It has such a sad story.”

  It did at that. Elijah’s hope had died here. “Maybe I just want to bring it a little happiness.”

  While she seemed to consider that, he let her feet slide to the floor.

  “No. That’s not it.”

  He steadied her while she swayed. He didn’t have to tip her head back. She did it naturally, frowning at him, obviously still considering her point. He caught the point of her chin on the edge of his finger, more because he wanted to touch her than that he needed to steady her. She was tipsy, but not drunk. “Then what is it?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “And I asked you second.”

  “Which means?”

  “You have to answer me.”

  He did love the way her eyes sparkled and her voice snapped when she got annoyed. So much spirit packed into one very feminine, sweet body. Which was his. Every fiery, sexy, opinionated inch. He touched his thumb to the middle of her nose, smiling when her eyes crossed to see it. Cute, too. “I didn’t want to be interrupted when I make love to you, so I decided to borrow this house tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to mine.”

  Another frown. “You don’t love me.”

  But he liked her, was fasc
inated by her, and had been attracted to her from the moment he’d seen her stop a cowpoke in the middle of the street so she could sketch him against the sunset. She’d been oblivious to the man’s annoyance. Brad doubted, even if she’d known that the wrangler had been more interested in whoring than art, that she would have cared. She was a little single-minded when it came to her work. “Then we’ll just pretend.”

  She wrinkled her nose and squinted. She always did that when she got close to things. He’d wondered, though he’d never seen her in them, if she needed spectacles. “More influencing fate?”

  “Just smoothing the path.”

  Enough so she didn’t need to be scared. As if she read his mind, her head cocked to the side and she whispered, “Are you going to hurt me, Brad?”

  “No, what makes you ask?”

  “You’ve got to be mad. It’s my fault we’re married.”

  “I’ve got to admit, I’m a little annoyed things went as they did. No man likes to be forced.”

  Her fingers curled into fists. “I understand. It is pretty unforgivable.”

  It probably should be, and he’d thought it was at first, but over the last two weeks, his initial rage had faded to annoyance as he’d come to understand that Evie had never intended any maliciousness. He’d piqued her curiosity, and she’d responded by investigating. For Evie, that meant she followed him, drew him, studied him, and eventually, painted him. And when her family’d backed her into a corner, she’d rebelled by putting the painting she’d done of him on display. In an effort to prove . . . he wasn’t sure what. “Why’d you show your mother the painting, Evie?”

  Her response, though immediate, didn’t make a lot of sense. “Leverage.”

  “That you’ll have to explain.”

  “You know how when you apply a lever to a fulcrum, the job gets a lot easier?”

  He did, but he was surprised that she did. Not that he doubted her intelligence. The woman was as smart as a whip—it was just the terminology. He should have known she would be a big reader. “I’m not following your drift.”