"You don't mean you liked him?" The younger girl was aghast.
"Lucas is a devilish rogue, handsome, exciting all the time. He has more faults than saving graces, but as a lover, he was superb, Steph. I was very happy."
Stephanie didn't know what to say. She was shocked by her sister's candor. And she was also envious after her own disappointing experience with Joel.
At last she said petulantly, "I don't know what you're so angry with me for. Why, you had a wonderful time during your stay with Lucas Holt."
Sharisse had no reply.
Chapter 36
Lucas was beginning to think that if you'd seen ^ one gambling club, you'd seen them all. The one Henri had found in the south of France was more opulent than most, and spacious, with ample room for tables to be set wide apart. The late April climate allowed them to leave the long windows open, and the perfume of pink laurels filled the air, vying with the fragrances of the women. And there were many women in the room.
"That one is married," Henri said as he noticed Lucas staring at a statuesque brunette. "But it is good to see you finally taking an interest, mon ami."
Lucas grunted. "I take it you can tell me a little something about everyone in the room, as usual?"
"Of course. I did not waste my time today as you did, walking on the beach. I found a waiter who loves to gossip. He was very informative."
One of Henri Andrevie's special talents was knowing the people he gambled with. He never failed to learn something about each of them before he sat down and proceeded to take their money away from them. Information of a personal nature was his edge, and Henri managed to support himself very well.
He was a little man, and he and the tall Lucas made quite a pair. Blond, with dove-gray eyes that twinkled mischievously, he looked younger than thirty-nine. He was a devil-may-care rascal who could talk his way out of any situation and could charm the ladies with just a smile. Lucas had seen, in the months they had been traveling together again, that Henri hadn't lost his touch.
"You will find the English play together, as you see there and there," Henri pointed out. "They come here to gamble, not to decipher languages, and there are many different languages represented here. That graying fellow is a duke. He plays seriously, but he never wins."
Henri chuckled here, and Lucas couldn't help grinning. He knew Henri so well. "You will have all his money before the night is through."
"I think you are right, mon ami Now those two, the messieurs Varnoux and Montour, are brothers. But they do not wish this known, so they use different names. They send each other signals, clues, so stay away from their table. That fellow there you might enjoy playing against." Henri pointed out a well-dressed man who was so good-looking as to be almost feminine. "He knows nothing at all about cards, but he is a gambler at heart and he will bet on anything. By the way, that was his wife you were staring at. Pretty, no?"
"Very."
Henri sighed. "As much as I have been trying to get you to enjoy yourself, I must warn you against trying that one—unless you wouldn't mind having the husband watch."
"I think not."
"Yes, they are a decadent pair. I was told his specialty is seducing virgins, and he takes wagers on how quickly it can be done. His wife knows all about it. Isn't that charming?"
"But is he never challenged by an irate father or brother?"
"Occasionally. For that very reason, he and his wife never stay too long in one place."
Lucas scoffed. "You can't believe everything you're told, Henri."
"Ah, but there is always a grain of truth in every lie."
A memory nagged at Lucas. "His name wouldn't be Antoine, would it?"
Henri shrugged. "Gautier is their name. I do not know the first. Why? Do you know of him?"
"It would be too coincidental if I did. I don't know why I even thought of it."
Only he did know. He had been alone too long that day, and as usual when he was alone, he had thought about Sharisse without stopping. All of their conversations were recorded in his mind as if they had happened only yesterday, not last summer. And today he had remembered about Antoine. Antoine had wanted only one thing from her, just as this Gautier wanted only one thing from his victims—sport.
It couldn't be the same man, but damned if Lucas didn't wish it were. He felt so bad over his own treatment of Sharisse that he wouldn't have minded exacting a little revenge for her sake. Trouble was, she would never know about it. As impossible as it had been to forget her, it would be disastrous ever to see her again. He was still hoping time would make the memories less potent, ease some of the pain, put an end to this ridiculous longing he still had for her.
Undoubtedly, she had had no trouble forgetting him. She would have got her annulment a long time ago. Maybe she was even married again. Even if he had wanted to see her, he didn't know where to find her. The money he had deposited for her in a New York bank was still there, uncollected. Four months . of inquiries had produced no results. The only John Richards to be found was an immigrant hat maker without daughters. There was no Mrs. Hammond that fit her description, no Miss Richards, either.
Henri continued telling Lucas a little something about each person in the room, but Lucas listened only sporadically. They finally parted, Henri going to the Duke's table.
Lucas continued to watch the dandified Gautier. After a while he quit his table and joined two gentlemen, apparently acquaintances. From their conversation, which soon became animated, and their many covert glances at a pretty dark-haired girl across the room, Lucas imagined a wager taking place.
Curiosity drew him to the bar where the three men were just finishing their conversation. Thank heavens he had learned French well, mostly through Henri.
"Two weeks?"
"A week and a half, Antoine, no more."
"Agreed."
Antoine. Was it the same man? It was a common French name, and there were no doubt many men who found it amusing to seduce young girls on a dare. Or a wager.
Gautier seemed well pleased with himself after his two companions left him. He ordered a drink, then turned to stare at the dark-haired girl across the room.
"Allow me." Lucas paid for the drink and handed it to the shorter man.
Gautier accepted, eyeing Lucas speculatively. "Do I know you, monsieur?"
"No, but I believe I've heard of you. Antoine Gautier, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"So I thought, after that interesting wager I just overheard."
Gautier chuckled, relaxing. "Perhaps you wish to join my friends in losing some money?"
"Not if you already know the girl." Lucas played along with him.
"No, I have not had the pleasure yet," the dandy assured him. "Claude has been rebuffed by her, which is why he made the wager."
"Claude is one of those men who just left?"
"Yes. He hopes to soothe himself by seeing me fail as well. But if you doubt me, monsieur, pick any girl in the room. I would enjoy a double challenge."
Lucas barely managed to conceal his disgust. The man's eyes were gleaming in anticipation. With those dimples and that eager look, he was downright pretty. Were women actually attracted to this peacock?
"You seem confident of winning," Lucas pointed out. "I wonder why."
"Because I never fail."
"Never? Ever?"
Antoine flushed. "Ah, yes, you did say you had heard of me. I suppose you have met Jean-Paul and he told you? It has been three years, but he still likes to brag to one and all that he is the only one who has collected from me on a wager like this one."
"The girl eluded you?" Lucas's voice turned very casual.
"Yes, she did. She was a sweet innocent. Eighteen. How naive they are at that age. And I almost had her. Just another few moments and my record would not have been broken."
Eighteen three years ago? That wasn't Sharisse. Lucas was going to be terribly disappointed if he had no reason to bash the bastard's face i
n.
"What happened?" Lucas asked.
Antoine clucked in disgust. "My wife was impatient for my company. She had to walk in and ruin everything, revealing that she was my wife."
"Your wife doesn't mind your conquests?"
"Not at all, which is why I cannot understand why she deliberately ruined my chances with the American. And it was deliberate, although she still will not admit it."
"Jealous?"
"Perhaps." Antoine sighed. "If the girl had been only an ordinary beauty, Marie would not have interfered. But the Hammond girl was different, vibrant—"
"Hammond?" Lucas cut in smoothly. "I know a Mrs. Hammond. An American, too."
Antoine stepped back from him. "You . . . you need not fear I have trifled with ... an acquaintance of yours. I do not bother married women."
"Sharisse." Lucas threw the name out viciously and watched the Frenchman pale. "Sonofabitch!" Lucas growled, dropping the French they had been speaking.
Antoine was shocked. "You are an American, too?"
"Right. I think you and I better take a walk."
"I do not understand."
"Outside, Gautier, now."
Antoine understood perfectly. His stomach turned over. The American's incredible size had not gone unnoticed.
"Monsieur, I deplore violence. Be reasonable. I did the girl no harm."
"I doubt she feels that way." Lucas propelled Gautier toward the doors. "Don't make a sound, mon ami, or I will break your arm," he added in a deadly whisper.
"What . . . what is she to you?"
Lucas walked him into the garden, well away from the building. He let go of the Frenchman, who stood facing Lucas. What was Sharisse to him? The rage Lucas felt said it all.
"She's my woman."
"But you know I failed with her!"
"Only because of your wife's interference. It was your motive, Gautier, that sickens me. To go after a woman because you want her is one thing, but to seduce her on a wager! Did she find out?"
"What?"
"Don't push me, Gautier," Lucas growled. "Did she know you pursued her over a bet?'
Antoine was too frightened to lie. "My wife did mention it in her presence, yes."
"So she was humiliated as well as hurt."
Lucas said it softly, so softly that Antoine was taken by surprise when he felt his nose break. He staggered back from the blow, falling into the bushes, clutching his face in agony.
"Please . . ." he moaned.
Lucas yanked him to his feet before he could finish. "Give this your best effort, pretty face, because I'm going to show you the same mercy you show your victims."
Antoine did try, but there was never any question as to who would walk away the winner. Lucas was heavier, taller, in better shape, and furious enough not to care that it wasn't a fair fight. He showed no mercy. Every punch was calculated to do as much damage as possible, especially to that pretty face.
It was over in a very few minutes, the Frenchman groveling on the ground, barely conscious. Lucas stood over him, wrapping a handkerchief around his bloody knuckles. He was still churning with anger.
"You can thank your wife that all I did was rearrange your face," Lucas said. "If you had succeeded with Sharisse, I might have killed you. But I don't think you'll have such an easy time winning your disgusting wagers now, Monsieur Gautier. Next time you look in a mirror, remember me."
Lucas walked away, his stride quickening with a new anger. She had lied to him, lied about her age, her name, her supposed marriage. He recalled her reaction the day they were married. Surprise? Bullshit! She had panicked. That meant she'd had no intention of marrying him. It also meant that he had been torturing himself with guilt all these months over nothing. She'd undoubtedly been delighted to hear he didn't want a wife, and even more delighted when he told her an annulment was possible. Hadn't she left immediately? And where the hell had the money to leave come from? Was her being destitute also a lie? Was any part of Sharisse not a lie?
His anger had reached a dangerous level by the time Lucas arrived at his hotel. But he hid his feelings expertly as always. The desk clerk didn't suspect at all as he handed him a letter. It was from Emery Buskett and had taken five months to reach Lucas.
Lucas waited until he was in his room before he opened the travel-worn letter. Anything that would take his mind off Sharisse, even for a few moments, was welcome. The bottle in front of him was welcome, too.
Lucas,
It's a good thing you finally got around to letting me know where to find you. I didn't know what to think when Billy Wolf wired me that you had left Arizona. I didn't know if you still wanted that information from my friend Jim or not. Jim had returned to New York and was off on another case, so I couldn't find him. But he found me about a month ago, and you'll never guess why.
Jim has been hired by the same Marcus Hammond ... to find you. He had already been to New-comb and talked with Billy, who told him vaguely that you might be found in Europe somewhere. But Billy did give him my name. I suppose he figured you might contact me and would want to know about this. By the time Jim tracked me down in Chicago, where I have moved to, he was pretty annoyed by all the runaround. And of course I had nothing to tell him about you, which didn't help the poor man's disposition any.
As for the information you requested, I find it very curious that you would need me to verify that your fiancee is Marcus Hammond's daughter. You must have known that all along—same name, same description. It just couldn't be coincidence.
Jim tells me Miss Hammond came home on her own as he'd suspected she would do. And now here her father is looking for you. Was she really your fiancee, or were you only helping her hide from her father? Oh, well, I don't suppose that's any of my business.
I heard by way of Jim that Newcomb is fast becoming a ghost town. There were few people left for him to question about you, except for one Samuel Newcomb who raved that you were responsible for ruining him. Jim didn't credit anything the man had to say since he couldn't find Newcomb sober long enough to get any decent answers out of him.
If you ever need me again, you know where to find me.
Your servant, Emery Buskett
Lucas read the letter one more time before he crumpled it and threw it across the room. So Shar-isse was back home with her father. A runaway, not estranged, not destitute. Was there no end to the lies she'd deceived him with?
The conclusion he came to damned her entirely. The spoiled rich girl angry with her father, seeing Lucas's advertisement as a way to disappear for a while, thinking nothing of the harm she was doing. She had no way of knowing he wasn't serious about wanting a wife. Why, he might have been some lonely fool who'd have fallen head-over-heels in love with her and been heartbroken when she took off. Had she considered that? Did she care? Of course not. Her type never thought of anyone but herself.
No wonder he hadn't been able to find her. No doubt those incompetent bankers he had left the matter to didn't have the sense to check out all Hammond households. Either that, or Marcus Hammond had paid them off.
Was that why Hammond was looking for him? Did he know about the money Lucas had deposited for Sharisse? A man of his stature might take that as an insult. Then again, Sharisse might have confessed his treatment of her to save her own skin. Hammond might be an enraged father wanting retribution. No doubt she had painted an innocent picture of her own part in everything.
Lucas sat back, his mouth turning up into a caricature of a smile. Set the hounds on him, would she? He shook his head and reached for the bottle. She ought to've left well enough alone.
Chapter 37
SHARISSE returned her friend Carol Peterson to Carol's home on Lafayette Place, one of the older residential areas still occupied by the upper crust and still holding out against the advance of commerce. Sheila was supposed to have joined them, too, but she hadn't, so Sharisse and Carol had spent an enjoyable afternoon walking between Union and Madiso
n Squares, Sharisse's driver following slowly behind. Of course the girls couldn't resist stopping at the great retail houses of the Tiffanys, the Arnolds, and the Lords and Taylors.
Sharisse was tired, but not anxious to get right home, even though she did have an engagement that evening. She told her driver to take his time, wanting to enjoy the sights of the city she loved so much.
They drove past the two-hundred-foot-long multi-columned Custom House, up Broadway and along Park Row, and by Printing House Square, which took its name from the large number of newspaper offices in the vicinity. Between lamp posts were the tall utility poles with as many as nine crossarms. Organ grinders were playing on the streets, and candy men were pushing their carts next to vendors of ice cream and ices. A penny would buy a small cup filled with one or another delicious concoction.
The streets never quieted. Horsecar railways operated on many streets, as did the elevated railroad, but the older horse-drawn omnibus was still the only means of transportation besides private carriages on Broadway south of 14th Street. They were brightly colored vehicles with large lettering above and below a long row of windows. The driver, up front, was exposed to the elements and kept an umbrella ready for an unexpected shower. Riding on them was an adventure for children. Sharisse hadn't been on one for years.
Park Place revealed many shops advertising rattan furniture, fireworks, glass shades, polishers, and printers. Past City Hall many of the older structures had been replaced by buildings with stone and cast-iron fronts. There could be found manufacturers of safes, firearms, and scales. Curb trees diminished there and then vanished altogether. Ready-made clothing stores offered hats, gloves, flowers and feathers, corsets, shoes, and furs.
Up near Bleecker Street, Sharisse smiled as they passed the Grand Central Hotel, thinking of her father getting red in the face every time the "eye sore" was mentioned. It really was monstrous, towering above the other buildings around it, yet stylish with its marble front and mansard roof. In 1875 when it opened, an incredible eight-stories high and having six hundred thirty rooms, it was reported to be the largest hotel in the world.