Betting It All Page 3

  Leering, he winked. “Ah. You left him behind.”

  “Certainly not.” My, but he cleaned up nicely. The electric wall sconce gave his black hair a sheen like a raven’s feathers in the sun. His smooth-shaved skin accentuated the whites of his eyes, rimmed with thick dark lashes. Curled in a teasing smile, his lips appeared soft, not weather-worn like some men.

  He cocked a brow. “He’s joining you later?”

  “I don’t see how it’s any of your concern.” Unless he still hoped for employment. His long, smooth fingers might be handy for more than cards. Still, if she wanted music, she could buy a player piano and not have to pay it a weekly salary. Though it wouldn’t be nearly as nice to look at as Mac.

  He shrugged. “It isn’t. Unless you run into debt playing poker. I want to be assured someone will back you up.”

  Why pretend concern over her well-being? “You needn’t worry. I never get in over my head.” In anything.

  He tipped his cap. “Smart woman.”

  Not enough to fool him. Last night, Norah had imitated her drunken mother to perfection, another skill that came in handy. Believing her vulnerable, the men made themselves more so. Not Mac. He’d grown more careful, as if he guessed at her intent.

  “What are you doing here?” She wondered what sort of a racket he ran. Everyone had one. Uppity ladies in their lace-edged gowns and mansions excelled at scamming men into marriage, but only succeeded in trapping themselves in the bargain. She preferred a prison with bars.

  “Renting a room, same as you.”

  Coincidence? Or had he followed her? “I’m curious. Do you possess other skills?”

  Smiling, he tugged at his jacket lapels. “I’m a man of many talents. Why do you ask?”

  Lo, his ego reared again. “Have you no real trade to ply?”

  “Playing the piano is a ‘real’ trade, Miss Hawkins, however, I can work at almost anything, from carpenter to barkeep.”

  Like Dan. All her stinging retorts vanished. “Oh.”

  He grimaced. “You disapprove?”

  “Not at all. Those are honorable trades.” Why should she feel relieved? Had he also guessed his answer would put her at ease? A set-up to trick her into trusting him?

  “As honorable as your own?” His voice was low as a dog’s growl.

  What was he hinting at? Did someone—maybe the train conductor?—tell him about Estelle? Her face burned hot. She spoke crisply. “Yes, as honorable as owning a saloon.”

  “Saloon,” he repeated, as if unsure. “I thought it was a gentleman’s club.”

  Did he mean to imply she’d employ herself in some other occupation, such as her mother’s? In defiance, she curbed her tongue, unwilling to satisfy him with an answer.

  He smiled and backed away. “If you’ll pardon me, I must be going.”

  The man needed a reminder about ladies first. She brushed past. “I have an appointment anyway.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  A shiver passed through her. The way he said it, he might have watched her bathing. Worse, she didn’t mind a bit, and might be tempted to share the tub with him. The scandalous thought propelled her outside.

  All her life, Norah Hawkins had relied on one person: herself. She wasn’t about to change that.

  Watching her leave, Mac cursed himself. What the hell was he doing? Flirting? And against his better judgment. Still, he should watch out for her safety. For all her high and mightiness, she knew little about the world, if he read her right. He wouldn’t mention witnessing her checking into the hotel, her worry about finances clear in the careful way she counted out the two dollars as if it were gold she’d mined herself.

  Despite her pretended class, and a mighty good pretense at that, she exuded a rawness beneath the polished exterior. On the train, she’d shown her cunning, and he’d hastily labeled her a she-devil. He’d known too many others like her, people desperate to make something better out of their hard-scrabble lives. Her act might fool those with honorable intentions, but dishonorable bastards would notice the innocence beneath and use it to their advantage. Someone so young and inexperienced as Norah Hawkins could easily be bilked of her fortune, if she truly had one.

  Outside, the chaos kept him enthralled along the wide street teeming with people. They strolled or rode in automobiles, horse-drawn wagons, on bicycles, and horses. Through the center, a trolley rolled along, narrowly missing colliding with them all.

  The madness of it all made him chuckle. He hopped onto the passing street car and rode for a few blocks, taking in the sights. Restless, he stepped off and strolled onto Montgomery Street.

  A different type of madness lay there. Signs protruded from every building: The Midway. The Bear. Hippodrome.

  Men clustered outside each establishment. One, an old man whose slicked hair and greasy smell made Mac uneasy, approached.

  “Looking for a girl?” The man’s gritty voice sounded soulless.

  Mac shifted away. “I need—”

  The man pressed closer. “We got all kinds. You like ’em young?”

  A nervous chuckle escaped. “I meant—”

  “Come inside. Have a drink, have a look. Dance with any of our girls. She’ll strip for you, do whatever you want.”

  Tempting as it sounded, he wanted no sailor’s disease. “I need a job. Do any of these places need a piano player?”

  Turning his back on Mac, the man waved him away. “Ach, get lost.”

  Waste of time, asking that wretch. Mac strode inside the Midway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the interior, dim except for the lighted stage where three girls sang in terrible harmony. Men ogled their skimpy outfits and yelled for a peek at more.

  A gruff voice spoke to him. “You here for the stage show, or a private one?”

  He eyed the man, as unsavory-looking as he sounded. “Where’s the boss?”

  Narrow-eyed, the man ogled him. “Who’s askin’?”

  Frustration made Mac blurt, “Look, do you need a piano player?”

  “Try the dance halls on Pacific or Broadway.” He gestured in the general direction.

  Grumbling, Mac stomped outside. Along three blocks from Telegraph Hill to the shoreline, Mac couldn’t have imagined louder tunes blaring from places with dubious names like The Living Flea, Opera Comique, and Ye Olde Whore Shop.

  While all had music, some used steam pianos. A few had orchestras but none needed a piano player. What an eyeful the band had, in full view of the female performers.

  Discouraged, Mac ordered a whiskey at a bar. He stayed long enough to hear other men speak of the secret tunnels known as Dead Man’s Alley and Murder Point. The opium dives, slave dens, parlor houses, deadfalls, melodeons—exotic names for all manner of vice. Mac didn’t mind the occasional vice, but these temptations had the power to suck a man’s soul dry.

  “Norah’s place doesn’t stand a chance.” How could she offer a club for gentleman in a city where men were too easily lured to these places?

  Chapter Three

  The law office of Nicholas Abernathy sat beside the bank on Polk Street. Norah smoothed her hair with shaking fingers. The next few minutes would prove the most important of her life.

  She squared her shoulders. “Buck up, Norah Hawkins. Whether this is a farce or not, you’ll conquer San Francisco.”

  With determined steps, she climbed the brick stair and opened the door. A woman behind a desk in the lobby looked up from her ledger. “May I help you?”

  Norah smiled. “Good morning. I’m Miss Hawkins. I’m here to see Mr. Nicholas Abernathy.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  She searched the woman’s face for any sign of judgment or snobbery, but found none. “According to his letter, yes.”

  “One moment.” The woman hurried to a door, knocked and slipped inside. Within seconds, she returned. “Follow me.”

  In the inner office, an affable gent rose from his leather chair, his pinstriped vest straining against h
is bulging belly. A wide smile appeared below his handlebar mustache. “Miss Hawkins. Thank you for coming so quickly. Have a seat.”

  She perched on the tufted tapestry settee opposite his desk. “Your letter caused quite a stir, I must admit.” Her smile never faltered, unlike her confidence.

  “It’s an unusual situation. Nothing we can’t handle.” He laughed as he stooped to retrieve papers from a drawer. “The documentation is in order.”

  She was hardly able to find the courage to ask. “May I see?”

  “Certainly.” He set the sheets on the desk in front of her.

  She scanned the typed pages for names, any clue as to who had orchestrated this, but found nothing.

  “Have you visited the property yet?”

  “No.” Excitement had clouded her mind; she should have thought of it. “But I’d love to.”

  “It’s a short drive. My carriage is out back.”

  Nerves fluttering, she stood and followed him outside. He helped her into his buggy, climbed up, and took the reins. Steering the carriage through the streets, he made small talk while navigating a constant stream of pedestrians, horse-drawn wagons, and the occasional automobile. She clutched the buggy’s rails while they narrowly avoided the passing trolley, Mr. Abernathy guiding the horse from its path without so much as a blink.

  So much to take in at once. So much to get used to. Tall buildings rose like sentinels above the cityscape. One in particular captivated her. “What an amazing sight.”

  “The Call building. Twelve stories high, what they call a skyscraper. Can you imagine?” He steered the buggy down a side street.

  “A skyscraper? No.” But then, she couldn’t imagine someone giving her property either. Soon they'd arrived at the two-storey structure. Tall windows on either side of the door, and shutters barring the view inside. Perfect for discreet visits. Her heart twisted.

  Mr. Abernathy waited beside the buggy. “Miss Hawkins?”

  She hadn’t noticed him standing there, and took his hand to descend. “This is it?”

  The attorney guided her up the steps. He unlocked the door, ushered her inside, and opened the shutters.

  Light flooded the interior, a wonderful space. Clearly, her dream of opening a dignified saloon hadn’t been original. A long bar sat to the left, its wood gleaming with polish. Tables and chairs scattered across the carpeted floor. She’d add a few cushioned sofas along the walls for gentlemen to better enjoy the ambience. For a price, of course.

  She couldn’t help but smile when she glimpsed the piano in the corner. Perhaps she’d let it stay.

  Her practical nature overrode her joy as she inspected two back storage rooms. “I see it’s equipped for electric lights.”

  “Yes, and a telephone too.” He led her up the back stairs to a small apartment.

  Perfect. Almost too perfect. She’d bust soon if she didn’t find out. “Mr. Abernathy, may I ask who arranged this?”

  He knit his brows. “Does it not suit your needs?”

  “Oh, it does. But since receiving your letter, my confusion has only multiplied. I have no benefactors.”

  Abernathy chuckled. “You have one.”

  He led her outside to the buggy, and drove them back to his office, where he took an envelope from the same drawer. “I was instructed to give you this if you inquired. But today you must either approve or disapprove the deed.”

  Did she dare ask? “What are the terms?”

  “Once you sign, the property’s yours.”

  The deciding moment. Nibbling her lip, she wondered what she’d do if she didn’t accept it. Her dream might be out of reach. Yet such an extravagant gift might tie her beyond hope to the unknown giver.

  Her trembling fingers made opening the envelope difficult, but she unfolded the letter and read its brief statement. The benefactor wished to remain anonymous, but the attorney would attest to the fact that she held not the slightest obligation.

  How could it be so? “You’re sure there are no hidden costs?”

  “The paperwork assures you ownership of the property, free and clear.”

  Then how could she not accept it? She lifted the pen. “Where do I sign?”

  ***

  The stroll back to the hotel lightened Mac’s mood. In a city of four hundred thousand people, he’d surely be able to find work. He bought a copy of The Call newspaper and sat on the sofa near the lobby’s wide windows to page through it. A headline grabbed his attention—in a few weeks, Enrico Caruso would perform at The Grand Opera House. Mac heard the opera singer’s voice made women swoon. How he’d love to play piano at such a performance. Or catch the fainting females.

  His smile faded when he glanced up to meet the stare of none other than Miss Norah Hawkins, standing in the archway like a witch. Hells bells, she could wither a man. A lesser man than Mac, that was. Her fiery eyes belied her cool attitude. He found himself wanting a good quenching drink after she burned him with her appraisal.

  She sauntered up. “Good news, Mac?”

  The faint scent of lilac wafted toward him, and stirred him. So did her beauty, which seemed to increase every time he met her.

  The taunt in her tone raised his curiosity. “The paper’s full of both good and bad. And you?”

  Her grin smug, she dangled a key from her hand and perched on a chair opposite the sofa. “Never better. My dream’s come true.”

  He gasped. “I’m flattered, Miss Hawkins, that you’d speak of me so highly.”

  Her sweetness turned sour. “Not you. My gentleman’s club. Soon it will be the toast of San Francisco.”

  Now that sounded promising indeed. “Customers will expect entertainment of some type. My offer’s still open. People love piano players.” And many had. Maybe even Norah would warm to him after hearing him tickle the ivories.

  Her good humor waned. “I have more pressing needs at the moment.”

  “Such as?” Maybe he could fulfill those other needs too.

  Shoulders slumped, she stared at nothing. “There’s so much work to do. Fixing up the place, hiring employees…” Her voice shriveled.

  Her worry touched him. “I’m happy to help. As I said, I’ve many talents.”

  She roused to look at him. “I need trustworthy workers.”

  He abandoned all trace of humor. “You can trust me with your life.” More than the other schmucks he’d met. He shuddered at the thought of her hiring anyone of the ilk he’d met today. If he worked for her, he could stay near her. Yes, that might be an added benefit.

  Pursing her lips, she rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know your name.”

  True, by design he’d not given it in full. Time to rectify that. He bowed his head. “Gerard MacKenzie, at your service.”

  She studied him. “Mac suits you better.”

  “Most people think so.” And he liked the way it sounded when she said it.

  Defeat weighed her voice. “I am desperate.”

  Hope rose up. Take your chance, Mac. “I’m a hard worker, no matter the task. I’ll help you set up your new place, and I can bartend.”

  To his surprise, she assessed him. “I won’t tolerate nonsense of any kind.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

  “Mac.” Her tone carried a warning.

  “My barkeep skills are legendary.”

  She shifted to fully face him, her green eyes piercing him. Framed with full lashes, their depths swept away his thoughts. He had to remind himself to listen to what she said.

  “I don’t need a legend. I need a man who’ll show up on time and earn his wages. Who can take orders from a woman without question. Who can respect a female employer.”

  He had trouble finding his voice. “Then I’m your man.”

  Glancing away, she sighed. “I’ll probably regret this.”

  Saints alive, was she giving in? “I’ll never give you cause for regret.”

  Straightening, she grew more businesslike. “You’d have to wea
r a uniform.”

  He grinned. “I’ll wear a tutu if you buy it.”

  Her eyes narrowed but she almost gave in to a smile. “A vest. And a bowtie. And you need a haircut.”

  No problem, he’d intended to shorten his ears anyway. “Done. When do I start?” He hoped she could make good on wages. But then, he’d settle for bartered goods if need be. A back room to sleep in. A back rub would be nice, too.

  Sweetness again, she batted her long lashes. “You already have.”

  Lord, she must have left her common sense in New Jersey. A man like Mac would prove to be nothing but trouble. Mischief twinkled in his eyes. Back in her hotel room to repack her scant belongings, Norah felt it in her bones. Deeper than your bones, a small voice told her. She felt it in a way unfamiliar to her. It rattled her nerves. It turned her thoughts to him at the most inconvenient times, wondering what sort of man Gerard McKenzie truly was beneath his sharp tongue and wily ways. It robbed her of common sense and self-control, inventing ways to stay near him. When he’d practically insisted she hire him, the thrill running through her both startled and intrigued her. No man had so much as laid a finger on her, not with her permission anyway. Yet she found herself imagining what Mac’s touch might feel like.

  In the hallway, he whistled Melody of Love. She imagined him singing the lyrics:

  Hold me in your arms, dear

  Dream with me

  Cradled by your kisses, tenderly

  While a choir of angels from above

  Sings our melody of love.

  What must it be like, to know such a deep love? To trust a man with her heart?

  A small laugh burst forth. If she’d learned anything in her twenty-five years, it was that men couldn’t be trusted. Especially not with a woman’s heart. The only time she’d given in to curiosity and let her heart rule over her head left her burning with shame. The thrill of Floyd Enders’s attentions turned to surprise when his fluttering kiss grew forceful, his groping desperate as he pinned her to the ground. Another attempt to prove her cut from the same cloth as Estelle, another whore to be used at his whim and tossed aside.