Lisa Plumley Read online

This was what she’d been wanting all night.

  This…and maybe more.

  Enchanted, Violet gazed up into the stranger’s arresting face. Clearly, this was the man who’d had all the town’s wallflowers aflutter. Indeed, as she examined his wavy dark hair, piercing blue eyes and impeccably arrayed features, she did feel a bit dizzy. A bit bedazzled. A bit swoony.

  He was…perfect.

  He delivered her an abashed smile. “Thank you for letting me sweep you away just now. I’m in your debt, Miss…?”

  “Benson. Violet Benson.” Beset by her rapidly galloping heartbeat, Violet sucked down a breath. She executed another turn in the dance. This had to be some sort of mistake, but she’d be jiggered if she’d miss this opportunity to kick up her heels. Politely, she asked, “And you are?”

  “Cade Foster. I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Benson.”

  Hearing her name on his lips made Violet feel downright light-headed. How did he manage to make her ordinary name sound so extraordinarily intimate? So intriguing? So…wonderful?

  On the verge of asking him exactly that question, Violet stopped herself. Instead she blurted, “You’re new in town.”

  It was not a smooth entrée to further conversation. But a person would not have guessed as much to look at Cade Foster’s appealing smile—a smile that engaged twin dimples in his cheeks.

  “Not anymore.” He tightened his hand on hers, sweeping them both in an elegant arc across the room. “In your company, Miss Benson, I suddenly feel quite welcomed to Morrow Creek.”

  Goodness, he was charming. And he was charming her! Awed by the realization, Violet prayed her feet wouldn’t lose all sense of rhythm. She glanced downward. Blessedly, her feet seemed to be keeping up very well…even while the rest of her dithered.

  “Well, I have that effect on people,” she confessed. “My friends say I’m a veritable one-woman hospitality committee. Probably owing to all my charity work. You see, I do a great deal of volunteering among the destitute, the sick, the needy—”

  “They’re fortunate to have you. As am I, tonight.”

  “Oh. Now you’re teasing me.”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Foster danced them both near the raffle cage and its attendant cash box. “I’m enjoying you. I think you’re enjoying me, too—at least if your smile is any proof.”

  Caught, Violet tried to tamp down her wide, telltale smile. But it was no use. It was simply too delightful to be flirted with this way! Especially by such a dashing man. Also, she couldn’t help noticing that several conversations had quit at the edge of the dance floor. A few dancers had even slowed to gawk. The whole place, it seemed, was fixated on Violet and her gallant dance partner. The sensation was altogether novel.

  She, Violet Benson, was the center of attention!

  This must be what her friend Adeline experienced every day.

  Encouraged by that realization, Violet gazed up at him. “My smile doesn’t prove a thing about my supposed feelings for you, Mr. Foster,” she said in her most coquettish tone. Until now she had only employed that tone in her imagination. It felt much more fun in truth. “I always smile when performing a good deed. It makes me happy to lend a hand to those in need.”

  Mr. Foster appeared dumbfounded. “Charity? You’re likening me to a charity case?” He raised his eyebrows. “I assure you, Miss Benson, I do not need help. Not from you or anyone else.”

  “Are you sure?” Violet angled her head, studying him. “When you first invited me to dance, I felt sure I detected a certain air of…desperation about you. I know it sounds strange, but—”

  He stumbled. For an instant, they both lost the cadence of the dance. Then his hand closed more securely around hers, they both recaptured the necessary steps, and Violet reconsidered.

  Undoubtedly, Cade Foster had never been desperate for anything in his life. He seemed the sort of man for whom everything fell into place, lickety-split. Still, during those first few moments, she had definitely felt…something from him.

  Something, if not desperate, then very, very needful.

  “You move very well, Miss Benson.” Cade Foster presented her with his flawless profile. If he noticed the avid stares and gossipy whispers directed their way, he gave no sign of it. “The men in town must be bereft that you threw away your dance card.”

  She gawked at him, all thoughts of his potential desperation forgotten. “You saw that? You saw…me?”

  “Of course I did.” Mr. Foster glanced sideways. He frowned. “Why did you do it? Why did you throw away your dance card?”

  Still enraptured with the notion that she might move well, as he’d said, Violet felt a shiver race through her. He was the one who moved well—the one who danced with effortless poise. Cade Foster’s skill was to make his partner seem equally adept.

  Doubtless he possessed several similar talents…all of which would be scintillating and assured and unlikely to be shared with Violet beyond this night and this dance. Maybe that’s why she let herself fling her usual caution to the wind.

  “Why did I throw away my dance card? The answer to that question, Mr. Foster, will cost you another dance.”

  He smiled, seeming impressed. “You’re bold. I wouldn’t have expected that from a self-confessed do-gooder.”

  “I prefer ‘aid worker.’ And a straight answer.”

  Mr. Foster laughed. “And bolder still.” He twirled her as the last flourish of music played. He glanced sideways, then muttered a swearword under his breath. “But I have to refuse.”

  “Why?” Violet kept her tone light. “Are you afraid I might save you with a dose of well-placed charity work?”

  “No.” Inexplicably, he paled. “I’m beyond redemption.”

  His voice sounded fraught. Troubled, Violet dared to touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was being flippant. I didn’t mean—”

  “Take this.” As the next dance began, Mr. Foster gave her something: a dance card. Her dance card. “You’ll be needing it.”

  Violet boggled at it. How had he come to possess her dance card? “I don’t need it. There was a reason it was empty.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “Thank you for the dance.”

  “We could have another. I still haven’t answered your—”

  “Your father is headed to the mescal booth to celebrate his recent win at cards.” Mr. Foster nodded. “I’m guessing you’ll want to intercept him before he gets two fistfuls and a snort.”

  Her father? Winning and drinking? But how could Mr. Foster possibly have identified both the Reverend Benson and his worst foibles, all in a single glance? Confused, Violet turned.

  It was true, she saw. However unaccountably, Cade Foster had summed up the situation. Papa did appear to have won.

  He also appeared to be intent on memorializing his victory at the gambling table by pickling himself in locally brewed liquor. Her father, although devout and bookish by nature, had never refused a whiskey. He considered it a fair restorative.

  “Next time I see you, you’ll be overrun with suitors.” With another beguiling smile and a touch of her hand, Cade Foster bowed to Violet. He didn’t seem to realize how preposterous his statement really was. “I’m happy to have danced with you first.”

  Violet didn’t have time to elucidate matters to him. Nor did she want to. Cade Foster had enjoyed dancing with her! Why should she spoil that by telling him that she typically spent more time decorating for parties than dancing at them?

  “Thank you very much. I’m happy to have danced with you, too!” Eagerly, she nodded. “But now I really must dash!”

  Then, with Cade Foster’s enthralling features still dancing in her mind, Violet picked up her skirts and went to do her duty. Her turn at being belle of the ball was over. For her it was back to everyday existence—without the pleasure of a man’s hand in hers to help guide her through…or to share her smiles.

  “Papa!” she cried an instant later. “What have you done?”

  “Violet, my dear!
” Her father embraced her happily. “You’re just who I wanted to see. Look! I won fistfuls of money!”

  “Oh, dear.” Nibbling her lip, Violet swept her father’s winnings with a chary look. Probably he would add them to the collection plate on Sunday, but until then there was always the chance he would wager most or all of it. She didn’t approve of gambling, but it seemed to give Papa a happiness he’d lost since the death of her poor mother years ago. “Congratulations!”

  “That’s my girl!” He kissed her cheek, then delivered her a quelling frown. “But shouldn’t you be conducting the drawing?”

  The drawing. She’d forgotten about the raffle entirely. As organizer of the gala, Violet was responsible for determining the winner and for delivering the money raised to the committee.

  “Yes! I was just about to do that.” Reminded of her pressing duties, Violet sighed. Dancing had been so much nicer!

  Turning back for one last compelling look, Violet glimpsed Cade Foster striding through the dancers. He was leaving her behind just as abruptly as he’d swept her into the dance.

  It was only too bad, Violet thought as she watched him go, that she’d had a taste of flying with him at all. Now she knew, for the first time ever, exactly what she’d been missing in her life.

  Strangely enough, it had taken an enigmatic and downright captivating man to show her the truth: she needed to fly. Perhaps recklessly. Perhaps foolishly. But regularly and soon, preferably with a companion by her side. But…how?

  Chapter Three

  Seated across the table from Cade in his suite at the Lorndorff Hotel, Simon Blackhouse smiled. That’s how Cade knew something significant was afoot. Blackhouse never smiled, not while there were cards in his hand or dice within his reach. Blackhouse took gambling as seriously as he did nothing else.

  “What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk?” Cade peered out the hotel suite’s lavishly curtained window. A slice of autumnal blue sky greeted him. “It’s only ten in the morning.”

  “I’m not drunk. I’m thinking.”

  “Aha. That explains it.” With sham concern, Cade leaned nearer. “You’re new at making an effort with things, so I should probably warn you—thinking, once begun, is hard to stop.”

  “Very funny.” Unperturbed, Blackhouse smiled anew at his cards, making Cade feel doubly wary. “I can’t help it if things come easily to me,” his sponsor argued. “It’s in my nature.”

  “It’s in your inheritance.” Cade gestured. “New game?”

  With a murmur of agreement, Blackhouse rounded up the cards. He dealt. For a while, the only sounds were the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and the shuffling of cards.

  At the conclusion of their game, Blackhouse smiled again.

  “That’s the fourth game straight you’ve won today.” He studied Cade from over the tops of his losing cards. “You know what this means, don’t you? Your unlucky streak has ended.”

  Cade wasn’t so sure. “If I were playing a skilled gambler—”

  “You’d still win,” Blackhouse told him, ignoring his genial gibe. “You’re the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever known.” With his shirt half buttoned and his suit coat askew, Blackhouse seemed the very picture of privileged, happy-go-lucky young bachelorhood. “Aside from myself, of course. I’m damnably lucky, too.” Appearing characteristically pleased by that, he lit a cheroot. He gazed at Cade through its upward-curling smoke. “What happened? Did you bed a Gypsy who broke the curse?”

  “I wish it had been that simple. I would have done that months ago.” It had been almost that long since he’d had a break in his search for Percy Whittier. Last night hadn’t changed much in that regard. Cade had lost sight of Whittier while dancing with Violet Benson. Although he’d tried not to be, he’d been distracted by her—especially by her too-astute claim that he’d appeared desperate. Desperate! “I’m afraid the only woman I’ve been with lately was a naive reformer. She threatened to ‘save’ me.” Cade shuddered at the remembrance. “I can’t stand do-gooders. They remind me of orphan trains and foundling homes.”

  “So?” Blackhouse arched his brow. With nimble fingers, he scooped up the playing cards. “I’ve established a few foundling homes myself. They’re not all bad.” As though considering those altruistic efforts—along with the prestigious family name and attendant family fortune that had facilitated them—Blackhouse paused. He shook his head, then shuffled expertly. “A Rom woman would have been wilder,” he alleged, grinning again.

  Disturbed by the return of that grin, Cade frowned, uncomfortably reminded that he didn’t truly know Blackhouse well enough to discern his intentions but had to trust him anyway.

  Although charming, wealthy and advantageously footloose—with a private luxury train car and a loyal valet to prove it—Blackhouse was nonetheless a mysterious figure to Cade. They had met at a poker table in San Francisco and had become friends (of a kind) while outlasting every other player at the table. When Blackhouse had unexpectedly offered to finance Cade’s search for Percy Whittier, Cade had cautiously agreed. He hadn’t had the stakes to continue alone. Likely, Blackhouse had known that and had decided to exploit it…for whatever reasons.

  He still didn’t know what Blackhouse’s interest in Whittier was. Knowing Blackhouse, it was something frivolous. All Cade knew was that Blackhouse had the money, Cade had the tenacity, and between them they could bring Whittier to heel.

  “I don’t have time for any women,” Cade said. “Rom or not.” He told Blackhouse about spotting Whittier at the Grand Fair and about losing him during the dance. “He must still be in town.”

  “Yes. Faro is his game. He’d be unlikely to miss the tournament.” Agreeably, Blackhouse cut the cards. He arranged them on the table between them, then nodded cannily at Cade. “Go ahead. Choose four. If you pick out all the aces, I’ll lay out an extra thousand for tonight’s gaming. And maybe lend you my overcoat, too.” An amused look. “You seem to have lost yours.”

  Cade didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want to discuss giving his warm overcoat to the grimy-faced child sharper in the Morrow Creek alleyway. “I don’t need any more of your money.” Not yet. “Besides, the odds of choosing all four aces in a row are—”

  “Inordinate. I know. That’s the point.” With a leisurely gesture, Blackhouse summoned Adams, his valet. “Do it.”

  “Fine.” Exasperated, Cade flipped up four cards.

  In short order, a queen and three aces stared up at him.

  “See? Just as I thought.” Blackhouse pointed. “Not all four aces, that’s true, but still a good enough draw to prove I’m right. You should be delighted.” Yawning, Blackhouse selected a postmarked envelope from the silver tray that Adams offered him. He tossed it in front of Cade. “By the way, this letter from your brother arrived this morning. I hope Judah is well?”

  Cade nodded, still boggling at his chosen cards. Turning up three aces was unbelievable. “His leg should be almost healed by now.” Distractedly, Cade frowned. “You must be double dealing.”

  Blackhouse scoffed. “I’m not double dealing. I’m not trimming cards. I’m not even wearing a holdout, despite my enthusiasm for collecting such things.” He spread his arms, showing he was free of mechanical cheating devices. “It’s you, Foster. Just you. Your usual good luck has clearly returned.”

  Dubiously, Cade regarded the cards. Like most sporting men, he believed in superstition. It was foolhardy and unreasonable not to. A man needed all the breaks he could get. But this…

  “I think it must be your reformer who did it,” Blackhouse opined. “She’s your lucky charm. That’s the only explanation.”

  Lucky charm. Cade could use one of those, especially now.

  Still filled with disbelief, he scowled at the cards. He didn’t want to agree with Blackhouse. He didn’t want to believe in luck alone. But with no other leads readily available….

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Cade asked. “That’s to find my ‘lu
cky charm’ and see what happens.”

  Then he threw on a necktie, grabbed his suit coat and hat, and went in search of his very own private do-gooder and (potential) good-luck charm.

  God help him, he seemed to need her.

  *

  When Violet glimpsed the town newcomer, Cade Foster, from across the room at the charity kitchen she’d organized with the help of Grace Murphy and her ladies’ auxiliary club, she knew she had to be imagining things…which wasn’t altogether surprising, given how preoccupied she’d been since yesterday.

  All afternoon long, even while ladling up soup and passing out bread donated by Molly Copeland’s popular bakery, Violet had relived last night’s dance at the Grand Fair. She’d recalled Cade Foster’s smile. She’d remembered his features. She’d contemplated his intriguingly muscular personhood and sighed over his eyes. She’d even envisioned herself seeing him again.

  So a part of her wasn’t at all surprised to catch sight of him there. The rest of her knew that she should pinch herself—especially when Cade Foster spied her, raised his hand in a masculine greeting, then determinedly headed in her direction.

  “Yes!” someone whispered nearby. “It’s definitely him!”

  “Did you see them dancing together?” someone else added.

  “I saw her leave him standing heartbroken on the dance floor!” a third gossip added in breathless tones. “Imagine that! Plain Violet Benson, the minister’s daughter, having the cheek to turn her back on a man who’s willing to dance with her!”

  Well. Being the subject of such vaguely uncharitable gossip took some of the fun out of things, Violet thought. That was a new and unwelcome experience for her—one she’d helped Adeline through a time or two, though. Besides, she retorted to herself silently, she hadn’t left Cade on the dance floor. She’d gone to fetch her father—it was an entirely different thing. Tightening her hold on her soup ladle, she went on watching Cade approach.

  Plainly, he was close enough to hear everything her fellow helpers were saying, Violet realized. Because almost imperceptibly, he angled his head toward that chatty clump of gossips, flashed them a brief but brilliant grin, then kept right on going.