To Love a Scoundrel by Sharon Ihle Page B

glimpses of his taut behind when the tails of his coat split as he swaggered up the stairs. After they had passed through the Texas deck where the passengers staterooms were found, then up to the hurricane deck, Jewel's attention was drawn to a part of the ship rarely seen by guests. Smaller than the other cabins, the area set aside for officers' quarters was every bit as opulent as the rest of the ship.
    After glancing around the carpeted communal sitting room, Jewel watched as Brent unlocked a pair of polished rosewood doors. Above the porcelain knobs two oil paintings depicted the Delta Dawn and a view of the Mississippi at dusk. The river painting included huge cypress trees rising up out of the swamp, appearing ghostlike in the shrouded light. Jewel was engrossed in the Spanish moss hanging from the trees when the doors parted, depriving her of the view.
    "Be my guest," Brent said with a smirk.
    She took a breath and muttered, "Why, thank you, sir," then sashayed past him into the sumptuous stateroom.
    He closed the double doors, then turned and issued an order. "Have a seat in front of my desk and we'll get down to business."
    Regarding him over her shoulder, Jewel assessed the room before she took another step. The cabin reeked of money and elegance—everything she had supposed a man like Brent Connors was not. How could she have been so wrong about him? This was not the room, or the ship, of a two-bit gambler. She took slow steps toward a blue velvet armchair, making note of the filigree work on the ceilings, the gilt and ornate scrollwork above the doors and windows, and the heavy walnut furniture.
    When she turned toward another set of double doors leading, she supposed, to the master bedroom, Jewel shook her head. She'd been so sure Brent was nothing more than a dandy, a lost southerner without a plantation to call home. As she continued toward the chair, she noticed an exceptionally well crafted billiard table clothed in blood-red felt. Again she wondered how she could have been so wrong.
    "Sit," Brent said from across the desk.
    "Huh?"
    "I believe you heard me, Madame... Zigzag?"
    "Zaharra," she corrected him as she slid onto the blue velvet chair.
    "I'm a fairly patient man," Brent drawled as he glanced beyond her to the elaborate cuckoo clock attached to the wall. "I can spare five minutes for your little story. Let's hear it."
    Thinking fast, she recalled the way he'd stared at her cleavage the first time they met. Jewel pushed her shoulders back and encouraged one sleeve of her low-necked blouse to slip down her arm. Then she leaned forward and began jerking on her chair in an effort to move it closer to the desk.
    The act drew the expected response from Brent. His eyes lit up as her breasts jiggled and fought for a way out of the confines of the gauzy yellow material. This might be easier than she thought.
    Brent cleared his throat of a sudden frog and looked into her calculating green eyes. The sight was no less disconcerting than the swell of her breasts, but when he thought of her numerous disguises and her obviously crooked reasons for using them, he managed a stern tone. "My patience is wearing thin. I said I would listen to your story, and I will, if you'll get on with it. Then I will have you removed from this ship—and perhaps arrested as well."
    "But that won't be necessary," she said, buying a little time in which to determine the best way around him.
    "Then please tell me this: Why do I find a very proper Harvey Girl, the daughter of a kindly old gentleman, dressed up in this... this"—he waved a hand in her direction, unable to come up with a name for her Gypsy costume—"silly getup?"
    "Oh, that." She laughed, still stalling for a little more time. "I can see how you'd misunderstand, after Topeka and all."
    "By 'all,' may I assume you are referring to Chicago? You see, I haven't forgotten that little incident, either."
    "Ah, well, yes, I suppose I am." Jewel's smile was strained as she