Irene pressed her fist against her mouth. No more. She could not stand to hear more.
“By the time I reached her, he’d shot her, too.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry to have asked you to speak of it. I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Black.”
He leveled his gaze on her, his gray eyes unfathomable. “Luck of the draw, I guess.”
She racked her brain for what to say. “I—of course you would prefer not to play any more poker.”
His lips formed a one-sided smile. “Who says so? Can’t say I enjoyed losing the first hand, but the game’s not over, Miss Hardisson. Not by a long shot. You owe me a chance to recoup my loss, so to speak.”
“Oh. Well, I…” She shuffled the cards to hide her confusion. She definitely did not wish to admit her part in freeing Fortier. But if what Clayton Black said was true, if Brance Fortier was a murderer…She didn’t know what to do.
On the other hand, she would like to find out all she could about the enigmatic man sitting across from her. One way to do that was to win another hand of poker. But could she really do that?
Of course she could! It was a simple matter of keeping her head and hiding her feelings. Goodness knows, after twenty-five years in straitlaced Philadelphia society, she was an expert at that!
Clayton cut the deck and she dealt another hand, gathered up her cards and suppressed a gasp. Ace, king, queen of diamonds. Quickly she discarded the two unrelated cards. She needed a jack and a ten, and she put all her concentration on those numbers.
Clayton grunted. “I’ll hold.”
She pressed two cards facedown on the desk, then set the deck aside and peeked at her hand.
Nothing. Not even two of a kind. She’d have to bluff. She could feel his eyes studying her, and she tried to keep her face expressionless. “I bet one question.”
“Raise you one.”
“You mean if I win, I may ask two questions?”
“That’s right. And if you fold—”
“Oh, I won’t fold,” she said with an assurance she did not feel. Desperately she hoped he would be taken in by her pretense and would toss in his cards first. That way, she need never show her worthless hand and she would win another—no, two—more questions. It was worth a try.
“Meet my bet or fold,” he instructed.
“Very well.” It occurred to her that he might be bluffing as well. She hoped so. That way she might save face. She watched as he laid his cards faceup on the barrel.
“Pair of kings,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh. I—well, I…” With a sigh she laid down her cards. “You win.”
“Damn right,” he drawled. “Now you get to give me some answers.”
Chapter Four
Irene flinched. She looked up into Clayton Black’s hard, steady gaze and her heart gave a little skip. Such cool, calculating eyes, and that knowing expression, as if he could see into her thoughts. She steeled herself to admit as little as possible but still forfeit the “truth” he’d won.
Clayton’s lips opened. “Okay, here’s my first question. Why are you unmarried?”
“What?” The breath caught in her lungs. She expected him to ask about Fortier, not her.
“You heard me. I figure you’re about twenty-five. If I remember correctly, most society ladies back East have a brood of younguns by that age. How come you don’t?”
“I’m twenty-six,” she said quickly. “I’ve been…busy.”
“Busy,” he repeated. “Busy being a lawyer instead of a woman, is that it?” He sat back, considering. “Sorry, but I don’t buy that. Nobody with a functioning blood supply is that busy. Now, you owe me the truth, so let’s hear it.”
Irene bit her lower lip. What insolence! He had no right to ask such a thing. No man with any manners would pose such a question.
“Don’t you want to know about Brance For—”
“Nope. At least not yet. I figure I’ve got plenty of time for that.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.
You lost the bet, a voice reminded. Now you must pay up.
“Oh, all right,” she blurted. “My mother died when I was four, and I resolved I would never…entertain any gentlemen callers. I made a promise on her grave to devote my life to taking care of Papa.”
His eyes flickered, then softened. “How’d she die?”
Irene swallowed. “She was out riding. The horse refused a jump and threw her. Her neck was broken.” She drew in a breath to steady her nerves. “Why would you want to know such a thing?”
Clayton gave her a long, assessing look. “Don’t know, exactly. Just wonder what a pretty woman’s doing in a little picture-book town like Crazy Creek. Why she’d come out West to be a lawyer. It isn’t for money, I knew that right off. Your dress and that hat say you don’t need money. So why?”
Irene opened her mouth, then closed it. “I assume that is your second question?”
He nodded.
She thought for a moment. True, she did not need money. But she did need…something. Freedom, maybe. A new start in life. Something. However, she wasn’t about to admit this to Clayton Black. No sirree. He would laugh at her.
But, she reminded herself, she had to answer truthfully. He had done so, at some expense; it was a matter of honor.
“I have never been completely on my own before,” she confessed.
“Thought so,” Clayton said, his voice quiet.
Her head came up. “You what? I assure you, Mr. Black, I am a very capable attorney.”
“Thought that, too,” he responded. “Just curious is all.”
“About what, exactly?” Her tone sounded extra prim, even to her.
“About you.”
“Me! Why would you want to know—”
He chuckled. “To find that out, you’re gonna have to win another hand.”
Another hand? Her pulse jumped. Actually, she enjoyed the game—it was the forfeited truths that bothered her. Answering his question made her uneasy, as if she were filled with sand and telling things about herself allowed some of her insides to leak away. She wondered if he felt the same way.
She should end this charade right this minute. Return to her cottage and read or…do something. Anything. Even hang wallpaper.
Her brain told her it was just a card game, a harmless pastime. Her heart told her something else—that it was dangerous. The more he unearthed about her, the more vulnerable she felt.
And that, she realized all at once, was how she had grown up—protecting herself from the real world of loss and pain by keeping everything hidden inside herself.
She felt dazed. Some sort of tension was building between herself and Clayton Black. Not as an opponent, but as a man.
Against her better judgment, Irene gathered up the deck and reshuffled it. She laid out five fresh cards for each of them and watched his capable fingers fold themselves around his hand.
“You know,” he