Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

“The description tallies,” he said, handing it back. “But those cold statistics hardly do you justice.”

Her full lips formed into a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

Returning the license to the wallet, she replaced it in her bag and drew out a checkbook. Ross moved over to the desk, lifted a desk pen from its holder and carried it to her.

“Thank you,” she said again. “Shall I make it out to the club or just to cash?”

“Either.”

There was a safe in one corner of the room, but Ross didn’t bother to open it. Instead he drew ten fifty-dollar bills from his wallet as she wrote the check.

When she finished writing the check and handed it to him, he examined it carefully. It was made to cash and was drawn on a Kansas City bank. He noted that she had numbered it “1.”

“First check you ever drew on this account?” he asked.

She looked startled, then smiled. “You mean because I numbered it one? I start numbering over each month.”

Feminine logic in business matters had always rather escaped the gambler, but her explanation was so typically feminine, he lost all suspicion of the check. He was sure no professional check passer would offer such an explanation. He placed the check in his wallet. She tucked the bills into her bag and returned his pen.

She showed no immediate intention of leaving when he returned the pen to its desk holder. With one elbow on the bar, she glanced about the office again.

“This is a very pleasant room,” she said. “However, except for the desk, it looks more like a playroom than an office.”

“Some play takes place here occasionally,” he admitted.

“I’ll bet. I imagine more than one lonely widow has made the excuse of wanting to cash a check in order to become better acquainted with the club’s handsome proprietor.”

He grinned at her. “Is that a confession?”

“Oh, I needed to cash a check. Your wheel had me quite broke. But I noticed you several times tonight and had been hoping for an excuse to meet you.”

“You’re not a lonely widow.”

“In a way I am. I’m a business widow. I see my husband at odd moments when he isn’t showing clients properties. We haven’t taken a vacation together in five years. He’s always too busy making more money.”

“If your hobby’s roulette, he probably needs to,” the gambler suggested.

She shook her head. “Usually I’m more lucky. Roulette has paid for my last several vacations. I’ll probably get even and stick you for some money before the night’s over.”

“You have my best wishes,” he said with a shrug. “Would you like a drink before you start trying your luck again?”

“I’ve been waiting for an invitation,” she said with a smile. “Straight bourbon with water behind it, please.”

The bar was set flush against the wall, with the liquor and glass racks above it and a refrigerating unit with sliding doors beneath it. Without stirring from his position Ross poured her a shot of bourbon, dropped cubes from the automatic ice maker into a pair of glasses, filled one with water, and put soda and a mere dash of Scotch in the other.

“To your improved luck,” he said, raising his glass.

Smiling acknowledgement of the toast, she tossed off the bourbon in one gulp and took a sip of water. Ross took a bare taste of his own drink and offered her a cigarette. When she accepted, he held his lighter to it and then lit one of his own.

“Another drink?” he inquired.

“All right,” she agreed instantly.

He poured the shot-glass full.

“I probably drink too much,” she said, toying with the glass.

He made no comment.

“The gypsies call alcohol ‘the little death’,” she said. “Sometimes it’s easier to be only partially alive than to face life with all your faculties alert.”

“You have some gypsy in you?”

“Half. My husband doesn’t know that. He’d turn green if he did.”

“Why?” Ross asked in honest surprise. “Romany blood is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You don’t know my husband. He traces his family back to the Revolution. They were Tories, of course. No relation to Benjamin Franklin. He thinks anything but Anglo-Saxon blood is tainted. He forgave me for being part French, but he’d never recover from the shock of learning the French is French-gypsy.”

“Doesn’t sound as though you and your husband share many confidences,” he ventured.

“How close can a woman my age get to a man of sixty-three?” she inquired. She tossed off her second drink, took another sip of water and smiled at him. “But I’m sure you’re not interested in my marital problems. That ends my complaints about Gordie. I promise not to mention him again.”

So she was married to a man thirty-two years older than she, Ross thought. It had been his experience that women who made a point of emphasizing a large age difference between themselves and their husbands were usually obliquely announcing their availability.

In most cases he carefully avoided entanglement with married women, but if Christine Franklin was telling the truth, she was married in name only. And she was certainly physically beautiful. He began to generate a little interest.

“Another drink?” he asked.

Killing her cigarette in an ash tray on the bar, she shook her head. “You’ll think I’m an alcoholic. I’d rather go thirsty and keep your opinion of me higher.”

“I don’t care how much a woman drinks, providing she can handle it.”

“Now you’ve put your finger on my problem. I get drunk and maudlin. I’ve really had enough, thanks. I’ll get back to the table and let you get back to work.”

Punching out his cigarette, he took another bare sip of his drink and left the rest standing on the bar. He accompanied her back as far as the archway into the gaming room, then stood watching the seductive sway of her hips as she made for the roulette table.

From a few feet away Stella’s voice said, “Quite beautiful, isn’t she?”

Turning, Ross walked over to the cloakroom counter. “Yes. She’s vacationing here from Kansas City.”

“An old friend of yours?” Stella asked.

“No. Just met her.”

“Oh. You were so long in your office, I thought perhaps you were discussing old times.”

Ross gave her an amused look. “Why, you’re jealous, aren’t you?”

“Of a woman that age?” Stella said with raised brows. “She must be close to forty.”

“Thirty-one. I saw her driver’s license.”

“Oh, you traded vital statistics? I was going to say she was well preserved, because I thought she was older. But if she’s only thirty-one, she must have lived a hard life.”

“Not half as hard as the one you’re going to live if you start getting possessive,” he growled at her, and walked away.

About fifteen minutes before closing time Ross was watching one of the dice games when a hand touched his arm. Turning, he looked down into the dark, smiling eyes of Christine Franklin.

“Hi,” he said. “Any better luck?”

“Of course,” she said. “Didn’t I warn you? I’d like to buy back my check, if you don’t mind.” She fanned out and extended five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Sure,” he said agreeably, taking out his wallet and removing the check.

As he put away the money, she shredded the check into small pieces and dropped it in a nearby ash tray.

“I took your wheel for over two thousand dollars after I got even,” she said. “With what I brought in with me, I have quite a roll in my bag. I’m a little afraid of carrying so much money around in a strange town at this time of night. Do you furnish escort service for big winners?”