ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

He put his horse in a livery stable, checked into a small hotel and went down into the Latin Quarter, looking for excitement.

Six hours later, he threw down a pair of tens to three sevens and that was that. He had lost his money, his horse, everything but the clothes on his back. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet.

"That cleans me, gents," he said. "I’ll go roun' to the stable an' fetch my hoss."

One of the gamblers looked up at him. "May I be so bold as to inquire, suh, what you intend to do after that?" he asked in his soft Southern accent.

Max shrugged and grinned. "I dunno. Get a job, I reckon."

"What kind of job?"

"Any kind. I'm pretty good with hosses. Punch cattle. Anything."

The gambler gestured at Max's gun. "Any good with that?"

"Some."

The gambler got to his feet casually. "Lady Luck wasn't very kind to you tonight."

"You didn' help her much," Max said.

The gambler's hand streaked toward his coat. He froze, staring into the muzzle of Max's gun. It had come out so fast that he hadn't even sensed the motion.

"A man can get killed doin' foolish things like that," Max said softly.

The gambler's face relaxed into a smile. "You are good," he said respectfully.

Max slipped his gun back into the holster. "I think I've got a job for you," the gambler said. "That is if you don't mind working for a lady."

"A job's a job," Max said. "This ain't no time to be gettin' choosy."

The next morning, Max and the gambler sat in the parlor of the fanciest house in New Orleans. A Creole maid came into the room. "Miss Pluvier will see you now." She curtsied. "If you will please follow me."

They followed her up a long, gracious staircase. The maid opened a door and curtsied as they walked through, then closed the door after them. Max took two steps into the room and stopped in his tracks, gawking.

He had never seen a room like this. Everything was white. The silk-covered walls, the drapes at the windows, the woodwork, the furniture, the canopy of shimmering silk over the bed. Even the carpet that spread lushly over the floor was white.

"Is this the young man?" a soft voice asked.

Max turned in the direction of the voice. The woman surprised him even more than the room. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, and her face was young, very young; but her hair was what did it more than anything else. It was long, almost to her waist, and white, blue-white like strands of glistening satin.

The gambler spoke in a respectful voice. "Miss Pluvier, may I present Max Sand."

Miss Pluvier studied Max for a moment. "How do you do?"

Max nodded his head. "Ma'am."

Miss Pluvier walked around him, looking at him from all angles. "He seems rather young," she said doubtfully.

"He's extremely capable, I assure you," the gambler said. "He's a veteran of the recent war with Spain."

She raised her hand carelessly, interrupting his speech. "I'm sure his qualifications are satisfactory if you recommend him," she said. "But he does seem rather dirty."

"I just rode in from Florida, ma'am," Max said, finding his voice.

"His figure is rather good, though." She continued as if he hadn't spoken. She walked around him again. "Very broad shoulders, almost no hips at all. He should wear clothes well. I think he'll do."

She walked back to the dressing table where she had been standing. She turned to face them. "Young man," she asked, "do you know what you're supposed to do?"

Max shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"You're to be my bodyguard," she said matter-of-factly. "I have a rather large establishment here. Downstairs, we have several gaming rooms for gentlemen. Of course, we provide other discreet entertainments. Our house enjoys the highest reputation in the South and as a result, many people are envious of us. Sometimes, these people go to extremes in their desire to cause trouble. My friends have persuaded me to seek protection."

"I see, ma'am," Max said.

Her voice became more businesslike. "My hours will be your hours," she said, "and you will live here with us. Your wages will be a hundred dollars a month. Twenty dollars a month will be deducted for room and board. And under no circumstances are you to have anything to do with any of the young ladies who reside here."

Max nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Miss Pluvier smiled. She turned to the gambler. "Now, if you will be kind enough to take him to your tailor and have six suits made for him – three white and three black – I think everything will be in order."

The gambler smiled. "I’ll attend to it right away."

Max followed him. At the door, he stopped and looked back. She was seated at the dressing table in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. Her eyes glanced up and caught his. "Thank you, ma'am," he said.

"Please call me Miss Pluvier," she said coldly.

It was after three o'clock one morning when Max came into the foyer from the gaming rooms on his nightly tour of inspection. Already, the cleaning women were busy in the downstairs rooms. He paused at the front door.

"Everythin' locked up, Jacob?" he asked the tall Negro doorman.

"Tighter'n a drum, Mistuh Sand."

"Good," Max smiled as he started for the staircase, then stopped and looked back. "Did Mr. Darcy leave?"

"No, suh," the Negro replied. "He spendin' the night with Miss Eleanor. You don' have to worry, though. I move 'em to the gol' room."

Max nodded and started up the staircase. Darcy had been his only problem the last few months. The young man was determined not to be satisfied until he had spent a night with the mistress of the house. And tonight he had been rather unpleasant about it.

Max stopped at the top of the stairway. He knocked at a door and went in. His employer was seated at her dressing table, a maid brushing her hair. Her eyes met his in the mirror.

"Everythin's locked up, Miss Pluvier," he said.

Her eyebrows raised questioningly. "Darcy?"

"In the gold room with Eleanor at the other end of the house."

"Bon." She nodded.

Max stood there looking at her, his face troubled. She saw his expression in the mirror and waved the maid from the room. "You are disturbed, cheri ?"

He nodded. "It's Darcy," he admitted. "I don't like the way he's actin'. I think we ought to bar him."

"La." She laughed. "We can't do that. The family is too important."

She laughed again happily and came toward him. She placed her arms around his neck and kissed him. "My young Indien is jealous." She smiled. "Do not worry about him. He will forget about it soon. All young men do. I have seen it happen before."

A little while later, he lay beside her on the big white bed, his eyes delighting in the wonder of her lovely body. He felt her fingers stroking him gently, reawakening the fires inside him. He closed his eyes.

He felt her soft lips brushing his flesh; her whispering voice seemed to float upward to him. "Mon coeur, mon indien, mon cheri." He heard the soft sounds of her pleasure as she raised her lips from him. Through his almost closed lids he could see the blurred sensuality of her face.

"The weapon you carry has turned into a cannon," she murmured, her fingers still stroking him gently.

His hand reached out and stroked her hair. An expression of almost frightened ecstasy came into her face and he closed his eyes. He could feel the trembling begin deep inside him. How could a woman know so much? From what deep spring could such a fountain of pleasure come? He caught his breath. It was almost unbearable, this strange delight. It was like nothing he had ever known.

There was a soft sound at the door. He turned his head slightly, wondering what it could be. Suddenly, the door burst open and Darcy was there in the room.