Raising the Stakes

“Do I?” Mary gestured him back into the chair and sat down on the sofa. Jenny was hovering in the doorway, a tray in her hands. A pitcher of iced water stood on it. She smiled at Dan. “Iced water? Was that all you wanted? No breakfast?”

“I had mine. You go ahead, though.”

“No, I’ve had mine, too, about an hour ago. Still, are you certain all you want is water?”

“Well, to be honest, I’d have asked for iced coffee but then you’d have had a glass, as well.” He smiled. “And Keir would scold the both of us.”

Mary laughed. “Bring us some cake, please, Jenny. And a pitcher of that decaffeinated stuff.” She looked at Dan. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”

“I know it isn’t. I drink it myself, sometimes.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I have, for years. My wife wasn’t supposed to have caffeine, either, so I drank it for her sake and grew accustomed to it.”

“Ah. Your wife.” This was a day of firsts. Dan had never mentioned her before. Mary sat back while Jenny put the tray in front of her. “I do recall, from your r;aaesum;aae, that you lost her quite some time ago.”

“Eight years.” He took the glass she held out to him and nodded his thanks. “You and she would have liked each other, I think.”

“Would we?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it. You’re very different from my Flo, but—”

“Different? How?”

“Well, you’re out in the world, so to speak. My wife never had a paying job. She was a homemaker, one of those women who takes all her pleasure in baking and cooking and cleaning.” He smiled at the memory. “She made this hash, from leftover roast beef—”

“So did I.”

Dan’s eyebrows lifted. “You?”

“Certainly.” Mary cut a piece of pound cake, put it on a delicate Spode plate, added a heavy sterling cake fork and a linen napkin and handed it all to him. He took the things with care, a big man typically overwhelmed by such signs of delicacy, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling. “I never threw out a bit of food that was edible. And I knew ways to stretch the smallest leftover into a filling meal.”

“You?” he said again, and she chuckled.

“We were poor as church mice, my Ruarch and I, when we married.” She cut a tiny sliver of cake for herself and spread a napkin in her lap. “My father was a Boston Brahmin. Do you know what that means?”

His ruddy face split in a grin. “I was born in the Bronx, Duchess. We were lace-curtain Irish, though my mother would have been mortified if she heard me say so. We knew all about the upper-class gentry who lived in Massachusetts.”

“Well, then you’ll understand when I tell you I grew up rich.” Mary chuckled. “And my mother would have sent me to my room for saying `rich’ rather than `wealthy.’ Would you like more coffee?”

Dan nodded. “Thank you, I would.”

The ice clinked in the pitcher as she filled his glass. “We had a place on Cape Cod where we spent weekends and summers. When I was seventeen, my father hired a new groom to care for the horses we kept there.” Mary put aside the pitcher and folded her hands in her lap. “His name was Ruarch O’Connell, and he was fresh off the boat from the old country. One summer day, I decided to go riding. My horse threw a shoe and Ruarch came to my rescue.” She smiled a little. “That was all it took. I fell crazy in love with him, and he with me. My father found out and threatened to put me in a convent, but I knew he’d never do that. Instead he had Ruarch thrown off the estate, but it was too late. He got a note smuggled to me, I met him by the gate…” She sighed. “It was all so very long ago.”

“Yes,” Dan said gently, “but the memories are as real as yesterday. It’s that way for me, too. Sometimes, when I look at my girls—and they’d kill me for calling them that, when they’re both grown women—sometimes, when I look at them, I wonder where the years have gone.”

They were both silent a moment. Then Dan cleared his throat. “So,” he said briskly, “how did a groom and his runaway bride end up owning one of the biggest hotels and casinos in Las Vegas?”

Mary smiled. “It was a long, circuitous route, I assure you. Ruarch had a love for cards. It was his one weakness.”

“Come on, lass, there’s no need to be modest. I’ll bet his true weakness was for you.”

Dan could feel the color spread up over his collar and into his face. Had he really said that? But surely it was the truth. Mary Elizabeth was a beautiful woman still; he could imagine that she’d have stolen a man’s breath away when she was a girl. He thought of apologizing and decided against it. What could she do to him, for saying such a thing? Fire him? Let her, if she wished; he was glad he’d spoken the truth.

But she wasn’t going to fire him, he saw with some surprise, or even chastise him. Her lovely face had turned as pink as he knew his must be and there was a glint of pleasure in her china-blue eyes.

“That’s a very nice thing to say,” she murmured.