The Bride of the Delta Queen Page 8

  When Chance did speak, it was in a voice that reminded her of velvet. "Do you really want to be on deck alone—under that moon?" Her gaze slid to the full moon, bathing her with the serenity of its light and catching her in its romantic spell. "It seems to say, 'for lovers only,' doesn't it?" His voice sounded dangerously close.

  When Selena turned, she turned into him. Her hands, clutching the crossed ends of the shawl, brushed against his jacket. The moonlight was masking his compelling features in glistening bronze, but his eyes, black midnight pools, fathomless and shimmering, were focused on her lips. Everything seemed to come to a standstill, her heart, her breath, her thoughts.

  His hands settled lightly on her shoulders as his head bent lower. She knew what he was going to do, but Chance had kissed her so many times before, it seemed natural. At the warm touch of his mouth she responded, hesitantly at first, then with increasing ease. She let his shaping hands mold her to him, his oak-strong solidness something she could lean on.

  The pressure of his kiss relaxed, although his firm, male lips continued sensually playing with hers, their warm breath mingling. "I've wanted you, Red, ever since I saw you again at the hotel," Chance murmured against her mouth.

  The use of her nickname set off the alarm bell, making her aware of the danger in his embrace. This was not an innocently romantic kiss in the moonlight, not with Chance Barkley as a participant. Why had she let herself be caught up in all the talk about the moon and lovers?

  She twisted out of his arms. "You're still making the same mistake about me," she accused with a painful catch in her voice.

  His head was drawn back, a hint of arrogance in his look. "Am I?"

  "Yes, you are." Chance made no effort to stop her as she stepped away, aware that in her weakness and foolishness she had given him cause to think that way. "I'm going to my cabin," she announced, adding a definite "alone" when he started to follow her.

  His mouth quirked. "A gentleman always sees a lady to her door."

  "You aren't a gentleman," Selena retorted.

  His eyes said, "You aren't a lady," but they had already crossed the few feet to her cabin. Selena tried to ignore him as she inserted the key into the lock. When she started to pull the door open, his hand was there to stop it.

  "Don't you think I should check to make sure there aren't any unwanted visitors in your room?" he queried mockingly.

  "Such as?" she asked in caustic challenge.

  "Spiders, mice, the odd creatures that might have slipped aboard."

  "Like rats," Selena suggested with a cloyingly sweet smile, and ducked under his arm to slip inside the door.

  She heard his soft chuckles as she closed it behind her. She waited just inside until she heard his footsteps moving away from her cabin.

  After changing into her nightclothes, she switched off the light and crawled between the covers of her bed. A couple walked by her door, passengers murmuring a greeting to someone. There was a tightness in her chest as she heard Chance's familiar voice respond.

  He was still outside her cabin, somewhere close. She rolled onto her side, punching her pillow with the unladylike wish that it was his face. But that wasn't really what she wished and she knew it.

  Morning brought renewed zest and a firm resolve that she wasn't going to let Chance Barkley get under her skin—or anywhere else!

  Her clothing was casual for the day of cruising up the river. The loose-fitting sweater top was a natural shade with toast and black stripes ringing the bodice, the hips and the hem, the short sleeves cuffed at the elbow with more stripes. Natural linen pants matched the top, and a black and tan plaid scarf secured her hair at the back of her neck, the silk material brushing the skin left bare by the boat neckline of the sweater.

  Breakfast was being served in the Orleans Room, and Selena skipped lightly down the stairs, the brilliant sunlight shining outside reflected in her bright, carefree spirits.

  Inside the dining-room entrance, she stopped dead. Chance was sitting at her table, sipping a cup of coffee. When he saw her poised inside the doorway, he rose and pulled out a chair for her with mock courtesy.

  Numbly Selena moved to the table, her resolve vanishing in a rush of irritation. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  He continued to stand beside the chair, waiting for her to be seated. "I arranged to have my table changed," he explained with a wicked glint in his eyes. "The head waiter quite understood that I would prefer to sit with my aunt."

  She wanted to turn and stalk from the room, but that would give him too much satisfaction. She ignored the chair he held out for her and chose one that seated her opposite him.

  The long, narrow menu card was leaning against the crystal vase of carnations in the center of the table. Selena picked it up and forced herself to concentrate on the selections, ignoring Chance as he took his chair.

  "Are you ready to order?" Dick, their waiter, asked as he appeared at the table.

  "Selena?" Chance directed the inquiry to her,

  "I haven't quite decided. You go ahead."

  He hesitated, then ordered a full breakfast. The waiter turned to Selena. "Have you made up your mind, miss?"

  "I think I'll just have orange juice and a sweet roll," she stated, replacing the menu. "And coffee."

  When the waiter left for the kitchen, Selena felt Chance's gaze center on her. "I expected an Iowa girl like you would eat a hearty breakfast," he commented.

  "Did you?" Coolly, Selena lifted her gaze to meet his. "But then you've consistently misjudged me, haven't you?"

  Chance made no reply, his gaze narrowing briefly. Silence reigned through the morning meal with Selena naturally finishing first and excusing herself from the table to leave him there alone.

  Later she saw him on deck, but he made no attempt to approach her, although she noticed, with irritation, that he kept her in sight. Soon his presence lost the ability to chafe as she became caught up in the spell of the Mississippi River.

  The Delta Queen steamed up the river with majestic slowness, a stately, old-fashioned lady taking a leisurely paddle up the Mississippi. Levees, emerald green with thick grasses, paralleled the river's winding course as it sometimes seemed to attempt to twist back into itself.

  Trees forested the banks. Cottonwoods, cypress, sycamores—an almost endless variety—grew there to baffle and break up the raging current when the river went out of its banks at flood stage. Through breaks in the trees, there were glimpses over the levees of sprawling flatlands, cotton and sugar plantations.

  A trio of egrets was perched on a fallen tree near the river's edge, and a deer grazing in a grassy glade flicked his white tail before bounding into the trees. The river itself was a dirty brown, rushing full between its banks, creating eddies and then destroying them. Logs and tree branches were swept helplessly in its current, along with a million spring seeds. The river was showing a face that had changed little since the days when steamboats ruled its waters and Mark Twain described its lure.

  But there were other faces; buoys marked the channel and industry spilled onto its banks. Vast chemical plants and refineries with their complex network of intertwining pipes and towering stacks rose above the levees. Water towers and church steeples marked towns that were hidden from view.

  Except for the Crescent City of New Orleans, nowhere did the modern face become more evident than at Baton Rouge. The highrise buildings of the city proper marked its center. On either side of the river loading terminals lined the banks with oceangoing ships of every description. Some were being unloaded and giant cranes were loading others. Selena left her comfortable deck chair to walk to the railing for a better look.

  "Baton Rouge is the farthest inland, major port in the States," said Chance, appearing at her side.

  Selena found the scene all too fascinating to object to his presence. "It's an impressive array of ships, but why are they all flying the American flag? Surely they can't all be American ships?"

  "It's a courtesy to f
ly the flag of the port nation. The flag of the ship's country is on the stern," he explained.

  "I see," she nodded. "There's one from Holland," she pointed.

  "The next one is from Glasgow, Scotland, where the Delta Queen was made."

  Selena faced him in surprise. "The Delta Queen was made in Scotland?" she repeated. "I didn't know that."

  "Yes, the steelwork for her and the Delta King was fabricated in Glasgow and temporarily assembled on the River Clyde. The parts were all marked, then torn down and shipped to California where she was reassembled and finished. But it was the same shipbuilding center in Scotland where the Queen Mary was fitted out that this riverboat had her start," he concluded.

  "Amazing!" she breathed, and looked back at the freighter from Scotland.

  Several crew members had gathered on the bridge of the freighter to watch the Delta Queen steam by, her paddle wheel churning tan foam. One of the crew was taking pictures of the riverboat and Selena wondered if he knew of the Delta Queen's beginnings in his homeland. Or did she just seem an anachronism gliding slowly past the sleek, ultramodern tankers and freighters?

  "When was she built?" Selena questioned absently.

  "In the mid-1920s I think. She carried passengers on the Sacramento River back and forth from San Francisco to Sacramento, California."

  "Yes, I remember the couple at our dinner table last night mentioned that one of their older relations had been on the Delta Queen when she was in California many years ago," she nodded.

  The breeze had picked up, whipping around the stern. It tugged a strand of hair free of Selena's scarf and laid it across her cheek. Before she could push it aside, Chance's hand was there, smoothing it behind her ear and making her conscious of him.

  He was tall and vital, his dark eyes glinting with an inner light. With the breeze ruffling the thick crispness of his black hair, he looked rugged and manly, totally in command. His silk print shirt was plastered to his torso by the wind, the material alternately clinging and billowing to enhance his muscular physique.

  The cuffs of his shirt sleeves were rolled up twice to reveal a portion of the rippling muscles in his forearms. The top two buttons of the shirt were unfastened, exposing his throat and the tanned column of his neck. Chance Barkley was a handsome brute, a black-haired devil, and the heady sight of him shook her senses.

  She tore her gaze away from him, suddenly finding it very essential to speak and break the silence. "The Delta Queen has a very interesting history, doesn't she?" Her voice was much steadier than she had expected and she could feel her pulse settling into a more even rhythm.

  "Yes, it has," Chance agreed.

  Another couple moved to the railing near them, an older man and his wife. After several minutes, the man struck up a conversation with Chance and Selena drifted away to reclaim her deck chair and watch the outskirts of Baton Rouge slip by.

  She hadn't been there long when Julia stopped, saying, "Good morning, Selena. Are you going to take your 'eleven at eleven'?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Selena blinked.

  Julia laughed softly, "Eleven laps around the sundeck—which is a mile—at eleven o'clock, with the calliope providing the marching music."

  "I don't think so," she said, smiling wryly at her own lassitude. "I feel too lazy." Overhearing their conversation, Chance caught her eye, a mocking reminder in his that an Iowa girl should be more industrious. Selena ignored the look with an effort.

  "Are you going, Julia?"

  "Oh, yes. I have so much energy I must channel it somewhere," she declared, and moved toward the stairs. "See you at lunch."

  Watching her leave, Selena knew that the bright sparkle in Julia's eyes came from more than just energy. She was sure it was born of excitement because the next day they would be arriving in Natchez, where Leslie was waiting for her.

  Selena felt a pang of envy, hoping that some day she might have that special glow the older woman possessed. Almost of its own volition, her gaze swung to Chance, leaning backward against the railing, his arms crossed in front of him.

  Something jolted through her as she found him watching her, but the emotion was fleeting and indefinable, and Chance's attention was soon claimed by the man standing beside him.

  The sensation didn't return. In the afternoon Selena attended a lecture on the Delta Queen's history. Julia didn't go because she had heard it all before. Neither did Chance, and Selena guessed that he was equally well informed on the subject.

  His sketchy outline had whetted her appetite to hear more and she was not disappointed by the lecture. Mike, the cruise director, spoke of her construction and the almost one million dollars that had been spent to build the Delta Queen, a phenomenal sum to pay for a riverboat in the 1920s. He told of her life on the Sacramento River in California and the years that she had been laid up when the Depression hit.

  During World War II the U.S. Navy took over the Delta Queen, using her as a troop carrier in San Francisco Bay, ferrying soldiers to and from ocean vessels. With the navy's predilection for battleship gray, every inch of her was painted—including the stained glass panels set with copper, which were set in the top of the windows in the lounges on both the cabin deck and the texas deck.

  After the war the Delta Queen was auctioned off, sold to the Green Line that was already operating overnight passenger trips on the Mississippi River. It was then that she was shored and crated like a huge piano in a box, and towed down the Pacific Coastline, through the Panama Canal into the Gulf of Mexico to the Mississippi River. This riverboat was not designed for the ocean or its fury, yet the Delta Queen had made it intact, to the stunned amazement of many an ocean man who had predicted her doom on the high seas.

  The story of the Congressional battle to keep her from being banned forever from traveling the western rivers was recounted, along with the tale of the ultimate, though possibly temporary success. Finally, the cruise director told of the recent construction of her sister ship, the Mississippi Queen, a sleek modern paddle-wheel steamboat with a personality all her own.

  Selena came away from the lecture with a new appreciation for the riverboat and the feeling that she had only heard the highlights, that there was much of the Delta Queen's rich history she didn't know.

  At dinner that evening it was their scheduled arrival at Natchez the following day that indirectly dominated the conversation—at least between Julia and Selena. The older woman talked about her anticipation of being with Leslie and reminisced about their previous times together.

  Chance was almost grimly silent. As far as Selena was concerned, his dislike of Leslie and his disapproval of the coming marriage was practically a tangible thing. She considered his attitude autocratic and insensitive.

  "I've decided to buy a new dress in Natchez for my wedding," Julia announced. "But I can't make up my mind what color. I think it would be in bad taste for a woman my age to wear white, even though I've never been married before. I was considering something in cream or beige or perhaps yellow. Leslie always said yellow was my color."

  Selena was about to comment when Chance broke in curtly, "Julia, you're boring Selena with all this nonsense about your wedding."

  "That's absurb!" Selena flared, her spoon poised above the peach melba. "What woman would find wedding plans boring? And personally I find it reassuring that a woman of Julia's age can love as deeply and as romantically as a younger person."

  She observed the hardening of his features at her quick and vigorous defense of Julia and turned away, fixing a determinedly interested look on her face as she glanced at the older woman.

  "With your hair, I think something in silver gray might be very complimentary," she suggested, noting the silver wings at the temples of Julia's otherwise dark hair.

  Julia hesitated for a second, glancing apprehensively at her nephew before picking up the conversation where Selena had left off, and Chance's disapproving silence was ignored. But a strained atmosphere remained.

  It wasn't relieved un
til the three returned to the New Orleans Room after dinner for the banjo concert. The room had been transformed into a nightclub with tables—minus their linen and silverware—chairs, the lights dimmed, and drinks being served from the Mark Twain Saloon.

  The banjo player sat on a stool in front of the band. Mustached, with brown, waving hair, he wore black pants, a white shirt and red vest with garters around his sleeves.

  He introduced himself in a drawling voice and said, "You all have come here tonight to hear a banjo concert. That's good, 'cause that's what we got planned." He plunked a few strings and looked out at the audience. "Banjos and riverboats almost seem synonymous. You think of one, then the other." A shyly mischievous smile curved his mouth. "Course, you all know that the banjo is the only musical instrument invented in America and you are about to find out why we're the only country that had the nerve." With that, he immediately broke into a rousing version of "Waiting for the Robert E. Lee."

  Before the song was over, everyone in the room was clapping along, and Selena felt the tension leave her, extinguished by the gay, infectious spirit of the music.

  After the concert Julia left, insisting it was time for her to retire with all the things happening the next day. Selena lingered to sample the late-night snacks, as did Chance. Somewhere along the way, they were separated as Selena paused to chat with some of her fellow passengers.

  When the band began playing some dance music, she saw Chance at the crew's table in the far corner of the room, talking to the chief purser. He seemed to have forgotten about her, and Selena was positive she was glad about it.

  Sipping at her hot chocolate, she watched the older couples on the dance floor, marveling at their grace and ability. When the chocolate was gone, and with it her reason for staying, Selena walked to the stairs.

  Before she reached the first step, Chance was at her side.

  "I'll walk you to your cabin," he stated.

  "There's no need," she balked.

  With typical arrogance, he ignored her protest and pressed a hand against the small of her back to guide her up the stairs. She submitted to his lead, however ungraciously, and they walked in silence up the stairs through the forward cabin lounge to the outer deck.