“What…what are you talking about? I know there is civil unrest now, but not like before, when the French were there and Juarez was struggling for power.”
Sonya’s gaze darted around the room, past the low brick archway that shielded them from prying eyes before returning to Ginny, her tone rife with urgency. “There are always men who are greedy and ruthless. Think of your past, of everything that happened to you then. It might all happen again.”
“Sonya, I do believe you’re being far too pessimistic about this. Steve has assured me that the situation is not as grim as it was then. Yes, of course there will be some tense moments, but nothing like the Juarista revolution.”
Recoiling slightly, fine white lines formed around her lips as Sonya frowned. “You won’t listen to me.”
“Really, I don’t think it’s as bad as all that, but I will be careful, I promise.”
“They’ll be wondering where we are.” Sonya’s hands twisted nervously in front of her, knuckles white as sun-bleached bones. “Please, don’t say anything to William about this. He’ll think I’m just being a hysterical female again.”
“No. No, I won’t say anything to him.” Ginny managed a reassuring smile to hide her own private doubts. She had already voiced her concerns to Steve, and he had shrugged them aside. Now the doubts surfaced again. Sonya looked a wreck, her pale face and trembling hands conspicuous.
As they neared their table, Ginny said calmly, “I have a lovely morning dress in the Pompadour style and colors, a pale-blue silk and white flowered brocade with pink bows. It does not suit me, and with a few alterations, I am positive it would be lovely on you.”
Sonya looked startled, then nodded her understanding as they reached the table where Senator Brandon sat alone and alert. “That would be very nice, Ginny. Thank you.”
Her father looked pleased to see them so amicable, and as he struggled to stand, she put a hand on his shoulder to push him gently back down.
“Where’s Steve?” she asked as she tucked the elegant back of her polonaise to one side so she could seat herself. It was bulky, with a rich green passementerie, fringe and double loops of green silk, not really made for sitting, but more for strolling.
“Your husband went to renew an old acquaintance, I believe,” Brandon said dryly, and Ginny followed the direction of his glance.
At first, she did not see him, then caught a glimpse of Steve’s lean form half-hidden by a potted palm. He was so elegant in his evening wear, the black broadcloth coat and stark white linen shirt suiting his dark good looks to perfection.
When he glanced around, her heart leaped, then dropped like a lead ball as she recognized the men sitting at the table behind him—Jim Bishop and Paco Davis.
Sonya’s fears of earlier didn’t seem quite so childish to Ginny now, for full-blown panic rose sharply to almost choke her as she stared at the two men who had always meant danger to her. Oh God, she had thought perhaps this time it would be different.
As Steve headed back to their table, his face was set in a carefully blank expression that gave away nothing. Jim Bishop returned her stare with his usual grave passivity, but Paco had the grace to give a sheepish shrug and halfhearted grin that she was too irritated to acknowledge.
“What a coincidence to see them here,” she said when Steve took his seat. He gave her a bland smile.
“I had the same thought. You’re nearly out of wine, my love. Shall I order more?”
Defiantly, Ginny stared at him as she drained the last of her wine, then set the glass on the table with a distinct thud. “Yes, but do make it champagne, Steve darling. You know how I adore it.”
“Among other things,” he said easily, and beckoned for the sommelier to attend them.
Champagne was brought, an excellent vintage that was dry and bubbly, and she sipped it steadily as her mood grew dark and anxious. It seemed that every time either Bishop or Paco were anywhere near, the worst happened. It wasn’t that she particularly disliked either man, but only the turmoil they always brought with them.
It’s starting all over again…the uncertainty, the danger…I can feel it. Oh God, what if Sonya’s right?
Steve looked up and his eyes met hers, a clash of blue beneath his ridiculously long black lashes. A faint smile tucked one corner of his mouth inward, a wry gesture as he lifted his champagne glass.
“To the future, green-eyes. Wherever it takes us.”
It was, she thought with a mixture of despair and resignation, the précis of their relationship.
8
When the evening finally ended, Ginny found herself trapped into riding in a carriage with her father and Sonya. Dismay outweighed anger as Steve handed her into the open door of the waiting brougham and stepped back. Light from a coach lamp flickered over his face; she saw the grooves in his lean face deepen as he smiled.
“Aren’t you coming, Steve?” She leaned out and put her hand on the still open door when he made no move to get inside. His eyes were unreadable in the thick purple shadows as he shook his head.
“I’ll be home later. There are a few things I have to do first.”
Aware of her father and Sonya on the plush velvet squabs beside her, Ginny stifled the sharp comment on the tip of her tongue. Damn him, he was leaving her to field the inevitable questions from her father, and she didn’t think she could bear the strain of keeping up the appearance of nonchalance that would be required of her in their company.
“It’s late. Perhaps you should come home now,” she said pleasantly, and saw from the slight tuck of his mouth that he was all too aware of her irritation.
“You know I always hurry home to you, my love,” he said with the wicked, careless grin that reminded her of far too many times before. “I know you want to spend as much time with your father as you can before we leave again, and I won’t bore you with my tedious duties. Good night, Senator. Mrs. Brandon.” He inclined his head politely and stepped back from the brougham.
Ginny was neatly trapped, and he knew it. She sat back with a flounce, glaring at him as the door was shut and the brougham jerked forward.
It was an uncomfortable ride to the little house near the corner of Royal and Hospital Street, but thankfully brief. A single gas lamp illuminated the narrow street, and a light rain had begun to fall, glistening on cobblestones and misting the air when the brougham rolled to a smooth halt before the house. Ginny was reminded once again of a layered cake, the house’s pink brick walls and delicate iron balconies like ornate frosting decorating the second story.
As the coachman leaped down and came to open the door, the vehicle dipped slightly. Ginny paused with her hand still clinging to the leather strap that dangled from the frame. Her father said, “I hope that my unpleasant conversation with your husband did not cause you any trouble, Virginia.”
Awkwardly, she half turned. “I was unaware there was any unpleasantness until now.”
“Ah, well, I would not quite call it unpleasantness, perhaps, though he and I certainly do not agree on the tense situation in Mexico. There will be another revolution unless it’s prevented. This time it could affect all the landowners there. As you are one of them, I would think you would be a bit more concerned about your holdings.”
There was a note of censure in his voice.
“William…” Sonya put a hand on his arm. “I do not think this is the right time or place—”
“My dear, there is always a right time or place for a discussion that may well affect Virginia’s future and even her well-being.” Beneath his mild tone lurked an icy rebuke, and Sonya’s hand dropped from his arm as if burned.
“It is not necessary to worry about me,” Ginny said to him firmly. “Steve is more than capable of seeing to my safety and the security of our holdings. After all, Don Francisco is still an influential man in Mexico, and is well-acquainted with both Sebastián Lerdo de Tejada and Porfirio Díaz. For that matter, so am I.”
“While I admire Señor Alvarado’s political c
onnections, I do not think Steve’s grandfather has as much influence as you presume. He is an old man now, and has kept out of the political fray as much as possible. If I remember correctly, he was unable to keep you safe from that French Colonel Devereaux. Or am I mistaken?”
Sonya swallowed a gasp, and Ginny shuddered at the memory of the events that had changed her life so radically. Nightmares still haunted her sleep on occasion, snatches of painful memories that came only when she was powerless to hold them at bay.
Her chin came up and her gaze was direct. “No, you are quite correct. But that was not Don Francisco’s fault. It was mine alone. I made the choice. At the time I thought it was the right one.”
Ginny stepped from the brougham and turned back to meet the senator’s eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s late and I’m quite weary.”
Once inside the house, shivering at the dampness that lingered in rooms unheated by a welcoming fire, she knew that she had not heard the last of this from either her father or Sonya.
God, would the past always come back to haunt her? It didn’t matter where she went, there were all these reminders of painful losses, events that had molded and shaped her life and her love—Steve.
Of everything, he was the only constant, and at the same time, the most unpredictable aspect of her life. She wanted to be certain of him, always certain of their love and their future together.
And just where is he tonight? Damn him, he knows how I hate being uninformed about his actions—especially when it is my future that’s involved. Does Steve ever think of that, or of me, or only of what he wants…?
It would have gratified Ginny to know that Steve was thinking of her at that very moment.
Green-eyed temptress! His copper-haired wife had led him halfway around the world, and he still did not really know her. Not even after all these years and the wild, savage nights she had spent in his bed, a tigress that was all passion and abandon. Their attempts to become reacquainted were still awkward, the old habits dying hard and slow.
He vacillated between anger at her stubbornness and the familiar passion that was always there, always compelling. At times he thought that he would not be able to get enough of Ginny, of holding her and stroking her passionate, squirming little body, tasting her mouth, and the soft spot beneath her ear that made her shiver and cling to him, moaning like a cat in heat. It was a constant emotional tug-of-war, an internal struggle to rid himself of the old barriers between them.
Rain pelted cobblestones beyond the banquettes and gutters, a steady driving downpour that sent refuse rushing in a fetid river toward Royal Street. No gaslights lit this area; it was dark, save for wavering glows from windows and open doorways. Muted laughter, ribald songs, snatches of raucous music mingled with the sound of rain against stone, drifting on the brisk wind to where he stood.
As a younger man, curiosity had taken him to the Swamp, an area known to be infested with every low character that came to New Orleans. But now he barely paused at the corner, and turned in the other direction toward the row of neat houses a world away from the degradation and danger that lay on Gallatin Street.
Barrelhouses and concert saloons lined Gallatin, all through the Vieux Carré and the area above Canal Street. Along Saint Charles Street, the half-dozen blocks between Canal Street and the city hall at Lafayette Square boasted nearly forty-five places where liquor was sold, and nearly every one was dangerously disreputable. Gallatin in the French Quarter, and Girod Street in the American quarter, retained an evil reputation that had been acquired in the tough days of the rowdy flatboat crews.
Barrelhouses and concert saloons had been introduced to New Orleans by the Northern riffraff that swarmed into the city in the wake of Farragut’s victory, adding dubious talents to a criminal population already numerous and dangerous. No lower dive existed. Strictly a drinking place, the barrelhouse occupied a long, narrow room, with rows of racked barrels on one side, and on the other, a table stacked with heavy glass tumblers or a bin of earthenware mugs. For five cents, customers filled a mug or tumbler at the spigot of any of the barrels; failure to immediately drink and refill earned prompt ejection from the guzzle-house environs. For those who drank to capacity, the reward would be a quick trip to the back where he was robbed, or if unlucky, a tour of the alley to be stripped of clothing as well as coin. Only the suicidal resisted.
A gust of wet wind scoured the street. Steve should have hired a hansom cab, but he’d wanted time to think before he met with Bishop again.
Bishop. The man had an uncanny instinct for finding him, for ferreting him out like a bloodhound. It was no coincidence that Bishop and Paco had been at Antoine’s this evening, of course. With Bishop, nothing was ever a coincidence—including an invitation to play cards.
An inevitable poker game, seemed innocent on the surface, but was merely a ruse to gain information and cooperation. It never failed.
“There will be some familiar faces, and one or two you won’t know. It’s been a long time, but I’m certain you’ll find the evening most—beneficial.”
Oblique as always, Jim Bishop’s carefully uninflected voice carried a message.
The apartment where Bishop waited for him was in a block of rather shabby buildings, nearly indistinguishable from the others. Inside, cigar smoke drifted in hazy layers through the room, and several men were already at a table covered with an oilcloth. Thin walls did not keep out the sounds of other tenants, nor the squawk of a badly played fiddle seeping through peeling wallpaper and boards.
“All this and music, too,” Steve murmured with a wry smile as he joined the men at the table. Bottles of wine and bourbon filled a small table at one side.
“I expected you earlier,” Bishop responded, never taking his eyes off a hand of cards. It was no surprise when he won the pot, raking coins toward him as others sat back in glum silence.
“I decided to walk. Where’s Paco?”
“He’ll join us soon. He had some errands to attend. Are you in?”
Steve pulled out a wooden chair, the legs scraping loudly across a bare plank floor, and sat down at the table, his back to the wall instead of the door. It was an old habit, learned years ago when he wore his .45s low on his hips and sat in far too many dangerous saloons playing cards with men who thought nothing of killing a man for five dollars.
For a short time they played cards in silence, Bishop, as usual, taking most of the pots. Steve knew one of the men at the table, a Westerner he’d met years before in Texas, but the others were strangers to him, introduced only by first names: Charley, Johnny and Tige. It was Tige’s place they were using for the meeting.
When Steve lost three aces to Bishop’s full house, he tossed down his cards in disgust and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the two rear legs. “I’m beginning to think this night is going to be a total waste.”
Cool gray eyes flicked up to study him for a moment. Casually, Bishop said around the cigar clenched between his teeth, “Your dinner seemed pleasant enough.”
When Steve didn’t reply, Bishop continued. “Senator Brandon seems recovered from his injury now. I understand that he has acquired another home outside the city. Such a shame that he was incapacitated for so long while he recovered from that assassination attempt. But then, it was not meant for him at all, it seems, but Don Ignacio. A pity. So many bullets go astray these days.”
“Get to the point,” Steve said shortly, and met the cold gray gaze that came to rest on him. “I assume you have one. You always do.”
“Yes, I do. Your wife is acquainted with Porfirio Díaz, I believe.”
“As you well know, she worked with him as a French interpreter after Juarez took control of Mexico.”
“And she has also become acquainted with Lerdo. During her time spent in Mexico, she managed to make the…ah…acquaintance of quite a few influential men. But then, a woman as lovely as your wife would be a magnet to powerful men. It’s always that way.”
Steve’s eyes nar
rowed slightly, cold and blue, as he studied Bishop’s bland countenance. Coins clicked, sounding suddenly loud in the smoke-shrouded silence. Bishop dealt out cards with swift efficiency, speaking around the cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth.
“Do you still own land in Chihuahua? A ranch convenient for the Union Pacific to run their rails through?”
“As you no doubt know, I still own interests in both. I’ll take two cards.”
Bishop slid two across the table toward him. “Now that the United States has railroad tracks being laid in Mexico—due in large part to Lerdo’s generous concessions—the current state of affairs in Mexico is uncertain, to say the least. In the north, Luis Terrazas, as governor of the state of Chihuahua, has the support of the locals. The fact that he has gained their support by his rather generous use of federal taxes to establish a strong militia to fight the Apache, and has acquired a personal fortune, has not been missed by certain officials in Mexico City.”
“Nor by Díaz.” Steve leaned over and scraped a match across the floor, lit a cigar and squinted at Bishop through the curl of smoke rising in the air. He shook the match and tossed it into an ashtray. “Terrazas supports Lerdo as president. It will cost him if Díaz succeeds in his coup.”
“Yes, so it seems. See you ten and raise ten.” A crisp banknote slid atop the growing pile in the middle of the table. “It might be beneficial to any interested parties to have a foot in each camp, so to speak.”
“Mexico is already in chaos. I suppose it would be too much for our government to keep out of it.”
Bishop’s wintry gaze studied him dispassionately for a moment. “If I thought you were serious in your sudden distaste for our policies, I would be vastly concerned.”
“Hell, I am serious. Has it ever occurred to any of you that maybe we’re part of the problem, not a cure? It would make more sense to educate the citizens rather than kill those who disagree with the current regime.”
Savage Desire Page 8
