Lover in the Rough

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Only in my mother’s fantasies,” said Reba. “The real me was a considerable disappointment.”

  “Parents can be a bloody pain in the arse,” said Glory bluntly. “You’re not a Becky, either, are you?”

  “Much to my ex-husband’s disappointment.”

  Glory blinked, then laughed shortly. “You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you, honey?”

  “I wonder if anyone has.”

  Glory sighed and closed her eyes for so long that Reba thought she was asleep. “You’ll do, Reba Farrall. You’ll do just fine. And thank the Lord for it. If ever a man deserved a break, it’s Chance.”

  Glory’s eyes opened, clear and green despite her obvious tiredness. She looked at Reba. “You know that you’re marrying a legend, don’t you?”

  Reba looked startled. “Er, no.”

  “Chance Walker, the man who knows where God buried all His treasures and where the devil keeps the hottest women. Chance has taken more money out of played-out and abandoned mines than most gougers see in fifty lifetimes. He’s hit a few genuine glory holes and a lot of decent strikes. So men stand in line to stake him and women line up right behind, hoping for a piece of his action. He takes what he wants from the women. As for the men”—she shrugged—“Chance has found fantastic wealth for other men on a day-rate basis and a small percentage of the take.”

  Glory looked shrewdly at Reba. “Don’t take me wrong. My brother is neither a fool nor a pauper. He’s just a gouger through and through. Hooked on the treasure hunt. What you haven’t found is like an itch that can’t be scratched, driving you crazy.” She shook her head. “Prospecting gets in your blood worse than malaria.”

  “That’s what Chance said. You can survive malaria, though. In the right climate you can even control it.”

  Glory laughed warmly. “I’m going to enjoy having you for a sister, Reba. You’ve got what it takes to make a man like Chance come back for more. The ways of the Lord are indeed strange. Who would have thought that a played-out tourmaline mine would lead Chance to the one woman he could love?”

  Smiling crookedly, Reba said, “So he told you about my mine?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me,” snorted Glory. “Your aunt was so mad when Sylvie lost her half of the China Queen playing poker with Chance that everyone in the Outback heard her yelling. And if they didn’t hear your aunt, they sure as bloody hell heard your cousin. Sylvie screamed like a bandsaw when she offered to earn back the mine in Chance’s bed and he turned her down flat.” Glory smiled thinly. “After Chance grew up he became very particular about his women. And Sylvie, well, that sheila just never was particular about her men.”

  Reba barely heard. She set her mug very carefully on the table, desperately trying to conceal her reaction to Glory’s words.

  Chance had known about the China Queen before he met Reba. The ramifications of that simple fact went through her like a shockwave, destroying her.

  Glory yawned despite the coffee she had drunk. “Lord, I’m bushed. Getting too old for batting about the landscape like a crazy ’roo. Would you be upset if I just called a hack and went back to the hotel to sleep until Chance comes back?”

  “You can sleep here,” said Reba with automatic politeness, her thoughts still spinning around the terrible truth that Glory had so casually revealed: Chance hadn’t wanted Reba for herself after all, but for the China Queen.

  “Thanks, but all my gear is at the hotel,” said Glory, muffling another yawn.

  “I’ll drive you over.”

  “You look like you could use a nap yourself,” said Glory, “if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Yes,” said Reba tonelessly. “I’ve been a little short of sleep lately. Excuse me. I’ll call a cab for you.”

  Later, Reba couldn’t remember what she and Glory had said until the cab finally came. For a long time after Reba shut the front door behind Chance’s sister, Reba stood in the middle of the living room, looking out over the wild silver-green ocean, trying not to think at all. Then she realized that she had to think, and think more carefully than she ever had before in her life.

  Chance owned one-half of the China Queen. She had told Chance that she would never sell her half of the Queen. The only way Chance could get the other half was to marry her.

  Therefore, he would do just that.

  Even as Reba told herself that a worthless, abandoned tourmaline mine wasn’t worth marrying for, she remembered what Glory had said. Chance was an expert on played-out mines. A legend. He’d spent a lifetime finding money for other people. It was his turn now.

  What was it Chance had said? No sacrifice is too great if a big strike is the reward. Besides, marriage was only a temporary thing, after all. Her husband had taught her that.

  Part of Reba screamed silently that it couldn’t be like that; Chance couldn’t be that dishonest. The other part remembered how savage Chance had been whenever she had brought up the subject of the China Queen. Like a man with an uneasy conscience? Like a lying, cold-blooded bastard, perhaps?

  Think carefully. Had Chance ever told her a lie? Had he ever said he didn’t know who she was in Death Valley, or that he’d never met her cousin, or that he’d never heard of the China Queen? No. He’d never said any of those things. He’d simply let her believe them. Not lies, precisely.

  And a hell of a long way from the truth.

  There must be an explanation. There must be something that would convince her that she hadn’t been a bottomless fool to fall in love with a man so ruthless and self-assured that he needed nothing from her but half of a deadly mine. There must be something that would convince her that she was worth loving whether or not she owned a goddamned hole in the ground called the China Queen.

  “Chance . . . !”

  Reba didn’t realize she had called his name until the anguished sound came back to her in the empty room. She shuddered and forced herself to breathe deeply despite the knives scraping over her nerves. Falling apart now would be useless. There must be an explanation. She couldn’t have been that kind of fool. She was worthy of a man’s love.

  But if she were wrong, if she were a fool and unworthy, if there were no explanation . . .

  She turned away from the window and walked quickly to the phone. Jeremy’s lawyer could tell her what she needed to know. He had told her to call if she needed advice. Well, she was calling now.

  When the lawyer came onto the line, she asked a terse question, listened to the answer and hung up as the lawyer began asking questions of his own. She went to her desk and began writing. When she was finished, she went to her wall safe, took out an old legal paper and put it in a large envelope with what she had written. She wrote Chance’s name across the face of the envelope in an even, steady hand.

  Then she went and stood by the window, watching the sea, waiting for the man who had never said he loved her.

  By the time Chance returned, twilight had spread over the water, absorbing scarlet light into its endless grey embrace. Reba felt like the light, calm and untouchable, as remote as the indigo island floating on the pewter horizon. She could face anything, do anything, accept anything. There was no other choice except to break, and that she would not do.

  The front door opened quietly.

  “Reba?” Chance’s voice was as dark and deep as the descending night. “What are you doing standing over there with the lights out?”

  “Thinking of the sixteen questions I never asked.”

  “What? Oh, Twenty Questions.”

  The living room lights came on, a warm golden glow that transformed the floor-length windows into mirrors. Reba watched Chance’s reflection walk toward her. Something stirred beneath her calmness, something as searing and elemental as molten rock seething beneath the earth’s cold crust. She realized that if she hoped to get through the next few minutes with any kind of dignity, she couldn’t allow Chance to touch her.

  “Yes, Twenty Questions,” she said easily. She started to look at Cha
nce over her shoulder but even simple eye contact threatened her calm. “Coffee?” she asked, moving toward the kitchen, away from him.

  Chance stopped in the center of the room, watching her with sudden alertness. “Is that one of your sixteen questions?” he asked, his voice casual, his eyes narrow and intent.

  “Sure.”

  “I’d rather have a kiss.”

  “Into each life a little rain must fall,” she said flippantly. “Or, in your case, coffee. Black as a miner’s heart, right?”

  “Reba, what’s wrong?”

  “No fair,” she said, pouring coffee for both of them. “I have the questions and you have the answers. That’s the way the game is played.”

  “I don’t play by the rules.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” said Reba, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  She handed the cup of coffee to Chance without meeting his eyes. She turned her back and went to stand in front of the window again. His reflection was as close as she could safely come to him.

  “Coincidences are such dicey things,” she said, ignoring the coffee steaming between her hands as she stared at the colorless sea. “We would never have met if we hadn’t happened to be in the same part of Death Valley at the same time. And good old Todd Sinclair, of course. I guess I owe him one.” She waited, but Chance said nothing. “No answer?” she murmured.

  “Was there a question?” Chance countered, his voice as controlled as his body.

  Reba looked at Chance’s reflection and saw the self-assured Tiger God, solid gold bow slung over his shoulder, ready to go hunting the devil himself. He was so much stronger than she was. He had all the answers. She had only questions. She had given him everything. He had given her . . . half-truths, evasions. How had he put it? If you know something that gives you an advantage, you bloody well keep it tucked.

  She couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her.

  The elemental fire in her coiled and seethed, testing the strength of the cold cage she had built around herself while she waited for Chance to come back.

  “Then there’s that other coincidence,” said Reba, sipping at the coffee, barely noticing its scalding heat. “I own half of a worthless tourmaline mine and you’re a man famous for finding treasure where other men have given up.”

  Chance’s posture changed subtly, a ripple of feral alertness that told Reba more clearly than a shout that he understood where the questions were going. She waited, but he said nothing, explained nothing, gave her nothing to make her feel less a fool. He simply waited.

  “No answers?” she said.

  “I still haven’t heard a question.” His voice was controlled, flat.

  “How’s this one—you knew my cousin in Australia, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re half-owner of the China Queen, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need the other half before you can get a loan to mine it, don’t you?”

  Chance hesitated, then shrugged. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” she repeated numbly, watching the seething twilight sea. She was grateful for the cold cage she had built around herself. It was all that was supporting her now. “Yes and yes and yes.”

  “Reba—”

  “No. It’s still my turn, Chance. This is one time you’ll play by the rules.” Her voice was as cold as the pewter sea. She turned gracefully, put her coffee mug on the low table and picked up the large envelope. Chance’s name stared up at her. The even, flowing handwriting had a calming effect on her. She held out the envelope to Chance. “Happy birthday.”

  “It’s not my birthday.”

  She shrugged. “It will be someday, won’t it?” Then, “Take it.”

  Chance took the envelope, opened it, read the stilted legal words written in her clear hand, saw the old deed. As of this moment, he owned one hundred percent of the China Queen.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his face still, his eyes very green in the subdued light. “When we’re married the China Queen will be ours.”

  “We aren’t getting married.”

  Chance’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? Nothing has changed. And”—brutally—“you said you loved me. Remember? I do.”

  “And you never said you loved me. Remember? I do. In that, at least, you were completely honest.” Reba watched him with eyes that were too dark, breath held, waiting to hear her own worst fears confirmed.

  “I told you,” he said softly, “that I don’t know enough about love to use the word.”

  “I believe you,” whispered Reba, despair like twilight taking color from her life. She felt her nails digging into her palms. “There’s an old Chinese curse: ‘May your fondest wish come true.’ All my life I’ve wanted to be in love, truly in love.” She smiled oddly. “I wished for the wrong thing, didn’t I? I should have wished to be loved.”

  “Chaton—”

  “Is that a euphemism for fool?” she asked with a brittle, aching calm. Then, quickly, “No, don’t answer. You’ve told me all I need to know. Good luck with the Queen, Chance,” she said, turning away from his reflection, leaving the room, walking away from her Tiger God. “And may your fondest wish come true.”

  Chance followed Reba with long gliding steps, stalking her. She sensed his presence and spun around before he touched her.

  “No,” he said curtly before she could speak. “It’s my turn now. Nothing has changed, Reba. Not your feelings for me or mine for you. We’re getting married tomorrow.”

  “There’s no reason to get married,” she said, meeting his eyes for the first time. She flicked her fingernail against the envelope he held in his hand. “You have what you want.”

  “I want you.”

  “Do you?” she asked calmly, belying the emotion seething beneath her careful surface. “Do you really? Then get rid of that damned mine now, right now. Give it to the first person who walks down the street!”

  “What in bloody hell would that change?” he demanded.

  Reba’s only answer was a sad, bitter laugh. “If you have to ask that question, there’s no answer in any language on earth.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” Chance said savagely. “Look, I know I should have told you sooner. God knows I tried to tell you but—” He swore viciously. “To hell with it. It happened and there’s no going back. Giving away the Queen won’t change anything.” He reached for her. “Chaton—”

  “She doesn’t live here anymore,” snarled Reba, stepping away.

  But Chance was too quick for her. He had always been too quick. His hand closed on her arm, pulling her close. His palm caressed her cheek.

  “Give us time, my sweet woman. What I said or didn’t say just doesn’t matter. All that matters is this,” he murmured, bending to kiss her.

  “No!” she said harshly, shoving against him with all her strength. “The mine is yours but I am not! ”

  It was as though she had said nothing, done nothing. His strength was impervious to her attempts to escape. Up to now she had been calm, far too calm, determined to resolve everything in a rational, civilized manner. But when his lips touched her the rage seething beneath her control simply exploded. Kicking, twisting, clawing, as wild in her fury as she had been responsive in love, she tried to fight free of his grasp.

  After the first shocked instant, Chance kicked Reba’s feet out from under her and took her down to the floor, controlling her with his superior weight and strength. He let her spend herself in a futile effort to dislodge him while he held her, waiting for her rage to pass.

  With a shudder, self-control finally returned to Reba. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly, deeply, but even that simple action was beyond her. Chance was too heavy, too overwhelming. She was chained beneath him, feeling his breath flowing over her skin. He covered her like a supple, living blanket. She shuddered again, appalled at the warmth coursing through her, the hot shimmering response of her nerves to his body pres
sing down on hers.

  And then she felt his heat and hardness, knew that he wanted her as wildly as she wanted him.

  “I want you,” he breathed against her neck, echo of her own thoughts.

  She went rigid beneath him, refusing even to speak.

  “I could make you want me,” Chance said quietly. His moustache moved over Reba’s lips and neck like an exquisitely soft brush, sending visible chills of response over her.

  She said nothing.

  His mouth moved down until he found her breast, caressed it. The black cashmere couldn’t conceal her response, her nipple tightening eagerly beneath his touch.

  “That’s what I meant after we dug our way out of that she-bitch Queen and bathed each other at the spring,” Chance said, his voice hard and sure. “You belong to me, Reba, and words don’t have a bloody thing to do with it. Don’t you know that yet?” His fingers closed gently, irrevocably on the nipple outlined beneath her soft sweater. “I could take you right now and you would scream with pleasure,” he said, watching her fight against the desire consuming her. “Wouldn’t you, chaton? ”

  She said nothing.

  “Answer me,” Chance said roughly, sliding his hand beneath her sweater with a swift, almost savage movement.

  “Yes,” she hissed, her voice as feral as her eyes, rage and humiliation and passion sliding hotly in her blood.

  He watched her wild cinnamon eyes for a long moment, letting her know the weight and heat of his own desire before he sighed and touched her mouth gently with his fingertips. “But if I did, it would be a long time before you forgave either one of us,” he said.

  “It would be forever.”

  “I’m not marrying you for the mine,” he said, his voice sad and angry at the same time. “Do you hear me, you little fool?”

  She laughed wildly, bitterly, consumed by the shame and the rage ripping through her. And the desire. “You’re not marrying me at all.” Her voice was flat and cold, her eyes opaque. She looked through him, focusing her eyes behind him as though he were no more than a reflection in her living room window.

  “You’re mine whether you marry me or not,” Chance said bluntly. “But you’re in no mood to admit that tonight, or to be reasoned with. Not logic, not love . . . You even think you hate me, don’t you?” he said, his eyes narrow, silver, as hard as his smile. “I’ll be here in the morning before you open your eyes, and then we’ll find out whether it’s love or hate you feel. You’ll wake smiling at me, my woman. I promise you.