Lover in the Rough

by Elizabeth Lowell

  The knock came again. “Reba?” said Tim, “are you ready?”

  No. But she couldn’t say that. She had to stand up and be calm and professional and controlled. She had to go downstairs and dance with strangers when the thought of being touched by any man but Chance made her want to cringe. He didn’t want to touch her, though. All he wanted was the China Queen. What could he hope to find in the Queen’s cold, unloving darkness to equal the living warmth of a woman’s love? Maybe he would be downstairs, waiting for her. Maybe the time he had spent in the Queen’s cold embrace would make him understand that Reba loved him.

  Reba stood up and went to the door, unlocking it. Tim stepped into the room and stopped short, giving her an appreciative male whistle.

  Her dress was diagonally cut silk the color and texture of gold dust. Its matte finish caught and held light in subtle swirls that followed the lines of her body. Elegant, sensuous, the silk bared her right shoulder and flowed down her left shoulder to the floor, rustling seductively with each tiny movement of her body. The dress had only one fastening, a slanting row of three teardrop diamonds set just below the left shoulder. A matching diamond glittered in each earlobe. Her thick, honey hair was piled in gleaming coils held by invisible gold combs.

  “It’s a good thing I’m happily married,” sighed Tim. “You’re more spectacular than anything we’ve auctioned off tonight.”

  Reba’s mouth turned up in a brief, sad smile. “Thanks.” She had wanted to wear the black silk that was the Objet d’Art’s trademark, but hadn’t wanted to be in funeral colors for Jeremy’s ball. She put her hand through Tim’s arm. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “Hey, you’re going to a ball, not a burial.”

  Reba didn’t say anything. Tonight was the last night Jeremy’s collection would ever be gathered in the same place. She had even put the Tiger God and Green Suite on display, complete with the silver-green diamond in the rough. For it was a diamond, beyond doubt or question, as she had known it would be. It gleamed subtly among the other varied greens, showing its quality in the way it transformed simple light into shimmering silver-green beauty, a crystal as unique as the man she loved.

  The muted conversations of elegantly dressed people reached out from the del Coronado’s gracious lobby, wrapping around Reba’s silence. Tim escorted her into the George VII Ballroom, where the dance would be held. The room’s ceiling was thirty feet high, covered in hand-rubbed, tongue-in-groove pine. Brocade wallpaper and heavy gold drapes added to the Victorian ambience that was at the core of the del Coronado’s charm.

  Normally a spacious dining area, tonight the room had been given over to the memory of Jeremy Sinclair. Arrayed in glass cases and velvet boxes, Jeremy’s collection coiled through one-third of the room like an enormous glittering necklace. Women in glorious dresses glided among the cases, escorted by men in dinner jackets and black ties. Well-dressed men circulated unobtrusively in the crowd, their weapons concealed by tailored black silk jackets.

  Reba couldn’t help the depression that settled on her slender shoulders, dragging her down into darkness as she searched every part of the room for a man who had silver-green eyes and a tiger’s untamed grace. Chance must know she would be here, a last tribute to Jeremy Bouvier Sinclair. If Chance wanted to see her, he would be here tonight.

  But there was no man among all the men who could have been Chance Walker.

  “What the hell!” said Tim, looking toward Jeremy’s collection.

  Reba glanced over and saw a huge redheaded man carrying an empty beveled glass case under one arm as though it were a lunch pail. Ignoring the curious looks from the crowd, the man set down the glass case and calmly opened it. Another man stood behind him, a sandy-haired man whose powerful shoulders and scarred hands proclaimed him to be a miner. The second man held a cardboard carton in his arms. A third man stood and watched the crowd with the assessing eyes of someone who had known a lot of trouble in his time.

  The pressure of Tim’s hand on Reba’s arm wasn’t what drew her toward the three men. There was something about their toughness and self-assurance that reminded her of Chance. She realized that she had seen all three of them before. In fact, since she’d arrived at the del Coronado with Jeremy’s collection, she had seen them everywhere she turned. Not only had they covered the auction like a blanket, their room was just across the hall from hers.

  “Want me to call a guard?” asked Tim softly.

  Reba shook her head, compelled by the aura of tension and excitement that radiated out from the three men. The red-haired man opened the carton with thick, deft hands and reached inside.

  “Wait,” said Reba quietly. “Let’s see what they—ohhh!”

  Reba’s gasp was lost in the larger gasp of the surrounding people. Held in the man’s huge hands was a cluster of Pala tourmaline in a matrix of quartz crystals. The pink shafts had been fractured by the restless movements of the earth, yet the crystals were still intact, glorious in their resurrection and birth. Shafts of tourmaline as long as Reba’s hand, longer, a sunburst of fiery pink capped by vibrant green.

  The China Queen had come to life beneath Chance’s hard and gentle hands.

  The vision blurred and then resolved into tears burning Reba’s eyes. She could never compete with the tourmaline’s crystal mystery, its blazing glory. Chance had chosen well. The worst of it was that she couldn’t blame him. To see that tourmaline—that luminous perfection—was to know finally, irrevocably, why men risked death in the dark passages of the earth. Beauty, not wealth. Beauty of the gods.

  Next to that she was nothing, nothing at all.

  She looked up and saw the red-haired man watching her. His hand came up in a curious salute, then he picked up the empty carton and left the room without speaking to her. He didn’t have to. The tourmaline itself was the message. Chance had won. She had lost.

  It was over.

  Not until that moment did Reba realize that underneath her rage and fear she had been certain that her Tiger God would come back to claim her. So certain . . . and so wrong.

  “There’s no owner’s name on it,” said Tim, returning to Reba’s side, “no identifying mark, just a small card in the corner that says ‘nfs.’ ”

  “Not for sale,” murmured Reba. “As for an owner’s name”—her lips turned down sadly—“do you have any doubt?”

  “Chance?”

  “Who else could have done it?” she asked, her voice husky. “Tiger God.” No one listening to her would have known whether the words were endearment or epithet. At the moment, Reba herself wasn’t sure.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She would have given all but one specimen out of the Green Suite in order to be able to turn and walk out of the room, out of the hotel, out of her own skin. But that wasn’t possible. If nothing else, she owed it to Jeremy’s memory to drink champagne and dance and laugh at life and loss just as coolly as he had. And that was precisely what she would do for as long as her nerve held.

  “Shall we open the ball?” she asked, turning to Tim, her back straight, her head erect, her cinnamon eyes brilliant with tears she refused to shed.

  Tim lifted Reba’s hand to his lips, bowed and led her onto the dance floor. She faced the platform where the musicians waited, nodded to the leader and turned back to Tim. As soon as he took her into his arms, the music began, a waltz as sophisticated as Reba’s gown. For a few moments the dance floor belonged to them, then other couples appeared, called by rich music and the graceful movements of the woman in gold-dust silk.

  At the end of the dance, Reba put her hand on Tim’s arm and allowed herself to be led away, as proud as any queen. He seated her at one of the tables lining the wall where windows gave a view of the hotel’s sweeping front lawn.

  “Thank you, Tim. Go back to Gina now.” She smiled, making it sound more like an invitation and less like an order.

  He hesitated. “Are you sure you want to be alone?”

  “I’m sure. Find Gina
and dance and enjoy.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Drink champagne,” she said, signaling a passing waiter.

  “Reba—”

  “Go,” she said softly.

  Tim hesitated, then left, nearly bumping into the huge red-haired man as he turned. Reba looked at the man, realized he had been watching her and raised her dark honey eyebrows in silent query. He paused, then approached her.

  “Red Day, ma’am. Glory’s husband. Would you like to dance?”

  “I think not,” she said coolly, sipping her champagne, looking at the big man with distant curiosity. Though he must be fifty, he looked tough enough to bend sheet metal with his bare hands.

  “Thank God,” sighed Red, settling into the chair across from her. “I can’t dance worth a handful of, er, dirt.”

  Reba stared at him for a moment longer, wondering where she had heard his name before. Not as Glory’s husband, but in connection with tourmaline . . . Then she remembered the day when Chance had held a Chinese tear bottle in his hand, clear pink light pooling and shifting as he spoke in his deep voice about a Dowager Empress obsessed with Pala tourmaline.

  “You’re a collector. Rubellite, if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s right,” Red said, his blue eyes lighting with enthusiasm. “Do you—”

  “Was that your tourmaline specimen?” she asked, cutting off whatever question he had been about to ask her.

  “Wish it was. Bloody beauty, isn’t it?”

  “Bloody right,” said Reba sardonically, saluting him with her champagne glass. She took another drink and grimaced. Tonight of all nights she wanted to get high, numb, and vintage champagne tasted like ashes. It was all she could do to swallow the stuff. “Maybe Chance will sell it to you.”

  Red shook his head slowly. “I offered him heaven and earth, and then threatened him with hell.”

  “If you need any help delivering on the threat,” Reba said, smiling just enough to show the serrations of her even white teeth, “I have a few suggestions.”

  Red’s laugh was as big as the rest of him. “Where did Chance find you, little lady?”

  “Death Valley. Then,” Reba added coolly, “a few weeks later he swapped me for a mine called the China Queen.”

  Red looked startled. “But he said the mine wasn’t his.”

  “He lied. He’s good at that.” She set down her champagne glass with a tiny snap that set the liquid to bubbling.

  “Chance Walker doesn’t lie,” said Red, shifting his bulk in the small chair. “He doesn’t steal or cheat, either. After that”—Red grinned—“I’ll admit he’s used up his share of the Commandments.”

  Reba had nothing to say to that except a silent amen. For a long time she and Red sat without speaking, listening to music as languid as moonlight on pearls, watching women held like precious, multi-colored gems in the dark settings of men’s arms.

  “Would you care to dance?” asked a voice at her elbow.

  Reba’s head snapped around. The man she saw standing at her elbow was even bigger than Red. At least six foot six inches, younger than Chance, built like Hercules and handsome as a god. She disliked the man on sight—not for what he was but for what he wasn’t. He wasn’t Chance.

  “No,” said Red, “she wouldn’t like to dance.”

  “Wrong,” snapped Reba, deciding instantly that she wanted to dance after all. “The lady would love to dance.”

  Red looked from Reba’s angry face to the other man’s inviting male smile. “Let me put it this way,” said Red easily. “The lady will dance with you. Once. You listening, Melbourne?”

  Melbourne shrugged indifferently and held his hand out to Reba. She came up out of her chair as gracefully as fire. He led her onto the dance floor. For a big man he moved very lightly, but it seemed that he held her much too close. Reba pushed delicately on his chest, politely hinting that she’d like more room. Melbourne’s hand slid down her back to her hips, urging her closer. She pushed away hard, demanding more room.

  “This is a waltz, not a wrestling match,” she said tightly, looking up into Melbourne’s eyes. They were very blue against his tan face and chestnut hair.

  “Then stop wrestling,” he said, smiling down at her patiently. “It’s hard to dance at arm’s length.”

  Reba bit off a hot retort, realizing that he was right; she was trying to keep at least eighteen inches between them. She was surprised by her reaction because it had been instinctive. Was she crazy? Here she was dancing with what had to be one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen and it was all she could do to fight down nausea when he put his hand on her hip. She had never been like this before.

  “Sorry,” she said, struggling to overcome her irrational distaste of being close to any man but Chance.

  Melbourne sighed. “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “The man you belong to. It’s not Red. He’s got Glory, and God knows that’s all the woman one man needs.”

  “What makes you think I ‘belong’ to any man at all?” she said coolly. “This is the twentieth century, remember?”

  Melbourne shook his head and laughed. “That may be, but some things don’t change. The second I put my hand on you I knew you belonged to someone else. Body language doesn’t lie, as a man once taught me the hard way.”

  Reba went rigid. Chance had said that to her in Death Valley. Suddenly she was certain who had taught Melbourne about body language. On the heels of that certainty came the realization that Chance was right again. Body language didn’t lie. She was his—and he didn’t want her. With an effort that made her ache, she fought against her own deepest reflexes, forcing her body to relax in the arms of a man who wasn’t Chance Walker.

  Reba wasn’t entirely successful, but at least she didn’t force Melbourne to dance at arm’s length. The dance ended and another one began. Melbourne looked down into her eyes and smiled. “Want to see if Red’s temper matches his hair?”

  Reba tried to smile in return, wishing that she were free to respond to Melbourne’s teasing male presence. But she wasn’t. She had been claimed by a Tiger God who didn’t want her anymore. With a sad smile she shook her head. “No. I think I’ll just turn you loose to brighten up the life of some lucky woman.”

  She felt the instant of denial that went through the big man’s body. He looked at her speculatively before he led her off the dance floor to the table where Red waited with an obvious lack of patience.

  “You’re brighter than you look,” said Red, smiling. Despite the gibe, it was obvious that he liked the younger man. He just didn’t like Melbourne dancing with Reba.

  “Who are you watching her for?” demanded Melbourne bluntly.

  Red looked uneasily at Reba, accurately sensing that she wasn’t as calm as she looked. “I’m not her keeper.”

  Melbourne said something beneath his breath that only Red caught. “Look mate,” continued Melbourne in reasonable tones, “she says she doesn’t belong to anyone. But you, Ted, and Ian have been sticking to her like a bad reputation. You kicked the people out of the room across from hers, you follow her everywhere but the loo, and you sleep across her doorstep at night like a faithful hound. You even try to tell me how many dances I can have, as though I were no better than a bloody wog.”

  “It wasn’t me telling you,” sighed Red, glancing ruefully at Reba before returning his attention to Melbourne. “It was Chance Walker.”

  Melbourne straightened, looking at Reba with a sudden interest that had nothing to do with her as a woman. “Bloody hell! He’s never been the jealous type before.”

  Red shrugged. “He is now, Melbourne.”

  “I’ll be goddamned.” Melbourne turned and smiled at Reba. He bowed deeply, straightened and gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead. “Thanks for the dance.” After a long, considering look, he smiled slightly. “If it weren’t for the body language, I’d be tempted to say to hell with Walker.”

  Red sat up quickly. “Mel
bourne—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Melbourne, “I learned my lesson.” He looked at Reba with a rueful smile. “I couldn’t believe Walker was as confident as he looked, much less that he would fight a man my size barehanded.”

  “You survived,” grunted Red. “You got no complaints.”

  Melbourne laughed and strode away into the crowd. Reba looked at his vanishing back with a growing disbelief. She sank into the chair opposite Red. He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, seeing her temper rise in waves of color.

  “Look at it this way, Reba,” he said quietly. “Chance isn’t being unreasonable. There are some people here tonight who aren’t very nice under their clean silk shirts, and Chance knows every one of them. So long as they think you’re Walker’s woman, you and that fat collection of gems won’t be bothered. Nobody gets in Chance’s way. It just isn’t bright.”

  Reba ignored Red’s soothing words, feeling only her loneliness and anger and her nails digging into her palms. “Why is Chance doing this to me?” she said in a strained voice. “He won’t let anyone else near me but he’ll trade me for a few acres of dirt! He has the China Queen; he has the kind of strike miners dream about and live and die without ever finding. Why won’t he let me try to find my own happiness? Who the hell does he think he is? ”

  “He’s one unhappy man,” said Glory from behind Reba.

  The older woman sat next to Red, her vivid orange dress contrasting with his somber black evening clothes. She turned on Reba with hard green eyes. “When you gave Chance that mine, you gave him his grave. He’s been digging it as fast as he can.”

  Reba went white. She held onto the table as the room spun darkly, becoming the ravenous black mouth of the China Queen, a kikituk with shattered pink crystal eyes. “That’s not what I wanted, not what I meant,” she whispered.