by Nan Ryan
Brit’s mouth watered as he gazed at the tempting triangle of golden curls between her pale, perfect thighs. When he could bring himself to tear his eyes from those springy blond coils so effectively concealing and protecting her most feminine flesh, he noted that her knees were cutely dimpled, her ankles slender.
He was speechless as she drifted ever closer to his bed. When she stood directly beside it, she smiled at him and asked, “You won’t send me away, will you? You did want me to come, didn’t you, Brit?”
“God, yes,” he managed to reply, his heart now thundering in his bare chest.
Anna reached down, cupped his dark jaw in her hand, skimmed the pad of her thumb over his bottom lip and said, “Do you know why I’m here?”
“I hope I do,” he said.
She smiled. “You made love to me once. Now I will make love to you.”
He playfully bit her thumb and murmured, “Anything you want, baby, anything.”
She slid her hand around the back of his neck, urged his head back, bent and kissed his lips. She thrust her tongue deeply into his mouth, and Brit sighed with pleasure and eagerly reached for her.
“No,” she warned, abruptly tearing her lips from his and stepping back. “I told you, I am going to make love to you.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled at him again and said enigmatically, “Soon you won’t be sorry, you’ll be glad.”
“May I get up and—”
“No. You’re to stay where you are. I will join you.”
Brit said foolishly, “Anna, I’m…naked.”
“I would hope so,” she said. “Let’s see.” And she reached for the covering sheet, pulled it free of him and the bed, and tossed it to the floor. “Yes, you are naked. Would you like me to be as naked as you?”
“Oh, yes, yes I would.”
Brit almost lost his breath when Anna, standing directly before him, leisurely lifted the sheer night-gown up over her head and dropped it to the floor.
Gloriously naked, she sat down on the bed facing him. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders. “There is,” she whispered throatily, “something I’ve wanted to do to you.”
“There is?” Brit’s hands tentatively lifted to clasp her narrow waist as he said, “Tell me, sweetheart.”
“No,” she said, “I will show you.”
With that, she bent her head, flipping her long blond hair forward. For the next few, pleasurable minutes she expertly teased and tormented him with just her hair. Slowly, seductively, she moved down his body, her face never touching him, only her heavy hair pleasantly tickling him, arousing him.
Brit, overwhelmed, raised a hand, heard her warn, “No. Don’t.”
His heart raced in his chest and he felt as if he had never known such excitement. Her heavy hair was spilling over him, tantalizing him, the wispy ends tickling his belly and groin. And rising swiftly to thrust through those silky golden locks was his fully formed erection.
It was a sight to behold, one he would never forget—his own hard, heavy flesh piercing the covering blanket of shimmering blond hair. He was almost sorry when Anna abruptly lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
“Kiss me, Brit,” she said.
“Baby,” he murmured, and reached for her as she slid up to meet him.
His lips closed over hers in a fiery, penetrating kiss that lasted for several long seconds. When finally Anna tore her kiss-swollen lips from his, she said, “I know why you never came to me again after that night in the stables.”
“No, you don’t, I—”
“I didn’t please you enough. I’ll please you now. I’ll make you happy.”
Before Brit could reply, Anna wrapped her small, soft hands around his thrusting masculinity and gently stroked him.
“Oh, God, God, God,” Brit breathed.
“Feel good?”
“You know it does.”
Toying with him, Anna looked into his dark eyes and asked, “How much do you want me, Brit?”
“More than I could ever tell you,” he said hoarsely, his hand lifting to gently cup a soft, pale breast. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone.”
She brushed his hand away. She asked, “How can I believe you?”
“I’ll make you believe me. I’ll show you how much I want you.”
She laughed softly. “No, I told you, you made love to me, now I will make love to you.”
“I can think of nothing I’d like better.”
Anna took her hand from him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him long and lovingly, licking at his lips, biting him playfully. Then she slipped out of his arms and rose from the bed. She put her hands on her hips.
“Lie down on your back,” she commanded, and he obeyed.
Impatiently he waited as she danced provocatively around the bed, moving in and out of shadow, lifting her heavy hair atop her head, turning her back on him, then pivoting about.
By the time she climbed back onto the bed with him, Brit was so excited his breath was coming in loud gasps. She stretched out close beside him and pressed her soft, slender body to his.
“Baby, let me—” he began, but she stopped him.
“No. Not yet. Don’t touch me just yet. Let me arouse you.”
“God, I am aroused, can’t you see that?”
“I can,” she whispered. “But you must want me even more. And you will. You’ll want me so much that you’ll give up everything for me.” She leaned over to kiss him, her hair cascading down around his face, enclosing him in a curtain of gold.
She kissed him passionately and pressed her soft curves against his hard body until he felt as if he couldn’t wait one more second to make love to her.
But she made him wait.
And she didn’t allow him to touch her. She scolded him each time he tried to caress her. She did all the touching, all the kissing, all the exciting.
It was exquisite agony for Brit. He lay there on his back in the hot darkness, more aroused than he’d ever been in his life. He wanted her so much he physically hurt. He had never known a woman more adept at titillation, more gifted at tantalizing him beyond endurance.
“Please,” he begged huskily, “sweetheart, please.”
When finally she agilely climbed astride him, Brit murmured his deep gratitude and relief.
Holding his breath, he watched, enraptured, as she rose up onto her knees and wrapped her hand around his throbbing erection. But just as she bent her knees and began lowering her spread thighs to impale herself upon him, she asked, “How much do you want me, Brit?”
“God, don’t do this to me. I want you, I want you, what more can I say? How can I make you believe me?”
Anna lowered herself another couple of inches, and Brit’s lean hips involuntarily surged upward, anticipating that much-longed-for meeting of hard flesh in soft flesh. She gave him just a taste. She skillfully placed the throbbing tip into her wet warmth, no more than an inch inside.
And then, to Brit’s horror, her sensual smile became scarily evil and her eyes shone like shards of blue glass as she whispered, “You can’t have it.”
“Jesus,” he rasped, grabbing her pale thighs and attempting to pull her down onto him.
But she was too quick.
Anna cast his hands away, shot to her feet, stepped over him and leaped down off the bed. “I must go.”
“No!” Brit protested, beside himself with desire. “God, no, don’t leave me like this. Have pity, baby.”
She had no pity.
She laughed maniacally, and from behind her bare back she suddenly produced a legal-looking document. She waved it at him as she backed away and she said, “Know what this is? It’s LaDextra’s last will and testament.” She laughed and added, “Guess what, Caruth? The Regent is now mine, not yours! You can’t have it. And you can’t have me.”
“I don’t care about The Regent. I just want you. Please, please…”
“Please, please!” Brit muttering, bolt
ed upright, waking abruptly from the dark, disturbing dream. Sweating profusely, a full-blown erection bobbing on his bare belly, he foolishly looked around, as if expecting the cruel blond beauty who had so exquisitely tortured him to be there in his room.
His breath labored, his heart hammering, he was greatly distressed by the erotic dream that had turned into a horrible nightmare. He trembled in the darkness.
“God, I must get her off The Regent,” he said through clenched teeth, “whoever she is.”
Twenty-Six
“Whoever she is,” mused the tired, sunburned Pinkerton detective, Alex P. Hutchinson, to himself, “she’s a clever little thing. She’s managed to cover her tracks well.”
Hutchinson, an eleven-year veteran of the famed Pinkerton Detective Agency, was a tall, rawboned man with thinning sandy hair, a ready smile and light gray eyes that were continually alert. No one was better at spotting the suspicious, ferreting out a helpful clue or knowing if a person being interrogated was lying. If Hutchinson was on a case, he was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t rest until he had dug up the truth and solved the mystery.
Detective Hutchinson was proud of his reputation and frustrated that he had been unable to crack this present case to which he had been assigned. He had been sent down to the Arizona territory from the home office in Denver to investigate a woman who had shown up at the huge Regent ranch in far west Texas, claiming to be the long-lost heiress, Anna Regent Wright.
Detective Hutchinson had spent weeks on both sides of the border, questioning anyone and everyone who might know anything about the mysterious young woman. He had traveled countless miles in pursuit of the facts. Had tirelessly followed up on every lead, no matter how weak. Had interviewed dozens and dozens of people. Had interrogated whites, Mexicans and Indians alike.
And had hit a brick wall at every turn.
Now, as the Pinkerton detective approached the shimmering white adobe building housing the Border Convent at St. Peter’s Mission, he felt a mild degree of optimism and hope. He had received only yesterday an urgent message from Sister Norma Kate, the convent’s Mother Superior. He must come to see her at once. She had news concerning the case on which he was working. News that would be of great interest to him.
Detective Hutchinson had visited the peaceful convent two miles east of Nogales many times since his arrival in Arizona. He had spoken at length with the Mother Superior regarding the young woman who had spent five years at the mission before leaving for Texas less than five months ago.
But the nun had been of little help. She had known only that the woman had been taken as a child by the Indians and had lived with them until ranger captain John Russell had spotted her in an Apache stronghold south of the border. The ranger had ransomed her and brought her to the Arizona convent. The ranger had indicated that the Apache had not revealed to him who the girl was or how long she had been with them.
Now, as the Pinkerton detective dismounted in front of the vine-covered adobe mission, he hoped this wasn’t another wild-goose chase. The home office had told him that their client, Brit Caruth, was growing increasingly impatient. This case needed to be solved pronto. Time was running out.
Detective Hutchinson smiled broadly as the tiny, white-garbed Mother Superior warmly greeted him. Her eyes as bright and alert as those of a young girl, she said, “Thank you for coming so quickly, Detective. There isn’t a great deal of time, I’m afraid.” Extremely curious, the tall detective said nothing, but followed the nun down the quiet corridor to her office.
Inside, he was promptly served strong black coffee by a young, unobtrusive sister. The Mother Superior, seating herself behind a desk that was bigger than her, leaned forward, clasped her hands together and said. “Finally, you are in luck. Detective, I know someone who may be able to tell you who the girl claiming to be Anna Regent Wright really is.”
His pulse quickening, the detective set his coffee cup on the large desk with shaking hands. “Where is this person? When can I speak with him or her? Why haven’t they come forward sooner? Why have—”
“Young man,” the Mother Superior mildly scolded, “please be still and let me tell you what I know.”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me.”
“As I said, there isn’t much time and I’ll explain why. The person who may have the missing pieces of the puzzle is an ancient Apache warrior. The old Indian is very ill and has been brought to a relative’s home in Nogales to die. It is said that his memory is as unclouded as that of a thirty-year-old, although he is nearing ninety. He is called Black Eagle, and he has lived since 1868 in the remote hideout in Mexico where Mary was found by the ranger. If anyone knows who she is and where she came from, Black Eagle is surely the one.”
Detective Hutchinson was already on his feet. “Where is he? Where can I find this old Apache warrior? I’ll go there at once, before it’s too late. I must speak to Black Eagle.”
Brit’s image kept intruding.
She had wrestled with herself, trying to forget him. Hoping that being far away from The Regent would obliterate the dark, handsome face that seemed to possess her every conscious moment. But it was her head talking to her heart, and her heart would not listen. She knew that she would never forget, would always remember. The memory of him making love to her would stay with her throughout her life.
Brit filled Anna’s restless dreams at night, and while awake, she compared his distinctive countenance with every gentleman to whom she was introduced.
She had been in San Antonio for almost a week. Justin and Olivia were, as expected, excellent hosts. The minute she had stepped down from the train at the crowded depot, she had felt wanted and welcome and certain she was going to thoroughly enjoy herself.
If she had not enjoyed herself, it was through no fault of Justin’s and Olivia’s. They had done everything in their power to show her a grand time. On her very first evening in the city they had hosted a fabulous ball in her honor in the elaborate white-and-gold ballroom of their handsome, two-story riverfront mansion.
As predicted, there had been no shortage of eligible bachelors in attendance. Anna had danced and laughed with them all and, before the evening was over, she had promised a carriage ride in the country to the handsome blond real estate magnate, Franklin W. Cain. A night at the opera to the noted young attorney, Douglas Peterson. A dinner engagement to the wealthy young banker, Robert LaMar.
And she had accepted more invitations to parties than she could possibly hope to keep.
The days that followed had been an exhaustive whirl of shopping with Olivia for beautiful new ball gowns, sharing elegant luncheons, attending Thoroughbred horse races, taking walks along the river and meeting interesting people.
The nights had been a blur of fancy seven-course dinners and glittering galas and dances under the stars and hand-in-hand strolls in the moonlight with handsome, eager suitors. The never-an-idle-minute visit in this big, bustling city had been the kind of exciting adventure most young women could only dream of.
Now, at well past midnight, Anna undressed after yet another grand affair attended by the city’s elite. She had been escorted to the splendid soiree by Bradley Dexter, a fourth-generation San Antonian who was attractive, polished and attentive. It had been a gay, glamorous evening, yet she felt anything but exhilarated. The parties, the faces, the nights all ran together, and she found herself wishing that she could spend a nice quiet evening at home.
Not here.
Not here in this elegant San Antonio riverside mansion, where a steady stream of gay, witty people flooded in and out both day and night, but back home.
At The Regent.
She missed the nighttime silence, when all you could hear was the plaintive cry of whippoorwills or the distant yelp of a coyote or the mournful sigh of the hot desert wind. She missed the brilliance of the starry sky and the subtle scent of greasewood and the faint lowing of cattle from the pastures closest to the mansion. The pastoral existence at The Regent was soothing a
nd peaceful, so unlike the hectic tempo of San Antonio.
Here in this teeming city the sidewalks were always filled with people, carriages jammed the streets and vendors hawked their wares. Loud music poured out of the many saloons and laborers shouted from down on the riverfront. There were constant crowds, constant activity, constant noise. Never, it seemed, never a time when it was calm and serene the way it was at home.
Anna smiled wistfully and sank down onto the bed, her fabulous new ball gown half-on, half-off. She realized with a welling of emotion that she had, in just a few short months, come to think of The Regent as home. Her home. And it was her home; she was convinced of it. She was Anna Regent Wright—she was sure of it, knew it in her heart.
And she wanted to go home, in spite of Brit. Or because of Brit. She wasn’t sure which. But Brit or no Brit, she wanted to go home.
The next morning Anna wasted no time in telling her surprised hosts, as diplomatically as possible, that although she had had an absolutely wonderful time, she felt she should be going home.
Justin and Olivia looked at her, speechless. They looked at each other, then back at Anna.
Justin spoke first. “Why, child, you just got here. We’re enjoying you so much and we had thought sure you would stay with us for a while.”
“Justin’s right,” Olivia said softly. “We had anticipated having you here for two or three weeks. Won’t you at least stay on through next week? The Hamiltons are having their annual costume party at the Menger Hotel a week from Saturday, and it’s always such great fun. I’ll help you find just the right costume and we’ll—”
“No, I’m sorry,” Anna gently interrupted. “I really feel that I should go home. It’s LaDextra. She’s been unusually tired and pale of late, and I’m worried about her. It was selfish of me to leave her.”
Justin smiled at Anna. “And it’s selfish of us to try and keep you here,” he said graciously. “Shall I make the travel arrangements?”
