Wildstar

by Linda Ladd

  A string of lovers had satiated her passionate nature in the last few months. They'd satisfied her in bed and remained at her beck and call until she tired of them. But Logan Cord was different. When he enfolded her in his steel embrace, he took her to the heights of ecstasy. She experienced pleasures with him she could not come close to attaining in the arms of any other man.

  A long shiver ran down her limbs as she remembered his strong and powerful body astride her own and the way his huge hands looked running across her ivory skin. The fan came open and began to move in an attempt to cool her heated face as her gaze traveled hopefully over the crowded room. He'd used her and tossed her aside, like a common strumpet. For eight months, she'd waited eagerly for his return—just to slap his handsome, arrogant face.

  Her vicious thoughts fled her mind then, chased away like leaves in the wind, when she saw him. His incredible height distinguished him as he stood a full head above most of the men in attendance. Her body froze, her fan stilled in midair, as her heart beat a fast, erratic cadence. He moved through the other guests, mingling easily with the social elite of Denver, his finely carved face surveying the people around him with a detached, polite interest. He looked better than she'd ever seen him, his skin darkly tanned, making vivid blue jewels of his eyes. His tall, virile build was clad resplendently in a dark brown frock-coat that fit to perfection across his wide, muscular shoulders. He was a magnificent figure of a man, from the snowy white cravat at his neck to the fawn breeches molding the iron muscles of his thighs.

  Isabel kept glowing eyes on him as he stood idly, observing the dancers, his hands clasped behind his back. As she hurried toward him, she hoped, despite her earlier anger, that his azure eyes searched for her.

  Logan Cord's gaze ran derisively over the glittering room with its glittering people, barely able to conceal his contempt. He had just fully resumed his other life as one of the wealthiest men in Denver, owner of the Marietta Lode gold mine and many square miles of land. He was finding it hard this time to take up the reins of his business and assume the boring respectability that even the brash young town of Denver expected. He'd much rather leave his work in the hands of his friends and go back to the free and easy existence of Tracker. The good people now smiling and trying to foist off marriageable daughters on him would be appalled to learn of his close association with the savages.

  He frowned darkly and took a glass of champagne offered by a passing waiter. The last four months had been a living hell. His long brown fingers curled dangerously around the fragile goblet as he remembered regaining consciousness to find Starfire gone. Pure rage had possessed him that night as he'd staggered downstairs and nearly killed the clerk, trying to find out where Rankin had taken her. His jaw tightened in frustration, a tic appearing in his lean cheek, as he focused his eyes unseeingly on the dancers. It had taken four men to pull him off the man, and he'd searched every inch of Denver in a murderous, methodical rage, his worry for Starfire overshadowing his fury at being duped by Rankin.

  His mind had taunted him cruelly during the long months when he rode from town to town with Two Bears, searching, asking questions, following every lead, stopping only to fall into a few hours of exhausted sleep. But that was the only time he could sleep, the only time he did not relive the sight of Starfire being manhandled by Smythe, the sound of the fear in her voice as she'd screamed his name. The echo of her cry haunted him incessantly. Every waking moment he heard it, until he felt he'd go mad. His stomach turned and twisted, and he became oblivious to the laughing people around him. He gritted his teeth, his eyes darkening to royal blue. He'd kill them! All three of them! He'd make them pay for the hell he'd endured. And what of Starfire? Sweet and trusting Starfire, where was she? What had they done to her?

  He tossed off the drink, his stomach churning like windswept waves. He'd not found a trace of her, although he'd posted rewards in every town and fort they'd traveled through. It was as if Starfire and her three abductors had been swallowed by the earth.

  “Hello, Logan.”

  He turned quickly at the low voice, staring down into Isabel Whitcomb's flushed face. She could not suppress the shiver as Logan's hard blue eyes attacked her, a mocking half-smile playing upon his sensual mouth.

  “Hello, Mrs. Whitcomb. How are you?”

  It was a pleasantly uttered, innocuous question, one he'd ask anyone in the room. Suddenly the pent-up frustration, the aching urge to touch him, to have his hands caress her flesh, overwhelmed her. She wanted him to throw her on a bed and take her, hard and hungry, the way she craved it.

  “How am I?” she spit out in a hissing whisper. “Just how the hell do you think, Logan? You've been gone for months. You owe me an explanation!”

  Logan's eyes glinted like sun off an icy field, but when he spoke, his voice was low and impersonal.

  “I told you once before, Isabel, I don't owe you a damn thing.”

  She caught his sleeve as he turned, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “Please, Logan, don't go ... I'm sorry, it's just that I've missed you so. You know how much you mean to me.”

  Logan smiled mockingly at her anxious face, and Isabel relaxed, realizing with a flush of wicked pleasure that she had to have him again, and that she would lie down right here in front of everyone if he asked her to.

  She ran her palm up the front of his shirt, and her whisper was husky as she leaned wantonly against his legs, not caring who saw them. “Come to me tonight, Logan. I want you. I've wanted you since you left. I've waited so long.”

  He smiled coldly, ignoring the well-practiced seductive quality of her voice.

  “Tell me, Isabel, how is your poor excuse of a brother? Still the lowest snake in Colorado?”

  “Brent's in St. Louis. For nearly four months now.”

  “What's he doing there?”

  “I don't know, and I don't care. I heard he's seeing some woman. I haven't heard two words from him since he found out you and I were lovers. You know he hates you since you stole his mine.”

  Logan's eyes narrowed dangerously, and she felt the powerful muscles of his arm go rigid beneath his fingers.

  “Stole?”

  “Well, you know what I mean! He says you cheated at cards and he was too drunk to catch you.”

  Tracker snorted. “I didn't need to cheat. And if Brent was stupid enough to mix liquor and cards, he deserves what he got.”

  “You really hate him, don't you?”

  Logan studied her face, his voice curt when he spoke.

  “Brent's the filthy coward who got my brother killed in Mexico. He's a rotten, crooked bastard, and you know it as well as I do, sister or not.”

  Isabel dropped her eyes. She did know it, but Brent was not worth thinking about. She set her gaze on Logan's hard lips, her own lips parted invitingly.

  “I've missed you, Logan, can't you see that? I've been lonely since you left.”

  Logan cocked a skeptical brow, placing sardonic eyes on her eager face.

  “Don't tell be your bed's been cold, Isabel. Not with your legion of lovers.”

  “You know there have been others, but they aren't like you. You know how good it is between us.”

  “Do I?”

  “You devil! How can you goad me when you know how I feel about you?”

  He moved closer, towering over her until she was forced to tilt her head to look at him. His voice was relentless, his blue eyes hard. “You don't have any feelings, Isabel, and you never have. Like Brent, you don't care about anybody but yourself; and you're only happy when there's a stud rutting between your legs.”

  Isabel gasped at his crudity, but couldn't stop the streak of erotic fire that stirred her to the depths of her loins. She moistened dry lips, and Logan could easily read the passion in her green eyes. He gave a short, contemptuous laugh.

  “Logan, please—tonight.”

  Logan smiled coldly. “Perhaps, Isabel, perhaps, but now I have better things to do.”

  For the
next hour, Logan avoided Isabel and danced with the usual assortment of shy virgins pushed in his direction by glittery-eyed mothers. He'd expected it, because it always happened. Rich, eligible bachelors were hard to find in Denver. But it was worth it, because he had been able to make discreet inquiries about Rankin. So far, he'd had no luck, but sooner or later, he would pick up the trail. He had to.

  The brown-eyed beauty in Logan's arms wondered at his sudden frown, but he remained oblivious to her as they danced, his mind planning his next move, in the event he couldn't find Rankin. He'd have to try St. Louis after all, he decided. He'd posted a letter to Huddleston in St. Louis as soon as Starfire had been taken, hoping he'd know something. Then after the first blinding waves of rage had settled into a slow burn, he'd been convinced that Huddleston had been tricked as well. Perhaps the little lawyer was too timid to risk Tracker's wrath, and had ignored the letter. But now, since his search in Colorado had proved futile, he regretted he hadn't left for Missouri immediately. He'd been so sure at the time that Rankin would steer away from there, knowing Tracker could trace him easily. Now he wasn't so positive.

  “The waltz is over, Mr. Cord.”

  The quiet words brought Logan back to his partner. He'd been so engrossed with thoughts of finding Starfire that he hadn't heard the music stop. And he'd virtually ignored the young girl as they'd danced. Embarrassed by his lack of manners, he smiled down at her warmly.

  She blushed prettily, then lowered her lashes as he escorted her back to her beaming mother, distinctly glad she was off his hands.

  He was tired of the gathering, tired of dancing. He'd go to the cardroom and try to pick up information from some of the men, and if that didn't work, he'd leave. Two steps into the lobby, he froze in his tracks, his eyes riveted on a woman standing at the door. His breath caught as he glimpsed the long silvery hair beneath her hood. Starfire's beautiful face drifted painfully across his mind, but his heart fell as she turned, returning his stare with interest. Disappointment cut into him sharply, and he turned away from her. He needed to get out, he needed to breathe in some fresh air, and he changed his course and moved out of the French doors into the shadows of the garden. The early February night was still, and he stood motionless, listening to the faint strains of the orchestra filter out of the brightly lit windows. He inhaled the cold air, raising his face to the vast sparkling blanket of stars in the ebony sky.

  Starfire's eyes had sparkled with the same brilliance when she'd been happy and laughing and when she'd run into his arms and pressed herself against him eagerly. Her hair had always smelled of flowers, so silky and shiny that it begged a man to touch it. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unable to bear the memories. Oh God, where had they taken her? What had they done to her? The helpless frustration hit him then with such force that he desperately fought the urge to drop to his knees and sob out the agony of his loneliness. She had become the love of his life, and without her he was lost.

  “I greet you, my brother.”

  Logan whipped around at Two Bears’ low voice, and the Indian separated himself from the night shadows, moving like a dark wraith to his friend. They locked their wrists in a strong clasp of friendship. Two Bears had continued the search, while Logan took time to attend to his business affairs and make inquiries in Denver and Central City. But the Indian's presence in town meant he'd found something, and Logan questioned him eagerly.

  “What have you found?”

  “The ring of purple and gold.”

  Logan's eyes glowed in the silvered moonlight with deadly intensity.

  “Rankin?” Logan's teeth clamped and held, his fists clenched at the thought of catching up with Starfire's abductors.

  “He is not one of them. He is not tall, but very powerful. He wears the ring on his finger and plays cards now at the Criterion.”

  Logan moved away at once, and the Sioux moved surefooted and silent at his side. He had never known his blood brother to be so enraged for so long. He was certain that the three white men who had taken Tracker's woman would soon regret the day they saw Tracker's silveryhaired captive.

  The saloon was packed with a boisterous crowd, and Logan pushed open the doors, his eyes taking in the loud men and laughing saloon girls, seeking out his objective. Four men played at a table near the back wall, and Logan moved casually toward them.

  “Mind if I sit in?”

  The four cardplayers glanced warily at him, shifting uncomfortably as he stood beside the table. Something about the set of his jaw made each uneasy, but unwilling to rile the big man, they nodded. Logan chose a chair against the wall, facing the man with the amethyst ring, and the game resumed.

  They played poker, and it did not take Logan long to learn that the man's name was Will Nichols. He played nervously, drinking whiskey from a bottle on the table. He was a drifter of no account, and a wariness in his dark eyes and a tendency to lick dry lips when his hand was bad made it easy for Logan to maneuver him into betting the ring.

  Logan's eyes narrowed as Nichols removed it from his grimy finger and laid it upon the green baize tabletop. None of the players saw the slight hardening of the big man's jaw as he leaned carelessly back in his chair, one hand resting on the pile of coins in front of him. Nor did they see the cold look of murder in his eyes as he stared at the family heirloom he'd last seen on Starfire's slender finger. He dealt with steady hands, his blue eyes unreadable, as the three other men checked their cards and threw them on the table, leaving Logan and Nichols facing each other.

  Will Nichols squirmed in his chair, bloodshot eyes darting from Logan's impassive face to the cards in his hands. Since the big, tanned man had joined them, he'd lost steadily. The ring was his last chance to recoup. He watched the blond giant, trying to see a chink in his composure, but Logan sat completely relaxed, leisurely smoking a cheroot. His eyes were unwavering, and the relentless blue stare began to unnerve Nichols. He began to perspire, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath, then reached out with trembling fingers and turned over his cards.

  “Three jacks.”

  Logan didn't move, and Nichols’ eyes flickered to the five cards lying face down in front of his opponent. Logan smiled slowly, reaching down to flip over three kings, one at a time. He took his time raking in and stacking the large pot, then picked up Starfire's ring last, clenching it tightly in one huge fist for an instant before he pocketed it.

  Nichols scraped back his chair angrily, frowning darkly, thinking the big man must have cheated him, but too much of a coward to accuse him of it. Something told him the man who'd won the ring was lethal under his gentleman's veneer.

  Logan allowed Nichols to get out the swinging door before he stood and pocketed the rest of his winnings. When he stepped out the doors, Two Bears materialized from the ebony shadows of the alley, moving along with Logan as they kept a safe distance behind Nichols’ retreating figure. Two streets away, he entered a sleazy boarding house, and moments later the two men moved silently through the dark and shabby lobby, past the dozing night clerk. They took the steep stairs without a sound, and Two Bears leaned against the wall, indolently watchful, while Logan stepped to Nichols’ room. One vicious kick sent the door banging open, and Logan had the astonished Nichols by the front of his coat.

  “What...” Nichols’ words were cut off as he was jerked around by the lapels and slammed into the wall. Tracker gritted out between set teeth, “Where'd you get that ring, Nichols?”

  Logan saw all color drain from Nichols’ face as fear dilated his eyes almost black.

  “I ... don't remem—”

  Logan got him by the throat with one hand, then drew back, slamming his fist into Nichols’ horrified face. His body catapulted across a table, overturning it. Logan ignored the tinkling of breaking glass and rolling bottles and was on him immediately, pulling him to his feet, as he glared into wide, frightened eyes.

  “Where'd you get the ring?”

  Two crimson streams ran from his n
ose, and his eyes went sick with horror as Logan's steel-knuckled fist doubled and drew back again.

  “Wait ... please ... I'll tell you...”

  Logan dropped his arm slightly, holding Nichols upright with one hand.

  “Talk, damn you.”

  Terrified by the black rage in Logan's eyes, Nichols slurred his words through puffy, bloodied lips.

  “I bought it.” Logan's grip tightened against Nichols’ Adam's apple, and his eyes protruded as he half croaked, half sobbed, “Smythe was his name, I swear it.”

  “Was there a woman with him?”

  “No, no, he said he had to get to St. Louis, that's all I know, please...”

  Logan let go abruptly, and Nichols slid down the wall, staring fearfully at Logan's retreating back as he moved soundlessly into the hall.

  Ten

  Isabel Whitcomb tossed her coppery curls and gripped her riding crop with white fingers as she drew to a halt in front of Logan's townhouse. She lifted her knee from around the sidesaddle and slid gracefully to the ground, then took a moment to smooth the skirt of her brown velvet riding habit as she stared at the closed front door with grim green eyes.

  The arrogant devil hadn't shown up. After leading her to believe he'd come to her. Damn him, he enjoyed making a fool out of her, making her pursue him. She hurried up the wide steps and jerked hard on the bell pull. The faraway chimes had not faded when she yanked it again. She kept up the same procedure, all the while tapping an impatient toe, until Mrs. Parker pulled open the door, exasperated at the persistent caller so early in the morning.

  “I am here to see Logan,” snapped Isabel curtly. Mrs. Parker made a futile attempt to block her entry as the younger woman forced her way into the hall, looking around imperiously.

  “Mrs. Whitcomb, please. Mr. Cord is not receiving visitors!”

  “Well, he'll receive me! He'd damn well better!”

  Mrs. Parker's mouth dropped ajar, appalled at such unladylike language, and Isabel headed toward Logan's library, impervious to the disapproving glare given her by his tiny housekeeper. She did not knock, but thrust open the closed door to find Logan standing behind his desk. His blond head was bent over a letter, and he looked up sharply, a fierce, thunderous scowl compressing his handsome features.