While Passion Sleeps

by Shirlee Busbee

  Her eyes round with amazement, Elizabeth breathed, "You came all the way from Santa Fe just to see a business agent?"

  "Not exactly," Juan explained. "I felt that Stella should get away from Santa Fe for a while, and while I trust my agent, I feel it is wise to let the people that are working for me know that I do take an interest in what they are doing. A periodic visit to New Orleans assures me that my man of business is honest and competent."

  "I see," Elizabeth said doubtfully, and Juan laughed, pinching her gently under the chin. "No, you don't, but don't you worry that lovely head of yours about it. Leave business to your husband and, like my darling Stella, concern yourself with the spending of the money he earns."

  At his words an indignant sound came from Stella and her dark eyes flashed with vexation. Smiling and uncaring that they were on a public street, Juan put his arm around his wife and, pulling her to him, kissed her on the temple. His voice teasing, he murmured, "How simple it is to arouse that temper of yours, querida. And you are so beautiful when you are angry that I cannot resist the temptation to tease you. Forgive me? You know that the rancho would not be quite so peaceful if it were not for your hand behind mine."

  Stella gave him a smile, her good humor restored, and in quiet companionship the three finished their walk to the Costa house.

  The Costa home was lit with gas chandeliers in every room, and the floor matting put down for summer was crisp and cool-looking beneath their feet. Elizabeth was enchanted by the quiet and refined elegance of the interior of the house. It all spoke of long-established wealth—the dominating marble fireplace of the main parlor with its elaborately draped mantelpiece and the huge mirror framed in gold leaf hanging above it, as well as the imposing dimensions of the room, gave evidence of this. The furniture was of rosewood—delicate, comfortable pieces upholstered in silks and tapestries—on the walls were oil paintings of the various Costa ancestors, and in one corner was a handsome etagere filled with beautiful china and bric-a-brac.

  For the soiree, the folding doors dividing the two parlors had been thrown open to make a grand salon, but what fascinated Elizabeth was the way the Costas had turned part of their courtyard off the grand salon into a ballroom. Walls had been set up, a canvas ceiling stretched, and flooring put down, all of which had then been painted and decorated so that it resembled part of the house. It had been so cleverly done that at first she hadn't even realized it, but Stella had pointed it out, explaining that this was common in New Orleans whenever the guest list proved too great for the confines of the house.

  Margarita Costa, a plump, black-eyed beauty with the Creole's creamy skin, was as amiable as Stella had said. Upon being introduced to Elizabeth she had warmly embraced her, exclaiming, "Ah, petite, at last I meet Stella's English amie! How happy I am that you are here. But tell me, where is your husband? Did he not come, too?"

  It was an awkward moment, but Stella and Juan stepped into the uncomfortable silence that followed Margarita's natural question. To a Creole woman her husband and family were everything, and despite the reasonable explanations, it was plain that Margarita did not approve of a husband's desertion so soon after the wedding. But the moment passed and Elizabeth recovered her earlier poise and excitement as she was introduced to more and more people. Even to her it seemed there were quite a few young, dark-eyed gentlemen who begged for an introduction, and Stella's amused "See, you goose, I told you the gentlemen would think you an angel" confirmed the fact that she was the belle of the ball.

  It was a heady sensation for a shy, young girl making her first appearance at a society function. She was never without a partner for any of the various dances, and there was always an eager gentleman at her elbow offering lemonade or champagne or some other form of refreshment. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure and the wide eyes shining like violet stars, she eventually found her way to Stella's side, refusing the pleading offers of several gentlemen for the waltz that was forming. To Stella's amusement, with surprising savoir faire Elizabeth dismissed her most persistent followers, stating that she no longer wished to dance... at least at the moment.

  Watching the last dejected young man stride across the ballroom floor, Stella teased, "You have broken his heart, querida. And I wonder how many duels you have inspired this evening. Young Etienne Dupre looked positively livid when you decided to share that last quadrille with Leon Marchand."

  "Oh, no! They wouldn't fight a duel over something like that... would they?"

  Stella laughed. "My dear, a Creole will fight a duel over the size of the Mississippi River, or just for the sheer enjoyment of it. Pay them no heed."

  For some minutes they stood talking, Elizabeth glad to escape from the masculine attention she had been receiving all evening. It was a pleasant interlude, for now she had a moment to catch her breath and to relax for the first time since they had arrived. She found it pleasurable to be the recipient of so many compliments and to have several handsome gentlemen vying for her hand, but she had also found it a strain. Unused to the gallantry and quick passions of the Creoles, she was more than happy to gain a respite from her more tenacious admirers.

  She and Stella talked quietly as they stood near one end of the specially erected ballroom, Stella pointing out this person or that and explaining some of the more amusing superstitions of the Creoles: If a housewife dropped a fork, a lady caller was coming; if she dropped a knife, it would be a man; if one slept with the moonlight on his face, he would go mad. Elizabeth smiled at such absurdities, thinking them endearing.

  Oblivious of her own fairness among so many dark beauties, Elizabeth stared with admiration at the graceful manners and exquisite loveliness of the Creole women. Wistfully watching one vivacious dark-haired beauty, she longed to be rid of her silvery-blond curls and violet eyes and to have instead liquid black eyes and hair like polished ebony.

  She was jerked from her absorption in the shifting scene by Stella's sudden bone-splintering grip on her arm. Glancing with alarm at her friend, Elizabeth observed that Stella was staring with fierce concentration across the room.

  Her eyes fixed on some object on the other side of the ballroom, Stella exclaimed, "Valgame, Dios! I wonder what he is doing here."

  "Who?" Elizabeth asked, alarmed by Stella's manner.

  "Rafael Eustaquio Rey de Santana y Hawkins, that's who!" Her lips quirking in an odd smile, Stella added, "More commonly known as Rafael Santana... or Renegade Santana, depending upon whom you are talking to."

  Not certain why this individual should have such an effect upon Stella, Elizabeth peered across the expanse of floor, looking for the object of Stella's comments. Seeing nothing unusual in the group of laughing men near the open door that led to the courtyard, she was about to turn back to Stella when her gaze was caught and held by the bold, arrogant stare of a tall man leaning negligently against the wall near the door.

  He was dressed in black—a black velvet coat that stretched snugly across the broad shoulders, skin-hugging pantaloons that displayed the long length of his well-muscled legs. Easily the tallest man in the room, he was half a head taller than any of the slimmer, shorter Creoles who thronged about him. He appeared indifferent to the men nearby, and Elizabeth had the strange conviction that he would be indifferent to many things. She shivered. His hair was black, so black that the gaslight chandeliers caught blue shadows in its thickness, and his skin was dark—a golden-bronze shade darker than any other man in the room, his white shirt intensifying the darkness. His face was lean, possessing a barbaric handsomeness—thick black eyebrows curved with a wicked slant over deep-set eyes; an aquiline nose jutted arrogantly above a full-lipped mouth that bespoke both passion and cruelty. Again Elizabeth shivered, frightened and not knowing why. No man had ever stared at her the way this man did, his eyes stripping her gown from her body, his mouth curving in a mocking smile as she blushed furiously under his appraisal.

  Averting her eyes, Elizabeth stared at her satin slippers. She would not look at him again. She wo
uld not! To Stella she blurted out, "I wish he would stop staring so! It is unnerving and not at all polite."

  Stella laughed grimly. "Being polite is not a manner of much importance to Rafael. He is the rudest, most arrogant and infuriating man I have ever known. And I have known him a long time—he is a relative of sorts of Juan's."

  Elizabeth swallowed. A note of constraint in her voice, she asked, "He... he won't want an introduction, will he?"

  "Knowing Rafael and seeing the way he is eating you with his eyes, I suspect he will, and as I don't want to see you devoured in front of me, I think it would be wise if we said good night to the Costas and went home."

  Disappointed and relieved at the same time, Elizabeth turned to walk from the room when Stella muttered under her breath, "He is coming this way."

  Casting a brief glance over her shoulder, Elizabeth saw that it was true. Rafael Santana no longer leaned against the doorway. Instead, with the lordly grace of a predatory animal he was stalking across the room, his destination obvious, and Elizabeth felt her throat tighten and her heart pounded with a queer excitement.

  Knowing it was useless to try to escape, Stella stopped and with an exasperated smile, waited for Rafael Santana.

  His eyes twinkling with cold amusement, well aware that they had been leaving to avoid him, Rafael walked up to the two women. Gracefully, yet at the same time conveying mockery, he bowed.

  "Ah, Stella, amiga, how pleasant to meet you here," he murmured, the hint of something other than a Spanish accent obvious.

  Stella, always forthright, wasted little time in polite banter. "Is it?" she returned with false sweetness. Not expecting an answer, she plunged on with "What brings you to New Orleans? I thought you were very busy with Mr. Houston's grand new Republic of Texas."

  Rafael smiled grimly. "But I am. Houston wants Texas to become one of the United States of America and he has sent several envoys to help lead that cause. I am one of them."

  "You?"

  He laughed low at her skepticism. "Yes, little Stella, me. You forget there are several respectable members in my family. One of them happens to be an influential man in this fair city. He and I share some common ancestors a few generations back; he is by way of being a... ah... cousin of mine. He is also acquainted with President Jackson, and Houston thought it might be a good idea if I could convince my cousin that the addition of Texas to the Union would be beneficial to all concerned."

  "And have you?" Stella asked.

  Rafael returned a noncommittal answer and changed the subject. "Is Juan with you? I have not seen him as yet."

  "Have you looked for him?" Stella answered tartly. "Or have you been too busy making all the young women in the room blush and run for the protection of their mothers?"

  A smile curved his mouth. "Perhaps a little of both. I knew you were in New Orleans, but I didn't know that you would be attending the soiree."

  Despite the polite conversation, even though he had not as yet looked directly at her, Elizabeth, standing mutely at Stella's side with downcast eyes, sensed that he was as conscious of her as she was of him. She could almost feel his intense awareness of her, and she had the odd conviction that he was willing her to look at him. It was a queer silent battle between them, and stubbornly, not wanting to even allow him a victory over such a small thing, she kept her eyes averted. Beast! she thought as the murmur of their voices drifted about her, and with a coquetry foreign to her, she smiled blindingly at a young gentleman hovering nearby.

  It was a mistake. Uncannily guessing what she was about, Rafael abruptly said to Stella, "Introduce us, please. You are very beautiful, but it is your friend who holds my attention."

  Astonished by such behavior, Elizabeth's eyes flew to his, and that was another mistake, because once her gaze met his she could not look away from the coldest eyes she had ever seen in her life. They were like flecks of silvery gray obsidian and just as hard. There was no emotion in those thick-lashed eyes, only an emptiness that chilled her.

  Stella broke the uncomfortable silence by saying with more than a touch of annoyance, "I should have known. Very well, then—Elizabeth Ridgeway, may I present Rafael Santana to you? He is a rogue and a devil, and I would recommend that you have nothing to do with him."

  A quickly suppressed gleam of displeasure lit the gray eyes briefly. "Thank you. Your kind words have aroused her interest far more swiftly than I could hope for," he commented dryly, and Elizabeth, who was by nature a gentle creature, felt a strong desire to slap his handsome face. But Stella only shrugged. "It would do you little good, for I think it only fair to warn you that she is not only an English lord's daughter, but married and very much in love with her husband."

  His gray eyes fixed upon Elizabeth's face, he said slowly, "I rather doubt that. Besides, when has marriage ever stopped me?"

  Stella nearly stamped her foot with vexation. "Will you stop it? You are deliberately being aggravating. I have given you the introduction, and now I would appreciate it if you would go find a well and drown yourself!"

  Rafael laughed out loud with amusement—amusement, however, that was not reflected in the silver-gray eyes. "I would love to please you, but unfortunately, life is too fascinating for me at the moment to contemplate such a thing. Perhaps next time we meet I shall follow your wishes, but right now, I want very much to waltz with the little one with a face like an angel."

  Not giving her a chance to accept or refuse him, he reached for Elizabeth and swept her out onto the ballroom floor. Stunned and breathless, for several turns around the room Elizabeth kept her eyes pinned to the diamond stickpin that rested in the pristine folds of his cravat. She was aware of the warm hand at her waist, the warm hand that was surely tighter than need be, and the fact that he was holding her closer than custom; she wished she possessed the courage to reprimand him for the liberties he was taking. As the moments passed, she became more and more conscious of him—of the faint odor of brandy and tobacco that emanated from him, of the sleek muscles in the powerful body that propelled her around the room, and most of all just of him. She could feel his breath gently stirring the curls on her head and the firmness and heat of the hand that held hers; the emotions stirring in her blood made her slightly giddy.

  "Are we to dance in total silence, querida?" he finally asked. "I admire your silken hair a great deal, but I would much rather admire your eyes... and mouth."

  She glanced up and once again was lost in those empty gray eyes, only they weren't empty now—some undefinable emotion flickered in their depths. Elizabeth tore her gaze away, her heart thudding with thick, painful strokes. "Don't look at me that way," she begged. "It isn't polite."

  He laughed bitterly and murmured, "I am never polite, don't expect it of me. Don't play the innocent with me, either—you know what is going through my mind as well as I do."

  She did know what he was thinking, and her cheeks went crimson with embarrassment. His eyes said plainly enough that he would like to kiss her, that he would kiss her if they were alone. Frightened of what he might do, she said breathlessly, "Please, please take me back to Stella, I don't want to dance with you anymore."

  "Why, because I am too blunt? Or is it because of the husband you are supposed to be so very much in love with?"

  "B-b-both," she stammered, knowing she hadn't thought of her husband since she had entered the Costa house, and that any memory of Nathan or her marriage had vanished the instant her eyes had met Rafael Santana's across the room.

  "Liar! You don't look like a woman in love, you look like a sleeping virgin waiting to be awakened."

  "That's not true! I do love my husband and this is a conversation that does neither of us credit." With quaint dignity she said, "I think it best we change the subject."

  "I'm sure you do, English, but I am finding it far too amusing to wish for it to come to an end."

  Discovering this man aroused a temper she hadn't known she possessed, Elizabeth snapped, "Are you this way with everyone? No wonder Stel
la said you were rude!"

  Again Rafael smiled, and it was not a nice smile. "Didn't you know I spend all my time trying to live up to the reputation that has been bestowed upon me?" He laughed that bitter laugh and added, "People would think that I was not myself if I did not commandeer the most beautiful woman in the room and proceed to make outrageous love to her. It is like putting on a performance, querida—they expect it and I try to please them."

  Elizabeth's eyes searched his face. "I think that might be partly true... but you must have done something to deserve your reputation."

  "Oh, I did, English, I did. I was born."

  "Don't be ridiculous! That wouldn't make people think ill of you."

  "No?" he mocked. "Not even if I tell you my grandmother was a Comanche half-breed who lived with an American trapper? And that their daughter, my mother, dared to marry into a gachupin family of long standing?"

  "I don't see what that has to do with it. You can't help who your parents were. I think you place too much emphasis upon it," Elizabeth replied primly.

  "Ah, English, how little you know of people... especially of my Spanish grandfather, Don Felipe. He has never forgiven me for being born, particularly since my father's second marriage has produced no sons, only daughters."

  "And because of that," she guessed intuitively, "you punish him."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, because it isn't very nice," Elizabeth said earnestly. "You shouldn't be so—so unforgiving."

  He laughed aloud. "But I am, chica. I am as unforgiving a man as you can find... and Stella has already warned you that I am not very nice."

  Elizabeth didn't like being laughed at, particularly when she had been serious in attempting to help him. Her violet eyes flashing with temper, she said stiffly, "Yes, I can see that! You also enjoy being a boor and just as rude as you can be. You may be certain, Mr. Santana, in the future I shall take care to avoid you."

  "Are you challenging me, English?" he demanded softly, his head lowering closer to hers and she feared that he was going to kiss her right then and there.