These Golden Pleasures

by Valerie Sherwood

  To this woman on whom all eyes were focused, the evening had a strange dreamy quality. She had come so far from those days as lady’s maid in Baltimore. Tomorrow she would be the wife of the richest man in San Francisco—a woman to reckon with. Tomorrow night at this time Gavin would take her to his bed. Willing or unwilling, she would lie in his arms. . . . In spite of her cool elegance, her heart wavered within her. But she stood her ground beside him as together they greeted the important people of San Francisco, holding court in the magnificent Grand Ballroom of the Golden Palace Hotel, a mammoth room with a huge and celebrated beamed ceiling. From those gigantic beams hung the largest chandeliers in San Francisco—a fitting setting, Roxanne felt, for the ring she sported on her hand. Around the ballroom, in every conceivable place, there were sprays, garlands, banks of gardenias and flowing white satin ribbons. Truly a bridal display, for Gavin planned no church wedding. He and Roxanne would be married quietly on the morrow and afterwards would set forth on their honeymoon—he had not yet disclosed their destination to her and she had not asked.

  When at last they moved among their guests and he led her out upon the gleaming parquet dance floor, she looked about her, surprised that she felt no great surge of triumph. Gavin thought her his prey, but instead he was hers. As a hunter she should have savored this moment. Oddly she did not; instead she felt sad, as if she were losing something—perhaps that pride that had always kept her from going willingly into the arms of anyone she did not love. But, she reminded herself, Gavin was forcing her; she did not go to his arms a willing bride.

  Around the ballroom floor, through the glittering guests, they waltzed in stately fashion, and she knew this scene was a foreshadowing of the life Gavin envisioned for them: a dignified world of financiers and potentates, presidents and kings. Graciously, they would receive these notables in their palatial home atop Nob Hill. By day, Gavin would spin his financial webs on Montgomery Street. By night—no, she preferred not to think about the nights. Concentrate rather on the days, when she would always be there to be flashed about as if she were some great jewel he owned.

  They were standing alone for the moment by a bank of white gardenias, and she was frowning at the sight of the ever-watchful Gavotti hovering near, even in this festive scene guarding Gavin’s life—when she felt Gavin stiffen beside her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A late guest,” he muttered. “An uninvited one.”

  Lifting her arched brows slightly, Roxanne turned and followed the direction of his gaze.

  And froze to stillness.

  There, across the glamorous ballroom, wearing formal attire that did not suit his big body, was Rhodes.

  His thick brown hair shone glossily beneath the light of the chandeliers. The light struck the planes of his deeply bronzed face as his vivid green eyes swept the room. Something in the swing of those mighty shoulders, so at contrast with his narrow waist and hips, something in the regal set of him, brought back to her the memory of him on the deck of the Lass, half naked, encrusted with salt, hands hard on the wheel as he warred with the Indian Ocean. He had seemed godlike then, and now across the gleaming parquet floor he was even more strikingly handsome than she remembered. This was Rhodes as she remembered him in Baltimore . . . Rhodes, come to find her.

  A glorious look must have crossed her face, for Gavin suddenly grasped her arm in a grip that hurt. “I knew you were lovers,” he whispered hoarsely. “But if you think to begin anew with him—”

  Rhodes had spotted them, and he hurried toward them with long strides.

  Roxanne’s eyes never left him. But she heard her voice, floating softly away from her. “What makes you think we were lovers, Gavin?”

  “I have always known it,” he said bitterly. “And if I had not, I could see it now on your face. You are trembling.”

  Yes, she supposed she was. Gavin’s voice rang out harshly, “Have you come to congratulate me on my impending marriage, Rhodes?”

  She never knew what Rhodes answered. She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. She thought he asked her to dance. It didn’t matter. His words, if there were any, flowed over her like bright jewels, like cascading water. She swayed into his arms. His touch was magic; she melted under it. He smiled down into her eyes—the old Rhodes, the wonderful Rhodes—smiled because they had found each other, they were together again. He did not ask her why he had found her with Gavin, or why she had consented to marry Gavin. Implicit in his look, his every gesture, was an affirmation of the deep bond forged between them. She was his woman and he had come to claim her. Nothing else mattered.

  Out upon the floor he swept her in a dance of triumph. Her elegant gown swirled about her silken legs. Her head found his shoulder, rested there. Eyes closed, she sighed as the music enveloped her, as the rhythmic thud of his heart lulled her. In defiance of convention, she lay against his chest, blissful, content, and let the music and the dance sweep her away.

  “Your dress is lovely, but I liked you in your sarong,” he said, smiling down at her.

  Stirred by the sound of his voice above the music, she looked up at him. “We chased the Chinese junk, you know, but lost her in the dark,” she said. “You’ll never know what I went through, thinking what they must be doing to you on board her.”

  He laughed wryly. “Putting out the fire wore them out, and they forgot me till next day. They were about to start on me with hot irons when they hit a submerged reef. Tore the whole bottom out of the junk and she sank like a rock. A mail ship happened by and saw us hit, rescued the survivors and slapped everybody in irons. They wouldn’t listen to me—thought I was one of the pirates. We ended up in Borneo, and it was months before I got out of jail and was able to go looking for Bevin. By then he’d about given me up. We went back to Singapore, but you were long gone.

  Luckily a sailor in the waterfront dive told us a friend of yours had got you a job on a ship bound for San Francisco. We started right out.”

  “And sailed the Virginia Lass across the Pacific?” she marveled, remembering how shattered the Lass had been from her bout with the typhoon.

  “All the way to San Francisco,” he smiled. “A couple of times it was touch and go, but she’s anchored in the Bay. I read in the papers about your engagement party and decided that I’d better come and claim my bride.”

  Come and claim his bride! Her heart leaped at the words.

  “And it’s a good thing that I got here today,” he added lightly, “or I’d have found myself kidnapping Gavin’s wife.”

  Gavin! In the white heat of Rhodes’s return she had forgotten Gavin! Now her gaze swung to the wall where, beside some ornate pillars, Gavin was talking to a group of guests. An unhealthy pallor had spread over his face, but at this distance she could not read his expression.

  Roxanne knew that she would have to tell Gavin. But she pushed the thought aside—for she knew very well that he would prefer to see her hanged rather than see her in Rhodes’s arms.

  When she tried to draw away, the arms that enfolded her tightened around her like a steel band. “Having found you again, I’m in no mood to lose you,” Rhodes said. “I’ve a mind to dance you right out that door and on to the deck of the Lass. We’ll up anchor and be away before they miss us.”

  Gavotti, she noticed, had left Gavin’s side and hovered as near to the dancing couple as he could. “Oh, Rhodes, let’s not leave yet. The music is so wonderful. Let’s dance the night away!”

  He considered her gravely. “Haven’t you tortured Gavin enough, Roxanne? It must hurt him to see me hold you in my arms.”

  Tortured him enough? Silent laughter rang through her and was instantly quenched by a flood of inner tears. Still, she kept that bright smile on her face.

  “Forget Gavin,” she whispered, and melted into his arms.

  Curious looks were directed at them as they continued to whirl among the dancers. Strange behavior for a bride-to-be, people muttered. But Roxanne did not care. She was looking up into
Rhodes’s face with a terrible intensity, as if to photograph his features to hold forever in her heart.

  “I’m willing to dance with you till dawn,” smiled Rhodes. “But at dawn we sail on the Lass.”

  All the love she felt for him was reflected in her blue gaze and the yearning in her breast was almost unbearable. “I was faithful to you, Rhodes—all that time in Singapore. I nearly starved, waiting.”

  “I never doubted you,” he said softly. Tears glimmered on her lashes. “No doubt they told you I was dead, or you assumed I was after so long. I can’t blame you for wanting to get back to the States.

  “I didn’t want to believe you were dead, but the alternative was that you didn’t want me, that you’d proved your point and were willing to let me go.”

  “You know me better than that,” he said comfortably.

  Wild sweet magic engulfed her, lulled her senses. She drifted across the shining floor with him in sweet content, knowing her heart had found its home. Around the room, with whispers, comments, and sidelong looks, the guests wondered who the stranger was that kept the bride-to-be dancing the evening away in his arms. But to Roxanne, these were treasured moments. These last few dances under the brilliant chandeliers were all she would ever have of the man in her arms. This last evening she could spend with him—the rest of her life would be spent in prison. For she was sure that when she told Gavin that she would not marry him, he would carry out his threat to have her arrested. And as for dancing out of the room in Rhodes’s arms . . . there were too many of Gavin’s henchmen about for that to be possible.

  Rhodes had sailed half around the world to reach her—but he had come too late. These golden moments must last her the rest of her life, for with the dawn she would have to send him away.

  Someday, she told herself, he would be hers. Though she must die to win him, some kindly heaven would give him back to her.

  His chest in its dark broadcloth coat brushed her breast, and a silken passion rippled through her. A sweet, overpowering tenderness. Oh, Rhodes, her heart yearned, / love you so. . . .

  And she could not bear to tell him that these short hours with him would be her last.

  The mayor and his besatined wife were leaving now . . . but Roxanne danced on. Other socialites and financiers and their ladies said their good-byes to a tight-lipped Gavin, casting curious glances at Rhodes and Roxanne, clasped together endlessly in a lovers’ waltz. Roxanne, her eyes half closed, her lashes lying dark upon her flushed cheeks, gave them not so much as a nod.

  In her wild heart, she found herself wishing for some great holocaust, so that she might die in Rhodes’s arms, might never leave him as her body returned to dust.

  The night wore on, and still they danced, the woman in the gorgeous white gown and the green-eyed stranger who had everyone buzzing. The ballroom was almost deserted, but with the reckless smile of the damned, Roxanne kept on. From a corner Gavin brooded, his sunken eyes on the waltzing pair. Finally, when all the guests were gone except for a straggler or two, Rhodes said restively, “It’s nearly five. I think Gavin is sending the musicians home.”

  Roxanne, who had been dancing with her eyes closed, looked up, startled to see Gavin speaking to the musicians. Like Cinderella, her ball was over—, and now the piper must be paid. She drew a deep ragged breath. Then, with her head held high, she led Rhodes toward the table where Gavin sat. At their approach, Gavin rose mockingly.

  Rhodes would have stayed her, but Roxanne sank down on the chair Gavin held out; and Rhodes, puzzled, eased his big form down across from her.

  Both these men hungered for her. It was on their faces: Gavin’s watchful and cold, Rhodes’s with a little quizzical smile, as if wondering why they had not spun from the ballroom floor directly into the early morning air.

  “It seems you must choose between us, Roxanne,” announced Gavin. She had heard horseshoes ring on stone more softly than that voice.

  “She has already chosen between us,” said Rhodes easily.

  Gavin gave Rhodes a black look. “Roxanne has by now considered her future.” His voice was stern, ominous. “Roxanne . . . did you hear me. Roxanne?”

  “I. . . heard you.” Her voice was suddenly soft and slurred.

  “Then you can give me your answer,” said Gavin. He leaned forward, willing her obedience. “Besides, how could you choose Rhodes? Have you forgotten how he raped you?” Gavin’s sneering voice was raised against the last blare of music. “Of course, Rhodes was drunk, and it wasn’t as if you were a .virgin . . .” Gavin stopped, realizing that his blinding anger had made him taunt her once too often.

  It wasn’t as if you were a virgin. . . it wasn’t as if—! Who but her rapist could have known that? Roxanne paled and sat thunderstruck. Then, she sprang to her feet with a single violent motion that sent her gilt chair skittering.

  “You!” she choked. “You raped me that night in Baltimore!” .

  Her last words were lost in a sudden grinding roar. For even before they were spoken, a giant earth-rip had burst out of the sea at Point Arena, ninety miles to the north. Racing down the San Andreas Fault at seven thousand miles an hour, scattering redwoods and bluffs and lighthouses as it came, the earthquake struck a sleeping San Francisco like the vengeance of God, and buckled the city with a single hammer blow.

  To the accompaniment of a deep, terrible rumble that welled up from the moving grinding earth mass below, buildings danced upon their foundations, water mains and gas lines burst and thrust up jaggedly through broken pavement toward the sky. Streets undulated like ocean waves, and trolley tracks flashed blue as they twisted like snakes across a nightmare landscape. Chimneys tumbled, towers toppled, walls collapsed, roofs caved in—and everywhere, as the ground beneath the churches rocked, church bells tolled discordantly of doom . . . doom to the West Coast’s proudest city.

  And in the Grand Ballroom of the Golden Palace Hotel, there was first the terrible jarring rumble of the earth that tilted the floor and swung the great chandeliers wildly. A rumble that merged into a new din as the lights went out, the chains snapped, and the chandeliers crashed on the polished parquet floor, sending shards of broken glass everywhere. Following their deadly sparkle, the ceiling fell in, bringing with it the network of heavy beams that arched over the dance floor. As those great polished beams—now instruments of death—came crashing down about them, both Gavin and Rhodes, galvanized, leaped forward to save Roxanne. Gavin, who was nearer, flung himself at Roxanne just as a falling beam struck him. Her body was knocked away from him as the beam drove him to the floor with killing force.

  Roxanne, stunned by the weight of falling plaster, her mind shocked by the screams and the earth-rending noise as the building buckled, was hardly aware that Rhodes had plunged forward and that, as he had grasped her, his foot had slipped on the polished parquetry. It was a lucky slip, for it had carried them both headlong beneath a crazy tepee-like structure comprised of broken beams that had crashed to the ballroom floor, and off which other falling timbers and chunks of plaster ricocheted.

  For a moment, lying there stunned, Roxanne thought she was dead.

  Then she grew dimly aware that a voice—Rhodes’s, she thought—was shouting in her ear, “Are you all right? Roxanne?”

  Choking on plaster dust, she tried to satisfy that voice that she was among the living. “Yes,” she gasped, a strangled sound.

  Rhodes set her on her feet, where she swayed unsteadily, coughing in the suffocating cloud of dust that rose about them. The front of the building, she saw in disbelief, had fallen outward; and now, through the rising dust and further avalanches of plaster and timber, weak daylight illuminated a scene from hell itself. The Grand Ballroom was a forest of broken beams and mounds of rubble. And from that rubble, where before there had been screams, there was only an occasional deep-buried groan. Overhead, the sight was even more frightening, for the multi-storied building, suspended on a framework that was slowly buckling, hung insubstantially above their heads, ready to c
rash down.

  Nearby, almost buried under a heap of plaster, his body not quite cut in half by a heavy beam, lay Gavin. Whatever he’d been, whatever he’d done, his last act on earth had been to try to save her. With a little cry, Roxanne shook off Rhodes’s arm and knelt beside Gavin. His lips were moving.

  “To me it wasn’t rape, Roxanne—you were mine .. . meant to be mine.” He was sinking but he rallied. “You didn’t love me, but . . . you’d . . . have learned to, Roxanne,” he murmured—and was gone.

  Rhodes grasped her roughly. “Come on!” His fingers dug into her arm. “With the next shock the whole building will go!”

  She straightened up. Dead at her feet lay the man who, more than any other, had wrecked her life, whose evil reach had pursued her across a continent. The man for whom she had planned a terrible retribution. And yet ... in his way he had loved her. Sorrow filled her and spilled over into hot tears that ran down her dusty face as they clambered over the rubble.

  Through the ruins of that silent ballroom in which nothing living could now be seen, she let Rhodes hurry her to the street. There stunned-Iooking people ran about, and she could see that San Francisco's skyline had changed—hideously. No sooner had they reached the street, stumbling, picking their way amid the crumpled girders and fallen bricks and stones, than the second great tremor struck. Staggered by the shock wave, Roxanne looked up to see the great broken edifice that had once been the hotel shudder like a living thing and collapse in upon itself with a great roar of crumbling masonry and splintering timbers, while all around them buildings slithered and slanted and cracked and disintegrated.

  They stood among the ruins.

  The little group of stunned people who had made it out of the hotel and nearby buildings to stand motionless for the moment, shaken by the immensity of the collapse of the great hotel, did not yet know the vast extent of the catastrophe that had overtaken California that day. In San Francisco Bay the water had dropped—pushed back from the shore, it had formed tidal waves in the Pacific that surged back, battering the shore. Up and down the coast, cliffs had crumbled, beaches had sunk, and spouting mud geysers had appeared, spewing up hot blue shale. In the aftershocks, giant redwoods that had withstood the first hammer blows now succumbed and fell to earth. Up and down the coast raged the terror.