by Brenda Joyce
"Why are you so insufferable? Why are you trying to push me away? Why didn't you just accept my thanks!" She was hurt, very hurt, and furious with him, and with herself for even bothering to be pleasant.
"I'm not trying to push you away," he said, and he grabbed her hips before she could blink and pulled her up against him. "Meet me tonight."
Lucy struggled, hurt and enraged, and when he released her, she stepped back, panting. Her chest rose and fell, hard, and to her immense frustration, he openly ogled her. "You are the worst scum imaginable! I've tried to be nice, tried to be charitable, but it's impossible! I thought we felt something for each other, but I was wrong—so very wrong!"
His face, usually expressionless, was dark with strained anger. "Oh, we felt something for each other, all right, and it's called lust with a capital L. You can try and put another fancy name on it, but it won't change the fact—or the act."
"Damn you!"
"No—damn you—and your goddamn charity. I don't want it!"
Lucy was shaking. He stalked away. She swallowed hard and turned away, only to come face-to-face with Joanna.
Lucy could not sleep. She lay beside Joanna, determined not to cry. Never had she been so abused, and she was thoroughly shaken from all that had passed. She wanted nothing more than to weep in her mother's embrace.
She knew he was stretched out with his head on his saddle, just across the dying fire.
She despised him. Last night had been a mistake, and it would never happen again. Ever. No man could treat her the way he had and get away with it.
Still, she thought she could hear his every breath, his every movement. It was annoying. Her body was coiled tight.
Later, when Joanna was breathing deeply, she heard him get up and stroll away. Lucy wished she could sleep instead of thinking about him, and the humiliation. Instead of listening to him. She didn't care what he did, what he was doing. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. Arrogant bastard. At least he couldn't sleep, either.
Five minutes might have passed, or fifty. Lucy had no idea. But she heard him returning, and every inch of her went stiff. He came to her as she had known he would.
Which was why she had her reticule within easy reach.
"I know you're not sleeping," Shoz said softly, dropping down to his knees by her shoulder. His fingers brushed her throat.
"Go away," she hissed. His fingers raised a tingle along her spine. The coil inside her tightened. So did her fingers, around her purse.
His hand slid down to her chest and over one of her breasts. "Waiting up for me?"
"No!" She knocked his hand away.
"I'm going to prove you a liar," he said silkily, slipping one arm under her.
Lucy pressed away from him. "Joanna will wake up!"
"She'll enjoy the show," he said, nuzzling her ear.
"You are wicked! Depraved!"
Shoz laughed. "Sainthood is boring. Besides, there's room in hell for both of us." He licked her ear.
Despite her anger, delicious spirals of sensation filled Lucy. "Stop! You'll have to rape me, and I mean it!" "Okay."
Lucy froze when he gathered her closer in his arms as if to lift her. He nibbled her throat. Unable to look at what she did, she flicked open her purse and groped for the derringer. His arms tightened around her and he stood up, lifting her to her feet. She pressed the little pistol into his diaphragm.
His arms went still around her, he became motionless.
Lucy felt a surge of triumph—mitigated with fear at her daring. "Let me go."
Shoz laughed. The sound was soft, menacing. He dropped his hands and took a step back. "Nice toy."
Her temper soared. "It's not a toy—and I happen to be an expert marksman. But at this distance, no one could miss."
"Markswoman," he said softly. "What?"
He grabbed her wrist so quickly she hadn't even seen him reaching for her, forcing her hand down and the gun away from his person. Lucy cried out, dropping the pistol. "Did you really intend to shoot me?" He was amused.
She was furious with his apparent amusement, and with her failure to shoot him. Riled and dismayed, she watched as he retrieved the gun and emptied it of bullets. Shoz picked up her purse and inspected it for more ammunition. Satisfied, he tossed it aside. She didn't have any more bullets or any more places to hide them, and he knew it. He was smiling when he handed the pistol back to her.
She felt like smacking that smile right from his face. She contemplated the idea with relish, but got no further than that when he abruptly lifted her into his arms—and began to carry her away.
"Put me down!" she gasped.
"Not until we finish what we started," he said flatly.
Lucy had no intention of finishing anything with him. She struggled wildly and futilely as he walked away from the camp. And when she spoke, she meant every word. "When I get back to the DM, I'm going to tell my grandfather you raped me, you son-of-a-bitch!" she cried. "He's one of the most powerful men in Texas and he knows everybody—the governor, senators, even the president of the United States! They'll hunt you down and lock you up and throw away the key!"
He froze. Let me guess. Your granddaddy is Bragg himself.
“That’s right!” she shouted. “You will be finished, finished!”
Shoz cursed and abruptly put her down. Lucy almost collapsed, then backed away, panting. "You little bitch," he said. "You'd do it, too, and not because I slept with you, but because I won't fawn all over you."
She didn't answer.
He smiled harshly. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to touch you. You aren't worth it."
Chapter 7
Never had Lucy seen such a welcome sight. "Paradise!"
"And not a minute too soon," Shoz muttered.
They were all astride the mules, Shoz in the lead, Lucy and Joanna riding double. The terrain had changed, the parched plains giving way to rocky hills, more green than brown, the trees larger and lusher now. They were passing the first of Paradise's outlying whitewashed homes, most of which were surrounded by white picket fences with roses creeping up to gaily painted mailboxes. Ahead, the road turned in to the town's wide, dusty main street, appropriately called Bragg Avenue.
Lucy, who had learned to ride in Central Park at the age of four, sat in front of Joanna, who clung to her from behind. She sought out a soiled handkerchief with one hand, made a sound of dismay at the sight of its wretched state, then used one tip to blot her face. What she wouldn't give for just a few of her creams and powders! She tried to arrange her hair single-handedly, realizing this was a far cry from her fantasy of a grand entrance in a shiny new roadster, dressed impeccably in silk and velvet. It was one of the few times in her life that Lucy prayed no one would notice her.
They were on Bragg Avenue now, passing low-fronted stores with cheerfully painted hanging signs: Joe's Eatery, Full Breakfasts One Dollar; Hirsch Laundry While-You-Wait; the Barber Shop, Free Shave with Bath and Cut: Rooms for Rent, $2.50 Per Night, Breakfast Included. The Livery, owned by the giant blond Swede Olaf, was just up ahead. "We will get off at the livery," Lucy said evenly. Her gaze wasn't particularly friendly.
He smiled. "You can keep the mule. And we'll let bygones be bygones."
Lucy looked at him contemptuously. "I don't want your mule. We'll rent a carriage." She pulled on the reins, dismissing him from her mind and her life. Joanna slid down, then Lucy dismounted.
He sat watching for a moment. Lucy shook out her skirts briskly, touched her hair, smoothed her jacket, and flashed Joanna a smile. "Almost home," she said.
At that point, voices could be heard from inside the barn. Two men came strolling out, a big blonde and a lean, wiry cowboy. Lucy's face brightened. "Olaf! Billy!"
Both men stopped to stare, quizzically. Lucy sailed forward, radiant. "Hullo! How are you? It's so good to see you!" She had known Olaf since she was a child, and Billy had always been infatuated with her.
Olaf's mouth dropped. "Miss Lucy? Is that you?"
Lucy halted.
Billy gaped. "Lucy?!"
"Of course it's me," she cried, brushing at her skirts. "You don't recognize me?"
"Of course I do," Billy said very quickly, rushing to take her arm. "What happened to you?"
"Are you all right, Miss Lucy?"
"Yes, yes," she cried dramatically, leaning against Billy.
"Oh, it was so awful! Our automobile broke and we had to walk, leaving our bags, and we were stranded in the wilderness with no food!" Shoz snorted. "I don't know how we made it here, truly I don't!"
Both men turned to look at Shoz and the mules.
He saluted her. "It was nice knowing you, too." He turned away, spurring his burro into a trot.
"Who is that?" Billy asked.
"We met him this afternoon," Lucy lied. She had spent a good hour developing her tale when she knew they were close to town. "Fortunately, he had an extra mule, so we asked him for a ride, and of course, he chivalrously agreed.'' She gave Joanna a warning look.
"You must be exhausted," Billy said, his arm protectively around her. "But how is it that you two are alone?" For the first time he noticed Joanna.
"Mrs. Seymour became ill the day we left," Lucy said.
"Come on, I got a wagon out back, I'll take you straight to the DM."
"Leave the wagon," Lucy said. "We'll take Olaf's nicest buggy, and you can pick up the wagon another time."
Billy did not argue. An hour later they were driving up the curving road to her grandparents' house. It sat on a hill slightly above all the whitewashed barns and paddocks and bunkhouses, with commanding views. Thoroughbred weanlings raced them as they trotted up the drive. Wild-flowers grew along the road, big shady oaks guarded the house, and potted purple and yellow petunias were on the front porch. The house was a two-story, sprawling affair, freshly whitewashed like every other structure on the ranch, the shutters green, with numerous brick chimneys and a veranda that ran around three sides. Under the biggest oak in the yard was a white swing for lovers. Her grandfather had built it for Miranda, when she was pregnant with their second child, Lucy's aunt, Storm.
Lucy let Billy help her out of the carriage, barely able to restrain herself from leaping out. But then she could hold back no longer. She raced up the porch steps and threw open the solid front door. "Grandma! Grandpa! I'm here!" Her grandmother appeared, her eyes wide. Her dark hair,
frosted with silver, was coiled in a braid around her head. Once again Lucy marveled at Miranda's elegant appearance, despite the apron she wore and the flour covering her hands. Her delicate features still seemed handsome to Lucy, hinting at the beauty she must have been. "Lucy! Oh, Lord, Lucy!"
They embraced. Lucy was much taller than her diminutive grandmother, and even though she needed to be held by her after the trauma of the past two days, it was as if she did the holding. Miranda drew back. "Child, where have you been? Derek and I have been frantic!"
"It's a long story, Grandma," Lucy said, somewhat tearfully.
"Did I hear Lucy?" her grandfather shouted, striding into the foyer. As always, he made a grand entrance, filling up the room with his presence more than his size. "Lucy!" he shouted, wrapping her in a bear hug.
Lucy couldn't help it; in her grandfather's protective embrace, she started to cry.
"What happened?" he demanded, holding her at arm's length so he could stare into her eyes. His eyesight was as keen as a hawk's.
"Don't be mad," she moaned. "It was just an idea, that's all, to buy a car and drive to Paradise! But the roadster broke down and we were stranded and had to walk until this man came and had an extra mule. Oh, Grandpa, it was awful!"
"I want to know why Mrs. Seymour is still in New York and why the hell you weren't on the spur yesterday morning!" Derek yelled. He was mad from the terrible fear her disappearance had caused.
Lucy wept now, her nerves finally shattered. Her grandfather was not as easy to get around as her father. This last realization made her cry harder, in actual self-pity. She would have to face him and his shrewd questions, sooner or later, and if he ever learned the truth. . .
Miranda glared at Derek and pulled Lucy into her arms. "There, there, dear, you need a hot bath and hot food. Joanna, come in, come in. Forgive us our manners."
Joanna, who had been hovering in the open doorway, moved inside. "Hello, Mrs. Bragg. Hello, Mr. Bragg."
"Call me Derek," Derek shouted. "Billy!" He bellowed. "You come with me, I want a word with you."
"Yes, sir." Billy nearly saluted, following the leonine man into his study, where Derek shut the massive double doors with a bang.
Miranda took the girls upstairs, settling them in adjoining rooms. "I'll have Billy bring up your things," she said, briskly turning down the white lace sheets of the four-poster bed. The room boasted pink and white pinstriped wallpaper, thickly upholstered furniture in embossed wine damask, delicately wrought tables and chairs from England, a brick fireplace, pine floors, and a thick multicolored Oriental rug that was predominately red. The bed was all white lace and ruffles. Miranda plumped the pillows, walked into the spacious pine-floored bathroom, and began to run the tub.
Lucy thought about her bags and all of her best clothes, most of them purchased exclusively for this vacation, undoubtedly stolen by now. "We don't have any bags," she said, wiping her eyes. "We had to leave them in the auto." She didn't want to think about their adventure, or about him, but unfortunately, she did.
"Then you'll just have to buy a new wardrobe," Miranda said cheerfully.
Lucy almost brightened. She usually adored shopping. Her smile was wan, however. "I'm sorry about all the tears, and about the awful mess we got into."
"I know," Miranda said, patting her shoulder. "First a bath, then some food and rest, and then we can talk about it."
Lucy quickly calculated that she had a few hours to get her story straight and tight. She smiled at her grandmother, then turned—and glimpsed herself in the mirror. "Oh my God!"
"Lucy!" Miranda reproved. She was a fairly observant Catholic. "Into that bath!" She hustled out.
Lucy stared at her reflection—and wanted to die.
Never had she looked like this in her entire life. And her only thought was—why had he even wanted to touch her?
She looked like a dirt-poor washerwoman, her clothes gray with dust and spotted with stains. Her hair was even dirtier, a tangled rat's nest despite the sagging and ludicrous coil atop her head. Worst of all—her beautiful face was shiny with sweat and smudged with dirt. She was no beauty. She was ugly!
"Oh God," she said again, sinking into a plush club chair.
It didn't seem fair. It didn't seem fair that after all she had been through, she had to bear this final humiliation. That tramp had seen her looking like this, and she supposed she should be grateful that he hadn't been his normal nasty self and commented upon it. Thank God she would never have to see him again.
Chapter 8
Shoz took the best suite at the Paradise Hotel. He ordered a five-course dinner and a bottle of French brandy, soaked in a steaming tub, considered a whore, and got drunk instead. He slept until midmorning the next day.
Because of the brandy, he slept deeply, unlike the previous two nights, when he'd tossed about restlessly, due to his unrequited lust for Princess Bragg. He wasn't exactly used to being so aroused over one female. Yes, this one did have an ungodly body, and he guessed she was attractive when cleaned up, but he'd had many beautiful women mostly beautiful women, the most beautiful in the world— and it didn't make much difference to him. He'd always preferred making love in the dark.
Besides, he didn't like her type, not at all. And he knew her type intimately, too intimately.
They were eager to jump into bed with him, but should they pass each other on the street, these ladies would pretend not to even know him They were sexually fascinated by him, more so, he suspected, because he was taboo to their society, being three-quarters Apache, than because he was appealing and
vigorous in bed. Almost all were married and didn't give a damn about their wedding vows. Oh, he'd had enough of her type long ago—seven years ago, to be exact.
He wanted to stop the terrible train of his thoughts, because they were sure to disturb him, but he couldn't. He could still see Marianne Claxton lying on her dressing table where he'd pushed her down, in the black corset, legs spread, panting for it even while she was afraid he'd murder her after taking her. They'd been lovers for an entire year, beginning midsemester of his final year at law school, and she not only had sent him up, she'd set him up, and after he'd escaped prison in upstate New York, she thought him capable of murder.
Shoz's anger simmered, as always when he thought of Marianne and the damn phony trial and prison. But a part of him, deep inside, wept a little, too. Not because he'd just hung his sign on the tiny cubbyhole of an office he'd rented, 5. Savage, Attorney-At-Law, but because his dreams had started dying way before that, when he'd left the ranch where he'd been raised in southern California.
Being morose first thing in the morning was not good for his digestion, or his mood, and he cursed the Bragg girl for stirring up memories that were usually dormant. Breakfast consisted of coffee and one swig of last night's brandy to chase away the throbbing above his temples.
Business demanded his attention. It was a bright, hot day, no surprise. He strolled leisurely down the boardwalk, taking in the sights of the freshly painted little town. The awning over the druggist was bright red. The general store boasted gold lettering half his size stenciled on huge windows, a red and white striped candy-cane light stood sentinel outside the barber shop. There was something about this town that disturbed him; it was too clean and too fresh, the kind of place where people moved to raise a family. It was too idyllic. He could almost stay awhile. But this kind of place wasn't for him—and it never would be.
At the post office he sent a telegram to his buyer in Houston. He told the clerk he'd be awaiting the reply at the hotel, then went and had a haircut and shave. He returned to the hotel expecting a response to his telegram; there was nothing. His buyer was not at the designated hotel in Houston.
