Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  It was unbelievable that he was even hesitating to go after her. He could not remember a time when he had wanted a woman and refrained from pursuit—and conquest.

  Maybe it was time to get rid of Carmen. It wasn't a new thought, and the argument against it was old and well-worn: he would never abandon Roberto. This time he asked himself another question. What if he managed to get Carmen to leave, without taking Roberto? He had never considered this before. He considered it now. Carmen would screech and scream and holler, but if he wanted her gone, she would ultimately go. He knew his own will, his power. He imagined he could pay her off handsomely and she would willingly, even gladly, leave her son. But what kind of life would Roberto have without a mother, even one as selfish and self-centered as Carmen?

  Soon Lucy would be gone, too. He imagined coming "home" to this valley with only Roberto to greet him, and Linda. He imagined going to bed, night after night, alone. He supposed he could occasionally find release with one of the village women, if he was really in a bad way. At the moment the thought disgusted him. Eventually he might find another woman to take Carmen's place in his life, but he doubted it. Their relationship was too unusual. Again he thought about returning just to Roberto, and to an empty bed. The feeling of loneliness that had gripped him earlier gripped him again.

  He didn't want to come home to this house without a woman waiting for him. Carmen only provided an illusion of the family he needed, a shadow of what his parents had and what he'd once, foolishly, assumed he would have, but he desperately needed that illusion anyway.

  He stared out into the darkness. His groin had eased; now he should go back into the house, back to Carmen. Lucy wasn't for him anyway. But he didn't move.

  He stayed on the porch staring at her even though she was nothing but a blurred outline. He stayed thinking and remembering, until he was aching and hard again. He stayed until he had her scent, and was crazy because of it. He stepped off the porch, shoving all his doubts aside.

  Lucy was an illusion of what he needed so desperately, too. And then it occurred to him that in another time and in another place, she wouldn't be an illusion at all.

  Chapter 27

  Lucy hadn't heard a single sound in the godforsaken night, so when he touched her shoulder, she jumped with

  a cry.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you," Shoz said.

  It was one of the blackest nights Lucy had ever experienced, the sky heavy and dark, unlit by any stars, with the giant rock walls of the valley leaning in on them, somehow making the night even darker. Yet in the murky blackness it was impossible to decide where the sky ended and the cliffs began, and Lucy had finally gotten the fantastic impression that the two had merged and were hovering over her like a low, overburdened ceiling, threatening to cave in.

  Shoz was a relief because he was real and human, yet he was the last person she wanted to be with, too. She could barely make out his form, much less his expression. Only his teeth, glimmering brightly when he spoke, and the sheen of his eyes. She stepped back. He was like an apparition, adding to the unreality she had been experiencing. He was her own private demon come to taunt her. “What do you want?"

  "I want you, Lucy."

  His voice was low and sexy, and her name on his lips in such a tone could have had a magnetic effect upon her. The pull was there, mesmerizing. But she was truly affronted, with his wife within calling distance, his little boy in a bedroom whose very window looked out upon them, a stone's throw away. If he hadn't had a wife, if they had been alone on this night in this place in this time, Lucy might not have resisted him at all. "What about her!"

  Shoz wanted to kick himself for not exercising restraint and attempting a more subtle, seductive approach. But he was never subtle around Lucy. Since they'd first met, she had brought out his worst side. Not that he had ever been a saint with other women, far from it. "Lucy," he started, wanting to amend the breach he sensed was widening rapidly.

  She turned her head away, but not soon enough. His gaze was very acute, and he thought her eyes shone with tears. Because he had been unsuccessfully debating that very same question—what about Carmen?—for a good part of the evening, he did not have a ready response.

  "Leave me alone."

  He couldn't. If he could have, he would have. He stepped forward, crowding her, and although she backed up, he reached her and caught her arm. "You wanted me the other day, when you thought it was good-bye."

  "I was a fool, and I did think it was good-bye!" She tried to twist away, but he wouldn't let her.

  He had broached a topic that was very important to him, too important, one he normally would have never addressed. But on a night like this, inhibitions fled. "Why, Lucy? I had made up my mind to leave you alone, but you wanted me. You asked me. Why?"

  He had her other arm now, too, and he was so close, she could feel his heat. "Let me go!"

  "Tell me," he whispered.

  She tried to wrench free, but with a bit less determination. He was too close, too male. Too exciting. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, and she could smell his scent, tobacco, sweat, leather—and man. Her body was starting to tremble, from despair and desire. "Please let me go"

  "Not until you tell me why you encouraged me, Lucy."

  Her temper erupted. "Because I'm just not a decent woman, am I? Because I wanted—" she hesitated, wanting to be crude, wanting to wound him "—sex. We'd already done it, hadn't we? So what would one more time matter? I wanted to try it again, and I certainly couldn't do it with someone from back home! Most importantly, I would never see you again, and no one had found out about the first time, and they wouldn't find out about this. So I was safe. So I could do what I want, then say good-bye and never have to see you again."

  He released her now and stepped away from her.

  He remained unmoving, and for an instant, Lucy regretted everything she had said. Then his lips curled, his teeth gleaming. "What if I tell you that this is also good-bye?"

  His tone was very dangerous, but only his words registered. She gasped, staring at him and trying to discern if this was a lie. "What?"

  "I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "You're leaving?"

  "That's right. No one will ever know, Lucy. Your little secret will be safe with me." He didn't move toward her. He leaned against the tree, his pose relaxed, one knee bent and his foot braced against it. But his eyes never left her.

  "Where are you going? When are you coming back? What about me?"

  "Where I'm going is none of your business. I'll be back in ten days or so. After that, I'll find the time and the place to let you go."

  "I want out of this hellhole! I want you to take me with you! You promised you'd set me free after we got here!"

  "I'm not going to a garden party. I have every intention of keeping my promise to you when I get back."

  "You bastard."

  "Not very original."

  She knew there was no use in arguing, that he would never change his mind. Silence filled the moment between them, and Lucy folded her arms tightly against her breast.

  "Where's my good-bye?" he drawled contemptuously.

  "Never again."

  "Never? Never's a long time, Miss Bragg."

  "I mean it."

  "Why?" His voice was mocking. "No one will know. Why, we can pass each other on the street in New York City someday and I won't even tip my hat. Promise."

  "You disgust me!"

  He shoved himself off the tree. His teeth flickered white again. "The feeling's mutual, princess. Enjoy the night. I intend to." And without a look back, he walked away.

  And Lucy didn't have a single doubt where he was going, and to whom.

  Although he didn't make a sound as he entered the house, his strides were hard and coiled tight. He exercised the utmost will not to slam the front door behind him as hard as he could.

  She was just like all the others.

  She was exactly like all the other ladies he'd fucked, the
ones who would suck him off in the bedroom and look through him as if he were invisible should they pass on the street. And he despised her, even more than all the others, even more than Marianne. When he walked into the bedroom, Carmen hurled a glass at him. He ducked and it hit the wall, just missing him. "Don't you come in here!"

  He wasn't in the mood for this; he wasn't in the mood for her. ' 'This is my bedroom. You don't want my company, then get out."

  She sat still. She wore French lingerie, sheer, black, revealing everything. Her eyes were wild, her breasts heaving. But Carmen knew him well, and she was shrewd. She studied him for one more moment. "What happened?"

  He didn't answer, stripping off his jeans. He was glad he hadn't laid her, because the last thing he wanted to be was Miss Bragg's private stud for her sexual experimenting.

  "You didn't make love to her," Carmen said.

  To get her off his back, he admitted it. "No."

  "You don't want her?" She watched him the way a cat does a mouse.

  He smiled meanly. "I don't care for frigid bitches in my bed, Carmen, especially not ones who will run to Daddy crying rape. I don't need that on my head, either."

  Carmen was too clever to be fooled, and sensed everything. She was also too clever to reveal what she understood. "Who is she? Who is that little nobody who gives herself such airs?"

  "I used her to break out of jail and took her as a hostage.

  As soon as I can, when it's safe, I'm freeing her." He would be a fool to reveal Lucy's identity to Carmen. He didn't trust his mistress for a second. "For a ransom?"

  "No ransom." His gaze was impatient. "I didn't kidnap her, and I'd prefer not to have kidnapping added to my record."

  Carmen thought about this while he climbed into bed. He tried not to think about Lucy, the snobby bitch, because if he did, he would get so angry that he would never sleep. Instead, he thought about something else that had been preoccupying him lately.

  Would the guns still be there? Would the guns still be buried near Geoffard's Hanging Tree? There was a good chance that they would. Shoz could not leave such a cache indefinitely. He couldn't afford to lose them should they be unearthed; he had a deal to finish. He had decided to take all of his men to retrieve them except for two, whom he would leave behind to guard the stronghold and Lucy. It would only take ten days to bring back the weapons if all went well. They would pack them out on four sturdy horses. He would be very cautious and clever about entering Texas again, and fortunately, the guns were not buried in Paradise County. Once back across the border, he would stop briefly to send a telegram to his contact to rearrange another sale.

  He knew it was dangerous to go back to Texas, but he didn't have much choice. Besides, he'd be going with a small, fast army. If they had to, they'd fight and then run. It wouldn't be the first time, unfortunately.

  By now, he imagined they were getting pretty desperate for the guns down in Cuba. What had started as a small uprising against the yoke of the Spanish government, led by someone named Jose Marti, seemed to be heading for a real war. If the quantity of arms they were requesting was any indication. Shoz didn't know much about it and didn't particularly care. He doubted like hell they'd succeed against one of the world's strongest powers. But as long as they kept paying cash, he'd keep supplying them with guns and whatever else they needed.

  Carmen snuggled next to him. Shoz had lost absolutely all desire, but he thought of that bitch outside turning up her nose at him, so when Carmen started stroking his belly, he did not remove her hand. She was very skilled, and she knew exactly how to please him.

  She slid down his body, kissing and biting him, her fingers like magic on his testicles, until she was cradling him with her big breasts. Carmen teased his shaft with her lips and tongue until he was painfully rigid. Shoz had ceased to be aware of her. Instead, he was thinking about the Bragg princess. He imagined that it was Lucy sucking him like this, against her will, helpless to resist; he imagined that he was forcing her to kneel before him, forcing her to rub her face all over his shaft. Only, hot bitch that she was, what began as coercion ended with her whimpering in pleasure and need.

  With a growl, he tossed Carmen on her back and plunged into her. It was over in moments and he rolled away, panting. As always, the physical release seemed to be just that and nothing more. It had never bothered him before. But now, it did.

  He did not feel satiated. He did not feel satisfied. Foolishly, he thought of Lucy again.

  Carmen's hand stole over to his hard chest. "You missed me," she purred, pleased with herself.

  The last thing he wanted was more of her attention. He stopped her hand. "I'm exhausted."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. I'm leaving early tomorrow."

  "What!?"

  He turned over, away from her, not bothering to explain. He had explained more than enough for one night.

  The Braggs had taken over the entire saloon for their headquarters. Fernando had been handsomely paid for the use of his premises, and hadn't been seen since. The decision to remain in Casitas had been made three days ago, the day they had found the lame horse and the three dead bodies on the trail leading up into the mountains.

  It was obvious that the killer had been in the boulders on the plateau above the trail, ambushing the bandits from this vantage point while they were traveling unsuspecting below him. They weren't certain it was Shoz Cooper, but they knew he and Lucy had come in this direction, because of the stolen horse they had found earlier. It certainly could have been Shoz Cooper, and if it was, he was proving to be a very cunning adversary. For it had taken several hours to find Shoz's trail after that.

  But they had, and sometime later they had found the cave with the recent droppings of two horses. They had also found Lucy's shoes.

  Late in the afternoon they picked up their track on a deer trail. But soon it disappeared, and no amount of searching in the past few days had recovered it.

  Shoz Cooper had vanished into the Sierra Madres with Lucy Bragg.

  Now the night was still and dark, the town asleep, except for the saloon. Within, fifty men drank and played cards and passed the time. Another fifty men were camped just outside of town, preferring sleep to liquor and gambling. The ranks of the posse had been swelled by the arrival of fifty private Pinkerton agents just that morning. Everyone was waiting for their orders.

  One of the back rooms, the largest one, had been rearranged hastily to serve as a command center. A solid old wooden table served for conferences, surrounded by a dozen rickety chairs. Another table held an enamel pot of hot coffee, chipped mugs, several bottles of whiskey, and chipped glasses. There were seven people in the room.

  Storm sat next to her brother Rathe to comfort him. He was unshaven, thinner, and gray with despair. The dark circles beneath his eyes testified to all the sleepless nights he had endured. Storm kept her palm on his forearm. Yet he was sitting straight and tense, his blue eyes keenly alert.

  Everyone was keenly alert—Brett, near the wall, his hands jammed into the pockets of his dungarees; Nick, straddling a chair across the table from his brother and sister; Derek, standing next to him, his fists clenched. In the center of the room was the focus of their attention. He called himself Lloyd.

  He was tall and whipcord-lean in a dusty brown suit and worn boots. About forty years of age, he was nondescript except for his shrewd, penetrating blue eyes. He worked for the United States government.

  The connection between this man and Shoz Cooper had been made by the chief of the Pinkerton office in New York, whom Derek had contacted by wire to hire the detectives. It was a fortunate coincidence, really. The New York bureau chief recalled a conversation he had had a year earlier when based in Washington, D.C., with a friend of his who was an ex-Pinkerton and now worked for Uncle Sam. In that conversation, the name Shoz Cooper had come up. It was the alias of the man his friend's bureau was hunting. His real name was Shoz Savage.

  "What?" Rathe said, stunned.

&nb
sp; "I know just about everything there is to know about Shoz Cooper—the name he's been going by these past seven years-—because I've been hunting him this past year—all three hundred and sixty-five days of it."

  "Since when is an escaped felon convicted for burglary so important to the federal government?" Brett asked. More research had been done during the past few days, and another detail had come to light—the nature of the offense he'd committed in New York.

  "Since he started selling stolen army rifles to the rebels in Cuba."

  A moment of silence greeted this bit of news as everyone struggled to digest it.

  Lloyd continued. "The first thing I want to do, Rathe, is assure you that Cooper is a smart mercenary, but in no way a typical criminal. I have not a doubt that your little girl is safe. He's not a murderer, so you can rest at ease. Although I cannot understand why he would steal a horse. That is bothering me; it doesn't fit.

  "After interviewing the Paradise deputy, I'm more convinced than ever that he merely used your daughter to escape, and kept her as a hostage to insure his success. Things have been getting a bit too hot for him lately."

  "You haven't reassured me. I won't be reassured until I have Lucy back, safe and sound and—untouched," Rathe said fiercely.

  Lloyd said nothing on the last matter, although Storm turned to him. "He did rescue the girls when their auto broke down."

  Rathe said nothing.

  Derek cut in. "We got word from the Abilene marshal 1 today that Red Ames and Jake Holt have been arrested. We'll know that story soon enough."

  Lloyd continued. "Let me fill you in on a few facts. Cooper's real name is Shoz Savage. His story begins in New York. He attended Columbia University on a partial scholarship, paying the rest by himself by working part-time. He also worked his way through New York Law School." Storm gasped in surprise. Lloyd ignored it. "If he ever did anything dishonest then, we have no record of it. But after graduation, just after he opened a private practice, he was caught stealing a large diamond from the employer of a housemaid he was seeing." He looked at Storm. "Excuse me." He wasn't apologetic.