by Brenda Joyce
Lucy gripped the arm of the love seat beside her, staring at him. He knew she was trying to penetrate into the very depths of his heart and soul. Uncomfortably, he turned away, but then she cried out.
"Shoz, are you saying that the papers I signed in New York don't have your signature on them—that the signature is a forgery?!"
"There's no way in hell those papers have my signature on them, Lucy."
Her hand found her chest, and she smiled, her eyes positively glowing. "Don't you know what this means?"
He faced her warily.
"Shoz—you never signed the papers I signed—the divorce can't be valid. I'm still your wife!"
He stiffened. "Wait a minute."
"I'm still your wife," she repeated, stubbornly.
"That divorce is registered and official. In the eyes of the world, we're divorced."
"But it's not valid. Any court—"
"Hold on! If you think I'm going to take the government to court for forgery, you're out of your mind!"
She reeled as if he'd struck her.
He was angry at her reaction, and even angrier at himself for being so callous toward her feelings—and then regretting what he'd done. The situation was out of control and he didn't like it, not one damn bit. "I'd never win. And I have a presidential pardon at stake."
"I don't understand."
"I'm not at liberty to tell you details, Lucy."
She gasped. "Grandpa told me the government had sent you to Cuba. You are working for them, aren't you? You're a United States spy! And when this is over, you're going to get a pardon?"
He turned away. "Lucy, you have a big imagination."
"Damn you! You still don't trust me!"
He wheeled and gripped her shoulders. ' 'Just leave everything alone! The past is the past, and the present is here and now. Don't push."
She set her mouth firmly. "I am your wife," she said, "and no matter what you say, you know it."
Chapter 46
It was time to reveal himself. If the American consul had been anyone other than Leon, Shoz would have done so immediately upon his arrival in Havana. But because it was Leon, he had preferred keeping his work in Cuba secret. Now, however, he must at last come forth to communicate what he had learned. Too many lives were at stake.
He cursed the rebels, even as he admired them for their shrewdness. Just this morning the decision had been taken to plant an explosive on the Maine and blow her—and all aboard—up. Tonight. The goal was not to create an inter-national furor, which it would, but to push the Americans over the brink and into war against Spain. For the Spanish government would be the first to be blamed.
It was brilliant, tactically speaking. Shoz had been hoping for American intervention to end the bloody impasse and free Cuba as much as the most fervent patriot. But he was an American; he could not sit on such knowledge and watch several hundred innocent Americans die. Nor could he do more than express a few reservations to his compatriots; he had worked too hard to become one of them, and if he had been a Cuban, he would have applauded the plan too.
He was at the consulate before anyone else, wishing there had been a way to give the information to Janice without damaging her position, but there wasn't. He paced outside the five-story brick building restlessly, watched by two stony marine guards. Leon's carriage drew up and he alighted. When he saw Shoz he froze, eyes widening in instant recognition.
They had never been properly introduced. But they had seen each other often enough at Paradise, when Leon had been the welcome guest, courting Lucy, and he the hired hand, watching their every move. He had a flashing re-membrance of carrying Leon's bags up to his room the day he had arrived, and finding him there kissing Lucy.
"I don't believe this," Leon said.
"I'm sure you don't, Consul. We have business to discuss."
Leon moved past him. "I find that equally hard to believe."
"Frankly, I don't care what you believe," Shoz said, following him without an invitation. The two guards blocked his way. Shoz resigned himself to their rapid body search, and did not protest when they removed his revolver and knife.
Leon had watched. "Come to kill me?"
Shoz grinned. "Spooked, aren't we?" His expression changed. "Who would be stupid enough to travel in Cuba without weapons?"
Leon was grim, angry even. "This had better be good." With a word to the guards, he turned and spun on down the walk. Shoz followed, waiting while Leon unlocked the pad-locked door. Inside the reception foyer, it was cool and dark.
Leon strode into his office, Shoz behind him. No one else was there yet, and Shoz was almost impressed with Leon's work ethic. Almost, but not quite. Leon went behind his desk, shrugging off his jacket. "What the hell are you doing in Cuba?"
"Business."
"I'll bet. I find this coincidence overwhelming as well." "What coincidence?" "You're being here, Lucy being here!" "My being here has nothing to do with Lucy." Leon gripped his desk. "Too bad you survived that gunshot in Paradise, too damn bad." Shoz stared. "It was you?" Leon smiled.
"You son of a bitch. I bet it was you." "Really?" Leon was cool; the tables had turned. Shoz forced a grim smile. He was almost certain that
Leon was enough of a coward and a bastard to have shot him in the back—because of Lucy.
"Why are you here?" Leon demanded.
"The Cubans are planning to plant a bomb on the Maine."
"What!?"
"I suggest you warn Sigsbee, and I suggest you do it today."
"How do you know such a thing? Why would they tell you?" Leon's eyes widened. "What kind of ploy is this?"
"I do business with the rebels, and before you think to turn me over to the Spanish, think again—think about your country's position in this mess."
Leon was stuck. The United States warned its citizens to stay out of Cuban affairs, but secretly condoned anyone supporting the rebels, especially those smuggling weapons and food to them—which was obviously the business Shoz referred to. But in this case, Leon thought, he would carefully consider betraying Shoz to the Spanish. "I want evidence. Otherwise I am not going to stir up a diplomatic hornet's nest. If this is a false alarm—and I really find it impossible to believe the Cubans would dare incur the wrath of America—I will have egg on my face."
"You fool," Shoz said. "I have no evidence. I'm telling you the truth. The Maine and all aboard her are in imminent danger. Do something about it."
They stared at each other. Leon said, coldly, "What do you possibly have to gain by all this?"
Just as cool, Shoz responded, "Nothing. I gain nothing."
"You never struck me as a patriot, Cooper. I think you want to stir up trouble, create an incident—with me at its center! And I think Lucy's the reason!"
"The reason for what?" Lucy said from the doorway.
Both men whirled. Lucy turned to Leon. "What are you two shouting about?"
Leon came out from behind his desk. Stalking her. "You don't seem surprised to see him, Lucy."
Lucy went red, too late realizing her mistake, and she backed up. "Of course I'm surprised! I. . ."
"Little liar," Leon said softly. "Now I think I understand. Everything."
Shoz grabbed Leon's arm. "Lucy and I ran into each other last week at a party. Don't jump to any conclusions," he warned.
Leon was red with rage. "Now I understand why Lucy is in Cuba. Because of you! Did you come together? How long has—"
"No!" Lucy protested. "Leon, you're wrong!"
Leon faced Shoz, his body taut as a wire, his face filled with loathing. "You never did abduct her, did you? The two of you ran off together! Rathe Bragg couldn't allow that, of course, so he chased you down, then invented that kidnapping story! You think I don't know about the two of you in Paradise? I saw you kissing her at the barn the night of the birthday party!"
"So it was you," Shoz said softly.
"Yes," Leon snarled. "Get out! Both of you, get out now!"
Lucy was pale
and shaken. Shoz guided her across the street and into a cafe. She did not protest. He led her to one of the small tables in the back.
She sat hard. "What were you thinking of to go and see Leon!"
"I should ask you the same question."
She was angry. "I was passing by and I just stopped to say hello to Janice."
"Oh, really? Best friends now, are we?"
"Yes, we are friends." She leaned forward. "I couldn't help but hear the two of you! Why did you go see Leon Shoz?"
"I had information to give to him, Lucy, important in-formation. '' He watched her anger fade, watched the bright, avid interest leap into her eyes.
"What information? How important?"
"That is none of your business."
She clenched her fist with a small cry, then glanced nervously around. "We shouldn't be here. Rather, you shouldn't be here. And don't be patronizing—I'm tired of it."
He sighed. "I'm not being patronizing, I just want you to keep out of this war.'' She grimaced.
A waiter came and he ordered them espresso. When he had left, Lucy leaned forward. "How did it go last night?" "Maybe I should ask you." "Don't start. What happened last night?" "I'm here, aren't I? It went fine." She exhaled in relief.
Their gazes held. Everything that had passed between them yesterday came back to him, hard. He had spent too much time since he had last seen her thinking about what he had learned and all that she had said. Soon he was going to believe that she still cared for him, soon his own feelings were going to demand attention and identification. Things were happening too fast, too damn fast. Why was he so afraid of her—of himself? What in hell did she see in him, anyway?
"What are you thinking?" she asked softly, touching his hand. "Have you thought about what we discovered yesterday—about the divorce?"
He rose to his feet. "If you're waiting for some sort of declaration, you're going to wait a long time."
She smiled up at him confidently. "I'll wait. You see, Shoz, you're only fooling yourself now, you're not fooling me. I know you care about me, and sooner or later, you're going to know it too."
Still smiling, she stood, and he watched her walk away.
Lucy was in the midst of dressing for supper aboard the Maine with Captain Sigsbee and his executive officers. She sat at her dressing table, applying a fine coat of powder to her face. It was hard to concentrate; she was torn between powerful, conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she was thrilled with the turn of events—thrilled that she was still Shoz's wife. She had not a doubt about that, and now she could freely admit to herself how much she loved him, how she had never stopped loving him. Most important, now that she knew he was her husband, she was going to work on him until the discord and strife of the past was finally forgotten, until he accepted his own feelings and accepted her again as his wife.
On the other hand, she was desperately worried about Shoz now that Leon knew he was in Cuba. She was positive that Shoz was the daring rebel leader, El Americano. Gossip ran rampant in the small American community, and she had heard that it was El Americano who had rescued the rebel destined for execution. It was no coincidence, she was sure, that she had warned Shoz about the man's fate and that a rescue had ensued.
She worried that Leon would make the same connection that she had—that Shoz was El Americano. Oh, why had Shoz gone to the consulate! Did he court danger on purpose? And she had overheard more of their conversation than she'd let on. If Leon had shot Shoz in Paradise, would he do something awful again? If he ever informed the Spanish authorities that Shoz was a spy, or worse, that he was El Americano . . . Lucy shuddered to think of what might happen should Shoz be caught.
And what if Leon should spread rumors about her and Shoz—rumors that were almost entirely the truth? What if Leon wrote to Marianne that she was here? Lucy was already anxious about Captain Sigsbee's relationship with her uncle Brett. If they happened to correspond, he would undoubtedly mention her presence in Cuba, yet it was more likely that Leon would do so first. Either way, her father would become informed, and Lucy had not a doubt that Rathe would personally come running to Cuba to bring his runaway daughter home.
There was a knock and Venida bustled in. "You's got yoreself a caller, Miz Lucy."
Lucy rose, hoping it was Shoz. Maybe she had finally made some headway with him. Picking up her elbow-length black gloves and reticule, Lucy hurried downstairs.
Halfway down the stairs, she froze. Leon stood in the hall below, clad in a white dinner jacket, hands in his pockets. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled with warning.
"He's the one, isn't he?"
Slowly Lucy continued down the stairs. "This is a sur¬prise, Leon." Her heart was tumbling; she knew he was referring to Shoz.
"Is he?"
She tried to steer the conversation in another direction. "What are you doing here, Leon? I don't mean to be impolite, but I'm on my way out."
' T know.'' He grinned, the expression ugly. Leon seemed to be somewhat drunk. "Dinner aboard the Maine, right? Well, I've been invited too. Shall we ride together?"
It was the height of rudeness to refuse, but Lucy did. "I don't think so, Leon."
He grabbed her arm. "Why not? Afraid? Or expecting your lover?"
"That's enough," Lucy cried, trying to wrench away. He let her go. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"
"You are going to be sorry," he yelled, and then he marched away. The front door slammed behind him.
Lucy trembled. She was certain she had just made a serious mistake. She should have diffused the situation; instead she had made it worse.
Shoz knew he should stay away; he couldn't.
Their encounter earlier that day troubled him. He was torn, wanting to believe her, and fighting with himself. It was becoming an act of major willpower not to trust her, not to believe her. He had to battle himself, because he was afraid he was seriously falling for her, and he just couldn't see how their relationship could survive the misunderstandings of the past and their terribly different backgrounds.
He was careful to avoid being seen as he entered the small estate. A quick glance told him no one appeared to be home. It was just after nine. Who had she gone out with tonight? The thought infuriated him—she had no trouble amusing herself when he wasn't around. Jealousy washed over him. It was the height of irony; he was never faithful to any woman, and his lovers were always jealous of him, but since he had slept with Lucy in New York, there had been no one else. This time, she was the one with the scores of suitors; he was the one filled with doubt and jealousy. Maybe he should accept her stand that she was his wife. He would put an end to this kind of socializing, fast.
He banged on the front door loudly, no longer caring who heard or who saw him. An endless five minutes passed before Venida answered, frowning. "You's gonna wake the dead! Ain't you got no manners?"
"Where is your mistress?"
"She's out," Venida said bluntly. "An' if you think you's gonna wait, she ain't comin' back till way late!" "Where is she?"
The words were said so ominously, Venida blinked. "Why, she's gone to sup with Captain Sigsbee—aboard the Maine."
"Benito, what time is it, do you think?"
Lucy was standing on the side of the road, just a mile or so from the harbor. She was watching her coachman repair one of the carriage's wheels, which a terrible rut had wrenched from its axle. Benito paused to look at her. "I don't know, senorita. Maybe nine-thirty, maybe ten o'clock."
Lucy bit her lip. She was terribly late; she was supposed to have been met at the wharf by a crewman and dinghy at nine, to be rowed out to the Maine. Walking had been out of the question. She wore a low-cut green gown which revealed far more than it covered. Diamond-set emeralds sparkled at her throat, from her ears, and on her left wrist. The neighborhood they were in was a crumbling slum. To walk would have invited assault and robbery by thieves.
She sighed with resignation. "How much longer, Benito?"
"I think I've a
lmost fixed it, senorita."
Lucy was relieved. It was distinctly uncomfortable to be stranded for so long in this run-down section of Havana. Maybe she could still find someone to take her out to the Maine.
A boom sounded.
It came from the direction of the docks, and both Lucy and Benito jumped. "What was that?" Lucy asked. The words had barely left her mouth when a rapid series of explosions roared, one after the other, and the entire night above the sea burst into bright white light. Lucy jerked back, against the coach. She stared, wide-eyed. Another series of explosions ripped open the sky. "Por Dios!" Benito cried.
Shoz rode across Havana in a mad, reckless gallop. He spurred his lathered black on, not allowing him to falter. He almost ran down those pedestrians and vehicles in his way. When the horse went down, half a mile from the docks, Shoz leaped from his back, landed on his feet, went to his knees, and bounced back up again. And he ran.
He ran until he thought his lungs would burst. He ran with Lucy's image etched irrevocably in his mind. He ran cursing Leon, the fucking fool. He ran until his heart seemed about to falter and give out, the way his stallion's had.
He was a block from the harbor when she came into sight, sleek and white and full-masted, basking in the moonlight.
There was a tourist liner a few hundred yards away from the battleship, and the melancholy sound of a bugler playing taps on its deck drifted across the water. The air was hot, still, the harbor dead and silent except for the haunting strains of the bugle.
And then a boom sounded. The Maine jackknifed. An-other series of explosions ripped open the keel, thrusting it up to the bridge. Instantly the ship was engulfed in flames.
Although half a block away, Shoz felt the ground under his feet lurch, sending him sprawling onto his hands and knees. He screamed in protest. The battleship was a raging inferno, and sailors were dropping from its sides into the water like ticks from a flame, some of them ablaze. Shoz clawed the dirt, praying he would see Lucy leaping into the sea, unhurt, but he saw no such thing. He jumped to his feet and hurled himself the rest of the way to the docks.
