by Kay Hooper
The thin silk separating his flesh from hers provided a tingling friction, and she half-closed her eyes in pleasure. “No,” she murmured. “Nothing. No chemise…no petticoats…nothing at all.”
The promise of her words scorched his already inflamed senses, and he clamped his teeth together in an effort to maintain some tenuous control. “Jesus, don’t do this to me,” he got out in a thick, strangled voice. “Not here, not now. You’re tearing me apart, sweet—“He broke off with a groan as her lower body shifted against him in an unconscious, seeking movement. He sought her lips again, blindly guiding them both the few steps to the velvet-covered settee.
Victoria was barely aware that she was half-lying against the corner of the settee while he kneeled on the pale Persian rug at her feet; she was too conscious of his fingers behind her, coping with the buttons of her gown, his mouth moving hotly over her breasts. Her fingers locked in his thick hair as he bent over her, her head fell back and she bit her lip, trying to hold back sounds struggling to escape wildly.
“I want to look at you,” he muttered thickly, and his hands moved from behind her to tug the loosened neckline of her gown down to uncover her breasts. Victoria opened her eyes to watch his face, moved almost unbearably by the wonder in his darkened green eyes, by his intense expression of pleasure. “So lovely. God, Victoria!”
She couldn’t stop the moan from escaping when his hands surrounded her swollen breasts and his thumbs teased the jutting peaks until they were painfully tight and hard. He watched her response to his touch, intent and absorbed as pink flesh became dusky, until the distended nipples begged for a more intimate caress. And when his mouth closed over one of those hard buds, he felt as well as heard her moan again, and the soft, driven sound spurred his own hunger.
Christ, she was beautiful, perfectly beautiful. Her lovely breasts just fit his hands, he could span her tiny waist, and the gentle flare of her hips was so damned seductive. He could feel the slender shape of her leg as he slid his hand down, catching the flounced hem of her skirt and drawing it slowly upward. In some distant part of his mind he was aware of where they were, aware that privacy in this small room was a risky thing, despite the locked door. He didn’t care. He had to see her, touch her, had to satisfy this terrible craving to learn all there was to know about her.
His hand touched her silky leg beneath the skirt, and he felt her tense in an instinctive response, but she made no protest at all this time. He felt the garter just above her knee, holding her stocking in place, and his hand slid between her thighs there, very gently parting her legs. Her knee touched his knotted belly as she obeyed the insistent pressure, and he caught his breath even as she did.
He concentrated on her breasts, his tongue rasping, sucking strongly while his hand remained still on her inner thigh, until he felt the tension ease, felt her legs widen for him. He could barely breathe at all now, every muscle aching, and the heat in his body a raging fire.
“Falcon, it hurts….” Her voice almost wasn’t there.
“I know, sweet,” he murmured thickly, nuzzling his face between her flushed breasts briefly and then lifting his head, watching his hand disappear beneath the black skirt. “I’m hurting too.” Her inner thigh was warm silk, and, as promised, there were no barriers to block his searching, caressing touch.
Victoria cried out softly when his fingers touched the heavy ache she had been more and more conscious of, shock rippling through her at the mind-numbing pleasure of that starkly intimate contact.
Falcon nearly lost his tenuous control then, but held on to it somehow, absorbed in learning her secrets, fascinated by her awakened face. The soft curls at the base of her belly were hidden from his eyes, but not his hand, and he explored gently until he found the slick heat at the core of her womanhood. He caught a second soft cry with his mouth, kissing her deeply while his finger stroked.
Dear God, he wanted her! But he was aware of their surroundings, and, suddenly, fiercely, he wanted nothing to mar their first joining. He wouldn’t take her with her dress half-off, on an uncomfortable settee or hard floor in a tiny, locked room. He wanted to undress her slowly, lingeringly, kiss every inch of her golden body while she lay on the bed they would share. He wanted to take her hair down and run his fingers through the silky strands, make love to her, watch her sleep, kiss her awake.
Still kissing her deeply, hungrily, he eased his hand away and allowed her skirt to fall, and then pulled the neckline of her gown back up over her breasts. He rose to his feet, aching, and gently pulled her up and turned her around, fastening the bodice with an absolute concentration on the task.
“Falcon?” She was bewildered, hovering on the edge of hurt.
He turned her back to face him, framing her face in his hands as he gazed through the veil into darkened green eyes. In a voice that was low and rough and tender, he said, “I’m going to make love to you, sweet.”
“Then—?”
“Not here.” He kissed her gently. “We’re going out there to that damned benefit. We’ll have dinner and dance. And then we’re going upstairs to your room, to your bed.”
She wanted to laugh, cry, throw her arms around him. She didn’t want to eat or dance. “Why not now?” she asked shamelessly.
His smile was crooked. “I need to calm down a little first, sweet.”
“You look calm,” she offered, dissatisfied.
He chuckled softly and tucked her hand in his arm, leading her to the door. He paused there, his free hand on the lock, looking down at her with a sudden glitter in his eyes. “My sweet, I’m about as calm as a tribe of Apaches on the warpath. If we went upstairs now, I’d tear your clothes off like an animal.”
She caught her breath, and his rough voice gentled.
“That isn’t what I want. I want to make love to you, all night. I want to be gentle, and I—“He swallowed. “Give me a little time, all right?”
“All right,” she whispered. And when he unlocked the door and opened it, she walked calmly from the small room, with the secret knowledge of what was to come hidden behind her serene smile and veiled eyes.
Chapter 6
Victoria had never felt so vividly alive, so vibrantly aware of everything around her. The music was delightful, the food superb, the colorful crowd fascinating. Falcon never left her side, and when the dancing began, his stony refusals to give her up to another partner sent many a shaken gentleman sliding away in the hopes of becoming invisible to those dangerous eyes.
And when they discovered Leon and Mary Hamilton in a secluded corner during one of the pauses between dances, Falcon was told roundly by the forthright lady that he was hardly being discreet.
“Do you know we heard a man warn his friend not to get near ‘the lady in black’ because he was apt to be murdered by her escort? You’re about as subtle as a cobra, Falcon!”
Unmoved, he said, “I’m not trying to be subtle.”
“Yes,” Leon murmured, “we rather gathered that.”
Victoria could feel herself flushing a little, and looked hastily around the huge room to avoid amused eyes. But she found another pair of eyes in the crowd—eyes fixed intently on her face and holding a peculiar expression she couldn’t read. “Who is that man?” she murmured curiously.
Falcon followed her gaze, and his expression hardened; it was easy to see who was staring at Victoria. He waited until those cool, gray eyes met his own, and sent a silent warning. He saw a flicker of a smile that might have been acknowledgment of the warning, and then the other man turned away.
“Falcon?” She was looking at him, puzzled.
He returned his gaze to her and forced taut muscles to relax. “You may have heard of him; he was a blockade-runner during the war. Marcus Tyrone.”
“I had to—run an errand for Captain Tyrone, Tory. But the Raven sails soon, and I have to get back.” Jesse had said that to her, just before riding away from Regret, and to his death.
Victoria turned her head to swiftly search the cr
owd, looking for that tall man. “Captain Tyrone,” she murmured. Jesse’s captain. Jesse’s friend. She found that tall figure and committed him to memory.
“He made a fortune,” Mary was saying. “He has half a dozen ships now, including that little one he used to run the blockade. What was it called?”
“The Raven,” her husband supplied casually.
“That’s it. Rumor has it that he has a heart of stone and the morals of a tomcat—“
Mildly, Leon said, “He probably hasn’t found the right woman, that’s all. And there is such a thing as a reformed rake.”
“You should know,” his wife said softly with a sidelong glance at her husband.
“I do know,” he said promptly. “I found the right woman.”
Mary grinned at Victoria. “He’s so disarming.”
Victoria smiled in return, hoping she didn’t look as distracted as she felt. Tyrone. The last link to her childhood, because he had known Jesse. She wanted to meet him, talk to him.
“Falcon, why don’t we go have a cigar and leave the ladies to rest their delicate feet?”
Looking at Leon’s bland expression, the protest Falcon had been about to make died in his throat. He knew that expression. But he felt unsettled, disturbed by the way Victoria’s gaze had searched the ballroom and fixed on Tyrone. She was distracted, preoccupied, and he felt a flare of primitive emotion because something had taken her attention from himself.
“Falcon?” Impatient now.
He carried Victoria’s hand to his lips. “Excuse me for a few moments, sweet?”
She met his gaze, her own softening, and a smile curved her lips. For him. All for him now. “Of course.”
“Well, well,” Mary said as the two men moved away through the crowd. “You certainly have managed to tether that bird.”
Victoria blinked and felt herself flush. “He has very nice manners,” she managed a bit weakly.
Mary’s eyes were bright with enjoyment. “Manners? I’ve known Falcon for years now, and I can tell you that, like his namesake, he’s a hunter. He was hunting the other night, when you two came to our party, but he isn’t hunting now.” Her expression was thoughtful. “And I have a feeling he won’t go hunting again.”
A little shaken, Victoria said, “You must be mistaken. He told me himself that there was no place in his life for a woman.”
“Did he, now? That’s interesting.” Mary smiled. “Take it from one who caught another hunter a few years back—pay attention to what a man does. He hasn’t let another man near you all evening, and has hardly taken his eyes off you. And I have never, in all these years, heard Falcon use an endearment or seen him kiss a woman’s hand.”
Victoria fought a surge of hope, knowing it would only hurt more if she allowed it and Mary was wrong. She managed a smile. “We’ll see, won’t we? Will you excuse me, Mary? There’s someone I need to talk to.”
“Certainly.” Mary chuckled. “And if that someone happens to be male, better you talk to him before Falcon comes back!”
—
“You’re making a habit of dragging me away from Victoria, and I don’t like it,” Falcon told his boss impatiently.
“I never would have guessed.”
“For Christ’s sake, Leon!”
With a chuckle, Leon said, “All right, all right. Marry the girl before you go mad over her, will you? I need your mind intact—at least until we find that gold.”
They were standing across the hall from the ballroom, where a smoking lounge was deserted except for themselves. The mocking words caught Falcon off guard, and his face closed down immediately. “Did you call me in here for a reason?”
“It wasn’t to offer paternal advice,” Leon murmured. “Since I’m only ten years older than you—“
“Leon.”
He cleared his throat. “Right. The list will be here within a day or two.”
“Didn’t you say that last time?”
“This time it happens to be true. We had to change couriers. The first silly bastard managed to fall off his horse and break a leg somewhere in Virginia. Andrew’s got it now.”
“I’ll be waiting for him, then.” Falcon felt restless, unsettled. Two days, and then he’d have to go wherever the list led him. Victoria…After tonight, she’d be out of his mind—she’d have to be out of his mind. His chest ached, and he didn’t know why. “I’ll be waiting,” he repeated.
“Good,” Leon said politely.
“Anything else?”
Silently, Leon reflected that, if any of his other men were to use that tone with him, he would have put them in their place instantly. But Falcon wasn’t one of his other men. Leon could remember the beginning, during the war, when he had met Falcon Delaney. Agents had been sent to specific parts of the South—Confederate states, or areas—to conduct the necessarily quiet search for leads that had continued after the war. But Texas, notoriously hostile to government interference, was a part of the Confederacy, and not entirely convinced that the war was over. Treasury decided an open investigation would be both politically and practically impossible. So, it was determined to send a lone agent into Texas.
After consideration, it was also determined that the lone agent should become a Texas Ranger, allowing both mobility and a certain amount of authority. If necessary, he would remain a Ranger for years, and accept whatever assignments were given him as a Ranger. He also had to search for the gold. To assume the role of Ranger, Treasury needed a man very familiar with the Southwest and its inherent dangers. A man who was independent, coolly efficient, and tough enough to get the job done. They also needed a Texan; however, no such agent existed. So they got the next best thing.
A Delaney.
Leon, who had recommended Falcon, had not regretted it. He had seen something in that younger Union officer, something cool and tough and implacable. He had seen it since then, often. And he had respected it. It would have been crazy not to. There were some who said “those Delaney men” were Indian-wild and snake-mean, but few in Arizona said it out loud, and never when a Delaney man was within hearing.
“Anything else?” Falcon asked impatiently once more.
Leon wondered if that gently born lady in the ballroom was strong enough to handle a Delaney man. He hoped so. For both their sakes. “No. No, there’s nothing else.”
—
“Mr. Tyrone?” She looked up into a hard face, in which cool eyes regarded her at first with puzzlement and then surprise.
“Ma’am?” He inclined his head courteously. His voice was deep and calm.
A little hesitantly, she said, “My name is Victoria Fontaine, Mr. Tyrone. I believe—I think you knew my brother?”
His brows drew together, but before he could speak, a bellman appeared at Victoria’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Fontaine? There’s a wire for you, ma’am. The desk clerk thought you should have it right away.”
Victoria accepted the telegraph message and then glanced back at Tyrone with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry; perhaps we could talk later? Excuse me.”
He inclined his head again, and, frowning, watched her move back through the crowd to the door.
—
Falcon was too far away to hear what was said, but he saw Victoria accept something from a bellman, then smile at Tyrone and move away. He stood for a moment, staring across the room, bothered by the look on the other man’s face. What was it? Surprise? Recognition? And why had Victoria apparently sought out the former blockade-runner?
Frowning himself, Falcon went after her. She wasn’t in sight when he reached the hallway, and he looked into two rooms before finding her alone in the third, a small salon. She was holding a telegram in her hand, staring across the room at nothing, and her face was tight with worry.
“Victoria?” He forgot about Tyrone. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He came into the room and crossed to stand before her. “Bad news?” She didn’t seem to hear him, and he reached out to take the wire from her.
She started, then gasped. “No! Falcon—“But it was too late.
He stood staring down at the telegram, his face draining of color as though some awful wound was stealing his life’s blood away. And when he looked at her, his eyes were as hard and bright as emeralds. “Mrs. Morgan Fontaine.” His voice was soft, hardly more than a breath of sound, and toneless. “Your—husband—seems to be missing, Mrs. Fontaine. The ranch foreman appears to be concerned.”
Victoria had never felt so cold. “It isn’t what you think,” she whispered. Oh, God, why didn’t I tell him!
He laughed, the bare sound of something terrible. “Isn’t it? How many other men have you bewitched with your innocent eyes and gentle ways, Victoria? How many other poor bastards have helped you betray your husband?” The final word was gritted out, raw and hard.
“You’re wrong.” She could barely speak through the tight pain in her throat. “I can explain.”
He reached out suddenly and jerked the veil away, staring into her eyes. “Christ, it’s still there,” he muttered in disbelief. “Even knowing you’re a liar, a cheat, it’s still there.”
“Falcon—“
“The body of a siren, the face and eyes of an angel. And the heart of a whore!”
She flinched. “Please! You have to listen!”
“To more lies? How you must have laughed, sweet.” The endearment was nothing of the kind now; it was harsh, mocking. “Just one more stupid son of a bitch crawling to you on his knees, hungering after you like a besotted boy. Do you enjoy that, Victoria, enjoy thinking of that power? Does it amuse you to twist us into knots until you’ve bloody well emasculated us? Gelded us, like poor mindless beasts?”
Falcon wasn’t searching for the hurtful words; they broke out of him like jagged knives, tearing him even as they ripped at her. He couldn’t stop them. Her face was white, masklike in its utter stillness, her eyes dark pools that were bottomless and opaque. She flinched from every word.
His gaze raked her black gown, and he laughed. “Showing your true colors tonight, weren’t you, sweet? I should have realized you were too eager to be virginal, too goddamned responsive to be innocent. But you blinded me with your lying, cheating, innocent eyes. Damn you. Damn you to hell.”
