by Nan Ryan
“I don’t kill women,” he said as his smiling mouth descended to hers and his long lashes swept down over his gray eyes.
Sabella turned her head at the last possible moment, evading his kiss. His eyes blinked open in surprise and disappointment. The sound of her tinkling, teasing laughter mocked him. Mildly annoyed, Burt didn’t allow her to get away with her little prank.
His fingers still hooked around her belt loop, he drew her closer and she was the one to gasp in surprise when he swiftly, forcefully took her chin in his hand, turned her laughing face up to his, and arrogantly predicted, “You’re laughing a little too soon, sweetheart.”
“Am I?” she challenged, determined to appear totally calm.
But she winced softly when she felt an arm of steel go around her as he drew her closer still. He held her so close, Sabella could feel the length of his tall rock-hard body pressed intimately against hers, from knees to chest. His lips hesitating an inch from her own, he whispered, “Let’s see if you laugh after the kiss.”
Giving her no opportunity to pull away, Burt kissed this mysterious game player. And it wasn’t a friendly little peck. He kissed her. Really kissed her. His mouth took total possession and his tongue skilfully parted her lips and slipped between her teeth. He kissed her as though they were lovers, not strangers, brazenly seeking out and tasting all the sweetness of the soft, trembling mouth now opened wide to him.
When finally he ended the long, drugging caress, Sabella wasn’t laughing. Shaken more than she wanted to be by his alarmingly intimate and undeniably exciting kiss, Sabella began immediately pushing on Burt’s broad chest. He released her.
“Well, what’s this?” he said, as if surprised. “You’re not laughing.” A muscle twitched in his tanned cheek and his gray eyes flashed with mischief.
“Cherish the memory of that kiss,” she coolly advised, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt as though the kiss had been distasteful. “You’ll never get another.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Burt said, eyes twinkling.
“Well, I do. I must go.” Sabella retreated, pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel, quietly struggling to regain her equilibrium.
Intrigued, Burt followed. “Stay. I won’t hurt you.”
“I know that.” She continued walking.
“Do you? How can you be sure?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You’ll never get the chance.”
“Will I get the chance to know you?” She didn’t answer, just kept walking. “Who are you?” Burt said, frowning, and stopped.
Sabella paused, too. She turned slowly to face him and suddenly favored him with a full-lipped, teasing smile. “Who do you want me to be?”
“Mine,” Burt said, lifting a hand to fiddle with the collar of her shirt.
“Am I supposed to be flattered with that answer?” Sabella tilted her head to one side.
“Many women would be,” Burt informed her.
Sabella rolled her eyes heavenward, brushed his hand from her collar, and again marched toward her grazing chestnut stallion.
Laughing, Burt waited a second, then caught up with her in a few long strides, and took hold of her arm. “I saw you at the party last Saturday night.”
“I know,” she said. “I saw you seeing me.”
“Why did you leave? Why did you call me over, then go before I could reach you?”
“I didn’t call you over. I didn’t even speak to you.” She started to take a step forward.
“You asked me with your eyes.” Burt stopped her, pulled her back. “No, that’s not right, you didn’t ask.”
“No, I most certainly didn’t, I—”
“You insisted. Ordered. Commanded me to come to you.”
“I’m afraid you’ve had too much sun,” she said. “Maybe you’d better—”
“Stop it,” Burt warned, his gray eyes darkening to a deep smoky hue. “You summoned me at that party. You know it and I know it. The question is why?”
Sabella shrugged, but didn’t answer. Burt clasped her shoulders, turned her to fully face him. “All right, sweetheart, you’ve had your fun. Now tell me, what’s this all about? You didn’t just happen to ride way out here today. You’ve been riding every day on this rancho. My rancho. Why? What do you want from me?”
“What have you got?” Sabella replied teasingly, boldly meeting his narrowed gaze, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips.
“Everything you need. Everything you could ever wish for,” Burt informed her, his hands tightening their grip on her upper arms. Warmth again creeping into his gray eyes, he said softly, “Everything. Let me give it to you.”
“The sun is setting,” Sabella again said, “I must go.”
“Not until you’ve told me your name,” Burt said.
Holding her easily in his firm grip, Burt raised a hand, touched her full bottom lip with the tip of his lean forefinger, then let the finger trail down over her chin and come to rest directly in the delicate hollow of her throat. Sabella swallowed convulsively when that suntanned hand, warm and callused from hard work, casually slid inside her opened collar and flattened on her breastbone.
“Let me go,” she demanded.
“Tell me your name and I will.”
“Sabella,” she said, her breath short, her heart beating erratically. “Sabella Rios. Now release me.”
“Sabella,” Burt softly repeated the name, a wide smile on his handsome face. He withdrew his hand from the opened collar of her blouse, but immediately captured her slender fingers, drew them up to his chest. Pressing her small spread hand directly over his heart, he said her name again. “Sabella. Sabella, you already know who I am, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,”
“Say it for me,” he coaxed and Sabella could feel the heavy cadence of his heartbeat against her open palm. “Say my name. Call me Burt.”
“Burt,” she said, her lips parting, as she purposely pitched her voice low, making the tone softly sweet. “Burt, I really must go. And so must you.” Her dark eyes slowly lowered from his, focusing on his wide sculpted mouth. “After all, you are an engaged man.”
“When? When will I see you again?” he asked, as if she hadn’t spoken the last sentence.
“Tomorrow.” Her eyes lifted to meet his.
Burt shook his dark head. “I can’t wait that long.”
“Tonight then.” Sabella pulled her hand free, turned away, put a booted foot in the stirrup, and felt his strong hands immediately encircle her waist to lift her into the saddle. Settling herself astride the big chestnut, she smiled down at Burt and said, “Midnight. The old mission in the village.”
Nine
SABELLA LAUGHED AND KICKED the chestnut into motion the minute the words were out of her mouth. Burt had to step back quickly to get out of her way. She dug her booted heels into the stallion’s flanks again and shot up the gentle, wooded slope of the hill, knowing the tall, dark man she was leaving behind was watching her every move.
Since he was, she put on a show solely for his benefit. She urged the powerful chestnut steed into a froglike leap onto a narrow jutting ledge of rock suspended from the wooded hillside. Once the horse’s hooves had gained tentative purchase on the slippery shelf of sandstone, she reined him about in a tight semicircle and held him in place.
Seventy-five feet below, at the rippling stream where she had just left him, Burt Burnett stood nailed in his tracks. His booted feet apart, hands balled into tight fists at his sides, he stood looking up at Sabella, an anxious expression on his handsome face.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he shouted, “be careful!” Sabella called down, “Don’t worry about me, Burnett.” And knowing that he would worry and that she had the well-trained chestnut positioned exactly in the right spot, she yanked up firmly on the reins, making the startled stallion whinny and rear onto his hind legs. With the chestnut’s front hooves pawing at the air, Sabella kissed her hand and waved to Burt.
�
�Nooooo! Sabella!” Burt roared, an edge of panic in his booming baritone. “God Almighty, stop it!”
When she saw him break and start running up the hill toward her, Sabella brought the chestnut back down on all fours, turned him, and quickly traversed the narrow ledge around the hill. She reached the other side and started down into the valley with the sound of Burt shouting her name echoing in her ears.
That pleased her.
Sabella was laughing when she reached the valley floor and put the responsive beast into a full, all-out gallop. She had clearly won the first round with the unsuspecting Burton J. Burnett. But she would have little time to savor the small triumph.
The second round was coming up at midnight.
Sabella’s laughter quickly died away. Her night-dark eyes lost their brilliant, flashing light. A shiver skipped her spine at the vivid recollection of Burt Burnett’s hot, aggressive kiss. And it wasn’t a shiver of revulsion.
No use denying it, the man was not exactly repulsive. He was, in fact, strikingly handsome. He was awesomely tall—he had to be at least six-foot-two or three. His broad shoulders and massive chest were of hard, beautifully sculpted contours tapering perfectly into an incredibly trim waist. His hips were slim, but his lean buttocks and long muscular legs had that same fashioned-from-granite appearance as his deep chest and clefted back.
Self-deception had never been one of Sabella Rios’s faults. She wouldn’t deceive herself now. Burt Burnett was a good-looking man of impressive stature with an arrestingly handsome face. His physical attributes were many. Rich, raven-black hair, worn a shade too long, curled appealingly over his starched blue shirt collar. A smooth olive complexion was further darkened by the constant California sunshine. Heavily lashed gray eyes could change dramatically from pale silver to smokey charcoal. A straight, well-shaped nose gave him a proud, noble appearance. And a full sensuous mouth knew all too well how to make a woman respond to his fiery kiss.
Burt Burnett was not only undeniably handsome, he was a compelling, magnetic man who possessed generous helpings of charm, wit, and a passion for living.
Sabella’s delicate jaw hardened and her cold eyes grew colder still.
That great zest for living which Burt Burnett and his monied friends shared wasn’t too remarkable considering the manner in which they lived. It was quite easy, she imagined, for the wealthy, landed gentry to find their existence endlessly exciting when everything there was to be had on this earth was theirs. Who wouldn’t be gay and charming and happy with a life of such splendid ease?
Her brows now knitted together in a deep frown, Sabella thought of the woman so dear to her whose zest for life and youthful good looks had faded much too soon. How well she remembered the constantly tired, sad-eyed woman who scrubbed endless floors and cooked countless meals and ironed mountains of clothes.
The floors she had scrubbed, the meals she had cooked, the clothes she had ironed were for someone else’s family, not her own. The thin, uncomplaining woman labored in other people’s homes for the few coins she could earn for her crippled, despondent husband and totally dependent child.
The once pretty woman grew old before her time. Her pale flawless skin wrinkled too quickly from the harsh Arizona sun. Her dark, glossy hair lost its luster and turned prematurely gray. Her lithe body lost its supple softness and she became thin and brittle looking as if her very lifeblood had dried up, leaving her withered and old and beaten.
And finally dead. As dead as her lost dreams.
She too could have stayed young, healthy, and beautiful had she been allowed to lead the kind of life Burt Burnett and his friends casually took for granted.
The kind of life she should have had.
The kind of life that was in fact her birthright.
Sabella blinked away the tears that were starting to sting her eyes. She squared her shoulders and reaffirmed her resolve. She couldn’t change the past. But she could fix the future.
And she would.
Burt’s evening with Gena was agonizingly long.
While she spoke excitedly of the flurry of activity surrounding their upcoming December wedding, her fidgety fiancé kept casting covert glances at the ornate French clock atop the marble mantel. Anxiously he counted the minutes until he would again be with the mysterious blond beauty who hadn’t been out of his thoughts since the minute he had looked up to see her standing across the de Temple ballroom.
“Well … ?” said Gena, looking at him as if she were waiting for an answer. “Will you?”
Burt had no idea what she’d asked. “I’m sorry, dear. What was that?”
Gena sighed and shook her head. “Really, Burt, sometimes I think you don’t pay one bit of attention to anything I say.”
“Ah, now that’s not true. Come on.” Burt gave her his best Sunday smile and gently tugged on a dark springy curl lying on her pale cheek. “Give me another chance. Just repeat the last—”
“I said, ‘Do you think I look best in beige or pale lavender?’ You know, for my traveling suit … the suit I’ll be wearing to the depot spur after the wedding to begin our honeymoon trip.”
“Yes,” Burt said, smiling, nodding. “By all means.”
Gena’s green eyes flashed with annoyance and she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “That’s no answer. You’re not listening!”
Caught, Burt said, “I’m sorry, truly I am. I’m just awfully tired. I had a long, tough day at the ranch.” He rubbed an eye, and added, “In fact … would you think me unforgivably rude if I said good night and left a little early?”
“For heaven sake, it’s only a few minutes past eleven.” Gena was incensed. “It’s not like you to be so tired. Especially on Saturday night.”
Burt grinned and pointed an accusing finger at her. “You weren’t listening. I repeat, I had a really hard day.”
“I was too listening!” Gena exclaimed. Then finally she smiled. “All right, all right. Go on home. And take it easy tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Burt was quick to agree. “I will. What I need is an entire day of rest.”
“Be here at seven tomorrow evening,” Gena reminded him, toying with his tie. “The dinner party for Judge Fite, remember? Some of Father’s dearest friends will be here. Tom and Vivian Gentry, the Roberts, Don Miguel, Andres Amaro—”
“I’ll be here,” Burt interrupted, springing to his feet, forgetting that he was supposed to be tired.
When they said good night at the door, Gena’s arms went up around Burt’s neck. She said, “Sleep well, my love. And dream of me.”
Burt grinned. “Who else?”
Gena smiled as she watched him cross the stone terrace, skip down the steps, and hop into his carriage.
As soon as the carriage rolled away, Gena’s smile became a frown. Her tone unpleasant, she immediately summoned a servant. “Julio! Julio, where are you? Get in here this minute!”
The aging little Mexican came at once. “Sí, Señorita Gena. You need something before I go to bed?”
“Yes.” Hands on her hips, green eyes narrowed, she ordered, “Get me Cisco and Santo!” Julio’s gray eyebrows rose in puzzlement and he stared speechlessly at his mistress. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she snapped.
Backing away, Julio raised his open palms, shrugged his stooped shoulders, and said, “Señorita Gena, is Saturday night. They are not here. Probably in town, no?”
Gena exploded with anger, causing the old servant to cringe. “Well, go get them! I want Cisco and Santo! Here! Now!”
Burt raced into the village.
He drove straight to the Mission Inn, rolled to a stop before the sprawling cliffside hotel, whose architectural design was a strange but eye-pleasing mixture of Spanish Gothic and Italian Renaissance. Burt bounded out of the carriage. Quickly, he withdrew a couple of coins from his pocket and handed them to a waiting attendant. When asked, he told the boy no, he wouldn’t be needing the carriage again tonight.
The boy looked puzzled when, i
nstead of going into the inn, Burt turned and hurried away. Smiling, Burt rushed eagerly toward the Mission San Juan Capistrano a short block away. A spring to his step, he optimistically considered the possibility that later tonight when he retired to that giant mahogany bed in the suite maintained by the Burnett family at the Mission Inn, he might not be in it alone.
A golden-skinned beauty with pale blond hair might well be there with him.
Burt reached the old mission. It stood silent and placid in the moonlight, a magical place of great beauty and peace. Burt made his way through the fragrant flower-filled gardens and around the fountain-fed ponds. He passed the tumbledown ruins of the old stone church, destroyed in an earthquake long before he was born. He skirted the boundaries of the Indian cemetery where the slaves who built the mission now rested. He stopped before the gleaming white chapel.
Burt swung open the heavy, carved door and ducked in out of the moonlight. Inside the magnificent structure, the oldest mission in all of California, Burt waited impatiently for the bewitching beauty he prayed would show up.
Minutes dragged by.
Burt paced nervously, his hands in his pockets, his teeth grinding together so forcefully his jaws ached. She would come, he told himself. She would come, but she’d make him wait until the last possible minute. She’d know he had arrived early and she’d torture him by staying away until the stroke of midnight.
Or later.
Burt stopped pacing. He took off his tailored, navy linen suit jacket and tossed it over a wooden pew. He loosened his wine silk tie, unbuttoned his shirt collar. He shoved his hands back down into his pants pockets and rattled the loose coins he carried.
He began pacing again, jingling the silver coins.
He took his hands out of his pockets and began snapping his fingers. He prowled restlessly, snapping his fingers and telling himself she would come. She’d be there any minute.
Quickly tiring of the finger snapping, he switched to popping his knuckles. He paced and popped, popped and paced. Muttering to himself, he pulled forcefully on each long finger in turn until the knuckle loudly popped. Then he started over again.
