by Nan Ryan
“To meet Burt?”
Cisco nodded. “Burnett, on that big paint he rides, was waiting for her inside the grape arbor on the southern outskirts of town. Together they rode off toward the southeast, supposing that they had not been seen.”
“But you were there. You followed them.”
“Sí. All the way across the valley and on up into the foothills of the Chocolate Mountains. When finally they stopped, dismounted, and ground hobbled their mounts, I wound my way up to a rocky ridge directly above the small mesa where they were. You sure you want me to go on with this?”
“Absolutely. I have to know.”
Cisco could hardly contain his excitement. He was eager to tell what he had seen. Actually, he was going to tell more than he’d seen. He had no intention of admitting the couple hadn’t made love. Damn them both! He had watched their every move for hours through the field glasses and nothing had happened other than some fierce kissing and thrashing about. Apparently Burnett wasn’t much of a lover. He sure hadn’t managed to get in the blonde’s leather britches.
“The minute they laid down on the grass,” he began softly, “they were kissing as if starved for each other.” Gena let out a little sob of despair. “Never have I seen a pair so hot for each other. In seconds they had torn off their clothes and were naked right out there in the open. Then Burnett was positioning himself between the willing blonde’s long tanned legs and they were going at it. The woman cried out in climax almost immediately.”
Her pale, lovely face screwed up into a unhappy frown, Gena said, “Did you leave then? Or did you wait while they got dressed and—”
“Ah, Señorita Gena, they didn’t get dressed. They were just getting started.”
“You mean they … they … more than once?”
“Mucho más. Many, many times.” Cisco set his empty wineglass aside and began to count on his fingers. “First with her stretched out on her back beneath him. Then, her seated astride him as he lay on his back. That’s twice. Next they lay down on their sides facing in the same direction and he took her from behind.”
“Dear God in Heaven!” Gena wailed.
“That is three times, no? Then, let me se … oh, now I remember, Burnett stood flat footed, lifted the blond beauty off the ground, wrapped those long golden-tan legs around his waist and eased her down and impaled her. She seemed to like that very much, she moaned and called his name again and again. How many times is that? Four. Next he laid the woman down on the grass, and she was so exhausted, she could not move, could not even lift her arms. So Burnett made love to her with his hands and with his mouth. He kissed her while she sighed and I watched as his face moved down her body and went between her—”
“Hush!” Gena shouted, jumping to her feet. “Don’t say another word! Not one more word!” She was trembling violently with emotion, her hands curled into fists at her sides, tears spilling from her eyes.
Cisco quickly rose. He had never seen Gena de Temple so upset before. Which was just as he had planned. She was, at this minute, very vulnerable. Badly in need of comfort and affection. He quickly put his arms around her and pulled her to him, hoping she was hurt enough to be persuaded to retaliate against Burt, to turn the tables and give Burnett a dose of his own medicine. Tit for tat.
Over her head, he glanced at the massive mirror mounted above the fireplace. Reflected there he saw the two of them with a huge, comfortable-looking bed directly behind them. Visions of making love to Burnett’s fiancée in that bed on this balmy night filled his head.
“Oh, Cisco,” Gena sobbed, clinging to him, burying her face on his chest, “what shall I do? I can’t stand to lose Burt. I can’t. How can I keep him? I don’t know, I don’t. Tell me what to do!”
Cisco wanted to cry out, “Come to bed with me this minute, mi cara! Do this and you will never think of the gringo again.”
He said nothing.
“But wait … wait … I do know!”
“Gena’s dark head suddenly shot up and she forcefully pulled free of the startled Cisco’s embrace. Pointing impatiently toward the open doors in a gesture that clearly meant he was to leave her at once, a bright light came into her tearing eyes and she said aloud, “I know exactly what to do!”
Fifteen
“THIS IS GOOD-BYE. I have decided not to see you again.”
“Jesus, sweetheart, you don’t mean that! I know you don’t.”
“But I do.” Leather creaked as Sabella turned slowly in the saddle, looking directly at Burt. “This has to end and we both know it.”
“No.” Burt shook his head fiercely. “No. I won’t let you go”
It was nearing eleven p.m. The pair had spent the warm, lazy Sunday afternoon and evening together in the rugged foothills of the Chocolates. After the long ride back, they were now nearing the village, approaching the far eastern outskirts of San Juan Capistrano.
Sabella abruptly pulled up on her mount when they reached an elevated spit of land above the valley floor and Capistrano’s twinkling lights.
It was then and there she announced that she was ending their relationship. Burt, reining in his chuffing paint beside her, was caught completely by surprise.
Again he said, “Sabella, you can’t leave me. I refuse to give you up.”
“You have no choice,” Sabella stated flatly. “The decision is mine to make.”
Burt swung lithely down from Sam’s back and tossed the reins to the ground. With a swiftness that startled her, he lifted Sabella out of the saddle, set her on her feet, and pressed her up against her big chestnut stallion.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” he said, “it is your decision.” He flashed that devastating Burnett grin then and added, “But I can help you make it. And I will.”
He drew her hands up, placing her palms flat against his chest. Sabella felt the heat of his body, the heavy beating of his heart. His gray eyes gleaming in the starlight, Burt told her honestly, “If I knew that you would never again touch me this way—” the smile left his face and his silver gray eyes became hooded “—my heart would stop its beating.”
Sabella was delighted by his touching confession. She could hardly hide her glee. Her timing had been perfect. Had she threatened one day sooner to never see him again, he might have let her go without a backward look. But he wouldn’t now. She was sure of it.
He would never let her go.
She would be the one to let him go. And she would, but not now.
For a long moment Sabella said nothing, just looked into his gleaming gray eyes. Then: “That’s very sweet. Very flattering, but I really doubt that—”
“Shhhh,” Burt warned and gently lowered her hands from his chest. Quickly he flipped open two buttons of her white shirt, slid long, lean fingers inside, and placed his hand on the undercurve of her left breast. Sabella softly winced, struggled a little, then stilled as he gently stroked her and said in a low, level voice, “Tell me you never want me to touch you this way again.” He lifted and pressed her bare breast slightly upward, so that his palm could more fully feel her heart rhythmically beating.
“I can’t,” she lied softly, convincingly, carefully concealing her true feelings.
If he only knew. But he must not know. Not now.
Inhaling deeply, purposely causing her soft full breast to swell against his caressing hand, she said again, “I can’t, Burt. I admit it. I don’t think I could stand it if you never touched me again.”
“Ah, baby, I know, I know,” he said and quickly kissed her, his mouth hot and eager. His lips sliding over her cheek to her ear, he whispered coaxingly, “Come with me to the Mission Inn. We’ll slip up the back way. Nobody will know.” He kissed the pulse point below her ear. “On the top floor there’s a room facing the ocean. In that room there’s a great big old bed with cool silky sheets and—”
“No,” she softly interrupted, shaking her head. “Not yet.”
Burt lifted his head. Agonized, he said, “When, sweetheart?”
“Not,” she told him, her arms going around his trim waist, “until you have broken your engagement to Gena de Temple.”
Sixteen
GENA DE TEMPLE HUMMED as she sat in the huge, gold-veined, peach-marble bathtub which was filled to the brim with thick, foamy bubbles. Her personal maid, Petra, was in the next room, laying out the clothes her mistress had chosen for the first ensemble of the day. There would, Petra knew, be several changes of clothing before the day ended.
Petra was still in a state of shock that the late rising Gena was out of bed before nine on this warm Monday morning. It wasn’t like her. Gena rarely woke before ten and even then she stayed at least another hour or two in her four-poster, lolling lazily and enjoying a leisurely breakfast from a bed tray.
“Petra!” Gena called as she carelessly tossed the bar of perfumed soap and soggy washcloth into the depths of the tub. “Come quickly. I’m finished. I’m ready to get out now.”
Petra walked into the large bathroom as Gena rose to her feet in the massive marble tub. Watery bubbles sliding down her pale slender body, Gena allowed the big Mexican woman to swirl a thirsty white towel around her and lift her out of the tub.
As if Gena were still a small child, Petra stood the naked, dripping Gena on a peach velvet rug beside the tub. A neat stack of white towels was at the ready. Petra used a half dozen. Carefully, meticulously, she dried Gena until not one bead of moisture remained on her bare body. Gena stood dutifully while the luxuriant towels blotted and rubbed and patted at her clean, tingling flesh.
Gena didn’t think of herself as spoiled. She was of the uppercrust, a true patrician. A gentlewoman who naturally had her own personal maid. So why on earth would she want to tackle the tedious task of drying herself after her baths when Petra would do it for her, had done it for her since the day she was born?
Naked, Gena strolled into her big sunny bedroom with Petra trailing closely behind. Here, again, Gena saw no reason to expend precious energy on getting dressed. After all, she was just out of her bath, she wanted to stay fresh and cool. Dressing could be hard, hot work; she might actually perspire with the struggle of it.
Petra dressed her.
Every article of clothing that went on Gena’s body was put there by Petra’s able hands. The process took a good twenty minutes, beginning with sheer silk stockings and ending with a saucy straw hat. The finished package was quite delectable.
Pleased, Gena admired herself in the free-standing mirror. She looked very young and innocent, which was exactly her intent. The dress she had chosen had never been worn. Bought impulsively on a shopping foray last spring in San Francisco, she had decided, the minute it had been unpacked, that it didn’t suit her image.
The frock was of yellow organza and the skirts were too full and too frilly. The tight bodice buttoned all the way up to a high round collar that almost choked her. The wide silk sash going around her small waist reminded her of the dresses she had worn as a child.
The girlish dress was perfect for today.
Smiling at herself in the mirror, Gena said, “Has the brougham been brought around? I’m ready to leave.” She pinched her pale cheeks.
Petra nodded. “Gilberto has been waiting down front for the past half hour.”
“Ask Julio to go down and tell Gilberto he won’t be driving me this morning. Get me Hank Brody.”
“But, why?” Petra frowned. “Gilberto always drives you.”
Gena whirled to face the puzzled maid. “Not when I go out to Lindo Vista. You know very well that Mr. Burnett doesn’t like Latins on his property.”
Petra rolled her dark eyes, but hurried to do Gena’s bidding. Minutes later the stocky Mexican woman stood on the front steps waving as the shiny black brougham rolled down the graveled drive.
Inside the roomy covered carriage, Gena relaxed against the lushly padded, wine-velvet upholstery. The matching side curtains were tightly shut against the harsh morning sunlight. On the seat beside her lay a yellow silk parasol to be unfurled and held over her head when she reached her destination.
It was Monday, the seventh day of June.
The day after Cisco had told her of watching Burt make love to another woman. Earlier this morning, a wire from Santo in Tucson had arrived. He had learned only that the young woman, Sabella Rios, was twenty-five and had lived in Tucson all her life. Her parents, Tito and Teresa Rios, were both deceased. She had lived, since their deaths, with Victor and Carmelita Rivera on their small ranch. Victor Rivera had died several years ago, and since that time, the young woman, Sabella, had supported herself and Rivera’s widow by doing a man’s work. She could ride, rope, brand, and herd cows with best of the vaqueros and cowhands.
Why had she come to Capistrano? Folks in Tucson said it was the matter of an inheritance.
Gena didn’t believe it. Not for one second. Armed with the sparse information Santo had supplied, Gena knew it was time to call on Mr. Burnett.
The old one.
Not the young one.
It was nearing noon when the black brougham approached the tall ranch gates of Lindo Vista. The guard on the gate recognized the gleaming coach. He smiled warmly and swept off his hat when Gena pulled back the side curtain a few inches and greeted him.
“Miss Gena, I’m afraid you’ve come all the way out here on a wild goose chase,” said the keen-eyed sharpshooter. “Burt ain’t here. Him and some of the boys’ll be gone all day. They’re far out at the line shacks doing some repair work.”
“Well, it isn’t Burt I came to see, Calvin,” Gena said. “It’s been a while since I visited Mr. Raleigh. I thought he might be glad to see me.”
“Why he sure will. He’ll be tickled pink, that’s for sure.” He signaled the brougham’s driver through. “Go right on in. Nice to see you, Miss Gena.”
Gena had known, before coming, that Burt would not be at home. Which is why she had chosen to come.
Raleigh Burnett’s pale blue eyes lighted with surprised pleasure when he looked up to see the pretty dark-haired woman in the frothy yellow dress step into the book-filled library.
Gena de Temple was, and always had been, the apple of his eye. He had, along with Senator de Temple, purposely seen to it that Burt and Gena were thrown together often.
Cleverly, quietly, through the years, he had manipulated his handsome son and the senator’s pretty daughter, putting the idea of marriage into their heads, making them think it was their own. Sensing a few years back that the two had become intimate, he was not shocked, he was overjoyed. But he had, on more than one occasion, subtly reminded Burton that intimacy with a young lady of Gena’s class carried with it responsibility, duty, commitment.
Raleigh Burnett had always had his heart set on having Gena de Temple for a daughter-in-law. There was no one else acceptable for his only son. No other young woman he wanted giving birth to his grandchildren.
“Gena! My dear child,” he said cheerily, lifting gnarled, shaky hands, “what a pleasant surprise!”
Smiling at the frail, white-haired man, Gena swept across the room in a swirl of frothy yellow skirts and flashing lacy petticoats. When she reached the wheeled chair where the old gentleman sat, she grabbed both chair arms, bent, and gave his withered cheek a kiss. She laughed then, gaily, warmly, and danced around to stand directly behind the chair. She threw her arms down around his neck and placed her spread hands on his thin chest. Kissing the top of his snow-white head, she said, “How would you like to have lunch with me? Just the two of us. All alone.”
Pleased, thrilled she had come to visit, he clutched at the soft hands resting on his chest and said, “I can think of nothing I’d enjoy more. Ring for Blanton, my dear.”
Gena crossed the room, yanked decisively on the corded bell pull and in seconds Raleigh Burnett’s manservant stood in the doorway.
“Blanton, I have a beautiful guest for lunch. We won’t be dining on the south patio. It’s sunny there and the young lady has skin of priceless porcelain.”
&nb
sp; The servant nodded to Gena. “Very well, Sir. Where shall I serve you?”
“You choose, child.” Raleigh Burnett, smiling, looked up at Gena.
“Mmmmm. Let’s see … what about Burton’s card room? We’ll be well out of the sun there, yet we’ll be able to see the ocean.”
“You heard the young lady,” said the old man to his servant. “And, Blanton, hop down to the cellar and bring up one of my hoarded bottles of Romanee Conti ’55. This calls for a celebration!”
In the little-used room where a redwood bar stretched the length of the entire northern wall, round gaming tables covered in green baize were interspersed with square card tables of polished redwood. Carved redwood pillars supported the high ceiling and the paneled walls were of redwood as well, save for the back one.
The card room’s choice location was at the far rear of the big L-shaped house. The very last room in the mansion’s north wing, it was directly below Burt’s upstairs bedroom. A row of tall glass doors served as its west wall, offering to any who might care to look, a spectacular view of the manicured grounds and the azure Pacific Ocean beyond.
For today’s lunch, one of the square redwood tables was draped with an ivory damask cloth. A silver bowl filled with pink Castilian roses was placed at its center.
When Blanton pushed Raleigh Burnett’s wheeled chair into the paneled room, the old man said happily to Gena, “I am so glad you came. This is going to be the most pleasant lunch I’ve had in ages!”
Gena didn’t reply. It was, she knew, going to be far from pleasant.
When the wine and the meal had been served and they were left alone, Gena slowly pushed her plate away, bowed her head, and began to softly cry.
Raleigh Burnett was astounded. “Child, what is it? Are you ill? Shall I ring for a—”
“No.” Gena raised her head, looking directly at him from tear-bright eyes. “You are the only one who can help me.”
