Because You're Mine

by Nan Ryan

  The don lifted her pale fingers to his thin lips and Gena noticed, with mild amusement, that his dark gaze was fastened on her bosom. She hadn’t realized, until that moment, that the bodice of her new rose chiffon creation was cut so daringly low. His first look of undisguised interest was not to be his last. Gena was surprised. The don had never noticed her before, at least not to her knowledge. Now it seemed the gentlemanly, ever-polite grandee couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  When dinner was announced, the don presented his arm to Gena. As he escorted her to the dining room, Gena was struck by what a comical-looking pair they made. The don was short, at least half a head shorter than she, and he was fat. His expensive, well-cut black-and-silver charro suit might have looked spectacular on a tall, lean man, but on him the skin tight trousers, the short bolero jacket only emphasized the spreading waist, the rounded belly.

  It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud.

  Don Miguel devoted himself to being charming and entertaining throughout the lengthy, seven-course dinner in the candlelit dining room. Despite her despair, Gena found herself enjoying the meal and the company. Don Miguel never failed to have new, interesting tales to share and he was a talented storyteller.

  Still, when the meal was finished and decorum dictated that she invite him to join her for brandy and coffee in the dining room, she was hoping against hope that he would decline.

  He didn’t.

  Not only did Don Miguel eagerly accept her invitation, he stayed much longer than was his habit. When finally he said good night and departed, Gena had consumed three glasses of cognac on top of the wine she’d drunk with dinner. She walked back into the drawing room after the don’s departure, sighed with relief, and poured herself another.

  Though the hour was growing late, she was neither tired nor sleepy. She was restless, bored and unhappy. She roamed through the big lonely house, carrying her brandy snifter. In vain she searched for something to do to pass the time, some way to occupy herself until she was sleepy enough for bed.

  She strolled unhurriedly into the library, moving along the tall mahogany shelves holding hundreds of first editions bound in blue and red Moroccan leather. She took a title off the shelf, flipped through the pages, then replaced it. She shook her head and exhaled loudly. She was in no mood for reading.

  Feeling extremely sorry for herself, Gena moved listlessly across the library to a set of tall French doors that opened onto a stone side terrace. Brandy snifter cradled in the palm of her hand, she pushed the doors open and stepped outside. She stood for a moment looking about, then flung herself down on a padded chaise. She leaned her head back and studied the starry sky as a deep sense of melancholy enveloped her. She heard, from far off in the distance, a train whistle blow. The mournful sound brought back the painful sight of Burt and his bride standing on the observation deck of the Silver Lining.

  Gena moaned, then ground her teeth viciously.

  While she was here alone and unwanted, they were making love as the train sped down the tracks. The thought of it conjured up a mental image that made her physically ill. Damn them! Damn them both to eternal hell!

  God, if only there was some way she could get even. If there was just something she could do … some evil deed, some awful act … that would hurt Burt half as much as he had hurt her.

  Her brandy snifter nearly empty, Gena impatiently rose. She didn’t go back inside. Seething, she prowled along the terrace, moving toward the back of the house. Once she’d rounded the mansion’s corner, she stopped and stared in the direction of the many outbuildings scattered about in a sprawling compound below the house. Her narrowed gaze moved over the bunkhouse and stables and barns to a small sand-colored adobe set apart and partially bidden in a copse of trees.

  Gena’s pulse leaped when she saw that a light burned inside. She was off the stone terrace, down the steps, and crossing the walled courtyard before she actually admitted to herself where she was going.

  She paused at the tall black Spanish gates, told herself she was courting trouble, that she’d best go back inside and straight up to bed.

  Gena pushed the heavy iron gate open and stepped out. She nervously looked about, terrified someone might see her. It was late. No one was around. The grounds were as quiet as a tomb.

  Gena smiled as she yanked up the skirts of her rose chiffon gown and dashed headlong across the large, manicured lawns. Feeling the exhilaration that comes with doing something questionable, something daring and dangerous, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of this sooner.

  Gena didn’t slow down until she stood before the heavy wooden door of the small, secluded adobe. Out of breath, a hand at her rapidly rising and falling breasts, Gena felt her knees tremble. She drew a deep, steadying breath. She smoothed down the folds of her flowing rose chiffon, then patted her upswept, elaborately dressed hair.

  Licking her lips to wet them, she decisively raised a balled fist and knocked loudly on the door. It opened almost immediately and Santo stood before her.

  He blinked in surprise and said, “Señorita Gena, something is wrong? The senator, he is sick, no?”

  “No, no, everything’s fine. I just … ” she faltered, shrugging slender shoulders.

  From somewhere inside, Cisco’s low voice said, “Please come in, Gena.”

  Santo began nodding. “Yes, come inside and—”

  The gaunt, scar-faced Cisco stepped in front of his taller, younger brother. “Santo was just leaving,” he said, looking into Gena’s wide green eyes.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Santo argued, “why I—”

  “You heard me,” said Cisco, as he reached out and drew Gena inside. His dark-eyed gaze never straying from her, Cisco took his younger brother’s hat down from a peg by the front door, put it on Santo’s head, and shoved him outside.

  “Now, wait a minute here, Cisco,” Santo complained. “I don’t—”

  The heavy door slammed in his face before he could complete his sentence. Santo stood there bewildered, staring at the closed door. Then he shrugged, turned and headed for the stables.

  Inside the dimly lit sala, Cisco threw the bolt, locking the door. He leaned back against it, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “Welcome to my Castillo, querida.”

  “Thank you, Cisco,” Gena said, the wispy hair beginning to rise on the nape of her neck.

  “Is there something special I can do for you?”

  Already beginning to grow nervous, Gena shook her head. “No. No. I … I … was just … ”

  “Taking a nighttime stroll and happened to pass by my place?”

  “Well, yes. Yes. I couldn’t’ sleep, so I … I—”

  His mocking laughter interrupted. She stopped speaking. His arms came uncrossed. Gena tensed as he moved quickly across the tile floor to a small eating table in the shadowy corner. Her eyes fell on a knife sticking up on the table, its blade’s tip embedded in the rough wood.

  She winced involuntarily when Cisco wrapped his hand around the knife’s black handle and plucked it free.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Her tone became one of stern authority, although her green eyes widened in alarm as he slowly approached her.

  “Why, querida, I am about to give you what you came here for.” He grinned and idly scratched at the scar on his cheek with the knife blade’s sharp tip.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gena said, moving toward the door.

  Quick as a cat, Cisco slipped between her and the bolted door. “I think,” he said, blocking her way, “you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  She was half afraid of this strange, evil-looking man. He was not behaving as she had expected. She had come here expecting to be admired and adored, not frightened half to death.

  Her hands went to her hips. “My coming here was a mistake. Obviously, you have taken it the wrong way.”

  She shivered when the tip of his gleaming knife gently touched her elbow and moved slowly, te
asingly up her bare arm. “Are you afraid of me, querida?”

  “Certainly not,” Gena haughtily responded, then laughed as if the idea were absurd. She added nastily, “I was raised never to fear the hired help.”

  Cisco chuckled, too, as his ropy arm slid around her. The knife clutched firmly in his hand, he placed the long blade perpendicular to the cleft of her buttocks. It pressed harmlessly through the swirling rose chiffon and lace petticoat. Using only the slightest of pressure, he urged her to him. Her gaze locked with his, she lifted her hands in a defensive gesture. Her palms flattened on the smooth black fabric of his shirt-front.

  “Were you,” he inquired, grinning, “taught to never make love to the hired help as well?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was,” Gena said, her long red nails like a cat’s extended claws scratching, punishing his chest.

  Sexual excitement and rising fear made for a heady mixture. Gena found she was suddenly tingling and over-warm and very, very curious. She had wondered, more than once, what this too-thin, dangerous-looking, scar-faced Mexican did that made women swarm around him.

  She knew she was about to find out.

  Gena stiffened in real alarm when Cisco, wedging a knee between her own, moved the knife from where it had lain harmless against her buttocks. The long blade flashed in the lamplight as he slowly raised it up to where she could see it.

  She dared not move as the blade’s tip went up to the rope of pearls wound into the dark curls atop her head. The shimmering ornamental rope was quickly severed. Gena laughed with relief as precious pearls scattered and dark hair spilled down around her shoulders.

  When Gena left Cisco’s adobe hours later, she wore only her rose chiffon gown. Nothing remained of her expensive French underwear except a few useless bits of lace and satin lying about on the floor. Cisco had, with the sure deftness of a surgeon, cut away the full petticoats and lace-trimmed chemise and naughty satin drawers from her fevered body.

  He hadn’t stopped until she had lain totally naked and terrifically excited on his bed. The things he had done to her then, the unique ways he had made love to her as she lay bare and helpless while he remained fully clothed in his black shirt and trousers, were shocking, unspeakable, and incredibly thrilling.

  Vowing she would never return to Cisco’s adobe, Gena made her dazed way back to the mansion, sated, sore, and shamed.

  Twenty-Five

  BURT SPRAWLED LAZILY ON one of the gray velvet sofas, his long legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed, feet propped up on a low table. His suit jacket long since cast aside, shirt collar open at the throat, and sleeves rolled up over tanned forearms, he held a silver bowl of muscat grapes on his lap.

  Sabella sat on the sofa beside him, her kid slippers kicked off and resting on the rug below, her stockinged feet tucked up under her. The tightly fitted bodice of her copper-hued traveling suit was unbuttoned down to the beginning swell of her breasts and her long skirts and petticoats swirled up around her knees.

  It was nearing sundown on that warm September Sunday afternoon.

  The newly wedded Burnetts were cozy and relaxed in the Silver Lining’s comfortable parlor as the train rolled steadily northward. Popping grapes first into his bride’s luscious mouth, then his own, Burt was speaking excitedly about his dreams and future plans for them and for Lindo Vista.

  “I wish you could have been with me at the meeting last spring in Chicago,” he said. “Honey, you’d be amazed at the technological advances being made in hydrology. I listened to those brilliant hydrologists speak and I got this wonderful vision of verdant, crop-producing fields where nothing grows now but cactus and chaparral.”

  Sabella chewed a grape, then swallowed. Skeptical, she said, “You actually believe there’ll be water in the barren deserts someday?”

  “Absolutely! No question about it. In the next few years we’ll be able to irrigate all the lands of the rancho.” He held a plump purple grape up between thumb and forefinger, studied it appreciatively. “Imagine, if you can, hundreds of acres of useless wasteland producing grapes like this one! Why, we’ll start our own winery at ranch headquarters and bottle fine wines from grapes grown in our vineyards.”

  “Sounds a little far-fetched to me. I mean, I—”

  “Hard to grasp, isn’t it?” Burt’s gray eyes were alive with enthusiasm. “The scientists involved aren’t just studying ways to better utilize the surface water. They’re investigating methods of bringing water up from beneath the soil and from underlying rocks and the atmosphere itself.”

  “I’m sure they’re experimenting,” Sabella said, trying to comprehend such implausible wonders. “Still, I wouldn’t count on having vineyards in the valley anytime soon.”

  “Not just vineyards—” Burt was not deterred “—besides grapes, we’ll have all kinds of produce. Melons and vegetables and exotic fruits. I tell you, sweetheart, there’s a big change coming and it’s right around the corner. We’re living in exciting times, you and I.”

  Nodding, Sabella said, “If you say so. If that were to happen—if you could get water to the far reaches of the ranch, you could run more cattle, couldn’t you?”

  “You bet, baby. As I told you, back before the terrible drought, Lindo Vista supported thousands of head of cattle and horses. It could be like that again. And the profits are far greater now than in those days. As the population of California increases, there’s a greater demand for beef. The old Californios made most of their money from hides; we make ours from beef.”

  Sabella shook her head no to another grape. “Until all this happens, you—”

  “The best news of all,” Burt eagerly interrupted, “is that I’m in on the beginning development of a new water system.”

  “Is that important?”

  He lifted a dark eyebrow at her. “Honey, if we—the team I’m working with—make water plentiful in Southern California, we’ll not only become unbelievably rich, we’ll go down in the history books. You’ll see the population of Los Angeles and San Diego explode. Why, with the mild climate and incredible beauty of the coast, anyone in his right mind will want to live here.”

  “Mmmmm,” Sabella murmured. “That will be wonderful, but until it happens—until the technology is perfected and the complicated machinery is put in place, the creek that flows across the northern boundary of Lindo Vista is really the only substantial source of water on the entire ranch, isn’t it?”

  “Afraid so,” Burt acknowledged, and set the bowl of grapes aside, raised his arms, and folded his hands behind his dark head. “Well, actually, that’s not totally correct. It so happens that Coronado Creek’s not within our boundary line.”

  Sabella frowned. “The original creek bed is not on Lindo Vista?”

  “Nope.”

  “Whose land is it on?”

  “Senator Nelson de Temple’s,” Burt said. “They damned and directed it from Dreamy Draw more than thirty years ago for our use.”

  Sabella’s perfectly arched brows shot up. “Gena’s father?”

  “Gena’s father,” Burt confirmed. “For as long as I can remember we’ve been paying the senator a token annual fee for water rights.”

  “I see,” Sabella said calmly. Then: “What would happen if the senator suddenly decided he would no longer allow you access to the water. What if—”

  “Ah, darlin’, darlin’,” Burt interrupted again, laughing, taking his hands down from behind his head. Gray eyes merrily twinkling, he reached for her, gently drew her down into his arms. Carefully tucking her head beneath his chin, he wrapped his arms around her and teased, “Leave it to a woman to come up with such an outlandish idea.”

  Sabella’s head came up off his chest. She looked him in the eye and said, “Perhaps. But then Gena is a woman, too, remember.”

  The easy smile remaining on his handsome face, Burt reached up and casually began removing the pins from Sabella’s upswept hair.

  “That’s true, she is. But then she’s not half so cl
ever as you.” His smile widened with the pleasure of watching Sabella’s heavy blond hair fall down around her shoulders.

  Impatiently pushing a long strand of the loosened hair back behind her ear, Sabella said, “You think not? You’re underestimating your former fiancée, Burt. She’s just as smart as I.”

  “You’re wrong, love,” he said, his tanned fingers going to the tiny buttons of her copper suit jacket. “You’re remarkably bright, by far the cleverest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “You think so?”

  “Know so.” Both his smile and his words were cocky. “After all, you were smart enough to trap me.”

  “Trap you?” She brushed his busy fingers from her bodice, stung by his choice of words, but determined to keep her ever-present guilt concealed. “Why, Burt Burnett, if you are not the most conceited man I ever—”

  “True,” he smilingly conceded, “but I’m also mighty lovable, don’t you think?” She gave no reply, but she smiled at him. His fingers returned to her buttons. “Not nearly as lovable as you though.” He pushed her opened jacket apart and fire instantly leapt into his smokey gray eyes. Tracing the lace-bordered top edge of her chemise with his forefinger, he asked, “Know what I want to do?”

  “Tell me what you want to do.”

  “Hold you. Touch you. Taste you.”

  Sabella blushed. “Burt, the sun hasn’t gone completely down.”

  “Does it matter?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a shy little shrug. “It just seems indecent somehow to go to bed before sunset.”

  “I totally agree,” Burt said. He winked at her and added, “Let’s stay right here.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Burt’s lips got in the way of any further protests. Sabella was surprised, as she always was, at the fierce sweetness of his kiss. Instantly her lips were open and ardent beneath his. Had she not wished it so, it still would have been that way. This handsome man’s kisses were incredibly stirring. No doubt about it, he possessed a power which excited her, caused her heart to beat faster.