by Nan Ryan
Finally Sabella was out of breath and too weak to stand, much less fight any longer. Hiccoughing with sobs, she sagged tiredly against him, her hand clasping his hard biceps. Her anguished tears wetting his bared chest, she jerked spasmodically against his lean naked frame.
Burt turned her about so that she was leaning back against him. He commandingly peeled the blue satin nightgown off her shaking shoulders and down her arms. The gown snagged on her flaring hips. Burt gave it a yank and it slithered to the floor at their feet, leaving her as naked as he.
Sabella winced when an arm of steel came round her waist and pressed her to the hard, hot length of his tall muscular body. Her head fell back onto his supporting shoulder and Burt’s lean fingers curved around her arched throat.
He bent his head forward and put his lips against her cheek. The thick black whiskers of his beard tickled her when he said, “How do you want it? Standing up or lying down?”
“You vile, vulgar bastard, I don’t want it! I don’t want you! I never did,” Sabella lashed out, hoping to hurt him.
But even as she spoke the words, she was vitally aware of the length of his body against her back. His hands began to caress her skin, sending unwanted shivers of delight through her. A pounding started in her blood and in a matter of minutes she was no longer in control of her own flesh.
“It should be no more disagreeable than usual,” Burt said casually, “since you never wanted me.”
His possessive hands swept over her, fondling her, caressing until she was instinctively arching and straining against him, little gasps of pleasure escaping her lips. Hardly realizing she was doing it, Sabella’s hands moved back to clutch at Burt’s hard thighs. Her sharp nails dug into the tanned, hair-dusted flesh, and reflexively drew him closer.
She shuddered deeply when his rock-hard tumescence pulsed against the cleft in her buttocks and she immediately tried to pull away. But he held her fast, pressed her even closer to his heat and hardness, and continued to excite her with his intimately stroking hands.
Sabella felt herself slipping away, losing control, falling under his erotic spell. She desperately wanted to be repulsed by his touch, to hate what he was doing to her. But she wasn’t and she didn’t. The more he excited her, the more she tried to deny his sexual power over her.
“I … don’t want … I … hate … you … ” she whispered as he touched her in ways that flooded her entire body with fiery heat and incredible yearning.
“Yes, I know,” he said, his voice low, emotionless. “But you want me to touch you like this. Don’t you?”
“No,” she breathed. “No. I … ahhhh.
Tingling all over, she didn’t, couldn’t find the will to object when Burt abruptly sat down on the edge of the bed, and drew her to stand between his spread knees. He allowed her to face him for only a moment, then turned her so that her side was to him, explaining as he did so that he would be able to touch her all over.
It made perfectly good sense to her.
Thrumming to the fiery touch of his dark stroking hands on her bare, sensitive flesh, Sabella began to sigh and moan and feel as if she were a priceless instrument upon which his talented fingers were composing a beautiful symphony. With both his gifted hands on her, his fingertips played magnificently along the column of her throat and the sensitive nape of her neck underneath her unbound hair. Then those lean, dexterous fingers moved on to her swelling breasts and the small of her back. Her flat belly and dimpled buttocks.
Sabella breathed through her mouth when those accomplished hands moved lower still, one stroking, touching, sliding over and through the blond triangle between her quivering thighs. The other boldly touching, tracing, spreading the rounded cheeks of her buttocks.
Burt’s hands slipped between her legs and met, and Sabella caught her breath. His bold, masterful fingers did wonderfully forbidden things to her that swiftly ignited a raging firestorm of voracious passion.
“No,” she protested feebly, knowing he wouldn’t listen, not really wanting him to, “don’t … do … that … ”
His skilled fingertips playing upon the slick, burning hot, highly sensitive feminine flesh, Burt didn’t heed her weak demands for him to stop. He knew she didn’t really mean it. He could tell by the powerful pulsing and the silky wetness drenching his intimately exploring hands. He was shocking her, exciting her, arousing her.
And she loved it.
Sabella did love it.
So much she surrendered completely to the exquisite joy rippling through her. She stood naked in that darkened room between Burt’s spread knees and writhed and squirmed and shamelessly rocked and rubbed her throbbing flesh against Burt’s practiced probing fingers.
“Please, oh … please,” she was soon whispering breathlessly as he teased and toyed and purposely withheld what she was striving and begging him for. The fiery tip of his middle finger adroitly circling her tiny swollen pleasure point of sensation, Burt caressed her that way until she was just about to reach a climax.
Then he stopped abruptly.
He withdrew both hands from her and Sabella’s glazed eyes came open in shocked disappointment.
“What are you … why … ?”
“You want it, sweetheart.” It was a statement, not a question. Burt’s silver eyes flashed in the dimness of the room. “You want me to make love to you. Don’t you?”
Burning up, suspended in sweet agony, feeling as if she would surely die if he didn’t take her all the way Sabella murmured, “Yes, yes.”
“Then say it. Tell me you want me to make love to you.”
“You cruel bastard,” Sabella said, her breath shallow, her heart pounding with a mixture of desire and anger.
“Not half so cruel as you, my love,” Burt coolly replied. He lifted a hand up before her and showed her his lean fingers, glistening from the hot wetness flowing freely from her. “See how much you want me. You’re wet and hot. Say it. You want me to make love to you. Tell me.”
“Damn you to eternal hell,” Sabella muttered, thrust her hands into his hair and roughly pushed his head back. She bent and aggressively kissed him, trusting her tongue into his mouth, kissing him deeply, erotically, determined to make him want her as much as she wanted him.
When at last she tore her burning lips from his, she raised her head, looked into his silver eyes, and gritted her teeth in frustration when she saw that they still held a calm icy expression.
“Give up?” he asked, his hands settling on her flared hips. “All you have to do is ask for it.”
Sabella gave no reply. Instead she smiled seductively at him, raised a hand to her mouth, put out her tongue, and licked the tips of her fingers until they were shiny wet.
“Watch,” she commanded, lowering her eyes and her hand to him. “Feel good?” she asked softly as she ran her dampened fingers over the pulsing tip of his thrusting tumescence, teasing him, toying with him.
She expertly tormented him until, unable to stand it any longer, Burt, trembling with passion and anger, seized her wrists, tore her hands away from him. Sabella laughed triumphantly and her arms swiftly went around his dark handsome head. Fiercely she hugged him to her.
Burt shuddered.
His hot, bearded face was buried against her soft warm breasts. He could feel the racing of her heart against his whiskered cheek.
He wanted her so badly he was almost ill with desire.
But he said nothing, did nothing, stubbornly willing to suffer in silence, staunchly refusing to surrender to the blazing desire she aroused in him.
Unless she said the words aloud. Unless she admitted she wanted him. Unless she asked him to make love to her.
Sabella fought a similar battle. She knew exactly what he was doing. Knew that he had purposely so aroused her that she felt as if she would die if he didn’t make love to her. She wanted him so badly she was ready to get down on her knees and beg him.
Hating him, loving him, Sabella finally murmured miserably, “I want you. Ma
ke love to me, Burt.”
Thirty-Seven
FROM THAT LONG, UNSETTLING night—the eighteenth of November—a night of intensely tempestuous lovemaking, the pair lived together in the most unconventional of marriages.
Polite, distant strangers in the cold light of day, they were insulting, insatiable lovers in the hot darkness of night.
Burt rarely spoke to Sabella, hardly acknowledged her presence. She might have been a piece of the furniture for all the attention he paid her.
When she walked into the room, not a flicker of emotion was evident on his dark, handsome face or in his icy silver eyes. His strong masculine features were constantly set in an unreadable mask. His expression, or lack thereof, was inscrutable.
Except at night in their bedroom upstairs.
There his silver eyes glinted with unleashed desire and his unsmiling, sensuous mouth took hers again and again in ravenous, savage kisses. He made love to her with a passion so fierce it almost equaled his burning hatred.
Sabella hated him as well, but she felt a dark, dangerous pleasure rising every time he took her in his arms. That certain chemistry, that special erotic spark had not died even if affection and respect were not a part of their relationship.
Sabella was as perplexed as she was miserable.
She couldn’t escape this dark, powerful man who openly despised her. Guarded round the clock, she could not leave. She was no longer allowed to ride or to go into the village. She was kept inside the hacienda, constantly watched as if she were a criminal.
While she was held captive in the big whitewashed adobe, Burt was rarely at the mansion. When he was, he was withdrawn, sullen, cold. Burt was not the charming, entertaining, smitten husband anymore. Sabella was not the laughing, adventurous, outgoing bride.
The two of them no longer did things together. Sabella didn’t ride the rugged range at her husband’s side or skinny-dip with him in the cold mountain streams or sing for him while he strummed a guitar. Or sit with him in the Happy chair.
Winter had come early this year, both inside and out.
Burt and Sabella were not the only ones who suffered from the climate of deep, foreboding chill that had permanently settled over Lindo Vista.
Cappy Ricks blamed himself for all their unhappiness. Guilt and regret were his constant companions. He wished he could go back in time to that day last June when the dying Raleigh Burnett made him promise to tell Burt the truth about everything. To warn Burt that Sabella Rios wanted justice—and revenge, would surely break his heart.
Sabella had indeed broken Burt’s heart. Burt had changed so much, Cappy hardly recognized him. That big, wide Burnett smile for which Burt had been famous since he was a chubby toddler was now missing. The warm gray eyes that once sparkled with merriment were lifeless in his handsome, somber face. There was nothing of the playful, boyish Burt in the brooding, taciturn man who now moved silently about like a dark, sinister specter. The big, gregarious fellow who had once been friendly to a fault was now aloof, forbidding, unapproachable.
More than once Cappy had told Burt that he badly needed to talk to him. But each time the apathetic Burt had dismissed him with a shake of his dark head, the silent refusal demonstrating his total indifference.
Cappy worried about Sabella as well. He couldn’t help it. From the first time he had met her, she’d gotten a firm hold on his soft heart. He had found her to be one of the prettiest, sweetest, most likeable young women he had ever met. The sun had shone a little brighter when she was around and it was impossible for him not to feel protective and fatherly toward her.
Cappy supposed that he should now dislike her intensely for what she had done to Burt. But the truth was, he could understand why she had done it. Sabella Rios had been cheated out of a vast inheritance. She’d seen her mother work herself to death when the poor woman should have been the wealthy, idle mistress of Lindo Vista. It wasn’t right, what Raleigh Burnett had done. Not right at all.
Sabella’s only mistake, as far as Cappy was concerned, was that she had made the wrong Burnett pay. Raleigh Burnett was the one who had wronged her mother. Sabella should have meted out her revenge on him, not on Burt.
But then, maybe she had no idea that Burt was innocent of the terrible misdeeds his father had committed.
Cappy agonized over telling her the truth. But he was never afforded the opportunity. She didn’t ride with him anymore. Didn’t sit with him out on the south patio in the sun. Didn’t play checkers or double solitaire with him the way she used to.
Sabella hardly left her room and when she did, she was not alone. Blanton or one of the servants was always at her elbow, keeping a close eye on her.
With no chance to talk with either of them, Cappy reasoned sadly that neither Burt nor Sabella knew the whole truth abut each other. Burt didn’t know that Lindo Vista was stolen from Sabella’s mother. Sabella didn’t know that Burt had no idea the land had been stolen.
Only Cappy knew.
And that knowledge weighed heavy on his heart. He lay awake nights worrying about the unhappy pair.
And blaming himself for all their misery.
Sabella was both surprised and incensed one chilly dawn in early December when Burt shook her awake and said, “Have Carmelita pack a valise for you. We’re going into Capistrano this afternoon.”
“Who’s going into Capistrano this afternoon?” she asked irritably, clutching the sheet to her breasts, pushing her hair from her sleepy eyes.
“The two of us. You and me.” Burt rose, uncoiling his tall, lean body, and stretched the kinks from his muscular legs. “Tell Carmelita you’ll need a gown suitable for dining out this evening. We’ll be spending the night at the Mission Inn.” He walked away.
Her dark eyes, venomous with hate, followed Burt’s tall naked figure as he strode toward the dressing room. “I don’t want to go into the village,” she announced firmly.
“I don’t particularly care what you want, my dear.”
“I am not going!”
Over his shoulder: “You’re wrong, sweetheart. You most definitely are going.”
“Why?” Sabella angrily sat up, shouting at him now. “Why on earth would we go to the village together?”
Burt turned and smiled at her. A cynical smile that lifted one corner of his mouth did not reach his pale silver eyes.
His tone mocking, he said, “To show the world how much in love we are.” He was at the open archway to the dressing room. He raised a long arm, braced it against the polished woodwork. “People are prone to talk. We’ll prove that the nasty gossip going about is groundless. That happiness is ours.”
“But it isn’t. You aren’t happy and I—”
“Happiness is a vague term,” he interrupted and suddenly there were traces of sadness etched in his carved features. “We’ve had a few happy moments … Perhaps that’s all anyone can hope for.”
Sabella experienced a sudden rush of tenderness and her voice was soft and warm when she said, “We did have some happy moments together, didn’t we?”
The brief flood of empathy dissipated when Burt cruelly said, “There were times when I was incredibly happy—but who knows what lies behind a liar’s smiles and kisses.”
Hurt, she swiftly lashed out at him. “How right you are! And now the pretense bores me. So I can hardly go into San Juan Capistrano with you and pretend I’m happy!”
His expression totally impassive, silver-gray eyes half shuttered, Burt released his hold on the arched doorway and came toward her, his tall, bronze body moving with the supple litheness of a forest animal.
He reached the bed, stood looking down at her. “You can’t pretend? Surely you jest.” He reached for her. She drew away. He shrugged and smiled. “You’re an expert actress, my dear. The best I have ever seen. You definitely belong on the stage.” He took hold of the covering sheet, gathered it up in his fist, and forcefully yanked it off the bed, leaving Sabella naked and blinking at him in anger and fear. Burt dropped the silk s
heet to the floor. He put a knee on the mattress, reached out, gripped Sabella’s upper arms, and swiftly drew her up to kneel before him.
He looked into her dark eyes for a long moment, then told her, “I’m not much of an actor myself. Too honest I suppose.” His hands tightened their grip. “But I’m amazingly adept at getting a good performance out of others. You are going into the village with me this afternoon. We will do a bit of Christmas shopping, enjoy a late dinner at the Mission Inn, and spend the night in our suite at the hotel.” He drew her closer, so close her breasts were touching his broad, hair-covered chest and her face was mere inches from his. “At the shops, in the hotel dining room, and upstairs in our suite, you will perform beautifully, I know. Like the professional you are.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked rebelliously, her chin lifting in defiance, dark eyes flashing.
“Don’t go?” he said. “You’re going. Count on it.”
“No. I mean what if I don’t perform?” His voice was flat and unemotional when he replied, “Try it and find out.”
Thirty-Eight
BURT REGARDED SABELLA WITH a certain cold curiosity as she descended the stairs shortly after two o’clock that afternoon. Sabella glanced at him and her jaw immediately tightened.
His was an attitude of dominance. He stood at the base of the grand staircase, booted feet planted firmly apart, arms crossed over his chest. Arrogant and intimidating, like the mighty lord of his fiefdom.
He was also, Sabella grudgingly noted, exquisitely handsome, almost beautiful. Strong, flawless features, his hair jet-black, his skin smooth and healthily suntanned. His open shirt and rolled-up sleeves exposed the ripple of muscles on his chest and arms.
Sabella very nearly made a misstep, caught herself, and looked him straight in the eye with a kind of fearless self-assurance.
Unmoving, but not unmoved, Burt watched Sabella slowly descend the stairs and was struck with the thought that she had surely concocted a thousand different ways to punish and torment him. When she but walked into a room, there was a change in his heartbeat. When she said his name, his stomach muscles tightened.
