by Nan Ryan
Today was no exception.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, almost perfect. Flawless features, her hair a pale blond, her skin baby soft with a hint of golden tan. The open throat and tight bodice of her fashionable beige wool suit exposed her delicate throat and the beginning swell of her breasts.
A muscle leaped in Burt’s tight jaw.
How, he wondered angrily, could a woman so angelically beautiful be so devilishly evil? And how, he wondered even more angrily, could she still possess the power to tempt and to hurt him?
Sabella reached the foot of the stairs.
Without so much as a nod of greeting she said, “I really can’t see that this trip is necessary.”
Burt’s arms came unfolded, but he didn’t step forward. Nor did he reply. He merely inclined his dark head toward the front door where Blanton waited, ready to open it for them. Outside, Burt fell into step beside Sabella.
“Never,” he warned softly, as they moved down the front walk, “discuss our personal life in front of a servant.”
Sabella looked at him sharply. “I have no idea what you’re talking about? I would never—”
“You said, before Blanton, that you didn’t think this little journey was necessary.”
“Oh, that. Well, I meant it. I don’t see why I have to—”
“A piece of good news gets out to one person,” Burt cut in. “A piece of bad news gets out to ten.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow you,” she said flippantly.
“Yes, you do.” He took her arm, stopping her. “You have been given an assignment. By me. Do it and be glad I ask no more of you.”
Sabella jerked her arm free. She stormed on down the walk and out to the shiny black covered carriage waiting in the circular drive. Her anger subsided and she smiled with genuine pleasure when she saw Cappy Ricks leaning against it. Maybe the overnight stay in Capistrano wouldn’t be so awful after all, not if the likeable ranch foreman was going with them.
“Cappy!” she said and hurried to greet him.
“How you doin’, sugar?” Cappy didn’t hug her. He put out his hand for her to shake as he glanced nervously at Burt.
Sabella took his big, work-roughened hand in both of hers, and ignoring the scowling Burt, said, “I’m so glad you’re coming to town with us, I was—”
“He isn’t,” Burt interrupted.
Still clinging to Cappy’s hand, Sabella looked angrily up at Burt. “Well, he is driving us to town.” She turned her attention quickly back to Cappy. “Aren’t you?”
“Not today,” said Cappy, shaking his gray head as if in apology.
Sabella quickly looked about, saw no one else. “Then who is?”
“I am,” Burt said.
Releasing Cappy’s hand, Sabella whirled on Burt. The prospect of being alone with him all the way into San Juan Capistrano filled her with dread. “But why … ?”
“Because I said so.”
With that, Burt opened the carriage door and lifted her up inside. As she haughtily settled herself on the comfortable leather seat, Burt tucked the skirts of her beige wool suit around her feet, and carefully closed the door.
He turned to Cappy, put a hand on the foreman’s shoulder, and said, “We’ll be back sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good enough,” said Cappy.
Lowering his voice, Burt said, “Why are you looking so worried? I know the way.”
Cappy gave no reply, just nodded, turned, and ambled away. Burt shrugged, circled the carriage, yanked the door open, and swung up onto the seat beside the bristling Sabella. He never even glanced at her. He took up the reins and put the matched steeds into motion.
As they rolled down the palm-lined avenue toward the tall, ranch gates, Sabella made up her mind that she would not speak to Burt all the way into the village. Even if he decided to be civil, she was not going to say one word to him!
She needn’t have worried. Burt made no attempt to engage her in conversation. He treated her exactly as he treated her each day at the hacienda.
As if she did not exist.
That changed when they reached the village. After having accused her of being an actress, he put on quite a show himself. It was Saturday and San Juan Capistrano was crowded with ladies busily shopping and gentleman loafing on the streets.
Her hand firmly enclosed in his, Burt and Sabella strolled up and down the wooden sidewalks and in and out of shops. They bumped into scores of Burt’s old friends and Sabella could tell that they had heard what had happened. Gena had told them. It was written all over their worried faces.
But Burt Burnett, when he turned on the charm, was as powerful as ever. He had this gift, this presence, this unique ability to command and seduce. And to make doubters believe that all was well. That everything they had heard was nothing more than the petty lies and wishful thinking of an incensed ex-lover.
Without a single question asked or a word of explanation offered, everyone was soon satisfied that the handsome young newlyweds were the happiest of couples. No one saw a clue to the contrary. Nobody detected a hint of trouble. The famous Burnett smile was broader than ever, and it was easy to see that Burt adored his beautiful bride and she him.
Sabella heard someone excitedly call her name, turned, and saw hurrying toward them her two young friends, Cynthia Douglas and Janie Desmond. There were hugs all around and Sabella marveled at her own hypocrisy as, eagerly embracing them both, she heard herself say that they “really must marry because marriage is truly a grand state.”
By the time Burt and Sabella retired to the Mission Inn, the gentry of Capistrano was convinced that all was well between them. That the nasty rumors circulating were totally without merit. Thank goodness.
Once inside the luxurious corner suite on the top floor of the inn, Burt dropped the pose. The swiftness of the transformation was amazing. The laughing, smiling man Sabella had seen throughout the afternoon was, in the blinking of an eye, again cold and unreachable.
No sooner were they inside than his smile disappeared completely, his warm gray eyes became cool silver, and his tone of voice was low and impersonal when he said, “I’m going out for a while and—”
“Where to?” she turned, and gave him a questioning look.
“We will dine at nine o’clock,” he continued, leaving her question unanswered. “At the appointed hour, I will be waiting downstairs in the bar. You can find me there.” He turned to leave.
“What if I grow hungry before the hour of nine?” Her hands went to her hips.
His silver gaze touched her, dismissing her. “That, my dear, will be your misfortune.”
“Wait just a damn minute,” she said, her voice lifting. “I have come to the conclusion that—”
“Come to any conclusion you like. I really don’t care.”
Furious, Sabella shouted, “Nine is too late! We will dine at eight o’clock!”
“No,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “We will dine at nine.”
“Eight!” she shrieked.
In the same flat tone of voice he told her, “It is I who will give the orders. And you who will obey. Nine, downstairs.”
He left her to seethe and storm about and call him names. And to promise herself that she would again run away, that she would be free of him soon.
When her temper had cooled a little, Sabella looked around the opulent suite. Her gaze sweeping about the elegantly appointed drawing room, she crossed to the double doors opening into the sunny corner bedroom. She was taken aback when she stepped inside.
A huge mahogany bed with a gold velvet spread sat squarely in the middle of the room. Brow puckered, Sabella went to the bed, and sat gingerly down on it. Her hand gliding across the smooth gold velvet of the spread, she immediately knew why the bed sat where it did. And at whose direction it had been placed there.
Rows of floor-to-ceiling glass windows across the front and north side of the room afforded the bed’s occupant—or occupants—an unobstructed view
of the Pacific Ocean.
Sabella abruptly jumped up.
Frowning, she wondered how many women had been in this bed with the ardent Burt Burnett. That unpleasant thought had no more than occurred than she told herself she didn’t care. Didn’t give a tinker’s damn. A dozen. A hundred. It made no difference to her.
She decided then and there not to let him touch her in this bed. She’d be damned if she’d allow him to make love to her in a bed where he’d held other women. She hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place. He had made her come in to Capistrano so everyone would see them together. He had pulled the strings as though she were a puppet!
She would be no puppet tonight.
Wanting to punish him for putting her on display and disgusted with herself for her own hypocrisy, Sabella firmly made up her mind.
She would not yield to him this night!
Despite that fact that she was starving, Sabella pointedly waited until twenty minutes past the hour of nine o’clock before she left the suite, and went downstairs to meet Burt.
She was, she realized without a trace of conceit or joy, quite stunning in a daringly cut gown of lush black velvet. Her golden hair was upswept and coiled tightly atop her head. She never wore it down anymore because that’s the way Burt liked it.
A large black pearl, suspended from a black velvet band, rested in the hollow of her throat. Her black gown’s square neckline plunged so low and her waist-cinching black corset pushed her breasts so high, she was in danger of spilling out of the snug bodice.
Sabella frowned as she studied her reflection in the freestanding mirror. The gown was one of several purchased on their honeymoon stay in San Francisco. She had never, until tonight, worn the dress. She had forgotten it was cut so severely low. Wishing she had packed something more suitable, Sabella made a face at herself.
Then she laughed bitterly. She was being foolish. It made no difference what she wore—Burt wouldn’t notice. He never noticed her anymore.
Sabella left the suite, moved down the silent corridor, and descended the wide marble stairs. The long black gown trailing behind her, whispering on the gleaming marble floor of the gigantic lobby, she moved regally toward the dining room.
Sabella stopped when a deep, familiar voice said her name. Turning, she saw Burt at a long, polished bar inside the dimly lit, paneled tavern. A glass in his hand, he stood with a knee slightly bent, his leather-shod toes resting on the shiny brass foot railing.
He was strikingly good looking in a beautifully cut dinner jacket with a white carnation in his buttonhole. His jet hair had been freshly cut and carefully brushed. His tanned face was smoothly shaven.
Sabella looked at him and for an instant the smokey gray eyes that met hers smoldered with hot feeling. She felt the warmth burn into her. The look and the warmth were gone immediately and his eyes became almost frightening. They were as splinters of ice, cold and unwavering.
Asking nothing, telling nothing.
Boring right through her as if she didn’t exist.
Sabella swallowed hard, gave him a frosty stare, and stayed where she was as he drained his liquor glass, set it atop the polished bar, tossed a bill down beside it.
Finally he came out to meet her. He said nothing. He took her arm and ushered her into the dining hall. They were led up some steps and to a choice table overlooking the ocean.
Burt ordered for them both, choosing dishes that required a great deal of time to prepare. While they waited, he made polite table conversation, but Sabella knew it was for the sake of the other diners. Not her. He refilled her wine glass the moment it was empty, but drank very little himself.
The meal turned out to be a long, leisurely one. And even after they had finished their rich desserts, it seemed to Sabella that Burt was in no particular hurry to leave.
That suited her fine. She was glad that he lingered over his coffee and cognac despite the fact that it was very late and they were the only two diners left in the room. She assumed it meant he had no intention of making love to her. That simplified things.
Sabella was yawning sleepily when finally they climbed the stairs to the suite. Once inside, Burt stopped in the lamp-lit drawing room directly before the teakwood liquor cabinet. As he poured himself another brandy, Sabella went straight into the bedroom, not even bothering to say good night.
Convinced she had been let off the hook for tonight, she headed for the dressing room, kicking her slippers off as she went. She quickly peeled off the revealing black dress, black corset, black underwear, black sheer stockings, everything.
She was pulling on a soft white nightgown when Burt stepped up behind her, caught the gown before it could fall down over her hips, lifted it back up over her head, and dropped it to the carpeted floor.
Sabella stiffened.
Burt leaned down, kissed the nape of her neck, and drew her back against him.
He was still fully clothed. The fine fabric of his dinner jacket brushed against Sabella’s bare back. She drew a shallow breath, closed her eyes, and silently begged him to leave her alone. To stop before he started. To amuse himself someplace else with someone else.
And she ordered herself not to surrender, no matter what he did to her. Not to give him the satisfaction of thinking she couldn’t resist him. Teeth gritted, she recited a silent litany: I will not respond. I will not respond. I will not respond.
“Yes, you will,” Burt said in a low, cool voice as if he had read her mind.
He began to touch her, to kiss her, to arouse her until she was lost. And so was he.
Naked, they came eagerly together in the center of the bed in the center of the room. Kneeling there, Burt sank back on his heels, spread his knees wide. His hands on Sabella’s flaring hips, lips on her throat, he held her astride, her legs and arms wrapped around him.
He ordered her to look into his gleaming eyes as they moved slowly, erotically together, their bodies if not their hearts in sync. Bathed in silvery moonlight, they welcomed the chill autumn breeze blowing in through the open windows. The strong sea-scented winds ruffled the heavy velvet curtains, swept loose leaves in to drift across the carpet, and tossed about the long golden hair that Burt’s hands had freed.
And cooled their heated flesh.
For the moment, at least.
Thirty-Nine
BUT AS THEY DROVE home the next afternoon, Sabella ashamedly recalled the events of the previous night. She blushed remembering how many ways and how many times she had allowed Burt to make love to her. Images of herself, naked save for the black pearl at her throat, tumbling about on the bed with this cold, uncaring man kept plaguing her.
Sabella ventured a covert glance at Burt. Seated beside her, he held the long leather reins loosely in one hand. A thin brown cigar was stuck in the side of his mouth and a faint cloud of tobacco smoke drifted up into his heavy-lidded gray eyes. He was hatless and a shock of wavy jet hair fell over his forehead.
Sabella’s pulse leaped. An unbidden warmth rushed through her and she felt her cheeks flush. She immediately looked away in annoyance. Her lips tightened into a stern line.
His physical prowess and animal magnetism were potent. Too potent. She resented it. She resented him. She resented him for having the power to excite her with just a touch or a look. Her resentment grew with each occasion he so easily, masterfully possessed her.
The thoughts running through Burt’s mind were almost identical to Sabella’s. He, too, was recalling last night’s fiery lovemaking and the recollection caused his heart to pound, his groin to ache. He kept his eyes off her. His jaw was rigid.
Her blond good looks and feminine allure were potent. Too potent. He resented it. He resented her. He resented her for having the power to arouse him with just a touch-or a look. His resentment grew each time she so effortlessly made him want to possess her.
As they rode along in the November sunshine, they did not look at each other. They did not talk. They did not touch. Yet both, much to their annoyan
ce, were stirred by a rapidly growing desire. An undeniable yearning. A sexual longing which—although unspoken—was almost tangible.
The emotion was so strong, the hunger so great, Sabella didn’t question it when Burt abruptly turned the big vehicle off the road. Holding on to the seat, silently urging him to hurry, to go faster, Sabella’s heart began to pound with anticipation.
She looked at Burt as he anxiously guided the matched pair over the uneven ground toward a dense grove of tall eucalyptus trees. His lean face was granite hard, his eyes focused solely on the copse of trees ahead. He looked both sinister and sexy, and it thrilled her no end. She could hardly wait to kiss away the tension from his mouth, to run her eager hands over his broad, bare chest.
They reached the dense grove of eucalyptus. Burt swiftly located a narrow opening in the impenetrable-looking thicket and sent the big carriage crashing through. Tree limbs struck the startled horses and slapped the sides of the carriage. Dust and birds and leaves flew.
As quickly as he could, Burt wrestled the frightened steeds to a plunging stop. The black brougham was parked in deep shade, completely hidden from the road a hundred yards below. Not bothering to wrap the reins around the brake handle, Burt dropped them and reached for Sabella.
She came into his arms in a shot, as eager as he for the loving. They kissed as though they were starved for each other, their mouths open wide, their tongues tasting, stroking, fighting for domination. This was no slow, sweet buildup to burning passion. It was an eruption of pent-up desire. Her arms wrapped tightly around Burt’s neck, Sabella’s fingers captured a handful of his jet-black hair at the back of his head. Her eager lips refusing to release his, she sighed and moaned into his mouth as his tanned hand found its sure way up under her billowing skirts.
After the extraordinary long, searing kiss, their lips finally separated. They gasped for breath. They looked into each other’s eyes. Sabella anxiously unbuttoned Burt’s shirt and Burt’s seeking hand moved underneath her frilly petticoat and slid caressingly across her stomach.
