Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

  Charlie opened the door to their room, glanced around to see that all was in order, and gave Ryan the key before putting the luggage in the closet. Clare went out on the curved private balcony to gaze down at the view seven stories below. Although she was looking down at a large residential section, several shopping centers and Rice University, all that was visible were the rolling green tops of interlocking live oak trees. Not one roof could be seen, and only a few buildings could be glimpsed in the very far distance. From an aesthetic viewpoint, the Warwick could as easily have been located far out in the country, rather than here on South Main in the middle of the city. Looking to the extreme right, Clare could see a magnificent view of Houston’s skyline in the distance.

  “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed as Ryan came out to join her. “I’ve heard this view described as being similar to Paris, but I never dreamed it would be so… serene.”

  “According to Bob Hope, it’s very similar,” he said, watching her closely. How had so wealthy a person remained so secluded all her life? “I gather you and your husband never went there?” he said casually. “To Paris, I mean.”

  “No. We rarely went anywhere. We were only married four years, and most of that time we hardly even spoke.” Her cloudy eyes held pain at the memory. She had known more love in two days with Ryan than she ever had with her husband. I won’t fall in love with him, she reminded herself. I won’t!

  “That must have been very difficult,” he said gently. “He wasn’t nearly good enough for you.”

  “You never met him.”

  “No, but I know you. A man who’d mistreat a woman like you is a fool.” He put his arms around her.

  Clare lay her cheek against his broad chest. On the street far below them, traffic passed in a frantic scurrying to reach unknown destinations.

  “Do you suppose any of them see us up here?” she mused, raising her head to kiss his chin.

  “Would you mind?”

  “No. I hope they do. I find myself wanting to call out to them, ‘There is life after death!’ Or at least after Elliot’s. I’ve never enjoyed myself so much.”

  “It’s just beginning,” Ryan assured her.

  Cautiously, Clare drew away from him. What had he meant by that?

  “Tonight we’ll meet our other partners in the Hunt Room for dinner. At least I hope they’ll become our partners. After that, I plan to bring you back up here and ravage your body.”

  “Sounds good,” she laughed. “Who could resist such an elegantly phrased proposition?”

  “And to keep up your strength, I’m now going to take you to lunch.”

  Lunch was served downstairs in an open area surrounded by huge potted plants and almost life-sized black marble statues. Overhead a somewhat smaller replica of the great chandelier in the lobby hung in dazzling splendor. Clare noticed that a small brass plaque under one of the hand-carved antique wall panels read, “France,.” The food was served by a pretty woman who, like most of the other waitresses, spoke with a French accent.

  “I suppose you know I’m becoming completely spoiled by all this. Betty may never forgive you.”

  Ryan grinned. “My grandmother came here to visit a lady she knew and never left. They used to sit on the porchit was where the ballroom is now and overlooked the Mecum Fountains and the park and they’d rock and gossip for hours on end. I remember, when I was a boy, we would sit out there in the twilight, sipping iced tea and watching the couples go out dressed to the teeth. She knew all the other residents, and most of the regular guests. It was quite an education to hear them talk to each other. Many of them were among Houston’s founding families.”

  “That must have been fascinating for you.”

  “At the time, I took it for granted. It wasn’t nearly as interesting as riding the ponies in the park. What about your childhood? I’ve never heard you mention it.”

  “I had a horse,” she said cautiously, recalling the family plow horse and part-time saddle pony. “I rode quite often, in fact. Of course, in East Texas we rode western, not English, but I enjoyed it.”

  Ryan looked puzzled. Whenever he asked her anything about herself, she became cool and withdrawn. Almost stilted.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked to see her reaction.

  “No. I was an only child. My parents died several years back. Except for an aunt in Abilene, whom I haven’t seen since I was in high school, I have no one.” Clare shifted uneasily in her chair.

  Ryan grinned to lift her tension. “You mean I can kidnap you, and nobody will dash to your rescue?”

  “Nor would anyone answer your ransom note,” she replied solemnly.

  “Drat! Foiled again.” He shook his head dismally, then cheered. “Oh, well, let’s go to the Fine Arts Museum instead. It’s right across the street. You can explain the paintings to me.”

  “Do you always change subjects right in the middle of a breath?” she teased. “I never know what you’re going to say from one minute to the next.”

  “Sure,” he grinned. “It keeps you alert and on your toes. This way I know you’re paying attention.”

  After Ryan paid the bill, they strolled past the front desk and down the cream-colored corridor to the monogrammed side door. He held her hand as they waited for a break in the traffic to allow them to cross the street. When they reached the other side, they walked slowly in the shade of the column of live oak trees and gazed at the tortured shape of a free-form sculpture in brownish-hued metal near the entrance to the museum.

  “I’ll bet you can’t guess what that is,” Ryan said as they paused to view the sculpture from another angle.

  “You’re right. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Neither do I. I was just trying to trick you into guessing.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go inside.”

  In the museum’s main room, enormous canvases, some brilliantly colored, some black and white, some of muddy hues, hung in frozen solemnity. Few of these contemporary paintings depicted recognizable objects, and then only in fragments or in odd or unlikely orientation. A large open box of stainless-steel sat alone on the floor, its interior pulsating with a red-orange glow. Clare and Ryan were very drawn to the box, much more so than the canvases, because of the sense of vertigo they experienced on looking down into its fiery emptiness.

  “All art isn’t necessarily meant to be a serious statement,” Clare told him as they moved along to a metal sculpture that could only be described as a twisted spoon. “Some of it’s intended only to display a pleasing shape or texture. Then there are others which I think are a tongue-in-cheek experiment by the artist.”

  “Some of these must be.” Ryan was staring at an enormous white canvas with a small red dot in the upper corner. “Who would ever want some of this stuff in his house?”

  “It’s not meant for houses. Only museums,” Clare explained. “And you’re too close. Oils should be viewed from a distance. Not with your nose pressed against them.”

  The next room held paintings by such masters as Monet, Rembrandt and Degas, and were of comfortably recognizable Subjects.

  “This is more like it,” Ryan said.

  “Just between you and me, I like this better, too,” Clare confided, “but don’t tell anyone. As an artist, I’m supposed to prefer abstracts.”

  The back room was filled with Egyptian artifacts. Clare and Ryan took turns challenging each other to guess the use of the strange objects, then consulted the identifying cards to see if they were right. They seldom were.

  They strolled back into the vestibule and looked around. “Well, I guess that’s it,” Clare said as she circled a green copper giant, clad only in a fig leaf. “Ready to leave?”

  “Sure. Let’s go to the zoo.”

  Ignoring the hostile stare of the dark-suited museum guard, they left the rarified atmosphere and headed out across Hermann Park.

  “I always feel so sorry for the animals,” Clare said as they watched the dull-witted
pacing of a magnificent Bengal tiger. “When I was a little girl, I wanted to buy all the zoos and free the animals.

  “I wish I had known you when you were a child.”

  “You wouldn’t have cared for me then,” she said with certainty.

  “I disagree. As fascinating as I find you now, you must have been intriguing then. What schools did you attend?”

  “You ask more questions than anyone I have ever met,” Clare said testily.

  “Sorry. Let’s go to the aviary.”

  Ryan watched her face as they stood on the enclosed wooden bridge while brilliantly colored birds flew over their heads. In so many ways, Clare seemed to be new to life. She was as excited as a child as she discovered new species of birds hiding in the thick foliage. This same excitement had been apparent when he had shown her New Orleans. She was different from the other women he had known, in so many ways. Yet her background must be very similar to his own.

  “I’m looking forward to wildcatting your well,” he said, holding her hand as they walked into the dimness of the birdhouse and out again into the sunshine. “I’ll be able to get started on it right after the first of the year.”

  Clare stopped dead still. “Not until then? Why wait so long?”

  “I have some things to finish up first, and I’ll need to find an apartment to rent for a few months. Not to mention the crew that I need to hire and get moved up there.”

  “I’m sorry, but that won’t do,” Clare said stubbornly. “I want to start much sooner.”

  Ryan frowned. “I’m not sure that I can. These things take time.”

  “I can find you a place to live. You can hire whoever is immediately available. I want the well started as quickly as possible.”

  “Clare, be reasonable. The oil has been there a long, long time. It’ll wait for us.”

  “But I can’t wait.”

  ” Can’t? What do you mean?”

  Clare wished she could bite back the word. “I mean I don’t

  want to wait. Please, Ryan. It’s so very important to me.” Her eyes begged him to do as she asked.

  He sighed. “I guess I could try to hurry things into action, but what’s the rush?”

  “Please. Don’t ask so many questions. Just do as I ask.”

  Slowly, he started walking again, and she fell into step beside him. There it was again. The grasping, greedy side of her that was so at odds with the woman she seemed to be. But her eyes looked… desperate.

  “All right. I’ll try to start next month. Mind you, I said try. I’m not making any promises.”

  The strain in her expression eased somewhat. “Good! Let’s get some cotton candy.” She was relieved to change the subject.

  The European manor house atmosphere of the Hunt Room was a perfect setting for Ryan’s and Clare’s dinner guests. The room was dimly but cozily lit by wall sconces and a chandelier made of hunting bugles. In the back corner was a French Renaissance marble fireplace topped with a crested hood. Underfoot was a luxurious red Brussels carpeting. The unabashed grandeur about them made them all feel pampered and prosperous, as Ryan had intended that it should. Over escargots bourguignon and tournedos b?arnaise, Ryan convinced the three men and two women that they should join the syndicate to supply the remaining money for the project. By the time they finished their strawberries Romanoff, they were not only willing but eager to be involved.

  “You’re marvelous,” Clare said as they waited for the elevator. “You had them ready to drill tomorrow.”

  “I believe in it, or I wouldn’t have asked them to do it. They knew that and they know the risk. But the clincher is the fact that I’m investing a considerable amount of my own money. No smart business man would have considered it otherwise.” The indicator for the second floor lighted with his touch.

  “We’re on the seventh,” she protested. “You pressed the wrong button.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  The elevator doors opened and in front of them Clare saw the pool. They walked hand in hand beside it. Beneath the canopy to one side, two couples drank martinis while they talked. A svelte blond, wearing a bikini and carrying her towel, stepped into one of the saunas.

  Ryan led Clare beyond the pool to the far end of the upper patio. On the street below, three huge lit fountains spewed their liquid gold high into the air, creating a wonderland. To the left, a bronze statue of General Sam Houston sat astride a permanently prancing horse and pointed the way to the park. A high stone wall, covered with creeper vines, suggested a concealed residence beyond the fountains, but, as from their balcony, no houses could be seen.

  “It’s truly beautiful,” Clare gasped in awe. “Such a magnificent sight. And this is the perfect vantage point!”

  Ryan smiled, put his arm around her and kissed her lightly as she leaned against him. “I wanted you to see it for the first time when the lights were on. It’s pretty by day, but after dark it’s magic.”

  “Magic fountains grant wishes,” Clare said as she looked up into the green depths of his eyes.

  “Yes, and mine is going to come true,” he said confidently. Slowly, he lowered his head and kissed her, first gently, then with more feeling. With reluctance, he released her and looked down at her with a thoughtful expression. “Come on. Let’s go to our room.”

  “What did you wish?” she asked as they walked back by the pool.

  “If I tell you, it may not happen. I’ll show you instead… as soon as we get to our room.” He pushed the button for the seventh floor and put his arms around Clare. Tenderly, he kissed her, skillfully coaxing her to respond. Just at that moment, the elevator doors opened and Clare was all too aware of the disapproving glare of the well-fed ladies who were awaiting the elevator. Blushing furiously, she avoided their eyes and hurried down the hallway with Ryan, who was amused at her discomfort.

  “Don’t you suppose that those women have seen couples kissing before? Actually, I think they enjoyed it but won’t admit it,” he observed sagely.

  In their room, a cold split of champagne and two wine glasses awaited them.

  “To celebrate the beginning of our well,” Ryan explained.

  “But how…?”

  “I asked the waiter to have it sent up when I saw our money was secured. It’ll have to wait, though. I have something else in mind first. Remember my wish at the fountains?” He took her masterfully in his arms and kissed her passionately.

  Clare felt the blood pound in her temples as his hands roamed over her body. He removed her clothing easily and stroked her breasts, the curve of her hips and her back as his tongue explored her mouth. Her skin tingled against the roughness of his suit and Clare moaned in delicious anticipation. He lifted her easily and carried her to the bed.

  The maid had turned down the covers and left an after-dinner wafer on each pillow. Ryan brushed them aside impatiently as he lowered her head to the soft pillow. Again he kissed her ravenously, creating a tense excitement within her. Almost savagely, he pulled off his clothes and lay beside her, his mouth burning hers as his fingers deftly fondled her breasts and then ran lower to tantalize her most secret recesses.

  Too impatient to prolong the moment, Clare pulled him onto her and felt him slide deep inside her. With a gasp of pleasure, she felt the aching throb in her loins begin to build immediately. Moving her hips against his, she let the golden bubble of passion burst and grow again. Relentlessly, she urged him to a shuddering release to match her own.

  Ryan lay still in her arms, too satisfied to move. Drowsily, they dozed lightly, waking from time to time to kiss tenderly and stroke each other gently.

  “Who ravaged who?” he asked at last.

  “Whom,” she corrected sleepily. “I think it was mutual.”

  He shifted to one side and drew her head onto his shoulder. As she snuggled against him, he kissed her fragrant hair and stroked her smooth skin.

  “That feels so good,” she murmured. “Your champagne is probably getting warm, though.�
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  “That doesn’t matter. This is much more important.” He held her protectively against him.

  “Clare, I love you,” he said softly when she slept. “Someday you’re going to love me, too. That was the wish I made.” He knew she didn’t hear him, but a faint smile softened her already delicate features as she cuddled closer. He resolved somehow to win her trust enough for her to let him be a

  permanent part of her world. Whatever it was she was hiding and he was positive she was hiding something he was certain it would make no difference to him. He knew now that what he felt for her was love and he welcomed it.

  “I love you,” he whispered again, in a voice filled with wonder.

  Chapter Eleven

  Regina Wharton sat at her vanity, turning her head first one way, then another, to study the effects of her new hairstyle. She had spent all day in the beauty shop having her hair frosted in three subtle shades of blonde. The result was the look of a mane bleached by the sun. She shook her head experimentally and the newly formed waves bounced pleasingly. She smiled. It had been worth the exorbitant price the hairdresser had asked.

  Regina? Are you home?” her husband called from the entryway as he slammed the door behind him.

  She groaned and a frown wrinkled her forehead. Were those new creases at the corners of her eyes? she wondered. Hastily, she smoothed her skin.

  “Regina?”

  “Of course I’m here,” she snapped. “Where else would I be? And don’t track mud onto my clean carpet. You know it’s been raining outside.”

  Shamefaced, Howard looked over his shoulder at the row of smudges on the ivory carpet. There would be hell to pay… again. Even though the dirt would be cleaned by the maid and not by his wife, he knew there would be an