by Ryan, Nan
It took all his willpower to keep from letting his free hand move up to caress the softness of those bare breasts; from again filling his hands with her and teasing at the tempting pink peaks until she was once more calling his name with abandon. He longed to move the restraining hand from her soft, sweet lips and put his mouth where his hand had been; to bruise those honeyed lips with heated passion from his hard, demanding mouth, instead of punishing it with his dry, clasping hand.
Sighing heavily, he said coldly, “I’ll move my hand, Angel, and I’ll leave you. Unless you want the entire sleeping household to know what has happened, I’d strongly advise you to stifle your sobs in your pillow.” With that, both his arms fell away from her and he rose once again from the bed. He strolled leisurely to the door, and when he reached it he couldn’t keep from turning back to look at her.
In all his life he’d never seen such cold fury in a pair of eyes. He’d faced men on the other end of a gun trying to kill him, who hadn’t looked nearly so outraged. He’d faced jealous husbands out to revenge their misbehaving wives, who hadn’t looked half so savage. He’d left lovers who’d threatened to cut out his heart with a dagger, but never had he seen such blinding wrath. The soft, angelic-looking young woman had taken on the wild, vicious appearance of an animal, and Pecos felt a shudder go through his long, lean body.
When Angie flung the sheet aside and leaped from the bed, Pecos felt a cold chill on the back of his neck. For a second he wondered if the daring little hellcat intended to fly across the room and claw him to pieces. Fascinated, he watched as she picked up the money he’d thrown on the bed. Naked, she walked slowly, determinedly across the room to him. His body tensing, he waited. She stopped directly in front of him and smiled up at him, a strange, eerie smile that didn’t reach her wild green eyes. A groan of something close to fear came from his dry throat when she reached out a small hand to take hold of the tight waistband of his black trousers. Jerking him to her with a strength that amazed him, she looked into his eyes and thrust the wadded bills down inside his pants. Releasing the money, she brashly gripped him, causing him to wince in pain.
“If you ever put this in me again, I’ll kill you!” She released him and stepped back. “Get out of here,” she hissed coldly. Pecos, silently applauding her daring and guts, shook his head in surprise and, half aroused, half afraid, he left her room.
Shaking his dark head, Pecos made his way silently down the darkened hall and back to his room. Inside he poured himself a stiff drink of bourbon to calm his jittery nerves. Draining the glass, he slammed it down on the bureau and headed for his big bathroom, stripping as he went.
While the tub was filling, Pecos stepped out of his tight trousers and gasped. There on the inside of his left thigh, two or three bright red drops of blood made his gray eyes widen. Puzzled and alarmed, he could think only that the very angry, wild-eyed Angel had scratched him when she put her hand into his trousers and grabbed him. Carefully examining himself for any signs of serious or permanent damage, Pecos, satisfied everything was intact and unharmed, stepped into the tub, bathed away the blood and forgot about it.
Her heart exploding in her chest, Angie whirled around after Pecos had gone and leaned back against the closed door. Desperately fighting the sobs and screams tearing at her aching throat, she slowly slid down the hard, polished surface of the heavy mahogany door.
Never in her young life had she hated another human being the way she now hated Pecos McClain. The revulsion she felt for the dark, despicable man surpassed any emotion she’d ever experienced; its intensity was so devastating, she felt ill. She loathed the heartless, detestable animal. She felt bile rise like venom in her painful throat and, closing her tear-filled eyes, Angie thought for the first time ever that she could understand what drove people to murder. She could see nothing evil in the strong desire to plunge a sharp knife deep into Pecos’s hard chest, not stopping until his lifeblood gushed hotly from his body and he crumpled at her feet, those mocking gray eyes glazed with pain and shock, while she smiled down at him, happy, hysterical laughter bubbling from her triumphant lips.
Tiredly, Angie dragged herself to the rumpled bed and collapsed on her stomach to cry out her agony. Beside her on the mattress, sweethearts atop the gold-and-pearl music box still embraced, though their dancing feet were still, the music long since ended. With a swipe of her slender arm, Angie sent the box crashing to the floor, and wave after wave of nausea claimed her shaking, naked body as the depth of her hatred for Pecos tore at her burning insides.
A hatred as powerful as the heated passion that had raged out of control between them when they had both surrendered to consuming, all-encompassing desire.
Chapter Twenty-One
HOLLOW-EYED AND HAGGARD, Angie watched the longest night of her life finally turning into the cold gray of dawn. She’d not slept. She might never sleep again. When the first flood of tears had abated, Angie had bathed in water so hot she had very nearly been scalded. Anxious to remove any traces of Pecos, she had scrubbed and scrubbed until she could no longer lift her tired arms.
Shamed, brokenhearted and miserable, Angie drew one of the many untouched nightgowns from her bureau and slipped it over her head. It was the first time she’d ever worn one. She had found, even after Miss Emily had insisted that she have a dozen new white nightgowns, that she preferred to sleep naked. While the soft white cotton slid down over her hips, Angie silently cursed herself for being naked when Pecos had entered her room. Maybe if she’d been wearing a nightgown, it wouldn’t have happened. Foolishly, Angie promised herself she would never sleep without one again.
Angie gasped when she dragged herself tiredly back to the bed. Drops of blood on the silky yellow sheets gave testimony to what had happened. Angie’s tears began anew and she whirled about, refusing to get back into the bed. She sat up all night, head resting against the tall back of a winged chair by the cold fireplace, knees pulled up against her aching chest. Angie sat the long night through, never closing her red-rimmed eyes.
It was a night of agony. A tidal wave of emotions flooded through her—disjointed, strange, frightening. Weakness would overcome her and Angie would squirm, remembering the glorious lovemaking that had changed her into a woman. Again and again she would feel Pecos’s heated lips, his practiced hands, his long, lean body on hers; hear his deep, persuasive voice murmuring endearments while beside them a sweet, tinkling melody sprang from the gold-and-pearl music box.
Close on the heels of remembered, golden pleasures, the sight of Pecos rising from her in disgust, tossing money at her feet, calling her a prostitute, sprang before her eyes and her heart contracted. She groaned in despair and hatred. She did hate Pecos. She hated him more than she knew it was possible to hate another human being. And she feared him; he was cruel, cold, without feeling. He’d used her, debased her and then laughed in her face.
Angie shivered. He’d be back. He’d come to her again when his animal urges dictated and take her with no consideration of her feelings. Could she fight him off? If he wanted her again, could she stop him? Could she keep herself from giving in to his lust? To her own? He had only to walk across the courtyard and fling himself upon her. Barrett and Miss Emily slept upstairs; neither would hear or see Pecos coming to her room, just as neither had seen or heard tonight. She was virtually unprotected against an unprincipled, uncaring man with an avaricious sexual appetite. He had no use for her, of that she was certain, but she was just as certain that Pecos had enjoyed the act of love, just as she had. He’d come back. She was not safe.
By dawn, Angie’s decision was made. It was the only solution, the only way to keep last night’s tragic mistake from happening again. Calmly she dressed, brushed lifelessly at her long, tangled hair and prepared to join Barrett McClain on the south patio for breakfast. Pinching at her ghost-white cheeks, Angie stepped out into the corridor and made her way to the patio on legs of lead.
“Good morning, Barrett,” Angie said, looking down at the
white-haired man.
“Angie, dear!” He rose so abruptly the napkin fell from his knees.
Miss Emily set her china cup in its saucer, surprised to see the young woman up and immediately concerned at her pale coloring. “Dear,” she chirped sweetly, “you shouldn’t have risen. You look so white; are you ill?”
Angie took the chair Barrett pulled out for her, took a deep breath and smiled. “I’m just fine. I got up because I need to speak to you, Barrett.”
“Certainly, dear,” he said as he reclaimed his chair and studied her, puzzled.
“I was wondering if … I thought perhaps we …”
Barrett leaned closer, putting a hand to her slender shoulder. “What, Angie?”
Miss Emily thoughtfully offered, “Dear, if you prefer to speak to Barrett alone, I’ll be happy to leave the two of you.”
“No.” Angie looked up. “No, there’s no need for you to leave.” She turned to Barrett. “Barrett, when I came to Tierra del Sol and we discussed our marriage, you explained that we would wait for six months to get better acquainted. I don’t want to wait any longer; let’s get married now.”
His heart speeding out of control, Barrett McClain swallowed, his eyes wide. “My dear! It was for your sake that I suggested we wait, but if you wish …”
“I do wish. I want to marry you immediately.” Paying no attention to the shock registered on Miss Emily’s pretty face, Angie hurried on. “How soon can we be married?”
His face red from the excitement, Barrett, as stunned as his sister-in-law, but deliriously happy, said, “Why, dear, as soon as we can have your wedding dress made. I should think in two or three weeks we could—”
“No, Barrett. I don’t care about a wedding dress. Let’s get married this week. I want to be your wife; I want to move upstairs into the mistress’s suite as Mrs. Barrett McClain. I want us to marry now.”
Barrett took her hand in his. Angie fought the revulsion; his touch was icy, as though there was not enough blood reaching his extremities. She shook off the thought and listened to him speak. “My dear, I will immediately speak to the minister, and surely somewhere in Marfa we can find a suitable wedding gown.”
“I’m sure we can,” she said, trying to smile, as she unobtrusively pulled her hand from his.
Delores appeared and poured Angie’s coffee. She heard the last part of the conversation and was as stunned as Barrett and Miss Emily, though she carefully kept her shock to herself. She smiled brightly when Barrett said to her, “Delores, cook this young lady a huge breakfast. We must keep her healthy; she is going to become Mrs. Barrett McClain on Saturday.”
“Ah, that is wonderful.” Delores nodded her head and hurried away, her heart almost as heavy as Angie’s. She had hoped from the beginning that Angie and Pecos would become sweethearts and that Angie would marry the McClain son, not the father.
Angie sat distractedly trying to pay attention to the excited ramblings of her future husband. It wasn’t easy. His rising and falling voice was an irritant to her ears. Her aching head throbbed with pain and sleeplessness; her face was puffy and her eyes were scratchy from weeping. The heart inside her chest was heavy, though shattered in a million pieces. Her stomach was afire, rolling, twisting, alive with pain. Between her legs, a delicate soreness unlike any she’d ever known was the worst of all. The tenderness there was a constant heartbreaking reminder that Pecos had taken something from her she could never reclaim. He’d known her as no other man ever had, as no man would again, and to him it had meant absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.
Angie was miserably unhappy, but at least this upcoming marriage would accomplish what she intended. As the wife of Barrett McClain she would be moved upstairs to the safety of the huge mistress’s suite adjoining Barrett’s. It would be impossible for the wicked, callous Pecos to get into her room, into her bed, into her body.
She sat coolly sipping her coffee while the aging white-haired man beside her spoke spiritedly of plans for the forthcoming wedding. She heard little of what he was saying. Angie knew there was still one place the desirable Pecos could enter.
Her aching heart.
PECOS WATCHED the lovely pale girl coming down the long aisle of the church. Pain gripped his heart as though powerful clutching hands had reached inside his chest cavity and twisted cruelly. Angie’s smooth, flawless face wore a faint smile, her expression calmly serene, yet about her was that injured bird essence that made Pecos yearn to tenderly enfold her in his arms and protect her from the unspeakable grief she was bargaining for, taking Barrett McClain for her lawful husband.
Sickly, Pecos envisioned the young, sensual beauty lying naked with his lusting, eager, white-haired father, beaming now so proudly beside him. Pecos knew very well the devil’s desire that lived there beneath the facade of dignity and godliness.
Angel neared the altar. The young Jezebel stepped forward to clasp his father’s hand in holy matrimony. Pecos was filled with his own consuming lust for her, and he hated himself for his weakness. Too vivid was the memory of that one glorious night in her bed. He was tortured by the recollection of soft, honeyed lips moving under his; full, ripe breasts filling his mouth; silken thighs and flat belly moving against his hard flanks; sweetly swollen femininity, hot and moist, clasping him, holding him, driving him wild with ecstasy before bringing him to an unequaled, earth-shattering release.
Pecos clamped the inside of his jaw with sharp, punishing teeth. Angel reached them and Barrett offered her his arm. A small, lace-covered hand slipped around his elbow and she looked up at Barrett and smiled. Statue-still, Pecos stood through the agonizingly long ceremony, trying valiantly to keep his tortured eyes and lust-filled thoughts from the beautiful bitch so softly repeating the marriage vows in a sweet, little-girl voice. After an interminable time, the rites were finally drawing to the end and the preacher said, “Shall we pray.”
Pecos bowed his head as painful emotions warred within him and he fought to remain composed. A monotone voice droned on and on in a prayer offered up for the newlyweds, and try as he might, Pecos couldn’t keep his betraying eyes from lifting to look once again at Angel. His heart tripped under his ribs. She was looking directly at him, though her lovely veiled head was slightly bowed. Slowly she raised it and their intense gazes locked, and in those beautiful emerald eyes, so deep and fathomless, he saw just a flicker of … despair? Regret? Longing?
The golden head lowered once again, and before the “amen” was sounded, Pecos had made up his mind. He would leave. Immediately. He’d not even remain for the wedding celebration. He couldn’t. He could no longer remain at Tierra del Sol with Angel his father’s wife. Should he remain in residence at the ranch, he knew the fire between them would rage again and would burn them all.
“Amen.” The minister was echoed by many in the huge crowd packing the stone church. Seconds later, Barrett McClain and Angie Webster were pronounced man and wife, and Pecos watched the white head bend to Angie as Barrett gave her a chaste, fatherly peck on her cheek. While those dry, thin lips brushed her pale face, Angie’s eyes again lifted to Pecos. Bright tears shone in them.
Barrett McClain beamed proudly, turned his new bride around and propelled her eagerly down the aisle to the back of the church where rice-throwing well-wishers waited for the pair. Pecos watched the small satin-clad figure disappear out into the bright September sunlight and the blistering late-summer heat. He released a painful breath. For the first time in his life, he could not fully understand his emotions. The crowd was on its feet, making its way out of the church. It was over.
Pecos shook his dark head as though he could clear it. He felt he must be going loco. What difference did it make that the flaxen-haired hussy was now the wife of his father? Let her warm an old man’s bed for her keep. Let her get her tiny hands on a portion of the McClain fortune by using her obvious carnal talents. Half of it would still belong to him, and he’d figure a way to get the other half back in time.
Pecos stepped out in
to the sunshine and blinked. His Aunt Emily came to his side. She looped her arm through his and said, “It was a nice ceremony, wasn’t it, darling?”
“Splendid,” he said evenly and smiled at her, leading her to a waiting carriage. They joined the large cavalcade of buggies, wagons, carts and saddle ponies headed for Tierra del Sol and the day-long wedding festivities.
“Pecos, dear.” Emily looked at the gloved hands folded in her lap. “You … you won’t torment Angie now that she’s …”
Pecos, clicking his tongue to the horses, looked straight ahead. “Honey, I won’t torment anyone. I’m leaving for Mexico today.”
Feeling immediately sad at the prospect of his departure, she looked at his handsome face. It was unreadable. “I see,” she said resolutely. “Pecos, she … Angie doesn’t mean anything to you, does she?” Her eyes were full of tenderness and concern for her only nephew.
“Sweetheart—” he swung his gray eyes to her “—of course she means something to me.” He saw the look of worry in his aunt’s kind eyes and, laughing uproariously, added, “Why, she’s my own dear stepmommy.” He continued to laugh and his aunt laughed with him. But her laughter was rather forced.
Not nearly so forced as the deep, convincing laughter of Pecos McClain.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DESPITE THE BRIEF TIME for preparation, the festive wedding celebration was one of grandeur and elegance. An orchestra from San Antonio, four hundred miles away, sat on a flower-decorated dais. The musicians sweltered in their dark tuxedos as they played lovely, romantic ballads. Strolling mariachis from Ojinaga, Mexico, entertained during the hourly intermissions.
