Orchids in Moonlight

by Patricia Hagan

  "No one comes to Pointe Grande without invitation," the taller of the two declared without greeting. "You will leave."

  "I will not leave."

  As she got out of the cart, both men raised their rifles, eyes dark in warning.

  "Now listen, you two," she began, hoping they couldn't hear how her knees were knocking together. Confronting angry faces and guns was frightening, but she'd be damned if she let them know it. "I didn't come out here hoping to be invited for dinner. I want less than five minutes of your boss's time, and that's what I'm going to have, or you're going to have to shoot me."

  "We can do that, senorita," the short one assured her.

  She liked him even less that his partner, because he grinned when he talked. A real cocky sort. "You probably could," she countered boldly. "You look like the sort who'd gun down a woman. But I'm not leaving here till I see him. So you can go tell him James Chandler's daughter has come all the way from Missouri and wants to know where he is. That's all I ask."

  The guards exchanged wary looks. They did not really want to shoot her and finally decided to risk Lavelle's wrath and let him make the decision as to what to do with her.

  After muttering to each other in Spanish, the short one went inside, while his cohort watched her suspiciously as she paced restlessly about the courtyard.

  After what seemed forever, the guard returned. Grudgingly, he told her, "You can go inside. He will speak with you. Enolita will take you to him."

  Enolita, a plump middle-aged Mexican woman, wore the same annoyed expression as the guards as she led Jaime through a twisting maze of corridors.

  Stepping through another set of double doors, she found herself on a bridgelike structure, walled, with round open windows on either side. A brisk wind was blowing across, and Jaime dared to pause and look down in the gathering twilight, shuddering at the gaping crevice in the rocks below.

  "Come, come," Enolita urged impatiently.

  A little way farther, she lingered once more, this time as they passed a large room with shining floors of mosaic tile. Thick draperies of royal blue velvet hung at the huge windows, and French doors led out to a terrace overhanging the crashing waters below. "A ballroom." She had time to marvel, seeing a raised platform to seat an orchestra at one end.

  Enolita tugged irritably at her arm.

  Clutching her satchel, Jaime hurried after her.

  Wondering how she would ever find her way back again, she was finally shown into what she supposed was Stanton Lavelle's study. It was the coziest spot she had seen so far. A leather sofa with matching chairs was positioned before a huge stone fireplace. Flames crackled in the grate. Rugs of bearskin and lamb's wool were scattered about the floor for warmth. In one corner was a huge desk, littered with papers. Lanterns bathed the room in a mellow, inviting light.

  Enolita motioned her to sit down, indicated she should help herself to the liquor sitting on a bar to one side, and left.

  Jaime looked at the crystal decanters, and her stomach gave a lurch. A drink of whiskey would surely knock her to her knees, as hungry as she was. How long had it been? Food had been plentiful on the steamer, but she had been trying to save her money and had eaten sparingly.

  Save her money, she thought scornfully. She had saved it, all right—for the wily crook who had run off with it. Now she wished she had spent every bit of it on the boat, stuffing herself till she ached.

  With a wave of delight, she saw a bowl of fruit, then realized she didn't know what it was. It looked like oranges but she was hesitant to eat one. But it was food, and she was starving. Still, it had not been offered to her, and she didn't want to be eating when Lavelle came in. Deciding a piece or two would not be missed and would be a blessing during the ride back to San Francisco, she quickly opened her satchel and dropped two of the oranges inside. She was about to close it but was unable to resist taking one more.

  "That's a pomegranate."

  Her hand froze in midair. She felt her face flame with embarrassment.

  "It's quite delicious, but I'm afraid it contains a lot of seeds. I had the plants brought over from Africa, and it's been interesting to get them growing here." He crossed the room and held out his hand. "I'm Stanton Lavelle, by the way. And you may help yourself," he added with a loose smile.

  She was so ashamed to be caught stealing. "I... I'm sorry," she stammered awkwardly. "It's just that it was a long way out here, and I haven't eaten, and I know it was terribly rude of me, but—"

  "Nonsense." He went to pull a cord hanging on the wall, and Enolita appeared almost at once. He instructed her to bring a tray of dinner. "Now then." He focused his attention on her once again. "You say James Chandler is your father?"

  "That's right."

  "And your name?"

  She introduced herself past the lump of chagrin still lingering in her throat.

  He gestured to the sofa. "I'm pleased to meet you, but frankly I'm astounded, fames never told me he had a daughter. I was under the impression he had no family."

  Settling before the fire, she appraised him as he seemed to be doing with her. He was of medium height and slender build. His dark hair was thinning on top, with silver creeping along the sides. He had a pencil-thin mustache, a firm set to his jaw, and Jaime thought she might have found him quite attractive if not for his eyes. Dark and piercing, they had a forbidding sheen, a coldness that was most disconcerting.

  "Why did you come to me?" he asked bluntly.

  "I was in hopes you could tell me where to find my father."

  He leaned back in his chair, gazing at her through templed fingers. He found her truly lovely and was fascinated by her brilliant golden hair. "How did you know of my acquaintance with him, and what makes you think I know where he is?"

  "The last letter I received, written nearly two years ago, said he was investing in your gold mine. Since yours was the only name he mentioned, and there's been no word from him since, I thought you might be able to tell me something."

  With a short laugh, he confided, "To be perfectly honest, I'd like to know where he is myself."

  Jaime gaped at him. "You mean you don't know? But what happened with your mine?" She didn't want to come right out and ask if her father's fears had come true, if it had, indeed, been a worthless venture.

  His eyes grew even darker. "I'm afraid we weren't able to find the mother lode. Your father then reneged on his promise to back up his investment, and I lost a great deal of money."

  Jaime shook her head from side to side in denial, a sinking feeling spreading throughout. "My father wouldn't do that without good reason."

  Stanton gave a hollow chuckle. "And what reason is good enough to make a man not keep his word? He put up a map, with samples of ore, to a mine he'd been working himself but didn't have the money to dig any deeper. That's why he wanted to invest with me, to get the funds for hydraulic mining to search for his own mother lode. Only the map he gave me was bogus. No gold was ever brought out of that worthless pit. He swindled me. He never had any intentions of backing up his pledge with his own mine."

  "I disagree." She refused to wither before his furious stare. "I think he put up a bogus map as protection against the possibility you might have been swindling him."

  Just then Enolita came with the food, and a tense silence descended while she placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa. Pouring Jaime a glass of Sangria and leaving the carafe, she hurried out.

  As hungry as she was, Jaime was far too upset to eat. Instead, she sipped the wine.

  Stanton drew a deep breath. "I did not swindle your father. He knew he was taking a chance that my mine would not produce, a chance every investor takes. But that does not give him or anyone else the right to go back on their word, their pledge."

  "Did you say all this to him?"

  "Of course, I did, but he ran away, disappeared. I tried to find him, but..." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  The spicy aroma of the food was starting to m
ake Jaime feel nauseated. Her stomach gave a lurch, and she took another sip of the sangria, hoping to soothe it.

  "I'm sure my father," she began, "would have given you the right map, or at least offered to buy back your interest in his mine, if he'd believed yours was an honest venture. He—" She broke off, swaying ever so slightly as he leaned forward, so close she could see the black specks on his irises and feel the anger emanating from him.

  "Did he tell you that?" he demanded hoarsely. "Did he tell you he was giving me the wrong map because he didn't trust me?"

  She was so weak and tired and hungry she could not think straight. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, she hedged. "I don't understand any of this, but I promise you my father is an honest man."

  "Then why did he give me a bogus map, and why did he run away?"

  She bit her lip and shook her head furiously. The food was making her sick to look at it. She pushed the tray away, "Is there anything you can tell me, Mr. Lavelle? Anything at all that might help me find my father? If there's been a misunderstanding, I assure you I'll straighten it out when I find him."

  Stanton saw that she had turned pale. He went and yanked the cord to summon Enolita again, then sat beside Jaime on the sofa. She was leaning forward, her head resting wearily in her hands. "We'll talk tomorrow," he said gently. "I'm going to have Enolita show you to a room, help you into bed, and get you some warm milk. Maybe a bowl of soup. I suspect you haven't eaten lately, and you shouldn't have drunk the sangria on an empty stomach."

  Jaime started to rise, but he held her back. "I can't stay here," she protested. "I don't know you, and I've no right to impose, especially after what happened between you and my father."

  "But don't you see?" he asked, incredulous. "That's the reason I insist you accept my hospitality."

  She turned to stare sharply. "But why? You think he's a crook."

  "But there was a time when we were close, and I considered him a friend, and because of that I want to help his daughter."

  Jaime was reluctant, although for the moment she had little choice but to accept. "Very well," she said finally, "but tomorrow we've got to have a long talk about all this."

  * * *

  The room Enolita took her to was on the top floor. A cool wind blew in from the ocean, stirring the white velvet draperies and billowing the canopy above the bed. There was a mahogany armoire, a washstand with pitcher and bowl, a mirrored dressing table, and a divan situated beneath the window.

  Enolita turned back the blankets on the bed and, in broken English, said she would be back with the milk and soup.

  Jaime changed into her nightshirt. She was exhausted and thought perhaps if she could sleep a little while, she would wake later and feel like eating.

  She was about to lie down when she remembered the map and her father's letters. Maybe she was worrying needlessly, but hiding them would make her feel better.

  Walking around, she noticed a thread hanging from the bottom of one of the draperies. Closer inspection revealed a loosening in the hem. The velvet was thick, with heavy folds. When she slipped the papers inside, they were not noticeable.

  Satisfied, she crawled into bed, and as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was fast asleep.

  She did not hear Enolita when she returned with the soup and milk, nor was she aware that Enolita searched her satchel.

  Chapter 18

  Cord's mouth felt as if it were full of sand, and his head was pounding like an anvil. He lay on his side, watching miserably as the first light of dawn began to creep through the hole that was supposed to be a window.

  The adobe was filthy and also cold from the ocean winds whipping through. Like all the ancient adobes dug out around the cliff, it had fallen to ruin. A miserable place for a rendezvous, he'd had no choice. Morena had heard he was back and sent a message by a trusted servant telling him to be there. He knew if he hadn't shown up, she'd probably have stormed right into the little guesthouse near the vineyards where he stayed, which would not have gone unnoticed by the vaqueros lodged not too far away.

  She had brought a jug of wine, which they'd quickly consumed, and this morning he was paying the price.

  He had told himself he only came back to explain what had happened so it couldn't be said he took Lavelle's money and ran off with it. But the real reason was Morena. He thought that being with her could make him forget Jaime.

  It hadn't worked.

  They had tried to make love, but it was Jaime's face he envisioned, her body he imagined he was caressing. Afterward, he had cursed himself for even making the effort.

  That last night, when he had sneaked into Jaime's room to leave the money, he'd had to force himself to keep on going. It was all he could do not to crawl in bed with her, take her in his arms, and never let her go.

  Only it wouldn't work.

  Not with her.

  Not with any woman.

  He tensed as Morena began to stir. Stretching languorously, she slid an arm around him and began to stroke his chest.

  He caught her wrist and held it. "You should have left a long time ago. It's almost light out."

  She pressed her lips to his shoulder. "I couldn't leave you. It's been so long." Yanking free of his grip, she moved her hand boldly to his crotch. "Make love to me. Now. You know you want to."

  He bolted from the bed and began yanking on his clothes.

  Annoyed by his rebuff, Morena propped on her elbows and watched him. "What is wrong with you? You've been away for months. It was bad enough you didn't send word to me the minute you got back, but now you don't want me. What's wrong?"

  Her blue-black hair was mussed and tangled about her face, which was puffy from too much to drink. Her chocolate eyes were watery and bloodshot. With her lips curved back in a furious snarl, she looked like some kind of demon.

  His own ire rising, he told her. "This is the reason I had to get away from you in the first place. You don't know when to stop. You were about to get us both killed, and you're starting up all over again. Now put your clothes on and get out of here before he realizes you stayed out all night."

  She fell back and yanked the covers up to her chin. "He doesn't care what I do."

  "As much money as he spends on you? You damn well better believe he cares. He'd try to have my balls on a platter if he knew I'd been tapping what's his."

  "If he cares so much, he should marry me. But no"—she slung her head from side to side—"he lets that shit-sack son of his run his life. He'll never marry me as long as Blake is around. And he promised. Even before she died. He said he'd kick her out and make me his wife."

  "And you were dumb enough to believe him and tried to hurry things along by making sure his wife found out he had a mistress, which was a big mistake. That's why his son knows about you. But take heart." He reached to tweak her cheek with thumb and forefinger. "He did move you into the house before she was cold in her grave."

  "I wanted more than that. And you know it. I wanted the respectability of marriage, not living with the servants."

  "Men never marry their mistresses, and you know it."

  "One day he will. You will see. But that has nothing to do with us. You will be my lover. I will never let you go."

  "Stop talking nonsense and get out of here." He snatched the covers from her and flung them back. "Damn, it smells musty in here. You haven't been taking lovers and keeping this place up while I was gone, have you?" He flashed a teasing grin, hoping to get her out of her mood so she'd hurry up and leave.

  It didn't work.

  Wrapping the blanket about her as she got out of bed, she hissed, "Bastardo! I have been with no one except him, which is the same as having nothing. I was ready for you. Ripe for you. But you cannot say that, can you? How many whores did you take while I was here, living for the night I could be in your arms?"

  "That's none of your business." He finished buttoning his shirt and reached for his holster. "Now you can stay here all morning if you want, but I've got things to do."<
br />
  "No," she squealed, lunging to wrap her arms about his shoulders and press her head against his chest as she pleaded. "Don't go. Not yet. Not till you love me."

  Gently, he disentangled himself and held her away from him but kept a good grip on her wrists, because she was plenty riled and he knew from experience what those long nails of hers could do. "Listen, damn it. We both knew when it started it couldn't last forever. You've got everything you want with him, and you're jeopardizing that by fooling around with me."

  "He uses me," she wailed. "I mean nothing to him."

  "And you use him, so it's a good arrangement, and you shouldn't ruin it. You aren't going to find a better deal, especially from me. I plan to hang around just long enough to raise the money to take me where I'm going, and right now I don't even know where that is."

  "But you came back because of me," she accused hotly. "I don't care how many whores you had. It's always been better with me, and you know it, and that's why you're here. You care about me. I don't know who she is or what she did to take you from me, but I'll fight for you, I swear it."

  "You never had me to lose. We had good sex. That was all. I told you way back then that you belong to him, and I'll never belong to any woman. That's the way it is, the way it has to be. When you stopped accepting it, I knew I had to back off. That's why I left you, and that's why I never should have come back."

  "You made me fall in love with you, and now you treat me like your whore. Let me go, damn you!"

  She dipped her head, intending to sink her teeth into his hand, but he saw what she was up to just in time to give her a shove that sent her sprawling backward across the bed. He finished strapping on his guns. "I'm sorry it had to end this way, but you can't say I wasn't honest from the start."

  She leaped from the bed and caught him as he made it to the door, flinging herself against him. "You don't mean it. Tell me you don't. Tell me you will see me again, or I swear I'll come to your hut."

  Cord turned and gave an exasperated sigh as she stood on tiptoe to shower his face with kisses, her hands all over him at once. Impassively, he stared down at her. "You're bound and determined to get us caught, aren't you? And what then? What are you going to do when he bounces your pretty little ass out and you've no place to go? You're sure as hell not going with me."