Fires of Paradise Read online

  "Why not? I bought you the stuff." He calmly took out a pair of gorgeous white, sheer, short, lacy things and added them to the clothing on the bed. "Sorry, princess, but Carmen doesn't wear chemises, camisoles, corsets, bust bodices, or any of those other things you ladies seem so fond of."

  "Of course not," Lucy said stiffly. "She wouldn't." She took the clothing and, head high, turned her back on him. She might be a mass of overwrought nerves on the inside, but outside she would be all aristocratic disdain and dignity. She was Lucy Bragg from the Braggs of New York and Texas, and damned if she would let anyone forget it.

  Lucy entered her room, closing the door behind her. She was trembling again. She walked to the bureau and grimly surveyed herself in the round mirror hanging on the wall. It was a mistake to do so. She was not surprised at what she saw, she was beyond that. Yet she was taunted with Carmen's exotic—and erotic—image.

  Lucy knew she had never looked worse, but what did it matter in this hellhole? Her face was sweaty, dusty, grimy. Her hair hung in the one ponytail, knotted the best she could. Tendrils were escaping riotously everywhere. Her cheek was bruised from her fall into the gorge. She shrugged out of her ripped jacket, letting it drop to the floor. The shirtwaist followed, then everything followed, until she wore only her thin chemise and shortened skirts.

  Now she appeared as indecent as Carmen. Lucy cocked one hip out and placed her hand on it, then thrust her chest forward. Her breasts were firm and full, straining against the thin chemise, molded precisely by the fine, expensive fabric. Her nipples were visible, darker shadows, now becoming hard and pointed. Lucy eyed the size of her waist, a tiny twenty-one inches on her five foot eight inch frame. With her broad shoulders and full breasts, it looked even smaller. She felt a small surge of satisfaction. Carmen didn't have anything that she didn't have. She was merely a slut to show it off, while she, Lucy, was a lady born and bred— and much more than that, she was a Society heiress. She gave her reflection a reassuring smile. "Put some clothes on."

  Lucy whirled to meet Shoz's angry expression. She froze; his glance settled on her barely clad breasts and then he picked up her jacket and threw it at her. Lucy saw a man's leering face behind him, and she hastily held it in front of her. Shoz gave her a hard look and stepped aside so that two dark, dusty men could bring in an old wooden tub.

  The two men looked unsavory, like the worst sort of outlaws, and Lucy pretended they were invisible. She was clearly visible to them, however, for they eyed her lasciviously, as if they could see through her skirts and the jacket she held so protectively over her bosom. Then Shoz called out an order, and they dropped their gazes as they put down the tub and strode out, quickly enough.

  They had frightened her in a way Shoz never had. Lucy lifted her wide blue eyes to his.

  He kicked the door shut. It reverberated like thunder cracking right overhead. Lucy jumped. "This isn't Paradise!" he shouted.

  "No, it's not, is it?" To her horror, she heard her voice crack, for she was suddenly so close to tears. Lucy sat down on the bed, the jacket slipping to her lap. She didn't look at him. She struggled for control. She would die and be damned before he would know how upset she was—and why.

  "Lucy. .."

  The intensity of his tone made her look up. His gaze was riveted to hers. She was held there against her will for an endless moment, while inside she wanted to scream at him for being a bastard and a liar and for having a wife. His gaze slipped. Lucy recovered, shielding herself with the jacket once more.

  He recovered, too. "Don't flaunt yourself—not here!" "Flaunt myself?" She was on her feet. He would accuse her of flaunting herself when his wife paraded around with¬out chemise, corset, or anything else?

  He pointed at the jacket she clutched to her nearly naked chest. "I can control my men—usually. But not if they're given unholy provocation."

  "Unholy provocation!" she screamed. "Or were you flaunting for me?" She threw the jacket at his head. He caught it and tossed it to the floor. "You conceited ass," she said, hitting him as hard as she could right across the face.

  It felt so good. It had nothing to do with his accusing her of flaunting herself; it had everything to do with his having a wife. He was stunned. For a second he just stood there, in disbelief, the crack of the slap echoing between them.

  Suddenly realizing what she had done, Lucy backed up, but her legs hit the bed, and she sat down, hard.

  She didn't stay sitting for long. He jerked her up, against his body, and she could feel every muscular inch of him, from the tip of his toes to the jut of his chin. "You bitch," he said, and he kissed her.

  Lucy did not want to be kissed. His mouth was very hard and very aggressive, but she refused to open hers. He was very hard, and equally aggressive; Lucy tried to twist her body away from intimate contact with his. He wouldn't let her. He clamped down on her buttocks and kept her pressed against his hot, hard erection.

  Fortunately, and Lucy knew it was fortunate because damn him, he still had power over her, one of the men knocked on the door, calling out. Shoz went still; Lucy went still. He was panting; so was she. He set her away from him, his grip hard and bruising. Then he found her jacket and shoved it at her. Lucy grabbed it and scooted as far from him as she could get.

  The man entered with two buckets of steaming water, his partner behind him with two more buckets. Shoz strode out as they filled the tub. His strides were long and hard, and she heard his door adjacent to hers slam closed. She didn't move. The two men grinned at her and left. Lucy raced to the door and shut it. Thank God it had a bolt; she threw it down.

  She leaned against the wall, trembling. Anger, fear, and even arousal coursed in her veins, the emotional jumble nearly overwhelming. It was a long time before she was calm enough to shed her clothes and bathe.

  Chapter 26

  It seemed as if Lucy had sat on her bed with her knees drawn up and cradled in her arms for a small eternity. Her hair had dried, and outside, the sun was completing its descent.

  Lucy didn't know how she felt anymore, so she had stopped thinking. Her thoughts had only been tortured and confused. Not thinking was a relief. Instead, her back against the wall, facing her bolted door, she sat like a zombie in an exhaustion as emotional as it was physical. She turned her head slightly to watch the sunset through the open window. She found that she couldn't see it. Of course. The light outside was dimming rapidly, but the monstrous walls of this dead valley monopolized her view. Soon it would be dark.

  The delicious aromas of spicy stews and fried tortillas began wafting into her room. Lucy sat up straighter. Nothing had ever smelled so wonderful. What she wouldn't give for a good meal. Thinking about food was also a relief; it gave her a new focus. Would she be summoned? She waited a few minutes, the aromas becoming stronger. And then there was a knock on her door. It was the old woman. ' 'Senorita, come to eat."

  Lucy hesitated, more to fortify herself with strength than with uncertainty, then stood and went to the door. She slid the bolt and walked out.

  Carmen, Shoz, and the little boy sat at the big table, with Shoz at its head.

  Her heart sank. The three of them were eating and had apparently just started. Now everyone paused to regard her. Lucy looked away before she could meet Shoz's gaze. There was no fourth place set for her, and even if there were, she could not join them. She would not. But was she to eat in the kitchen like a maid? It was one blow after another. The thought occurred to her that she could take a tray to her room; then she reminded herself that this was not New York. They undoubtedly did not even possess trays around here, and even if they did, they would surely think she was sulking. The kitchen seemed to be the only alternative. She started that way, but not without glancing once more at the cozy scene.

  "Who's that, Papa?"

  "Her name is Lucy. Where are you going?"

  She froze in her tracks. She turned slowly to face him. "I'm going to get some food."

  "The food is here on the table. Linda, brin
g another plate." He began eating with the absorption of someone long denied adequate fare.

  Carmen gasped and began protesting angrily to the indirect invitation. As if Lucy would accept! "No, thank you, I prefer to dine alone." She hurried into the kitchen.

  She wanted to hit something or someone, she wanted to weep. As if she could sit there at that table with them— with him and his family.

  But of course, she did neither. Instead, she inspected the pots and pans, found a plate, and helped herself to hefty servings of everything. There was a stool by the worktable, which hadn't been cleaned. Lucy sat down there. Grimly she took stock of the situation: eating at a meat-stained worktable covered with bits of flour and raw vegetables in the kitchen, like a servant. While that criminal dined like a king, outside—with his whorish wife and his son. She picked at her food, no longer quite so hungry. Somehow, through all of this, she would have to maintain her dignity. It seemed to be all she had left.

  Carmen came in, shooting her snide looks, carrying the dishes from the table. Lucy ate, ignoring the other woman, listening to Shoz telling his son it was time for bed.

  "Papa, it's early!" Roberto protested.

  "I'm going to bed, too," Shoz said. "If you want me to tuck you in. . ." It was a bribe and Roberto readily agreed.

  Tears misted her eyes. Lucy kept her gaze down, not about to let Carmen see anything. With the little boy, his tone was warm, teasing, and gentle. She imagined him tucking Roberto into bed, and it brought an unbearable ache. She couldn't eat anymore. She heard Shoz saying good night, a door closing—then another one closing.

  So he was going to sleep early, too. Lucy didn't want to think beyond that. She didn't dare,

  Carmen threw an apron at her. "You did no work," she said, hands on her hips. "You clean everything. I'm going to bed." She smiled, tauntingly.

  Lucy drew herself upright. "I am not going to clean this kitchen!"

  "Shoz said you are to help me. Did you help me today? No! So clean up here!"

  Lucy didn't move. Her heart was thumping. "Where I come from," she said distinctly, "we have fifty servants to cook and clean. Fifty! I have never cooked in my life, I have never cleaned in my life. And I never will! That," she added, "is for your class of people."

  Carmen's black eyes widened. "Stupid bitch!" she cried. Before Lucy could move, she had grabbed Lucy's thick braid and was wrenching it roughly. Lucy gasped from pain and tried to free herself. She stopped all her efforts, however, when she saw the knife Carmen held an inch from her scalp.

  No one in her life had ever abused her physically before. It was a shock.

  "I will cut it off," Carmen hissed. "You won't be so pretty then, will you? So do as I say!"

  Lucy didn't respond, genuinely frightened. Carmen was volatile in a way Shoz was not. Lucy was afraid the woman would cut off all her beautiful hair. And then do worse. Carmen released her. Lucy was trembling.

  "Now I am going to bed," Carmen announced, emphasizing the last word with a smug look. She smiled and walked off.

  Lucy sat at the dirty table and pushed her plate away, trying to recover. Her hands shook. Such abuse was too much to bear! That woman had been a scant instant from severing her braid from her head! That woman, his wife! She was a monster! But what could she do?

  Lucy heard a door closing. A rush of memories assailed her, all of them of her and Shoz, his hands and mouth devouring her. She imagined what was going on that very minute behind his bedroom door. She saw him touching Carmen, kissing her, holding her naked buttocks while he thrust himself into her. Lucy screwed her eyes shut. She couldn't handle imagining such a thing, not now!

  But her imagination was uncontrollable; all she could seem to think about was the two of them together. Abruptly Lucy lunged to her feet and ran from the kitchen. She had to escape this house, she had to escape them! She rushed onto the front porch, stumbled down the steps, and did not pause in her wild run until she had reached one of the trees by the creek. She leaned against it, panting. Her face was wet, from her own tears.

  Was it only a few hours ago that he had held her, kissed her? But that had been because she had slapped him. Still, he had kissed her and he had wanted her; there had been no doubt of that. With his own wife in the very same house. It was shocking, but she was no longer shocked; it was disgusting, but she wasn't disgusted. She just couldn't bear it. She had to face it. She was hurt and angry, as if she were the wife betrayed!

  If only she could escape more than this house. If only a real escape were possible.

  It wasn't. Lucy would never even attempt it. Even if she could escape this damn valley, she would never find her way out of the Sierra Madres and to civilization, never. She was going to have to remain here, a semiprisoner, his hostage, until he set her free. She realized that despite his lies and his betrayal, she still believed that he would keep his word and release her as soon as it was safe to do so.

  Lucy wiped her eyes, realizing it was only a matter of time. And time was something she could survive. She was young and she was strong, and if she could just get her wild emotions under control, she would cope and do it well. She must remind herself frequently of the actual facts: She was Lucy Bragg, he was an outlaw. She did not want him, they did not suit each other, they would never suit each other. Carmen suited him. Perfectly.

  He stared out the window into the night. He was gripping the sill, but he couldn't see much, because he had chosen the bedroom facing west—the one facing the major entrance to the valley. Oh, he could see the darker outline of the ragged rim of the valley, and if it were daylight, he would have a view to its very end. But he couldn't see her.

  He had heard Lucy leave the house, and he knew by listening acutely that she had rounded the other side to go toward the creek. He pictured her running, Carmen's gypsy skirts billowing around her, revealing lots of long, sexy leg.

  "Caro?" Carmen slithered from the bed and came up behind him, pressing her naked breasts against his bare back. He still wore his jeans, and with her hand, she gripped him through the denim. He was full and turgid, but not because of her. He was aroused because he wanted Lucy.

  "You miss me," she said, satisfied. She kissed his shoulder, then bit it. He flinched.

  She rubbed the length of him expertly. "Come to bed."

  He was insane—either that or obsessed. He turned abruptly, removing her hands. "Later." He shoved past her, and barefoot, headed for the bedroom door.

  Her eyes went wide. "Where are you going?"

  Shoz wasn't a liar. "Outside." "Why!"

  He could have lied, he could have said he was going to relieve himself. He didn't, he opted for silence. Carmen's scream made up for it. "You bastard! You're going to her!"

  He didn't answer.

  Shoz listened intently to the quiet of the house, to the stillness of the night. He went to Roberto's room and very quietly pushed the door open. Roberto was afraid of the dark and slept with a small gas lamp burning. Despite these modern times, electricity and running water had not come to much of Mexico—much less Death Valley.

  The boy was sleeping peacefully, and Shoz backed out silently. He was disturbed as he left the house, and he admitted it. On the porch he paused, gripping the post rail, searching the darkness by the river with his eyes. There was not a sound to disturb the thick, hot stillness of the pitch-black valley. There was no movement; not even a leaf quivered. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten an eerie feeling of unreality, standing outside in the heavy quiet of a night like this. But tonight there was more than that. He felt lonely. It was an old feeling, one he was not comfortable with and did not like. Not at all.

  He made out her form after a second pass, because she was leaning against a tree, almost merged with it, giving it a grotesque shape. He hesitated.

  He had never been faithful to Carmen—just like she wasn't faithful to him. They had been together for five years, and it would have lasted only five days—if it weren't for Roberto.

  Thinking about Rober
to made him clench up inside. There was no precise parallel, but Roberto reminded him of himself in a way. He made him think about how lucky he had been that his mother—Candice, the woman who had raised him—had loved him as if he were her own son, so much so, he'd never known the truth until told. Roberto had a real mother, but Carmen had none of Candice's love to give to her son. Shoz identified with the boy strongly, even though there was really nothing similar in their circumstances. Shoz had had a doting father—who had raised him with a loving stepmother. Roberto had a selfish, self-absorbed mother, and legally he had no father at all.

  It had been almost five years now since he'd started up with Carmen, and more important, five years since he'd first mussed up a tiny toddler's black head. He knew he was Roberto's anchor, his rock, and something of his hero. Shoz hoped fervently that the day would never come when Roberto would find out the truths about him and become bitterly disillusioned.

  On his part, he and Carmen had stayed together because of Roberto and convenience. Carmen and he had a very unusual, mutually self-serving relationship. In bed, they satisfied each other; outside of bed, he paid little attention to her. As long as Carmen was the queen of his bedroom, she did not care. Carmen knew nothing of his affairs, and didn't suspect that he knew of hers. She didn't know of his affairs because he was away from Death Valley often, and she always stayed behind. He had never taken any of the women in the valley, because none of them were very desirable, and Carmen pleased the hell out of him—and any man, he suspected—in bed. And he had never brought another woman here, either. But now Lucy was here. Which was why he was so disturbed. He hadn't believed he had any decency left, but maybe he did. Why else would he be hesitating on the porch like a schoolboy? He owed Carmen very little, if anything. He used her, she used him. But she did live in his house, and they had spent five years together, even if they'd been apart as often as not. He didn't care what she did, because he didn't care about her, but if she did something under his nose, she would be testing his tolerance. Just as she would be enraged if he took Lucy now.