Return of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  She, too, had well-connected friends.

  She also knew how to use a gun if they continued to harass her, although the very thought of shooting someone made her nauseous.

  Gabriel stirred beside her, his thigh pressing against hers as he turned to speak to Sorina, now seated on the other side of him at the head table. Warmth seeped through fabric, creating a telltale flutter in her stomach, a momentary respite from the clawing worry. Her mind drifted as a distant memory beckoned her . . . a picnic on a bluff overlooking the sea, where she and Gabriel had sat side by side in the warm sun, touching.

  She shook herself and gritted her teeth. Why was she remembering their picnic now? It had been so long ago, and had been made meaningless by—but she would not think about that.

  Instead, she let her gaze float across the sea of faces, searching for Captain Sutherland. He was at the edge of the room, but his back was to her. Surely he could feel her eyes on him and would turn and smile. Seeing his face would warm her more than Gabriel’s thigh, which was still touching hers, creating little tingles along her leg.

  As if he felt the tingle, too, Gabriel turned, and the heat intensified with the expression on his face. He didn’t move away, instead he lifted his fork and grinned at her before taking a bite.

  “You’re not eating, my dear. Is the food not to your liking?”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “It’s been hours since breakfast. And there will only be a light supper around midnight tonight. Unless you’re hoarding food in your room, you should eat. What if you faint? I’ll have to carry you to your room, perhaps fling you over my shoulder like a sack of flour, my hand resting on your delectable bottom.”

  She could imagine his hand pressing her bottom, perhaps kneading it after they found a secluded spot.

  She squirmed in her seat. “You know, Gabriel, your manners are atrocious,” she hissed. “How dare you speak to me in such an intimate way?”

  He leaned closer. “Afraid someone might overhear? Or do you not want them to see the delightful blush on your cheeks and wonder what caused it?”

  “You are insufferable.”

  He moved back and placed his hand over his heart. “To think you were complimenting me just a few minutes ago.”

  “I should have known better.”

  His grin lit up his face, showing perfect teeth and dancing eyes. She didn’t know whether she wanted to smack him or kiss him. Both urges were strong. Neither was acceptable in company.

  She pretended to eat, chewing a bite of thin-crusted roll that tasted like cardboard. Señor Vega had outdone himself with this lavish midday meal. Too bad her appetite had vanished after her brief, unforgettable conversation with Logan.

  Why is he so intent on acquiring my land?

  She’d asked herself that question many times and still had come to no conclusion. Her property was a cattle ranch, like all the others in the area. It had hills, valleys, and good pastureland on mesas at higher elevations, as well as a reliable source of water from natural springs. But she couldn’t picture Drake Logan as a farmer.

  Picking up her champagne glass, she realized it was empty. Frowning, she turned to signal a waiter to refill it, but none were in sight, and Gabriel was deep in conversation with Sorina’s husband. She’d have to get it herself.

  Her chair scraped the floor as she moved it back. Instantly alerted, Gabriel peered at her questioningly.

  “I’m getting another glass of champagne.”

  “Should you have another? You’ve hardly eaten.”

  “You’re telling me what I can and cannot do?”

  “You know you’ve never been able to drink wine. It goes straight to your head.”

  He was being his unbearable self once again.

  “You, señor, are not my husband.”

  He paled and turned away. “No,” he murmured. “I am not.”

  Chapter 3

  She still knows how to wound me.

  Isabella left the table, grabbed an open champagne bottle from a tray, and disappeared. The ladies’ withdrawing room was just steps away. Maybe she planned to hide behind a screen and drink straight from the bottle just to spite him.

  Their relationship had been cool but respectful since his return from exile. When hostilities broke out between the United States and Mexico, he’d thought about returning home. His enemy, Antoine Santoro, had still been alive then, making it impossible. Instead, he’d kept in touch with Pablo, who sent him reports periodically through safe sources and spread the story that he was still in Santa Barbara, a place where he’d first taken refuge.

  He would always remember the day he’d received Sorina’s letter, telling him his accuser was dead. His hand had shaken as he’d smoothed the wrinkled paper and shifted it closer to the candle, hating the fact he had not been around to vanquish the snake with his own hands.

  Isabella, Sorina’s best friend, had been the one to lend his niece aid when she needed help. He’d always be grateful to her for that.

  “Where’s Isabella?” Sorina peeked behind his back toward the empty chair.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Sorina’s expression and worried glances reflected her uneasiness. “She’s been behaving oddly of late. Will you check on her for me? I’m afraid I’m going to be occupied until the grand ball tonight.” A becoming blush stained her cheeks.

  “If she’ll let me. These days she would prefer I keep my distance.”

  “I wonder why?” Sorina raised her brows and poked his arm. “Perhaps she’s developing a tendre for you and is afraid to show it. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

  “Grand indeed,” he muttered.

  “Promise me you’ll take care of her and try to find out what’s upset her. She’s been frowning like a sour duenna. She’s probably keeping some irritation to herself because she doesn’t want to worry me right now.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned over and pecked his cheek, then turned, took her husband’s arm, and they left for their suite.

  Gabriel watched them go, feeling more like a parent than an uncle. He’d been ten years younger than his sister and was only eight years older than Sorina, but he cared about his sister’s child just as if she were his own.

  The crowd was dispersing.

  Captain Sutherland glanced at Isabella’s empty chair with a frown. He nodded at Gabriel and disappeared with Sean Mitchell, Lance’s other attendant. They were probably heading for a saloon. The afternoon was fine, and most Americans did not engage in the practice of taking a siesta.

  He escorted Tía Consuelo to the stairs while his father settled the account and discussed final arrangements for the ball. The entire wedding party had taken rooms in the hotel for several nights since the celebratory activities wouldn’t end until after tomorrow.

  Since Isabella was on his floor, he’d check on her before he retreated to his room.

  Drake Logan was nowhere in sight. He planned to make a few inquiries while others were napping. Gabriel would start with Pablo, who knew the retainers from all the old families and was always eager to help. Most servants blended right into the walls, but their ears were sharply tuned to the conversations around them.

  Gabriel walked through the hotel lobby and headed for the stables.

  Picking his way carefully through the piles of horse dung, he located Pablo in the tack room, where he polished his patron’s saddle with firm strokes until the shine on the silver tacking was as bright as the tableware in Tía Consuelo’s hutch at home.

  “May I have a word with you?”

  Startled, Pablo glanced up, his sun-bronzed face still focused on his task. “I didn’t hear you come in, Señor Gabriel. How may I be of service?” He put the rag on a splintered bench.

  “
Please, don’t let me interrupt your work, although why you’re the one doing it is beyond me. Did we not bring grooms with us?” Gabriel moved closer and inspected the hammered pieces of silver, which had been created at Isabella’s rancho. Her late husband had employed a silversmith, as well as a hatmaker, cigar maker, and other craftsmen. Don Tomas had been a connoisseur of all things fine, and his wife was an excellent example.

  “I’m guarding it as well as caring for it because it is priceless.” Pablo picked up the rag and continued the deep strokes, each one raising the shine a little more. Gabriel watched his intensity, and the tiny web of creases at the corners of the majordomo’s narrowed eyes. He wondered how old Pablo was, although since he was an orphan, Pablo might not know himself.

  “I want to know more about a man named Drake Logan. A lawyer, I believe. Where did he come from, and what’s he doing here?”

  Pablo set down his rag. “Is he staying at this hotel?”

  “I don’t know. Many people are staying here. It’s the largest facility in the pueblo. My guess is he has lodgings in a boardinghouse.”

  Pablo moved around the pedestal and began polishing the other side of the saddle.

  “Was he a guest at the wedding?”

  “Yes, but I asked Tía Consuelo about him, and she said she didn’t recognize the name. He might have been one of Lance Grainger’s friends.”

  “Your aunt is aging, señor. Sometimes the mind plays tricks.”

  “You don’t have to be old to have that happen, Pablo.” They laughed together.

  Without looking up, Pablo asked a few more questions, then promised he would see what he could find out.

  Satisfied, Gabriel left the stable, reentering the hotel property through a back gate, which took him into a garden area where native saucer-shaped roses bloomed around a stone fountain in a formal setting. Going into the building, he scanned the parlor. Guests were still congregated there—mostly the Americans—and Gabriel decided to take advantage of the siesta time after all. Even if he couldn’t sleep, he could organize his thoughts.

  His room was several doors away from Isabella’s, but, remembering his promise to Sorina, he stopped by Isabella’s suite on his way. No one answered his knock. Had she gone out? The door was unlocked, so he sauntered into the sitting room and looked around. Like his suite, it was well appointed, with a horsehair sofa, chairs, a table of polished wood, and an elaborate iron chandelier with numerous candles. Velvet curtains hung from the windows on a wrought iron bar. A door led to another room.

  He tiptoed over to the door, not wanting to awaken Isabella if she was sleeping. She was not on the bed.

  Where is her maid?

  A faint sound alerted him. It sounded like a moan, the noise a wounded animal might make. Venturing farther into the room, he rounded the bed, jerked, and stepped back. Curled into a ball on the floor was Isabella, whimpering, her eyes closed.

  Dropping to his knees, he put his hand on her forehead. She was warm, but not overly so.

  “Isabella. It’s Gabriel. Open your eyes.”

  The dark lashes resting against her cheeks fluttered open. Her eyes were red, and wet, as if she’d been crying. Emotion crowded his chest, threatening to squeeze the air from his lungs. He wanted to lift her into his lap and chase away whatever demon gripped her. But he couldn’t. He had no right.

  “What happened? Are you in pain?”

  She shook her head and cried out, gripping both sides of her head.

  “Isabella, look at me. What’s wrong? Do you need a doctor?” He didn’t even know if the hotel staff knew of one. Doctors were rare in Alta California, although all manner of professionals had come to Los Angeles with the American occupiers. The army might have one.

  “No.” Her voice was faint, almost a whisper.

  He made a decision, hoping she didn’t have a serious ailment or a broken limb. “I’m going to lift you and put you on your bed. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

  Squatting, he put his arms under her and rose to his feet. Thank God she weighed so little. He doubted he could manage this with someone as hefty as Tía Consuelo. Her head rested on his shoulder as her arm came around his neck. Her hair came loose, and long strands flowed over his arm. She smelled of rose water and something else. He wrinkled his nose . . . stale champagne.

  Laying her gently on the bed, he found a crocheted blanket and put it over her, noting she was still wearing the pink dress. A sleeve had slipped off her shoulder, revealing the smooth skin of her neck and arm and the curve of her breast. He ached to place his lips there, and lower, remembering the taste of her when he’d once licked his way down to capture a dusky nipple in his mouth. His groin stirred, making him wish he hadn’t recalled that particular occasion. It had been so long ago and was completely inappropriate, given her current condition.

  He chastised himself for being an insensitive ass when she moaned and curled into a ball. He had another thought about her ailment.

  Could the oh-so-proper Isabella Fuentes be drunk?

  He left her and hastened back into the sitting room. Searching under the table, behind the settee, and lifting a throw from the floor, he finally found what he was looking for. An empty champagne bottle lay on the floor next to the curtains.

  Ah, Isabella, my love. You know you cannot drink to excess.

  An open bottle had been in her hand when she’d left the reception, but he was unsure if it had been full or not. She must have been extremely irritated if she’d thought she needed that much fortification. If only she’d talk to him, he’d gladly share her troubles.

  Unless I’m the one she wanted to escape.

  He picked up the bottle and stood in the doorway. She slept now, her face peaceful in repose. Her hair was spread on the pillow, still partially confined by pins that had held it in place. When she wore her hair down, it fell in soft waves over her shoulders, nearly to her waist. There’d been a time when she had let him bury his fingers in her hair while he kissed her lips, her neck, and the soft spot under her ear.

  After all these years, it was appalling that he still wanted to be the one to give her pleasure. It was not possible. He could be her friend, and, perhaps in time, he could regain her trust. Friendship would have to be enough.

  Despite her calm demeanor, she seemed troubled, and Gabriel suspected the trouble had something to do with Drake Logan.

  Taking one last glimpse of his sleeping princess, Gabriel put the bottle back where he found it, closed the door quietly, and escaped into the hall, practically running into Isabella’s maid as he turned a corner in the hallway. She was carrying a small basin and had towels over her arm, while two men in hotel livery followed her with a copper tub.

  Given the worried expression on the maid’s face, he decided not to tell her he had come from her mistress. It was not proper, after all, for a gentleman to visit a lady in her bedchamber, even a widow.

  He feigned what he hoped was a startled look. “I was hoping to have a word with Señora Fuentes,” he said, using his foppish drawl, “but she did not come to the door. Is she taking her siesta, then?”

  “She is unwell, señor. I’m sure she will recover by morning.”

  “Should I try to find a healer?”

  The maid smiled. “You are very kind, but no. She, er, ate something that did not agree with her.”

  “A pity, and I was so looking forward to dancing with her this evening.”

  “Perhaps she will be recovered by then.”

  He swept the maid a gallant bow and continued toward his room. If the fair Isabella consumed an entire bottle of champagne, he wouldn’t bet on it.

  Chapter 4

  Isabella slouched in the middle of the room, unable to face her mirror. If she looked, she would see a pale face with pinched brows, the face of a woman praying for the thro
bbing in her head to subside. At least her stomach felt better since she’d emptied its contents several times in the sturdy basin her maid had found, barely in time.

  Gabriel was right. I should not have consumed that champagne.

  The nap and the bath had both helped though. Amazing how much one’s good sense was restored by restful sleep and a leisurely soak in a deep tub of fragrant water. As soon as the pain in her head subsided, she might actually be able to face the world.

  Thank God the ball didn’t begin until late. Sorina would be disappointed if Isabella missed it.

  Standing straighter, she called to her maid. “I think I can get dressed now.”

  She raised her arms while her maid dropped the filmy silk ball gown over her head. It felt wonderful against her skin. The fabric was an extravagant purchase, but she’d made the dress herself. Simple in design, it had long sleeves and a tapered bodice, with a softly flaring skirt, and was cut low in the front for a modest display of her bosom.

  A man with laughing eyes and a sardonic smile came to mind. Would Gabriel like it? How foolish. All he did was mock her, as he had years ago.

  I never learn.

  A vague memory flitted into her mind, then just as quickly faded. Had Gabriel been in her room earlier? She must have been dreaming.

  “You look beautiful, señora. That shade of green brings out the red in your hair.”

  “You must need spectacles if you think me beautiful, Catalina. After what I did most of the afternoon, I must resemble a ghost.”

  The maid smiled and shook her head. “Your skin is pale because you stay out of the sun, señora. My grandmother always said it was not good for women to become so brown.”

  “She sounds like a wise woman.”

  Isabella inched closer to the mirror, determined not to wince at what she saw. The folds of the dress flowed around her body like flower petals, and the bodice, although it dipped in front, was not indecent, merely fashionable. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to add color to her face.