As they joined the circle of dancers, Ginny forgot her surroundings, Steve’s absence and her frustration. She forgot everything but her love of the music and the moment.
Her partner kept up with her, his young, lithe body supple and eager as he smiled at her appreciatively. As the rhythms changed from fast to slow, then back, they danced face-to-face, eyes meeting, movements alternately inviting and then rejecting. She felt free, released, as her feet kept the rhythm, her body a lissome flame in her yellow silk gown, copper hair atop her head slowly coming loose from the careful coils to drift around her face, cling damply to her neck.
Despite the slight chill of the night, it grew hot as she danced, aware, womanlike, of the glances of admiration she received from the men watching, aware of Señor Valdez sitting still in the corner and watching her so intently. Oh, let him watch her. She did not care. It had been so long since she had been in Mexico, much too long since she had allowed herself to dance like this, with the driving tempo of the music filling her body and blotting out everything but the rhythm.
Her partner grew bolder, closer, the edge of his short jacket almost brushing against her breasts as they danced, until she stepped back, whirling away from him. His black eyes reflected hot flames, speculative and admiring.
“¡Caramba! But you are magnificent!”
Ginny smiled distractedly, lost in music and memories of other times, lost in dreams. Night chill was banished by the feverish steps of the dance. Her skirts whirled around her legs, up above her knees, as her feet moved in steps so familiar to her, from one partner to another.
As the circle of dancers widened, the black-eyed youth was replaced by another man, older but with the same hot gaze. Lanterns flickered and bobbed, casting patches of light over the patio and dancers while, beyond the low stone wall that encompassed the courtyard, shadows cloaked the street. A pale sliver of moon snagged on a distant mountain peak, a crescent of light between shreds of cloud.
Despite the cool night air she was flushed with heat from her exertions; perspiration damped her gown so that it clung damply to her curves, the thin material like a second skin.
Like a firefly among lanterns, she flitted from partner to partner, losing herself in the dance, in the heady rush of memories that accompanied her return to Mexico where so much of her life had been changed. It was both exhilarating and melancholy at the same time, these memories of her past, the past she had shared with Steve, and the future that was theirs.
I have to have faith in us she thought distractedly, I have to have faith in Steve….
“Beautiful lady,” a low voice as smooth as fine brandy murmured in her ear. She looked up to see the tall man from Señor Valdez’s table taking the place of her last partner. She whirled away, ignoring him, but too aware of his eyes on her, black and reflecting light from torches.
He followed her, persistent, his lean body graceful in the steps of the dance, but too close, too intimate. She could feel the heat from him, powerful, almost threatening.
“Are you afraid?” he taunted, and flashed a white smile at her when she stamped her feet and lifted her arms over her head, snapping her fingers with contempt.
“Of you? You flatter yourself, señor,” she replied in the same flawless Castillian Spanish he had used. He did not seem to be a part of these men here, though he had the same swarthy look about him. His features were more refined, with no trace of the Indian forebears that graced so many Mexicans.
He laughed softly, and there was a hint of approval in his eyes. “Little butterfly, you intrigue me. What is such a gracious creature doing in Ojinaga?”
She only smiled. Her body, shoulders a gleaming white above the yellow silk, moved with sinuous grace and utter abandon to the dance. The smile lingered, lashes lowered slightly to hide the green of her eyes, a provocative, seductive expression on her face as she danced.
There was not a man watching who did not think what it might be like to possess her, to have her naked, satiny body beneath him.
From the shadows just inside the courtyard gate, Steve watched with a wry smile. How many times had he come upon her like this, dancing with teasing abandon, her gypsy eyes half-closed and a dreamy smile on her mouth? More times than he could count. There were things about both of them that never seemed to change with time or tragedies.
And yet there were so many things that had changed. He knew now that he loved Ginny too much to give her up.
What would she say, and do, when he told her he had to leave her again, even if it was only for a little while? Would she trust him enough to accept it?
When she swirled in a blur of yellow silk and flashing legs, he stepped in, a hard glance challenging her partner to resist. For an instant, Steve thought he recognized the man, but that impression was swiftly banished as black eyes lowered, and with a murmured, “Señor,” the man relinquished his place and backed away.
As Ginny turned, her brows flew up in surprise and she faltered when she saw Steve. Then a smile curved her mouth. Silently, she gave him an alluring glance from beneath her lashes, provocative and teasing, the trick of a practiced courtesan. Moving to the driving tempo of the music, she tossed her head, then began to remove the pins from her hair one by one, scattering them carelessly on the stone tiles as glorious copper strands fell free. It was an invitation, seductive and arousing, and every man there was riveted to the sight.
Of all men, Steve understood it most. Ginny, dancing with abandon, her heavy mane of bright red-gold hair framing her face, was the lure that kept him coming back.
“Little baggage, are you trying to start a fight out here?” His murmured comment only earned a wicked smile and careless shrug, and he grinned. “I should know better than to leave you on your own for longer than an hour. When will I learn?”
She danced close to him, her breasts brushing against his chest in a silken promise before she whirled away again. When the steps of the dance brought them back together, he grabbed her hands, held them above her head as his feet stamped against stones in a rapid staccato, his body so close to hers he could feel the dampness of her gown. Green eyes widened up at him.
As the music ended in a crashing flourish of guitars, he pulled her hard against him, one arm bent behind her back to hold her. He grazed her ear with his lips as he murmured, “Come upstairs with me, bruja.”
Ginny leaned into him, breath coming in little pants of exertion. A teasing fragrance emanated from her hair, all too familiar and tempting, her favorite perfume, a blend he had bought for her in France. Her hand splayed against his chest and she looked up with a faint smile.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The night air became sweeter, softer. Now that Steve was here, her worries and fears proved groundless. He had brought her jewels—fire opals, gleaming with lustrous brilliance in a velvet box, set into ornate silver filigree. A lovely bracelet for her wrists, and a magnificent ring for her hand, looking much too large but so very beautiful.
“Tears of the Moon, the Aztecs called it,” Steve said when she admired the artistry of the silver setting. “Now that Mexico has even more silver veins being discovered, I thought you’d appreciate some native ore.”
Delighted, and deliriously happy that he was back, she slipped on the jewelry, admiring the radiant gleam in the soft swaying glow of lanterns overhead.
“You spoil me, Steve Morgan.”
He smiled as he took her hand to guide her from the patio of the cantina, and they passed beneath fragrant vines and night-blooming flowers, huge white blossoms like full moons crowding heart-shaped leaves that tumbled haphazardly over walls and archways.
“Oh, Steve, I really did miss you,” she said softly.
Steve’s eyes, so dark blue and intent, regarded her with careful scrutiny. “You didn’t seem to miss me that much, green-eyes, or you wouldn’t have been dancing when I arrived.”
Her laughter was soft and teasing. “A lady must take her pleasures where she finds them, you know.�
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Steve paused, pulling her to him in the shadowed alcove beneath the bower of moonflowers. “So must a man, my sweet.”
“Steve!” she gasped out, shocked by the swift pressure of his hands on her as he pushed her back against the vine-covered wall. “What are you doing?”
“It’s been two weeks. Don’t turn shy on me now, Ginny. I seem to recall a more adventurous spirit.”
Grasping her skirts, he pulled them up, leaning forward with a gleam in his eyes that she recognized. His mouth crooked in a smile and his face was half-shadowed by the filtered light that barely penetrated this shaded bower.
It was risky, dangerous—exciting. What if someone came and caught them? But it only added a certain titillation to the moment, the threat of discovery nearly as exhilarating as the sensation of his hands on her, sliding up legs that were bare under her skirts, finding her, caressing her with a teasing, shocking friction that sent shivers down her spine. She clung to him, drowning in familiar desires.
With her back pressed against the wall, cushioned by the thick mat of vines, the sweet, heady scent of crushed flowers beneath her, Ginny hungrily responded to his kisses and caresses. Such sweet, dangerous desire…the need so compelling and urgent, the response so instant to his touch that she felt herself swept away.
All thinking halted. His hands moved over her, his lips following, until finally, with her arms clasping him closely as he lifted her by the waist, he slid inside her, a searing thrust that made her breath catch in her throat, sent her senses spinning out of control. As he drove into her, the leafy bower whirled in a kaleidoscope of green and white, faster and faster, until she arched against him in exquisite release, whispering her love, the words rising to the very top of the pergola.
Finally Steve went still, his body taut as he pushed her harder against the wall, straining into her. His breath was hot and fast against her cheek, his head bent to nuzzle her ear.
“Christ, Ginny,” he muttered, “you make me crazy. I’ll never get enough of you.”
“Good.” She squirmed slightly, arms around his neck. “I want you to always want more of me, to never be completely satisfied unless you’re with me.”
“Witch woman…you’ve bewitched me.”
A throaty laugh purred as she murmured, “No, voodoo. I picked up a few tricks in New Orleans.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He stared down at her with a wry smile. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth, and his eyes were dark with lucent shadows, reflections of diffused light a pale gleam. He touched her hair gently, his hand a tender caress as he dragged his fingers through the softly curling mass that waved around her face. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn that you’d put a spell on me, enchantress mine.”
Ginny’s breath caught, and she thought then that they had never been so close before, never felt the same emotion at the same time as they were now, this meeting of more than just the flesh, but of the hearts….
Oh God, let it last forever!
17
“Where did you go, Steve? Why did it take you so long to get back to Mexico?” Ginny slanted a glance at him, her body satiated and lethargic, replete.
They lay wrapped in a damp cocoon of tangled sheets and lamplight, still flushed from lovemaking. Her hand lay upon his chest, fingers spread and pale against skin dark as any Comanche warrior.
Arms crossed behind his head, Steve shifted lazily, bringing one leg up and over to lie across her thighs. “Do you ever run out of questions, green-eyes?”
His thick murmur was teasing, but there was a serious tinge to his comment.
“Yes. When I’m asleep.” Her hand curled into a small fist, knuckles grazing the shadowed angle of his jaw in a light, mock blow. “Answer me. Did you talk to Sam Murdock?”
“A lot longer than necessary. He sends his regards.”
“I’m sure he does.” She frowned slightly. “I know he’s your partner and very astute. He also happens to be a friend of my father’s. Does this have anything to do with the new silver mine the senator bought in New Mexico?”
“You talk too much.”
Moving swiftly, he caught her by surprise, pushing her into the mattress and sliding his body over hers to look down at her with a familiar hot gleam in his dark-blue eyes.
“Steve…stop it.”
He bent his head, black hair tickling her bare breasts as he began to kiss her, washing his tongue over quivering flesh in a leisurely torment until she closed her eyes, forgetting Sam Murdock and William Brandon, forgetting everything but the sweet, heady sensations he was provoking with his mouth and hands….
It wasn’t until later the next day, when they rode out well into the morning on the next leg of their journey south to Don Francisco’s, that Ginny remembered their conversation of the night before. She turned to look at him, where he rode his big black gelding next to Paco, both of them deep in a low-toned conversation that she was certain had to do with Steve’s recent trip.
“Well?” she said when he nudged his mount alongside her a little bit later. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“Which one, love? You fire so many at me I feel as if I’ve been ambushed by an Apache war party.”
Though he said it in a teasing tone, his eyes narrowed slightly at her, glinting a dark blue beneath long lashes.
“Damn you, Steve Morgan, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean! You were with Sam Murdock for a week. Was his gypsy protégée there, or has she remained in England with her viscount?”
“If you mean Concepciόn, as far as I know, she’s still basking in the English countryside. Or as she puts it, ‘molding in the rustic wasteland.”’
“I’m devastated to hear she doesn’t appreciate the beauty of the Cotswolds, but hardly surprised. There aren’t many men there who would appreciate her brand of coarse entertainment.”
“Ah-ah, your forked tongue is showing, Ginny. You and I have never been able to discuss Concepciόn without it degenerating into name calling, so let’s talk about something else for a change.”
“That’s fine with me.” Her hair had come loose, blowing across her face, the wind brisk and smelling of dust and the lemony-sharp scent of sage. She tightened the strings of her hat, a serviceable wide-brimmed sombrero that kept out sun and rain. “Did Murdock mention my father?”
“His name came up.” Steve’s mouth flattened to a grim line. “Stop trying to get information out of me, Ginny.”
“Stop avoiding my questions.”
It’s no use, she thought when he ignored her. He has no intention of answering me.
Philosophically, she accepted momentary defeat. And after all, he was here now, so what did it really matter if she knew why he’d been gone or why she couldn’t go with him?
I must be mellowing with time, she thought with a wry smile that earned her an assessing glance from Steve. Before now I would never have surrendered so easily. But perhaps it shouldn’t matter if I know everything. We’re together finally after having been apart for so long.
The Chihuahua Trail ran through Presidio and Ojinaga, then cut a wide loop through rugged mountain passes to the city of Chihuahua. It was the main route from San Antonio, arid and dry most of the time, except in the rainy season when dried up riverbeds could become raging, dangerous torrents without warning.
In daylight, the sun beat down fiercely, heat shimmering in waves from rocks and hard-packed trail, though at night it could be cold enough for several blankets. For miles, the only sounds were the clopping of hooves, the creak of saddle leather and the jangling of metal bits. Finally they stopped beneath an overhang to let the horses drink.
Ginny dismounted, stretching muscles finally becoming more accustomed to hours in the saddle. She plopped down on a flat rock in the shade of the overhang. The musty smell of damp earth and baking rock was potent.
Paco approached where she sat fanning herself with the wide brim of her hat, and propped his foot against the side of the rock.
“Guess I’ll be heading off in another direction now. I have a compadre who lives on the Conchos River a bit north of here.”
“Why is it that I’ve been expecting this?” The air stirred by her hat was only slightly less hot. She stared up at Paco, who had the grace to look sheepish.
“If I do not join you before, I will meet you at Don Francisco’s hacienda,” he said, but his furtive glance in Steve’s direction convinced Ginny he had other reasons for splitting up.
She shrugged, her only comment the customary, “Vaya con Dios.”
With Paco gone, Steve kept to the more traveled trail, riding at a swifter pace than they had before. They stopped in the occasional village, sleeping in missions when there was no cantina or inn available, sometimes sleeping out under the stars.
“Ever think about the first time you rode in these mountains with me, chica?” he asked her once, when they were bedded down in a copse of gnarled trees twisted into shapes resembling grotesque animals.
“Yes, but usually only in nightmares.” She watched his face in the erratic glow of the small fire between them, saw him smile.
“You were the meanest little hellcat I’d ever tangled with until then.”
“You weren’t exactly charming yourself. If I recall, you had a nasty habit of dragging me everywhere, like some primitive beast with a trophy.”
“Yeah, you kinda grew on me after a while. I got used to you.”
“Is that why you refused to free me?”
Firelight made his eyes gleam like hard jewels. “No. If I’d let you go, there would have been no reason for your father to bargain with me. As it was, he was out for my hide anyway.”
“I don’t think he’s ever forgiven you for besting him. He’s used to winning.”
“Yeah, sometimes losing can build a man’s character. Or so I’m told.”
She stared at him curiously, suddenly grateful for more time alone with him, the opportunity to understand him as a man provided at last. With nothing to distract them, it was the perfect time. But what could she say that wouldn’t seem like prying, or an attempt to ferret out more information?
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