Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  He poked her with his booted toe. "Get up." There was a faint response, the fluttering of her lashes, a groan.

  He poked her again. "We're riding out, Lucy." She blinked at him. He had to admire her calves, being given a birds'-eye view. He saw the moment she became fully awake. Her blue eyes widened with total awareness and she sat up. She looked at him very, very warily. Then she stiffly got to her feet, biting back a moan—but he heard it anyway. She shook out her tattered skirts. "I need to freshen up."

  He knew what she meant. "Go behind that stand of saguaro," he directed. "And be careful."

  She nodded and walked away. Shoz began erasing the signs of their camp with a big piece of brush. She was surprising him again. A good night's sleep had done a helluvalot to calm her. He was appreciative; he didn't need to be burdened with a hysterical woman right now. It seemed like they had attained a wary, if temporary, truce.

  Night had fallen. Lucy sat with her arms around her knees, and her short skirt pulled carefully over her legs, watching him. He had made a small fire, and the smell of the meat and beans he had cooked was almost too much to bear.

  Today had been even longer and more grueling than yesterday. Lucy was too tired to move. Shoz was also exhausted; she could see it in his every movement, she could see it in the drawn lines of his face. But he wasn't as bad off as he had been last night—she could see that, too. The man's resilience was amazing.

  She couldn't go another step, much less ride; her body was screaming in protest, her muscles were tortured, and she was starving. She could fend off sleep only until after the meal. She suspected that waking up tomorrow would be a whole lot harder than it had been today.

  He picked up the pan and brought it to her, their glances meeting. In anticipation, Lucy had to smile; he smiled, also. He sank down beside her. "Sorry we don't have any china, princess."

  "Next time," Lucy quipped, making him regard her steadily. She quickly looked away, unnerved for some reason. His hostility was easier to bear than such a direct, searching look.

  He handed her the fork that had been in the saddlebag along with the tins, taking the spoon himself, and they both ate ravenously, from the same pan.

  When they had finished, Shoz took the pan to the stream and filled it with water. Lucy felt a twinge of guilt. She didn't know how to cook, but... he was doing everything. She hadn't helped at all.

  She watched him carefully as he set the pan full of water on the fire, which he stoked higher. He let it boil. After a few minutes he removed it and emptied it, dousing the fire thoroughly. With his toe he kicked apart the charred embers, burying them with dirt. Then he stuck the pan into the saddlebag.

  Lucy vowed to remember everything he had done.

  He returned to sit next to her. Suddenly Lucy became aware of the intimacy between them—and the potential. They were both alone and awake in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. Unlike last night, when Shoz had been so exhausted that he had immediately gone to sleep. Her heart began to race. Instead of remembering his abducting her yesterday, she recalled the week he'd been at the ranch, in a series of rapid, vivid images. Shoz shelling peas in the kitchen, so big and dangerously masculine among lie women there, and looking as if he felt ridiculous. Shoz standing on a chair pulling down drapes, in his tight, worn Levis. She remembered being unable to sleep, night after night, because of the humidity and heat, tossing and turning, her nightgown sticking to her body. She remembered going to the window and seeing him there on the lawn by the swing, smoking, the tip of his cigarette glowing, as he gazed up at her window.

  "Sheriff Sanders make any progress on his investigation?"

  "What?" He'd broken into her thoughts. He repeated the question.

  "They found the stud in Abilene," Lucy began, but he cut her off.

  "I know about the damn horse. A man was shot—who happens to be me—but the whole goddamn town is up in arms about your granddaddy's horse."

  Lucy stared at him, realizing how horribly right he was. "No. Not that I know of."

  "You see anyone that night when you came to meet me?"

  Lucy didn't bother to correct him—she hadn't been on her way to meet him, just searching for him. "No one. But someone else must have seen what I saw, and thought you were one of the thieves. People in Paradise don't like horse stealing much."

  "Try again." His tone was mocking. "If some good Samaritan shot me thinking I was one of the thieves, then why didn't he—or she—come forward and claim the deed?''

  Lucy looked at him. He was stretched out comfortably on the ground, his hands resting under his head, propped up on the saddle. His shirt was open, his dark skin glistening from his throat to just above his navel where it was exposed. Lucy wished he would button it. "I guess someone was afraid to come forward."

  "Damn right."

  His tone was so hard that Lucy stared at him. "You know who did it, don't you!" "I've got a good guess."

  "Who?"

  His mouth curled. "Your boyfriend's mama." "Marianne Claxton!"

  He eased back on the saddle.

  "You're insane!" Lucy stared at his chiseled profile. "Why would she shoot you?"

  He grinned at the night. "We were friends in New York. Let's just say it ended badly—and we both hold mean grudges."

  "Friends in New York!" Lucy was stunned. It was a long moment before she could assimilate this information. "You mean . . . lovers?"

  "Why are you so shocked? Didn't know sweet, proper Marianne has an appetite her husband can't satisfy?"

  Lucy was trembling. Shoz and Marianne . . . The thought was terribly upsetting. Marianne was beautiful, but she was older than he was! And in New York! "When were you in New York?"

  "Seven years ago."

  He didn't offer any more information, and Lucy did not want to know anything else. She was having enough trouble absorbing what she had already learned. At least their affair had been a long time ago. But if Marianne had shot him, passions still ran deep. Did he still love her? "Maybe you're wrong."

  He didn't look at her. "Maybe."

  "I don't think she would shoot anybody. And a lot of women carry small guns; even I have one. Even gentlemen carry them."

  He lit another cigarette. "Where is your gun?"

  "My gun?"

  "Your gun."

  "You don't think that I. . ." She stopped in midsentence, too stunned to continue.

  "I know you didn't shoot me, princess, even if you wanted to." He grinned. "It wasn't on your person—anywhere."

  She felt like slapping him. He would remind her of how his hands had been everywhere, even up under her skirts. "I suppose my gun is where I left it, in the drawer of my bureau." Her tone was cool.

  "Don't get all huffy. You were having fun. What do you mean, you think it's in the drawer? You see it that day?"

  Lucy had to think. "I put it away when we arrived. 1 haven't touched it since."

  Silence greeted her words. The minutes passed and a shadow crossed the moon. Lucy thought about Shoz and Marianne. It had ended badly. Did he hate her? Marianne Claxton taking a lover—taking Shoz as a lover—it was unbelievable. She was so elegant, the perfect senator's wife.

  "Why didn't you take off last night, princess?"

  "What?"

  "You heard."

  Lucy hesitated, groping for a response. "I thought you were dying," she finally said.

  He still didn't look at her. "So?"

  She looked away, at the stars. "It just didn't seem right," she said lamely. "To leave a dying man."

  He turned onto his side. "Come here," he said gruffly.

  She lifted her gaze slowly to his.

  He wasn't smiling. His face was implacable. He was also much too close for comfort. The night was suddenly very still. "Come here," he repeated, and he pulled her into his arms.

  "What are you doing?" Lucy cried, struggling, yet her pulse was racing wildly, her nerves tingling, her skin flushed.

  "It's cold."

 
She was on her back and he was on his side, cradling her. One of his legs covered hers. Impossible yearning swept over her. "Please don't."

  "You didn't mind sleeping with me last night," he said, his breath warm on her neck. Delicious tingles ran through her.

  "Last night?"

  "Last night," he murmured, the sound husky, and she felt his lips on her neck. "You do remember last night, don't you?"

  While her body abandoned itself to the rush of wondrous sensations, to the need and desire rising so blatantly, her mind frantically sought to recall last night. Last night? Had something happened last night? Had she slept through it?

  His mouth touched the delicate skin of her throat. Lucy gasped, her last coherent thought being that this was wrong, absolutely wrong, she must not allow this, and while he nibbled there, she felt his hand close over her breast. His palm made lazy, sensual circles. Lucy's eyes closed and she lay very still, letting him touch her.

  A moment later she became aware that his hand had paused, that his mouth had paused. Lucy could hear her own harsh breathing and the pounding of her heart. She was afraid to move. It wasn't possible, was it? Very cautiously she turned her head to look at him. "Shoz?"

  There was no response. Incredulous, she saw that he was sound asleep. Her head fell back down. She expelled a long, shaky breath of relief—mingled with frustration.

  Chapter 19

  Ahead was the Rio Grande.

  Lucy wasn't sure how she felt. It was midafternoon and gruelingly hot. They'd been riding at a moderate pace since sunup, without a break. She knew she was very lucky to have her straw hat, and wondered how Shoz could bear to go bareheaded in the heat. He'd cut off one of his shirttails and tied it around his forehead to catch the perspiration before it dripped into his eyes.

  They paused on a rise, mounted on the bay. Lucy's heart was pounding. She sat in front of Shoz, as she had whenever they rode, and he had one hard forearm braced around her waist. Sometimes she could feel his breath on her nape, and it was disturbing.

  He, too, was silent. What was he thinking?

  Was he going to let her go? She thought that promises didn't mean much to an outlaw like Shoz. But he had to let her go. She had to return to Paradise, to her family, who, by now, were probably sick with worry. She had to return. They had reached the border and she had served her purpose. There was no reason for him to take her any farther.

  "The Rio," he said, spurring the bay forward.

  Lucy was afraid to ask him if he'd keep his word. Afraid of his answer—afraid of a no. Yet was a tiny secret part of her afraid of a yes? Was it possible she could be so foolish?

  They cantered into the shallow river. Her stockings had been so torn, she had shed them this morning, and the water splashing up on her barely clad legs was a delight. Lucy clung to the pommel, while Shoz gripped her even more firmly, his body rocking hers with the motion of the horse.

  It reminded her of last night. Despite her exhaustion, it had taken her hours to fall asleep. The feel of Shoz's hard, hot body had agitated her and kept her awake. If she hadn't faced it last night, she had to face it today. He had a potent magnetism, and she wasn't unaffected by it. Despite who he was and what he had done, she found him very attractive. If Lucy dared to allow her mind free rein, she would remember the one time they had made love and how unbearably exquisite it had been.

  To harbor some kind of feelings for this sort of man was not just wrong, it was shocking.

  But her feelings, her little tendresse, if she labeled it such, did not matter. If he kept his word, she would never see him again. Which was, of course, for the best.

  The bay scrambled up the far bank. They were in Mexico.

  Shoz let the bay drink and then they continued on. Lucy could not get the question out. The longer they rode on, away from the border, the more her sane self grew frightened and upset. Over an hour later, Shoz reined to a halt in the elongated shadows of a stand of huge saguaro. Lucy knew by now that this meant a rest break—or was this where he was leaving her?

  She slid off the horse, and deliberately began brushing off her skirts. Was this where they would part? This had to be where he would let her go—it had to be.

  He slipped off and drop-reined their mount. He looked at her.

  She bit her lip. "Are you going to let me go now?"

  His very pale gaze, almost silver in the bright, hot light, held hers steadily. It seemed an eternity passed before he answered. "There's a small town two miles from here."

  So he was going to let her go after all!

  "Thought me a liar, did you?" His tone was sarcastic.

  "No, I. . ." Lucy trailed off. This was as it had to be, and she was glad. Except for that tiny secret part of her. That part of her was confused, even disappointed. Here they would part and never see each other again.

  She stared at him standing in front of her, his shirt open almost to his belt buckle, his dark skin slick and shiny. Her gaze drifted to his compact hips in the skin-tight denim. She stared at the white threads of the faded denim of his fly, just for a second. Lucy looked away. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her roughly around.

  "Damn you!"

  Lucy gasped but didn't move, because he was gripping her shoulders so tightly. Why was he angry? And how come she wasn't frightened at all? He was only inches from her, and she found herself staring at his sensuous mouth.

  He cursed and pushed her away from him, pacing restlessly. This time there was no mistaking her disappointment. She had wanted him to kiss her. Ridiculously, her feelings were hurt. Of course, why would he want to kiss her now? Lucy knew she did not look pretty; she was very dirty and remembered only too well how she had looked the last time she had been stranded in the wilderness. She walked to a pile of rocks and sat on a boulder. Her joints ached, and her bare feet were sore in her shoes. She watched him standing with his back to her, his legs braced hard in his jeans. She wondered what would happen to him.

  Would he eventually be caught and sent back to prison? Or would he meet his fate at the end of a hangman's rope? Lucy shouldn't care, but she did. She did not want to see him incarcerated, despite Derek's stolen stallion, and she suddenly knew that he had not killed the groom. She felt relief.

  He whirled. "You're boring holes in my back." Lucy managed a laugh. But she didn't look away from him. Her gaze was steady and searching.

  It only made him angrier. "Stop looking at me like that, Miss Bragg!"

  His snide tone in addressing her hurt her again. "I'm sorry." She stood up.

  "Let's get the hell out of here. We've wasted enough time as it is."

  He took the bay's reins. Lucy watched him try to stretch, as if to ease the discomfort in his back. The bandage Doc Jones had put on the bullet wound was a visible wad beneath his shirt.

  She came forward with determination then. "Shoz, let me look at that."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're leaving me and you'll be alone and it should be looked at."

  He eyed her, then sat down on a rock, unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off.

  He was a magnificent man, Lucy thought, momentarily mesmerized by his sculpted, muscular body. She forced her thoughts elsewhere and unwrapped the binding carefully. It was dusty and dirty on the outside, and when she pulled the gauze packing off, she was glad to see that it was clean on the inside, except for some stains from the antiseptic. The wound was scabbed and apparently healing well. There was no sign of infection.

  "It looks good," she said, tossing the bandages to the dirt. Her hand lingered on his shoulder. It felt like smooth, silky hot steel. "Does it hurt?"

  "Not now," he said, standing abruptly. "Let's go. The sooner we get to Casitas, the better."

  He didn't care that they would never see each other again. But of course, he wouldn't. Lucy reminded herself that he was a lawbreaker, a criminal, apparently a hardened one. He hadn't hurt her, but that was not a good enough reason for her sympathy, and just because she didn't want to see him locked up
or hung didn't mean she should forget the facts. They were not here on a picnic. He had abducted her, he was using her.

  But the bottom line was that in a few minutes she would never see him again.

  They rode to Casitas, and Lucy was aware only of him, of him and her dangerous thoughts. He was the most attractive man she had ever met. The feel of his body behind hers was erotic and sexy. They were never going to see each other again. They had already done it once. And no one had found out.

  What she was thinking was wicked, depraved, shocking.

  But she wanted his kisses, his touch. She wanted his lovemaking more than she'd ever wanted anything, more than the Duryea or anything else. Lucy had never been denied anything she wanted so desperately. It was wrong, but no one would ever have to know.

  As another mile passed, she feebly attempted to argue herself out of her intentions. She only succeeded in deciding once and for all to do as she willed and not give it another thought. Having made the decision, she felt a soaring excitement, and she was filled with determination.

  "I can feel your thoughts racing," he growled. "What's going on in that red head of yours?"

  "I've just been thinking," she said, shifting to look up at him. "About you."

  He stiffened. His arm pulled her hard against his torso. His lips actually brushed her ear. "Thinking about revenge, princess? Thinking about me at the end of a rope?"

  "No," she said, softly. "No."

  He had reined in abruptly. "What kind of game are you playing?"

  His arm had tightened so much that she gasped. "I'm not."

  He relaxed slightly, but she could feel his torso, stiff and taut against her back. He was very still, and the bay moved restlessly beneath them. "I don't think I've been misreading your signals," he finally said. His arm tightened and he forced her to twist around so he could see her face. "Am I?"

  Lucy's heart was pounding wildly, and for a moment she couldn't speak. She could feel it, a rock-hard erection pressing against her hip. What should she do now? "Shoz, I..." She didn't know what to say. She waited for him to kiss her.