by Brenda Joyce
Because Leon had so clearly shown his feelings for her, Lucy was sure he was only marrying her for her money and the Bragg connection, with all the power it would bring him. Lucy knew from the gossip that despite the scandal, Marianne and Roger Claxton had still favored her as his bride, and Marianne had made it quite clear on one occasion when their paths had crossed that she was responsible for convincing her son to marry "in these unfortunate circumstances". Marianne had been smiling, yet rude and condescending—Lucy was certain that she had gone out of her way to corner her and make her point that she would not be fooled by Lucy's pretenses, that she knew Lucy was ruined, and that this was Lucy's last and only chance at real social redemption.
That encounter had disturbed Lucy, as it had been intended to, and Lucy realized Marianne did not like her in the least. She supposed it was because she was coming to her son "ruined". Lucy imagined that Leon had been pushed quite hard by Marianne to accept her, and the proof was in the short, curt note of apology that finally arrived by telegraph a month after their betrothal.
At first Lucy had refused to marry Leon—because she didn't love him. She had closed her ears stubbornly to her father's arguments, finding herself thinking more and more about Shoz—and what they had briefly had. But it hadn't taken Lucy long to come to her senses. She was an intelligent woman, and in 1897 there weren't that many options open to any woman. She could stay with her family and grow old, a spinster sheltered first by her parents, then, when they were gone, by one of her brothers. She could become a shopgirl or schoolteacher. Or she could marry Leon, or someone else like him, and it would never be for love, because she would never love anyone else again. If she married Leon, she could start over immediately, putting the past behind her. She would live abroad as a diplomat's wife, have children—in short, make a real life for herself. The choice was obvious.
She would not call it off. She wanted back what she had once had, or at least a semblance of it. Lucy was determined to be happy. Leon had finally written to her, their last encounter apparently forgotten, and had assured her that they would not live in New York and would spend most of their time, at least in the immediate future, abroad. The idea almost made her happy.
Although Lucy had reasoned through this many times, especially as the wedding grew nearer, and always reached the same decision, the niggling panic remained. It was just nerves, she assured herself. Every bride was nervous. Every bride had doubts. She needed time with Leon as his wife. Time would bring mutual respect and friendship and, she hoped, caring. Unbidden, she remembered the hot love-making she had shared with Shoz. No, she didn't expect that. Although she knew Leon was still attracted to her, she would try not to think about sharing his bed.
There was a knock on her door. Lucy pulled on a dressing gown and opened it. She was surprised to see her father and mother there, already dressed for the evening. "Hello, Daddy, Mother."
"You're not dressed yet?" Her father stepped in. "I'm sorry we're interrupting."
"I'll hurry." She met her mother's warm yet worried gaze. "I'm fine," she reassured her. "I've just been daydreaming."
Rathe handed her a flat velvet jeweler's box. "We wanted to give you your birthday present." He grinned. "So you can wear it."
"Oh, Daddy!" Lucy sat down to open the box. It was a breathtaking necklace of rubies and diamonds, fit for royalty. She had received many gifts of jewelery in her life, but never anything as stunning and valuable as this. "It's beautiful!"
"Very," Grace said, coming to help her try it on. "It's too much for a girl of twenty-one, but—" suddenly her eyes teared "—you're getting married." She hugged her daughter. "Oh, Lucy! I just can't believe it!"
"Neither can I." Lucy laughed nervously. She went to the mirror to admire the choker. She thanked and hugged them both.
"Lucy," her father said, "there's one other thing."
"Rathe, for God's sake, not now!" Grace cried.
"Then when?" he demanded. "On her wedding day?"
"That would be better than right now!"
"What are you two arguing about?" Lucy asked.
Rathe reached into his tuxedo and withdrew some folded papers. "I think we've forgotten something, Lucy."
Lucy was confused as he unfolded the three sheets carefully. She looked at her mother, who was angry. She looked back at her father, and suddenly she knew. Her heart slammed to a stop.
"You can't get married until you sign these," Rathe said quietly.
The divorce papers. Lucy had forgotten about them. Hadn't she? She turned away. She had refused to sign them in Brownsville after her rescue and Shoz's capture, until the issue was set aside and allowed to cool down. Yet during the past months she had always known deep in the back of her mind that she hadn't signed those papers, that she and Shoz were still husband and wife. God, was she ever a fool! He was a lousy bastard and she wanted him out of her life! It was over, it had been over for so very long, and if she dared to admit it, it had been over before it had even begun.
She turned. "Okay, Daddy." She smiled too brightly while a tear ran down her cheek. "It's about time, don't you think?"
Shoz arrived at east Sixty-second Street on foot, having chosen to walk. He leaned against the cold stone wall of Central Park and calmly lit a cigarette. Dragging deeply, he stared across Fifth Avenue at the Bragg mansion. His pose was relaxed, but he was not.
Only a few hours ago he had been in Washington in a grueling meeting with some of the top brass of the McKinley administration. Members of the State and Defense departments and the Pentagon had been present. They had grilled him for hours on the Cuban situation, and fortunately, Shoz had had all the answers. At the end, he was finally given his chance when the assistant secretary of the navy, Roosevelt, had asked him for his own opinion. Shoz had given it with no holds barred.
He told them that the promises of the Spanish government to grant autonomy were bunk, and he warned them that the situation was escalating and would soon be out of control. Even if the Spanish did grant the Cubans autonomy, it was too late—they would never settle for it now. Cuba was a powder keg about to explode.
Shoz wasn't tense from the long meeting he had endured. He was rigid with anticipation, and dammit, he did not like it. He was practically breathless because he was so close, because he was going to see her.
She still had a hold on him, a dangerous hold, and he'd thought it had been broken long ago.
It was already dark, but the street was well lit, and his shadow stretched out along the sidewalk under the iron streetlamps. The upper floors of the Bragg mansion were dark, the floors where the family obviously lived. Where Lucy lived. The ground floor, though, was well lit. Shoz waited for an hour. When his watch told him it was ten, he knew he had missed them and he cursed. She had obviously gone out for the evening with her family.
A bribe got him the information he wanted. She had been escorted by Leon Claxton to the Claxton residence for the rehearsal dinner. The whole family was in attendance, except for her youngest brothers, as was the Who's Who of New York.
Don't be a fool, he told himself.
But he went anyway.
Chapter 39
Ten minutes later, he arrived at the Claxton mansion, which he was already intimate with. He didn't hesitate. The front entrance was brightly lit, and Fifth Avenue was lined with the private carriages and automobiles of the guests, their coachmen and drivers chatting beneath the streetlamps, bundled up in their heavy winter coats. Shoz was dressed in a fine black suit for the meeting he had attended in the capital. His hair had been cut the day before, and was carefully parted in the center. Smiling, he entered as any guest would, and he was greeted with a polite "Good evening" by the majordomo.
His blood was pulsing thickly in his veins. From the marble-floored foyer, he could hear the raucous conversation and the laughter of the party drifting to him from the salon. Laced into the humming of animated voices was the tinkle of fine crystal and the strains of a piano. Shoz strode down the hall. H
e paused on the threshold of the salon, his gaze sweeping the hundred or so guests.
There were several salons in the house. This one was the largest, except for the ballroom, and was filled to overflowing. Shoz scanned the glittering crowd, the women in brightly colored gowns and jewels, their shoulders bare, hair swept up, the men in formal evening attire. He did not see Lucy.
But he saw her parents. They were not the only people there whom he recognized. He stared at Leon, who was tall, blond, handsome, and so very at ease in his elegant surroundings. He saw Marianne's husband, Roger, and realized that the man he was talking to with the silver mane of hair was Derek Bragg. Next to Derek was one of his sons, the earl, and his blond wife, the actress. Shoz cursed when he realized that the whole Bragg clan, or most of it, was in town for Lucy's wedding. He did not need to be discovered by them just now.
Two guests dispersed on the far side of the room and revealed the hostess, Marianne, petite and stunning in silver chiffon. Had she been in the center of the crowd, he would have never seen her, but standing there against the back wall, she was momentarily in view. Just for an instant he could see her perfectly. She must have felt his gaze, because she glanced his way. Her gaze widened visibly.
Shoz sighed and turned away, going not toward the foyer but down the hall instead. His stride slowed when he saw a familiar form, a woman, approaching in the dimly lit corridor, closing her reticule. It was Lucy's friend, Joanna, and looking up, she gasped.
Shoz nodded curtly and continued past her. He let himself into the library. He went straight to the Queen Anne desk and poured himself a tumbler of the finest scotch whiskey, which was Roger's preferred drink, as he had found out so many years ago.
Of course, an instant later the door opened, admitting Marianne. She closed it, leaning her back against it, staring at him.
He lifted his glass. "Beautiful as always, Marianne. To the best hostess in New York."
"You would have the nerve to come here!" But her tone was calm and wary, unlike her words, and she didn't move from the door—nor did she take her gaze from him.
Shoz let his hip find the side of the desk and he sipped his scotch. Marianne said, "What are you doing here? What do you want?"
Even across the distance of the library, Shoz could feel her physical reaction to him. He could smell it. She was still a bitch in heat, and he found it amusing. But what she had done last summer hadn't been amusing, not at all. "Maybe I want to settle old scores."
"What does that mean?"
He was the predator now. He knew her too well for her to pull the wool over his eyes; she sounded as if she had no idea what he was referring to. Of course, she could not know of the first score he had in mind—that was private, unfinished business with his dear ex-wife—but certainly she hadn't forgotten the night of Derek Bragg's eightieth birthday. Yet her next words showed him that she had—or else she was a very clever actress.
"I told you a year ago, no, just after you escaped prison, that I was sorry. I am sorry! I didn't think you would go to jail!"
"You plant your diamond ring in my pocket and call the police and tell me you didn't think I would go to jail? Come now, Marianne, we both know the truth; you were a jealous, vindictive bitch, and nothing gave you more satisfaction than to set me up and put me away."
"All right! I was jealous, but if you hadn't gone back to her after I found you together the first time, that would have been the end of it! Truthfully, now I am sorry it went so far! I'm sorry you went to prison for a crime you didn't commit! But you liked the danger, you bastard, you liked screwing my maid under my nose!"
"Frankly," Shoz said, carelessly but truthfully, "I can't remember any details."
"You shit."
"And you know that score isn't the one I have in mind."
She was genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you tried to kill me, and I haven't forgotten it."
"What are you talking about!"
He slipped off the desk, and walked toward her. "I'm talking about a hot, humid night in Paradise, Texas, re¬member? Why did you shoot me, Marianne? Because I wouldn't ball you?"
He was close enough now for her to slap him, but he caught her wrist and wrenched it, hurting her. "I didn't! It wasn't me! I swear it! I don't know who shot you that night!"
Shoz believed her. She was a lying bitch, but he recognized the truth when he saw it, and he saw it in her eyes. He released her. She rubbed her wrist, but never took her gaze from his.
"If it wasn't you, then who?"
"I have no idea." She lifted her chin. "Is that why you came? To—punish me?"
He heard the tremor. He saw the glitter in her eyes. There had been women in the past months, women whose names he didn't know and didn't care to know, women whose faces and bodies he didn't remember, and tonight his lust was thick in his blood, and he could easily satisfy it and her. He knew she was thinking of that other time, six, no, seven years ago, when he'd broken out of prison and so crudely taken her in her boudoir. "No," he said, smiling. "I didn't come here to punish you, Marianne."
Her nostrils flared. He started to turn away. She touched him. "But it was I who told the sheriff about you, Shoz, all about you."
He froze. He turned slowly. Dark rage burned in his eyes. "I should have known."
Her smile was fragile. Her breasts rose and fell shallowly. She still held his arm. He could see her nipples straining erectly against the chiffon of her gown. He felt nothing for her, nothing except disgust. He jerked his arm free and gave her his back. He owed her, but it seemed like a pittance compared to what he owed Lucy Bragg.
He heard her breathing behind him. "You bastard," she finally said, and she left, slamming the door behind her.
He exhaled and started for his scotch. The doors to the balcony behind the desk were ajar, he saw for the first time. A draft of frigid air was coming in. He began to lift his scotch when, to his amazement, the doors swung open, pushed from outside. Standing on the terrace in her ruby-red gown was Lucy Bragg.
Lucy's dress was off-the-shoulder and sleeveless, and she was shivering. Although she had wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, she didn't move to come in. She could only stare. It was like seeing a ghost.
He stared back, the snifter still in his hand, every bit as stunned as she. He recovered first. He lifted the whiskey. "Another toast. To the bride. To the bride and her new life."
Lucy thought she might faint. He drank, draining the entire contents of the glass, and she watched the long line of his tanned throat and his Adam's apple as he swallowed. God! Just the sight of him was enough to bring back every memory she had, from hot, hard ones to soft, silky ones— and then came remembrance of his betrayal. Of how casually and carelessly he had tossed aside their marriage—and her. Lucy suddenly stepped inside, no longer cold, her blood surging.
He hadn't moved. "Spying?"
"Don't flatter yourself. You have more nerve than anyone I know to come here, tonight!"
"Are you asking me to leave?" he asked mockingly.
"Asking?" She still hadn't stepped away from the doors, afraid of what she might do if she began to move. "I'm telling you. Get out, now."
"What's wrong, princess?" he said softly, stepping toward her. "You're shaking. Somehow I don't think it's from the cold."
"Don't come near me!"
He paused by the butler's bar, laughing. ' 'Now you flatter yourself."
It hurt. How she hated him. And he, damn him, was so cool, so calm, so clearly unaffected by their encounter. She watched him refill his glass with scotch. "If you're not leaving, then I am," she said, striding forward.
She never got past him. Quick as a wink he grabbed her arm, whipping her about so she was facing him, so close their breaths mingled. "Not yet."
Her heart actually skipped a beat from the contact with him. Lucy tried to pull away, but his grin, and the glitter in his eyes, made her go still. She would not play this game, his way, whatever it might be. She
would not amuse him. "Why are you here, Shoz? Why?"
His smile was a sneer. "I'm here to congratulate the bride, of course. To celebrate—with my darling ex-wife."
The sarcasm and hatred in his voice fueled Lucy's own anger—he had no reason to hate her, and she had every reason to hate him. "Your darling ex-wife has no intention of celebrating with the bastard she was stupid enough to marry." "You didn't mind being my wife a few months ago." Lucy lifted her chin, again attempting to pull her wrist free from his powerful grip, but failing. Her heart was beating hard and unsteadily. His gaze held hers for an endless moment, and in that span of time a million hot, heady, explicit memories of their lovemaking flooded her mind. Seeing the growing heat in his gaze, she was sure he was recalling the same thing she was. "I was young, innocent, and very, very foolish."
His gaze darkened. For once, he did not have a response, and Lucy felt the barest sense of triumph. It died rapidly, though, beneath the heat of his regard. The fires banked there were hard and hot and angry, and she saw them darkening with every second that ticked by. Lucy realized he was just as angry as she was.
The cruel smile covered his face again. His gaze dropped lasciviously, intently. And that was enough—Lucy felt her breasts grow tight and hot, felt her nipples hardening.
"Who do you think you're fooling, Lucy?" Shoz said harshly. "You still want me—I can feel it."
He was right, but she would not ever admit it, not to him, and not, now, to herself. "Tomorrow I am marrying Leon Claxton. You are the one fooling yourself, Shoz."
He laughed, finally releasing her. "You and Leon. A pair of real blue bloods. I wish you well. But don't you think you might find him a bit dull after your first husband?"
She rubbed her wrist, wanting to strike him and wondering if she dared. "I hate my first husband. He ruined my life. Leon is a gentleman—a rich gentleman. He can give me everything I want. All you could give me is a hellhole in Mexico!"