Sonora Sundown: Arizona (The Americana Series Book 3)

by Janet Dailey

  The hard, masculine mouth smiled lazily. "Finally we're getting to the point of my visit."

  "Which is?" Brandy demanded harshly.

  "I know you were hurt and upset when you discovered who I was last Sunday—"

  "No one likes to be unwittingly made a fool," she broke in. "I know you found it vastly amusing that I didn't recognize you. The whole episode must have given you quite a few laughs these past few days. If an attack of conscience has brought you here to apologize, Mr. Corbett—"

  "I haven't come to apologize," he interrupted coldly, "because I don't regret what I did. And if you call me Mr. Corbett one more time, you're going to have to face the consequences!"

  Remembering his overpowering strength, Brandy realized that he was prepared to back up his threat. Although intimidated by the latent ruthless quality she knew he possessed, she refused to let him see.

  "What would you like me to call you?" she asked with a defiant toss of her head.

  His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You had no difficulty previously with calling me Jim."

  "It was the only name I knew at the time, so I could call you little else," Brandy reminded him haughtily.

  "And now there are a few other choice names you would like to use instead?" he taunted softly.

  "I didn't say that," she retorted.

  "No, you thought it." A dark brow arched arrogantly at the conclusion of his statement. "Haven't you wondered why I didn't tell you who I was?"

  A brittle laugh broke from her lips. "I think I can guess."

  "Can you?" His mouth twisted cynically as he surveyed her with cutting disdain. "Then I hope I don't bore you too much with my explanation. I know how palling it can be to hear what you already know."

  Brandy had to look away from the shivering coldness of his gaze, to conceal her quivering chin. "By all means, explain," she insisted in a low voice to keep her voice from trembling. "I'm sure you'll make it interesting."

  The air around her crackled with electricity. She knew she was goading him to anger, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. His deception had hurt deeply, and she had no intention of forgiving him easily.

  "When you stumbled into camp that night," Jim spoke with iron control that Brandy couldn't help but admire in the face of her rudeness, "my first thought was that you were a fan and had followed me. There are women, mostly young girls, who get their kicks out of sleeping with celebrities, and they go to great lengths to achieve that goal. I had no way of knowing at the beginning whether you might be one of those."

  That explained the anger that had blazed in his eyes when he saw her, Brandy realized, but she refused to be placated by the knowledge.

  "You must have been disappointed when you discovered I wasn't," she commented. "It might have livened up the evening for you, one of the side benefits of being a celebrity."

  "My profession," there was biting emphasis on the word, "is very rewarding in many ways, but not without payment. My personal life is more public knowledge than I would like. Which is why I tend to guard the privacy I do attain very jealously. I don't waste it on the so-called side benefits you referred to. If I want a woman's company, I choose who and when."

  Verbally chastised, some of the starch went out of her rigid stand with its intent to keep her deaf to his explanation. "I understand," Brandy offered in a vaguely conciliatory tone.

  "Then I hope you understand when I admit that I did find it amusing that you mistook me for a cattle rustler. It was so completely ridiculous that I knew it couldn't have been a trick to persuade me to let you stay the night." Wicked dancing lights gleamed in his eyes when Brandy gazed at him in astonishment, stunned that he would openly acknowledge that he found her lack of recognition amusing. "You were so absolutely convinced I was a rustler that I simply didn't know how to tell you the truth. And after a while, I didn't want to tell you."

  "Oh, no, it was all too humorous," Brandy declared bitterly.

  "Not humorous." With an effortless, animal grace, he pushed his long length out of the chair and walked to the wood pillar where Brandy stood. Her head tipped back to gaze into his face, so compelling in its rugged, chiseled lines and sheer maleness. "It wasn't because I found your ignorance laughable, Brandy. For the first time in a very long while, I was another human being. It was a pleasant change."

  Breathing in shakily, she leaned back against the pillar. His explanation was undoing all the imagined insults and humiliation she thought she had suffered.

  "I would have found out eventually who you were."

  "Yes, I think I knew at the back of my mind that you would," he admitted, his velvet dark gaze not leaving her face. "But in the beginning, I planned to merely leave you close to your home where the search party could easily find you. The sandstorm changed that."

  "Why?" Brandy asked, remembering that he had resisted her attempt to help him escape when they had first seen the helicopter.

  "Because I recognized the helicopter as belonging to Saguarro Ranch. I knew it could have been enlisted in search for you, but I doubted that Don Peters, who is for all practical purposes my manager, would have volunteered his services. The fact that he was in the helicopter meant they were looking for me as well. The man has enough problems with his ulcers without me giving him more just to satisfy a foolish whim."

  He was standing in front of her, tall and strong and vitally attractive. A foot and more separated them, yet the sensation remained that he was disturbingly close. Brandy felt herself surrendering and tore her gaze away from his face.

  "It wasn't fair of you not to tell me who you were," she protested, but with none of her former belligerence.

  "When I saw the helicopter, I realized I would have no choice." A hand moved to the pillar beside her golden curls soft and feathery about her face. "There wasn't time before it landed to tell you and explain why I hadn't told you before. I hoped I would be able to speak to you privately after we arrived at your home, but shortly after we got on board the helicopter you recognized me, didn't you?"

  His arm, tanned a teak brown and sinewy strong, was only inches from the soft flesh of her golden cheek. Wispy strands of her honey-colored hair were tangled in the curling dark hairs on his arm. Her tip-tilted nose was pointed downward, as she found she was unable to meet the disconcerting directness of his gaze.

  "Yes, I did," she admitted. "I heard the man . . . your manager . . . refer to you as Corbett. That's when I realized who you were."

  Peering at him through the tawny veil of her lashes, she saw a distantness close over his expression, hardening it slightly while making him look withdrawn and aloof.

  "If you'd seen the look that came into your eyes when you recognized me," one corner of his mouth lifted in a humorless smile, "you would understand why I put off telling you."

  "What do you mean?" she raised her head, confused by his comment.

  "In your eyes, I suddenly wasn't human any more. It was some celluloid image you were seeing," he stated. "And for a while, I didn't care what reason you thought I had for not telling you the truth."

  She wanted very much to believe what he was saying—she was only now beginning to discover how much. Searching the obsidian darkness of his eyes, she tried to find a flaw. "And now you do?" she asked for confirmation in a wary voice.

  "You still can't trust me, can you?" His dark head tipped to the side, studying her hesitant expression with a resigned gentleness.

  "I haven't had much cause," she defended.

  "I wouldn't say that," he denied with a faint smile. "I think my behavior was quite exemplary during the time we spent together."

  "Well . . . yes, it was," she admitted.

  "Then have dinner with me on Saturday night." The grooves around his mouth deepened.

  "I . . . I beg your pardon?" Brandy was certain Jim didn't mean what he had just said.

  "I said, have dinner with me Saturday night."

  "But why?"

  "Why do you think?" he countered with maddening eas
e. "Because I want to have dinner with you, of course."

  Her forehead smoothed as she nervously moistened her lips. "You mustn't feel obliged to take me to dinner. I quite understand everything now and there isn't any need for you to make this gesture."

  "Brandy, I'm not a gentleman. I don't make gestures,'' he answered in a patiently indulgent tone.

  That enigmatic light in his dark eyes was making her believe things that he didn't mean. Brandy looked hurriedly away, the vein in her neck beating a rapid tattoo. His charismatic charm was going to her head. In another minute, he was going to succeed in talking her into accepting his invitation. Her inclination was to accept. Then darting him a sideways glance, she suddenly realized how foolish she was being. He was James Corbett. Their two worlds barely touched.

  Suddenly the soft flesh of her upper arm was seized in a punishing grip. The patiently amused line of his mouth had hardened into anger as he jerked her on to tiptoe inches from his chest. The harsh glitter of his eyes raked her face.

  "Stop looking at me that way!" he growled.

  Faltering under his censorious gaze, Brandy shook her head weakly. "I can't help it."

  "Dammit, Brandy!" The pressure of his fingers eased, letting her stand before him, although he didn't release her. He sighed with exasperation.

  "What do I have to do to make you understand?"

  "I can't forget who you are," she protested. "And I'm flattered that you should want to have dinner with me, but—"

  "Flattered!" The word curled savagely sarcastic from his hard mouth. "I'm not some god or king bestowing a favor on you."

  "Then what do you want me to say?" Brandy cried in a kind of despairing anger. "If you want a simple yes or no, then the answer is no! Now please let me go!"

  His hands fell swiftly away as if her flesh revolted him. Before he could change his mind, she moved away from the pillar to put a safer distance between them. She kept her back toward him to hide her quivering chin and the tears that scalded her eyes.

  Everything was so crazy. She wanted to turn around and take back her answer, even though every ounce of logic insisted she had made the right decision. An inner voice argued for her to accept. It was only a dinner invitation; she could go, just for the experience of dating a celebrity. It would be something to tell her children some day. But she couldn't treat it as a lark. Some instinct warned her that no time spent with Jim Corbett could ever be treated so casually.

  "The next time, Brandy," his voice when he spoke was controlled and calm, "things will be different."

  Brandy glanced over her shoulder, the inner torment partially mirrored in her shimmering turquoise eyes. "No, Mr. Corbett, they won't," she said firmly.

  Holding her gaze for a long moment, he said nothing, then he pivoted on his heel and exited through the sliding glass doors. She didn't feel any relief when he had gone. Jim Corbett did not make idle statements, and she knew she hadn't seen the last of him.

  ALL WEEKEND Brandy was jumping at the sound of every car driving by the house. Each ring of the telephone made her heart stop beating, but by Monday morning Jim had still made no effort to contact her. As each day of the week dragged by, she could not help wondering if perhaps he had decided she wasn't worth wasting his time over. She realized she was much more feminine than she had thought. Even though she didn't want to go out with him, she wanted him to keep asking.

  Although more than a week had gone by without her hearing from him, that didn't mean she hadn't heard about Jim Corbett. Karen, blithely unaware of his visit and his invitation to dinner, had avidly passed on every tidbit of gossip she had either read in the paper or heard from unknown sources.

  So it was from her girl friend that Brandy learned of the torrid affair that had sprung up between Jim Corbett and LaRaine Evans, one of the supporting actresses in the movie being filmed at Old Tucson. One newspaper clipping Karen had included a photograph of the two together, the vivacious brunette nestled under the crook of Jim's arm. A stab of pure envy had pierced Brandy's heart at the sight of it.

  The jabbing sensation didn't lessen when she learned, from Karen of course, that the couple had spent the previous weekend in the border town of Nogales, an hour's drive south of Tucson. When she was told that along with seeing the sights in Mexico they had attended a bullfight, she cattily decided that the brunette looked like the bloodthirsty type that would enjoy such a spectacle.

  With the passage of the second weekend and no word, Brandy acknowledged that she had seen the last of Jim Corbett. What had she expected, she asked herself as she carried the lightweight stepladder from the back room of the shop. Attractive in a wholesome way she might be, but she couldn't compete with the stunningly sensuous and vibrantly alive LaRaine Evans.

  "What are you going to do with that ladder, Brandy?" Karen frowned and jumped forward to move a large ceramic statue of a cherub out of Brandy's way.

  "I decided it was time to rearrange the macramé display." She maneuvered the cumbersome length of the ladder safely by the statue. Her path to the hanging pottery suspended by creatively knotted and colorful rope strands was now clear of obstacles. "We've had the same things up since April, and people like to see something new."

  "Want some help?"

  "I think I can manage," Brandy replied, concentrating on setting up the ladder without knocking any of the pots.

  "I'll take care of the customers and when Mrs. Phillips comes back from lunch, I'll give you a hand so you don't have to keep running up and down the ladder. If she comes back from lunch, that is," Karen added with a speaking roll of her eyes. "If she didn't have faithful, hardworking employees like us, I don't know how she'd make a living out of this store. She's never here half the time."

  "That's precisely why she hired us, so she wouldn't have to be," Brandy laughed as she climbed the ladder, dodging the pots that swung about her head.

  "Oh, oh," Karen murmured, "Mrs. Goodwin has just walked in. She ordered a special shade of yarn for an afghan she's making. It wasn't in the last shipment and Mrs. Phillips promised her faithfully we would have it by today."

  "Good luck," Brandy whispered as her friend moved reluctantly toward the woman.

  Sitting precariously on the top step, nearly hidden from view by the fibrous curtain of macramé hangings, Brandy began selecting which ones would be replaced or their appearance altered by the insertion of a differently colored or patterned ceramic pot.

  Someone else entered the shop, but since she knew Karen would be free in a few minutes to wait on the new customer, she didn't let her attention stray from her task. Her hand froze on the ceiling hook of a hanging she had been about to remove when she heard the man's voice.

  "I'd like to look at some of your leather tooling equipment." The deep, husky voice belonged to none other than Jim Corbett.

  "O—Of course, Mr. Corbett," Karen stammered her disbelief at the identity of her customer.

  Carefully peering through the colored and beaded hangings so as not to draw attention to herself, Brandy saw him as he removed the sunglasses and turned to follow Karen. She held her breath. Had he discovered she worked here and come to see her? It couldn't be possible, but she knew that she was desperately hoping it was.

  Karen was all thumbs when they reached the leather counter, nearly dropping the tray of tools he asked to see on the floor. Then when he helped her, she nearly swooned—and Brandy didn't blame her. Jim looked much handsomer than she remembered, if that was possible, and so casual and at ease.

  Not daring to move, afraid that if he hadn't come to see her, it might prove embarrassing, she waited for him to mention her name. The string curtain of macramé concealed her from view.

  "Do . . . do you work in leather, Mr. Corbett?" Karen asked.

  He glanced up from the tool he was inspecting and smiled faintly. "It's a hobby of mine. I like working with my hands."

  "I imagine it's a good way to relax after filming all day," her friend suggested agreeably. As some of the shock receded at
coming face to face with James Corbett, Karen's more garrulous personality began asserting itself. "You don't know what a thrill it is for me to meet you, Mr. Corbett. I've been a fan of yours for a long time. I've seen all of your movies, some of them more than once."

  "Thank you. I hope you enjoyed them," his dark head nodded in near indifference.

  "Oh, I did!" Karen assured him with a rush. "I can hardly wait until the one you're filming here is released, so I can go see it. It must be a very exciting business."

  "In some ways," he agreed, but Brandy detected a note of dry cynicism. "In others, it's much more tedious than your job."

  "I find that hard to believe," Karen laughed, self-consciously flicking her flame-colored hair behind her shoulder. "But then I've never seen a movie being made before."

  Selecting the tools he wanted from the array Karen had shown him, Jim handed them to her so she could ring up his purchase. Brandy decided his presence in the store had nothing to do with her and could only hope now that Karen wouldn't mention her name. Perhaps her friend would still be too flustered to remember her.

  "Would you like a behind the scenes look at a movie being filmed, Miss—?" he inquired as he paid for the tools.

  "It's Justin, Karen Justin," she introduced herself quickly. "Would I ever like that!"

  "I could arrange for you to have a pass one day next week if you're free?" he offered indulgently.

  "Oh, yes. The shop is closed Thursday afternoons," Karen declared excitedly.

  "Then perhaps if you can persuade Miss Ames to come down off her perch, she might like to join you." With that Jim turned, his mocking gaze looking directly at the curtain of filaments behind which Brandy was hiding.

  The unexpected use of her name startled her so much that she jerked convulsively backward, bumping against the hangings and sending them banging into each other. She had to grab hold of the ladder to keep from falling. Luckily she was spared that embarrassment as she regained her balance and awkwardly descended the ladder. Jim was waiting at the bottom, his dark eyes laughing at the red stain in her cheeks.