Golden Flames

by Kay Hooper

  “There isn’t much to say.”

  Victoria refused to be put off. “No? You mentioned growing up near Apache camps; you’ve been a scout, a soldier, now a Ranger. You’re obviously educated and—on the surface, at least—gentlemanly.”

  He acknowledged that wry hit with a smile of genuine amusement. “On the surface? Well, better than not at all, I suppose.”

  She gave him a pained look. “You aren’t going to talk about yourself, are you?”

  “I’m boring, sweet. Now, you, on the other hand—“

  Victoria hardly wanted to talk about herself. She was becoming more and more conscious of the fact that Falcon knew nothing of her marriage, and with every hour that passed she found it increasingly impossible to broach the subject. How could she tell him? How could she explain….

  “You’ve gone away,” he said softly.

  She looked at him, aching. “Have you thought about it?” she asked, reckless.

  Something kindled instantly in his eyes, dark and hot, and his face tightened. But he looked away from her. “I’ve thought of little else,” he answered, a bit roughly.

  “And?”

  He shook his head, silent.

  She glanced around at the park, where couples strolled and children played and there was no privacy to be found. No place where a woman could throw herself shamelessly at a man’s feet, because she couldn’t be left with nothing, not even a memory….Then her gaze returned to his hard, handsome profile. “You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”

  After a moment, he nodded. “A few days, maybe a week. I have to—get back to work.”

  “In Texas?”

  He didn’t know, but nodded anyway. And before she could speak again, he rose to his feet and helped her up. “It’s getting late. I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

  Victoria accepted his arm, walking beside him with her head downbent, her eyes seeing nothing. She hadn’t needed to ask to realize that Falcon had not found an answer for them. And she wondered if she could have loved him if he had found it easy to take her and then walk away.

  —

  The man was big and wide, the eye patch he wore giving him a sinister appearance. Jesse’s bloodstained purse was clutched in his hand, and his laugh was harsh.

  “I’ve killed your brother, girl, bashed his head in and let the creek carry him away. I’ve killed your Pa over there, and your darkie. Now I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me where the gold is! Tell me, or by God, I’ll cut your throat!”

  Gold? She didn’t understand, didn’t know what he was talking about. They had no gold! Her heart hammered in terror, and when he lunged at her, she never even realized the knife was in her hand, until she saw it protruding from his chest, until his blood spilled onto her dress…blood…so much blood…

  Victoria woke from the nightmare with a muffled cry, sitting up on her bed and staring wildly around the peaceful bedroom. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, and the silence of her room was broken by the dim sounds of activity in the hotel.

  Just a dream.

  She got up and bathed her face at the washstand, her heart still thudding unevenly. Ever since she had told Falcon about that day, she had relived it several times in nightmares: each time more vividly, with more of the long-buried memories remaining in her mind afterward. She could remember it all now, even though she wished that day had remained buried.

  Morgan had ridden up then, she remembered, just as she’d fled the house in weeping terror, clutching Jesse’s purse. Morgan had comforted her, then gone to look for the one-eyed man, discovering that he had apparently managed to live long enough to crawl on his horse and ride away. Morgan had buried her father and old Sam. He had even, at her hysterical insistence, taken her along the path Jesse always rode to Charleston, to the creek where that horrible man had killed him. They had found blood on a rock near the middle of the creek, and Morgan had told her gently that Jesse’s poor body had probably been carried downstream.

  She had been in shock, and hardly remembered much else. Except that Morgan had told her he would take care of her. She hadn’t known his name, or anything about him. But she had put her hand in his and left her home, never looking back.

  And she had never regretted it.

  Victoria went to her window and looked down on the busy New York street below, wondering now, as she had not wondered then, what Morgan had been doing at Regret. He’d never said, and she, with those memories buried, had never asked. Even in her shock and grief, she had realized that Morgan had also been grieving during those days, during the long trip to New Mexico. He had lost a cherished dream when the South went down in defeat, and, looking back, Victoria realized that the only small piece of the life he had loved had lived, in the end, in her.

  He had been so careful in teaching her not to eradicate the traits her upbringing had instilled in her. He had been openly proud that his wife was a Southerner, that her accent was soft and her manners delicate. The neighbors had said that he doted on her, and smiled because it was clear she adored her husband.

  Her husband…

  Victoria smiled, because it was better than weeping, and wondered silently if Morgan would understand what was happening to her now. She thought he would, but wondered if he wouldn’t grieve because the traits he had nurtured in her had not been able to stand up against Falcon Delaney.

  How odd it was. One man had taught her to be a lady, whatever that meant. Another man had taught her to be a woman, whatever that meant.

  —

  The ground floor of Victoria’s hotel was taken up by many long halls and huge rooms; there were tall, fat columns and a great deal of brass and glass and fine furnishings, and intricately woven rugs cushioned the marble floor. The benefit was to take place in one of the ballrooms she had never seen, and when she came down early to explore, she found musicians tuning their instruments and servants rushing about with harried expressions. There were a number of guests already, standing and sitting in couples and small groups in the lobby and hallways, talking and laughing.

  Victoria had arranged to meet Falcon in the small “reading room” just off one of the hallways, and she made her way there now, aware that she was attracting a good deal of attention. She held her head up and kept moving, wondering uneasily if this had been as good an idea as it had seemed a few hours before. She wasn’t at all sure now. There had been no one to advise her; she was yielding to instinct. Falcon saw her so clearly as a lady that she had been determined to show him tonight just how wicked a lady could look if she set her mind to it.

  The gown was one Morgan had ordered from Paris, but he had been unable to convince her to wear it, despite his insistence that no other woman would be able to carry it off as well as she. Made of the finest silk, it glowed like a living thing, shimmering with trapped light. It was completely, starkly black, with no hint of another color. But it needed no other color. The three-quarter sleeves were trimmed with black Mechlin lace, which also edged the off-the-shoulder and extremely low-cut neckline; black gauze and black velvet ribbons decorated the skirt; and the bodice was embroidered intricately with black thread. The full underskirt dropped almost straight in front, and was gathered in back with lace-edged flounces, ending in a short train; there was a short overskirt of sheer gauze, hanging down in front, looped up at the sides, and bunched out at the back.

  Victoria had chosen not to wear gloves, and the only jewelry she wore was a diamond tiara, which kept a sheer, lacy, black veil in place. The veil fell just over her eyes; above it, the tiara sparkled, and her wheat-gold hair gleamed in its intricate, swirling style. The dress alone was daring, both in color and style, to say nothing of the deep V neck and bare shoulders; the tiara and the brief, mysterious veil lent her an enigmatic, almost feline look, like a shadow drawn deliberately over something to conceal it.

  A glance in the mirror had told Victoria that she looked a far cry from virginal. She looked wicked. Her tiny waist and full breasts were set off by the tig
ht bodice that clung lovingly to the naked flesh beneath, and though the lace at the neckline provided a bit more cover than the black silk alone, her breasts were nonetheless bared almost to the nipples. And the contrast of the black gown and her fair hair and pale, golden flesh was so striking that it lent an illusion of more flesh showing than there actually was.

  Victoria was very conscious of that illusion as she moved down the hall and into the deserted reading room, very aware that every step caused the front of her gown to mold itself to the length of her legs daringly, but she had already burned her bridges. She had been right in believing that talking of the situation between her and Falcon would change nothing. Nor would thinking about it. But she was achingly aware of her desire, and of his, and knew that one more interlude of passion between them would quite likely settle the matter for them.

  The reading room was small, three walls lined floor to ceiling with shelves containing books, and the fourth wall holding the door, a velvet-covered settee, an overstuffed chair, and a small table between them. She stood, running a finger along the shelf of books, unseeing, feeling her entire body tauten and warm at the thought of lying in his arms. Wouldn’t that be worth the pain that was sure to come afterward? And she loved him….

  “Well, well. It’s Victoria, isn’t it?”

  She turned slowly, still half-trapped in dreams of Falcon, unaware that more than the veil shadowed her eyes and made them darkly secretive. “Yes.” She looked at the other woman, a redhead dressed improbably in a scarlet gown even more daring than her own. “And you’re Cassie.”

  “Waiting for someone?”

  “Falcon.”

  “I see.” A man might have thought Cassie was smiling; Victoria knew she wasn’t. “Tired of playing the lady and decided to play the whore instead?”

  Coolly, Victoria said, “We both seem dressed for that part.”

  Cassie lifted a surprised brow. “Have teeth, do you? Well, well. I supposed we could fight like cats over him, but I hardly think I need to bother. After he escorted you tamely home the other night, he came back to me. Did he tell you that?” Her voice dropped to a soft purr. “Did he tell you how he pulled up my skirts and took me against a wall?”

  Still cool, Victoria said, “Couldn’t you find a bed?”

  A soft gurgle of laughter escaped Cassie’s red lips. “Nice try, honey, but you went white when I told you that. You do have it bad, don’t you? Someone should have warned you never to fall in love with a man like Falcon. He’s a marvelous lover, but the woman hasn’t been born who could get him to a preacher.”

  Through lips that felt stiff and cold, Victoria said, “That doesn’t appear to trouble you.”

  Cassie laughed again. “Oh, I’m already married, honey. I have a doting husband who wouldn’t see one of my lovers if he climbed into bed with us. What I want from Falcon, he’s perfectly willing to give. And has. You see, I don’t need a ring or a promise from him—and he knows it. And I don’t have to wear black to prove that to him.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly, and her voice dropped to a low note again. “He may well play the gentleman with you, but I’m the one he’ll come back to.” Then she laughed softly and left the room.

  Vaguely, Victoria heard the musicians stop the screechy tuning of their instruments and start to play softly. She turned back to the books, unseeing now for a different reason. Truth? Or spite? It could be either, and quite possibly both. Falcon had told her himself that Cassie had “offered,” but that he had sent her away. Had he indeed gone back to her?

  “My bedmates are bought for the night. Whores. Do you understand? I pay for my pleasures, or else find them in some secluded bedroom or garden with a willing and knowledgeable woman who might call herself a lady even if no one else does.”

  She half-closed her eyes, hurting more than she would have believed possible. She had no right to hurt, she knew that; Falcon had promised her nothing, after all. And just because he wanted her didn’t mean he wouldn’t continue to want other women. She looked down at her gown and laughed softly, bitterly. Even Cassie had recognized the dress for what it was: A costume, a defiant show of bravado.

  “Victoria?”

  As soon as she heard his deep voice, she knew that what Cassie had told her changed nothing. She still loved him. She still wanted him. And she was still willing to take whatever he offered her, even if it was only a night.

  “Dear God,” he murmured when she turned to face him.

  She watched as he slowly closed and locked the door and leaned back against it, seeing the leap of hot desire in his eyes, seeing his gaze moving over her hungrily. And she was grateful for the veil that shadowed her own eyes. But she had to ask, had to know, because she was hurting, and she couldn’t seem to breathe. “Cassie was here.”

  He pushed himself away from the door and crossed slowly to stand before her. His eyes were still hot, darkened, but he was frowning a little now. “Was she, sweet?”

  “Do you call her that too?”

  “No.” His hands lifted to her bare shoulders. “What did she tell you?”

  Steadily, Victoria said, “That you went back to her the other night. That you made love to her.”

  His hands tightened, and after a moment, he said shortly, “Well, she was half-right.” He didn’t bother to correct the euphemism. “That’s what I intended to do.”

  “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.” His voice was hard. “I didn’t want her, Victoria, I wanted you. But she was willing, and uncomplicated, and I thought she could help me to forget you.”

  Victoria swallowed hard. “And did she?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t feel anything for her, do you understand that? I wanted to. I wanted to take her like some rutting animal,” he said harshly, “but I couldn’t. You were the fire in my blood. There wasn’t even a spark for her.”

  She gazed up at his taut face, the blazing green eyes, and knew that he was telling the truth. The cold ache inside her eased, and she could breathe again. Before she could speak, he was going on, his voice still harsh.

  “Do you realize what you’ve done to me? I’ve been acting like a tamed cat, Victoria. I walk along beside you, the perfect gentleman; keeping my hands to myself when what I really want—“

  “What do you want?” she whispered.

  Falcon drew a deep breath with a rough sound. “You shouldn’t have worn this dress,” he muttered, looking down at the almost naked breasts that were rising and falling quickly. “You’re a siren in this dress, not a lady.” There was something in his voice, something savage and frustrated and barely under control.

  “Perhaps I don’t want to be a lady any longer.”

  Her soft voice filled his ears, his mind, dizzying him more potently than the finest Irish whiskey. He was touching only her shoulders, gazing down at the glint of green eyes through a shadowy veil, watching her lips part and her tongue touch them unconsciously so that they gleamed. He thought vaguely that this was sorcery, enchantment, because it was too astonishingly powerful to be anything else. His body responded like dry wood to a torch, blazing with heat. The muscles of his belly knotted hard, and desire was a searing knife cutting him up inside. Every harsh breath he drew hurt him, burned his chest and caught raggedly in his throat. And the full, heavy ache in his loins intensified until he knew he would burst with it, explode into a dozen jagged pieces.

  He had thought he could control this, just as he had controlled his desires and impulses for his entire adult life, and the past platonic days had deceived him into certainty. But now, looking at her in the wicked black gown, he knew that he had never been less in control. From the instant his gaze had met her startled green eyes in a dusty bookshop, he had been adrift in a wild current, rudderless and at the mercy of something beyond himself.

  His hands moved slowly along her shoulders and up her throat, and the silk of her golden flesh sent a hot tremor through his entire body. He framed her delicate face, staring down at her, fascinated
by the shadow of her veil.

  Victoria stared up at him, and her veil had altered him as well, leaving his lean face darker, curiously savage. The hard planes and angles of his face seemed more sharply defined, his eyes more deeply set and hooded, his mouth almost cruel. His bronze skin was drawn tightly over the bones beneath, as if every muscle was taut, and a fine sheen of sweat drew her finger to glide slowly along his upper lip. She could feel his breath, coming quick and hard, feel tension as her hand came to rest on his cheek, and her fingers trembled.

  “You’re hiding the lady,” he said thickly. “Concealing her behind this bit of lace, in the shadows where she won’t torment me.”

  Her body trembled. There was a heavy, stinging ache in the pit of her stomach, a quivering weakness, and she could feel a sudden heat between her thighs. Her breasts hurt—the nipples tightening, hardening until they poked against the thin silk and showed themselves in jutting desire.

  “That lady’s gone,” she breathed unsteadily, nearly drowning in the sensations racing through her, the wild tangle of emotions gripping her heart and clouding her mind. Her body ached, as if she had held herself stiffly at the edge of a precipice for too long, muscles quivering with the strain of trying to save herself. “She’s been packed away with her demure gloves and her—“And her wedding ring. Even that, even the knowledge that he thought she was free hadn’t the power to alter her course now. And it didn’t matter, after all, it didn’t matter….

  “Victoria…” His head lowered and his mouth captured hers, fierce and hot, his tongue thrusting deeply. His arms gathered her close, crushing her against him, and her arms went up around his neck instantly. A sound she was hardly aware of escaped her; faint and hungry, dark colors swirling behind her closed eyes, she could feel her breasts swelling, aching against his hard chest. She wanted to move, press herself closer than she could ever be.

  Falcon lifted his head at last, and looked at her with blazing eyes. His hands swept slowly down her back to her hips, and he groaned softly. “You’re not wearing a damned thing under this dress,” he said hoarsely, the flames in his eyes leaping higher with the realization.