by JoAnn Ross
Claren would have laughed were it not for Dash’s frighteningly serious expression. “I’m not going to change my mind,” she assured him. “You’re stuck with me, Dash MacKenzie. For the rest of your life.” She brushed her lips against his, slowly, seductively, causing flames to rise and burn away his lingering fears. Almost.
The heated kiss was interrupted by the sudden peal of the doorbell. “Let’s pretend we’re not home,” Claren murmured against Dash’s lips.
But whoever was outside was not prepared to give up easily. The bell rang again. A third time. “I’d better go see who it is,” Claren said reluctantly.
She stood in the doorway, staring at the enormous crate. “This can’t be for me. You must have the wrong address.”
“You Claren Wainwright?” the deliveryman asked.
“Yes, but—”
“Then I’ve got the right place.” He turned the clipboard so she wouldn’t have to read upside down. “Claren Wainwright, 1256 Mountainview Road, Port Vancouver, Washington. U.S.A. This is yours, lady.”
“I’m Claren Wainwright,” she agreed. “And you have the right address, but I’m not expecting anything this large.” Her eyes narrowed as they took in the wooden crate. “What is it, anyway?”
Khaki brown shoulders lifted in an uncaring shrug. “How should I know? I just deliver the stuff. Look, lady,” he said, casting an impatient look at his watch, “I’ve still got a lot of stops to make today. So why don’t you just sign on this line, right next to your name, so I can get back to work, okay?”
Claren ignored the outstretched plastic ballpoint pen. “But I didn’t order anything.”
“So maybe somebody sent you a present. Please, lady,” he begged, “just sign the damn delivery slip.”
“I’ve got one question,” Dash said, surprising Claren, who hadn’t heard him come up behind her.
“Not you, too,” the heavyset man groaned. “I don’t know what’s in the damn crate.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Sorry.” To Claren’s amazement the deliveryman suddenly snapped to attention at Dash’s rigid tone. She would not have been at all surprised if he’d saluted. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“How did you get through the gate?”
“Simple. I just got out of the truck, opened it and drove through.”
The answer was enough to make the hairs on the back of Dash’s neck stand on end. “It wasn’t locked?”
“Nope. I mean, no, sir.”
Dash handed Claren a pen from his pocket. “Why don’t you sign the delivery slip, darling,” he said with a great deal more calm than he was feeling. “So the man can continue his route.”
Claren was about to argue that this was all a mistake when she saw something alien flash in Dash’s eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought it was fear. Which was, of course, impossible, she decided as she reluctantly scribbled her name. Dash was the bravest man she’d ever met.
“Where do you want it?” the man asked.
Before Claren could answer, Dash said, “Out in the yard.”
It obviously wasn’t the answer the deliveryman was expecting. “It’s pretty heavy,” he pointed out. “You sure you don’t want me to haul it inside for you?”
“The yard is fine,” Dash repeated.
Again those broad khaki shoulders shrugged. “Hey, it’s your crate.” He backed down the steps, rolled the crate out onto the yard and tipped it carefully off the hand truck. Then, with a muttered curse after looking at his watch, he ran back to the brown delivery truck. With a roar of the engine and a cloud of black exhaust, he was gone.
“Well,” Claren said, circling the crate, “it can’t be an early wedding present, because nobody knows we’re getting married yet. Except Elliott,” she amended. “But I don’t think he’d send us a present. Unless he could figure out a way to make it explode,” she tacked on, remembering the look on his face as he’d slammed out of the house.
Explosions were exactly what Dash was worried about. Until he noticed the date the package had been shipped. The day before Darcy’s death.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and start getting ready for the dance,” he suggested, “while I find a hammer and uncrate this.”
“Are you kidding?” Claren asked. “Now that I’m stuck with this thing, I’m dying to find out what’s in it.”
So was he. Half expecting a treasure trove of plundered booty from the Maria Theresa, Dash didn’t know what to make of the contents of the crate.
There appeared to be nothing of value, merely items designed to appeal to the tourist trade. There was a grass skirt out of ti leaves that Dash decided would look more than a little appealing on Claren, a coconut carved to look like a monkey’s face, various clay figures, colorful baskets and numerous strings of beads created from pink and white shells.
“Gracious,” Claren murmured, staring at the figure of an obviously pregnant female, “she’s certainly, uh, robust, isn’t she?”
“She is that,” Dash murmured, running his hand over the molded clay, searching for seams. The statue’s round breasts and distended belly had been exaggerated, designed to represent the female in her most fundamental form. “I suppose, considering your desire to give birth to your own basketball team, we can consider this a wedding present from your uncle.”
Claren found the sight of Dash’s dark hand moving over the statue’s swollen breasts painfully erotic. What was happening to her? Ever since she’d met the man, she’d had sex on the brain.
“Darcy always sent me gifts from his travels,” Claren agreed. “But never anything so…”
“Erotic,” Dash finished up when her voice seemed to fail her. “She reminds me of you.”
“Of me?” Claren’s hands went immediately to her flat stomach; for some strange reason she could not comprehend, she almost expected to find it large with child. “That’s the way you see me?”
“Not physically,” he assured her. “But emotionally. She’s all woman, round and soft and made for having babies. Just like you.”
“That’s not exactly a flattering description, Dash,” Claren felt obliged to point out. “Sometimes, when you talk like that, I get the distinct impression that you’re not really a modern man of the nineties.”
“If you’re referring to the egocentric kind of guy who sleeps around on his fiancée and fixes it so she can’t have the children she’s always wanted, I guess I’m not.”
“Thank heavens.” Claren smiled up at him. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I much prefer a more primitive man.”
Dash lifted a challenging dark brow. “Primitive? Like in Neanderthal?”
“Primitive like in old-fashioned,” she corrected. “In a good sort of way.” She twined her arms around his neck. “You really meant it, didn’t you?” she asked. “What you said that first morning about protecting me.”
“I’d protect you with my life,” Dash agreed roughly, hauling her to him. With a burst of passion that surprised them both, he covered her smiling mouth with his.
The kiss rocked her. Dash didn’t ask; he took. Although she never would have thought it possible, it was more thrilling than any of the others they’d shared so far. Claren clung to him, as if only he could keep her from spinning off the edge of the world. His mouth was urgent, restless, moving over her face from her lips to her temples to her chin, as if wanting to taste all of her at once.
Tongues met, his teeth nipped at her lower lip and she would have been afraid of the strength of such unchecked passion if she hadn’t been so in love with him. Her mind spun and she recalled his reference to Ecclesiastes and she knew that this was a time for feeling, for giving freely. There would be time to think later. For now she wrapped her arms around him and gave unconditionally.
“I want you to promise me something,” he said, his lips a hot breeze against her temple.
“Anything,” Claren answered breathlessly, meaning it.
He tangled his fi
ngers in her hair and tilted her tawny head back so he could look directly into her eyes. “This is important,” he insisted on a voice that was not as steady as it should have been. “I want you to promise that whatever happens between us, you’ll never forget that I love you more than I ever thought possible.”
His face could have been cut from granite, and something Claren could not quite discern blazed in the gleaming pewter depths of his eyes. Whatever it was, it frightened her.
She lifted her palm to his cheek; the muscle jerked beneath her stroking fingertips. “You make it sound as if we’re about to be visited by plague and pestilence,” she whispered in an attempt at levity that fell decidedly flat.
He turned his head and capturing her hand in his, pressed his lips against the tender skin of her palm, causing her pulse to leap. “Promise me,” he insisted.
Her knees were shaking, her lips were trembling. Never, even when they’d been making love, had Claren felt such passion emanating from his tense body. “I promise.”
He’d needed desperately to hear the words, but now that she had, he realized he needed more. Much, much more. What he needed, dammit, was for all this to be over.
Releasing her so quickly that she almost fell down, he picked up the statue, lifted it over his head and, ignoring Claren’s cry, flung it to the ground. The clay cracked apart, leaving another statue, shaped exactly like the first, but formed from gleaming gold.
“Oh, my God.” Claren knelt down and ran her hands over the gold surface. “How did you know?”
“It’s a fairly standard practice,” Dash said. “For smugglers.”
She looked up at him, clearly startled. “Are you accusing Darcy of being a smuggler?”
“I’m not accusing him of anything.”
But his eyes were saying something entirely different. Stunned that Dash could believe something so hateful about the only other man she’d ever loved, Claren couldn’t bear to look at him.
“I’m going upstairs to get ready,” she said. “Before I say something I’ll regret and call you a liar.”
With that threat ringing ominously in his ears, Claren left Dash alone with the grinning gold statue. He tapped the rotund figure, unsurprised by the hollow tone.
“Cute, Darcy,” he muttered. “Real cute.” He took the statue with him into the house and called St. John.
“I’ve got your damn goddess,” he said. “You can come take it off my hands while we’re in town tonight. It’ll be in the library in O’Neill’s secret hiding place in the bookshelf, behind Arthur Conan Doyle. And, St. John? This is the last job I do for you.”
He smiled grimly as the smooth, round tones on the other end of the line began the expected argument.
“I mean it,” he said. “Tomorrow morning I’m starting a new life with the woman I love. And although I know it’s going to break your heart, there isn’t any place in it for you.”
The only father figure he had ever known was still arguing when Dash hung up the receiver.
CHAPTER 11
THEY WERE, unsurprisingly, the talk of the town. Claren, dressed in a backless flowered sundress, flitted around Pioneer Hall, showing off her ring to everyone. That she was loved was obvious, which was why, Dash decided, the citizens of Port Vancouver had accepted him so readily.
Already he’d received three invitations to go fly-fishing, two more invitations to go backpacking on Hurricane Ridge and several other requests for his assistance in various environmentalist movements designed to protect the peninsula against encroaching development from the Puget Sound cities.
A drummer from the Port Vancouver jazz society wanted to know if he played an instrument and Helen Riddenour, a zaftig woman with a remarkably deep voice who owned a local gallery, asked if he had any talent for wood carving, since native American art sold wonderfully well to eastern tourists. Not wanting to offend the woman, Dash was trying to get away gracefully when Claren suddenly appeared beside him.
“Darling,” she said, flashing a sweetly apologetic glance Helen Riddenour’s way, “you promised you’d dance the next slow dance with me. You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Helen?” she asked as she practically dragged Dash onto the dance floor.
“Remind me to thank you for rescuing me when we get home,” Dash murmured as he gathered Claren into his arms.
The hand holding hers was strong and hard, with a ridge of calluses from the hard physical work he’d been doing. “Helen’s always been a bit pushy.” His arms fit around her perfectly, and he was incredibly light on his feet for such a large man. And Claren couldn’t believe how handsome he looked in the unfamiliar blue suit.
“She thought I might be able to supply her with some native American art.”
Claren tilted her head back and looked up at him, searching for hurt in his eyes. “What did you say?”
“Don’t worry, Irish, I didn’t embarrass you. In fact, I was incredibly polite, although I was tempted to point out that my ancestors were too busy scalping her ancestors to worry about carving pretty knickknacks.”
Claren couldn’t miss the tinge of bitterness in his tone. “You don’t ever have to worry about embarrassing me,” she insisted loyally. “But I am sorry about what Helen said.”
He shrugged. “She was just looking for a quick commission.”
“Does it bother you?” she asked quietly. “That your father was an Indian?”
“Hell, no,” Dash said quickly. “I’m proud of my heritage, Claren. Does it bother you that our children will be one-quarter Cheyenne? That our sons and daughters will have warrior blood flowing through their veins?’
“Of course not. I only worried that Helen might have hurt your feelings.”
“I’m a lot tougher than that, Irish.” Dash pressed a kiss against her fragrant hair. “What does grate is people like your former fiancé, people who wear their prejudice like a badge of honor.”
He tipped her head back with a finger beneath her chin and brushed his lips against hers. “But that’s enough angry talk for the evening. I just want to hold you in my arms and thank whatever fates or gods sent you to me.”
The words, and the emotion behind them, came as a surprise. Dash was not a man for poetry or pretty phrases. He’d warned her about that from the beginning. Claren had quickly discovered that whatever Dash said, he meant. He was not a liar, like Elliott. He was the most honest man she’d ever met. And the nicest. And the sexiest. And—
“What are you thinking?”
She smiled up at him. “How much I love you.”
His arms tightened as he practically crushed her against him. “I hope you always will.”
He could be so intense sometimes! Claren assured herself that his seeming desperation was only the result of an overactive imagination and the two glasses of wine she’d drunk.
“Of course I will.” Going up on her toes, she kissed him, oblivious to the amused glances of the other couples on the dance floor. “Forever and ever,” she promised as the music stopped and the band announced that they were taking a fifteen-minute break.
They were headed off the dance floor when Dash saw St. John appear in the doorway and gesture toward him. Furious at the interruption, he said, “I’ll be right back.” When Claren glanced up at him curiously, he added one more lie to the growing string he’d already told her. “Nature calls. That’s what I get for drinking that second beer.”
A soft color flooded her cheeks; her only response was a brief nod.
It had gotten warm in the hall. When Dash didn’t immediately return, Claren decided to slip outside for some fresh air. The redbrick building was located on the waterfront and, drawn by the site of the bright lights on Discovery Bay, she strolled idly down to the ferry dock and watched the large white boat’s approach.
“You found me,” she said with a smile, turning around when she heard the footfalls behind her. “I was worried—”
Her words were cut off as she was roughly grabbed from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth, f
orestalling any attempt to scream. Claren struggled to strike out at her assailant, but he was much larger and a great deal stronger.
“Damn you, bitch,” he muttered when she slammed her high heel down on his foot. “You’ll pay for this.” He put his forearm against her neck and squeezed, causing spots to swim in front of her eyes. She was nearly overcome by vertigo; her lids fluttered closed.
“Don’t kill her,” another voice, with a vaguely European accent, instructed sharply.
“I’ll second that,” a third man said. Claren’s eyes flew open at the wonderfully familiar sound of Dash’s deep voice. He was standing in the shadows; the steel of the pistol in his hand gleamed silver in the moonlight. “Let her go.”
“Why the hell should we do that?” Yet another man wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black slacks emerged from the shadows, his pistol pointed at Dash. “When there are three of us and one of you. And we’ve got your girlfriend.”
“I’m giving you one last opportunity to change your mind,” Dash said. Claren found his cold tone to be amazingly calm and incredibly reasonable, considering the highly unreasonable circumstances. It was almost as if he were accustomed to such potential violence. “Release Ms. Wainwright now, or you’ll live to regret it.”
The arm around Claren’s midriff tightened, making breathing difficult. When she felt the cold blade of a knife pressed against her throat, ice skimmed up her spine.
“I wouldn’t try anything,” her captor warned. “Unless you want to see the bitch’s throat cut.”
Rage surged through Dash, but he forced it down. He took a deep breath, encouraging his mind and his body to relax. It was a technique he’d learned from a Buddhist monk in Tibet and it was working. A deep calm spread over him like a comforting quilt; all his senses were intensified.
“Just give us the goddess,” the second man said reasonably. “And we’ll let the woman go. There’s no reason for her to end up like her uncle.”
“My uncle?” Claren stared at him. “You killed Darcy?”