by Nan Ryan
She jumped when a match flared out in the shadowy courtyard. Her startled gaze went to the tiny orange flame. Lighting a thin brown cigar, West Quarternight sat alone on an iron-lace settee, half hidden by a smothering bougainvillea. Silently, Elizabeth counted to ten before moving forward. Then, as calmly as possible she lifted her turquoise silk skirts and approached him.
His long legs stretched out and crossed before him, West wore superbly tailored evening clothes of midnight black, a fact that annoyed Elizabeth. She felt sure the rugged scout had not packed such a suit for the journey. Apparently he kept a wardrobe at the doña’s hacienda.
Moving toward him, she noticed that the well-fitted jacket was unbuttoned and parted. The ruffled white shirt was half open down his dark chest, a black silk neck piece was untied and hanging loose around his stiff white collar. One long arm was resting on the settee’s high back, two inches of white shirt cuff thrusting from the jacket sleeve. Long, tanned fingers curled around the white iron lace.
When she neared him, West took the thin brown cigar from his lips and smiled engagingly.
“You look as though you’re waiting for someone,” said Elizabeth, attempting to sound casual.
“For the next beautiful woman that happens by,” was West’s low, teasing response. He patted the seat beside him.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Only, you assumed the next beautiful woman would be Doña Hope,” she said, and couldn’t stop herself from adding, “I’m fully aware, Quarternight, that you and the blond widow are more than just friends.”
Unperturbed, West shrugged wide shoulders. “You listened to idle gossip in Santa Fe, Mrs. Curtin. Few things flourish as well as rumor.” He put the brown cigar in his mouth and drew on it, its red ember glowing hotly, lighting his dark handsome features.
“I heard no rumors,” Elizabeth said. “I saw the doña leaving your hotel room the night of the Governor’s Spring Baile. And I know what she was doing there,” she continued smugly.
West took the cigar from his lips, studied it thoughtfully for a few seconds, then lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Do you, now?” His voice remained low, calm. “Well, spare me your self-righteousness, Mrs. Curtin. You and I have also been more than friends, as I fondly recall.”
Elizabeth let that pass, but snapped, “Why must you constantly be such a womanizer?”
“I’ve got that special calling, I guess,” he drawled lazily. “Like some people hear the calling to be a preacher.” He laughed.
Elizabeth did not. “I think you should marry Doña Hope,” she said acidly, reaching up and plucking a fuchsia blossom from the bougainvillea.
“What? And make every other woman in the Territory unhappy?” West flashed his white dazzling teeth. He came to his feet, dropped the cigar, and crushed it under his heel. “Let’s get back to you. I find you breathtaking tonight, Mrs. Curtin. And believe me, I’ve got a keen eye for beauty.”
“Yes, well, I’ve got a keen nose for trouble, Quarternight, so I think I’ll go back inside.” She handed him the fuchsia blossom. “For your lapel.”
West took it. Holding her gaze, he rolled the flower’s fragile stem between thumb and forefinger, then held it back out to her. “Won’t you do the honors? You’re so good at it.”
“No,” she said, hastily adding the first thing that came into her mind, “you’re too tall.”
West swiftly reached out, caught her wrist, drew her forward, and sat back down on the settee. “Now I’m not.” His silver eyes glittered in the dusky desert twilight. He again held out the blossom. “Please.” He paused, then added, “Elizabeth.”
It was the first time he had ever called her by her given name. The way he said it—as though he liked the taste of it on his tongue—made Elizabeth suddenly weak-kneed and faint. Or was it simply this afternoon’s whiskey? Tentatively, she reached out and took the fuchsia blossom from him. Nervously, she came nearer, moved to the left of his bent knees, and slowly leaned down to him.
Inexplicably shaky, she fumbled with his black satin lapel and made several futile attempts before she was successful in placing the blossom’s stem through the small buttonhole. Her eyes on her task, she had completely forgotten about the borrowed turquoise gown’s low-cut bodice. She was doing exactly what she had cautioned herself against. Bending over. Allowing her bare bosom to come dangerously close to spilling from the dress. And giving West Quarternight an eyeful.
“Elizabeth”—again he called her by her name—“may I say you have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever—”
“Oh, God!” She gasped, straightened immediately, and quickly pressed both hands modestly over her bosom.
For a split second West’s silver eyes went flat and still above his prominent cheekbones. Then he laughed and again came to his feet. His voice cool, faintly mocking, he said, “A woman more concerned with virtue than vanity. What a waste.”
“Why must you never miss a chance to torment me! Haven’t you any heart at all?”
“Yes,” he replied levelly, “and I intend to keep it right where it is.”
“Well, while you’re at it you can also keep your—”
“West, are you out here?” Doña Hope’s voice came from the flagstone porch. “Darling, where are you?”
“Be right there,” West called evenly and didn’t move—just kept standing there, looking at Elizabeth with those compelling silver eyes. He must have sensed her helpless attraction to his remarkable sexual power, because he said in a low, determined tone, “I do want you, Mrs. Curtin. You know that don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, unable to tear her gaze from his, “I’m afraid I do.”
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, hooking his little finger under a wispy red curl at her cheek. “I’m not.”
Breathless, attracted, Elizabeth feebly shook her head and brushed his hand away. “Quarternight, you’re just no good.”
“The good die young,” he responded immediately, and the smile left his handsome face, his features became sharpened, hardened. For the first time ever, Elizabeth got a tiny glimpse of a very different West Quarternight. Flatly, almost wearily, he continued, “The rest of us came back from the war and no one wanted us. All the good boys were killed in the war, or should have been.” His lashes lowered over strangely wistful gray eyes. “The good died young.”
“West, I never meant—”
“We’d better go in.” His smile was already back in place. He took her arm. “You wouldn’t want your hostess getting jealous.”
Elizabeth had supposed that Doña Hope would serve the traditional southwestern fare that everyone in this part of the world so favored; beans, beef, rice, cornmeal tortillas, and black coffee. She might have known better. Doña Hope was no ordinary hostess, no ordinary woman.
Absolutely dazzling in a long white gown of shimmering satin, her white-blond hair elaborately dressed atop her head, diamonds flashing on her pale throat and at her earlobes, the doña ushered them all into a salon she called the small dining room. It was small when compared to the huge one at the front of the mansion, where a long mahogany table could comfortably seat fifty.
In the small dining room a silk-covered table was set for six with crystal goblets and heavy English sterling and fine bone china. Tall white candles in silver candelabra bathed the room in soft, romantic light, and a bouquet of purple mariposa and pink roses perfumed the air. As for the food—well, it was no typical meal.
A large silver tray held raw oysters on a bed of chipped ice. In a deep silver bowl was black Russian caviar. There was stuffed quail. Lobster tails. Smoked salmon. Leg of lamb. A half-dozen vegetables. In addition, there was also tender Baca-raised beef and plenty of spicy Mexican dishes because the thoughtful doña knew that Taos and Grady wouldn’t touch the other fare.
The seating arrangements placed Doña Hope at the head of the table with West opposite, facing her. Elizabeth and Edmund were across from Grady and Taos, Elizabeth nearest to West, Edmund beside the doña. Unc
omfortably conscious of West’s nearness, Elizabeth was unusually quiet during the long meal.
The others talked plenty, including Edmund, who was obviously charmed by their lovely hostess. It was apparent that Doña Hope was used to entertaining and was practiced at putting everyone at their ease—especially men.
After Doña Hope had expressed her concern for Dane Curtin’s fate, she steered the conversation back toward more lighthearted subjects. At her encouragement, Grady told one of his wild Frémont tales and Doña Hope threw back her blond head and laughed uproariously. Elizabeth decided she had never known a woman more confident and charming, in addition to being a rare beauty. No wonder she was one of West Quarternight’s favorite lovers.
Inwardly sighing, Elizabeth lifted her stemmed glass, took a sip of champagne, and stole a glance at West. He was smiling and he was looking at the doña as she talked. His long, tanned fingers were wrapped around a crystal water tumbler. Slowly he lifted the glass to his lips and took a drink.
Elizabeth noted, and not for the first time, that his hands, like everything else about him, were attractive. Never hurried, never awkward, those lean brown fingers could reach up, snag a cigar from his pocket, flash out a match, snap it into flame, and light up … all in one neat, controlled motion.
Just as easily, just as smoothly, they could help a woman out of her clothes.
West set his glass back on the silk-covered table and Elizabeth watched as that intriguing hand moved gracefully to pick up his heavy sterling fork. In her mind’s eye Elizabeth saw those lean fingers pulling the white satin gown away from Doña Hope’s flawless flesh. Elizabeth’s throat grew dry and her stomach tightened painfully. Seconds later, when Doña Hope told an amusing story with more than subtle sexual undertones, the bold blond woman looked longingly down the table at West as if she could hardly wait to get him alone.
The wine and sparkling champagne freely flowed and by the time dessert arrived, everyone was in high spirits, with the exception of Elizabeth. Taking only a couple of bites of the sweet concoction of whipped cream and Marsala wine, Elizabeth wondered miserably if the meal would ever end.
Finally, it did.
Doña Hope rose and led them into a small cozy parlor at the back of the hacienda with interior walls unlike any Elizabeth had ever seen. Watered silk of deep burgundy met intricately carved leather at a height of three feet. The effect was stunning. Deep wine leather couches faced each other before a brightly burning fire of fragrant piñon wood. A heavy square piano sat in the corner, facing the room.
Brandy was splashed into snifters and cigars were lighted by the men. From her place on one of the long leather sofas, Elizabeth consciously tried to keep her eyes off West. But Doña Hope made that near to impossible. The beautiful woman in the slinky white satin gown insisted that West play the piano.
Shrugging out of his black evening jacket, West obligingly carried his brandy to the piano, took a long drink, and set the glass down. Tugging gently at the creases in his snug black trousers, he took a seat on the bench and kneaded his hands together. He played masterfully, but Elizabeth was not surprised. After all, his were the hands of an artist.
She was surprised by the tune he chose. Somehow the sweet sadness of “My Old Kentucky Home” didn’t seem to fit the cynical, unfeeling West Quarternight.
“Guess Sonny still ain’t completely forgot his old home place,” Grady said in a loud stage whisper. He shook his white head.
West Quarternight from Kentucky? She hadn’t known that. Come to think of it, she knew next to nothing about the enigmatic man. He certainly never spoke of his home, his family, his past.
When West began to sing in that deep, smooth baritone voice, Elizabeth couldn’t help but stare. Doña Hope stared as well. Standing with her back to the fireplace, the doña looked at him with unveiled adoration. Soon she drained her brandy glass, crossed the parlor, and stepped around behind West.
Smiling, she placed her well-manicured hands atop his wide shoulders and sang the sentimental song with him. When the number was completed, West stayed at the piano, but played no more. Waving away the applause and calls for an encore, he reached for his brandy glass and said, with a laugh, that he had completed his limited repertoire. Edmund suggested his sister-in-law play, but Elizabeth quickly declined.
She didn’t feel like playing. She didn’t even feel like being in the room. As conversation swirled around her, she could think of nothing but West and the doña. Doña Hope and West Quarternight. The beautiful blond widow and the dark, handsome scout. The bold, sensual woman who had come out of the La Fonda hotel room where she had left the dark, sated man naked on the bed.
Doña Hope continued to stand behind West. As she talked, she lifted her hands from West’s wide shoulders and affectionately ran her fingers through his thick blue-black hair. Pressing his dark head back against her soft bosom, she lovingly fingered the thick glossy locks and stroked his tanned face.
Elizabeth felt uncomfortably warm.
She told herself she was seated too near the piñon fire, but knew that wasn’t the cause. She found it extremely unsettling to see Doña Hope with her hands roaming possessively over West Quarternight.
While the others laughed and talked and paid no mind to the tender scene, Elizabeth gritted her teeth, looked away, and wished she could flee from the room. Shortly, Taos and Grady bade their goodnights, Grady admitting they were anxious to get down to the bunkhouse for some serious stud poker with the Rancho Caballo vaqueros.
The two men were hardly out the door before Edmund yawned, apologized for his rudeness—blamed the desert air—and said it was time he went up to bed. Elizabeth quickly followed suit.
Climbing the wide oaken staircase with her brother-in-law, Elizabeth was silent as Edmund spoke of how much he had enjoyed the evening. Forcing a smile, she nodded. When they reached the second-floor landing, Elizabeth cast one last curious look back downstairs.
In the wide corridor below, Doña Hope turned to West, slipped a pale hand inside his half open white shirt, raked her nails through the dense dark chest hair, smiled suggestively, and said, “Bedtime at last, my love.”
31
BARE-CHESTED, A SNIFTER of brandy in his dark right hand, West sat sprawled comfortably on a white silk-covered chair in Doña Hope’s capacious white bedroom suite. A knee hooked over the chair’s arm, foot dangling, he wore only his tight black trousers and patent-leather shoes.
Directly before him, twenty feet from his chair, a sweetly scented piñon fire burned in the white marble fireplace. Behind him, across the room, the white silk sheets on the doña’s huge bed had been turned down for the night. On either side of the bed, candles in sparkling crystal holders burned atop white marble night tables. The firelight and the candlelight were the large white room’s only illumination.
A set of white double doors to the front balcony were thrown open to the cool evening. A pleasant breeze ruffled the room’s silky white curtains and somewhere a vaquero still strummed a guitar, the haunting Latin music adding to the romance of the desert night.
Staring into the fire’s leaping orange flames, West waited for a woman to come to him. A blond, sensual woman who enjoyed and expected physical pleasure. An erotic woman willing to do anything he desired. A wanton woman eager to perform the most unorthodox of sexual acts so long as it gave them both ecstasy.
His kind of woman.
And yet, his thoughts were on another woman.
A beautiful flame-haired woman in a shimmering turquoise gown who also enjoyed physical pleasure, but insisted on denying it was so. An erotic woman by nature, whose ladylike pretense had everyone fooled. Except him. A wanton woman who was willing to perform the most unorthodox of sexual acts—but only when there was a payoff that had nothing to do with ecstasy.
West ground his even white teeth and his silver-gray eyes narrowed. The lovely redhead had given herself to him that night in the stockade in exchange for her life. Now she had married wealthy easte
rner Dane Curtin in exchange for luxury and social position. Flesh bartered for gain.
West knew her kind. He could have her body this very night in exchange for his silence. The deceitful Elizabeth Curtin would take him into her bed faster than Doña Hope, if she believed for one minute it was that or be exposed for what she really was—a deceptively sweet-looking imposter capable of coldly committing murder and adultery.
Lost in thought, West never noticed when Doña Hope came floating in from her dressing room. Determined she would get and hold his undivided attention, the doña silently circled his white chair, and came to stand between him and the fireplace.
West looked up at her and smiled.
In a nightgown of pale ivory satin, her long white-blond hair brushed out and falling around her shoulders, she was nothing short of gorgeous. The gown hugged her slim body so tightly her large nipples showed clearly. Curved in at her small waist, the soft satin hung on the bias to outline her hips and thighs, and fall to her slender ankles. Holding his gaze, Doña Hope moved her white slippered feet apart and licked her lips.
With the firelight behind her, every provocative curve of her lush body was outlined. Slowly she turned about to show him the rest of his carefully wrapped package. In back, the white satin gown was slashed to her waist and hugged her rounded buttocks snugly. Her bare slender back was pale as porcelain, her long platinum hair the texture of fine silk.
The doña turned back to face West and said in a low, husky voice, “Would you like to have a peek at the legs you’ll soon have wrapped around your back?”
West grinned. “I’d like a nice, long look, please.” He took a big swallow of brandy.
Doña Hope smiled and placed her fingertips on her flared hips. She gathered two handfuls of the slippery satin fabric and very slowly, very seductively drew the long white gown up, up until it was bunched between her firm naked thighs. Her long, slender legs were completely exposed.