That settled it. With a sigh, the two ranchers sat back down, and Romeros licked his lips in anticipation, leaned forward to watch the president wave the white handkerchief to signal the next bull should be brought in. The great bull charged into the ring to the roar of the crowd.
It was a toro bravo, a brave bull, everyone could see that. Romeros glanced at his program. El Satanás Negro. Sí, that was a most apt name for the beast. The crowd roared with approval as the bull pawed the sand, tossed its head, horns glistening.
As the fight progressed, Romeros pretended that he was the matador who would kill the great creature. Death in the afternoon. The moment of truth. He closed his eyes, loving the roars of the crowd, the scent of blood and sweat, the jostling of the bodies around him.
He imagined himself in the suit of lights, the magnificent costume of the matador. In his mind, he saw himself swaggering about the arena, waving to the crowd. He paused before the president’s box, where he pretended the lovely Amethyst Durango sat. Bowing low, he indicated that he would dedicate the bull to her. Over the paso doble, the traditional music, the crowd roared approval. Flowers rained down around him as ladies sighed and hoped to catch his eye.
But Romeros, the great matador, saw only one girl in the crowd, the one in the president’s box. Amethyst took a sprig from the wild forget-me-nots in her hair, kissed it, threw it down to him. He imagined that he caught it, took a deep breath of its scent while looking up at her. She promised him love and romance with her eyes.
Romeros tucked the flower in his glittering costume, next to his heart, then took the muleta, the red-lined cape, and the sword from an assistant, and strode to the center of the ring where the bull waited.
The great beast stood there in the churned-up sand of the ring, sharp banderillas sticking at odd angles from its hump. It was a brave bull, a great bull. Scarlet blood from the sharp sticks embedded in its ebony hide ran down its powerful neck and shoulders to mix with the foam and sweat that dripped to the sand. Romeros would kill it today. Or it would kill him this fine Sunday afternoon.
He made two veronicas, swirled the cape around. The bull charged, roared past him so close that black hair and blood clung to his glittering matador’s costume.
The crowd went wild, coming to its feet, shouting his name. RO-MER-OS . . . RO-MER-OS . . .
The musical chant was a song in his heart, a roar in his brain. He would kill the bull. The crowd shouted that he should be awarded one ear—no, both ears—and the tail which only the best matadors ever received. He felt dizzy with the acceptance of the idolizing crowd. Bravo toro . . . bravo matador . . . RO-MER-OS . . . RO-MER-OS. . .
He was loved, accepted, a hero. Romeros the Great. All he had to do was finish his moment in the arena, slay the bull. He would be rich and famous. Everyone would want to be his friend. He would be praised and accepted in the best circles. Old Gomez Durango would give him Amethyst’s hand in marriage.
The sword glistened in his hand. The bull lowered its great head, blood running from the banderillas sticking in its back. It was time for the moment of truth, the most dangerous time of all for the matador. That time when he moved in close enough to drive the sword into the great beast’s back, reaching in over the horns that might hook and impale him. Hasta el puño. Clear to the hilt.
RO-MER-OS . . . RO-MER-OS, the crowd chanted. He felt sweat running down his back under the glittering costume, smelled the fetid lather of the bull, saw its blood. His mouth tasted so dry and salty, he could not swallow. His fingers seemed to ache from clutching the sword handle. The sunlight reflecting off the sharp blade almost blinded him. An ecstasy built in him that made his manhood harden. This was what it meant to be a man. It was exciting to kill. And when it was done, women would want him in an orgy of hot-blooded sexuality. He imagined throwing the lovely, high-born Amethyst down right here on the blood-soaked sand of the arena, mounting her from behind as a stud bull would.
He aimed the sword. But now the crowd changed. The words were a murmur at first, then were building into a roar: “Indulto! Indulto!”
Romeros jerked out of his daydream, looked around the stadium where he sat with the two men.
“Indulto!” The pleas of the crowd became a roaring demand. “Indulto!”
Now both Falcon and Durango had joined the crowd, had come to their feet, shouting, “Indulto!”
“No!” Romeros protested, jumping to his feet. He must feel the thrill of seeing it die. “No!”
Below him in the arena, the matador faced the great brave bull, hesitated.
“Kill it!” Romeros shouted. “Kill the bull!”
But he was being drowned out by thousands of voices shouting, “Indulto! Pardon! Pardon for the bull!”
Perhaps once in a lifetime a man saw a crowd begging pardon for a bull, once in a lifetime. And it had to be a great bull, an animal that had fought so bravely, had been so gallantly magnificent, that the crowd forgave the bull its debt to die.
“Kill it!” Romeros raged, waving his arms. “Kill it!”
But around him, the crowd’s roar grew louder and louder. “Indulto! Pardon! Pardon!”
He alone seemed to want to see El Satanás Negro die. Even the matador acknowledged with a slight shake of his head that the black bull had indeed earned the right to live. The matador turned to the president’s box for instruction.
Romeros felt helpless fury. He was being cheated of his fantasy of killing the bull, the thrill of seeing it go to its knees, the sword protruding from its bloody back.
The president stood up from his box, faced the crowd. Those in the stand and the bull and the matador waited. Then the president made the gesture pardoning the great beast, and the crowd went wild, pounded each other’s backs, shouted, threw their hats in the air in honor of the brave bull.
Señors Falcon and Durango rejoiced in the stands, hugging each other, overcome with the emotion of it all. Only Romeros stood sullen, angry that he had been cheated of the beast’s death. Durango’s friend had presented El Satanás Negro as a gift to Gomez to be brought home to sire more brave bulls and to enjoy the rest of his life munching grass in the Durango pasture.
The jingling of the nose chain brought Romeros back to reality, and he found himself standing and looking through the fence at the old bull.
“Ho, toro! It’s me again? Remember?”
The bull stared at him, the moonlight reflecting off its sharp horns. Possibly it couldn’t smell him, Romeros thought, possibly its nearsighted eyes recognized the big paint horse and associated it with the torment that was sure to follow. The great creature hesitated, then went back to munching grass.
Romeros felt disappointment. The bull was indeed getting old. Many times had he teased and tormented it since it had been brought here from its pardon in the Mexico City arena.
“Ho, toro!” He picked up a pair of stones, threw one hard. It caught the elderly beast on the edge of its gray muzzel, and the bull winced and snorted.
Romeros laughed joyously. “Hey, stupid bull! How you like that?”
Blood gleamed now on the gray hair. The animal shook its head, blood flying as it snorted and pawed. Then it charged the fence.
Romeros jumped backward, hanging onto the reins of the startled, stamping horse. The fence trembled and shook as the brute slammed against it.
“Hey, toro. Come and get me!” he taunted. The fence trembled and shook, but Romeros wasn’t afraid. He’d done this many times and the bull had never managed to break through. Although if it ever reached him, it surely intended to kill him.
Romeros reached into his boot, felt the handle of the knife. How easily he could reach through the fence now, drive it to the hilt into the straining muscles of the brute’s back. He considered a long moment as the bull snorted and shook the fence. It would be enjoyable, sí. But it would be killing the goose that laid the golden egg. The thrill he got from tormenting the bull several times a month outweighed the brief moment of pleasure he would get from killing it.
Besides, if it were killed, someone would ask questions, might remember how he had demanded its death so many years ago. No, as much as he would like to, he would not kill the brute.
He looked up at the moon. It was late. He had no more time tonight to enjoy mistreating the animal. Romeros mounted up and rode close to the fence. “You black devil,” he snarled, “we’ll continue this another time.”
Regretfully, he turned and loped off toward the Durango home. The sight and smell of blood, the thrill of torture had excited him. He would enjoy the woman even more now.
He walked the stallion the last few hundred yards. The white adobe ranch gleamed in the moonlight as he rode up under her balcony, dismounted. Tying the reins to the bougainvillea trellis, he climbed the sturdy vine. Bright pink blossoms perfumed the air as he climbed up onto the balcony.
She waited for him as he’d ordered her to, leaning against the open French door in her sheer nightdress.
He put his hand on her shoulder, pushed the sheer fabric down so that her fine breasts shone in the moonlight. “I need you bad tonight,” he said.
She twisted away from his hand, reluctance on her lovely face. “You’re nothing more than an animal, Romeros.”
“I’m a stallion, a great bull.” He laughed. “And you’re going to service me like a mare, a heifer, would.”
The breeze picked up, blowing the sheer nightdress around her long, slender legs. Her red hair whipped about her face like strands of fire. In his mind, he saw another girl, a sheet wrapped about her, her hair aflame. The vision excited him still further.
Mona turned back through the door. “Let’s get it over with,” she said dully.
“Such eager passion!” He sneered, following her in, closing the French doors behind him. “I thought high-dollar whores tried to fake it for the customer.”
Mona paused by the bed, stripped off her nightdress, let it fall to the floor. “I’m sorry I ever crossed your path in New Orleans, sorry I let you talk me into this plot.”
He came over, caught her hair, and twisted it, drawing her face up to his. “We’re in this together, remember? Old Durango can’t live forever and then we’ll have his wealth.”
She tried to pull away from him, but he had his hands tangled in her hair. “You’re hurting me.”
“You’ll think ‘hurt’ if you don’t please me. I’m looking forward to controlling the old man’s money.”
“If you can control his snippy little daughter. She’s got a mind of her own, and now she’s back from that convent where I got Gomez to send her.”
He twisted his hand tighter in her hair, enjoying the pain on her face. “Amethyst will marry the Falcon fortune and then we’ll control that, too, because I control Tony.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with revulsion. “So you’re part of that plot! I should have known!”
“You know that man, don’t you?” He pulled her up against him by her hair.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, Mona. I saw the way you two looked at each other. How do you know him?”
“I never saw him before in my life!”
He twisted his hand so that it pulled her hair, and tears came to her eyes. “Puta, whore—tell me about him.”
She flinched at the epithet. “Maybe I saw him once or twice. Perhaps he was a customer when I worked at Miss Fancy’s in San Antone, just like you were.”
He slapped her hard and blood ran down her mouth. “You should have told me that to begin with, bitch! Well, we’re safe since he and I have our own little plot.”
She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Watch out, Romeros. This whole thing could ricochet on us.”
“A man makes his own fate—his own destiny—whore,” Romeros sneered, running his free hand over her naked body. “All these years, I’ve been cheated out of what I should have had. I’ll have both fortunes now and all the power I need.” And both women, he thought, both women and no one will be able to stop me.
Tears glistened in her green eyes. “If you try to hurt the Texan, I’ll expose you, I’ll—”
“Don’t threaten me,” he snarled, “or I’ll expose you. I’ll tell that fat old fool, Durango, I was mistaken about your fine reputation. That I’ve just discovered to my embarrassment that the ‘lady’ earns her living flat on her back!”
He untangled his fingers from her hair and she slumped down on the bed. “I’m sorry I got into this. Gomez is really a nice, harmless man and—”
“His spunky daughter has eyes for the heir.”
He enjoyed the look of dismay on Mona’s face. “Does that mean we’re not going to be able to keep her in that convent school? Will she marry him?”
“That’s why she’s been brought home, or didn’t you realize that?” He stood looking down at her. “Understand that, whore? Pretty little Amethyst is going to end up in bed with that big, dumb Texan.”
It was sort of like tormenting the bull, he thought with amusement, seeing the anguish on her face. Whatever her relationship with that tejano had been, Mona was in love with him. “You’re just a stupid whore, Mona, an aging whore. If you lose this chance, how much longer can you work at a high-class place before you and that old madam end up out on the street, starving?”
She shuddered. “I . . . I’ve been wondering if I can really go through with this.”
He moved the match from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Is that a fact now? Don’t go getting soft on me now, puta. When old Gomez dies, the foreman of the neighboring ranch will make a wonderful second husband.”
“People would talk. Besides, Durango’s in good health.”
“So was Miss Callie.”
Guilt and pain crossed her features and she wept. “I never realized you’d go that far! You ought to hang!”
He unbuttoned his pants. “If there’s a rope for me, there’s one for you, too, puta.”
She looked up at him, helpless, afraid. “When I told you that, I never dreamed—”
“Who’d believe that?” The sight of her fear excited him, made him want her. “You know why I came, Mona.”
She folded her arms across her breasts. “You’re loco to come here. You might get caught.”
“I haven’t yet. Besides, the thrill of danger makes it even better.” He caught her in his arms, fell on her brutally. His mouth covered hers, and the taste of the blood from her cut lip excited him. “Love me, damn you! Love me!”
Mechanically, she spread her legs, pulled him down on top of her. He caught both her breasts in his two hands, squeezed savagely until she winced. “You know what I want, Mona. Roll over.”
“You don’t leave me any dignity, do you?”
“Women are meant to pleasure a man in any way he wants. Then we’ll do it your way.”
She looked at him as if she wanted to protest, then rolled over on her belly, offering up her rounded hips. The skin of her bottom felt like silk under his hands as he positioned her. It would be humiliating and painful for her and the thought excited him.
His manhood ached for fulfillment and he covered her with his body, pulling her hair up to sink his teeth into the nape of her neck. Her face was pressed into the pillows so that only he heard her whimper as he drove hard into her, mounting her as a bull takes a heifer. He pretended it was the little brunette quivering under him as he rode Mona. Again he thought that when he controlled both fortunes, he’d have both women to enjoy.
Si, he’d have Amethyst on her belly under him not too many months in the future. Exulting, Romeros rode Mona while she cringed against the pain. And when he came, he tangled his fingers in her long hair that glowed like flames and pretended he was the great bull.
Chapter Eleven
Restlessly, Amethyst turned over in bed. Even though the party had ended hours ago, she couldn’t stop thinking about it and go to sleep.
She turned over again and stared up at the ceiling. When the message had arrived at the convent th
e night she’d tried to escape, it had seemed heaven had granted her a reprieve. How was she to know a blue-eyed, blond-haired devil awaited her at Falcon’s Lair?
Her first emotion on hearing the missing heir had returned was relief. She barely remembered Tony Falcon as her small playmate from the neighboring ranch. And she hadn’t given a thought to love and marriage; she’d been so relieved to be rescued from the grim Cloistered Sisters.
Amethyst gòt up and paced her dark bedroom, the fine rug thick and soft beneath her bare feet. What a shock to go to a party to welcome home Tony Falcon and then come face to face with that cocky, arrogant gunslinger!
Could he possibly be the missing heir? He did seem to bear a slight resemblance to the Castilian family. She paused to consider, then shook her head. Lots of men had light-colored hair, blue eyes.
Besides, she was sure Bandit hadn’t had that birthmark the night he’d made love to her on the creek bank. Images of his big, square hands holding her small ones came to mind. She remembered kissing the backs of those hands. No, he definitely had not had that birthmark a few days ago.
His hands . . . Callused but gentle. She recalled the feel of them moving over her, in her. Amethyst ran her tongue over her lips remembering the moments that night in the rose garden swing. His mouth had been hot and sweet on hers, in hers. If she kept the secret, married him, he would take her in his arms every night, his hands and his mouth caressing, probing.
Shivering despite the warm night, she scolded herself. “What is the matter with you? He really is a bandit all right. He took your innocence, your jewelry!” And your heart, she thought.
The more she pondered that, the more she lectured herself. He was an opportunist, a fake. In the moonlight, Amethyst turned her small ring over and over. Forget-me-not . . . forget-me-not . . .
Damn him! She wished she could. She proceeded to pace the dark bedroom again. Certainly it was out of the question to marry him. He must be loco to think she’d even consider it. Bandit. A good name for one who lived by his gun and his wits. It was laughable that this saddle tramp of questionable background aspired to marry into one of the noblest families in all Mexico.
Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) Page 18