Because You're Mine

by Nan Ryan

  Burt moved quickly through the deserted lobby where clustered leather chairs and long comfortable sofas were empty, and a Steinway grand piano sat silent. He stepped up to the marble-topped counter, behind which stood a dignified desk clerk.

  “Sorry to bother you at this hour, George,” Burt said to the uniformed employee.

  “No trouble at all, Mr. Burnett,” said George Wilde, smiling pleasantly. “Always glad to be of service, sir.” He reached for the key to the Burnett suite, and handed it across to Burt. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  Burt nodded. “Have a fresh saddled mount waiting for me in back of the inn at five a.m. tomorrow.” He grinned and amended, “Make that this morning.”

  “It’s as good as done,” said the efficient George Wilde.

  Upstairs, in the roomy suite’s master bedroom, Burt threw open the heavy gold-velvet curtains, then raised the row of tall windows fronting the ocean. Night breezes immediately stirred the heavy curtains and ruffled the turned-down silken covers on the massive mahogany bed.

  The big bed sat squarely in the center of the room. Moved there at Burt’s instructions, the bed gave its privileged occupant—or occupants—an unobstructed view of the endless Pacific ocean, silvered now in the spring moonlight.

  Burt inhaled deeply, stripped to the skin, and crawled into bed. Disappointed that he hadn’t managed to get the beautiful Sabella Rios into this big bed with him, he sleepily promised himself she would be here soon.

  Naked and hot and his.

  She was, he mused, sleeping right now on a narrow iron cot in a drab little room at Inn of the Swallows. Such a shame, when she could be here in this big soft bed with him.

  Burt smiled and closed his eyes.

  Lulled by the night sounds and the cool sea breezes stroking his long, lean body, he fell asleep.

  Down the street, in her second-floor room at the Inn of the Swallows, Sabella was also asleep.

  While she slept, a lone man dressed all in black still stood below on the wooden sidewalk outside the Balboa Saloon. He held the knife in his hand, its blade flashing in the day-bright California moonlight.

  A thin brown cigar clamped firmly between his white teeth, he ran his thumb lovingly along the razor-sharp blade as though he were caressing a cherished lover. As he idly toyed with the knife, a young, pretty Mexican woman with thick dark hair and large brown eyes pushed open the swinging batwing doors, walked up behind the man, and eagerly wrapped her plump, bare arms around him.

  “Coming back inside, querido?” she murmured.

  “Por supuesto,” said the Mexican and flicked his cigar away into the street. “Of course.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t bother turning to look at her.

  The woman kept pestering him. She pressed her ample bosom against his slender back and hugged him tightly. She wedged a leg between his, and tormentingly rubbed her dimpled knee up and down the inside of his thigh. She squealed with surprised delight when the silent, black-clad man grabbed her by her colorful cotton skirts and yanked her around in front of him.

  In the blink of an eye the woman found herself facing him, pinned up against the hitching rail with his knee between her legs and the long blade of his knife pressed against her bare throat. Half frightened, half excited, she looked into his cold black eyes when he asked, “What is your name, querida? I forget.”

  Clinging to his black shirtfront with plump, red-nailed fingers, the tipsy woman said, “Is Ramona! Don’t you remember how you make your Ramona moana!” She laughed. He didn’t. She said, “What is wrong? Are you angry with your Ramona?”

  The thin lips beneath the sleek black mustache finally turned up into a wicked smile and the whiplash scar on his right cheek pulled tight.

  “Angry?” he said flatly. “You will know it when I am angry.”

  “Then come back inside,” she said, relieved. “We drink and play, have good time.”

  The knife’s blade pressed slightly against the woman’s bare brown throat and the man’s bony knee lifted higher between her parted legs. “You want to play, querida?” Anxiously, she nodded. “We will play. We will play here,” he said, sliding the tip of the knife blade slowly back and forth across her throat and rubbing his knee hard against her groin through the gathers of her skirt.

  He ordered, “Moan for me. Let me hear my Ramona moana.”

  “Stop,” warned the woman, her eyes round, her big breasts rising and falling rapidly against his black shirtfront. “Por favor! No. No! Ohhhhh. Ahhhhh,” she moaned with a mixture of fear and sexual arousal.

  The cold-eyed Latin took the blade from her throat. He smiled sadistically when he saw the pinpoint of bright red blood appear on her fleshy brown throat. He watched, entranced, as the tiny scarlet droplet slowly grew into a dark wine blossom. He dipped his finger into the blood, smeared it on his bottom lip until it was gleaming wet. Then his tongue darted out and licked the blood away with such relish it might have been rich sweet cream he was tasting.

  Watching him, the woman frowned, but sighed happily when he put the knife away and wrapped his ropey arms around her. Bending her backward over the hitching rail, he kissed her throat, his lips plucking forcefully at the minuscule knife prick. He was sucking greedily when a gig rolled up to a dusty stop directly before the saloon.

  A graying, aged Mexican climbed down out of the gig, hurried up onto the wooden sidewalk, and grabbed at the shirtsleeve of the black-clad man.

  “Cisco! Cisco!” Julio Valdez shouted.

  Cisco slowly raised his head, saw who was calling his name, scowled, and bent back to the woman’s bare throat. His thin lips closing over a portion of brown satin flesh, he made slurping sounds as he sucked.

  “Por favor, Cisco,” said a worried Julio Valdez, “you must come—”

  “Get away from me, old man.” Cisco’s head snapped up. His black eyes slitted, he said, “Whatever it is can wait. I am busy.” The woman in his arms giggled.

  “No, Cisco, wait,” Julio rushed his words. “You must listen. Señorita Gena, she send me and say to—”

  “Gena?” Cisco’s head again came up as he instantly lost interest in the woman. “Gena needs me?”

  “Sí, Sí. She say to me, ‘Julio, get Cisco and Santo!’ And I say ‘Now?’ And she say, ‘Now. Tonight. I want them here!’” Bobbing his gray head up and down rapidly for emphasis, Julio added, “I have been looking for you and I did not know where—”

  “I was right here all evening, you old fool,” said Cisco, irritably, releasing the stunned woman so quickly she was off balance.

  Stumbling, she frantically grabbed at him, throwing her arms around his neck again. “Don’t leave me, Cisco,” Ramona begged. “We go to my place. You can keep your knife out and … make your Ramona moana all night long!”

  “Shut up, bitch!” said Cisco, working to peel her clinging arms away from his neck.

  “Sí, Sí. All right. I will not say a word.” Ramona stubbornly clung. “I do anything for you—”

  “How long ago?” Cisco asked Julio. He managed to unhand himself from Ramona, and shoved her so forcefully, she fell to her knees. Arms outstretched to him, she sobbed and pleaded. Annoyed, Cisco cruelly kicked her, the toe of his black boot catching her under the chin and knocking her over backward.

  Horrified, old Julio quickly bent down to her. “Ramona, you hurt? Dios! Are you okay?”

  Without even glancing back, Cisco stepped down off the sidewalk and hurried to the gig.

  “Wait, Cisco!” Julio called, on his knees beside the weeping Ramona. “What are you doing? Take you own horse! I will drive Ramona home and then—”

  “You know Gena can’t stand the smell of horses,” Cisco shouted, unwrapping the long reins and releasing the brake. “You ride my gelding back to the ranch.”

  “But what about Ramona … aren’t you going to … to … ”

  Cisco never heard him.

  His mind was not on Ramona. It was on the rich, refined woman for whom he worked. The pre
tty, green-eyed woman who had sent for him late on a Saturday night.

  Anxious to reach home and her, Cisco took up the long black buggy whip and repeatedly lashed the back of the blowing steed pulling the gig. Within minutes he was leaping down and tossing the reins to a sleepy attendant in back of the de Temple mansion.

  He hurried toward the terraced yard, smoothing down his slick black hair with both hands, and licking his thin lips to be sure there was no blood left on them. He opened the black wrought-iron gates and went into the courtyard. As he circled through the big hedge-bordered yard, he began sniffing at himself to make certain he didn’t carry on his person the offensive scent of horses. He checked as well for any telltale sign of Ramona’s cheap perfume.

  Satisfied he was presentable, Cisco tiptoed across the stone patio, silently climbed the outside staircase to the mansion’s second-floor balcony, and moved toward the lighted suite he knew belonged to Gena de Temple.

  He knocked softly at the door and waited.

  Moments passed before the frowning, sleepy woman who was Gena’s personal maid opened the door. Petra Gabriel said to the tall, spare man standing before her, “You know better than to come here again knocking on these doors! Get on down to your ’dobe and sleep it off! You are drunk.”

  “Ah, Petra, my pet, I love you, too,” said Cisco sarcastically.

  “Don’t get smart with me, you skinny, reptile-eyed bastardo! Go on! Get away from here before I—”

  “It’s all right, Petra,” Gena’s cultured voice came from behind Petra. “I asked Cisco to come here this evening.”

  The indignant Petra continued to block his way. She turned and said, “It is not evening. It is almost two o’clock in the morning and he is not coming in this house if I have to—”

  “Go back to bed, Petra,” Gena calmly ordered.

  Muttering to herself in rapid Spanish, the incensed maid stalked out of the peach-and-white salon, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  “Come in, Cisco,” Gena said cordially. “Close the door behind you.”

  She stood before a white marble fireplace with her arms crossed over her breasts. She wore a long, loose dressing robe of pale peach satin trimmed in cream Belgian lace. Her hair was unbound and brushed down around her shoulders, a thick wedge falling provocatively over her left eye.

  With only one eye Gena could see the naked hunger in Cisco’s. Poor Cisco. He wanted her. He always had. Burt frequently warned her about Cisco, said he was a dangerous man, that he couldn’t be trusted. But she was not afraid of him. He would not harm her. He would do anything she asked of him.

  Gena had to turn away quickly so that Cisco wouldn’t see how amusing she found him. Her back to him, she said, “Where’s Santo?”

  “I do not know,” Cisco lied. “Whatever it is, you do not need Santo. I will handle it for you.”

  Gena turned back around and smiled at him. “Yes, of course, you will. Sit down, Cisco.”

  He dusted off the seat of his black trousers, rubbed his palms on his thighs, and took a seat on the peach brocade sofa facing the cold marble fireplace. Gena moved gracefully forward and sat down close beside him.

  “I need a favor, Cisco.”

  “Tell me, Gena. Whatever it is, whatever you want, I will do it for you.”

  She smiled and crossed her shapely legs. Her satin robe fell open to reveal the matching nightgown beneath. The lace bodice was very low over Gena’s full breasts and the gown’s biased cut fit tightly at her waist and across her hips. She leaned back comfortably and placed a hand on her lap.

  Cisco’s narrowed black eyes watched her slender fingers toy idly with the slippery satin fabric covering her thighs.

  “It’s Burt,” Gena said as the slippery satin of her gown eased up a trifle so that her shapely ankles and small delicate feet in their high-heeled satin bed slippers were exposed. “Something is wrong with Burt.”

  “What has this to do with me?” Cisco’s dark, gaunt face tightened with displeasure at the mention of Burt’s name.

  His deep dislike of the Burnetts was no secret. He had been born on Lindo Vista back in ’45. When he was ten years old, he, his younger brother, Santo, and his parents had been banished from the rancho simply because they were Mexicans.

  Cisco began to stroke the white whiplash scar on his cheek.

  “Cisco, can I trust you?” She touched his knee. Cisco tensed and swallowed hard. Before he could answer, Gena said, “I want you to trail Burt.” Her hand lifted to her hair and she twined a long dark curl around her finger. “I want to know where he is and what he’s doing every hour of the day and night. Will you do it?”

  Reluctantly lifting his slitted black gaze from a small beauty mark in the shadowed valley between her full pale breasts, Cisco said, “If that is what you wish. But I do not understand.” He lifted black-shirted shoulders, lowered them. “I was under the impression that Burnett is most always with you.”

  “Do you see him here now?” Gena swept a hand about in an encompassing gesture. “He left me hours ago. Said he was tired. I don’t believe him.” She wet her lips with the pink tip of her tongue. “Do you?”

  “I will find out.”

  “Good, good. I knew I could count on you.”

  Gena rose, signaling that the meeting had come to an end, it was time for him to leave. Cisco got up and moved toward the door. Gena followed, the long, parted robe flowing out behind her. When he reached the door and opened it, she touched his back lightly. He turned to look at her.

  “Tell me something, Cisco,” she said, the expression on her face somber, “and don’t lie to me.”

  “I never lie to you, Gena.”

  She swayed a hairsbreadth closer to the tall, mustachioed Mexican in black, allowing her unfettered breasts to press lightly against his corded ribs.

  “Do you suppose … could it be that—” she bit her lip, lowered her lashes, then slowly raised them “—I am no longer desirable?”

  “You are the most desirable woman alive,” said the dazzled Mexican.

  “Why, thank you, Cisco,” said Gena, smiling again, urging him out of the door. “Whatever would I do without you?”

  Twelve

  BURT BURNETT STOOD ON the rocky summit of The Point in the cool Sunday morning dawn. Thick swirling mists rolled in off the dark ocean, kissing his smoothly shaven face. Gusts of wind tousled his carefully brushed black hair and pressed the fabric of his blue chambray shirt against the muscles of his chest.

  He stood facing the sea with his hands in the back pockets of faded Levi’s, his gray eyes squinted against the stinging wind. The toes of his scuffed black-leather cowboy boots were mere inches from the cliff’s jagged edge; it was a hundred foot sheer drop to the strip of sandy beach below.

  The fog was so thick Burt couldn’t make out the shoreline beneath him¸ but he knew the morning tide was coming in. He could hear the loud breakers crashing far out offshore, then rolling in to pound the beach and splash foam at the base of cliffs.

  The Point could be a dangerous place on a morning such as this. One misstep in the murky morning light, one careless movement on the slippery rocks and it was all over.

  A sudden chill skipped up Burt’s spine as if someone had walked across his grave. The unsettling thought flashed through his mind that this familiar place was unsafe for him on this cool, gray morning.

  The danger, however, had nothing to do with falling to his death from the bluffs. The danger was falling for a mysterious blond woman about whom he knew absolutely nothing.

  “Burt? Burt, are you there?”

  The warm, pleasing voice came to him from out of the swirling mist and any misgivings about his own safety vanished.

  Burt turned and anxiously warned, “Sabella, stop right where you are! Don’t take another step. I’ll come down to you.”

  Sabella didn’t obey. As agile and unafraid as he, she moved quickly toward the sound of his voice. In seconds she stepped out of the fog and into his sight. Burt,
scrambling down to meet her, stopped short, and stared.

  The heavens parted and she was perfectly framed in a narrow shaft of sunlight piercing the dense gray fog. While dark rolling mists spiraled about, enveloping everything else, she was gloriously illuminated. Her loose blond hair, gilded by the sun, blew around her beautiful face, and the skirts of her pink summer dress billowed out from her slender body like a colorful bell. Captured as she was by that lance of light, she appeared to be otherworldly, like an angel flying too close to the ground.

  Burt’s heart stopped beating for a second, then started again, pounding fiercely in his chest.

  He smiled with frank admiration of her beauty.

  Sabella looked at the tall, dark man above, his handsome face registering guileless delight.

  She returned his smile. “Aren’t you proud of me?” she called. “I successfully made it to the top before sunrise.”

  Burt reached her. Grinning, he stood facing her in the shaft of streaming light. He lifted a hand to her face. With his little finger, he pushed back a strand of shimmering blond hair that had blown across her smiling mouth.

  “You call yourself successful,” he said, staring at her lips, “when you haven’t even kissed me yet?”

  Laughing, Sabella placed her hands on his shirtfront, stood on tiptoe, and pressed a quick, glancing kiss to his mouth. Then she said, “May I ask you something?”

  His flashing gray gaze touched her hair, her face, her body. His eager hands touched her cheeks, her shoulders, her waist.

  “You may ask me anything,” he assured her, gently drawing her closer.

  “Do you always smile?” She tilted her head to one side. “Are you never unhappy?”

  Continuing to smile, Burt shrugged wide shoulders. He said, “I don’t have time to be miserable unless it’s absolutely necessary.” His smile broadened as he added, “Long ago I pledged all my energies to living life as well as I can.”

  Sabella nodded. “Ah, yes, a man after my own heart.”