Her world is built on Happily Ever Afters…
His world is built on a cynical distrust of fairytale romance. Will he prove that she’s just another huckster selling fake dreams?
Wealthy businessman Steven Winngate thinks bestselling novelist Kathleen “Brandy” Alexander is researching him for a book. When he finds her in the desert outside Las Vegas, lost and sick from the heat, he wonders if she’s pretending to be a stranded hiker—conning him just to score an introduction.
But Brandy is the real deal—honest, innocent and very distraught by her sudden dependence on the handsome blue-eyed stranger who rescued her. He says his name is Lance Reynolds, but that rings false. Soon she and “Lance” are circling each other amidst the glitter of Vegas, trying to break down the wall of mystery between them.
Passionate, intense, romantic and intriguing—this hot battle of the sexes will burn both sides.
Other Janelle Taylor titles from
Bell Bridge Books
Kiss of the Christmas Wind
Valley of Fire
by
Janelle Taylor
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-144-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-130-2
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 1992 by Janelle Taylor
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
A mass market edition of this book was published by Harlequin Books in 1992
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Couple -© Hanna Monika Cybulko | Dreamstime.com
Background © Chee-onn Leong | Dreamstime.com
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Dedication
Linda M. and Mary C.
My wonderful sisters and friends
Chapter One
Brandy’s shaky fingers mopped the continual beads of perspiration from her forehead and upper lip for seemingly the millionth time; an unnatural crimson flush was visible beneath her golden tan. Her respiration was labored and shallow; she hadn’t realized that oppressively high heat made it difficult to breathe and to remain alert. Her dark emerald eyes were glazed with a torment never before experienced, unspeakable fear glittering within their expressive depths. Tawny hair clung to Brandy’s moist neck and stuck to the edges of her face; her damp shirt and jeans were glued uncomfortably to her sleek body. For the first time in her life, Brandy Alexander was literally petrified, a feeling which played havoc with her normal self-assurance in handling a trying situation, a feeling which assailed her too often these days.
With nerves on edge, Brandy irrationally berated the reflective glare from the freshly washed hood of the rented Cadillac DeVille. She also fumed at the mechanic who had failed to notice the impending trouble spots which had led to the car’s breakdown, including the vital air conditioner. Without it, the black Caddy was like a brick oven, baking her flesh and roasting her brain.
To instill new hope into her rapidly vanishing spirits, Brandy cautioned herself against overdramatizing this strange and precarious situation. She should not allow herself to readily accept the dire fate which was nakedly glaring her in the face, much like a threatening stare from one of the deadly villains in her novels.
On the last weather report, the man had stated the temperature for Las Vegas was one hundred and eighteen degrees, but it seemed more like one hundred and fifty degrees in the scenic Valley of Fire where she was helplessly imprisoned in a steaming, useless vehicle. The heat was now unbearable, yet bear it she must if she wished to survive.
For the past four hours, Brandy had waited and prayed for help to arrive. Her patience and hope had run a race to see which one would give out first. From her vantage point, their perilous race had ended in a tie. The heat had steadily increased within Brandy’s expensive confines; yet, she had instinctively known the greater danger of abandoning the car and heading off down that winding, black-topped road that stretched out endlessly before her weary gaze like some deadly, sleeping viper that might awaken any minute and strike at her if she dared to tread upon its stygian back.
Brandy absently promised herself that in the future she would be reluctant to leave the cool protection of her rustic ranch house in the midst of summer. She sighed wistfully as she closed her eyes and envisioned the verdant cedars and the lofty pines with their heady odors and a backdrop of intoxicating blue, the sigh painful to her parched throat. It was easy to picture the massive white oaks and the slender willows which surrounded her home, along with the colorful goldenrods, bluebells, and the bluish-green of the Kentucky grasses dancing in a gentle breeze. Yet, for all of her creative ability, Brandy could not realistically imagine the cool, crisp breeze which stirred her long hair and clothes as she worked on her screened porch or as she walked barefoot in the surrounding fields and woods or waded in the swift-running brook near the house.
At the moment Brandy was too ensnared by this frightful dilemma to worry about her many problems, such as her future commitment to Devon Publishing Company, the assignment which had innocently placed her in this dangerous circumstance. She tried unsuccessfully to recall the name of the man who had suggested the Valley of Fire as the best location to research her new science-fiction novel. Even if Brandy could recall his name, how could she blame him for her accident? In the future, perhaps she should stick to writing romances, mysteries, and westerns; inexplicably, each science-fiction novel written had held uncanny surprises for her.
Brandy felt she could hold the Farley Rent-A-Car Agency responsible for the empty water container in the trunk, if not for the broken air conditioner and radiator hose. Ironically, the man at the rental company had been the very person to warn her against traveling into the desert without “at least one quart of water per person.” This predicament should certainly teach her to look out for her own interests and safety in the future, just as she had done in the past. It annoyed her to realize she had foolishly overlooked such a vital matter as her own preservation. Brandy pondered her sudden disappearance of courage, resolve, and stamina which had aided her successful writing career and her independent life-style.
Lately Brandy had permitted too many problems to interfere with her sound judgment and independence. For the life of her Brandy could not justify or rationalize her decision to rewrite her last historical romance novel to suit Webster Books. She had not needed that large advance, nor the sizable royalties from its following landslide sales. Perhaps that was the raw nerve. She had allowed herself to be talked into adding several explicit love scenes and a glorified murder to her original manuscript for Love’s Cruel Arrows, additions she had vainly argued against as being unnecessary to sales and as too vivid for taste. Plus, Brandy had fretted over offending the Sioux Indians with the harsh changes in several scenes.
Brandy could still hear Casey’s final arguments: “Please listen to me, Brandy; you can write all day and toss those manuscripts into a desk drawer if you refuse to give the public what they demand. If they want sex, gore, and realism—close your eyes and let someone else type your final manuscript. What good is all the literary talent in the entire world if no one buys and reads your work? You don’t have any choice; the publishers and readers have certain demands which you must meet. When you finish this current science-fiction title, we’ll have to settle on the movie rights to Arrows. You know they’ll refuse its purchase without those specific changes. Think about it long and hard; they won’t wait forever for an answer.”
Who knows? Brandy thought now. Maybe Casey was right. Maybe she did have to furnish her public with juicy romances which left nothing to their imagination. After all, Casey Treavers was the best literary agent around, and they had been best friends for years. So far, Casey had never steered Brandy in a wrong or an unprofitable direction. Casey was more than competent. She was dependable, genial, trustworthy, and vivacious. Still, the taste of a sellout lingered in Brandy’s pleasingly shaped mouth.
Brandy perched herself sideways on the seat to avoid the full intensity of the sun’s rays and to catch any possible breeze which might pass through the car’s open doors. The escaping steam had long since ceased its climb into the torrid air. Once the sustained s sound had halted, she had been encompassed by total, eerie silence.
There had been no need to burn her fingers by lifting the hood; whether it was the radiator or simply an inexpensive hose, there was nothing she could do. For a woman who had been in sole control of her own life for so long, Brandy was distressed by her recent bouts of helplessness and defeat. It now seemed to her as if other people or novel events were stealing her confidence. Brandy couldn’t help but question if success was coming too easily these days. The challenge and love for writing still burned fiercely within her, but something was wrong. Brandy wasn’t as carefree and happy as she should be; she wanted more from life and from herself.
With all power gone from the motor, Brandy had not even been able to move the stalled car from its precarious position in the center of the narrow, winding road. To alert any possible motorist of danger, she had opened all the doors. Once it had sufficiently cooled, she had also lifted the hood, then the trunk. Having taken all conceivable safety precautions, Brandy had sat down to await assistance.
It had not taken long for her to become acutely aware of the intolerable heat. Nor had it taken but moments to discover the empty water container in the car’s roomy trunk. Numerous realities had quickly settled in on Brandy’s astute mind—there was no water available, even though Lake Mead was only miles away; there was no comforting shade other than the minute amount offered by the car; the highway was now deserted; and it was only midday, hours until release from the heat and glare.
The chartered bus tours had made their scenic trips to this particular location as near to sunrise as possible. Most vacationers came to Las Vegas to gamble or to be entertained by extravagant shows, not to tour a deserted wasteland over thirty miles from town. At midday, all intelligent people were surely within air-conditioned enclosures! With luck, new tourists would show up at sunset, hours from now . . .
Time had passed at a snail’s pace since her misfortune. At present Brandy was experiencing feelings of overwhelming solitude which were only natural for these harsh conditions. Leaf-green eyes scanned the rugged terrain which surrounded the car. In all honesty this portentous phenomenon of Mother Nature did provide the perfect panorama for Twilight over Venus. This site certainly did seem to be magically transplanted from another world.
Creosote bushes, naked yuccas, and assorted species of small cacti sparingly dotted the otherwise barren, hostile ground. There was not a single tree of any consequence within sight. The ground was covered by a mixture of rocks and gravel of varying sizes and in multiple shades of black and dull white. All except for those imposing dark red mountains surging upwards as if in brazen challenge to the heavens themselves.
This magnificent, uncanny range of peaks and valleys had given this site its more than accurate name. When the rising or setting sun touched those vermilion-colored hills, their surfaces burst into blazing life, as if angrily inflamed from the decades of battling the raw elements of wind, rain, and harsh temperatures. The alert eye could study the striated, pitted surfaces which attested to this merciless attack by the climate and elements, forces which had viciously lashed at their textures and fashioned them into weird or realistic shapes and images, an endless battle which had imbued this valley with an aura of mystery and haunting splendor.
Nervous laughter filled Brandy’s chest as strange images and illusions flickered through her susceptible mind. Upon first sighting this area, Brandy had been awestruck by its wild beauty and fascinated by its unearthly presentation. Those craggy surfaces of dehydrated and baked russet clay appeared to be the mischievous works of some playful, alien giant. The shapes and facades had instantly reminded Brandy of the mud-drippings she had made as a child from the red clay that was so abundant in the South. The dying sun fondled those rusty contours with fiery fingers and stirred them to flaming life as if the Phoenix itself were imprisoned within them, fiercely struggling to be reborn. Brandy had been compelled to return again today with her camera and more film in order to capture the Valley’s uncanny spell. Too, just standing in the midst of such sights created feelings of wonder and finiteness, and she needed to capture such moods and feelings on paper while experiencing them.
Feeling elated by this timely discovery of nature, she had not felt the slightest hesitation about returning here alone. She had always worked alone, denying the possibility of being influenced by another person’s reactions to sights and sounds which she was researching for an upcoming novel. Strange, it almost seemed as if she had been irresistibly drawn back to this valley one more time . . .
Being a science-fiction author as well as writing in other genres, Brandy chuckled as she contemplated strange mental tuggings to this valley as if by some alien force, as in a recent movie concerning alien encounters. If this was some unearthly test of her mettle or courage, she hoped it would soon terminate. Brandy instantly cautioned herself against such silly dramatics and her overactive imagination, for this situation was very real and very frightening.
Since Brandy refused to wear a watch she had no accurate way of knowing what hour it was. She was annoyed and surprised that the Caddy didn’t have a digital clock. However, judging from the sun’s position and the season, she reasoned it to be around five o’clock. This being Brandy’s first visit at this late hour, she had no way of knowing about the signs which warned against entering this secluded area too close to nightfall, nor could she know of the grounded helicopter which normally patrolled this area.
The heat and the lack of water had taken their toll upon her. By now, she had trouble concentrating upon the rapidly approaching sunset. In fact, she could not seem to think clearly or to focus her attention upon any mind-consuming idea. Brandy’s thoughts flitted from one idea to the next like an industrious honey bee darting from one fragrant flower to another in its avid search for nectar. Her head was light and dizzy as
if she had hastily consumed too much champagne.
When Brandy attempted to wipe the moisture which gathered on her upper lip and forehead, she thought it strange to find her fingers numb and tingly. A curious limpness washed over her, making movement difficult. She fervently wished her heart and pulse would cease their violent race with each other. Brandy mutely ordered the imaginary bees to move away from her ears and to halt their incessant humming. She had written about death and torment countless times, but she had never contemplated her own death. Just before she lost consciousness, Brandy wondered why it was becoming so dark and dreamy. She wondered if she was indeed dying.
As Steven Winngate topped the steep hill within visual distance of the black Cadillac which was unexpectedly parked in the middle of the highway, his mind was on his upcoming meeting with the executives of the development company he was planning to invest in if his conclusions about an expensive resort in this promising area were correct. A man who usually had several business deals going at one time, Steven was evaluating a future deal while concentrating on an imminent one. He had assumed he had time to check out this area before heading to his dinner meeting concerning a new oil lease and refinery. Sighting the peril before him, Steven struggled to shift gears and to maintain control of his sleek and powerful Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He made an urgent attempt to brake his speed and to halt before crashing into that car. The smell of scorching rubber flew upwards into the infuriated man’s flaring nostrils. The ear-splitting screams of melting tires being eaten up by the hot, hungry pavement simultaneously pierced his ears.
Steven was relieved he had cautiously reduced his speed after topping that last hill on this snaking road. He gripped the clutch so hard that the knuckles on his left hand blanched white. His toes ached inside his expensive Nocona snakeskin boots as he rapidly shifted foot-gears and lowered his speed in a wild attempt to prevent his bike from leaving the blacktop road and helplessly tearing off across those cutting rocks, biting cacti, and devouring sands. Still, it would be better to risk the landscape than to collide with a parked car. Steven called upon all of his skill, determination, and brute strength to conquer this unexpected danger.
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