by Brenda Joyce
BRENDA
JOYCE
The Fires of
Paradise
This one’s for the team:
For Aaron Priest, my agent, not for the great deals he’s made for me, but because he is one of the kindest, most caring people I know, above and beyond the call of duty.
And for Maggie Lichota, my editor, not because she has given me the opportunity every writer dies for, but because she, too, is one of the nicest, most supportive people I know.
And always, it goes without saying, for Eli.
Table of Contets
PROLOGUE
PART ONE DESIRE IN PARADISE PARADISE, TEXAS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
PART TWO THE LOST ANGELS DEATH VALLEY, MEXICO
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
PART THREE HEAVEN AND HELL HAVANA, CUBA
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
PART FOUR THE FIRES OF PARADISE PARADISE, TEXAS
48
49
50
EPILOGUE
Acclaim for the novels of BRENDA JOYCE
Avon Books by Brenda Joyce
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
New York City, 1890
She was so bored.
She sighed, staring at her reflection. Her husband, Roger Claxton II, would be home in several hours. Tonight there was that charity affair at the Bragg home. She hoped it would not be an utter bore—like the last one. Should she dress and go out, maybe do some shopping at the Lord & Taylor store? She could still return before Roger, if she wanted to. Although why should she bother? He probably wouldn’t even notice if she wasn’t home, for he’d head straight to the study and the damn telephone. Marianne stared at herself, with utter stillness.
She was undeniably beautiful. Blond and slender, she had that elegance of bearing which comes from generations of upper-class breeding. She studied herself in the mirror of her dressing table, not critically, but with satisfaction. At thirty-eight, she still stopped men in their tracks. She placed her small, perfectly manicured, heavily ringed hands on her waist, pushing open the thin silk and lace peignoir. A wickedly black lace corset revealed all of her charms: breasts not too large nor too small, a tiny waist, slender hips. She smiled. Maybe she should get dressed—she could make it back just before Roger if she hurried. But she would not go shopping.
“Expecting me?” drawled a rough, masculine voice.
Marianne knew that voice. She was white before he’d finished the sentence, white before she even raised her eyes to meet his in the mirror. She stifled a scream.
He laughed.
Marianne could not drop her gaze from his. Her heart was pounding so madly, she became even more frightened. She was aware that she was clutching the edge of her dressing table. She could not move.
His smile was dangerous.
This could not be the same man she had last seen almost a year ago. But it was.
She was terrified.
How had he gotten here? What was he doing here!
“What?” he mocked. “No welcome?” His voice dropped to a satin purr. “Come here, Marianne.”
As if a marionette, she slowly rose and turned to face him. Oh, God—would he kill her? She was so sorry for what she had done!
He was grinning, leaning negligently against the door to her boudoir—which he hadn’t even bothered to close despite all the servants in the town house. He was a deep red bronze, as dark as she had ever seen him, as if he’d spent the entire summer bareheaded in the blazing sun. His hair was jet black and shaggy now. Never had his Indian heritage been more apparent. Unable to help herself, she dropped her gaze. His shoulders, always broad, were even broader, his shirt carelessly tucked into tight, faded denims that hugged compact hips. The threads were white over his fly. Something swept her, hot chills. He was so hardened now. Yet there was still that inescapable sexual magnetism.
He had probably come to kill her.
And remembering the past, she licked her lips and said, “What do you want?”
He laughed, low. “What do you think?” His gaze swept her with contempt, lingering where it shouldn’t. “I want to fuck.”
Desire crashed over her. She knew him, knew how he felt, how strong he was …
He reached her in three strides, grabbing her and hurting her as he hauled her up against him. “Still hot for it?”
She whimpered in both pain and need as he thrust his hard erection against the bone of her pelvis, hurting her purposefully. “Please, Shoz…”
His powerful thigh lifted abruptly, jamming between hers and lifting her up and back onto her dressing table. Perfumes and powders and crystals went crashing to the floor. Her head hit the mirror, but she was barely aware of it. He was rearing over her, reaching for his fly. She watched, mesmerized. His hand stilled midway down the buttons. “Say it.”
“Shoz.”
“Say it,” he demanded, hatred in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, spreading her thighs wide, straining for him. She darted a glance up at his startling gray eyes. “I never meant to hurt you.”
He laughed. “Liar.” He yanked open his fly, and his member thrust out. “Once a liar, always a liar,” he said, and he penetrated her.
She cried out in pleasure and pain. Her head knocked against the mirror, a porcelain bowl dug into her shoulder. He was merciless, pumping against her, holding her knees, keeping them wide apart. “Come.”
It was a command. He didn’t have to say it. She was already convulsing, sobbing with the ecstasy, keening his name. “Shoz, Shoz, Shoz…”
He pulled out and grabbed her hair, destroying her careful coiffure. He had one denim-clad knee on the table, jerking her down as she continued climaxing, and then he was thrusting past her lips. She gasped. He went deeper, emptying himself.
She sat up, swallowing, watching him cautiously. His large hands deftly closed his pants and then his pale eyes met hers. There was no sign of spent passion on his features. His smile was cruel. “Aren’t you going to ask me about the last year of my life—Marianne?”
She felt the piercing of terror, and pulled her peignoir closed tightly. Logic and confusion warred. He shouldn’t be here. He couldn’t be here. Only a year had passed; how had he gotten out? “I never meant—”
“No? You meant it, all right.”
“No.”
“You had all of two days to tell the truth.” He laughed harshly. “Two days. Justice was a bit swift in my case, wouldn’t you say? But you didn’t, did you?”
She didn’t dare respond, because he was right.
“Ask me.”
She couldn’t breathe. He stood aggressively, legs spread, and she knew the power that rocked his muscular body.
“Ask me.”
Tears came to her eyes. “Was … was it very bad?”
“It was hell.”
Their gazes locked. His lips cu
rled up at the corners. “Prison was hell.”
PART ONE
DESIRE IN
PARADISE
PARADISE, TEXAS
1
Paradise, Texas, 1897
Her name wasn’t Trouble, but it could have been.
She had gotten into more trouble between the ages of two and twenty than all five of her younger brothers combined. And each and every one of them was a born hellraiser.
As her mother said frequently, it wasn’t that she always looked for trouble, sometimes it looked for her. At two she spent most of her waking efforts determined to discover the meaning of her universe by investigating (and often breaking) everything she touched. At three she decided to see if the family pet, a miniature terrier, could fly. (It miraculously landed in a bush, unhurt, from the second-story window). That Christmas she stayed up all night, hidden behind the couch in the living room, to see if Santa Claus would really come down the chimney. At four she decided to go visit Grandma and Grandpa—in West Texas. She was very serious when she asked the cabbie to take her “to the train.” Fortunately, he took her home instead.
At four she was also in her first riot. Her mother was an active suffragette, and during one rally, her fervent speech was interrupted by tomatoes hurled from the audience. The little girl was attending in the first row, atop her father’s shoulders. Pandemonium broke out in the auditorium. She was not to be outdone. As her father raced to her mother to hustle her out the exit and to safety, she grabbed a gentleman’s bowler hat from his head and threw it at another gentleman, shouting her own war cries. She loved every moment.
Her earliest near-disaster was when she was six and she tried to ride her father’s favorite hunter—alone. She got the seventeen-hand beast across Fifth Avenue and into Central Park, before being chased down by her furious parent.
Her name was Lucy Bragg. Her grandparents said she was an exact replica of her own father, Rathe, who had raised more hell as a boy than all of his siblings combined. Her mother begged her to just stop and think before acting. Lucy always promised she would. But … usually she didn’t.
Now she was twenty and had just finished her third year at Radcliffe College. Going to Boston had been a triumph of major proportions. Her father had insisted she stay in New York, close to home. He had even wanted her to live at home (the better to keep an eye on her). Lucy wouldn’t hear of it. She had fought that idea tooth and nail, promising to be on her best behavior, and in the end her sensible mother ruled the day, and her father reluctantly gave in.
The past year had been quiet, to her parents’ immense relief. Too quiet, Rathe had said, as if expecting a crisis at any moment. Her freshman year hadn’t been quiet at all. She had almost gotten expelled. By mistake, of course. She should have never been caught returning to her dormitory after curfew—and if the hansom’s horse hadn’t gone lame, she wouldn’t have been, either.
Lucy had come home from her sophomore year feeling a bit smug. Not only had her grades been excellent, she’d only garnered a half dozen demerits, as well as an equal number of marriage proposals. She figured that one canceled the other, and she was right. When her father exploded about the demerits, she demurely countered with the marriage proposals. That stopped him in his tracks, effectively shifting his attention from one topic to another. He relaxed when Lucy assured him that she wasn’t really interested in any of her beaux.
This past year she seemed to have settled down. Although she’d received twice as many marriage proposals as she had the year before, she had had one steady beau for the last semester and hadn’t received a single demerit. Little did anyone know that Lucy was now an expert in the art of avoiding detection for her escapades and had perfected a few questionable techniques to insure that she would never be caught out after curfew again—techniques that would have done any amateur cat burglar proud.
Every summer her family left New York City. Her parents had a summer home in Newport, and the family spent one month there. For a college woman, Newport was wonderful. Half of New York society spent their holiday there, including many of her friends, and it was an endless round-robin of picnics, outings on the yacht, and evening soirees.
Each summer her family spent the other month with Lucy’s grandparents on their ranch in southwest Texas. Ever since she was a child, the highlight of the year for Lucy was going to Texas, which was even better than the summer home in Connecticut. Last summer, business had brought her grandparents, Derek and Miranda, to New York, so they had all shared their holiday at her parents’ summer home in Newport. They hadn’t gone to Texas, and Lucy had missed Paradise terribly.
Paradise was a small, idyllic town, aptly named by her Aunt Jane and Uncle Nick some years ago. It had been spawned by the D&M, her grandparents’ ranch, which had grown so big over the years that the little cluster of homes and stores on its outskirts had finally hatched into a full-fledged town. It boasted a bank, a railhead, a post office, plenty of shops, several eateries, and the most modem of hotels, which even had an elevator. The storefronts were freshly painted each spring, and the boardwalks swept clean of dust every morning. Lucy knew practically everyone in town by name, if not by sight. And they certainly all knew her.
This summer was going to be special. It was her grandfather’s eightieth birthday, and her grandmother was holding a party which was fated to be talked about from coast to coast. More than a thousand of Derek’s friends and peers were coming from all over the country, and from as far away as London and Paris. Derek Bragg was held in the utmost esteem, and all these powerful men and their wives were coming to pay tribute to him and his lifetime’s achievements. There would be senators, congressmen, and political bosses present, the Texas governor, the San Antonio mayor, and the New York City police commissioner, Theodore Roosevelt, who was a good friend of her father’s. There would be Vanderbilts and Rockefellers, Goulds and Astors, and even the Republican nominee for president, William McKinley.
The entire affair was to be a surprise. Lucy’s grandfather was oblivious to the plans going on behind his very back. Had he known, he would have heartily protested such a fuss.
Lucy’s family intended to arrive several weeks before the grand event, in early July, as they always did. Just before they were to leave, however, a problem in Lucy’s father’s vast, multimillion-dollar empire occurred, taking him to Cuba. Lucy had overheard her parents talking and knew that there was some rioting down there, although her father had assured her mother that his trip would not be dangerous. Lucy had been to Maravilla, the vast sugar plantation near Havana that Rathe owned. It was a tropical paradise, quiet and beautiful, the undulating valley of sugar cane surrounded by thick, lush jungles and blue mountains with cascading waterfalls. It had been so peaceful and quiet the one time she had been there that she was sure the disturbances were greatly exaggerated and would be over in no time.
Concurrently, her mother decided she had to be in Washington to attend a fund-raiser for the young Democrat, William Jennings Bryan. (She did not support her husband’s choice, McKinley, much to his annoyance.) This meant that their vacation would be delayed two or three weeks, and Lucy was terribly disappointed—until she had a wonderful idea. Why shouldn’t she and her best friend, Joanna, who was also coming on their holiday, go ahead with a chaperone, so as not to lose part of their holiday? Lucy had inherited a bit of her father’s opportunistic instincts, and she seized the moment. Why not? Traveling alone across the country would be fun, even if they were chaperoned. It would be an adventure. Lucy had never traveled farther than the Berkshires without her parents, and Joanna agreed, as she always did with Lucy, that it would be exciting. The girls were clamoring to go, and Rathe and Grace succumbed.
Her father departed for Cuba via one of his brother-in-law, Brett’s, freight steamers, and Grace left for the rally in Washington. And at the last moment the kindly Mrs. Tilly Seymour came down with a terrible case of hay fever, which she claimed she hadn’t had in ten years or more. She could not possibly
travel in such a state, and was terribly sorry that the girls would have to wait for the return of Lucy’s parents and travel with the entire family. It seemed as if their vacation would be delayed no matter what.
But Lucy had a blazing inspiration. She and her best friend would go to Paradise ahead of the family, alone, for their holiday!
Mrs. Seymour certainly wouldn’t know, and when her parents returned and found her gone, it would be a fait accompli. Lucy would feign innocence, widening her big blue eyes at her father and exclaiming, “But, Daddy, if I’d known you didn’t want me to go, I would have gone to Newport with the boys!”
Her mother was a bit tougher. Lucy couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes. But her mother would forget about her escapade soon enough. If some political or social or economic crisis did not arise, Lucy could always count on one of her brothers to do something to divert her mother’s attention from her.
The trip to Texas had been ridiculously easy to accomplish, and now she and Joanna were standing in the dusty yard of a carriage dealer in the blazing heat of San Antonio at noon. Her friend was whispering nervously in her ear. “Lucy, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Lucy grinned. She ignored the little warning bell going off inside her head. After alt, they had made it this far without a single mishap. An elaborate Parisian hat bedecked with ribbons and flowers shaded her face, and she tossed her head. “Absolutely.”
“Lucy…”
Lucy grabbed Joanna’s arm and propelled her aside. She was tall for a woman, and built like her mother, long-legged and willowy yet full-breasted. It was a figure that turned men’s heads, and even now, as she bent over to whisper in Joanna’s ear, the dealer was staring at her—as were three salesmen through the large display window from inside the red brick store. “Look, we missed the local to Paradise—think of it! Our parents will kill us if we stay the night here, unchaperoned.” Joanna started to waver, not mentioning the obvious fact that they had just traveled across half of America unchaperoned. “Besides,” Lucy added, “we’ll have more fun once we get to Paradise.”