The Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  “The Rio,” he said, spurring the bay forward.

  Lucy was afraid to ask him if he’d keep his word. Afraid of his answer—afraid of a no. Yet was a tiny secret part of her afraid of a yes? Was it possible she could be so foolish?

  They cantered into the shallow river. Her stockings had been so torn, she had shed them this morning, and the water splashing up on her barely clad legs was a delight. Lucy clung to the pommel, while Shoz gripped her even more firmly, his body rocking hers with the motion of the horse.

  It reminded her of last night. Despite her exhaustion, it had taken her hours to fall asleep. The feel of Shoz’s hard, hot body had agitated her and kept her awake. If she hadn’t faced it last night, she had to face it today. He had a potent magnetism, and she wasn’t unaffected by it. Despite who he was and what he had done, she found him very attractive. If Lucy dared to allow her mind free rein, she would remember the one time they had made love and how unbearably exquisite it had been.

  To harbor some kind of feelings for this sort of man was not just wrong, it was shocking.

  But her feelings, her little tendresse, if she labeled it such, did not matter. If he kept his word, she would never see him again. Which was, of course, for the best.

  The bay scrambled up the far bank. They were in Mexico.

  Shoz let the bay drink and then they continued on. Lucy could not get the question out. The longer they rode on, away from the border, the more her sane self grew frightened and upset. Over an hour later, Shoz reined to a halt in the elongated shadows of a stand of huge saguaro. Lucy knew by now that this meant a rest break—or was this where he was leaving her?

  She slid off the horse, and deliberately began brushing off her skirts. Was this where they would part? This had to be where he would let her go—it had to be.

  He slipped off and drop-reined their mount. He looked at her.

  She bit her lip. “Are you going to let me go now?”

  His very pale gaze, almost silver in the bright, hot light, held hers steadily. It seemed an eternity passed before he answered. “There’s a small town two miles from here.”

  So he was going to let her go after all!

  “Thought me a liar, did you?” His tone was sarcastic.

  “No, I …” Lucy trailed off. This was as it had to be, and she was glad. Except for that tiny secret part of her. That part of her was confused, even disappointed. Here they would part and never see each other again.

  She stared at him standing in front of her, his shirt open almost to his belt buckle, his dark skin slick and shiny. Her gaze drifted to his compact hips in the skin-tight denim. She stared at the white threads of the faded denim of his fly, just for a second. Lucy looked away. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her roughly around.

  “Damn you!”

  Lucy gasped but didn’t move, because he was gripping her shoulders so tightly. Why was he angry? And how come she wasn’t frightened at all? He was only inches from her, and she found herself staring at his sensuous mouth.

  He cursed and pushed her away from him, pacing restlessly. This time there was no mistaking her disappointment. She had wanted him to kiss her. Ridiculously, her feelings were hurt. Of course, why would he want to kiss her now? Lucy knew she did not look pretty; she was very dirty and remembered only too well how she had looked the last time she had been stranded in the wilderness. She walked to a pile of rocks and sat on a boulder. Her joints ached, and her bare feet were sore in her shoes. She watched him standing with his back to her, his legs braced hard in his jeans. She wondered what would happen to him.

  Would he eventually be caught and sent back to prison? Or would he meet his fate at the end of a hangman’s rope? Lucy shouldn’t care, but she did. She did not want to see him incarcerated, despite Derek’s stolen stallion, and she suddenly knew that he had not killed the groom. She felt relief.

  He whirled. “You’re boring holes in my back.”

  Lucy managed a laugh. But she didn’t look away from him. Her gaze was steady and searching.

  It only made him angrier. “Stop looking at me like that, Miss Bragg!”

  His snide tone in addressing her hurt her again. “I’m sorry.” She stood up.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

  He took the bay’s reins. Lucy watched him try to stretch, as if to ease the discomfort in his back. The bandage Doc Jones had put on the bullet wound was a visible wad beneath his shirt.

  She came forward with determination then. “Shoz, let me look at that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re leaving me and you’ll be alone and it should be looked at.”

  He eyed her, then sat down on a rock, unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off.

  He was a magnificent man, Lucy thought, momentarily mesmerized by his sculpted, muscular body. She forced her thoughts elsewhere and unwrapped the binding carefully. It was dusty and dirty on the outside, and when she pulled the gauze packing off, she was glad to see that it was clean on the inside, except for some stains from the antiseptic. The wound was scabbed and apparently healing well. There was no sign of infection.

  “It looks good,” she said, tossing the bandages to the dirt. Her hand lingered on his shoulder. It felt like smooth, silky hot steel. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not now,” he said, standing abruptly. “Let’s go. The sooner we get to Casitas, the better.”

  He didn’t care that they would never see each other again. But of course, he wouldn’t. Lucy reminded herself that he was a lawbreaker, a criminal, apparently a hardened one. He hadn’t hurt her, but that was not a good enough reason for her sympathy, and just because she didn’t want to see him locked up or hung didn’t mean she should forget the facts. They were not here on a picnic. He had abducted her, he was using her.

  But the bottom line was that in a few minutes she would never see him again.

  They rode to Casitas, and Lucy was aware only of him, of him and her dangerous thoughts. He was the most attractive man she had ever met. The feel of his body behind hers was erotic and sexy. They were never going to see each other again. They had already done it once. And no one had found out.

  What she was thinking was wicked, depraved, shocking.

  But she wanted his kisses, his touch. She wanted his lovemaking more than she’d ever wanted anything, more than the Duryea or anything else. Lucy had never been denied anything she wanted so desperately. It was wrong, but no one would ever have to know.

  As another mile passed, she feebly attempted to argue herself out of her intentions. She only succeeded in deciding once and for all to do as she willed and not give it another thought. Having made the decision, she felt a soaring excitement, and she was filled with determination.

  “I can feel your thoughts racing,” he growled. “What’s going on in that red head of yours?”

  “I’ve just been thinking,” she said, shifting to look up at him. “About you.”

  He stiffened. His arm pulled her hard against his torso. His lips actually brushed her ear. “Thinking about revenge, princess? Thinking about me at the end of a rope?”

  “No,” she said, softly. “No.”

  He had reined in abruptly. “What kind of game are you playing?”

  His arm had tightened so much that she gasped. “I’m not.”

  He relaxed slightly, but she could feel his torso, stiff and taut against her back. He was very still, and the bay moved restlessly beneath them. “I don’t think I’ve been misreading your signals,” he finally said. His arm tightened and he forced her to twist around so he could see her face. “Am I?”

  Lucy’s heart was pounding wildly, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She could feel it, a rock-hard erection pressing against her hip. What should she do now? “Shoz, I …” She didn’t know what to say. She waited for him to kiss her.

  “I’m not misreading your signals!” he said, furiously. Lucy was stunned by his anger. “Is this what you want, pri
ncess?” he sneered.

  His horrible tone hurt her and brought sharp tears to her eyes. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, however. He kissed her. Hard, hurtfully, violently. There was nothing nice about it, and Lucy protested, her hands going to his shoulders, trying to push him away. It was like trying to budge a boulder.

  He was bruising her mouth terribly, and just when she thought she couldn’t stand it, everything changed. His mouth went very still, and she thought be cursed. And when he kissed her again, it was whisper-soft and barely there, a teasing touch of his mouth, as gentle as he had been rough before. A burning need sparked in Lucy’s veins.

  His hand was caressing her side as he kissed her. She clung to him, strained for him, mated with his tongue. Such fierce need stabbed her, she felt faint.

  The hay snorted. Shoz went still. Lucy whimpered and kissed his jaw. Shoz’s big body went hard and stiff and he suddenly grabbed a handful of her hair, stopping her. “Enough.”

  It was like being underwater and coming up for great gulps of air. Lucy inhaled, watching him. He watched her back, his gaze blazing. “You would tempt a saint,” he said roughly. “And I’m not a saint.”

  “I know,” Lucy said.

  He grimaced. “What in hell are you up to? What’s your angle?”

  Lucy blushed. This was much more difficult than she had imagined. How to entice him delicately? She touched his cheek. “Shoz, we’re never going to see each other again.”

  His eyes widened. “So this is your way of saying goodbye?”

  Her color deepened and she nodded.

  “Just what in hell are you asking for? Do you know what you’re asking for?”

  “We’ve already done it once.”

  He didn’t say a thing, he just stared.

  “And no one found out then. They won’t find out now.”

  “Got this all thought out, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No crying rape to Daddy?”

  “Of course not. I would be ruined.”

  He slipped off the horse, bringing her with him. Lucy found herself in his arms, thigh to thigh and chest to chest. “If you wanted it, why in hell didn’t you just say so,” he said roughly. Lucy couldn’t respond. He’d clasped her buttocks and lifted her against his huge arousal. His body pushed her backward, against a tree. His mouth was already devouring hers.

  Lucy clung to his broad shoulders while he kissed her and rubbed himself against her. She heard him curse, gasping. She herself could barely breathe, could barely stand up. His body rocking so suggestively against hers was nearly unbearable, and Lucy found herself grasping his buttocks to anchor him closer. One of his hands was suddenly under her skirts and between her legs, beneath her drawers. He rubbed her there, slickly, fast, opening her thighs by pressing one of his own between them.

  “I hope you’re ready,” he said hoarsely. “’Cause I sure as hell am.”

  Lucy barely digested his words, because his touch was both heaven and hell. He grabbed one of her legs and wrapped it around his waist. She didn’t understand—not until he was thrusting hard and deep into her. She cried out in surprise, but he ignored her, lifting her other leg so she was riding his waist, her back against the tree. She clung to his shoulders. He pounded into her. Her cry had changed into a soft keening.

  In her mind, and maybe she did utter her thoughts, she begged him for release. She begged him for more. In her ear he murmured something indistinct, encouraging, a promise. She felt his palm pressing down on her swollen mons, and then nothing mattered, because she was exploding like the Fourth of July fireworks.

  “God,” he groaned, burying his face in her neck. Lucidity was rapidly returning, and Lucy felt him convulsing inside her. She was also aware of her back pressed hard against the tree, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs locked around his waist. He relaxed against her, leaving her, and then he let her feet slide to the ground.

  Lucy found she couldn’t stand and she sank to the ground, regaining her breath. When she looked up, she saw him staring down at her, one shoulder against the tree, as he zipped up his fly. He didn’t smile. He just stared.

  Lucy stared, too, limp, exhausted, sated. His expression was impossible to read. She looked for condemnation or contempt, but did not find it. She really couldn’t believe how they had done it. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed more shocking than the last time. And—even more stunning.

  A rough smile curled his mouth. “Don’t look so surprised. That’s been coming for a long time.”

  Lucy looked away. In one way, physically, she felt completely satiated. But in another way, an indefinable way, she did not. Inside her, there was an elusive yearning.

  He levered himself off the tree. “I’m real sorry we wasted the past few weeks fighting, princess, real sorry.” Then he smiled. “But that was really good. I sure as hell couldn’t have asked for a better good-bye.”

  His words jerked Lucy right back to reality.

  He scowled at her expression. “Come on, get up. There’s no way in hell we can dally around here—as much as I’d like to. Or have you forgotten? I’m a wanted man, and we’re not far enough from the border for comfort. For my comfort. I want to make Las Casitas way before dark.”

  Before dark. All of reality intruded. Slowly, Lucy got to her feet.

  20

  He was angry.

  Angry and frustrated; in fact, he felt downright mean.

  There was no reason for his mood, and he damn well knew it. If anything, he should be feeling pleased as all hell; after all, he had gotten what he’d wanted, and he’d wanted Lucy Bragg for a long time. He wasn’t used to waiting for what he wanted, just like he wasn’t used to his near-infatuation, or should he say obsession? It was just lust, but that didn’t matter. He’d just satisfied his lust, so she should be out of his system and his mind, right? Well, she wasn’t. Far from it.

  He was sorry he had taken her hostage, sorrier still he hadn’t let her go hours before at the Rio Grande, or even sooner, outside of Paradise. He was sorriest of all that he had just banged the hell out of her.

  His body was taut with tension. Fortunately, the foolish girl had not tried to initiate any conversation as they rode toward Casitas. It was fortunate because he would have bitten her head off.

  She acted hurt. He swore, not caring if she heard. He had never promised her roses, and if she thought a roll in the sack meant something more, then she was a fool.

  Like he was. Because what he kept remembering most vividly wasn’t her naked body or her passion, oh no, it was how she’d touched him once, on his forehead, two days ago, to see if he had a fever. As if she cared.

  It had been a very long time since a woman had cared about him.

  And the traitorous thought intruded, again: Keep her. Don’t let her go.

  He was insane!

  Shoz wrenched the bay to a halt, the horse protesting with a snort. Instantly he was contrite, relaxing the reins and stroking the animal’s neck. The rangy mustang had the courage of the finest, purest-bred racer. He crooned softly in Apache.

  Ahead, in the dusty twilight, a few adobe huts and smoking chimneys were visible. Not a soul stirred on the wide, dusty main street.

  “This is Casitas?” he heard her ask tremulously.

  “Don’t worry,” he responded. “They’ve got a telegraph. And a hotel. Of course—” he wanted to be nasty “—it’s not what you’re used to, princess.”

  She didn’t answer, but he felt her stiffening in reaction to the cruelty in his tone. Good, he thought savagely. Good! Do I give a damn if you hate me? He swore to himself that he didn’t.

  Abruptly he lifted her and set her on the ground without dismounting himself. He stared at her.

  “You’re leaving me here?” she croaked, her gaze anxious.

  His gaze was derisive as it swept her. “You can’t go in to town like that.”

  Automatically she crossed her arms over her bosom, to little avail. She wore her navy jacket op
en, as it had lost half its buttons during their run from the law. Her shirtwaist and underclothes were plastered indecently to her. And then there was her knee-length skirt and petticoats, and her long, sleek calves and ankles were utterly nude.

  She’d taken her hair like a rope and knotted it, with the tail hanging long and loose over her shoulder. She was a far cry from the Society princess of Paradise and New York. She was the sexiest thing Shoz had ever seen.

  Her temper ignited and sparked. “You’re the one responsible for my clothes!” she shouted, tears forming in her eyes. “Or should I say, my lack of them!” She brushed angrily at her eyes.

  He relaxed insolently in the saddle. “Having regrets, are we?”

  “Yes! No!”

  “Make up your mind.”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes.” There was a challenge in her expression.

  He chose to ignore it. “Wait here. If someone comes for God’s sake, hide in the cactus, okay?”

  She glared at him.

  He ignored the look and wheeled the bay, cantering to the village. Was she really regretting what they’d done—at her invitation? He chastised himself for being such a fool. Of course impulsive Miss Lucy was having second thoughts about what had happened. Now that she was stuffed full with what he’d given her. He was angrier than ever. He didn’t want to believe it.

  He slid off the bay in front of a building slightly larger than all the others in town. It was a saloon. There were a few rooms in the back for rent. Usually the whores took their clients there, but occasionally a weary traveler would rent one for a night. He took note of the four horses tied to the hitching rail in front, not liking so large a crowd in attendance. He walked in.

  The floors were wood planking, covered with dust and grime. There was a long bar and a few rickety tables. Smoke hung in the air. The place smelled of refried beans, unwashed bodies, cigarettes, and sex. The owner, Fernando, was a big, fat Mexican. As always, he was behind the bar, drinking tequila. A villager Shoz recognized, a middle-aged reed-thin peon, was at the bar with him. The four riders sat at one table.