Forbidden Fire

by Heather Graham

  Lee nodded. “Will you dine at home, Mr. Tremayne?”

  “Yes, we’ll be home for dinner, thank you. Come on, Marissa, let’s go.”

  He caught her hand and led her to the foyer, then frowned. “You’ll need a cloak of some kind. The weather here changes quickly. Hurry.”

  She raced up the stairs and dug in her bags for a lightweight cape, then swept up her small reticule with her comb and money. She couldn’t have moved faster, but when she reached the entry, he was pacing.

  He pushed open the front door and led her down the steps. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll bring out the car.”

  “The car?” she asked. He’d picked her up in a carriage. In all her life, she’d never been in a motorcar.

  He smiled. “You’re not afraid of automobiles?”

  “No, no, of course not.” She hurried after him, almost crashing into his back when he stopped.

  “I said I’d pick you up.”

  “I know, but I’m anxious to see it.”

  “It?” He smiled. “Them, my dear.” He started walking again, around the main house to the carriage house. The doors were open. To the left were stalls with horses, among them the matching blacks that had drawn the carriage that had come for them at the station. Near the stalls were several different carriages from a row of three motorcars, all shining even in the dim light.

  She stared at them until he beckoned to her. “Do you know much about them?” he asked her.

  She shook her head.

  Ian caught her hand and took her to the rear of the carriage house, to an automobile painted a deep green. It barely resembled a carriage, and had a huge nose. “She’s French,” he told Marissa. “A Levassor-Panhard, with her Daimler motor here in front.” Marissa paused to study the vehicle, but he was already moving on to the next. She followed after him. “This is a Renault, also French. And in front of us is an American car, a 1901 Olds.” He opened the passenger door and took her hand, helping her up. She smiled with excitement. Perhaps her smile was contagious, for he laughed. “Had I only known you would have come here without the slightest argument if I had commented on the automobiles!”

  He cranked the engine. Marissa jumped as the auto burst into life, then chugged its way out of the carriage house and down the driveway. The breeze swept by her and she turned to him. “It’s wonderful! But how very odd! I had thought that you were such an avid horseman. Why, you were riding when I saw you—”

  She broke off quickly, hoping he did not remember the time she was thinking about, when he had come riding up so heatedly to the Squire’s the year before the Squire died. She tried desperately to remember if he had ridden to meet her in the city of London, but her mind had gone blank, and she could feel a nervous flush rising to her cheeks.

  “Was I riding?” he said.

  “Oh, maybe I was wrong. I don’t remember,” she said quickly, looking at the road.

  “I do love horses. And I’ve a few magnificent animals in my stalls.”

  “I know. The blacks are gorgeous.”

  “I’ve riding horses, too.” He shrugged. “I love horses, but I do see motor vehicles as the way of the future. Eventually, I daresay, the cars will outnumber the horses.”

  They had come to the caretakers’ cottage. Mary appeared at the front door, waved, then reappeared with Jimmy behind her. Both were as awed with the Olds as Marissa had been, and Ian allowed them the time to walk around it as he answered Jimmy’s questions about fuel and speed and mileage. Then the two crawled into the back, and Ian told them they had a little time, and he’d show them all he could of the city of San Francisco.

  From Nob Hill they drove to Union Street and Pacific Heights, then by Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill. They took a detour through Chinatown, then headed toward the waterfront. Along the road, Ian stopped the car atop a hill where they could look down on much of the city. They left the car to stand on the cliff, and Marissa was startled when Ian’s hands fell on her shoulders and he pointed out at the city, lightly dusted in fog this morning. Marissa felt a glow of warmth. The morning had been pleasant, she thought. Her excitement over the Olds had pleased him, it seemed. It almost had seemed as if they might be friends this morning. But she couldn’t let that happen. She was too haunted by the life he had led, by the things she didn’t know—and by the things she hadn’t told him.

  “It’s so beautiful!” Mary said, slipping her arm around Jimmy’s waist.

  Ian released Marissa and turned to the car. “Think you’ll adjust?” he asked Jimmy jovially as they all got back in.

  “Aye, that I will. It’s a wonderful place, and you’re proud of it, I think, Mr. Tremayne,” Jimmy replied.

  A slow smile curved Ian’s lip. “That I am indeed, Jimmy. She’s a grand place, never too hot, never too cold.”

  “Paradise,” Marissa murmured.

  “Yes, except for—”

  He broke off, frowning.

  Except for the tremors that sometimes shook the earth, he added silently.

  He shrugged. He didn’t know why he had avoided mention of the quakes that had shaken the city in 1865. Except that his meeting this afternoon was with the businessmen who wanted to build by the waterfront, in the landfill area.

  “Except for what?” Marissa asked him.

  “There are no exceptions,” he said.

  “But you just said—”

  He was suddenly curt and impatient. “It’s late. We must hurry if you want lunch before going to the emporium.”

  Marissa fell silent. Ian was quiet as they drove down the hill, then entered the city traffic. Horse-drawn conveyances vied for space with the autos, and Marissa saw her first trolley car. Then Ian pulled up by a curb, and they exited the car. She didn’t need him to point out the emporium—it couldn’t be missed.

  It was a large three-storied building with “Tremayne’s” written across the bricks of the top floor in large black letters. But Ian took her arm, guiding her away from it. “We’ll lunch here.”

  There was a large building in front of them. One window advertised the telegraph company, another advertised a bank. Between them was a doorway leading to Antoine’s. Ian led them in.

  A stairway went to an elegant basement dining area. Snowy white cloths adorned the tables, and candles were set in glass and brass holders. There was rich carpeting on the floor, and the aromas that mingled in the air were appealing. The diners were more arresting in their finery than the restaurant. Ladies in silks and taffetas with elegant little feathered hats sat across from men in their business best. A pianist played soft music from a dais, and the black-jacketed waiters were as proper as the clientele.

  The maître d’ knew Ian well, and led them to a table by a railing overlooking the piano. He greeted Ian by name, and didn’t try to hide his excitement at seeing Marissa.

  “Madame Tremayne, je pense, monsieur?”

  “Yes, Jacques, this is my wife. Marissa, Jacques. And Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien. If you’re ever wandering around and in need of a meal, come see Jacques. He will see that you are well cared for, whatever the rush. Isn’t that right, Jacques?”

  “Oh, mais oui!” Jacques agreed. The handsome little Frenchman was smiling widely, with a keen sense of humor and excitement about him. As he seated them and handed them menus, he added, “Madame Tremayne is very young, and very beautiful. Elle est très belle!”

  Marissa felt a soft blush touching her cheeks as Ian looked at her, too, as if debating the Frenchman’s words.

  “Yes,” he agreed wryly. “She’s young.”

  Marissa had thought that Jimmy might plunge in with something complimentary in her defense, but Jimmy was still busy staring around the restaurant, while Mary was studying her menu.

  “Jacques, what on earth is going on with you today?” Ian demanded, exasperated.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Jacques said quickly. “Monsieur Tremayne, Raoul will wait on you today. I shall send the wine steward immediately, also, yes? Raoul!”

  Th
e man was quickly at their side, and seemed as fascinated by Ian’s wife as Jacques had been. Marissa was wryly glad that she did not seem to disappoint, yet she was truly curious at the air of excitement she was causing.

  “May I order for us all?” Ian asked politely. He was impatient, she realized. He had taken her around the city on her first day, and now he was anxious to get lunch over with and move on to business.

  “Please, do,” she said, and Ian looked at Jimmy.

  “Oh, aye, please do!” Jimmy said quickly, after a moment.

  The wine steward poured burgundy into their crystal glasses, which Ian tasted and approved. Marissa noted with a smile that Jimmy had studied his every move, and that Mary watched Jimmy fondly as he sought to learn. Ian ordered and started to tell them about Golden Gate Park, which they had not seen. “A Japanese tea garden was erected there during the Exposition of 1894,” he said. “Perhaps the ladies will want to make an excursion one day—”

  He broke off suddenly. Marissa turned to discover why.

  A woman was walking toward them. She was tall and slim, with fine, delicate features, large, dark-fringed eyes, and hair so deep and lustrous a brown it was like sable. She smiled, and her chin was held elegantly high. She was dressed in mauve, and a fashionable feathered hat sat jauntily upon her head. She was elegant and sensual, and it was apparent Ian knew her very well.

  And it was equally apparent that she was no dance-hall girl.

  Ian stood as she approached. He did not seem wary or distressed, and Marissa felt her cheeks burning despite her determination that they should not. Ian had made no promises to her.

  “Hello, Grace,” he said as the woman approached.

  “Ian, dear!” The woman took his hands and rose on her toes to delicately kiss both his cheeks. Her eyes were warm, and she seemed as gentle and fragile as an angel.

  Then she turned to Marissa, and her gaze was deadly.

  “You must be the new Mrs. Tremayne … child. What a lovely girl, Ian. My congratulations. Oh, I am sorry. Ian has horrid manners at times, doesn’t he? Well, perhaps you don’t know him quite as well as I do yet. I’m Grace Leroux. We’re old friends.”

  The woman at the station had been one thing—this woman was another. Marissa forgot that at one time she couldn’t have cared less what Ian Tremayne did with his life. She wasn’t anyone’s child, and she wasn’t about to let this sweet-faced harpy best her in any way.

  She rose, offering Grace Leroux her hand, and smiling serenely. “Very, very old friends, I can see,” she said sweetly. “And indeed, my husband’s manners can be quite atrocious.” She flashed Ian what she hoped was an adoring and intimate smile. She gritted her teeth, hoping he would not step in and make a fool of her.

  He did not. His brows rose, his lip curled and he watched her with growing amusement as she continued.

  “Mrs. Leroux—or is it Miss?”

  “Mrs.,” said the woman, her dark eyes narrowing, the hint of a hiss in the word.

  “Mrs. Leroux, my friends, Mr. and Mrs. James O’Brien. Mary, Jimmy, Ian’s very old friend, Mrs. Leroux.”

  Jimmy was already on his feet. Mary smiled demurely. Marissa cast a quick glance at Ian, and discovered that he seemed annoyed with the situation.

  “Grace, are you staying? Would you like a chair brought?”

  “Yes, what a lovely idea,” Grace agreed. Ian motioned to their waiter, who quickly brought a fifth chair and seated Grace. She nodded across the table. “Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien,” she acknowledged with little interest. She turned her back on Marissa. “Ian, the picnic for the Orphan’s Fund is next week, or have you forgotten? Our most influential businessmen will be coming during the day. I do hope that we can count on you to attend.” She turned to Marissa. “Oh, dear, it really isn’t for wives. Ian, you will be there, I hope?”

  “I always support the Orphan’s Fund,” Ian said with a sigh of impatience. “Of course I’ll be there.”

  “Why isn’t it for wives?” Marissa asked with a mock innocence.

  “I’m curious myself,” Ian murmured, crossing his arms idly over his chest as he watched Grace.

  “Well, it’s rather a workaday thing, dear. Boring, if you’re not involved. And it’s a traditional thing, really. Ian has been very involved. He usually escorts me. I am so sorry, dear,” Grace purred to Marissa. “You will forgive me for stealing your husband?”

  “If I allowed you to steal my husband, I would have to forgive you,” Marissa said pleasantly. She folded her hands on the snowy white tablecloth and smiled at Mary. “Mary and I were longing to see the park, so I imagine that we’ll explore it on the same day. That way you won’t have to feel guilty about my husband, and we won’t disturb your tradition.”

  Grace was still smiling, but the effort seemed to be growing difficult. She stood swiftly. “Well, we shall see,” she murmured. “Ian, dear, we’ll speak later. It was such a—surprise, meeting you,” she told Marissa. Then she waved elegantly and left the table. Marissa noted that she turned and stared at Ian moments later, and that there was cold fury in her eyes. But Ian was not paying any heed, for the waiter had brought their food.

  Marissa found herself very quiet during the meal, until the subject of the picnic came up again. Mary asked about the Orphan’s Fund. Marissa watched Ian, and was startled when he suddenly turned his head and caught her in the act.

  “Should we see the Golden Gate Park that day?” she asked him.

  He shrugged, but didn’t look away. “If you choose. I’ve no idea what Grace’s tradition is. There is no reason you shouldn’t both attend, you and Mary. I plan to have Jimmy busy at the emporium by then.”

  Marissa lowered her eyes quickly, not wanting him to see that she was inordinately pleased with his words.

  Yet when they left the restaurant and Jimmy and Mary preceded them down the street, she could not help but challenge him again.

  “You mentioned to the maître d’ that you were married. Yet I had the feeling that Mrs. Leroux had no knowledge of me until we met.”

  He shrugged. “I made luncheon reservations for myself, my wife and friends. I had no reason to inform Grace.”

  “Yet you almost defended me against her.”

  He case her a long, dry look. “You seemed to be defending yourself, my love. I’ve acquired a cat with claws, so it seems.”

  Marissa stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and Ian turned impatiently. “I’ve an appointment this afternoon—”

  “She is your mistress, isn’t she?”

  “Marissa, I told you—”

  “You didn’t bother to tell your mistress that you’d acquired a wife?”

  “It’s really none of her business, is it?” he asked her smoothly.

  “But it is. I like to be aware of the situations I find myself cast into.”

  “She’s an old friend.” He grinned. “Very old, as you were so quick to tell her.”

  Marissa flushed, but she felt her temper growing. “I don’t care to have lunch with your intimate old friends.”

  “I didn’t invite her. Now, would you please come on?”

  She didn’t move, and he suddenly caught her arm. “Come on!”

  She had little choice, for he was nearly dragging her down the street. And when she would have balked again, he paused and turned to her in a sudden fury. “Damn you, girl, you’re the one determined on your private quarters!”

  “Which you ignored!”

  “Ask me in, then.” His eyes burned, seeming to bore into her and sweep away the rest of the busy world around them. “I told you, my love, I want you. It was a wretched discovery, but a damned true one. So my affairs, or lack of them, are quite up to you.”

  “It’s not enough!” she cried, trying to shake free of him.

  “What?”

  “I want—” she began. “I want more than just to be wanted!” she cried out in a rush. She jerked free and hurried ahead, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, reflective, furious.

&nb
sp; Then a slow smile crossed his face, and finally he laughed out loud.

  Chapter Eleven

  That night Marissa sat at the dining table alone. She picked at an expertly prepared duck à l’orange, and wondered if it was true that Ian had been detained on business.

  He had been quick to desert them that afternoon. Well, perhaps he hadn’t deserted them. He had turned Mary and Marissa over to one of his clerks, a freckle-faced girl named Sandy O’Halloran, and he had disappeared with Jimmy. Sandy had a natural friendliness and enthusiasm that was instantly endearing, and Marissa felt immediately comfortable with her.

  She was the first woman Marissa had met in San Francisco who seemed honestly pleased to meet Ian’s wife.

  And she obviously loved the emporium. She spent the first hour dragging them from department to department. The emporium seemed to sell absolutely everything from furnishings to garden tools, foodstuffs to recreational paraphernalia. There were bicycles and baseballs, canned goods, the latest in chemises and nightwear, spades and hoes, fine English Chesterfields.

  And in the basement there was a cafeteria where the employees had their meals. Though they had already had lunch, Marissa and Mary had tea with Sandy and watched as the employees went through the line for their meals. The cafeteria seemed busy and productive, and the employees were relaxed, talking among themselves as they ate. Marissa caught the occasional covert glance at herself, but she felt that the interest was friendly and open enough, and she smiled in return when she could.

  “What do you think?” Sandy asked, seeing Marissa’s interest as she surveyed the area.

  “I think it’s very active!” Marissa laughed.

  “Oh, well, then, you should see it on Sunday mornings!” Sandy told her.

  “Why?”

  “The children from St. Kevin’s have their breakfast here after church.”

  “What is St. Kevin’s?” Marissa asked.

  “Well, St. Kevin’s is the Catholic church, and there is an orphanage, too. Sundays are wonderful.”