by Janet Dailey
"Thanks. I think I will." MacCrea tossed his hat on a rose-colored chair as he walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of Chivas and water. "Where's Lane?"
"He's still in Houston." She removed an earring from the jewelry case on the side table in front of her and held it up to her ear.
MacCrea stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. "He told me he was going to be here."
"I know. We were supposed to fly in together. But Alex has a bad case of the sniffles and Lane was afraid to leave him. You know how he dotes on his son."
Unconsciously MacCrea crooked an eyebrow at the hard, clipped edge of resentment in her voice, and the almost total lack of concern she expressed for her son. It was in such contrast to Abbie and her highly protective attitude toward her daughter.
"You don't sound worried about him." He sipped at his drink, studying her thoughtfully over the rim of the glass.
"Naturally I'm concerned when he's ill, but it isn't as if he's being left alone. Mrs. Weldon is a registered nurse. She is more than qualified to look after him. But Lane doesn't see it that way. Alex is his son."
"He's your son, too," MacCrea reminded her.
"Is he?" The words seemed to slip out. She attempted to cover them with a forced laugh. "Can you imagine a child of mine being terrified of horses? When he was two and three years old he used to scream his head off if one came within five feet of him. No, Alex is very much Daddy's boy."
"It won't always be that way."
"I wish I could believe that." She sighed heavily, suddenly no longer trying to mask her feelings. "You know that old saying, MacCrea, 'Two's company and three's a crowd'? I'm the one who makes it a crowd."
She looked so lonely and vulnerable that MacCrea couldn't help feeling a little sorry for her. "Lane does love you."
"Yes." Her mouth twisted in a smile that wasn't very pretty. "I'm the mother of his child. And that's a poor reason to love a woman, MacCrea." After trying on several earrings, she finally chose a pair of Harry Winston diamond-studded Burmese sapphires and clipped them onto her ears, then removed the matching diamond and sapphire necklace from the jewelry case.
"I suppose." But her comment made him wonder about other things—like the possibility that Abbie loved Dobie because he was the father of her child.
"When did you arrive?" She looped the necklace around her neck and fastened the clasp.
"About three or four hours ago. I figured I'd find you and Lane at the showgrounds, so I went there to look for you first. I ran into Abbie." He wasn't sure why he had told Rachel that. He hadn't intended to mention his meeting with her.
"I heard she was here." The icy-sharp bite to her voice left little room for doubt about her feelings toward Abbie. Not that MacCrea had expected her animosity toward her to have mellowed in any way over the years.
"Have you seen her stallion?"
"Oh, yes." She laughed shortly, with more bitterness than humor. "She's made sure I have."
"What do you mean?" He frowned at the curious statement.
"She makes a point of riding that stallion in the field right next to River Bend. I know she does it deliberately. She could ride that horse anywhere, but she has to do it right in my own backyard." Rachel swung away from the mirror and faced him, holding her head unnaturally high. "Believe me, she's never going to win the championship."
"You sound very confident of that."
"I am. The horse business is no different from any other business. Your success depends on the people you know and the amount of money you have available to promote your stallion. . . Do you have any plans for this evening?" Rachel asked as she walked over to a chair and picked up the beaded evening-bag lying on the seat.
"Nothing particular." He shrugged.
"Good. Then you can be my escort tonight since Lane isn't here." She picked up her mink jacket and handed it to him. "The Danberrys are having an aisle party. Ross Tibbs, the country singer, is supposed to be there."
"The one from Houston?" MacCrea set his drink glass down to help her on with the fur jacket.
"The same. He has a good-sized farm in Tennessee now where he raises Arabian horses. I've run into him a few times at some of the bigger shows." Pausing, she glanced at MacCrea over her shoulder. Just for an instant, the shadowed blue of her eyes reminded him of Abbie. "You will take me, won't you, MacCrea? I hate to go to these affairs alone."
"Sure." For some reason he was reluctant to try to get a flight out tonight. And his other alternative—spending the night alone in a hotel room—appealed to him even less.
Rachel blinked as a flashbulb went off directly in front of her, momentarily blinding her. The stall area was jammed with people sipping champagne, munching on caviar, and wearing everything from Lauren to Levi, high fashion to no fashion. Everybody who was anybody in the Arabian horse business had come to the private party, making a curious gathering of celebrity entertainers, business giants, and the social elite hobnobbing with the top trainers, stud managers, and professionals in the business.
"I was told this champagne is for the lady with the bluest eyes. Where do you suppose I could find her?" The familiar voice came from behind her.
Rachel turned, her pulse hammering erratically. "Ross. How wonderful to see you again." She tried to inject the proper amount of pleasure into her voice as she accepted the wineglass from him. "Someone mentioned you might come to the party tonight. Did you just arrive?"
"No. I've probably been here about forty-five minutes."
"Really?" She pretended she hadn't known, even though she'd seen him arrive and made a special effort to ignore him. He didn't look or dress that much differently from when she'd first met him, but the trappings of success were visible. The bright blue shirt was silk, not polyester; the jacket was genuine suede, not an imitation; the jeans carried a designer label instead of J. C. Penney's; and the conchos on his hatband were solid silver, not silver-plated. More than that, everybody knew who Ross Tibbs was, and nearly all of them wanted to make sure Ross knew who they were.
"Where's your husband?" he inquired, his gaze never leaving her face, his intent study of her as unsettling as it had always been.
Rachel sipped at the bubbly wine, her palate sufficiently educated to recognize it was not one of the better champagnes, yet its effect on her was just as heady. "He's still in Houston. He plans to join me here in a few days."
She was tired of making excuses for Lane's absence from these affairs. If it wasn't business then it was little Alex that kept him away. Lane never seemed to have time for her anymore. His priorities were very clear to her: Alex was first; business, second; and she came in a poor third. Maybe it was wrong to feel jealous of her own son, but she had never anticipated that Lane would love him more than he loved her. Yet he did. There must be something wrong with her, some reason why people always loved someone else more than they did her. It wasn't fair.
"Tell me about this yearling filly of yours, Ross," she said, struggling to make conversation. "Everyone is talking about her."
"Have you seen her yet?"
"No."
Before she could react, the mink jacket that she had casually draped over her arm was in his hands. "Come on. We're going over to he barn so I can show her to you." He slung the fur loosely around her shoulders and kept his arm there to guide her toward the exit.
"Now? But. . ." Rachel protested half-heartedly, secretly wanting to be coerced into accompanying him and feeling vaguely guilty because she did.
"Wait until you see her." Ross propelled her through the crowd, talking over her faint objection. "She's a jewel. That's what I named her: Jewel of the Desert—in Arabic, of course, but I can't pronounce that."
Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel noticed MacCrea standing off to one side of the party crowd, talking to some man. She looked in his direction and saw that he was watching them. This was exactly the sort of situation with Ross she had wanted to avoid. That's why she had asked MacCrea to escort her to the party—to
be her buffer, her shield. But now that it was happening, she didn't want it to stop. Yet she worried that MacCrea might tell Lane that she had gone off alone with Ross. She tried to convince herself that she had nothing to hide from Lane. After all, she was just going to see Ross's filly. It was perfectly innocent.
"Ross, please." She hung back, forcing him to pause as she glanced anxiously again in MacCrea's direction. "I really should let MacCrea know where I'm going. He brought me here. I just can't run off like this. What will he think?"
"Where is he?"
"Over there." Rachel pointed to him.
Changing course, he walked her over to MacCrea. "I'm taking Rachel to see my filly. Want to come along?" Rachel held her breath, partly afraid he'd accept and partly afraid he wouldn't.
MacCrea shook his head. "No, thanks. One horse looks the same as another to me."
"Tell you what, Wilder. There's no need for you hanging around here getting bored. I've got a car and driver right outside. I can make sure Rachel gets safely back to her hotel." Turning on a smile, Ross looked sideways at her. She was extremely conscious that his arm was still around her shoulder. "If that's okay with you, of course."
"I suppose it really doesn't matter how I get back," she began uncertainly, unable to tell by MacCrea's impassive expression what he actually thought. "I wouldn't want to inconvenience either of you."
"Whatever you want to do will be fine with me." MacCrea shrugged his indifference.
"Good. I'll take her back then." As they walked away, he tipped his head close to hers and murmured near her ear, "Didn't I tell you I'd handle it?"
"Yes." Maybe it was wrong to feel the way she did, but she was glad he had.
Any lingering misgivings fled the instant she saw the year-old Arabian. Totally enchanted by the bronze bay filly's exquisitely classic looks, she could talk of nothing else. She wanted to buy the horse on the spot. When Ross refused, insisting the filly wasn't for sale at any price, she begged him to breed the filly to her stallion, Sirocco, when she turned three, and Rachel made him promise that he'd sell her the foal.
Somehow she lost all track of time. She didn't even realize they never made it back to the party until she handed Ross the room key to her hotel suite. By then, it was too late to be concerned about any comments other guests might have made about the way she and Ross had disappeared without a word to their hosts.
"I think our arrangement calls for a drink, don't you?" Ross pushed open the door and followed her into the suite.
"I do, but you'd better make mine weak," Rachel declared, sighing blissfully as she tossed the mink jacket onto the sofa. "I already feel light-headed, and I'm not sure if I should blame the champagne or the prospect of a foal out of our two horses." She walked over to the small bar and leaned on the countertop to watch him prepare the drinks, barely able to contain the sense of excitement she felt. "Are you certain there's no way I can persuade you to sell that filly, Ross?"
"I can't think of anything I'd love more than to have you try. Lord knows, you're the only one who could tempt me into changing my mind." With the drinks in hand, he came out from behind the bar and walked around to her. Not more than a hand's width separated them when he stopped.
His nearness, the intimate look in his eyes, the feather-light brush of his fingers when she took the glass from him—all combined to stimulate the desire she'd tried to control from the outset. "You almost make me want to try," she admitted, catching the husky note of longing in her voice and knowing it shouldn't be there.
Reaching up, he lightly touched an earring with the tip of his finger. "Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are bluer than these sapphires?"
"Yes." Lane had, and Rachel wished Ross hadn't reminded her of that. All in one motion, she shoved the glass onto the counter and sidestepped Ross to walk over to the oval mirror.
As she stared at her reflection, she caught the diamond sparkle of the Harry Winston earrings and reached up to remove them slowly, one by one. Another gift, that's all they were. Gifts and empty words were the only things she received from Lane anymore, and all she had ever wanted was his love.
This was the way it had been with Dean, too, she realized, suddenly recognizing that she'd come full circle. Her reflected expression became grim as she considered the awful irony of the situation. She was as lonely now with Lane as she had been with Dean, forced to be satisfied with the scant remnants of his time and affection. All the expensive presents in the world couldn't make up for the love she'd been cheated out of again. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't anybody love her? She railed silently at the unfairness as she struggled to unfasten the safety clasp on her expensive necklace, a necklace she now hated.
"I'll do that for you." Ross's reflection joined hers in the mirror as he came up behind her.
When Rachel felt the warmth of his fingers on her neck, for an instant everything inside her became still. She stared at him in the mirror, absently studying his boyishly handsome features, remembering that reckless, happy-go-lucky smile that so often curved his mouth and that brashly flirtatious way he usually looked at her. She caught herself wanting to touch his curly brown hair, no longer hidden beneath his cowboy hat, and discover for herself if it was as soft and thick as it looked.
As she stood with her hand at her throat, holding the necklace in place, she considered the wedding ring Lane had placed on her finger. Once that ring had signified happiness and security to her. Now, when she looked at it, it meant nothing to her—just another pretty bauble Lane had given her to placate his conscience.
With its ends no longer fastened, the weight of the necklace sagged against her hand. She curled her fingers around the cold, hard stones and pulled them slowly away from her throat. A wonderful warmth replaced the inanimate feel of the necklace as Ross bent his head and pressed his lips against the side of her neck where a second ago the necklace had lain. Shuddering with the intense pleasure the kiss had evoked, she turned to face him, desperately needing to be loved by someone.
"Why did you do that?" She clutched the necklace tightly while his hands moved over the bare points of her shoulders lightly rubbing and kneading her flesh with an odd reverence.
"Because I love you, Rachel. I've always loved you. You're the inspiration for every song about love, heartbreak, and loneliness I've ever written. I love you," he repeated, his voice so soft, yet so forceful. "And, right or wrong, I want to make love to you. If it's not what you want, tell me now. I don't know how much longer I can stand being this close to you without holding you and loving you.”
"Ross, don't say you love me if you don't mean it. I couldn't endure that." She choked on a sob.
"I love you, my beautiful, beautiful blue eyes." He moved even closer, his mouth so near to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. "Let me show you how much I love you.
"Yes," she cried softly, and hungrily kissed him, going into his arms and clinging to him desperately, unable to get enough of the loving passion he showered on her. "I need you," she murmured against the smoothness of his shaven cheek. "You don't know how much I need you, Ross."
Lifting her off the floor, he cradled her body in his arms and carried her over to the bedroom door, kicking it open with his foot, kissing her all the while. It was like a romantic scene in a movie, only it was happening to her. She was the one being carried off by a man who loved her more than anything in the world.
Letting her down gently, he turned her to face him and took her in his arms, his lips caressing her brow and cheek with feather-soft kisses. She was trembling, frightened and excited by her own daring, as she felt his hand gliding up the back of her strapless gown, seeking and finding the zipper. The sound it made as he pulled it down reminded Rachel of a cat's soft purr. That's what she felt like—a purring cat rubbing herself against him and wanting to be stroked and petted.
As the loosened gown of velvet and satin began to slip, his hands helped it fall the rest of the way until the Blass original la
y in a pile around her feet. A shiver rippled over her bared flesh in reaction to the sudden coolness. Needing his warmth, she pushed open his soft suede jacket and wound her arms tightly around his middle, pressing her body against him and feeling the heat of his body flowing through the thin silk of his shirt.
He cupped a hand under her chin and lifted it so he could once again kiss her lips. When his hat got in the way, he took it off and sent it sailing into a corner of the darkened bedroom, the silver conchos flashing in a whirling circle of reflected light, spinning off into the blackness.
As he shrugged out of his jacket, Rachel felt the play of the lean muscles in his back and closed her eyes, wanting to make sensations the reality. But his hands forced her to stand away from him, giving him room to pull apart the snaps holding the front of his shirt closed.
When she saw the curly dark hairs that covered his chest, she turned away and slowly began to remove her undergarments, her apprehension growing. She had gone too far to stop now, and truthfully she didn't want to stop, but she was afraid of standing naked before him—afraid he wouldn't want the plain Rachel he saw. Without the jewels and the designer gowns, that's all she was: the Rachel that nobody ever loved or wanted.
Yet she had to know. Slowly she turned to face him, grateful for the concealing shadows in the dimly lighted room. She heard him draw in his breath. Tentatively she looked up, but his arms were already going around her and his mouth coming down to cover her lips hotly, his tongue licking them open then plunging inside with a fervor and an urgency that caught her up in the force of his desire.
Then he lowered her onto the bed and joined her, his hands running all over her body as if they couldn't get enough of her—caressing the roundness of her breasts and rolling her hardened nipples between the callused tips of his fingers, stroking her bottom and gliding between her legs, his fingers seeking the velvety moistness of her. Rachel shuddered uncontrollably at their entry, her hips arching instinctively to take them in.