by Beth Ciotta
She was trapped. Much like when he’d pinned her against the jail cell wall.
Cheeks flaming, she glanced down at his long, tanned fingers recalling how they’d felt when he’d tangled them in her hair. When he’d held her captive, deepening a kiss that blew her mind to smithereens.
She swore she’d seen stars.
She fought the urge to turn in his arms, to press her mouth against his and explore heaven. God help her, she longed to rekindle the fire that had burned in her belly when he’d made her toes curl. How was she supposed to blot out what was quite possibly, no, definitely, a miracle? The earth shook. Angels sang.
Obviously, he hadn’t been paying attention.
The notion stoked the rebel in her, dared her to ignore his warning and to thumb her nose at propriety. To shock him with a kiss that would haunt him for the rest of his born days. It would serve him right.
At least it would make them even.
The longer she endured this intimate position, the harder it was to resist the scandalous urge to make an impression he couldn’t ignore.
Desperate for a distraction, she focused on the roadside scenery. Unfortunately, the territory had held little attraction since Thorne Butte. Gone were the mountainous peaks of Yuma, the mesquite with its feathery leaves, and the green masses of cottonwoods. Even the various forms of cacti were few and far between. The Pedras Pintados, or painted rocks as Mr. Wiggins had translated, had been intriguing. A pile of boulders heaped high to about forty feet. The smooth sides of the boulders were covered with rude carvings and hieroglyphics. According to Mr. Wiggins, some people believed that the images were painted by the Pima Indians. Others believed they dated back to a mythical race. Paris didn’t know what to believe but she liked hearing the stories.
She had liked Mr. Wiggins.
Her heart pounded. Don’t think about that poor soul.
As though sensing her distress, Josh squeezed her hand, which only heightened her anxiety. Don’t think about the man sitting behind you, those strong hands skimming up your arms, framing your face and …
Veering away from wicked thoughts, she glanced at the multi-colored horizon. Another breathtaking sunset. Another awe-inspiring explosion of purple, red, and orange. Emily would adore these sunsets. Emily would adore Josh. Both suited the romantic stories the shy woman secretly penned. Yes, indeed, her imaginative, lovesick friend would most certainly consider Josh hero material. The way he’d overpowered the runaway stage and pummeled Burgess Riley, all for the sake of a damsel in distress.
Paris frowned realizing she was said damsel. She wasn’t sure she liked to think of herself in those terms. She wasn’t delicate or helpless. She knew how to use her fists and brains. How could she not with four intelligent, worrywart brothers? Still, she couldn’t fight a fluttery feeling whenever she envisioned Josh rushing to her rescue.
Jelly limbs. Butter for brains. She’d read about these kinds of afflictions in Emily’s stories. Cripes almighty. Was it possible? Was she was actually sweet on the man? The notion was horrifying. Logic told her to fight the attraction tooth and nails. What if he knew her brothers? What if he sabotaged her dream? But Emily’s persistent voice whispered in her ears, urging her to take advantage of an enriching phenomenon. Life experience inspires passionate prose. Paris squirmed in the saddle, debating the confounding dilemma.
Josh locked one arm tight around her middle and squeezed. “Stop fussing.”
His husky command and possessive hold stoked the embers glowing in her belly, making her skin burn from the inside out. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll loosen your hold.” She was two seconds from whipping around and making that memorable impression.
“Relax,” he said, his warm breath fanning her ear. “I’m not going to bite.”
Please do, she thought, flattening her lips to trap a blissful sigh. Nibble my earlobe. Make me purr.
Lord, she was pathetic.
Antsy, she elbowed him in the stomach. It was like nudging a stone wall. He eased back, but not before an image of his naked torso exploded in her mind. She imagined muscles, lots of hard, defined muscles, and groaned.
“Got a bee in your britches?”
“Never you mind about my britches,” she snapped, grateful he couldn’t read her mind. “I’m hot.” Apparently the desert sun had warped her brain. Between the intense heat and her erotic musings, she felt plain dizzy.
He passed her his canteen.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Drink.”
Arguing was useless. He was as bossy and as stubborn as any one of her brothers. Sighing, she took the canteen and swigged several mouthfuls of cool water. She hadn’t realized she’d been so thirsty.
“Better?”
She was until she craned around to say, yes, thank you. Her gaze locked with his and her mouth went dry. “How much farther?”
“Contrary as a mule,” he said, lip twitching.
“Better than being one.”
“Are you calling me an ass?”
“If the shoe fits.”
He grinned and her stomach flipped. Why did he have to be so darn handsome? Why couldn’t he have a wart on his chin or hair growing out of his ears? Just her luck, he had to have the chiseled good looks of a Greek statue. Every time she looked into his twinkling eyes her heart skipped like a flat stone across a lake. His smile, on the rare occasion that he gave one up, turned her legs into overripe bananas.
“I wish you were ugly,” she said without thinking.
“You say the strangest things.” He shook his head. “Thank you, I guess.”
“You’re welcome,” she mumbled, entranced by the playful gleam in his eyes. She wondered if he found her fetching, not that she was about to ask. His gaze roamed over her face, and she thought, just maybe he did. But instead of commenting, he jerked his attention to the horizon.
Instincts told her not to pry. They’d shared a heart-skipping moment—at least in her mind—why ruin it? “What are you thinking about?” So much for restraint.
“You don’t want to know.”
His tone revealed nothing, but then she remembered their awkward showdown back in Thorne Butte. He didn’t like her, or so he’d said. How could she have forgotten? So he’d smiled at her. So he’d teased her. That didn’t mean he harbored affection. Obviously, the attraction—and she hated to admit she was indeed attracted—was one-sided.
Anxious, she swiveled back around and grappled for another distraction. Anything that didn’t have to do with Joshua Grant.
The Desert Moon. Yes, that would definitely do. She pursed her lips and concentrated on her dream with fierce determination.
Opera House seeking entertainers! Hitch your star to the Desert Moon!
She’d never given much thought to fate, but if that advertisement hadn’t been a sign, she’d eat London’s hat. Believing she was destined to become a prominent musical actress, Papa had begged her to reach for the stars. She’d promised to lasso the moon. Two days later, ten years ago this month, he’d been killed in a shootout at the theater. Her stomach pitched just thinking about the look on her mama’s face when the sheriff had come to the door.
Not wanting to dwell on that awful moment, Paris imagined the mountain-based opera house. Would it resemble the Gilded Garrett, a three-story architectural wonder decorated in subdued red, creamy white, and brilliant gold? A prosperous and popular theater boasting a tasteful saloon, elegant conversation rooms and an impressive auditorium that seated up to a thousand patrons? She’d only been inside the Gilded Garrett a dozen times in her entire nineteen years, an amazing statistic since her family owned the establishment. Mama had been a formidable obstacle, considering San Francisco a bad influence on young children. Now that Paris was an adult, she had to contend with her brothers’ old-fashioned values. It seemed as if the whole world frowned upon her frequenting the theater. Still, the Gilded Garrett was emblazoned in her memory, as were the few shows she’d had the privilege to view f
rom backstage.
On second thought she couldn’t imagine any theater as grand as the Gilded Garrett.
So as not to be disappointed, she lowered her expectations. Perhaps the Desert Moon was more in keeping with Percy’s Poker Palace, the rollicking gambling establishment that sat on the outskirts of Heaven. Not that she’d ever seen the interior of Percy’s, but Rome spent a good deal of time there when he was home. Given his taste for the finer things in life, certainly Percy’s must be first rate. If she couldn’t have grand, first rate would do.
A third and extremely unappealing thought occurred. What if the Desert Moon more closely resembled Hell’s Drinkin’ Hole? It was, after all, in the middle of nowhere.
Paris absentmindedly braided sections of Buckshot’s coarse mane. The prospect of singing her original compositions in front of strangers was nerve-racking enough without those strangers resembling the ruffians she’d encountered in Hell’s Drinkin’ Hole. She’d prefer a sophisticated clientele, thank you very much. According to Rome, those who attended Percy’s Poker Palace were well behaved and appreciative of any and all entertainment that graced its ornate stage.
She envisioned herself standing on an elevated stage, ornate or otherwise, the center of attention. Envisioned the audience scrutinizing her costume, waiting to be dazzled by her talent. She imagined herself in her mama’s buttoned boots, and experienced a sharp pang of panic.
She’d inherited her mama’s voice, but that didn’t mean she’d inherited her charisma. Charisma, Papa had once said, sets apart the stars from the chorus girls. What if she lacked charisma? What if she froze? What if they booed? If she botched her opening night she wouldn’t have to worry about the clientele, sophisticated or otherwise. She’d be terminated!
Brain buzzing with disastrous scenarios, she stiffened, knocking Josh in the chin with the back of her head.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing.” Hopefully. The proprietor of the Desert Moon had promised her a job, but he hadn’t designated the length of her engagement. Why hadn’t she thought to ask for details? If she failed to impress M.B. he had every right to boot her out the door the next morning. She knew from London that an inferior performer could be as bad for business as secondary service. She couldn’t afford to be an inferior performer. She was already an inferior songwriter.
How was she ever going to become famous if she didn’t make a name for herself?
Her mind scrambled to rehash snatches of work-related conversations between her parents—specifically, various tactics to insure a successful performance. She needed to win over the audience the moment she stepped on stage, and she couldn’t count on mesmerizing them with charisma if she had the stage presence of a tree stump. She needed to open with something tried and true. A popular song. A sing-a-long. A guaranteed crowd-pleaser.
Her musical hero sprang to mind. “What do you think of Stephen Foster?”
“Who?”
“Stephen Foster.” She looked over her shoulder. “You know. The man who wrote The Old Folks At Home.”
Josh palmed his hat to the back of his head, signaling she had his reluctant attention. “Can’t say I know the song.”
“Of course you do. Everyone does.” She cleared her throat and sang, “Way down upon the Swanee River—”
“Swanee River.” He gave her waist a playful squeeze. “Why didn’t you say so?”
The affectionate gesture caused her breath to catch. She wondered, for the briefest of seconds, what it would feel like if he leaned in and kissed the back of her neck. Rattled, she launched into a nervous stream of chatter. “The actual title of the song is The Old Folks At Home, not Swanee River. In fact, Mr. Foster originally wrote about the ‘Peedee River,’ but decided it wasn’t all that pleasant on the ears. Keeping in mind that he needed a two-syllable name, he picked up a Florida map, looked it over, and found the Swanee River. Thank heavens, right? Can you imagine?” She snorted then sang, “Way down upon the Peedee River … ”
Josh rolled back tense shoulders and smiled. Her questionable sanity aside, Paris’s voice flowed over him sweet and rich like molasses. Entranced, he waited for her to finish out the song. Instead, she launched into another story about Stephen Foster.
Had the sun struck her delirious? Although, this was Paris. She’d set herself apart from normal folk the moment she’d waltzed into a saloon in search of a piano. Creative people, musicians, artists, weren’t they generally famous for their eccentricities? Maybe that was it. Maybe she was eccentric. Not that eccentric was much better than crazy.
“The lyrics. It’s all in the lyrics. Well, not all. The melody counts, of course. It’s a matter of finding the perfect blend. One must complement the other. I mean, as much as I admire Mr. Foster’s lyrics, can you imagine if they’d been set to a melody of Mozart’s?” She waved a dismissive hand. “What am I saying? You don’t know Mozart.”
“I know Mozart.” Mason had been an avid fan. Though Josh preferred simpler melodies, he respected the composer’s obvious talent. “Not personally, of course.”
She chuckled. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Grant.”
He merely smiled, thinking he was pretty damned boring compared to her.
“Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,” she continued in reverent awe. “An honest-to-gosh genius. It’s not as if he plunked out a melody on the piano and then committed it to paper. No, sir. He heard entire operas in his head, complicated concertos and symphonies, he heard them in his head, and then committed them to paper. First drafts. Perfect drafts. Beautiful, soul-wrenching music.”
Josh tried his best to keep up with her rambling. She’d been blessedly quiet up until this point, which he appreciated since he’d been preoccupied with a personal heart to heart, trying to dispel several worrisome thoughts. Some of them involved Fedderman and his hare-brained notion. Most of them involved Paris and her penchant for landing herself in precarious fixes.
In between it all he’d obsessed on the two passionate kisses he’d advised her to forget. Riding double only complicated his predicament. She felt delicate and vulnerable in his arms, prompting conflicting needs to protect and seduce. Every time a breeze kicked up he got a whiff of lilacs. Every time she shifted in the saddle her cute, little backside rubbed up against his privates. Her trousers left nothing to the imagination. Why couldn’t she wear layers of petticoats and skirts like a normal woman?
Because she’s not normal.
If not for the risk of overexerting Buckshot, he would have kicked the horse into a gallop. The sooner they reached Maricopa Wells and he got Paris off of his lap, the sooner he’d regain his sanity, for he was sure shootin’ loco for even considering Fedderman’s suggestion.
She’d make as good a wife as any.
Damn Hank for putting that thought in his head. Damn Mason for putting that marriage stipulation in his will. Ignoring the stipulation wasn’t an option. It would mean forfeiting the Desert Moon to his no-account cousin, Niles Burke. The irresponsible cardsharp hadn’t had the decency to attend his father’s funeral. Not that Josh was surprised. Father and son hadn’t been on speaking terms for years. Still, Mason hadn’t had the heart to disinherit his only son. He’d bequeathed Niles half of his substantial windfall. The rest of his fortune, including the deed to the Desert Moon, had gone to Josh, provided he married in an allotted time frame. Even though the stipulation rankled, he wouldn’t let Mason down, and Mason knew it. Damn the old coot.
Regardless, Paris was all wrong. Just because he wanted to bed her, didn’t mean he wanted to share her bed for the rest of his life. You can’t hitch up a horse to a coyote. She’d have him sprouting gray hairs before his time. The sooner he dumped her in Florence the better. She had her mission, whatever the hell that was, and he had Mason’s. He had less than two weeks to court and marry. He wasn’t worried about the time limit. Seth was well acquainted with the eligible women of the region. He’d point him in the right direction.
“My mind is constantly fil
led with music too,” she continued in a soft, earnest tone. “Difference is, I’m not as gifted as Mozart, or as Stephen Foster, or as … ” Sheshrugged and sighed. “That’s partly why I answered the advertisement.”
Instead of spurring Buckshot faster, Josh reined him in. “What advertisement?” A deafening silence had him massaging a telling twinge in his neck while his brain raced to fit together pieces of an irritating puzzle. He knew this songwriting thing was important to her. Hell, she’d stormed a saloon just to get a song out of her head. She’d nearly fallen apart when he’d suggested they leave her sheet music behind. This girl was fueled by passion. The kind of passion that made a person go to extreme lengths to achieve goals.
“What’s in Florence, Paris?”
“What?”
“What’s waiting for you in Florence? I need to know.”
She squirmed in the saddle and tugged her hat low. “A position. Why do you need to know?”
His gut kicked, a dead sure sign of disaster. “What kind of position?”
She dipped her head and busied her hands. What the hell was she doing to his buckskin’s mane? “I don’t know what this has to do with anything,” she muttered.
Quicker than she could fuss, he lifted her and settled her sideways on his lap. “Look at me.” She reluctantly met his gaze and his pulse spiked. “You’re a real pain in the neck, you know that?”
Hurt flashed in her eyes. “I don’t mean to be.”
Realizing he’d struck a nerve, he filed away her reaction, and persisted. “I believe you, but the fact remains. What kind of position?”
“Honestly,” she huffed.
“Honesty would be nice. For once.”
She squared her shoulders. “Very well. I’ve been hired to perform at an opera house.”
“To perform?” He frowned, her revelation as unexpected as gun play in Bible class. He had a hard time envisioning Paris as a dance hall girl, between her tomboy appearance and her reckless behavior. Fact was, he didn’t want to envision anything of the sort. “I thought you said you’re a songwriter.”