Heartbreak Ranch: Amy's StoryJosie's StoryHarmony's StoryArabella's Story

by Chelley Kitzmiller

  “We enjoyed each other well enough,” he said, his tones bitter. He was so close she could see the cold anger in his eyes. “But I don’t provide stud service—”

  She gasped. “Don’t,” she said, her color rising. “Don’t talk like that about what we...about our relationship.”

  “Why not? You used me, then dumped me. But maybe you underestimated me.” Abruptly, he drew back and appraised her. “I’m a bad loser, Bell. I’ve been counting the days until I could get even. I’m going to best you Friday. Sandusky will be ticked. When the game’s over, you’ll be lucky to get a housekeeping job.”

  “I’m going to win that game, Zach,” she promised. When cornered or threatened she always became stubborn and haughty. It was her defense mechanism, and it had worked very well for her for years. She hated nothing more than being on the defensive.

  He tilted his head, confusing her for a moment. His eyes narrowed and she could swear his nostrils flared. He inhaled. Abruptly, she realized that he was scenting her, like an animal in the wild, searching for a mate. The thought shot an involuntary thrill through her. She remembered many times in Monte Carlo when he’d praised her fragrance. How often had he huskily whispered, “I love your smell.”

  Suddenly overwhelmed, she turned away. Back iron-rod stiff, she walked toward the bank of elevators. She couldn’t believe Zach meant to blame her wholly for the way things had worked out between them. Ridiculous. Everyone knew it took two to tango.

  She got into the elevator and faced forward. Before the doors closed, she saw that Zach was still watching her. She met his gaze with a level one of her own. Again, she lifted her chin. He’d best her, huh? Well, she would show him.

  * * *

  ZACH WATCHED Arabella until the elevator doors slid shut. He hadn’t thought seeing her again would hurt this bad. He hadn’t gambled on what one brief glimpse would do to his insides. At the first sight of her his gut had somehow twisted itself into a knot.

  It had taken him a year to track her down after Monte Carlo—but he’d wasted half that time licking his wounds and brooding over the way she’d walked out on him. He could still taste her on his lips, remember how she felt in his arms, the way she looked into his eyes, cocky, yet wary and almost frightened at the same time.

  When they were first together, she had seemed hesitant, even reserved. She’d given of herself and then pulled back, as if she was afraid to let go, afraid of what might happen if she opened up her emotions.

  Just now, he had seen the familiar bold set of her shoulders, the hard way she’d stared back at him from the elevator. Arabella Collins was an expert at being brash and flippant, as if she were ready to take on the world. But in those last few days they had been together, he had seen another side of her start to blossom, a glimpse of a vulnerability that she worked hard to keep hidden from the world.

  She was the first woman who’d ever gotten to him. Arabella, with her violet eyes and teasing smile, had stolen his heart, then walked out and thrown it back in his face.

  Just the sight of her, just the hint of her own special seductive scent still had the power to set him on fire. Tonight he’d told her that he was here to get even, but the truth went deeper.

  He was here to win.

  And she was the prize.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ARABELLA WAS in trouble.

  She knew it the minute she opened the door early that evening. Sandusky stood poised at the head of a group of dark-suited men who looked like nothing less than a pack of Dobermans. Damn, she would have to brazen this out.

  “Good evening, Miss Collins,” Sandusky greeted her in his soft, cultured tones. He was a slim, elegant man of European descent. He spoke excellent English but with a faint accent that she had never quite placed. It didn’t occur to her to ask. One did not question Sandusky.

  “Howdy,” she said with false enthusiasm. “Guys,” she added, acknowledging the foursome surrounding Sandusky, “it’s great to see you. Come in, please.”

  Two men prowled inside, fanning out. They stuck their snouts suspiciously into each corner of her penthouse, hunting for spies or killers or other sinister personages, Arabella supposed. When they were finally satisfied, Sandusky entered with the remaining two.

  The “guard dogs,” as she privately called them, all wore plain dark business suits, had their hair cut short, and had mustaches. Ominous, gun-shaped bulges were evident beneath their jackets and their faces were expressionless.

  “I like your suit,” she commented cheerfully to one. “You all go to the same groomer?”

  He ignored her and took up a position beside the closed door. The others placed themselves strategically about the room. How wonderful, Arabella thought dryly. Even if an air-to-ground missile attack were launched she would be safe. What a load off.

  “You are ready to play for me Friday, Miss Collins?” Sandusky inquired without preliminaries. He stood in front of the portrait of Bella, studying it.

  She remained standing, as well. “Never readier.” Somehow, her reply had come out sounding like a battery commercial.

  “And you are well?”

  “Positively glowing with good health.”

  “Good. We want no repeats of your last game.” He turned to face her. “Do we, Miss Collins?” Beneath his soft voice, a knife blade of warning nicked her.

  She felt a twinge of fear and her color rose. “I’m sorry about that. But, Mr. Sandusky, you know I seldom lose—”

  “But when it happens, you do it so spectacularly,” he said. “In two nights’ time you will be competing against Evan Hennessy’s representative. I believe you have an acquaintance with Zachary Richards?”

  She swallowed. “I know Zachary Richards, yes.” She wondered if Sandusky knew exactly how well acquainted they were. Probably. He knew everything.

  “I trust your prior...association with Richards will not affect your skill at the table.” It was not a question, but a statement.

  “No,” she replied quickly. “My personal life is entirely separate from my professional one. You can rest assured that nothing will interfere with my card-

  playing ability on Friday. I will win.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, because in recent years I have endured heavy losses to Evan Hennessy. I do not like the man.” At this, the guard dogs bristled, their dark snapping eyes quartering the room as if an enemy had leaped into their midst.

  “Whoa, down boys,” Arabella said.

  Sandusky withdrew a silver box from his pocket and lit a thin brown cigarette. “I do not plan to lose again. You understand?”

  “Perfectly.” She crossed her arms. The implied threat was as obvious as the cocking of a revolver.

  “Very well. And to ensure your full attention to the game Friday night, I will advance you one hundred thousand dollars’ credit at the table.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But that’s not enough. Not by a long shot.” She’d need at least three hundred thousand.

  “Yes, I know. I expect you to put up the other two hundred thousand from your own pocket.”

  “What?” She couldn’t have heard him correctly.

  “That way I will be assured of your complete concentration. You will not allow yourself to become distracted if your own assets are at stake, hmm?”

  “But—but I have no money. I don’t own anything. This penthouse is rented. My credit cards are maxed out.”

  He remained unmoved. “I am certain you have made investments—own stock certificates or maintain a healthy bank account.”

  “No—I spend everything—”

  Trailing cigarette smoke, he waved a negligent hand. “Beg, borrow or steal. Do whatever is necessary. You will produce the needed capital.” With a curt nod to the Dobies, he paced to the door. Two of the guards trotted ahead into the hallway, made a careful sweep, then indicated it was safe for him to come out.

  During the ritual, Arabella merely stood gaping. How did he expect her to come up with money she didn’t have? Ther
e was no one from whom she could borrow so much, and banks generally frowned on extending loans for use in poker games. Usually, a person making such a loan request was thrown out on her penniless ear.

  At the door, Sandusky paused. “Do not disappoint me, Miss Collins. It would not be...wise.” The door closed with a soft, menacing hush.

  Arabella was in trouble.

  * * *

  SHAKEN, SHE PACED her apartment trying to collect her thoughts. A drink—that was what she needed—but only an occasional drinker, she had next-to-nothing on hand. In her line of work, she could not afford to have any vital perceptions diminished, or her inhibitions lowered. To keep her wits sharp while working, she sipped only mineral water. A trip downstairs to the hotel bar was in order.

  Quickly she gathered her shoulder-length hair into a high ponytail and thrust her feet into silver sandals. She still wore the lavender sweater and slacks; they’d be fine for a quick jaunt to the bar.

  The casino lobby, as always, hummed with activity. She barely noticed. Head down, she walked quickly past the reception desk toward the lounge. At the café adjoining the bar, a few people occupied tables. The café served appetizers and cocktails. As Arabella threaded her way through, one of the couples caught her eye.

  Zach and Lily Lake were cozied up to a minuscule round table, sipping martinis and looking deeply into each other’s eyes. A plate of half-eaten chicken wings sat between them.

  Arabella’s step faltered and something tightened in her chest. Though she’d inherited the violet eyes and blond hair of her ancestors, and some even called her beautiful, she knew she would never see the day when she matched Lily. The woman was cover-model gorgeous.

  Too bad she was cold as ice inside.

  Trust Zach not to have recognized that salient fact. The man was besotted, she could tell. Shrugging stiffly, she told herself it didn’t matter to her if he chose to get frostbite. Zach and Lily were welcome to each other.

  Pushing on, she hated how jerky her normally fluid stride had become. Her cheeks felt flushed and overly warm. She hated feeling anything. It left her too vulnerable. Damn that Zach Richards.

  At the polished mahogany bar she placed her order. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay—no, make it the whole bottle.”

  The bartender, a young man in his early twenties, gave her the once-over and a slow, seductive smile. “And two glasses?”

  “No. I drink alone.” She purposely kept her tone firm and her level gaze cool.

  “Whatever the lady wants,” he replied, shrugging. He set a bottle of house chardonnay onto the bartop and a single wine goblet. As she collected them, she could not resist a last glance at Zach’s table.

  He was staring at her.

  She stared right back, defiantly, as if she didn’t care a whit what he did with the incomparable Lily Lake. He could do that thing with his lips and teeth to Lily and it wouldn’t matter to Arabella at all. When a smile lifted the edges of Zach’s hard mouth, an odd, pained sensation gripped her by the throat. Her eyes stung and the knowledge of just how badly he had gotten to her scared the hell out of her.

  Arabella Collins never cried. She didn’t dare. Since the fire and the hideous months that followed, she had trained herself not to show any emotion at all. It had taken her a long, hard-fought battle to retain her sanity. Her tough demeanor was all that stood between her and the nightmare of her loss.

  But now she recognized that her control was slipping and it was all because of Zach Richards.

  He made a small movement of his glass in a silent toast to her. Lily turned and, spying Arabella, waggled her fingers. The diamond rings on two of her fingers caught the light and nearly blinded Arabella.

  Without a backward glance, clutching the wine bottle like a lifeline, Arabella strode out.

  * * *

  AN HOUR AFTER he’d watched her leave the café downstairs, Zach stood outside the door to Arabella’s penthouse. He’d already tried the doorbell and then the ornate brass knocker, but to no avail. So he resorted to pounding.

  Finally the door whipped open. Arabella swayed inside and blinked up at him. A wineglass dangled forgotten from her fingers.

  “What is it?” she demanded without even so much as a hello.

  Zach stepped in without asking. He shut the door behind him. She gripped the glass and stepped back. Her eyes were glassy and she appeared to be having a hard time focusing.

  “Imbibing alone, Arabella? As I recall, you weren’t much of a drinker.”

  “I’m into it now,” she told him a bit too brazenly. He followed her through the marble-tiled foyer into the living room. “I’m a real boozer. I drink all the time. Every night—days, too. Whiskey, gin, vodka, you name it.”

  His eyes narrowed and his gaze wandered from her glass to the bottle, misted with condensation, carelessly placed on the end table next to her white sofa. He could see through the green glass that the “real boozer” had polished off three glasses at the most.

  In three strides he was at the chrome-and-glass entertainment center and wet bar, flinging open the doors to what he guessed was the most obvious place to store spirits. There was nothing inside but one dusty bottle of chocolate liqueur and three shot glasses.

  “You’re a real sot, all right. And what a way to go—death by chocolate liqueur.”

  She faced him boldly. “What are you doing here, Zach? You didn’t come up here to find out what I’m drinking. If you did, you lead one hell of a boring life. Maybe you’d better get back to Lily.”

  “Lily? At least she’s a woman who understands a man,” he said, deciding to push her a little.

  “Don’t you mean, she knows how to manipulate a man?” she shot back. A challenge flared in her eyes.

  At his sides his hands clenched. Deep inside, he felt an answer to her challenge urge him to reach for her, haul her into his arms and kiss the daylights out of her. He wanted to melt her tough outer shell with the heat that had always flared between them.

  But first things first. “We’ve got some unfinished business, you and I. I intend to get the truth out of you here and now, Arabella. No more running.”

  “Chardonnay?” she offered, with a flip of her hair as she retreated toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a glass.”

  Not about to let her out of his sight, Zach moved so fast she had no time to guess his intent. He grasped her upper arms and held her in a firm grip.

  “I’m glad you’ve had a little wine tonight, sweetheart. Maybe it’s just the thing to loosen your tongue.”

  “Loosen my tongue? Why, Zach, I love it when you talk dirty.” She held the wine goblet between them like a shield.

  “Stop it.” He tightened his grip, forced her to look him in the eyes. “You’ve always been a sassy little broad, haven’t you? But I’m ready to call your bluff.”

  She didn’t like that. She didn’t like it at all. Suddenly, she looked away, as if she wanted to bolt again.

  He tried to lighten his tone. “For a while there in Monte Carlo, I saw another side to you, Bell. I saw the real woman beneath this hard-as-nails act you like to put on.”

  She tried to twist free but he tightened his hold.

  “Arabella.” He kept his voice low and calm. “Tell me. I have to know. Why did you run away from me?”

  “I didn’t run away from you.” She tossed off a careless shrug. “It... Our relationship couldn’t go any farther—”

  “That’s not true—”

  “It was over between us. Surely you knew that.”

  “No,” he ground out, “I didn’t know any such thing. I thought what we had was more than a fling in some romantic seaside town. I thought there was something different between us, Bell, something special. You ruined it. You ran out on me. But I don’t understand why. Why, Bell?”

  Arabella closed her eyes and tried to think against the wine fogging her senses and the far more potent force of Zach’s low, rumbling voice and his familiar touch. The way he spoke her nickname, Bell—no
one had called her that in so long. Zach had used it when he’d whispered love words in her ear, thrilling her, bringing her to such incredible peaks of joy.

  The yearning she had felt ever since she left him months before blossomed painfully in her chest. It hurt, this terrible longing. How she’d missed him.

  His hard fingers on her upper arms moved slowly, became almost caressing. It both confused and excited her until she hardly knew her own mind.

  She still wanted him.

  Opening her eyes, she saw a tender light ignited in the depths of his gaze. Huskily, he said, “I remember your scent. Like jasmine and...spring rain.” He leaned closer, drawing her in. He was going to kiss her.

  Building emotions threatened to overwhelm her again—just as they had in Monte Carlo. Zach, so handsome, so incredibly intelligent, so attentive—he was perfect. The perfect male animal. Her own helpless response to him sent frightening spears of panic deep into her heart.

  It was all too much.

  She couldn’t handle her feelings for him then and she couldn’t handle them now.

  With a quick wrench, she backed away. “Leave, Zach. Please. Just...leave.”

  The tender light in his eyes was extinguished as if it had never been, replaced by his customarily cool expression.

  “That’s fine, Bell, I’ll leave. But we’re not through yet, you and me. We’re not through at all.”

  * * *

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS later, Sandusky paid Arabella another unexpected visit.

  When she peered through her apartment’s peephole and saw him, surrounded by his pack of mongrels, she groaned inwardly. Not again.

  Pasting a brilliant smile on her face, she opened the door. She still had no idea what to do about the two hundred grand he’d insisted she produce, and the game was tomorrow evening. She’d spent much of the night pacing and fretting, and all day today making telephone calls. Not one of her friends or acquaintances could advance her anywhere near such a sum. A thousand here, a few thousand there, fell miserably short of the required amount.