Archer, Jane (36 page)

She still loved Jake with all her heart. He was the man who should have been her husband, the man to share her life. She just couldn't seem to reconcile herself to his death, no matter that she had seen Stan shoot him. She could still feel him, sense him. It was as if he lived and called to her. But no, it was not possible. He was dead. She had to accept that fact or she could not go on.

She glanced at herself once more. Her face had paled and her eyes had grown bright and soft with thoughts of Jake. She shook her head, willing the tears not to come. It did no good to think of him, want him, almost feel him with her. No! She had to stop thinking of him, or she would go mad.

She hurried from the room, trying to run away from the memories that haunted her every moment. Sometimes she would wake in the night, drenched with sweat, and the memory of Jake holding her in his arms would be so strong that she would reach out for him, call to him. She could not bear life without him....

Stan was standing in the foyer when she came down the staircase. He looked up at her, his gray eyes suddenly softening. He walked toward her, and as she reached the last stair, he took her hands and pulled her softly against his chest. She suffered his light embrace, reminding herself that this was the man she would marry.

He tilted her chin up with his hand and looked down into her green eyes, now hard and cold.

"You are magnificent tonight, Alexandra. The gown is superb and the emeralds—well, no other woman will be able to compare with your beauty."

"Thank you," Alexandra said stiffly, detaching herself from him and walking away.

He frowned, then followed her retreating form. She went into the parlor, looking pensively out the window. He stood back from her, watching. She'd been like this ever since the trip back. She was so distant, so cold. There was no fire in her as there had been before, no spirit. He wanted the other Alexandra back, even if she fought him all the way. This woman he could reach in no way. Nothing he said or did caused any reaction in her. It took all his will power not to ignore her cold, biting eyes and simply throw her on the floor and take her as he had the first time and prove that underneath her cold exterior she was still a warm, vital woman. But he was afraid of losing her so close to the wedding. He wasn't sure of her yet, perhaps even less sure than before for she had grown into a woman, a woman with no fears, no worries, simply a woman waiting the passage of time. If it had not been for the baby she carried, he wondered if he could have made her marry him. She was so withdrawn now, nothing reached her, nothing at all.

"Shall we go, Stan?" she finally asked.

"Yes, of course, my dear. I've timed our arrival perfectly. You'll be the most talked about woman in New York by tomorrow."

"How nice," Alexandra said dryly.

He helped her up into the elaborate open carriage, proud to display her in such a vehicle, but as he sat down beside her, he noticed that she merely gave the carriage a quick flick of her cold, piercing eyes. She was not impressed. Nothing he did, no matter how thoughtful, how expensive, how kind, impressed her. She even seemed to regard New

York City as some overcrowded, dirty warehouse of people. It was the jewel of America! The rest of the country was barbarous in comparison. Hadn't he seen for himself the decay of the South, the wildness of Texas.

Leaning toward her still figure, he said lowly, so the driver couldn't hear," Alexandra, I have found a lovely little chapel in New York. I believe you would like to be married there. We will want a quiet, quick wedding. Later, we can give a magnificent ball to introduce you to all the New York notables. I've taken the liberty of engaging it for one week from today."

"What?" she whispered, feeling her heart beat quicken.

"You've seemed unable to make a decision, my dearest Alexandra, and you know we shouldn't wait much longer. The doctor—"

"I know. I know, but—"

"No buts, Alexandra. We're going to be married. There's no point in further delaying this. Will you have your gown ready in a week?"

She clenched her hands, the knuckles going white in her agitation. He was right. She had to marry him and soon. Jake was dead. He
was
dead. Oh, why couldn't she accept that?

"Alexandra?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"You agree—in one week?" he asked, relief in his voice.

"Yes," she said, more loudly. "In one week, Stan. You are right. We cannot wait longer. I
must
think of my child."

He covered her small hands with his large one. "You won't regret it, Alexandra. I'll be good to you. I will make you an excellent husband.

"I do love you, Alexandra," he said, wanting her to know that he wanted more than her fortune. "I know you don't believe that, but I do. How could I help loving you?"

Alexandra was still silent, gazing at the passing buildings. What more did he want of her than marriage?

"I hope that someday you will come to love me, too," he said, a hopeful note creeping into his voice.

Finally, she turned to him, trying to soften the expression she knew was set on her face. "It is much too soon for this, Stan. We'll be married, then we'll see."

He nodded. He had to accept what she would give him of herself, he finally realized. He could take her body by force, but not the essence of Alexandra. Only she was free to give this, or to withhold it.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

Soon the carriage came to a stop before a magnificent, lofty building. Alexandra looked at it curiously, almost laughing at the thought of how ridiculous it would look if plunked down in the middle of south Texas. And what of the richly, ornately dressed people? They would look even more absurd. Stan helped her down from the fine carriage and into the milling mass of people who gossiped and watched each other as they made their way slowly into the theatre.

Stan escorted her possessively and determinedly through the crowd, keeping a tight grip on her arm. He acknowledged acquaintances here and there, but was careful not to stop and chat. He wanted them to see Alexandra tonight and wonder. Tomorrow the newspapers would be full of her beauty and his triumph, but they would not meet Alexandra until after the wedding when he could present her as his wife in the sumptuous ballroom of their mansion. Then the first step toward his goal would be completed.

He was an ambitious man. He'd always been ambitious. Perhaps it was because of his birth, but he wanted more than money. He wanted a high place in society. And he wanted to enter politics. There he could gain the real power and money that he craved. With the beautiful Alexandra Clarke at his side, he could achieve all his dreams. And soon, very soon, she would be his—completely his.

Inside the theatre, the furnishings were ornate, gilded, and plush. Alexandra couldn't keep herself from comparing them with the simplicity and strictly functional furniture in Texas. Of course, perhaps one day Texas would succumb to the ease and comfort of money, but that had not happened yet. She could appreciate the beauty of the place as Stan guided her up an ornate staircase toward the box he'd secured for the performance that evening. It had cost him dearly, but he had to have the perfect setting for the jewel of Alexandra.

Once in their box, Stan looked around and down into the audience, satisfied when he saw the faces turned toward up to them. He smiled gently at Alexandra, taking her hand in his. He was very much aware of the portrait they made.

"Do you like your seat, my dear?" he asked softly.

She stared frostily at Stan. "The seats are excellent. I hope the play is as good, as if it really matters."

"I'm sure it will be, my dear."

Alexandra nodded, then turned her head to gaze back over the crowd. She had never felt more alone, more estranged, more unloved than at that moment as she sat in one of the best seats in the theatre on the opening night of a new play in New York City. She wore a fortune in emeralds around her neck, her gown was a designer's dream, she was more beautiful than ever. But Alexandra didn't appreciate her beauty, her wealth, or the theatre, not at that moment. For she saw the wealth that was worn on the people that filled the theatre as a contrast to the poverty of the South and Texas. She found that she no longer belonged with these people. Her heart was with the people of Texas, those men and women struggling to exist. Texans were alive, vibrantly alive. When she thought of their struggles against nature, against Indians, rustlers, she was disgusted by the people around her dressed in all their finery.

Their faces weren't tanned, their muscles weren't hard, and their instincts weren't sharp—if a man hadn't these qualities in Texas, he was dead. Here, he could live and yet not be alive. For what did they feel sitting here, waiting to be entertained by others? In Texas, at the ranch, on the trail, with the cattle, the mustangs, a man knew he was alive by the sheer energy he exerted every day to survive. And entertainment? He entertained himself. A man lived there by his own wits, his own strength, and his own determination. Here, a man existed on his father's money, or his wife's money, or be fleecing those less fortunate. Alexandra knew she didn't want to live in New York anymore. She didn't belong. She didn't want to belong.

The curtains rose and the play began. Alexandra tried to concentrate, but soon she turned her thoughts away for it was not real to her. During intermission, Stan kept her in the box, and once the play was over, he hurried her out and into the lobby. He waved, smiled, and nodded to many people, but made no attempt to stop and introduce Alexandra.

The moon was just a pale sliver, the street dark except in patches where a streetlamp shed its pale, ineffectual glow, but Alexandra was glad for the darkness. It offered an escape from Stan's unwavering gaze.

The carriage was going unusually fast as an old woman stepped off the street. Alexandra screamed. The carriage swerved—but not in time. It struck the woman, knocking her back against the curb.

"Stan! Stan, stop the carriage. We've hit someone," Alexandra cried, concern in her voice. "Didn't you see? We must go back."

"The night watchman will take care of it, Alexandra. There's no reason for us to get involved. Anyway, decent people aren't out on foot at this time of night. Probably some drunk."

"Stan, we
must
go back," Alexandra said more firmly, not surprised at his callousness.

"But, Alexandra—"

"Please, Stan, for me," she said, her face close to his, her hands gripping his arm.

"Yes, all right, Alexandra. We'll see about it," he said, unable to deny her the request when she was so close that he could smell her sweet scent and feel her soft hands beseeching him. He always lost some of his control when he was this near her.

Stan called out to the driver and soon they were by the old woman. She lay exactly where she'd fallen, a crumpled heap of humanity in tattered rags. Alexandra started to get out of the carriage.

"What are you doing?" Stan asked, putting a restraining hand on her arm.

"I want to see if she's alive or needs a doctor." Alexandra retorted.

Groaning inwardly, Stan ordered the driver down. He went over to the limp form on the street; picked up the woman and carried her back to the carriage. He placed her on the seat opposite Stan and Alexandra, then resumed the driver's seat.

"You can drive on," Stan said after a moment.

When they'd started moving again, Alexandra leaned over the inert form, felt the pulse, then looked back at Stan in triumph.

"She's still alive. We'll take her home, Stan. It's the only thing to do, then send for the doctor. We can't just leave her somewhere."

Stan looked at Alexandra in bewilderment for a moment, then decided that it had to do with her pregnancy. She would probably mother any hurt thing, any stray animal. He would certainly be glad when she had the child.

"All right, Alexandra," he said wearily, "but she's your responsibility."

"Good. That suits me fine."

They rode back to the mansion in silence. Alexandra watched the woman's form anxiously while Stan thought it was a bad ending to his perfect evening. He had envisioned himself in Alexandra's bed, not playing servant to some vagrant. Well, if it kept Alexandra happy, he'd have to live with it. He couldn't afford to displease her.

Once in the house, Alexandra quickly rang for her maid. When she appeared, Alexandra instructed her to put their guest in the room next to her own suite, then remove her clothing, bathe her, and find some fresh clothes for her.

The maid led the driver, still carrying the unconscious woman, up the stairs and away from Alexandra.

Stan had to restrain Alexandra from following the two upstairs. He pulled her into the parlor and said, "My dear, you must not concern yourself so.

Your maid is a good woman and will take care of the old lady. I'll go now and send for the doctor. You'll see that the woman was not badly hurt."

Alexandra nodded, her thoughts with those upstairs. She was anxious for Stan to leave.

"Now, my dear, come give me a kiss good night," he invited.

And hardly thinking, Alexandra went into his arms, raising her soft lips to him. She just wanted to be rid of him.

She was startled to discover that his lips had parted and his tongue had thrust deeply into her mouth. She twisted away, protesting, but his arms closed like iron bands around her, his hands burning tentacles moving rapidly all over her body as he pushed against her, his hips grinding his hard manhood against her belly. She pushed against his chest, groaning under his fierce demands.

Finally, when Stan knew he was almost beyond control, he dropped his hands and backed away, his blood pounding in his head, his eyes a dark, opaque gray. He could hardly think. She took away any thoughts except those of her soft body and his need to penetrate it, take it, make it the special vessel for his needs.

After he had himself more under control, he looked into her burning green eyes.

"I'm sorry, Alexandra. I can't help myself with you."