Fires of Paradise (12 page)

If he really wanted to, he could pluck the plum right from Leon's grasp. Too bad he wasn't such a bastard. He didn't have it in his character to publicly ruin an innocent girl, no matter how much he would love to avenge himself on Marianne Claxton.

He watched Lucy. She was laughing while she danced, her red skirts twirling to reveal a lot of lovely leg and immodestly high heels. She was reveling in the physical release.

He had been watching her for hours. He wasn't surprised that she should dance like a gypsy. He'd already touched on her passion for sex, and now she was dancing with the same wild yearning, the same abandon. And he knew that she knew he was watching; she had known it all night. Her sensuous movements were for him, and if she intended to arouse him, it was working. He had never wanted her more.

    He made up his mind. No more games. He wanted her and would have her, regardless. Tonight. He would just make sure no one would ever know—nice guy that he was.

And then, then his gaze swept past a woman, a slim blond woman, exquisitely dressed, flashing jewels, with an exquisitely proportioned body. It couldn't be. Just because Leon Claxton was here... His gaze shot to her again.

Marianne Claxton stared back at him.

And Shoz was thrown completely back through the gates of hell.

Chapter 14

He was born in the Dragoon Mountains of Arizona in the summer of 1861. His natural mother was a Coyotero Apache and his father's second wife, the first being Candice. His father was known as Jack Savage to the white men and El Salvaje to the Apaches. A half-breed of unknown origins himself, he had been captured by Cochise as a young boy and adopted by a Coyotero couple. Although he had left his clan and later married a white woman, Candice Carter, he'd returned to Cochise to fight with him when the Apache Wars began.

Shoz was born in those first brutal days of the war. His full name was Shozkay, after his father's brother, one of the war's first casualties. When his father took Candice and their daughter, Christina, to California to start a new life, he took Shoz as well. Shoz's mother remained behind in the Dragoon Mountains with her people.

    Shoz grew up on their ranch outside of Bakersfield with his half-sister and three other younger half-brothers. Candice was the only mother he remembered. It was a distinct shock to learn that she was not his real mother. Jack explained it kindly when he was seven, wanting him to know the trutli—and to be proud of his own heritage. His father told him not just about his natural mother, but about her people, and about Cochise and their battle for survival. He vividly described what it was like to live in that time, to ride with Cochise. He explained it in such a way that the young Shoz was proud to be who he was, and the hurt of discovering that Candice wasn't his real mother passed quickly.

  He grew up working the ranch alongside his father and his brothers. His family was very close, and he and Christina were like twins, having been born only months apart. In the school they attended in town, he was quick to defend her honor—and she his.

The prejudice began when he and Christina went to school for the first time. On their third or fourth day, Christina came to him crying. The school bully, a big twelve-year-old, had called her "squaw." Shoz didn't exactly understand why it was an insult, but he knew it was intended as such—and he was incensed. He got a black eye for his efforts to defend Christina—and so did she when she tried to help him jn his losing battle.

He didn't lose too many battles after that, learning that when you go up against someone twice your age and twice your size,
anything
goes. Shoz learned to fight mean, and dirty, if need be.

Children can be cruel, and epithets like redskin, Injun, and breed were occasionally flung at him until he quit school at sixteen. No one ever dared to insult Christina again, though, or his younger brothers, because they quickly learned that while Shoz might smile indifferently when they insulted him, his fury knew no bounds when his family was the target of their taunts.

But it wasn't bad, just the infrequent and callous harassment of an occasional bully. In general, his family was well thought of in Bakersfield, and respected. Shoz knew most of the townspeople by sight, at least, and was known to help the old widow Calder across the street or earn a penny and an apple from Mr. Dickson for sweeping up at the general store.

When Shoz was eighteen, he left home to make his own way. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life. His father understood and didn't try to hold him back, although his mother wept so much, Shoz almost changed his mind. He wanted to travel, see the land, experience more than what Bakersfield offered. His first destination was the land of his people, the land of the Chiricahua.

     He drifted through the territory, hoping to find out if his mother was alive, only to be caught up in the final assault being made by the U.S. Army on the last free Apaches, led by Geronimo. He joined Geronimo, after having proved his courage and his ability to fight. He was incensed by the army's methodical slaughter of the Apache—incensed by the conditions on the few reservations he'd seen—and sickened by the Apache's vicious response. They burned and raped and maimed. In his father's day, no Apache would ever rape innocent women or kill innocent children. He left them with no regrets, just with the horrifying memories time could not erase.

     He rode the range throughout most of central Texas, once even joining one of the last drives up the Chisholm Trail. He drifted into Memphis. He had been learning hard, bitter lessons. On the trail he was accepted grudgingly by other men, but only after he had proved he could work harder than anyone. In the big cities, he found he was considered socially unacceptable by just about everyone. The only work he could find was of the lowest sort, fit for children or the aged and infirm, with the lowest of wages. He was considered taboo by the women he approached. It didn't stop any of the latter from sharing his bed, but only in the utmost secrecy. Should he pass a lover in the street, she would pretend not to know him. He soon despised their hypocrisy. He despised them.

     It was worse in St. Louis, where he was stared at as if he were a freak. He began to see white women as conquests, vehicles for his pleasure, nothing more, to be used and discarded at whim. His attitude hardened with a quality of deliberate vengeance. They were his payback for the insults he'd withstood from their white brothers and fathers.

At twenty, Shoz realized he couldn't drift endlessly, he had to make a decision to do something with his life. He returned home and announced he was going to go to a university and study the law. His parents were thrilled. Jack encouraged him to apply to the top schools back East. He was accepted by Columbia University on a partial scholarship, and began his freshman year when he was twenty-one in 1882.

New York was not like St. Louis. New Yorkers prided themselves on their liberalism and their avant-garde ways. It was all bullshit. Shoz bitterly realized he'd been accepted because he was an Indian, not because he'd done well on their entrance exams. He was the token redskin, to soothe the board's guilty consciences for their innate bigotry and their government's systematic genocide of his people.

He was determined to match their disguised contempt and even outstrip it. He excelled at his studies despite having to work part-time. He proved not just his equality, but his superiority to his white classmates by graduating number two in his class—and screwing more New York ladies than all his classmates combined.

The summer before his last year at New York Law School, he began seeing Marianne Claxton. She was a beautiful married woman who was a born slut. Their appetites were well matched. His own prowess was becoming legendary in certain circles.

Marianne had a little maid named Bettina, plump and lush and very interesting. One day Marianne caught Shoz and Bettina in her own bed. Bettina promptly wound up unemployed. Shoz stayed where he was—in Marianne's bed, soothing her ruffled feathers.

That night, in his small apartment above Vincenzo's Ristorante, the police came and showed him a search warrant. In his own trousers they found a ten-carat diamond ring. He was arrested immediately, and held without bail.

The trial lasted less than two working days. Justice was swift. Marianne testified that it was her ring. Bettina testified that she had, indeed, had an affair with him and that he had been in the house. Shoz declared himself innocent. As far as Bettina went, he admitted to having slept with her, "among others." And he looked right at Marianne.

She denied it, of course. But he'd made another mistake. Her husband was Roger Claxton II, a very powerful senator as well as the ancestor of a founding New York family. Claxton came up to him after he'd sullied his wife's name. "You just signed yourself into prison, boy," he said.

His sentence was seven years without parole.

In the fall of 1889, Shoz was incarcerated. Seven months later he escaped.

Shoz strolled toward Marianne, never taking his eyes from her.

She stood absolutely motionless except for the mad fluttering of her hand-painted Chinese fan. Her eyes were wide and blue and fixed upon him. He smiled. "Hello, Marianne." The hummingbird movement of her fan increased. "Shoz." Her tone was husky, a tone he knew so very well.

His gaze swept her crudely. "I wonder who's luckier because of this chance meeting, you or me?"

She didn't seem to understand, or didn't try to. "How are you, Shoz?" He sneered. "Even better than the last time." This innuendo didn't escape her. Two tiny patches of color appeared on her delicate cheeks. Her eyes smoldered. "What are you doing here, of all places?"

"I work here. And you, Mrs. Claxton? What brings you out West? You never struck me as having a fondness for anything other than ballrooms—and bedrooms."

The two pink stains on her cheeks darkened. "My son Leon is enamored of Derek Bragg's granddaughter. Shoz. I am sorry, so very sorry."

"Really? Then why don't you set the record straight and tell the truth."

"I can't. You know I can't. How could I! I'd be ruined!" He wanted to strangle her. "See you
around,
Mrs. Claxton."

"Wait." She touched his arm, and didn't remove her hand.

He turned.

"Shoz," she said, low and breathless.

Unbelievable, he thought. He'd treated her like the bitch she was—and she still wanted more. He wondered if he should give it to her—-and realized he'd lost all interest. "Enjoy the party, Marianne," he said.

"Wait!" She grabbed him. "We must talk!"

"Talk?"

"Please! Meet me in an hour and we—" "If you think there's going to be a repeat performance of the last time, think again."

Her eyes flared with anger. "I think you'll be interested in something I have to say. Try this word for size: blackmail."

His lips curled up at the corners, but she had his complete attention now.

"I'm sure," she said, her gaze drifting down his denim-clad hips, "Derek Bragg would love to know exactly whom he's hired."

The curl of his lips increased. He took her arm and propelled her roughly forward. Marianne stumbled. He moved her through the crowd until they had rounded one of the barns and were alone. He pushed her up against it. She stared at him, her breasts straining against her low bodice.

"Do you want it now, or later?"

"Shoz," she protested, all innocence now.

He caught her face between his hands and held it, frightening her. "Don't you ever threaten me."

She couldn't speak, although she tried to.

' 'Go ahead, tell Bragg; see if I care. But find your fucking somewhere else." He released her.

Her eyes blazed with fury. "You son of a bitch."

"The gutter becomes you, Marianne," he said.

He was about to leave when, from behind them, a soft voice said, "Hello, Mother. I saw you coming out here and wondered what you were doing."

Shoz turned to glimpse a younger version of Marianne, a blond, blue-eyed vision who had to be her daughter. The girl gave him a very pretty smile. "Hello." Her voice had that same distinct well-bred tone.

He nodded.

"Shoz is an old friend, dear." There was tight exasperation in Marianne's voice as she introduced her daughter, Darlene.

"From New York, Mother?" There was the very faintest hint of scorn in her tone. "Are you from New York, Shoz?" "No."

She smiled prettily again. "I didn't think so." She laughed softly.

She would be an easy conquest, and he knew it—and a boring one, but he could positively feel the heat of Marianne's wrath, so he asked her if she wanted to dance. When Darlene agreed, her big blue eyes never leaving his face, her laughter soft and coquettish, he heard Marianne actually hiss.

"I am so hot," Lucy declared, fanning herself.

"Can I get you something, Miss Lucy?" Billy asked.

She batted her eyes at him. "I would love a glass of that wicked red punch. The one spiked with alcohol."

"I'll get it," Leon said quickly, but annoyance was in his tone. He stalked off.

Billy glared after him. "How about some cake?"

"Punch and cake; why not?" Lucy said gaily. When Billy departed, Lucy turned to Joanna. "Who the hell is that!"

Joanna, demure in a pale pink dress next to Lucy's flaming red ball gown, followed her gaze. "You've met Darlene," she said. "Don't you remember?"

"No, I don't," Lucy said sourly, although now she did recognize Leon's sister. With open fury and a murderous scowl, she watched Shoz and Darlene make their way through the crowd, hips bumping, heads bent together. "What a pasty white skinny blonde!" Lucy declared.

"I think she's beautiful," Joanna said.

Lucy glared. "She has the figure of a twelve-year-old!"

"You're jealous."

Before she could deny it, Nicole appeared, wrapping one arm around Lucy's waist. She looked almost sinful in a yellow off-the-shoulder Mexican blouse with wide crimson and gold silk skirts. She wore huge gold hoops that touched her bare shoulders. Lucy thought she looked exotic—like a wild gypsy. "Who is Lucy jealous of?"

"I am not jealous," Lucy said.

"You don't look very happy on Grandpa's birthday," Nicole accused. "And what a party! Who has the figure of a twelve-year-old?"

Lucy frowned, but her gaze found Darlene and Shoz again. Nicole followed her gaze. Joanna answered. "Darlene Claxton."

"Don't worry, Lucy," Nicole said. "She's pretty, but next to you, she's nothing. Who is that?"

There was no question about to whom Nicole was referring, and Lucy was shocked by the surge of jealousy she felt. "He's not for you, Nicole."

Her cousin looked at her quickly. "He's not my type! He reminds me of Daddy and Uncle Brett!" She shuddered dramatically. "I am not stupid. I have no intention of ever getting involved with a strong man. In fact, I have no intention of ever marrying at all."

Nicole's words were more than theatrics. Not only was she headstrong and rather wild, she had failed dismally during her first few Seasons in London—even before the scandal that had erupted shortly afterwards. It was a bit of an embarrassment as her younger sister Regina had already had several offers and she had not as yet made her debut.