Fires of Paradise (32 page)

Chapter 39

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the Claxton mansion, which he was already intimate with. He didn't hesitate. The front entrance was brightly lit, and Fifth Avenue was lined with the private carriages and automobiles of the guests, their coachmen and drivers chatting beneath the streetlamps, bundled up in their heavy winter coats. Shoz was dressed in a fine black suit for the meeting he had attended in the capital. His hair had been cut the day before, and was carefully parted in the center. Smiling, he entered as any guest would, and he was greeted with a polite "Good evening" by the majordomo.

His blood was pulsing thickly in his veins. From the marble-floored foyer, he could hear the raucous conversation and the laughter of the party drifting to him from the salon. Laced into the humming of animated voices was the tinkle of fine crystal and the strains of a piano. Shoz strode down the hall. He paused on the threshold of the salon, his gaze sweeping the hundred or so guests.

There were several salons in the house. This one was the largest, except for the ballroom, and was filled to overflowing. Shoz scanned the glittering crowd, the women in brightly colored gowns and jewels, their shoulders bare, hair swept up, the men in formal evening attire. He did not see Lucy.

But he saw her parents. They were not the only people there whom he recognized. He stared at Leon, who was tall, blond, handsome, and so very at ease in his elegant surroundings. He saw Marianne's husband, Roger, and realized that the man he was talking to with the silver mane of hair was Derek Bragg. Next to Derek was one of his sons, the earl, and his blond wife, the actress. Shoz cursed when he realized that the whole Bragg clan, or most of it, was in town for Lucy's wedding. He did not need to be discovered by them just now.

Two guests dispersed on the far side of the room and revealed the hostess, Marianne, petite and stunning in silver chiffon. Had she been in the center of the crowd, he would have never seen her, but standing there against the back wall, she was momentarily in view. Just for an instant he could see her perfectly. She must have felt his gaze, because she glanced his way. Her gaze widened visibly.

Shoz sighed and turned away, going not toward the foyer but down the hall instead. His stride slowed when he saw a familiar form, a woman, approaching in the dimly lit corridor, closing her reticule. It was Lucy's friend, Joanna, and looking up, she gasped.

Shoz nodded curtly and continued past her. He let himself into the library. He went straight to the Queen Anne desk and poured himself a tumbler of the finest scotch whiskey, which was Roger's preferred drink, as he had found out so many years ago.

Of course, an instant later the door opened, admitting Marianne. She closed it, leaning her back against it, staring at him.

He lifted his glass. "Beautiful as always, Marianne. To the best hostess in New York."

"You would have the nerve to come here!" But her tone was calm and wary, unlike her words, and she didn't move from the door—nor did she take her gaze from him.

Shoz let his hip find the side of the desk and he sipped his scotch. Marianne said, "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

Even across the distance of the library, Shoz could feel her physical reaction to him. He could smell it. She was still a bitch in heat, and he found it amusing. But what she had done last summer hadn't been amusing, not at all. "Maybe I want to settle old scores."

"What does that mean?"

He was the predator now. He knew her too well for her to pull the wool over his eyes; she sounded as if she had no idea what he was referring to. Of course, she could not know of the first score he had in mind—that was private, unfinished business with his dear ex-wife—but certainly she hadn't forgotten the night of Derek Bragg's eightieth birthday. Yet her next words showed him that she had—or else she was a very clever actress.

"I told you a year ago, no, just after you escaped prison, that I was sorry. I am sorry! I didn't think you would go to jail!"

"You plant your diamond ring in my pocket and call the police and tell me you didn't think I would go to jail? Come now, Marianne, we both know the truth; you were a jealous, vindictive bitch, and nothing gave you more satisfaction than to set me up and put me away."

"All right! I was jealous, but if you hadn't gone back to her after I found you together the first time, that would have been the end of it! Truthfully, now I am sorry it went so far! I'm sorry you went to prison for a crime you didn't commit! But you liked the danger, you bastard, you liked screwing my maid under my nose!"

"Frankly," Shoz said, carelessly but truthfully, "I can't remember any details."

"You shit."

"And you know that score isn't the one I have in mind."

She was genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you tried to kill me, and I haven't forgotten it."

"What are you talking about!"

He slipped off the desk, and walked toward her. "I'm talking about a hot, humid night in Paradise, Texas, re¬member? Why did you shoot me, Marianne? Because I wouldn't ball you?"

He was close enough now for her to slap him, but he caught her wrist and wrenched it, hurting her. "I didn't! It wasn't me! I swear it! I don't know who shot you that night!"

Shoz believed her. She was a lying bitch, but he recognized the truth when he saw it, and he saw it in her eyes. He released her. She rubbed her wrist, but never took her gaze from his.

"If it wasn't you, then who?"

"I have no idea." She lifted her chin. "Is that why you came? To—punish me?"

He heard the tremor. He saw the glitter in her eyes. There had been women in the past months, women whose names he didn't know and didn't care to know, women whose faces and bodies he didn't remember, and tonight his lust was thick in his blood, and he could easily satisfy it and her. He knew she was thinking of that other time, six, no, seven years ago, when he'd broken out of prison and so crudely taken her in her boudoir. "No," he said, smiling. "I didn't come here to punish you, Marianne."

Her nostrils flared. He started to turn away. She touched him. "But it was I who told the sheriff about you, Shoz, all about you."

He froze. He turned slowly. Dark rage burned in his eyes. "I should have known."

Her smile was fragile. Her breasts rose and fell shallowly. She still held his arm. He could see her nipples straining erectly against the chiffon of her gown. He felt nothing for her, nothing except disgust. He jerked his arm free and gave her his back. He owed her, but it seemed like a pittance compared to what he owed Lucy Bragg.

He heard her breathing behind him. "You bastard," she finally said, and she left, slamming the door behind her.

He exhaled and started for his scotch. The doors to the balcony behind the desk were ajar, he saw for the first time. A draft of frigid air was coming in. He began to lift his scotch when, to his amazement, the doors swung open, pushed from outside. Standing on the terrace in her ruby-red gown was Lucy Bragg.

Lucy's dress was off-the-shoulder and sleeveless, and she was shivering. Although she had wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, she didn't move to come in. She could only stare. It was like seeing a ghost.

He stared back, the snifter still in his hand, every bit as stunned as she. He recovered first. He lifted the whiskey. "Another toast. To the bride. To the bride and her new life."

Lucy thought she might faint. He drank, draining the entire contents of the glass, and she watched the long line of his tanned throat and his Adam's apple as he swallowed. God! Just the sight of him was enough to bring back every memory she had, from hot, hard ones to soft, silky ones— and then came remembrance of his betrayal. Of how casually and carelessly he had tossed aside their marriage—and her. Lucy suddenly stepped inside, no longer cold, her blood surging.

He hadn't moved. "Spying?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You have more nerve than anyone I know to come here, tonight!"

"Are you asking me to leave?" he asked mockingly.

"Asking?" She still hadn't stepped away from the doors, afraid of what she might do if she began to move. "I'm telling you. Get out, now."

"What's wrong, princess?" he said softly, stepping toward her. "You're shaking. Somehow I don't think it's from the cold."

"Don't come near me!"

He paused by the butler's bar, laughing. ' 'Now you flatter yourself."

It hurt. How she hated him. And he, damn him, was so cool, so calm, so clearly unaffected by their encounter. She watched him refill his glass with scotch. "If you're not leaving, then I am," she said, striding forward.

She never got past him. Quick as a wink he grabbed her arm, whipping her about so she was facing him, so close their breaths mingled. "Not yet."

Her heart actually skipped a beat from the contact with him. Lucy tried to pull away, but his grin, and the glitter in his eyes, made her go still. She would not play this game, his way, whatever it might be. She would not amuse him. "Why are you here, Shoz? Why?"

His smile was a sneer. "I'm here to congratulate the bride, of course. To celebrate—with my darling ex-wife."

The sarcasm and hatred in his voice fueled Lucy's own anger—he had no reason to hate her, and she had every reason to hate him. "Your darling ex-wife has no intention of celebrating with the bastard she was stupid enough to marry." "You didn't mind being my wife a few months ago." Lucy lifted her chin, again attempting to pull her wrist free from his powerful grip, but failing. Her heart was beating hard and unsteadily. His gaze held hers for an endless moment, and in that span of time a million hot, heady, explicit memories of their lovemaking flooded her mind. Seeing the growing heat in his gaze, she was sure he was recalling the same thing she was. "I was young, innocent, and very, very foolish."

His gaze darkened. For once, he did not have a response, and Lucy felt the barest sense of triumph. It died rapidly, though, beneath the heat of his regard. The fires banked there were hard and hot and angry, and she saw them darkening with every second that ticked by. Lucy realized he was just as angry as she was.

The cruel smile covered his face again. His gaze dropped lasciviously, intently. And that was enough—Lucy felt her breasts grow tight and hot, felt her nipples hardening.

"Who do you think you're fooling, Lucy?" Shoz said harshly. "You still want me—I can feel it."

He was right, but she would not ever admit it, not to him, and not, now, to herself. "Tomorrow I am marrying Leon Claxton. You are the one fooling yourself, Shoz."

He laughed, finally releasing her. "You and Leon. A pair of real blue bloods. I wish you well. But don't you think you might find him a bit dull after your first husband?"

She rubbed her wrist, wanting to strike him and wondering if she dared. "I hate my first husband. He ruined my life. Leon is a gentleman—a rich gentleman. He can give me everything I want. All you could give me is a hellhole in Mexico!"

His smile disappeared. He lifted his glass, cold and angry. "To the diplomat's wife. To her happiness."

Lucy backed up. His anger was strong enough for her to feel, and she knew she had gone too far, she should leave now—but she didn't. "You mock him—and me—because you can never be anything but what you are!" "A lousy ex-con?"

Lucy regretted instantly throwing his own dirt back at him. Then she looked up sharply, recalling the conversation she had overheard between him and Marianne. "Marianne sent you to prison? She accused you of something you didn't do?"

"So you were spying."

They hadn't known she was out there on the terrace, so it was the truth, the wrenching truth. The implications were too mind-boggling for her to grasp completely right now, but it dawned on her that Shoz had chosen a certain path in his adult life because he'd been unjustly accused of a crime by a malicious and powerful woman. She was stunned, and worse, she realized she was appalled at how he had paid for something he had not done.

"So you still have a touch of compassion in your heart for me."

Lucy recovered, fast. "You're dreaming." She turned abruptly, unreasonable panic filling her.

He pounced on her, his fingers digging into the bare skin of her shoulder. "Admit it." It was a demand; his breath brushed her ear.

"I won't admit any such thing," she cried, trying to yank free. She didn't want to be so close to him, she was afraid to be so close to him. "If you won't leave, then let me go!"

"I can't let you go," he said harshly, reeling her into his arms.

Contact with the full length of his body made her freeze, while the glitter of his eyes and his touch and hardness sent tingles racing down her spine. Lust and rage, rage and lust. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in her own veins. In that moment, she was no different from him, they were one and the same.

The corners of his mouth curled. "And it's not just compassion you feel for me," he said softly, a lover's whisper. His one arm was a clamp around her back. His other hand stroked her bare shoulder, her neck. "Admit it. I won't let you go until you tell me you still want me—that you're still crazy with wanting me."

"No," Lucy moaned. "I won't, not ever!" She twisted in his arms again, but it only served his purposes in rubbing her belly against his massively swollen groin. She stilled, panting, knowing she was going to give in very shortly if she did not manage to free herself. She had to concentrate on her anger, but now she felt only lust.

"Leon will never excite you like this," he said harshly, his hand closing over her buttock and lifting her closer.

Lucy screamed in fury and struck him blindly with both fists, on his chest. Instantly he caught her wrists and jammed them down between their bodies, increasing the pressure of his body on hers so that her hands were pinned between them. She opened her mouth to scream again, but never managed to get any words out. He kissed her. With his hand he forced her to keep her mouth open, raping her with his tongue, showing her how he wanted to rape her with his manhood.

Lucy would have bitten off his tongue if he hadn't kept her jaw pried open; but then the fury faded, and all that was left was the heat and the pent-up desire that had never left her in all the time they had been apart. She touched his rampaging tongue with her own, and her hands, pressed against his belly, curled into the pleats of his shirt.