Fires of Paradise (39 page)

She sighed with resignation. "How much longer, Benito?"

"I think I've almost fixed it, senorita."

Lucy was relieved. It was distinctly uncomfortable to be stranded for so long in this run-down section of Havana. Maybe she could still find someone to take her out to the Maine.

A boom sounded.

It came from the direction of the docks, and both Lucy and Benito jumped. "What was that?" Lucy asked. The words had barely left her mouth when a rapid series of explosions roared, one after the other, and the entire night above the sea burst into bright white light. Lucy jerked back, against the coach. She stared, wide-eyed. Another series of explosions ripped open the sky. "Por Dios!" Benito cried.

Shoz rode across Havana in a mad, reckless gallop. He spurred his lathered black on, not allowing him to falter. He almost ran down those pedestrians and vehicles in his way. When the horse went down, half a mile from the docks, Shoz leaped from his back, landed on his feet, went to his knees, and bounced back up again. And he ran.

He ran until he thought his lungs would burst. He ran with Lucy's image etched irrevocably in his mind. He ran cursing Leon, the fucking fool. He ran until his heart seemed about to falter and give out, the way his stallion's had.

He was a block from the harbor when she came into sight, sleek and white and full-masted, basking in the moonlight.

There was a tourist liner a few hundred yards away from the battleship, and the melancholy sound of a bugler playing taps on its deck drifted across the water. The air was hot, still, the harbor dead and silent except for the haunting strains of the bugle.

And then a boom sounded. The Maine jackknifed. An-other series of explosions ripped open the keel, thrusting it up to the bridge. Instantly the ship was engulfed in flames.

Although half a block away, Shoz felt the ground under his feet lurch, sending him sprawling onto his hands and knees. He screamed in protest. The battleship was a raging inferno, and sailors were dropping from its sides into the water like ticks from a flame, some of them ablaze. Shoz clawed the dirt, praying he would see Lucy leaping into the sea, unhurt, but he saw no such thing. He jumped to his feet and hurled himself the rest of the way to the docks.

And then it became a time for action; there was no time to think. Men were screaming, on fire, trying to escape the burning ship. Others were hurt, and in their attempt to swim to shore, drowning. Another explosion sent blazing masts hurling to the decks and into the sea. Shoz saw a man going under the orange-black gleaming surface of the water. He dove in after him.

The water was warm, and brilliantly aglow from the fire-ridden battleship. Shoz came up for air, saw the man he'd gone after bobbing on the surface before sinking again. Holding his breath, he thrust himself down, down, unerringly pushing through the water in the direction of the sailor. Shoz was rewarded when he felt the man's thrashing limbs. He hauled them both to the surface, his lungs straining for air, threatening to explode. Treading, holding the unconscious man, he began gulping oxygen in. Then he towed the man ashore.

The relief effort took hours. Shoz threw himself into it with the firemen, police, and soldiers who had come to the ship's rescue. Every time he dragged a victim ashore, some already dead, or so badly crushed and burned, they had little chance of surviving, he glanced around, icy fear gripping him anew, searching for Lucy among the survivors. But there was no sign of her.

After towing some dozen or so wounded from the burning sea, Shoz collapsed on the ground not far from one of the treatment centers that had been set up by the medics. He had no strength left. His body was exhausted and numb, except for a pain in his heart that was so fierce, he was afraid to recognize it. But it wouldn't go away. It grew stronger. His mind was becoming coherent, savagely so, screaming at him.

She's dead!

She was on that ship, she's dead!

He realized he was gripping the dirt and trying to deny it when he knew there was no possibility she had survived. He was crying like a child. Crying his heart out, crying his guts out. He couldn't stop. There was fury in his tears, and he raised his fist at the sky and cursed the God he did not believe in. Then he cursed himself, blaming himself, blaming himself for not warning the Maine, for not warning her, blaming himself, God, why did he have to realize now how much he loved her, and yes, dammit, needed her? How could he go on like this?

In the chaos of the night, he was left alone. There were a few solicitous inquiries by those thinking he was one of the explosions's victims until they realized he was lost in his own grief. Shoz wasn't sure how long he lay in the dirt sobbing. He wiped his eyes with a bare, salty forearm; apparently he had shed his shirt and boots some time ago. He inhaled, exhaled. He looked at the dirt, at the moon, anywhere but at the now-glowing skeleton of the battleship. Finally he looked at the ship again. Tears quickly blurred his vision.

He lunged to his feet. Slowly he began walking away from Havana Harbor. Behind him, in her death throes, the USS Maine began to sink. Shoz did not look back.

Chapter 47

"Shoz!" Lucy called.

He was trudging away from the docks. His shoulders were slumped and he seemed so very tired, even defeated. Her heart went out to him. She was very proud of what he had done. She had arrived at the harbor to discover the Maine ablaze, shortly after hearing the explosions. Sometime later Lucy had glimpsed Shoz dragging a poor unconscious sailor from the sea. Lucy hadn't been able to go to him, however; she had been swallowed up by the relief effort, administering first aid to victim after victim until she barely knew what she was doing. Now, holding up the hem of her torn, dirty gown, her feet bare (having long since broken one high heel and removed her shoes), her jewels incongruously glinting fire around her face, she stumbled after Shoz.

"Shoz! Shoz! Wait!"

He stopped, trancelike, then slowly turned his head. Lucy hurried to him, needing to be with him immensely in that moment. Needing his comfort after all the horror she had witnessed, and wanting to offer him the same. "Are you all right?"

At first he did not react, staring as if she were an apparition risen from the dead, then he swept her into his embrace.

Lucy was stunned by his onslaught. He held her hard and fiercely against his frame. His face was buried against her neck. His hands stroked down her back, shaking with some unnamed, barely restrained emotion. Her lips felt the bare skin of his chest; he tasted like the sea. She clung back, relishing the moment, wanting it to never end.

"Are you all right?" she asked again, when he let a few inches slip between them.

He still held her. His voice was hoarse. "God, Lucy, I thought. ..."

She stared at him. "You thought what?"

In answer, he cupped her face and kissed her, his hands warm and strong and callused. Lucy allowed herself to succumb to the pleasure of the kiss, just for a minute. He embraced her again.

He put his arm around her and they walked a few paces back toward the harbor. "I thought you were on that ship," he said gruffly.

"You didn't see me with the other volunteers? I saw you rescuing some of the sailors."

"No, I didn't see you."

They sat down on a pile of heavy beams, Shoz clad only in his jeans, Lucy in her ripped and torn evening gown. He still had his arm around her, and she leaned against him wearily. She scouted for Leon, but she did not see him among the chaos of fire wagons and ambulances, firemen and medics, volunteers and victims. Lucy's stomach churned. "I was almost aboard her tonight."

"I know."

"Shoz, Leon was on board." "I know." "You know!"

"I saw him after he was rescued. He was badly burned. He died, Lucy." Lucy gasped. Only a few hours ago, Leon had been alive—and so angry at her. Had he still been in love with her? What did it even matter? He had done a terrible thing in shooting Shoz in Paradise, but she couldn't hate him, and certainly he didn't deserve this fate. "I can't believe it. No one deserves to die like that."

Shoz said, low, "I warned him. Today I warned him about this, but the fool thought I was out to embarrass him and create an incident. He didn't treat my warnings with the professionalism he should have because of his personal feelings for me."

"You knew!"

"If he had put the Maine on alert, this entire night might have never happened."

"And Leon might still be alive," Lucy murmured, dazed by the magnitude of what Leon had failed to do—and why.

Lucy stared at the bow and the naked burnt masts of the Maine, all that was left above the waterline. Shoz asked her why she hadn't been on board, his hand on her shoulder, kneading her flesh soothingly, helping to ease the horror of the night. She told him about how they'd lost a wheel, which was why she had never made it aboard the battleship.

They fell into an exhausted silence, neither one making any move to leave, leaning on each other. Wagons rolled past them, taking load after load of victims to the hospitals. Relief workers hurried to and fro. A pair of soldiers rode by.

They watched the activity around them with detached interest. Lucy was very aware of the bond between them; it seemed stronger than ever, and different. For the first time they seemed to be more than lovers, they seemed to be partners, friends.

Shoz finally stood. "I'll find us some transportation and take you home."

Lucy nodded, unable to refrain from smiling in both gratitude and pleasure. Not just because she was exhausted, but because their relationship had suddenly, drastically, changed for the better.

Lucy awoke early despite the toll of the night before. Bright tropical sunlight was streaming through the open balcony doors. She hadn't slept well at all, despite her utter exhaustion, for her dreams had been filled with the bloody deaths she had witnessed the previous night. She had even dreamed of Leon, badly burned but alive and accusing her of leaving him for Shoz.

Upon awakening, her first coherent thought was that the Maine had been blown up, so many had died, Leon had died. And Shoz had been here with her last night.

He had taken her home as he had promised. Lucy could not remember the ride, but she did remember him soothing a shocked Venida that she was indeed all right before helping her upstairs. Lucy could recall little else, so apparently she had slept for a while.

She opened her eyes to find him on the chaise, clad only in his jeans, sipping pungent coffee. She froze at the sight of him; he set the cup down. It was the first time he had stayed the entire night with her, and they hadn't even slept together. A jumbled kind of soaring elation swept her, and she sat up, her hopeful gaze gaining his attention.

"Good morning," Shoz said. His expression was im-possible to read.

She managed a smile. She realized that she was utterly nude beneath the sheets; he had obviously undressed her last night. Into her happiness came a hot, heady desire. "You stayed."

"I wanted to make sure you're all right."

She sat up straighter, holding the sheet against her chest. "Last night was hell."

"Yeah," he said roughly.

Lucy started wondering how she might get Shoz to approach—and climb into bed with her. She wanted him; after last night, she needed him.

Silence filled the room, stretching taut between them. The birds outside broke it with their cheerful morning songs. Shoz stood. Her gaze was drawn to his hard, muscular body, the bare chest and lean torso, the tight Levis. God, how she needed him; he could chase away all the awful memories that had haunted her sleep, even if only for a while.

"I should go," he said, and he walked toward her.

She gripped the sheet. "I don't want you to go."

"I know." He sat by her hip, taking her hands in his. "I don't want to go." "Then don't."

He pulled her forward; the sheet fell to her waist. His eyes, drifting from her mouth to her breasts, grew distinctly smoky. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"Yes."

"No, I don't think you do." He held her tightly, their bodies not quite touching. "This time," he warned, "it's you and me—no Leons, no Sigsbees, just you and me."

Her heart leapt in excitement and joy. "I understand."

"This time, there won't be any turning back."

She made a sound, swaying closer.

"You belong to me, Lucy, and I don't share what's mine."

"Yes." It was a whispered breath.

His face tightened, as if he fought to control his own emotions. Abruptly he got up and locked the door. He came to her with long, hard strides, his hands already working the zipper of his jeans, the fabric of his groin already becoming taut. He yanked them down his legs. Lucy's breath got stuck somewhere in her chest. His gaze met hers, hot, intense. He pulled the sheet from her body. "This time there won't be anything—or anyone—between us."

"Oh God," Lucy said, before he slid her beneath him.

He took her like it was the last time—or the first. Lucy's response was just as fevered and impatient, just as frenzied and exultant. Hot and hard, their mouths fused, hands rough and soft everywhere. Shoz had never been one for words in bed; this time he told her, his voice low and husky, how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, and how afraid he had been that he had lost her. It was like a dream. When he slid deeply into her, Lucy wept in ecstasy. After, holding him, she wept again. She thought that his face, pressed against hers, was moist as well.

They fought afterward.

After their glorious lovemaking, he told her that she had to leave Cuba and return home. "Cuba's no place for a woman alone," he had said softly, his hand caressing the curve of her hip. "There's a freighter outbound this afternoon; I'll try to get you on it." "No."

His eyes darkened. "Why not?"

"I've told you from the beginning that I won't leave."

"You know as well as I do what the tragedy last night means! Cuba was never safe—and now it's going to be worse. You can't stay here alone."

"I'm not alone."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that I have you."

He laughed derisively. "I can't baby-sit you! I shouldn't even be in Havana these days! Things are going to break loose, Lucy, and I won't be around to save your neck when it needs saving."

"I'm not leaving Havana, Shoz."

He lunged from the bed to dress. Lucy watched him, tight-lipped and so terribly sad after the closeness she had thought they had found. He paused at the door. "Be ready to leave this afternoon, Lucy."

"I won't," she cried, frightened by the implacable expression on his face. His only answer was one long, dark look. Tears welling, she hurled a book at the door as it slammed behind him, and it just happened to be a Bible. "Go to hell," she cried.

She wasn't going to leave Cuba, not with him here, not with war apparently just around the corner. Never. But would it always be this way between them? Lucy wondered miserably. One moment extreme passion, the next extreme anger? Had the closeness she had thought they had shared been merely an illusion? Was she being a fool?

Lucy chose to treat the day as if Shoz had not stated that she should be ready to depart the country that afternoon. She went to the consulate, determined to assess the state of affairs for herself. It was in a state of chaos, as she had expected, but she boldly elbowed her way to Janice, any-way. "You shouldn't be here," the secretary said, looking harassed.

"I was there last night; I have to know what's happening."

"So far," Janice said grimly, "two hundred and fifty-seven men have died. Lucy, you should get out of Cuba. Look at this."

She pointed to a bold headline on top of the many papers on her desk. It was a wire from the States, and the first line read: PUBLIC BLAMES SPAIN CLAMORS FOR WAR.

"It's only a matter of time," Janice said.

Lucy left, dismayed. American intervention would help the desperate rebels attain their independence, and Lucy had already been swept up in their cause. Before today, before Shoz's threat, Lucy had hoped for her country's intervention. But she had never considered what a war between Spain and the United States might really mean. And suddenly she was afraid.

As she returned to the villa, the image of hostile troops entrenched on Havana's streets, facing each other, smoke obscuring the scene, guns and artillery firing, soldiers dying, civilians running, buildings crumbling, Havana aflame, etched itself in her mind.

Was she wrong to insist on remaining in Cuba now? But she just couldn't leave Shoz, not if there was going to be a war!

Once she had returned, she hurried into the kitchen to find Venida, who suddenly loomed as a source of stability and comfort. Venida was unpacking a dozen boxes.

"What are you doing?" Lucy asked.

"I's been all over Havana this mornin'," Venida said. "One thin's for sure, when the fightin' starts, we ain't gonna starve."

Lucy's heart skipped a beat; Venida had been stocking up on canned and dried foodstuffs. "So you think there will be a war."

"I's afraid, Miz Lucy, I's afraid."

When Shoz didn't come that afternoon, Lucy began to breathe easier, thinking he had changed his mind, that he would not send her away from Cuba. That night Lucy thought about nothing other than war, afraid of all that might happen, afraid not just for herself, but for Shoz, imagining the fighting, the bloodshed, him fleeing deep into the jungle to escape Spanish troops. It was almost midnight when he stepped into her room, and Lucy was so glad he had come. "What's going to happen?"

"War. It's only a matter of time. My guess is American troops will arrive in a month or two." "That long?"

"Congress will debate, and they have to be mobilized, supplied, coordinated, transported—that long." His look was grim.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I couldn't get you on that freighter, but I've arranged alternate transportation. Get dressed." "Now!"

"You're going back to the States—tonight." She drew herself up. "No." "You're going, Lucy." "Only if you come with me." "I can't come."

"Of course you can come!" she cried, her heart thundering, her palms wet. "Shoz, I can't leave without you!"

His expression tightened. "I won't let you stay."

Lucy was so desperately afraid. Staring back at him with real panic, she knew that this time she was going to lose, this time he would do as he willed. "Why can't I stay? Why won't you leave? You've done enough for the United States! My family can help if you're worried about the government and your pardon!"

"My work isn't done, it's only beginning." He smiled ruefully. "I can't leave these people, Lucy. They need me."

She blinked. "This has nothing to do with the presidential pardon, does it? This is no longer just a job for you, is it?"

"It hasn't been just a job for a very long time, and no, this doesn't have anything to do with the damn pardon for my crimes." His gaze met hers.

Her heart swelled with pride against a backdrop of choking terror. "You believe in Cuba Libre."

"I believe in Cuba Libre," he said.

An hour later, Lucy said good-bye to Venida in the dimly lit foyer of the villa. The big woman was sniffling noisily, and her dark eyes glistened with tears. She rocked Lucy in her arms. "You listen to Mistah Shoz an' you do everythin' he says," she ordered, bossy to the end.