Fires of Paradise (6 page)

Chapter 8

Shoz took the best suite at the Paradise Hotel. He ordered a five-course dinner and a bottle of French brandy, soaked in a steaming tub, considered a whore, and got drunk instead. He slept until midmorning the next day.

Because of the brandy, he slept deeply, unlike the previous two nights, when he'd tossed about restlessly, due to his unrequited lust for Princess Bragg. He wasn't exactly used to being so aroused over one female. Yes, this one did have an ungodly body, and he guessed she was attractive when cleaned up, but he'd had many beautiful women mostly beautiful women, the most beautiful in the world— and it didn't make much difference to him. He'd always preferred making love in the dark.

Besides, he didn't like her type, not at all. And he knew her type intimately, too intimately.

They were eager to jump into bed with him, but should they pass each other on the street, these
ladies
would pretend not to even know him They were sexually fascinated by him, more so, he suspected, because he was taboo to their society, being three-quarters Apache, than because he was appealing and vigorous in bed. Almost all were married and didn't give a damn about their wedding vows. Oh, he'd had enough of her type long ago—seven years ago, to be exact.

He wanted to stop the terrible train of his thoughts, because they were sure to disturb him, but he couldn't. He could still see Marianne Claxton lying on her dressing table where he'd pushed her down, in the black corset, legs spread, panting for it even while she was afraid he'd murder her after taking her. They'd been lovers for an entire year, beginning midsemester of his final year at law school, and she not only had sent him up, she'd set him up, and after he'd escaped prison in upstate New York, she thought him capable of murder.

Shoz's anger simmered, as always when he thought of Marianne and the damn phony trial and prison. But a part of him, deep inside, wept a little, too. Not because he'd just hung his sign on the tiny cubbyhole of an office he'd rented, 5.
Savage, Attorney-At-Law,
but because his dreams had started dying way before that, when he'd left the ranch where he'd been raised in southern California.

Being morose first thing in the morning was not good for his digestion, or his mood, and he cursed the Bragg girl for stirring up memories that were usually dormant. Breakfast consisted of coffee and one swig of last night's brandy to chase away the throbbing above his temples.

Business demanded his attention. It was a bright, hot day, no surprise. He strolled leisurely down the boardwalk, taking in the sights of the freshly painted little town. The awning over the druggist was bright red. The general store boasted gold lettering half his size stenciled on huge windows, a red and white striped candy-cane light stood sentinel outside the barber shop. There was something about this town that disturbed him; it was too clean and too fresh, the kind of place where people moved to raise a family. It was too idyllic. He could almost stay awhile. But this kind of place wasn't for him—and it never would be.

At the post office he sent a telegram to his buyer in Houston. He told the clerk he'd be awaiting the reply at the hotel, then went and had a haircut and shave. He returned to the hotel expecting a response to his telegram; there was nothing. His buyer was not at the designated hotel in Houston.

This was very bad news.

    Shoz sent another telegram, this one to Havana, Cuba. He would not receive a reply until that night or the next morning. He refused to worry. The deal was firm, but obviously something had arisen and the sale would have to be postponed. He hoped, fervently, that his buyer hadn't wound up in one of Cuba's dark Spanish dungeons. This was a distinct possibility, and then the deal would be delayed indefinitely or even canceled until someone else could be found to take his place. Hopefully his buyer was not in prison and he would arrive in Houston soon, so the sale could take place as scheduled, in a few days.

It wasn't that he minded sitting on the stolen guns. He did not feel like killing time in Paradise. His instincts warned him to evade its strange allure. This was not his kind of place. Nor did he relish riding back to Death Valley and then returning again.

At the hotel he sat down to a late lunch in the refined dining room amidst white linen, crystal goblets, and ribbed columns supporting high ceilings. The restaurant was considered the finest in town. He'd just dug into his plate of roast beef when they walked in.
When she walked in.
He put his fork down without taking a bite. They hadn't seen him. Despite the hour, the restaurant was crowded with business lunches and groups of women while he sat unobtrusively in a corner with a view of everyone. He stared, his senses spinning.

He had misjudged the princess. She
was
a princess, a spectacularly beautiful princess, and he could not take his eyes off her.

He didn't notice what she wore, nor did he care, some bronze-striped dress with a matching parisol. What he saw was her face, her perfect oval face with its sheer ivory complexion, dominated by her too full mouth and her too blue eyes. She was a heart-stopper, all right, and he wanted her.

She had sat down with an old, elegant woman and Joanna, laughing and chatting nonstop, enthralling her audience, regaling them. He smiled. Maybe it would be amusing to spend a few extra days in Paradise. After all, they'd never finished their business, had they?

He recalled what she'd said. That he'd have to rape her if he wanted her, and that she'd set her Bragg family and the law on him. He didn't doubt that she would, not for a minute, not if she was angry with him. And she was angry, because he wouldn't play the role she'd assigned him and every other male she laid her eyes on. She was spoiled and self-absorbed and used to getting her own way one hundred percent of the time.

The last thing he needed was the law—or her powerful family—breathing down his neck.

But he liked a challenge; some even said he liked danger. He knew he could seduce her, make her want it, take her willingly. He could play the role she wanted him to play— temporarily. There would be a risk, of course, the risk that when he left her, she'd cry rape anyway and he'd be hunted down. The question was if the risk was worth it. If she was worth it.

He didn't have to think about it for very long. All his senses were alive, keenly tuned like those of a hunter. He watched her. She was his prey now. He enjoyed the feeling, and it was very sexual. After a moment she stopped talking, looked around with confusion, and saw him. She froze.

    Shoz smiled and lifted his wineglass. She gritted and put her nose high in the air before turning her head aside. He sipped.

He left before they did, deliberately walking past their table. His gaze remained on her as he stalked her, and he savored every second. Her shoulders were stiff. He knew she knew he was approaching. He could sense her fear— and her anticipation. He paused when he was abreast of her and she could see him. "Hello," he said, very politely.

Lucy gave him a bare, rude glance. "Hello."

Joanna smiled shyly. "Hello."

The elegant old woman stared. "And who are you, sir?"

He smiled at her. She didn't soften, but he persisted. "I escorted these two young ladies to town." Miranda's stare hardened.

Lucy reached out to touch her hand. "He's the one with the mules, Grandma. The one I told you and Grandpa about."

"Yes, I see. Thank you, Mr. ... ?" "Shoz Cooper," he said, using the alias he had assumed seven years ago when he had escaped prison. "Thank you, Mr. Cooper."

He eyed Lucy. He wondered what she had told her grandparents. Nowhere near the truth, he suspected. Otherwise this proper little woman would not be sitting here saying thank you—not if she knew the two girls had been unchaperoned with him for two nights.

Lucy twisted to face him. "I see you haven't left town?" she said, all sugared vinegar.

"I'm enjoying the weather," he said. He saluted them and strolled on.

At the front desk he asked for any messages. A reply to the telegram he'd sent to Havana hadn't come yet. "It's urgent," he told the clerk, giving him a dollar. "Please have me notified the moment it arrives."

"It's urgent that you leave," Lucy hissed from behind him when the clerk had disappeared into the office.

Shoz leaned an elbow against the counter, amused. She was red. "Hello, princess," he drawled, low and suggestive.

"Don't call me that!"

"Whyever not?" His gaze roamed over her. "You are a princess—no, a goddess."

She was oblivious to his flattery. "I want you out of

here!"

"Oh, you do?"

"Why are you here?"

"I don't think that's your business."

"When are you leaving?"

"That's none of your business either."

"You bastard!" She gave a worried glance over her shoulder toward the dining room. "Are you going to make trouble for me?"

"Only if you ask for it." He smiled at his double entendre.

"I'm warning you!" She raised a white-gloved fist at him.

He grabbed it. She went rigid. His hold was firm, unyielding, but not at all painful. He pressed her small hand against his chest and he stared at her.

She stared back, and for one moment, his heart pulsed against her palm.

"Let's make peace, Lucy," he said, low.

She yanked her hand from his with an inarticulate cry, gave him a look of utter disbelief, and fled.

"Lucy, are you all right, dear?" Miranda asked.

They were sitting in the smaller of the house's two living rooms, the cozy one with the walls papered in a multicolored tree-of-life design, the furniture plush and deeply upholstered in gold and forest green, the carpets thick underfoot. They were waiting for Derek before going in to dine.

Lucy had been very quiet ever since leaving Paradise that afternoon. She attempted a smile and a nod. "Yes, Grandma, just worn out, I guess."

"I hope you're not sick."

Lucy didn't answer, she was too immersed in her thoughts. Why was that no-good drifter still in town? What was he up to? The sooner he left, the better for her in all respects! She wanted to forget what had happened, desperately, and if he remained, there was always the chance of someone finding out the truth!

She must, at all costs, prevent this.

There were two truths, and two lies. She had told a convincing falsehood to her grandparents—that Shoz had come upon them only during the day that they had arrived in Paradise. She had not let them suspect that they had actually spent two whole days and two whole nights in his company. Only Joanna knew the truth.

She knew both truths. That not only had they spent two nights with Shoz, Lucy had allowed herself to be somewhat compromised by him.

Shoz knew both truths, too.

Lucy trusted her friend absolutely. She trusted him not at all.

Derek had spent a lot of time shouting at her for her foolishness, and then he had sent some men to rescue her car and any surviving luggage. Lucy felt she had gotten off easily, and was very grateful. If either truth were known, however, she wouldn't get off so easily, she would be tarnished or completely ruined. In either case, Lucy was certain Shoz would wind up with one of Derek's bullets somewhere in his anatomy.

Not that she cared, really, if he was shot, although it did seem a bit extreme.

She resolved to take matters into her own hands. The following morning, Lucy cajoled Billy into driving her into town for a so-called shopping trip—without Miranda. It wasn't really unusual for Lucy to go to Paradise without her grandmother, and this morning they departed without her knowledge. She wished she could also go without Joanna, but she needed her. Better Joanna be privy to what she was doing than Billy, who would try to accompany her everywhere if she were without her friend.

They left Billy at the saloon after convincing him he would be bored watching them shop. Lucy's pace was brisk as she headed for the hotel with Joanna in tow. "What is going on, Lucy?'' Joanna demanded. "You're going to meet
him,
aren't you!"

Lucy was stunned, but only slowed fractionally. "Joanna, it's not what you are thinking!"

"You are using me so you can meet with him," Joanna said steadily.

   "It is not a lover's tryst."

   "I don't believe you."

   "Trust me," Lucy said, placing her hand on her friend's arm. "Please, Joanna, I need your trust."

Joanna finally nodded. Both girls entered the large lobby of the Paradise Hotel. "Where would he be at this hour?" Lucy asked nervously.

"It's only nine o'clock," Joanna said. "He's probably still in his room." She gave her a sidelong glance. "I can't go up there!"

Joanna said nothing, while Lucy fretted. She grabbed her friend's arm excitedly. "You distract the clerk. Ask him to . . . ask him for a map. Ask him where Pete's Peak is, if it's nice for a picnic, and how to get there. I'll run upstairs— just for a minute."

"How do you know which room he's in?"

Lucy smiled. "He was asking for his mail yesterday— and the clerk looked in box 525. That's the suite Grandpa puts his best guests in on the top floor. Go now, Joanna!"

Lucy watched Joanna approach the clerk and edged toward the newly installed elevator. Soon they were in a conversation—but the man was facing her. Lucy eyed the ceiling. Was Joanna stupid? She had to get him to turn away—and then he did, going into the back office. Lucy banged the button, the doors opened, she threw a look at the desk where Joanna stood alone, staring at her, and she leapt into the elevator. The doors closed just as the clerk returned—and she didn't think he'd seen her.