Ride the Thunder (13 page)

“I said, do you know the Fitzpatricks?” the brunette repeated the question he had missed the first time.

“No.”

“They are having a party tomorrow night. It should be fun. Would you like to go with me?”

“I can’t. I’m flying back to my ranch tomorrow.” Brig was glad of the excuse.

“Oh.” The woman was trying to hide her disappointment. “When will you be coming back to New York?”

“It’s been fourteen years since I was here last. With any luck, it will be another fourteen.” There was only ice left in his glass and it was melting. “Excuse me while I get a refill.”

The brunette didn’t protest and Brig suspected that she knew he wouldn’t be coming back. That edginess was back on his nerves. In the dining room, he handed the bartender his glass and asked for a fresh drink. It was his third, not counting the champagne, but he hadn’t felt the affects of the first yet.

He wandered over to the buffet table, but nothing looked appetizing. Three men were standing in the corner of the room. Brig heard one of them mention something about stalking and paused to listen in. One
man was bragging about an elk be had dropped instantly with a single shot a hundred and fifty yards away. A second man followed that story with one of his own, adding ten yards and changing the elk to a running antelope. Brig moved on, wondering why they never mentioned all the shots that missed.

T
HERE WAS A
light rap on the door. Jordanna rose from the sofa to answer it, skirting the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. Before turning the knob to unlock the door, she asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” her father answered in a low voice.

She let him in, smiling a welcome. “You made it.”

“It’s quiet in here,” Fletcher remarked as the door was closed and locked to shut out the party and its noise.

“Wonderfully so.” Jordanna walked to the center of the room, pausing in front of the open jaws of the grizzly bear rug. “Would you like a drink?”

“No.” He sat down in his favorite armchair and leaned his head against the back rest. A muffled burst of laughter filtered through the thickly insulated walls into the room. A weary, disgruntled look passed over his face.

“You look tired, Dad,” she observed with wary concern and smoothed out the folds of her long skirt as she sat down on the sofa.

“No, Just old.” Fletcher smiled crookedly at his reply.

Jordanna didn’t smile. “You wouldn’t be saying that—you wouldn’t be thinking that if you hadn’t argued with Livvie before the party.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Just a guess.” It was wiser not to admit she had been accidentally eavesdropping. Her mother caused him enough grief without him knowing that she had witnessed it.

“After all this time, the odds were in your favor that your guess would be right.” It was the closest her father had ever come to openly admitting his marital problems. The rift between himself and his wife was something he had never discussed with her or her brother. It was a forbidden topic and he didn’t break the taboo by pursuing it. “Why don’t you put on some soft music? Maybe we can drown out the party,” he suggested.

Jordanna walked to the bookshelf, where a stereo tape deck was enclosed in the wood. Selecting an instrumental tape, she slid it into the slot and turned the volume low. She returned to the sofa and relaxed against the cushions. Her father closed his eyes to listen to the dulcet strains.

She thought he’d fallen asleep, but when the tape started repeating itself, he opened his eyes and pushed himself out of the chair. As he straightened his jacket, he felt something inside his pocket. Frowning, he took out a slim jewelry case. He glanced at Jordanna with a smile of chagrin.

“I meant to give you this before the party and forgot,” he said.

“What is it?” Rising from her reclining position on the sofa, she snagged a hook of her gown on a pillow. It came unfastened. “Damn,” Jordanna swore softly in irritation. “Will you fasten this for me, Dad?” She walked to the front of the desk where he was standing.

*   *   *

The walls were beginning to close in on him. The staleness of the air was almost suffocating. Brig glanced around at the chattering people who seemed indifferent to the noise they were making. A cool, fresh draft unexpectedly blew over him and he looked for the source. The sheer panels of the dining room drapes were moving gently. Behind them, he saw a set of latticed glass doors evidently leading onto a roof garden.

Slipping through them, Brig escaped outside. The sounds of the party followed him, muffled now, and mingled with the traffic sounds from the streets far below. The city lights were too brilliant for the stars to be seen. But at least he had the feeling of space, room to move and breathe.

Fancy wrought-iron deck furniture and potted plants adorned the rooftop. Brig ignored the invitations of the cushioned seats and walked to the parapet. A couple followed his route of escape, the girl giggling. Not wanting company, Brig faded into the shadows and moved quietly around the corner of the rooftop to a more secluded site.

Light streamed through another set of glass doors, laying a square of light on the astro-turfed roof. Only absently curious, Brig glanced inside. It was a den—Fletcher’s trophy room judging by the mounted game heads on the wall. At that moment, he saw the gray-haired man walk to the desk and turn. His behavior suggested someone was in the room with him. Before Brig could hazard a guess, the auburn-haired woman in the black gown came into view. She turned her back to Fletcher so he could fasten her gown.

Brig’s mouth quirked cynically. If he had any question why they’d snuck away from the party separately, he had his answer now. Brig studied the creamy smoothness of her shoulder blades and the rippling line of her spine. Fletcher took something from a jewel case and fastened it around her neck. She appeared delighted by the gift of a necklace and thanked Fletcher
with a quick kiss. Brig thought she was such a consummate actress that she belonged on stage.

“It’s beautiful, Dad.” Jordanna held the jade pendant, carved in the shape of a cross, in her hand, the stone cool against her palm. “But what’s the occasion? My birthday isn’t for another six months yet.”

“Does it have to be your birthday before I can buy my own daughter a present?” he asked. “I saw it and thought of you, so I bought it.”

“I like it. Thank you.” He’d never done anything like this before that Jordanna could remember. She was surprised, a little puzzled, and very pleased.

“I’m going back to the party. Are you coming?” Fletcher started toward the door.

She didn’t feel like going back yet. “No, I’m going to stay for a while.”

“I’ll lock the door so you won’t be disturbed. Be sure it’s locked when you leave,” he added.

“I will,” Jordanna promised.

After he had walked out and closed the door, she turned away from it. Fingering the pale green pendant, she smiled faintly at the present that was prompted only by affection. She was facing the latticed doors leading to the rooftop garden. A light flared, the size of a match flame. Jordanna stiffened at the sight of a tall figure standing outside. It moved forward and the door handle turned. Jordanna recognized the man entering the den as the stranger she had seen talking to her mother.

“How long have you been there?” Her tone was faintly accusing. She didn’t like the idea that he had been spying. It was an invasion of privacy to be watched, even if she had been unaware of it at the time.

A thick, dark brow lifted in mockery of her tone. “Not long.” His voice was pitched low, with a faint drawl to it. “If it was privacy you were seeking,” he reached for the drapery cord and pulled it, swinging the heavy drapes closed, “you should have closed the curtains.”

“If I had suspected anyone was out there, I would have.” It was a quick retort, but there was no sharpness to it.

“Didn’t anyone tell you? There’s a party going on. People are everywhere.” His arm moved in a half-arc. In his hand, he held a drink that had gone to water, a cigarette burned between his fingers. “Although I must admit you have found yourself a quiet niche away from the noise and the crowd.”

“It’s peaceful here,” Jordanna agreed and wondered why she didn’t order him to leave. The truth was, she found him fascinating.

Studying him across the width of a room amidst a party had not prepared her for the impact of a face-to-face meeting. The look in his brown eyes was as dry and searing as any desert wind. The handsome lines of his face had been weathered into toughness. His dark mustache shadowed a mouth that was hard. There was a dangerous virility about him that was exciting as well as alarming. But most of all, it was the sensation of power that captivated her, an indefatigable strength that went to the very marrow of his bones.

Adjectives were difficult to find Jordanna threw out
worldly
. She sensed he knew everything the way an animal does, born with the cunning and instinct to survive.
Experienced
didn’t fit him either, although she was positive he had escaped many a trap and had increased his knowledge from it. In that suit and tie, he looked comfortable and at ease, yet it was an artful camouflage that reflected an ability to adapt to his surroundings. Sheep’s clothing on a sagacious wolf, the last of his kind.

Jordanna was released from his gaze as he swept the room with a glance. “This is quite a display of trophies.” He wandered over to the mounted head of a javelina, ivory tusks gleaming from open jaws. Jordanna could have claimed it as her kill, but she doubted that he would be impressed.

“Yes, it is.” She heard the thread of breathlessness in her voice, but she doubted that he had. It was
startling to discover how profoundly disturbed she was by his presence.

He turned from the wall and started to loosen his tie, then glanced at her. “Do you mind?’

Jordanna suspected that it didn’t matter one way or the other if she did. “No. Go ahead.” She lifted an indifferent hand and watched him tug the knot loose and stuff the tie in a suit pocket. He unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt. A trembling weakness shook her knees. Determined to conquer this reaction, she walked to the decanter of Scotch on the desk and splashed some of it into a crystal tumbler.

“There isn’t any ice,” Jordanna warned him.

“May I?” He held out his glass.

“That’s alright. There’s some in my glass.” Cubes clinked against the sides as if to prove it.

Jordanna took the glass from him, avoiding contact with his fingers without knowing why. “Strong or weak?” The decanter was posed above his glass in her hand.

“Strong.”

She poured a liberal amount of Scotch onto the melting cubes of ice and set the decanter down, re-stopping it. Picking up a glass in each hand, she turned and found him standing directly in front of her. A shiver of anticipation danced over her skin at the lazy, sensual look in his gaze. Jordanna stood eye-level with his mouth, a rather disconcerting fact to discover at such close quarters. His suit jacket had been discarded. There was only the white of his shirt.

“Your drink,” she prompted, extending the hand that held his glass.

He reached, but the object wasn’t the glass. His fingers closed around the jade cross, nestled in the valley between her breasts. Instead of lifting it for a closer examination, he left it there where the cup of his hand could rest on the swelling curves of her breasts. His action was insolent, but indignation was difficult to summon when an entirely different kind of flame was heating her skin.

“Carved jade. It’s very beautiful . . . and expensive.” He lifted his gaze to her face and Jordanna returned his steady look.

“Yes, it is.” She succeeded in keeping her voice calm and firm. “Would you mind removing your hand and taking this glass?”

His gaze roamed slowly over her face, as if he were making up his mind. “I think I do mind.” He sounded bemused.

It was a challenge, a glove thrown down. Jordanna realized that she was being dared to pick it up.

“If you don’t remove your hand, I will be forced to pour this drink on your head,” she threatened calmly and seriously.

“Don’t do it.” The statement sounded more like an ominous threat than hers had. His fingers slid up the gold chain, closing it together and twisting it into a tight circle just below her chin.

The movement had been purely instinctive. The gold chain was thin and strong. Brig realized that one more twist and it would serve as an adequate garrote. As it was, it was achieving his objective of holding her immobile without struggling. He noticed the fine gold links stretched across her neck and was careful not to exert any more pressure that might mar her skin.

Damn, she had beautiful skin. Could the rest of her body be as ivory smooth as what he saw? Brig didn’t blame Fletcher for making her his private stock, his mistress and lover. He hadn’t expected her flawless beauty to stand up under close scrutiny.

He glanced into her eyes. She was wary, unsure of him, but she wasn’t frightened. She had courage . . . and her own brand of strength. Brig thought of the other women he’d bedded in the last twenty years and knew this one was more woman than he’d ever known. But he knew what she was and was irritated by the knowledge.