Sundancer (Cheyenne Series) (36 page)

      
A woman can have power over a man...
if he was the right man, and she the right woman.

      
Abruptly he stilled her hands, pulling away from her. He kicked off his trousers and yanked off his hose in a few swift movements, then stood barbarously naked, staring at her with those hot hooded eyes. She had observed the Cheyenne warriors in Leather Shirt's village with scarcely more covering their bodies. None compared to Cain, although he looked as savage as any of them. Straight black hair framed a harshly chiseled face which was ferally hungry. His skin glistened bronze in the flickering gaslight, the ripple of lean sinuous muscles accented by fascinating patterns of body hair running from his chest down to the male potency of his erection which stood out rigidly, pulsing, beckoning. He was the most splendidly beautiful animal she could ever imagine. He was her husband.

      
“Turn around so I can unfasten your gown,” he murmured.

      
Roxanna complied. He reached up to the deep vee where her gown was buttoned and began to unhook the whispering watered silk. As he bared the soft white flesh of her back, the fabric rustled sensuously when he shoved it out of his way. “I was right about the color on you.” He had not intended to say the words aloud. He felt her reaction even before she spoke.

      
“I never thanked you for the silk and the jewelry. They're so lovely, so perfectly chosen. When—”

      
“I just found them, that's all,” he said quickly, not wanting to admit how he had seen the bolt of changeable purple silk and the amethyst jewelry the day after the awful betrothal ball in Denver and bought it on some insane impulse. At the time he wondered if he would dare ever give the gifts to her. Perhaps some part of him knew even then that he would ask her to marry him. He had left them hidden in a trunk for months.

      
Instead of answering her question, he splayed his hand on the delicate vertebrae of her back, wrapping his fingers around the deep curve of her slim waist, then gliding over the flare of her hip. She wore no corset, only silk undergarments so sheer he could almost see through them. Letting the weight of her gown and petticoats fall in a whoosh onto the floor, he quickly peeled off her chemise and pantalets. His hands cupped the curves of her small silky buttocks, so creamy pale against his darkness. He could feel her tense and smiled to himself, then turned his attention to her elaborate coiffure, pulling out pins and jeweled combs until the whole mass tumbled in a silver cascade down her back.

      
Cain could have drowned in all that shimmering moonlit hair as he raised fistfuls up to his lips in a silent salute, pressing kisses to the side of her neck. She turned slowly into his arms and he picked her up, striding into the bedroom. He placed her on the bed and sat down beside her, gliding his hands over her legs as he rolled down her garters and silk stockings, tossing them on the floor beside the slippers she had already kicked off.

      
“Do you want me, Roxanna?” he asked, kneeling over her like some dark pagan god.

      
His phallus arched suggestively, the dark red head glistening with a pearly drop of semen. She could not seem to pull her eyes away from it. Her hips arched back in ancient invitation and her thighs opened as he lowered himself to plunge deep inside the wetness and warmth of her body. Roxanna dug her nails into his back and wrapped her legs around his waist, crying out against the sweat-slicked skin of his throat, “Yes, Cain, oh, yes, I want you.”

      
He took her hard and fast, pumping furiously into her until his body, unable to endure the blinding surfeit of pleasure, spun out of control. Just as his shaft swelled and began to pour out its life-giving fluid, he felt the sharp contractions of her sheath and knew she was answering his release with her own. He spent himself utterly, falling onto the softness of her body, sweat-soaked, panting like an animal. And he realized that she too was spent from their mutual burst of passion.

      
Roxanna held him tightly, reveling in each labored breath he took, each tremor of his body, pressed so intimately into hers. Her limbs felt leaden, replete, yet she struggled to raise her arms and caress his head as it nestled against the curve of her neck. How coarse and heavy his night-dark hair was since he had let it grow longer. Had he eschewed the barber to flaunt his savage good looks in the midst of the rich and powerful railroad barons? How much pain and insecurity lay hidden beneath the cool and arrogant facade Cain had presented to the world since his childhood?

      
He felt utterly at peace in her arms, cradled between her slim thighs. She held on to him fiercely, as if daring anyone or anything to come between them.
Pretty fanciful stuff,
he scolded himself. Then she began to press soft delicate kisses against his throat, along his jaw. When her tongue rimmed the thin scar across his cheek, he was undone. He could feel his body leap to renewed life, feel the velvet walls of her sheath tighten around him, wanting him. She buried her fingers in his hair and pulled his head to hers for a deep savage kiss.

      
With a muttered oath that spoke of endearment and fear at the same time, he took her again, this time slowly, languorously, holding back, savoring each thrust, each tiny nuance of her flesh melded to his flesh, prolonging the pleasure...and the intimacy, unable to stop himself from craving something he could not even name.

      
When Roxanna awakened the following morning, Cain was standing by the mirror in the dressing room, shaving, wearing only a pair of trousers. Roxanna sat up in bed, wincing from a slight soreness between her legs. Their passion had run out of control last night, as if all her husband's jealousy and insecurity drove him to demand from her body what he would never dare ask of her heart. She watched him slide the gleaming straight edge of the razor through the thick white suds, clearing a path of smooth bronzed skin. The soft rasping sound was both soothing and domestic yet erotic and exciting.

      
Sensing her eyes on him, Cain turned when he had finished, wiping bits of soap from his face with a towel, which he slung negligently across one shoulder. “Morning,” he said noncommittally.

      
‘‘Good morning,” she replied, hating the breathless way her voice sounded. Swallowing, she said, “You never did tell me how I did as your valet last night.”

      
He arched one eyebrow sardonically. “Well enough, I reckon. I never had a valet before, so I can't really say.” A wicked grin flashed across his face. “Bet none of the nobs at the shindig last night ever had a valet do what you did after they were undressed.”

      
She blushed scarlet and he chuckled. “I take it that means you were satisfied.”

      
“Oh, I was satisfied, all right,” he replied dryly. “So were you.” He paused a beat, then added, “I ordered your breakfast.”

      
“You're leaving.” She tried not to sound disappointed.

      
“More infernal meetings, wrangling over grading routes, meeting points.” He sighed in vexation. “I don't think Powell and Huntington ever intended to settle the issue. This is just a smokescreen to pacify Grant and those men in Congress the Central Pacific hasn't succeeded in buying yet.”

      
“You believe the general will defeat Horatio Seymour in the election?”

      
“Saint Nicholas couldn't defeat Ulysses Grant. Durant and his cronies are fools to put the Union Pacific in the embarrassing position of having the brother of their consulting engineer run against the general. Jubal tried to get Silas Seymour to resign when his brother received the Democratic nomination.”

      
Although it felt good to discuss the everyday matters of politics and work the way other ordinary married couples might, Roxanna ached to speak of things nearer the heart. Yet she knew it was unwise to press Cain so soon and break their fragile truce. He seemed to have let go of last night's jealousy. Perhaps she should settle for that. “But Jubal is a friend of Grant's. Shouldn't that help our cause?”

      
“Thank heaven he is. I only hope he can finally pull the Union Pacific out of this mess. I've seen the over-budget costs for supplies, the mile-consuming detours designed to raise more government subsidies. The Union Pacific directors back East are lining their pockets at the railroad's expense—and that of the taxpayers. This whole thing could explode,” he said grimly.

      
“But the Central Pacific does the same thing.” Roxanna knew he had worked for Andrew Powell long ago. Jubal told her he had quit because of their policies.

      
“Yes, the Central Pacific certainly does. And soon we're going to nail the high and mighty Powell's hide to the wall.”

      
She could hear the bitter satisfaction in his voice, but before she could ask anything about his life with the Central Pacific, a bellboy knocked on the door to their suite. “Cain, our clothes are strewn all across the parlor carpet!” she whispered hoarsely, pressing her cool palms to her flaming cheeks.

      
“Don't worry, Eileen picked them all up earlier this morning while you were still asleep.” Grinning, he slipped on a shirt and strolled into the other room to open the door.

      
After dealing with the bellboy, Cain finished dressing and left, telling her he would be tied up in meetings all day. She was to amuse herself in Denver with shopping, perhaps visiting with some of the ladies she had met. That prospect seemed dismal. She felt bereft at his desertion with no more than an admonition not to venture out without the guard he had placed outside her door to act as her protection against Isobel Darby.

      
Had Cain done anything to address the problem of the hateful woman yet? He had said nothing specific about his search. In spite of dreading the pain it would cost Jubal if he learned the truth, Roxanna was no longer fearful of being exposed as an impostor. Cain had not set her aside because of the deception. Could he one day come to love her? Soon she would have to tell him about the baby. She patted her still-flat abdomen and smiled. Suddenly she was ravenously hungry.

      
The problem of how best to spend the day was quickly settled when she remembered Sarah Grady's open invitation to visit the next time she was in Denver. The Gradys had not attended last evening's gala. After sending a note to Sarah, Roxanna learned that was because one of the children had suddenly taken ill. This morning young Justin was well on the way to recovery from what had turned out to be an overindulgence in fudge, sneaked into his room by a well-meaning young cook's helper.

      
Sarah's message included an invitation for luncheon and an afternoon of shopping. Considering that her waistline would soon be thickening, Roxanna knew she would need new clothing. In spite of Jubal's objections, she hoped to convince Cain to bring her back to the Union Pacific camp for the winter. If he agreed, she would be hundreds of miles from a dressmaker. She set out for a day ripe with promise.

* * * *

      
Across the city Cain and Jubal spent the morning in negotiations with several high-ranking officers of the Central Pacific. The top floor of the Grand Union Bank had been converted into a spacious meeting room. A long mahogany table ran its length, with heavy armchairs for the gentlemen. Huge potted palms in Chinese urns filled the corners and an ornate sterling coffee server was attended by two waiters, who also lit the patrons' cigars and provided crystal ashtrays and polished brass cuspidors for disposing of tobacco waste. One eastern journalist had written, quite accurately, that the railroad barons surrounded themselves with elegance...and spittoons.

      
Lawrence Powell represented his father but had little to say during the often heated arguments. The younger Powell leaned back in his chair with his fingers steepled, seeming to drift in and out of awareness about the business at hand, puffing on an expensive Cuban cigar more for affectation than from a genuine enjoyment of the smoke.

      
Bored little rich boy
, Cain thought disgustedly when Collis Huntington fired Powell a question about the Central Pacific's grading contracts with the Mormons and Lawrence stuttered an excuse, fumbling through the papers before him to find the correct information.

      
Jubal passed Cain a note midway through the tedious proceedings. From the self-satisfied expression on the Scot's usually dour face, he knew it was good news even before he opened and read it. Their agents had located a bank clerk in San Francisco who was privy to the transfers of almost two million dollars. The funds had gone from Central Pacific accounts to pay Magus Shipping Enterprises and the Felder-Smythe Iron Foundry, and from there into the accounts of several private individuals. The clerk was willing to produce records proving that all these accounts were owned by Andrew Powell.

      
A slow smile touched Cain's lips, then vanished like the smoke wreathing the conference room. A deep flush of satisfaction engulfed him like a warm ocean tide sweeping in to cover dry sand.
I've waited a long time to nail you, Powell.
Then Lawrence stood up to make his report. He could read well, Cain would give him that, although he was certain some underpaid clerk had no doubt toiled into the night gathering and preparing the facts and figures Lawrence ticked off so smoothly.

      
Cain studied his appearance as he spoke, admitting that young Powell was handsome in that pale waxy sort of way so many women favored. Fair hair, clear ruddy complexion, blue eyes, even the recent affectation of muttonchop whiskers.
At least he's man enough to shave now.
Did Roxanna find him attractive? Certainly he had polished manners and was a meticulous dresser.