When Last We Loved (16 page)

Cassie ran her hands lovingly over the rosewood and spruce instrument. As she strummed the gold-pegged strings and stroked the ebony fingerboard, she searched for the words to express her gratitude. Her eyes misted, and when she looked at Hoyt, he misunderstood the reason for her tears.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Concern etched fine lines as he furrowed his brow. “If you would rather have another guitar, we can exchange it tomorrow; first thing.”

“This is the most beautiful guitar I've ever seen,” she declared, still awed by his generosity. In her wildest dreams, Cassie had never imagined owning an instrument like this. “I don't even know what to say,” she finished lamely.

“Talk's cheap. Play a tune on it so we can see how it works.” Hoyt settled into an easy chair to sip his bourbon and watch Cassie tune the guitar with reverent expertise.

When she hugged the instrument to her, she was amazed. The symmetrical spruce curves undulated to fit the delicate shape of her body— almost as though it had been made especially for her. Her voice rang true and clear, melding with the guitar's already seasoned sound as she sang “Wildflower.” Under the light, sure touch of her graceful fingers, the strings vibrated toward the gold pegs set in an unusual scalloped bracing.

“It's perfect,” she murmured when the final strains faded away. The applewood-scented fire played its own hissing tune in the hearth, and muffled claps of thunder announced the storm's intention to stay the night.

Cassie studied the man sprawled as supple as leather in the chair opposite her. He was the most complex person she had ever known. One minute he was the swaggering, silver-buckled rodeo champion; the next minute he was the no-nonsense, working boss whipping the family company into shape. A smoldering desire fired her as she recalled another, more tender side of this outlaw in gentleman's surroundings.

With its rich walnut paneling, the warm room was like a comfortable cave where the two of them were isolated from the world. Cassie sat, quietly entranced, her black hair spilling over her shoulders, and the soft swell of her breasts filling the hollow curve of the guitar. The cold blue steel of Hoyt's eyes returned her scrutiny, yet revealed nothing of what he might be thinking.

“We're both going to be running on pretty tight schedules this next week or so.” His words were terse battering rams against the constraints of intimacy that held both of them captive. “I imagine you'd better get some rest while you can.”

Cassie nodded a melancholy agreement, but she made no move to rise off the sofa.

“You'd better go upstairs.” Raw tension vibrated through his warning. “Because if you stay here, I'm going to pull you down an that rug and make love to you.”

Cassie nodded again. A potent force seemed to be holding her immobile and she didn't— couldn't— resist the invisible ties that bound her. A wooden puppet had more control over its limbs than she did.

When Hoyt reached out, Cassie placed her hand in his. In one fluid motion, she was off the sofa and cradled in his arms.

Hoyt carried her to the fur rug and laid her down with the tender consideration of a museum curator displaying a rare piece of porcelain. Her robe fell away from her creamy shoulders and his mouth followed the smooth lines of her soft flesh.

“Your hair is like silk.” Hoyt buried his face in the thick mass and threaded the black waves through his fingers. His lips were erotic conquerors, scaling the alabaster peaks of her breasts to their tender, rosy crests.

“Oh, Hoyt.” Desire curled through her like a whiplash under the gentle persuasion of his flicking tongue.

Cassie unbuttoned his chamois shirt and spread her hands on his hard chest. The steady thud of his heartbeat, the solid muscle of his shoulders and back seared her sensitive palms.

Remember me, her violet eyes seemed to say as she watched him strip off his clothes with the same natural ease that stamped his every movement. His sinewy form joined her yielding softness on the fur rug, and their bodies fused in the white-hot heat of passion.

Although she knew she couldn't have him forever, Cassie reveled in this mutual possession of body and soul. The heat fired her veins and Cassie gave herself up to the sensations washing over her. The jealous fire played beside them, its warm orange glow casting erotic shadows of their entwining limbs. When Cassie thought she was dying in his arms, Hoyt's kiss revived her.

They were equal... again... finally... perhaps one last time.

Hoyt's hands and mouth drove her wild with wanting, while his body drove her deeper into the velvet-piled fur. She caressed his naked back, his shoulders, his thrusting hips, saying with her passion what she dared not say aloud. The tremors, and the wonder of them, carried her beyond fulfillment, beyond caring that they might never love like this again.

* * * *

“I don't want him to cut my hair! You're trying to turn me into something I'm not, something I'll never be!” Cassie raged even as the hairdresser tugged on her hand, urged her to sit in the chair that he'd positioned in front of the mirror.

“Stop it!” she shrieked and ducked her head, avoiding the gleaming scissors that threatened to snip away her long black tresses. “I thought we were supposed to have a partnership!” she accused.

“It is a partnership. You do the singing and show up for the appointments I make for you. And I take care of everything else.” Hoyt's blue eyes glinted impatiently. “Don't bring her downstairs until she's done— or whatever the hell you call it.” He closed the door behind him.

Dee Dee had resigned herself to Cassie's presence for the time being. She hovered near the pensive hair stylist, offering unsolicited advice as he worked. “Don't cut it too short,” she said as the hairdresser feathered the sides and crown.

“Well, I think you
could
take just a little more off the top,” Dee Dee asserted when the stylist stepped away to survey his handiwork.

Although she hated admitting it, Cassie liked the freer, sleeker hairdo. And when she modeled the lilac silk dress that the seamstress pinned on her, she thought she knew how Cinderella must have felt when the fairy godmother appeared from nowhere and waved her magic wand. The floor-length dress molded Cassie's tiny waist, and the tucked bodice emphasized her high, taut breasts.

“Not bad.” Hoyt barely glanced up from the books and papers spread over his mahogany desktop when Cassie modeled the result of his image-polishing orders.

Cassie's cheeks flamed in baffled embarrassment This indifference stung worse than his anger ever had. Ever since the night they'd made love, she had tried to broach the subject of his abrupt change of attitude. Hoyt had tersely muttered something about unchecked emotions catching up with a man faster than a prairie fire in July, and he had left it at that. The tender look that contradicted his impersonal words made Cassie wonder if he'd already felt the scorching heat and was running scared.

They hadn't been alone all week— he'd made sure of that. But still, he was keeping his end of their bargain, and Cassie was determined to keep hers when she debuted at the Petroleum Club. More than anything, she wanted to please him, to bask in the sunshine of his approval. But judging from his coolness, she was facing a near-impossible task.

Well, she'd show him what she was capable of when opportunity came knocking. She'd work with this band that he'd hired, even though she missed the Twisters something fierce. And she'd shelve the hurt and shame— again. Hoyt's plans for her future left no time for tears.

* * * *

The mansard-roofed, brick Petroleum Club had been erected as a monument to the wealthy Dallas ranchers and oilmen who patronized it. During its first half-century of operation, the club embraced the most basic of chauvinistic principles. No women had been allowed inside the hallowed halls where prominent men clustered for a friendly poker game after rough days of wheeling and dealing; where steaks ordered rare were merely waved over an open fire before being served; and where men escaped nagging domesticity to be treated like
real
men for a few precious hours.

Anywhere other than Dallas, the Petroleum Club would have been considered an eyesore amid the towering skyscrapers and architectural wonders that were changing the frontier image of this cosmopolitan city. But there were so many second- and third-generation members, that when the time came, sentimentality had ruled. A vote was taken to remodel the structure instead of demolish it, and the rules of admittance were relaxed somewhat.

As a grudging concession to the times, ladies were finally granted permission to dine with their husbands or escorts and to attend specially staged shows. The smoking, reading, and card rooms remained off limits to the softer sex, however.

“What's holding you up? Why aren't you ready?” Hoyt shot questions like a machine-gunner at Cassie. He crossed the room and pulled her dress off the hanger, trying to speed up the processes that had ground to a halt while he was seating his guests out front. “We've got a full house out there!” he barked. “Now get out of that robe and get ready!”

“I'm a nervous wreck.” She rushed from the mirror at her dressing table to the mirror in the bathroom. “I think I'm hoarse.” Cassie squirted some medicine-flavored gargle into her throat. “My hair is awful. And, look, I broke a fingernail.”

“Vanity, thy name is Cassie.” Hoyt had never witnessed a case of her stage jitters, and he misinterpreted the source of her frazzled behavior. He stood still in the middle of the room, her dress over his arm, where she'd draped it when she'd dashed into the bathroom to reglue a false eyelash.

“Get dressed.” He unzipped the lilac silk dress and held it out to her. “Your hair is fine; your voice is in good shape; and, believe me, nobody in the audience is going to notice one chipped nail.”

“Turn around.” Cassie took the dress. She knew it was silly to be modest now, but she was. He'd hurt her just once too often with that brisk attitude. If he could pretend that nothing had ever happened between them, so could she. “Don't leave,” she cautioned when he moved toward the door. “Somebody has to zip me into this.”

She slipped out of her robe and into the dress. “Okay.” She held her newly styled hair off her neck so that it wouldn't catch in the zipper. “Now that I've gotten used to it, I kind of like my hair this new way.” She spoke casually but couldn't ignore the hands that guided the metal zipper up her back.

“I think I've forgotten all the words.” Cassie smiled at her own ritual phrase as she took her place onstage behind the blue velvet curtains. The lead guitarist nodded soberly. “Just kidding,” she assured him.

The announcer's voice filtered through the drapes and polite applause greeted her when she stepped into the spotlight. The vibrations of the music— her music— flowed into Cassie's body and she forgot the mink and diamond audience that could make her or break her. When she spun her musical tales, her husky, quivering voice held the crowd spellbound. And the Cajun-country rocker that ended her performance set a lively, upbeat tone that brought the spectators to their feet with resounding applause.

A young man in a tuxedo walked out of the wings and placed a bouquet of yellow roses in her arms when Cassie took her last curtain call. Hoyt offered her an arm and escorted her through a sea of congratulations. Cassie floated, not quite ready to relinquish the high of a good show in front of an enthusiastic audience.

“A star is born,” Dee Dee drawled sarcastically. Her ruby-red dress fit her like a glove, and her blonde hair was swept up off her face. The diamond earrings that she wore would choke a goat, but their sparkle was offset by the heat in her eyes.

“Cassie, this is Bo Davis. Bo's an independent producer in Nashville and he wants to cut a demo with you.” Hoyt's navy-blue blazer and gunmetal-gray slacks failed to diminish his rugged, outdoors mystique. “If the demo is any good, we'll press some records and distribute them under the Diamond T label.”

She rode an emotional merry-go-round, swooping low as she faced the inevitable separation from Hoyt, then rebounding to reach for the brass ring of success, It
was
possible to be lonesome in a crowd, Cassie realized. Suddenly, she'd never felt more isolated in her life.

“I'd sure appreciate the chance to visit with you after you've fulfilled your obligation to the Petroleum Club.” Bo Davis looked like everybody's favorite uncle in his rumpled suit. Cassie liked him immediately. “My studio could stand to turn out some hits with a singer like you.”

“I could probably stand it, too.” She wanted to believe that this was as legitimate as it seemed, but she couldn't shake the once-burned caution kept alive by the memory of Allen Ingram and Harlan Purdy. At least Bo Davis hadn't whipped out a contract and demanded that she sign it on the spot. Cassie chalked up one for him. “May I think it over before I give you a definite answer?”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” Bo Davis’ broad, friendly smile reassured her even further.

Cassie stood between the two men, uncertain as to what her next move should be.

“I guess you'll want to change your clothes and head back to the ranch now.” Cassie wished Hoyt would tell her, right here in front of God and everybody, that she'd pleased him. But she knew there was no chance of hearing the words she longed for him to say.

“I'll be ready in two seconds.” Her bubble of happiness had burst. When she heard Bo Davis congratulate Hoyt as she walked toward the stage door, she wanted to cry.

“It looks like you've struck oil again, Temple. Sure beats me how you're able to spot a winner every time, but I wouldn't object if you wanted to share the secret.”

Hot tears smarted in Cassie's eyes, but she managed to hold her head high as she skirted the tables and made her exit more by instinct than vision. For an instant she'd forgotten that she was nothing more to Hoyt than an expensive ante into the poker game of the music business. Well, she certainly wouldn't make that mistake again.

* * * *

Cassie caught a last, lingering glimpse of the colorful patchwork quilt that was Dallas and its suburbs as the silver jet soared up into the fluffy white clouds.