Dark Paradise (30 page)

submerged himself into a blissful oblivion.

Marilee kissed him back, bracing her hands on his shoulders. They were

like rock beneath the damp cotton of his shirt. Her fingers kneaded the

muscle, moving up the back of his thick neck and down again. All the

while their tongues slid against each other, their lips clung, their

breath mingled with the taste of strong coffee and dust.

J.D. pressed her back into the rails, sliding a hand between them to

undo the buttons of her shirt. She made no move to stop him. And she

made no move to stop him when he lowered his head, tugged the lacy cup

of her bra aside, and took her nipple into his mouth. Desire exploded

through her like a nuclear blast. His mouth was hot. The insistent

tugging seemed to reach down into the core of her and pull at something

vital. She slicked her hands over his head, brushing her fingers back

through his dark hair, pulling him closer.

She wanted him. She wanted to comfort him and offer him something soft

and gentle. . . .

Then somewhere in the last bastion of sanity she thought of what kind of

games he might be playing. He wanted her land and he wanted her body,

and she was damn sure he would want nothing else she had to offer.

She was an outsider. She didn't belong.

As if he sensed her sudden shift of mood, J.D. raised his head and

looked at her, his eyes the color and intensity of hot charcoal. She

couldn't find her voice anywhere, and simply shook her head. His face

tightened.

He stepped back, pulling the two halves of her shirt to and she stepped

down from the fence, not at all sure that her knees wouldn't give out.

"I don't play games," she said again. But as she walked away from him

into the dim interior of the barn, she had the terrible feeling she was

already caught up in a game with rules she didn't understand and stakes

that were far too high.

"I wish you hadn't done that with Will," Samantha said quietly. She

stood just outside the door to Bryce's stable. The rest of his entourage

was halfway to the house. She hung back, feeling more at home near the

barn than near the mansion. In the dimly lit aisle of the stable, a

dirty, tattooed ranch hand unsaddled the Appaloosa she had ridden. The

man watched her over the gelding's back for a moment, the gleam in his

eyes making her skin crawl. She frowned at him and his mouth twisted in

amusement, revealing a glimpse of discolored teeth.

Bryce rubbed his fingertips along his jaw, idly contemplating shaving

before the party. He studied Samantha at the same time. He stood behind

her and to the side, out of her line of vision, very coolly, very

calculatingly assessing her emotional state. She looked more like a

stable hand than his usual sort of guest. The jeans she wore were old,

the blouse cheap cotton. She had pulled her hair back into its

serviceable braid again and secured it at the end with a pink rubber

band.

"He needed shocking, sweetheart," he said with just the perfect touch of

consolation and paternal wisdom.

"Now maybe he'll wake up and see what a fool he's been for neglecting

you. If he doesn't, he doesn't deserve you."

He picked up the end of her braid, slipped the band from it, and began

to sift the strands free with his fingers.

"Personally, I'm quite certain he doesn't deserve you," he murmured.

"Any sensible man would cherish you, pamper you, encourage you to come

to ripen on the vine."

He lifted her hair, spread it out across her shoulders.

When he turned her to face him, his expression was one of fatherly

concern, gently chastising. "Your hair is gorgeous, Samantha. You should

wear it loose, show it off. Don't hide your beauty, sweetheart. Glory in it."

Uncomfortable with his flattery, Samantha tried to glance away from him,

but his pale eyes had a way of mesmerizing her, and she kept glancing

back at him like a nervous horse. He had to think she was a stupid,

naive kid. She had never been anywhere or done anything. She didn't have

a clue how to act around his kind of people.

And yet he was still taking the time to be nice to her. She may not have

liked his methods, but he was trying to help her with Will, even though

he didn't think much of her choice of husbands.

"I've never really thought of myself as beautiful," she admitted shyly,

feeling as if she at least owed him her honesty and her confidence. He

was only trying to be a friend to her, and God knew she didn't have many

of those.

Her confession actually surprised Bryce. A rare shock showed on his

face. She had the bone structure of a model, and an exotic quality that

had the potential to be stunning. How could she not know that?
 
He

didn't know a woman who wasn't fully aware of every weapon in her

arsenal. But Samantha was not being coy or fishing for compliments. He

could easily read the uncertainty in her eyes, and it touched him as

very few things could.

Gently he hooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up.

"Honey, you could set the world on its ear," he said sincerely. "All you

need is someone to point you in the right direction and encourage you.

Didn't your parents encourage you?"

The bitter laugh was automatic, though it mortified Samantha and she

immediately wished she could have sucked it back into her lungs and held

it there. She couldn't talk about her family with Bryce. They were poor

and dirty. Trash. That was what everyone around town said. That was what

she had grown up hearing sneered behind her back. The Neills were

nothing but half-breed trash. The shame of that clung to her still, like

a film of grime she could never wash off no matter how hard she

scrubbed.

"I should go home," she mumbled, glancing at the cheap oversize watch

she wore strapped to her wrist, the band wrapped twice around. It was

Will's. She wondered if he missed it any more than he missed her. "I

have to feed my dog."

"I'll send Morton to take care of it," Bryce said. He didn't want her

slipping away now, when she was in this melancholy mood. She would

likely talk herself out of returning for the party, and he couldn't have

that.

"You don't have to. I'll need to change clothes anyway," Samantha said,

doing a bleak mental inventory of her wardrobe. She had nothing good

enough to wear to a party the likes of this one. Because she didn't

belong here, she reminded herself. She wasn't Cinderella. She had no

fairy godmother. Her Prince Charming had dumped her for the chance to ride

off into the sunset with honky-tonk heroines night after night.

Bryce waited, letting the moment ripen, stepping forward just as the

first glitter of tears glazed across her eyes. Taking hold of her hand,

he granted her a subdued version of the Redford smile. "Wait here just a

minute. I have a little surprise for you."

He went into the stable and gave instructions to the hired hand brushing

down the Appaloosa to drive into town and see to Samantha's dog. When

he came back out, he took her by the elbow and led her up the path to

his house. Samantha thought it was nearly as large as the Moose, all

gray wood and fieldstone, sparkling windows and soaring roof lines.

Passing by a living room, she caught a glimpse of sparkling windowpanes

that rose to a peak in the center of the wall, making her think of a

cathedral, as did the beamed, vaulted ceiling. Seemed like a lot of

wasted space, but it was beautiful. The view was incredible. It was like

standing in heaven and looking on paradise. She could have fit her whole

house in this one room.

Bryce led her up a curving open staircase to the second floor and down

the quiet, elegant hall of the guest wing.

Five of the ten guest rooms were occupied, though there was no sign of

the guests. Everyone had retired to get ready for the party.

The suite of rooms Bryce took Samantha to far outstripped anything she

had ever encountered in terms of luxury. Thick beige carpet, antique

furnishings, real paintings on the walls, a huge bouquet of fresh

flowers in a Chinese vase on a table in the small sitting room. In the

bedroom a pine wardrobe stood open near the bed with an array of

jeweltone clothing hanging inside.

"Take your pick," Bryce said, brushing a hand across the dangling

sleeves and setting the garments swinging.

"I had Sharon stop in at Latigo Boutique and pick up a few things in

your size. The colors are perfect for you. You'll find whatever else

you might need in the bureau."

"I can't accept this," Samantha whispered, too stunned to speak louder

or too afraid that he might agree with her. One blouse from Latigo was

enough to swallow her whole paycheck. There were half a dozen in the

wardrobe.

"Of course you can," he insisted, grinning. "We're friends."

"Yeah, but-"

"But nothing. I'm a generous man. I enjoy giving things to my friends,

especially those in need of a little something special in their lives."

He softened his expression and brushed the knuckles of one hand down her

cheek. "This is my gift to you, sweetheart. Enjoy it. Enjoy the rooms.

Enjoy the clothing. Enjoy the party tonight. My payment is getting to

see you smile and have a good time."

Samantha backed away from him, a grin tugging at her mouth. Laughter

bubbled up inside her as the pendulum of her emotions swung upward again

and the shift of momentum threatened her equilibrium. She turned around,

taking in the room, the clothes. Through the partially open door to the

bath she caught a glimpse of marble and gold fixtures. "It seems too

good to be true."

"Not at all," Bryce murmured, curling his fingers around the doorknob.

"This is opportunity, Samantha. The doors to the whole world are open to

you. You have only to choose to go through them."

He left her on that note, pleased with his flair for drama, certain

Samantha would soak it in like a dry sponge. Poor kid. He knew what it

was to be stuck in a life devoid of quality; financially, culturally,

socially bankrupt. That was the life to which Will Rafferty would anchor

her. She had to be allowed to glimpse the world she could have if she

would cut the anchor free.

He glanced at the watch he'd had crafted by a silversmith in Missoula - a

platinum Rolex set in a wide cuff of sterling that was shaped and

engraved into the likeness of an eagle with its wings spread to encircle

his wrist.

Two hours to prepare. Ample time. Everything was under control.

Except J.D. Rafferty. Bryce scowled at the reminder.

Damned cowboy. So pious, so smug, wearing his air of entitlement like a

king's robe when it was nothing more than a shabby rag handed down by

another dirty cowboy. He thought his humble Montana birth somehow

elevated him morally. The idea made Bryce want to choke.

"I'll bring you to your knees, Rafferty," he snarled beneath his breath.

"I'll have your damn ranch."

The knowledge that he already had the key brightened his mood and the

anger rolled away like storm clouds that had threatened, then moved on.

He was smiling by the time he reached his suite. The smile turned carnal

as he walked into the bedroom and found Sharon lounging back against a

mountain of suede pillows, naked except for one of his narrow,

silver-tipped western belts and a pair of tall snakeskin cowboy boots.

"How's our little pigeon?" she asked as he came to a halt at the end of

the bed and began to undress.

"Roosting. She likes your taste in clothes."

"I should hope so," she said with a wry smile. "You spent a small

fortune on her."

"An 'Investment'." He slipped his shirt off and tossed it onto the seat

of a caramel-colored leather chair. "You have to spend money to make

money. Samantha won't cost me a fraction of what I'll gain."

"Rafferty's land."