Nan Ryan (27 page)

A hush fell over the crowd as the announce-ment of her arrival was made by the uniformed page.

Robbie Ann, on the arm of her distinguished escort, paused at the ballroom’s elevated marble entrance. She stood perfectly still, allowing the cream of San Antonio’s Old Guard ample opportunity to admire her.

The ginger-haired actress, adroitly playing her part of the royal princess, was gowned in a stunning Paris creation of shimmering green silk. A rope of priceless emeralds graced her pale, exposed throat. The exquisite emeralds were not a part of Princess Marlena’s jewel collection. There was nothing left of the royal gem collection, save the prized sapphire-and-diamond necklace and matching earrings that had belonged to the princess’s mother.

This dazzling emerald necklace was an offering from her enchanted escort for the evening, the dignified Texan Andrew Forester. One of San Antonio’s most powerful and richest citizens, the vain, silver-haired widower owned commercial real estate, banks, and cattle ranches throughout the vast state of Texas. Andrew Forester had eagerly volunteered to be the visiting princess’s escort for the evening’s gala.

The arrangements meticulously made and agreed to by all concerned parties, Andrew Forester had, at that afternoon’s downtown bond rally, maneuvered to get up close to the platform on which the waving, smiling princess stood.

Patiently waiting until he could catch her eye, he had shouted to be heard above the din, “What color is the gown you will be wearing this evening?”

“Green,” she told him, mouthing the words soundlessly. “Emerald green.”

He had nodded, smiled, and slipped away while she turned her attention back to the cheering crowd.

That evening, when the immaculately groomed Andrew Forester had shown up at the hotel to collect her, he was beaming broadly as if he had a delicious secret. Robbie Ann had supposed it was nothing more than that he was extremely pleased to have been chosen as her escort. She had learned quickly that when you were a princess of the royal blood—or thought to be—gentlemen clamored for your company.

But she was genuinely surprised when, once the two of them were alone inside the privacy of his gleaming black brougham, Andrew Forester produced a long slim velvet box. Without a word, he handed it to her.

Inside the box, on a bed of shiny white satin, rested the gorgeous emerald necklace. Robbie Ann stared in wonder as the huge emeralds flashed their brilliant green fire in the shadowy light of the carriage’s side lamps. Finally she turned to look questioningly at the beaming, silver-haired Andrew Forester.

“Please accept the necklace as a small token of my appreciation for allowing me the great honor of escorting you to the ball,” he said. “Look on the emeralds as my small contribution to your empire, Princess Marlena.”

Empire, the devil
, Robbie Ann thought without a shred of guilt.
These beautiful babies are staying with me. I’ve earned them!

She said evenly, “Oh, no, Mr. Forester, I couldn’t possibly—that is, my kingdom couldn’t possibly—accept such an expensive gift.” She turned her most dazzling smile on him, hoping to high heaven he would insist she keep them.

“Of course, you can, Your Royal Highness. You must. Please. I shall be hurt if you refuse,” he said, smiling back at her. He took the necklace from the box, and asked, “May I?”

Without waiting for permission, he carefully draped the heavy stones around her neck. As he fastened the dainty gold clasp behind her head, Robbie Ann raised a gloved hand, touched the round-cut emeralds, and wondered just how many thousands of dollars the fabulous stones had set him back. She wanted to ask but didn’t dare. A royal princess never bothered about such vulgar things as price.

Now, as Robbie Ann stood on the wide marble threshold with hundreds of pairs of admiring eyes focused on her, she was quietly scheming how she could keep the gift of the necklace a secret from her entourage. This emerald necklace was hers! The captivated gentleman at her side had given it to her, and she had no intention of parting with it.

No one need ever know. Not Montillion. She would cleverly remove it before returning to the hotel. Not the baroness Richtoffen. She would keep it carefully hidden from the eagle-eyed lady-in-waiting. Not this tall, silver-haired rich man who had handed it to her as casually as if it were a bouquet of spring violets.

And certainly not the true princess, who was, and had been for the past twenty-four hours, mysteriously missing. Lord knew where Her Highness was or when she would turn up. Maybe the princess had finally tired of all this folderol and had taken a permanent powder. Maybe the sheltered monarch had met a rugged charmer and had run away with him! That prospect made Robbie Ann’s pulse quicken with excitement. If the real Princess Marlena couldn’t be found, maybe she could continue to play this coveted role indefinitely.

Robbie Ann was shaken from her pleasant reverie when the gala’s grandly gowned hostess, the aging, arthritic widow Annabelle Boothe, stepped forward with the aid of a cane to greet her guest of honor. Then together the three of them—the stand-in princess, her proud escort, and her happy hostess—moved slowly down the long reception line. Introductions were made. Greetings were exchanged. Respectful guests bowed and curtsied.

Robbie Ann loved every minute of the adulation.

With each hand she shook and each pair of shining eyes she looked into, her guilty joy increased. She knew that she should be ashamed of herself for being secretly glad that the real princess had failed to show up on schedule. The recovered Princess Marlena was to have arrived in San Antonio late yesterday afternoon. But the arrival hour had come and gone and now, more than a full day later, she still had not appeared.

Beside himself with worry, Montillion had told Robbie Ann that apparently the princess had been unavoidably delayed and that she would have to continue playing her role for a few hours longer.

“For as long as it takes,” she had said, attempting to look worried, actually feeling quite elated. Then, trying to comfort the distraught, likable factor, she had reminded him, “Now, Monty, you are worrying needlessly. You told me yourself that you sent her bodyguard to Cloudcroft to collect her. What could possibly happen to the princess while she’s with him? Not a thing. She’s fine, just fine.”

Turning about now on the polished dance floor in the arms of her elegant partner, Robbie Ann was grateful to the royal princess. The princess’s failure to appear had given her at least a few more hours of this privileged life she had come to treasure.

And, an expensive emerald necklace to boot.

29

A dry, hot wind whistled through
the hearty ocotillo. Whip-tail lizards scurried along the desert floor, darting in and out of the dead and dying brittle-bush, seeking shade. A red-tail hawk soared over the rising thermals, unbothered by the heat and the wind, above it all. Free.

In a scraggly patch of creosote bush, a bumble bee hovered, its wings blurred in flight as it drifted up to one side, then back. And atop a stark, sandstone mesa, an evil-looking humpbacked vulture perched unmoving, as if he scented death.

Across this harsh, forbidding southern New Mexico desert, two people rode tandem atop a sweating, lathered black stallion.

The man was slumped lazily in the saddle, his hat brim pulled low, his black shirt soaked with sweat under the arms and down his back. Accustomed to riding long hours in both extreme heat and bitter cold, he was unbothered by the soaring June temperature of early afternoon in the desert.

The woman, unused to braving the elements, was so hot and miserable she felt as if she couldn’t stand one more minute of the terrible torture. Her hair was damp and sticking to her neck. Her head ached from too many hours under the punishing sun. Beads of moisture pooled between her breasts and dampened her dirty blue shirt. The heat, the dust, the perspiration, prickled her skin, and it seemed there was not a single spot on her entire body that did not itch unmercifully. She felt as if she were rubbed raw all over.

The man and the woman crossing the sunbaked plain had not spoken in hours. When the blazing sun reached its zenith, it had been she who finally broke the strained silence.

“Are we ever going to reach El Paso?”

“Eventually,” Virgil had replied, noncommittal.

“That’s no answer, Ranger!” Now she was both angry and miserable. “Surely we must be getting close to the city by now.”

“We might well have been, if not for your sojourn west with the Apaches,” he drawled in his flat Texas twang, which made her long to slap his bearded face. “That little adventure added an extra sixty miles to our journey.”

“Well … I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t my fault! It was those impertinent Indians. I told the chief that I didn’t wish to go with them!”

“Did you now?” Virgil said with a derisive laugh. “Jesus Christ, woman, they don’t call this the Wild West because rules of decorum prevail and laws have weight.”

“You should know, Texan, you’re the most ill-bred man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. And don’t call me woman!”

Virgil shrugged, said no more. Nor did she. They again lapsed into silence.

Now in the searing heat of the early afternoon, there was no sound save the buzzing of the bee, the murmur of flies, the scratching of the perched vulture, and a few sporadic bird cries.

These long intervals of silence, the growing mutual irritation, the constant need to lash out at each other—all were born of an unwanted, undeniable attraction between the two. An attraction that was almost palpable.

Twenty-four hours had passed since they made love in the rainstorm. Since then, they had pointedly tried to stay out of each other’s way. But when they had stopped the previous night and made camp, they had accidentally, unavoidably bumped into each other. The brief brushing of body against body was like an electrical shock. One touch was all it took to ignite their simmering passions. Instinctively they began kissing and embracing until, fighting against the growing desire threatening to consume them, one would come to his senses and hastily push the other away.

The first time it had happened, it was the princess who had put a stop to it. Struggling to keep her wits about her, she had torn her lips from his plundering mouth and anxiously pulled away, saying breathlessly, “No … please … don’t. Don’t.”

Less than half an hour later, when it happened again and she found herself enfolded in his arms with his beautifully sculptured lips pressed to hers, it had been Virgil who snapped out of it. Tingling from head to toe, she had blinked in confusion and disappointment when he abruptly set her back, shook his dark head, released her, and hurriedly turned away.

No fewer than a half-dozen such occurrences had taken place before they finally bedded down—safely apart—for the night.

If they agreed on nothing else, it seemed they were of the same mind on at least one thing.

Neither wished to make love to the other again.

Both were dying to make love to the other again.

Even now, as hot and tired and dirty as they were, lust posed the greatest discomfort. Tensing every time she moved unexpectedly or fleetingly touched him, Virgil was glad she couldn’t see the torture in his eyes and know how easily she affected him. His body ached with the overwhelming impact of his desire. His head throbbed from suppressed passion. If he didn’t get away from this beautiful temptress for an hour or two, he would crack under the strain.

It was the same for the princess.

She had, from the beginning, been fascinated by the tall, dark, ruggedly handsome Ranger. Mesmerized by the exotic aura of adventure that clung to him. Even before they were intimate, before he taught her the delightful secrets of her own body, she had been physically drawn to him.

She told herself it was only because she had never known a man like him. He was different, a novelty. An original. A tough western loner. A daring don of the desert. Everything about him commanded attention. His dark good looks. His lean, muscled body. His Texas Ranger bearing. His eerily controlled poise—cool as ice and compellingly masculine. What female wouldn’t find such a unique specimen powerfully intriguing?

Even royal princesses—she had finally learned—were women first. She had learned it from this erotic man whose animal heat had made her feel for the first time in her life the sweet communion of love, that male-female unity that was the fountain of life. It was somehow rather fitting that it had been this enigmatic Texan who so easily solved for her the mystery of physical love.

Instinctively the princess knew that this man held the key to all her untapped passion. He had taught her a valuable lesson in loving. He had shown her where she most wanted, most needed, to be touched. The keeper of the key, he had expertly unlocked the never-before-opened door of her desire. And once he had fully awakened her, he had come inside that door open to him and had patiently guided her along each delightful step toward total ecstacy. An ecstacy so intense, so pleasurable, so complete, she was sure it would last her the rest of her life.