Nan Ryan (23 page)

He reached back into the chest and took out a fading yellow wanted poster. He studied—as he had a hundred times—the likeness of a girl with pale, unruly hair sticking up in short spiky locks all over her head.

Lew stared at the poster and told himself that the beautiful young woman he was taking on a moonlight ride to Cholla Canyon couldn’t possibly be this girl. He would find no telltale butterfly birthmark on Fontaine Gayerre’s creamy flesh.
Please, God, no
.

Lew put the handbill back under the shirts, exhaled heavily, and withdrew another article.

A pair of shiny handcuffs.

“Could a hungry bronc-rider get a bite to eat here, miss?” Lew teased when Mollie opened the front door at twilight.

He could, she thought guiltily, get just about anything he wanted when he stood there smiling at her, all scrubbed and handsome in a starched white shirt and a pair of snug-fitting dark trousers.

“I don’t know,” she said coyly, tilting her head to one side, “I’ll have to think—”

The sentence was never finished. Seeing that they were alone, Lew pulled her to him and kissed her. When their lips separated, he said, “Thanks for wearing the dress, sweetheart.”

“You’re very welcome,” Mollie said, wondering why this particular dress was his favorite. She had many that were prettier. There was nothing special about this yellow-and-white flowered muslin with its low, round, off-the-shoulder bodice. The back
did
dip daringly low into a wide V beneath which four pearl buttons secured the tight bodice. Maybe that’s why he liked it. She hated wearing it because it buttoned in back, making it difficult to get dressed alone. But Lew had asked her to wear it, and she wanted to please him.

Mollie led Lew into the high-ceilinged dining room, which was lighted only by white candles in a silver candelabrum. Fine bone china and sterling silver cutlery rested on a tablecloth of pale yellow damask. Mexican poppies mixed with pinkish red blossoms from the beaver tail cactus floated in a huge, water-filled crystal bowl.

It was elegant, it was formal, it was impressive.

But the two place settings had been laid out at opposite ends of the long dining table. Lew pulled out a high-backed chair for Mollie. When she was seated and he had pushed the chair back in place, he cupped her bare shoulders with warm hands, leaned down, and said, “Did you really suppose I’d allow you to sit this far from me?”

Charmed, Mollie pressed her cheek to his hand. “Louise insisted that this was the way a table should be set … said it was proper.”

“Proper, perhaps, but I prefer intimate.”

He walked to the far end of the table, picked up serviette, dinner plate, silverware, and crystal. Balancing it all atop his palm as though he were a waiter, he came back, placed the dishes on the table close to hers, and drew up a chair.

He sat down, took Mollie’s hand in his, and said, “Now isn’t this better? Intimate as opposed to proper?”

A quick tingle of excitement rushed through her, and she had the distinct impression that he was referring to more than the table arrangements. The aura of power emanating from him was unusually potent on this hot August evening, and Mollie, looking into those fathomless blue eyes gleaming in the candle’s glow, felt light-headed and nervous. His warm lips pressed kisses to her fingertips as he waited for an answer.

To break the spell, she pressed her palm down on the serving bell and immediately a young Mexican servant entered, carrying bowls of consommé.

From the clear steaming soup to the rich coconut pie, the meal was superb. But Lew had to force himself to eat. His mouth was dry and his stomach was queasy. As he sat there in the candlelit dining room of the Manzanita Avenue mansion, he felt like Judas Iscariot sharing with this beautiful, unsuspecting woman her last supper.

Mollie was not hungry either, but for a different reason. She was too excited to eat. All her senses told her that this was to be an unforgettable night. She was uncertain about exactly what was going to happen. But she knew—beyond a doubt—that she loved this man so completely that if he wanted her to be “intimate as opposed to proper,” she could no more say no than she could keep the sun from rising in the morning.

Mollie watched Lew lounging easily back in his chair, enjoying a second cup of coffee. So compelling, so masterful, so much the center of her world. It was hard to believe what had happened to her since meeting him. All her life she had been so headstrong, in command at all times, never knuckling under to anyone or anything. She had never let anybody get one up on her or tell her what to do. She’d done no one’s bidding. Had brashly called the shots, thought for herself, and feared nor favored no man.

Now she was a stranger to herself. She had only to gaze into Lew’s beautiful blue eyes and she was ready to surrender her will to his. Mollie Rogers no longer existed. In her place was a woman so in love with a man that she would, this very night, become his in every way if he wanted her.

Intimate, as opposed to proper.

The prospect caused the blood to race through her veins and her face to heat and flood with color.

As though he had read her thoughts, Lew took the napkin from his knees, folded it, laid it alongside his plate, and said, “It’s awfully warm inside tonight.” Mollie nodded anxiously. “Let’s go for that moonlight ride.” He rose and drew her to her feet.

They said their good-nights to Louise Emerson. Lew complimented Louise on the outstanding meal, and Louise warned him to have Fontaine back at a decent hour. Then they were alone in the front foyer and Mollie said, “I’ll run upstairs and grab a shawl while you harness the team to the brougham.”

“I’ve a better idea,” he said, tracing her collarbone with his little finger. “Let’s leave the carriage here and ride tandem on my stallion.”

Whispering, she said, “But I thought we were going to take a blanket and—”

“We are. It’s tied behind the cantle and there’s wine in my saddlebags.” He flashed her a devastating smile and said, “Come with me, sweetheart?”

“As far as you want to take me.”

The ride across the moonlit Sonoran Desert was
exhilarating, exciting, wonderful. Lew held Mollie across the saddle in front of him, his arm wrapped securely around her. They were atop the powerful bay stallion that had once thrown Lew. The big steed raced across the forbidding land, whipping around giant saguaro cactus rising thirty to forty feet above the desert floor, dwarfing the prickly pear and organ-pipe cactus at their base.

In minutes the fleet-footed stallion, snorting and blowing with exertion, had reached the eroded buttes and volcanic rock near Cholla Canyon. Mollie, flushed with anticipation and happiness, lay back in the strong arm supporting her, trusting this magnificent man and this magnificent horse to transport her safely into the longed-for seclusion of the steep-sided canyon.

Lew was silent. His intense gaze was on the tricky terrain before them. Her head resting over his heart, Mollie could feel its heavy beating beneath her cheek. She studied his handsome face, the moonlight causing some features to stand out in high relief, leaving the rest in shadow.

There was about him, more than ever on this hot summer night, a potent magnetism, an aura of impervious determination that intoxicated her. Lying in his arms, she felt at once safe and in peril. Despite the heat and hardness of his lean body pressed so close to hers, she was strangely chilled. Her eyes never leaving his hard-planed face, she recognized her emotions for what they were.

She was half-afraid of this dark, godlike creature. The power he held over her was absolute. She knew that now—knew as he masterfully reined the big mount toward the concealed mouth of Cholla Canyon, his beautiful eyes flashing in the moonlight, that she was his to do with as he pleased.

Traces of the indomitable will that had been so much a part of her rose to refute such an appalling admission. She had never been afraid of anyone. She was
not
afraid of Lew.

Her silent denials vanished as quickly as they had come. She sighed and snuggled closer to Lew’s broad chest. She had no desire to fight the dominance of this rugged, virile male. She understood, finally, how it was between a man and a woman. Knew now why her gentle mother had always yielded so willingly to the authority of her father. Mollie realized, with absolutely no regret, that she longed to surrender her will, her body, her very soul to this dark, silent man whose strong arms enclosed her.

Mollie closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and smiled.

Lew, teeth clenched, nerves raw, neck-reined the big bay through the undergrowth into the canyon’s narrow mouth. He stole occasional glances at the beautiful woman snuggling trustingly in his arms and felt a painful squeezing of his heart.

He had told himself that this night’s work would be a snap. A moonlight ride, a few swallows of wine, a few heated kisses, an easy seduction, and … the truth. He would finally know her true identity. This woman was either Fontaine Gayerre, in which case he would make patient, gentle love to her, or she was Mollie Rogers. As the moment of truth drew nearer, it no longer seemed quite so simple and easy.

Lew gloomily turned the stallion into the darkened canyon, feeling as if he were riding to his doom. But he never considered turning the big horse around. On he rode, not pulling up until they were a mile inside the canyon. There he drew rein beside a gurgling stream that flowed through a grassy meadow.

Lew swung down off the horse and reached for Mollie. He lifted her from the saddle, lowered her to the ground. Then stood, unmoving, his hands on her waist, the moon at his back. For what seemed to Mollie like an eternity, he stared fixedly at her. She felt that same tantalizing mixture of fear and excitement that had come and gone all evening. She couldn’t see Lew’s face, but she could make out a tenseness in his shadowed features that was puzzling.

“Lew?” she said softly, lifting a hand to his cheek.

He said nothing, just pulled her to him and kissed her with an urgency that took her breath away. He held her so tightly, so forcefully, forgetting his superior strength, that she felt as if he would surely squeeze the life from her. Abruptly the fierce embrace ended and he almost flung her from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said coldly and Mollie, bewildered, stood speechless watching him unstrap the blanket and toss the saddlebags over his shoulder.

She laid a hand on his back and said, “Is something wrong, Lew?”

He turned, and his face was struck fully by the moonlight. Any hint of strangeness was gone, and he was smiling that devilish smile she found so appealing.

“No, sweetheart, nothing’s wrong.” He reached out, took her hand. “I just couldn’t wait one more minute to kiss you.”

Flattered, she smiled and said, “Follow me. Cholla is my special canyon. I know just the right place to spread the blanket.”

The spot she chose was on the smooth gassy bank a few short feet from the rushing stream. A full, white moon bathed the meadow with a silvery light and a gentle night breeze cooled and sweetened the air. A few short minutes in the cold canyon stream and the wine was cooled and ready for sipping.

Seated on the spread blanket, Mollie laughed with delight when Lew withdrew from his saddlebags two long-stemmed crystal glasses. She smiled approvingly as he splashed the chilled wine into the glasses and handed one to her.

She touched her glass to his and said shyly, “To the happiest night of our lives.”

Lew said nothing, only nodded, and she caught a flicker of unease pass over his face before he drank thirstily. She sipped her own chilled wine and was relieved when—setting his glass aside—he turned about and sank gracefully down onto his back, placing his head in her lap.

Her fingers toying with the raven black curls that fell onto his high forehead, Mollie heard him say, “The first time I saw you was in this canyon.”

“You saw me here? I don’t remember that.”

“You didn’t know. You were wading, and I watched from up on the cliff. You never knew I was there, and I never knew it was you until now. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes it was,” she said. “Why didn’t you make your presence known?”

“Afraid I would frighten you. I was trail-dirty and had a bushy beard that—”

“I hate beards,” she passionately interrupted, caught herself, and amended, “Well, not all beards. My papa’s beard was … I don’t much like beards.”

Lew hooked an arm around her back and turned his face in. “You looked so cute that morning with your boots and stockings off. I wanted to ride down and play, wade with you.” He pressed his lips to her trim midriff and Mollie felt the heat through the delicate fabric of her dress.

For a time he was silent and so was Mollie. Content, immensely enjoying the night, the privacy, and him, she continued to sip her wine. Eager to share, she tipped the glass up over his mouth and laughed when a few drops of the wine dribbled down his chin. When her glass was empty, Lew poured her another.

Mollie felt herself becoming slightly light-headed. But she didn’t mind. It was a warm, fuzzy, pleasant feeling. She took another long, cool drink and then set the glass aside, sighing contentedly. She couldn’t remember ever being quite so happy as she was at this minute.