Treasure of the Sun (41 page)

"God," he whispered as she put her tongue on his nipple, and his frame hovered at rigid attention over her. He clasped the headboard with both his hands. His knees dug into the mattress on either side of her as his whole body waited for her attention. His eyes closed over the most blissful expression of agony she'd ever seen, and she loved it. She loved the mastery' she was experiencing, she loved seeing this strong male animal: at her mercy. She couldn't restrain her smile of pure joy as she· placed one hand on the bulge of his breeches.

But her smile faded. The power to torment faded. All that remained was the desire to explore and to reap the fruits of: exploration. Her fingers weren't gentle when she pressed and molded him, and he writhed above her. She felt her own touch as if it were his. Her urgency doubled and redoubled as she unbuttoned him. When she'd freed him, when she held him in her hands and saw his fire, she could restrain herself no longer.

"Now," she urged. "Please. Now."

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. "What's my name?" he asked, his voice hoarse with his urgency.

She knew what he was doing, and it made her angry. She wanted him, she'd given him the truth, stripped herself of her defensive deception; still he wasn't content. "You bastard," she said.

"What's my name?"

His arms began to shake. A drop of sweat trickled down his breastbone right before her eyes. Reaching out with one forefinger, she traced the droplet, and took it to her lips.

It was a challenge, and he responded. Slowly he lowered himself to her. His shoes hit the floor as he pulled the sheet down. . Eagerly she kicked the confining material away. His hand found her ankle, and he slid her crumpled nightgown out from under her.

"I'm going to take you tonight," he promised, "and you're going to tell me what I want to know."

"Don Damian," she answered. In despair and delight, she informed him, "Your name is Don Damian, and I need you." His triumphant grin was knocked askew when she added, "At least for tonight."

"One night at a time, then."

There was such delight at being joined-at last, being joined - that they illogically believed that they could comprehend each other's thoughts, emotions. Together, they savored the pleasure -temporary, but fulfilling at that moment of closeness.

Trying to find the words that would bind his too-sensible dove to him, he repeated, "Just give me one night at a time, and I’ll give you a lifetime of nights in heaven."

Then he set the pace, running over her constraint, trampling her rebellion. He pushed her too hard, he knew. They were joined; her thoughts were his. He knew each thrust was too much. He knew the pace was too fast. He knew that every stroke of his hands threatened to tear her from herself.

She fought him for control. She fought him, and he could feel the breathless spark of pleasure that leaped through her veins.

When she raged, "You can't do this to me," he laughed. He couldn't help it. His Catriona was open to emotion; her anger was honest and fed her passion. His laughter provoked a greater struggle, and he grasped the uprights on the headboard to use as an anchor. He used the soft feather mattress to control her fury. He liked having her toss beneath him; he knew where this would lead. The advance of pleasure in her body eased her self-control. Her eyes closed and opened; her legs clasped his hips' tightly.

When the heaven he'd promised swallowed her, she screamed. She squeezed the back of her hand against her mouth, as if that would recall the sound of her joy, but he encouraged her with the pressure of his pelvis against hers and she screamed again. He crowded against her as she surged up, tightened around him, shuddered with bliss. It was such a guilty delight, to hear those cries and know that all of California, would hear the echo of them soon. It was such a guilty delight, to know he'd bound her to him in ways she couldn't understand. He wanted to make her cry out again. He wanted to' create another chain to bind her, but her movements, the sweet torment etched on her features, the pleasure her body gave him, they all betrayed him. The control he'd loosened in her, failed in him.

Irresistibly, his body followed the demand of hers. He gave: her everything and received everything in return.

His consciousness returned, coming first in little .dribbles of; satisfaction. His eyes closed, he savored the comfort of body. She cushioned him, sheathed him, barely breathed beneath him. In slow degrees, alarm replaced the sweet fulfilment that left him dazed.

Dios, had his rough handling hurt her? He struggled to lift his heavy lids, to examine the damage and do what he must to rectify it.

He saw below him a most shamefully relaxed woman. Her cupped hands dangled, palm up, off the side of the narrow bed. One foot dangled off, too, and the other had slipped down so her knee rested beside his. Her features had smoothed to a Madonna-like serenity, and he heaved a sigh of relief. However urgent he had been, he hadn't hurt her.

Loosening the grip of his hands from the headboard, he inched down to relax on her. He rested his head on the pillow next to hers. His lips touched the bright circle of her hair: his breath puffed against her ear. "Catriona," he crooned, "you say you never scream except during an emergency. Have I found the proper emergency to tap your vocal chords?"

She didn't stir.

He whispered, "You may work out your anger with me any time you like."

Her eyes flickered open, then closed. She sighed as if she would slip into sleep without regaining consciousness, without facing him or their actions.

"Catriona." He still crooned, but a sliver of warning sharpened his voice. "You seduced me."

Her hand, dangling off the edge of the bed, clumsily closed into a fist.

He watched it, understood its portent. They'd settled nothing. She still resisted becoming all the wife he demanded. He lifted up to his elbow, to wrest her from her pleasant coma and demand she behave as she ought.

The door rattled.

Damian froze. Katherine's eyes sprang open, their alertness defying her feigned sleep.

Knuckles rapped firmly on the panels. Senora Rodriguez bellowed, "Are you quite all right, Dona Katherina?"

"Heavens," Katherine whispered, trying to scramble out from underneath him.

"You'd better answer her." He spoke in his normal voice and restrained her when she kicked at him.

"Don Damian!" Katherine's whisper was fierce.

"She thinks you've been murdered. If you don't say something, she'll knock the door down." He stroked his mustache with his thumb. "She could do it, too."

"All right! You hush," she ordered. Raising her voice, she called, "I'm fine, Senora Rodriguez. I just had a bad dream."

"If that was a bad dream," he said, "the whole world would be begging for nightmares."

The pounding increased; the door rocked on its hinges.

"What did you say?" Senora Rodriguez shouted in her firm, controlled speech.

Katherine hollered, "I'm fine."

The door leaped in a wild protest against her vehemence.

Senora Rodriguez sniffed, so loudly they heard it through the wood. "Good. I'll be going to bed now." Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors.

"Now there goes a sensible woman." Damian's tension, his emphasis, made Katherine stare at him. "She knows I'm in here, but she wants to be in control. She wants to be in control so badly she'll not accuse us of anything, for that would be to concede she'd lost control when I stepped through your window. So she sensibly ignores the truth." Pleased with Katherine’s attention, her dawning comprehension, he snapped his fingers. "She's in control. She's sensible."

She digested that, and when he seemed satisfied she understood, he came up to lean on his elbow. "It's frightening to think that once upon a time, Senora Rodriguez was a woman like you, isn't it?"

She pushed at him. "Go to bed."

"I am in bed."

"Just get out and go to bed."

She was thinking, he could see it. Dismay, frustration, and renewed anger fought for supremacy in her soul; she trembled with it. Slipping to his feet, he tossed the sheet over her and dressed to leave. He was satisfied. The memories of just how good it had been, just how brief it had been, hovered close. He knew she'd not sleep with any tranquillity tonight.

Nor would he. He wished he could sneak out and have a cigar.

''That's them, I tell you. You're letting them get away." Like a little boy in need of a privy, Lawrence Cyril Chamberlain shifted from one foot to the other and watched as the group of vaqueros rode away. "Look, there's that silly hat of Don 088mian's and my cousin's cape."

Emerson Smith hardly lifted his head from inspecting his pistol to glance at the passing horsemen. "It's a decoy, Larry."

Lawrence
had already decided he didn't like Smith, didn't like his uncouth manner or his casual dismissal of Lawrence's importance. "I told you not to call me 'Larry.' My name is Lawrence Cyril Chamberlain. You may call me 'Mr. Chamberlain, or, if you must be familiar, Lawrence. Now, how do you know it's a decoy?"

Smith looked up at Lawrence, and Lawrence shuddered.

Those deep-set brown eyes surrounded by bony sockets reminded Lawrence of a cadaver. Smith's fixed gaze observed the reaction and he bared his decayed teeth. "It's a decoy. De la Sola is such a noble gent, he'd never force his snivelling vaqueros to go into those mountains against their will. I'll be lucky if the men I hired keep their position until I return, as frightened as they are by dead papists."

"Will they stay?"

"I think so. I made 'em afraid of the live American." Smith rose to his feet, towering over Lawrence like some primitive monolith. "Larry."

Lawrence
stepped back, adjusting his hat lower over his bare head: "I hope your self-confidence will be borne out."

"Every superstitious native in California repeats this tale of the gold and how the padres cursed it. The way I see it, you gotta believe in the curse for it to take effect. You gotta believe your arms'll get chopped off and your guts will spill in the dirt and you'll drop a thousand feet to your death. You gotta believe those priests got any power at all."

"You don't?" Lawrence quivered, reacting to the vivid description.

"Nah. What kind of jellyfish would believe all that?" "It's a stupid story. Even the part about the gold."

Smith remained unimpressed. "Maybe so, maybe not. I know for sure that quite a few people believe it. They even believe it's been found. The way I see it, all I have to do is follow them that believe it's been found."

"You don't know that my cousin and that man who calls himself her husband have found a treasure." Lawrence worked hard to whip up his scorn. "You don't know anything for sure."

"I know a lot of things you don't know. I know the truth of that slick deal you made in the cantina."

"What about it?" Lawrence asked defensively.

Smith chuckled. "That de Casillas knows how to part a fool from his money, don't he?"

Lawrence
rubbed his sunburned nose. "That's not true. I still don't know that he took my money in bad faith."

"I don't know that, either." Smith sounded reflective. "De Casillas is trouble. I wish I could have another nice, long talk with him."

"You're in league with him? He's the mysterious man behind this silly quest?" Lawrence's voice rose on an incredulous note. "Someone hired you to help find the gold. That's what you said."

"Yes, when my boss paid me good money to follow de la Sola, I knew I was onto something." Smith grinned, admitting and denying nothing. "Taking money for watching your cousin Kathy was no strain on these eyeballs."

"Won't your boss be angry that you're following them without reporting in?"

"To hell with that. I'm doing the work. I'll keep all the beautiful cursed gold of the padres."

"You're going to cheat your boss?"

Smith put his face down even with Lawrence's and tapped Lawrence's chest with a greasy finger. "I'll keep the gold."

"Fine, fine." Lawrence pulled out a handkerchief once white and starched, now grimy and wrinkled, and waved it in the air. "I don't care about this fabled treasure, as long as I can have Katherine when you're done."

"Oh, yes, Larry." Smith polished his pistol with long, slow strokes. "You can have Katherine when I'm done."

"Will they leave a trail?" Katherine asked as she watched the vaqueros ride off.