California Royale (5 page)

“Friends,” Duke repeated. He would challenge her to keep up with him and tempt her to run wild.

“Down and two and down and three and flow with the music and down and four and stretch, stretch.” Shea made her voice drop to a throaty and relaxed timbre as the gentle Chopin etude began to slow. “Now reach toward the ceiling, reach, reach, and let all that negative energy and anxiety flow out of you. You’re relaxed, you’re happy, you’ve just been good to yourself. Now
exhale
.”

What sounded behind her in the aerobics room weren’t so much exhalations of soothed psyches but groans of relief. Shea turned and bowed to the two-dozen exercisers, male and female, who were already staggering toward a water cooler in the corner.

“The Marines could use you!” someone called, and appreciative laughter confirmed that others felt the same way.

Shea smiled apologetically. She tried to balance the intensity of her nature with a serene attitude, but where exercise was concerned, intensity always won out. “Your regular teacher will be back tomorrow.”

“There
is
a God!”

Shea took a towel from atop the stereo deck next to her and dabbed at her face as she joined the group at the cooler. Glenda Farrar, all pink and a little pudgy in a purple, one-piece leotard, sidled up to her and whispered, “I want to be in the four-o’clock class tomorrow.”

Shea looked down at the tiny, fiftyish brunet and saw girlish excitement in her eyes. Mrs. Farrar, a widow who operated a children’s boutique in Beverly Hills, was a lonely, shy, adorable little cream puff who had something up her sleeve besides a sweaty arm.

“Certainly, Mrs. Farrar.”

“And do you, could you …” Mrs. Farrar looked around furtively to make certain that no one was listening. “Could you arrange for me to sit at Mr. Steinberg’s table for dinner this evening?”

Ah-hah
. So Mrs. Farrar had designs on Dan Steinberg, a retired business executive and decidedly distinguished looking widower. Dan Steinberg was in the four o’clock aerobics class, Shea recalled. “I’ll pull some strings and make certain of it,” Shea whispered.

The pink face lit up. “Thank you!”

“Shea?”

Shea turned to see Mark Langman, the estate’s coordinator of guest services, shifting uncomfortably at the doorway of the aerobics room. She walked over quickly, a little worried by his attitude. “What’s wrong?”

Mark, a blond giant with a physique to rival Sylvester Stallone’s, spoke in a distressed whisper. “Chip Greeson was plastered in the massage room a little while ago.”

“Plastered?”

“Soused. Happy. Lit like a light bulb. He tried to act cool, but the staff smelled tequila on him. He was so loose he didn’t
need
a massage.”

Shea rubbed her forehead wearily. “Where is he now?”

“He rambled off to his room for a nap.” Mark shifted
again, a hulk in distress. “Shea? After lunch someone saw him with Mr. Araiza. You might check with Mr. Araiza …”

“I see,” Shea said crisply, her mouth tightening. That explained everything, probably. “I’ll check with
Mr. Araiza
to find out if he noticed anything. Where is Mr. Araiza now?”

“Uh, as far as I know, he’s asleep in a lounge chair by the outdoor pool. He took one of the horses for a ride all morning.”

“He was scheduled for a yoga class and nutrition counseling.”

“He canceled. About Mr. Greeson—”

“We’re not here to play nursemaid,” Shea said wearily. “Tell the staff to just forget about the incident in the massage room. It won’t happen again.”
Duke Araiza, that hombre!
Chip Greeson had been a model guest in the past.

Twenty minutes later, after showering and changing from her leotard and tights into a flowing white sundress, Shea marched out to the pool. It lay like a rectangle of blue light, surrounded by plush white furniture and potted orange trees. A canopied bar was set up at the far end, staffed with a bartender who served nothing stronger than papaya juice.

Duke was stretched out on a lounge chair, dark aviator glasses covering his eyes, his arms behind his head. Despite her anger, Shea slowed as she approached him. A warning fluttered in her chest, telling her that she couldn’t ignore his physical appeal. She could barely resist his emotional appeal, either, the danger he promised as well as the tenderness. She had known danger in her early years, had avoided it in all the years since, and only now realized that a part of her craved it.

He wore blue swim trunks that accentuated the weathered, bronzed beauty of his skin and revealed all but a
small portion of that skin to the world. Soft looking black hair was slicked to his lean, strong thighs, and a thick patch of it covered his chest. That chest and his arms were masterpieces of muscle. Shea swept one more awed gaze over his body and came to a stop beside his chair, her face flushed. She snatched a nearby chair and plunked it down. He yawned.

“Duke, you’d better be awake,” she said firmly.

“Uhmmm?”

Suddenly he was awake. His head turned toward her and a slow, heart-stopping smile slid across his mouth. Dear Lord, why did the man have to have such a friendly smile?

“
Buenas tardes
,” he murmured in a sleepy, seductive voice, “my
querida
.”

“Good afternoon. Do you know why Chip Greeson is drunk?”

“Oh.” He pulled the back of his lounger to the up right position.

“Oh? I smell a rat.”

“I smell orange trees. And I smell your perfume. Damn, Shea, that kind of tantalizing perfume ought to sold with a warning label: May Attract Ranchers Who Have Noble but Wild Intentions. I dream about the way you smell.…”

“Duke,” she said threateningly.

He rubbed his stomach languidly, and her eyes followed the movement of his broad hand on the flat, taut surface. Duke Araiza, who had probably never used a weight machine or taken an aerobics class, was six-plus feet of prime male muscle. He grinned at her and she tore her gaze away. He spoke contritely. “I sat at Chip’s table during lunch—if you can call that bland little bit of fish and green stuff lunch—and we struck up a conversation. Did you know that he used to be a news anchorman in San Diego before he became a
game-show host? I’ve always said that those newspeople were entertainment oriented.”

“Do you have tequila on the premises?”

He yawned. “Well, Chip likes to have an occasional shot or two, and he misses that when he comes here … so, we went over to my place and watched a rerun of his show and had a couple of drinks. He looked so happy that I gave him the bottle and a candy bar. I’m not responsible for whatever he did after that.”

Shea exhaled a long breath. “Duke, his wife sends him here to be
healthy
for a week.”

“
Miserable
. He only comes here to please her.”

Her mouth popped open in shock. “No! He’s a model guest.”

“Yep.” Duke raised the back of his chair, sat up, and removed his glasses. His dark eyes shimmered with regret as he analyzed her shock. “
Querida
, the man’s very happy the way he is. He sneaks food and booze into his room all the time. Go easy on him.”

Shea crossed her arms and studied him sternly. “I’m not as upset at Mr. Greeson as I am at you. What other contraband do you have in your cottage?”

He squinted one eye at her. “If you want to check my place out, you’re welcome to come over tonight and do it.”

Shea inhaled sharply. “All right, I will. I thought you were going to try to fit into the routine here so that you’d see how beneficial it is.”

“I am fitting in. But a little tequila and a few candy bars never hurt anybody, in moderation.”

She stood up, her fists clenched. “I’ll be over after dinner to collect your treasures. Until you decree otherwise, I’m going to run this estate the way it’s always been run.”

Duke let his chair down again and replaced his sunglasses.
The set of his mouth told her that he was cheerful. “Me and my treasures will be waiting.”

The cottages were miniature versions of the main house, tiny French chateaux tucked among towering oak trees, the ultimate in privacy and luxury. As dusk gathered around her, Shea limped up the cobblestone walkway. She had had a long day, and her evening run had only resulted in a pulled calf muscle. Damn Duke Araiza for complicating her life!

The cottage had a small garage, and its door stood open. Shea stopped and stared at the red Ferrari sitting inside.

Duke opened the cottage’s front door quickly when she knocked. He wore jeans and a white gold shirt. His feet were bare. His eyes flickered with anticipation and delight, making her nervous. “Welcome to the lair of the hedonist,” he said as he swept a hand toward the interior.

“I won’t bother you for long.”

“No bother.”

The cottages had all been redecorated in the past year by experts brought in from Beverly Hills, and this particular cottage was the crowning glory. The ambiance was decidedly masculine but not rustic. Early American with class, the decorator had said. It suited Duke, Shea decided. A shallow blue pool occupied the back half, not far from a double bed on a raised redwood platform. The pool, as he had said earlier, wasn’t large enough to swim in, but it was perfect for lazy floating.

The lights were low, and soft jazz played on a tape deck near the bed. He followed her as she strolled through the cottage, her hands clasped behind her
back. “One of your horses?” she asked, pointing to a photograph laying amid paperwork on a small desk.

“Uh-huh. Lady Be Good.”

“I’ll try my best,” she noted dryly, “Where’s the contraband?”

“Why are you limping?”

Shea turned to look up at him. “I ran too far, trying to work out my aggressions.”

“Aggressions against me?”

“Frankly, yes.”

He shook his head and said huskily, “You push yourself too hard.”

“I like being fit.”

“I think you like staying occupied so that you won’t feel empty inside. People who devote so much time to one thing, excluding everything else in their lives, are usually avoiding something.”

“Thank you, Dr. Duke Freud, but I feel very fulfilled.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that leg. I like your sundress, by the way. I meant to tell you at the pool, but you were mad at me. And I like the way you fix your hair, even if I can’t figure out what in hell holds it on top of your head that way.”

“A thirty-nine-cent hair band and two little barrettes.”

He raised both hands and formed an expression of mock dismay. “Don’t ruin the mystery!”

“I don’t like mystery.”

“Ah, a practical woman in an impractical job.”

“Health-and-fitness counseling is
very
practical.”

“Relaxing and having a good time is practical. This place goes way beyond that. Don’t stay mad at me. Sit down and cool off.”

She didn’t like the blunt way he had of changing subjects. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I’m the boss. You should do what I say, and I say sit
on the couch so that I can rub your calf again. Nothing personal, I assure you.”

Shea eyed him for a moment. “I’m still taking the tequila and candy bars when I leave,” she warned.

“Fair enough. Now relax.”

She went to a dark gray couch in one corner and settled warily on one end of it. He sat down and patted his knee. “Foot up.”

“I feel like a filly with a bad hoof.”

“A pretty filly. A pretty hoof.”

She gingerly placed her ankle on his knee. Looking suspiciously like a man who was trying to appear unmoved, he slid her white sandal off and began rubbing her foot.

“My foot’s not hurt. My calf muscle is hurt,” she directed.

“I like to work my way up. Prop yourself on those pillows and mellow out.”

Shea propped herself up on two large pillows with bright Navajo designs, and she sank into their luxurious depths. She watched Duke as he looked at her foot, his eyes tracing every movement his fingers made.
He
was mellow, damn him, and
she
was a bundle of nerves.

“How did you get the scar across your nose?” she asked finally.

“In a fight, when I was, oh, about seventeen.”

“I thought perhaps a horse kicked you.”

“A lot of them have.” He laughed softly. “But a lot of my fellow
hombres
have taken a jab or two at me, also.”

“You like to fight?”

“Used to. Used to fight and raise all kinds of hell. Grew out of it.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

He laughed again. “
Querida
, my father was Spanish.
I have hot Mediterranean blood. I can’t help but cause trouble.”

“How did your father end up in southern California?”

“He never made it to southern California. He was an art exporter based in Madrid. He and my mother met in Mexico. She was a secretary at the embassy in Mexico City.”

“Sounds romantic.”

He smiled a little thinly and shook his head. Watching his profile, Shea saw his face tighten. “They had a shotgun wedding. My grandpa came down and made certain that my mother had a husband
before
she had a baby.”

“You?”

“Yep. And then grandpa brought my mother home.”

“Your grandfather was Mexican-American?”

“Yep. He came to the United States as a boy, worked as a ranch hand, and eventually bought his own place. The Solo Verde. I inherited it.”

“You were born there?”

His hands rose to her ankle, drawing lines along the bones. “Such delicacy,” he murmured. “Yep. Born on the ranch and grew up on the ranch. My mother was killed in a car accident when I was four. My grandfather was too busy to play parent, so I grew up as I pleased. Wild.”

Shea’s leg felt heavy and deliciously warm. The sensation, she acknowledged with surprise, was drifting over the rest of her body. Did Duke have magic in those large calloused hands? “What reformed you?” she asked.

“When I was eighteen, a horse fell on me. While I was recuperating, I went to work at a Thoroughbred ranch near us. I was too busted up to do real work, but I had a way with horses, and they let me supervise a couple of colts. So that was the start of my career in horse
racing. I bought a colt of my own, won a little money, bought some more stock …”