Fires of Paradise (7 page)

Her heart was jumping madly in her breast.

The Governor's Suite. It had been called that ever since the governor had first stayed there over thirty years ago. Lucy was surprised Shoz would even have the money to afford such accommodations. Then she thought, uncharitably, that maybe he didn't—maybe he'd skip town without paying his bill. She knocked.

He opened the door immediately.

He wore only his snug, faded jeans, the belt and snap open. His chest was bare and damp. His gaze widened.

Before he could speak or even invite her in, Lucy rushed past him. "Close the door!" she cried. "Before someone sees us!"

He closed the door, grinning.

Chapter 9

Shoz leaned against the door with his thumbs stuck in the loops of his Levis. His teeth were very white in his wide grin.

Lucy was trembling. She stood only a few feet from him, and the suite, which was large, seemed close and confined. Suddenly the two of them seemed very alone. It was eerily intimate and highly disturbing.

For a moment she forgot her resolve, forgot why she had come, and wanted to flee.

Why didn't he put on his shirt?

It was very difficult to concentrate on the task before her when confronted with his damp, shiny bare chest and hard belly. Her gaze dropped to the white threads of his denim fly and what was so suggestively and barely constrained there. His jeans were indecent. He was indecent.

Shoz's smile faded and his gaze became strained. He levered himself off the door with a slight curse. "I didn't think it would be so easy," he said. "Come here, princess." His voice was husky, without any antagonism or hostility.

Lucy was mesmerized by the sound, and by the proximity of his near-naked presence, yet somehow she realized what was happening. He had misunderstood everything! His hands were surprisingly gentle as they curved possessively around her shoulders, then they tightened. "I like how you look at me," he murmured.

She had been staring at his mouth. She looked into his eyes and saw them smoldering. Her own chest was tight, her own heart racing, and there was that throbbing need she recognized—and did not want.
This man did not like her.

He had said so, he had made it very clear. This man had used
her. This man might
betray
her. He was a bastard.

"No!" She wrenched violently away.

For a moment, surprise showed in his eyes, then the corners of his mouth tilted up. He stalked her. "Playing hard to get?" His tone was teasing, but she only heard the words.

"Hard to get?" She laughed shakily, scooting around the back of the sofa as he lazily followed her. "I've got news for you, Mr. Cooper—I am one woman you are never going to get!"

"Is that so?" He had backed her up against the bed and he was laughing; Lucy didn't find it funny, not at all. "Then what are you doing here? Couldn't stay away, could you?"

His arrogance infuriated her, and she dug into her reticule and found the note and slammed it against his bare chest. "I'll show you what I'm doing here!"

He caught her fist and held it. "What's this?"

"Money."

For a second he was still, then he smiled again, this time without any mirth. He tightened his hold and she gasped and dropped the note. "Money matters later," he said. "We have old business to conclude first." He yanked her up against him.

Her bare hand was pressed between their bodies, and the skin of his chest was like a smooth silk-and-steel wall to her touch. He had her anchored by the small of her spine. One of his hard legs had become jammed between both of hers, so that she rode him, and the hardness of a rapid erection ground against her hip. Lucy tried to press away, but her movement only fit her more snugly against him, only made her ride his thigh higher.

Her palms, pushing frantically against his chest, tightened into fists. She pummeled him furiously, turning her face away to avoid his kiss. His laughter was soft on her ear, yet it sounded cold and angry, and then she felt his tongue there.

Hot spirals of pleasure swept through her; she went very still. "Good girl," he crooned. His hand slipped to cup one buttock, his tongue delved lazily.

Lucy closed her eyes, just for a moment allowing herself to feel the thrill of what he was doing. His mouth moved to her neck with practised expertise.

"And you," she heard him saying as he rubbed her buttock languidly, "didn't have to pay for it. Usually I give it for free."

Her eyes opened.

His breath was hot on her neck. "But in your case, I'll make an exception."

His hand insinuated itself up between her legs.

His controlled voice, his methodical passion, the way he was touching her with cold calculation, began to dim the fires he'd raised, enough so that she could think. So that she could think that something wasn't right, something was more than wrong. He palmed her, his fingers fluttering over her. Despite the jolt of sheer pleasure, Lucy wrenched free of him and spun away, putting the sofa between them. She stared at him in confusion, breathlessly.

He was panting. A slight sheen of sweat covered his torso, and the sunlight pouring through the open drapes made his skin glisten. He wasn't excited, not at all; he was furious.

The desire he'd kindled died quickly. Lucy clutched the back of the sofa.

"You little brat," he snarled. "At least the other rich bitches don't play power games, at least they have a few shreds of decency left."

"What are you talking about!"

"But if you want to pay for it, baby, go right ahead. I'll even make it worth your while, how's that?" She gasped.

"You want to play games? You want me to chase you? You want to be raped?'' He was so mad, he would happily take her by force. Never, ever, had he been so insulted in his life. And he had not a doubt that she'd done it on purpose—to put him in his place.

"Touch me again," she managed, "and I will scream down this hotel. You are disgusting! You are crazy! In fact, right now there's nothing I would like more than to see you thrown in jail!"

This silenced Shoz. Dark, horrible images of another prison and another time flashed through his mind.

Lucy was clinging to the couch. She released her hold. "I did not come here to be pawed," she said stiffly.

"No? Then what the hell did you come for? And what the hell is this for?" He bent and picked up the check. His hand shook.

"That is my personal check," Lucy said shakily, gulping air. How could he have thought she was offering to pay him for... for... his body!

He waited, staring.

"My banker's draft," she added. He was starting to frighten her.

He looked at it. "A thousand dollars." His gaze was ice. "I guess I should be flattered." He barely got the words out.

   "I didn't come here for... for... your body! I didn't come here to pay you to... to..."

   "To fuck?"

"You do that on purpose!" she cried in frustration, the horrible word shocking her anew even though she fought for calm. She took a long breath. "The check is to insure your silence."

He looked at her. "My silence."

"That's right." She tried to smile; it was horribly difficult.

"From gigolo to con artist." He crumbled the bank note.

"What are you doing!" she cried, panicked.

"Princess, you're not so smart. Why, a crook like me has no honor. You think I won't cash this in and then speak up?"

She paled. "You wouldn't! Even you couldn't be so low, like a... like a.. ." "Like a snake?" "Worse!" "Like a breed?" She had no answer.

He regarded her. Lucy tried to gaze steadily back. She forced a smile. "I know you can use the money. So that's settled. Now you can leave town." He smiled derisively.

Lucy edged toward the door. "You have the money. So I suppose you'll be on your way?"

He didn't answer. Her back touched the door and her hand closed over the knob. "Well?"

"Your money always buy you everything?"

She blanched. "I'm not buying anything, I'm just—"

"Forget it," he said, with one bitter laugh.

Gladly, she did. Between him and the question, she was thoroughly unnerved. "Can you leave tonight? Tomorrow?"

After a long pause, he said, "I
can
leave."

Relief swept her. Warm, wonderful relief. "Good!" she cried, smiling brilliantly. "Good! Then—" she laughed nervously "—good-bye!"

His gaze was pale gray and enigmatic. She turned the knob, flung open the door, and fled. In the corridor she had to remind herself to walk, not run. She had done it. She had chased that bastard out of town.

Chapter 10

He paced the room, from the double French doors overlooking the wrought-iron balcony to the canopied bed with thick velvetine drapes. Still clenched in his fist was the crumpled bank draft.

"Brat!"

He couldn't really remember when he had ever been so angry. He was having lovely visions of wringing Lucy Bragg's lovely neck.

Did she think she could pay him off? Run him out of town with a few lousy dollars? He smiled. She had another thing coming.

However, he did have business to attend to and he was going to leave town as soon as he could transact it, and not because she'd commanded him to. He'd have to think up a proper farewell for her.

He unfolded the draft. He'd been so mad when she'd first handed it to him, mad and disappointed, thinking she was trying to get what she wanted and show him he was inferior by paying him like a prostitute. He'd jumped the gun—why did she make him particularly edgy? Why did he seem to dislike her even more than all the others? His thoughts bothered him, and he tried to dismiss them.

Still, this payoff was no less insulting than the other one. What did she think he was, some kind of total bastard who enjoyed violating virgins and then ruining their reputations? Did he really come off as such a heel? He had to admit that once or twice he had felt a bit bad, a bit guilty, for being so nasty to her. She seemed to bring out the worst in him, and he didn't know why.

She was going to contribute to a revolution, he decided wryly. Then he changed his mind. It was too noble for him, much less for her. She'd contribute to something far better, a gift for Carmen, something French and black and wicked. The idea gave him immense satisfaction.

But of course, he would not do it. He could not keep the money, much less spend it on Carmen; as soon as it was convenient, he would return the check.

He threw on a new shirt he'd bought yesterday, a soft blue cotton. Soon after, he was trotting down the stairs. The clerk called out to him before he'd taken a foot off the final step.

"Mr. Cooper," he said. "We have just gotten your telegram."

Shoz came forward eagerly. His expression went bleak, however, as he skimmed the reply he had been awaiting. His buyer
had
been delayed in Cuba—and a new buyer would not be able to meet him for several weeks.

Shoz crumpled the telegram. He could not leave the guns, even buried as they were, for a few weeks. Government agents had been attempting to break their operation for the past six months, and Shoz was well aware of it. So far, he had eluded them, but he could not count on his trail being entirely cold. He had had a very close call with the last shipment he'd sent to the Cuban rebels from Corpus Christi. Federal agents had staked out the docks and tried to prevent the ship with its cargo from leaving. Fortunately, they hadn't arrived earlier—to prevent the steamer from being loaded. A gun battle had ensued. Shoz had lost one man, with three casualties. They'd inflicted as much damage as they'd received, however, which wasn't particularly good. Shoz's criminal record was becoming too damn long. It was one thing to be wrongly imprisoned for a theft he hadn't committed and to escape successfully; it was a helluvanother to have a gunfight with the federal government. Things could not have gotten worse. Until, maybe, now.

He had to stay close to the guns so he could check on them periodically. He couldn't afford to have them stolen from him, or uncovered by the Feds. Which meant he wasn't going very far.

Sometimes, like now, he got the uneasy feeling he was digging himself deeper and deeper into a grave—one with his tombstone at the head.

But he was tough and he was smart and he was real close to the border. Fate just hadn't smiled kindly upon him. But he could play the hand being dealt—and win.

Which meant he could hang around Paradise—and if he dared to face it, he wasn't exactly in a rush to leave.

Very willingly, he recalled how eager a student Lucy Bragg had been when he'd folded her hand around his stiff erection. He grew inflamed. He wouldn't mind sticking around. In fact, because she had ordered him to leave, tried to pay him to leave, he would enjoy staying.

However, he needed a cover. He couldn't just loiter in the hotel for a month. That required some serious thinking.

Despite the setback in his business affairs, his mood was suddenly, surprisingly, good, better than it had been in days. He strode out of the hotel into the sweltering heat. He was filled with the anticipation of both the hunter and the hunted, the skin prickling on the back of his neck. At the same time he had a warning instinct—that if he did stay, there was going to be trouble.

He wrote it off to the threat of government agents and his staying in one place for so long. His instincts had nothing to do with the titian-haired Bragg girl. After all, how could she be dangerous for him? He would have to remain alert and wary of any newcomers arriving in town.

Shoz pushed open the screen door of Joe's Eatery. The cafe was mostly empty as it was already midmorning. Two flannel-shirted loggers sat at one table, two teamsters at the counter. They looked like they'd been on an all-night bender. Joe, short and thin, and his nephew, Little Joe, were waiting on the customers.

As he took a seat at the counter, he was regarded by everyone, and not because he was a stranger in town. Shoz was used to it. There was no mistaking he was mostly Indian, and he'd encountered these kinds of half-curious, half-wary looks his entire life. He was used to it—but not complacent about it.

He ignored everyone, ordering steak and eggs and coffee. Yet his senses were alert. And, unfortunately, one of the drunk teamsters tried to pick a bone with him. Sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn't. Shoz had learned when he was six to be ready for a fight, always.

"Thought all the Injuns in these parts were locked up on that reservation in Tularosa," the big redhead said loudly. "Hey, Jake, ain't that so?"

"Yip," Jake said. He was even bigger than the redhead. "Maybe he's escaped."

Shoz set his whiskey down and stared at them. He knew he could kill them both, if he wanted to. But right now, killing wasn't in his plans. He didn't want the attention. "You accusing me of something?" he said, very softly.

A group of cowboys had entered, spurs clinking. Shoz's gaze swept them reflexively, lingered on the old white-haired man just for a moment, then returned to his adversaries. The red-haired one was saying, "Maybe we are. Maybe we should take you to Fort Bliss and see if there's a reward posted."

Shit
, Shoz thought.
Just his luck
. He should be smart, he should make a humble response, soothe the redhead's ego; in other words, eat dirt and diffuse the situation. Instead, he smiled meanly. "Why don't you try?" "That an invitation?" Red asked. "No," Shoz said, "this is." He tossed his coffee all over the man's broad chest.

A shocked silence filled the cafe. Shoz was already moving. They were going to fight with him, that was inevitable. He preferred to be on the offensive. Before the redhead could recover from his astonishment, Shoz hit him with a powerful driving right in the abdomen. The teamster gasped—but only flinched.

It wouldn't be quite as easy as Shoz had thought. He hit him in the face. The redhead took a step back, then caught Shoz's arm as he was about to deliver another blow. He was very strong, and the two men were suddenly grappling, and then they went sprawling on the floor.

Shoz felt a stunning blow to his eye and knew he'd have a helluva shiner—if he didn't lose his eye. He jammed his knee into the man's groin. The redhead collapsed. Shoz rolled on top of him. Without mercy, he threw his fist at his head. A booted kick from behind lifted him clear off the floor, and he went face-first out the screen door.

He was already on all fours and then upright, just in time to meet Jake, diving on top of him. They went flying backward into the dust of Bragg Avenue. A crowd began gathering from all the adjoining stores. Someone calmly requested the sheriff, and someone else said, "Sure thing, Derek."

With a little luck and a lot of agility, Shoz wound up on top and began pummeling Jake. The teamster went limp. With a roar, Red grabbed him from behind, locking him in a bear hug and trying to break his ribs. Shoz used his arms to break free, whirling and striking out blindly at the same time. He could barely see, there was too much blood. He connected with the man's jaw, but it only rocked him back. An instant later, Shoz received a blow in the midsection that knocked the breath right out of him and propelled him halfway across the street.

Jake followed him. An undercut caught his chin, rattling every tooth he had. He blinked at stars. The teamster grabbed his shirt, dragging him upright, fist poised. Shoz blocked the blow and kicked Jake as hard as he could in the kneecap.

Quicker than the eye, Shoz had withdrawn his knife from his boot. Red backed up, panting, Shoz stalked him, grimly. And then Jake delivered a stunning blow to the back of his head, and his world went black.

First he felt the pain.

There was the ungodly throbbing of his eye and jaw, and the back of his head seemed to be shattered. He heard voices. Lots of them, but they sounded far away and were unreal. The pain absorbed him. His head swam. He felt like throwing up.

The voices became louder and began to sound as if they belonged to a part of this earth. He became aware of the hard ground beneath him, and the hot sun beating down upon his face and body. He felt sticky wetness on his face, and when he licked his lips, he tasted blood.

"He started it, Derek," someone was saying. "The breed started it, I seen the whole thing!"

"Yeah, the Injun attacked old Red here! He's crazy, maybe he's rabid!"

"Calm down," an authoritative voice said. "Billy, Joshua, put him in the wagon."

Shoz fought to regain consciousness as he felt himself being lifted carefully. He tried to protest. He felt panic. He was helpless, and he knew what kind of justice awaited him—the color was white. He desperately tried to get a grip on his world. He struggled to open his one good eye.

"You gonna throw him in jail, boss?"

The question echoed. Shoz froze, but his gut twisted and his pulse began hammering.
He would not go back to prison*.
He pushed at someone as he was laid down in a wagon.

"No one's going to jail for a little fistfight," the man said. "Not when Red Ames and Jake Holt are the two worst rabble-rousers around here. I've warned them twice not to start up in Paradise, and I won't warn them again." His voice was hard, without a stitch of compromise in it. "Besides, I heard the whole thing."

"Billy!" he called sharply. "You and Joshua get these two fixed up. Then you escort them out of town. Kindly inform them their contract with the DM is terminated. Got that? They are no longer welcome in Paradise!"

"Yes, boss!" came a chorus..

Shoz did not relax. What about him? He knew better, he had learned his lesson long ago in New York. He finally opened his one good eye and found himself sprawled on his back among sacks of supplies, gazing up at the cloudless sky. The sun made him blink.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. It was no easy task.

The old white-haired man came to stand in front of him. "You okay, boy?"

Shoz smiled, a mean smile. "I'm just fine—boy."

The man froze, then held back a grin. But the many crow's-feet along his amber eyes deepened. "I'm kicking seventy-nine,
boy"
he said. "And in a few more days, it'll be eighty."

Shoz sat up, wiping blood from his face. "And I'm thirty-five," he said. "No one calls me boy."

This time the man laughed. "I do," he said. "And you're in no shape to fight me."

Shoz suddenly felt stupid. He'd been ready to fight with this old man, a man of eighty. He forced himself to relax. "No one calls me boy," he repeated firmly.

Derek shrugged. ' 'You want a doctor? My
boys
will drive you over. Your eye needs a stitch or two."

"I don't need a ride," Shoz said, levering himself off the wagon. He almost fell, but managed to stay upright by holding on, hard. He steadied himself.

"Pride's only for the young," Derek said, watching him. "And for the foolish." His smile was very engaging. "Pretty foolish to attack
both
Jake and Red. The two together must weigh in at over four hundred pounds—and they aren't fat."

"They wanted to fight," Shoz said, more interested in remaining on his feet than in the conversation. He didn't

know why he even bothered to answer the old man.

"That's a good reason?" He laughed again and turned away. "My offer stands. You can get a lift over to the doc's—you need it."

"I don't need a ride," Shoz gritted, releasing the wagon.

He was okay, he told himself. He took a few breaths, until the dizziness and nausea cleared. He knew they were watching him, not just the old man, but half the town. He couldn't have announced his presence in town more loudly if he'd tried. He found that he'd twisted his knee in the ruckus, as he limped toward the sign hanging a block away, bright hand-painted green letters reading, "Dr. Jones/Remedies for Everyone/Surgeon on the Premises."

Thankfully, he made it without fainting, and more thankfully, Jones was in. Shoz sat on the wooden operating table while the doctor, a chubby, friendly little man, cleaned him up, chattering nonstop.

"Could hear the hullabaloo all the way over here. Said to myself and to the wife, God rest her soul, they're at it again. Must be that wild Red Ames, saw him come to town earlier. When Red and Jake's in town together, I spend all my time fixin' people up. Now, Sarah, God bless her, she used to help. Still, I always get the feeling that she's up there, beaming down on us."

The front door opened and closed, bells jangling. Shoz winced as the doctor dabbed alcohol on his eye. "How is he?"

Shoz couldn't turn his head, but he recognized the voice of the old man who'd called him "boy" and wouldn't back down.