You Belong to My Heart (17 page)

Her hand curled around his arm, Jo Anna Willingham strolled through the flower-filled grounds alongside Captain Knight, flirting with him, purposely pressing her breasts against his arm as she pointed out the varieties of sweetly blooming flowers her grandfather grew here in this exotic coastal Eden.

Abruptly Jo Anna stopped talking, stopped walking. From a heavily laden bush she plucked a perfect snow white orchid. She presented it to Clay.

“Take this to remember me by, Captain.” Clay smiled and took the orchid. Jo Anna stepped closer, put her arms around his neck. “And take this as well.”

She rose up on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth. Clay’s arms immediately went around her and he kissed her with a fierce urgency that instantly communicated itself to her. Flattered and thrilled, she eagerly pressed herself against his tall, hard frame and sighed her approval when his hands possessively clasped her hips to draw her closer, then slipped down to cup the twin cheeks of her bottom.

Jo Anna Willingham had never been kissed like this. Short of breath, hot and cold at once, she tingled from head to toe. She clung to Clay while he kissed her deeply, urgently, and she hoped he was feeling the same scary excitement she felt.

He was.

And then some.

But abruptly Clay tore his burning lips from hers, clasped her bare upper arms, and set her back from him so roughly her head rocked on her shoulders.

“Jesus Christ!” he muttered.

“What is it?” asked the baffled Jo Anna Willingham. “Are you angry with me? Have I done something wrong?”

“No, I have,” he said in self-disgust. “You’re only a child and I shouldn’t…I’m sorry, I…You’d best go in.”

“I don’t want to go in, Captain. I’m no child. I’m eighteen, and I want to stay here with you.”

“You’re going in,” he said, and took her arm to lead her forcefully into the house.

No sooner were they back inside than Clay made his apologies to his host and hostess, explaining that he was tired from the long voyage and felt he had best make an early evening of it.

“You’ll come again, won’t you, Captain?” said his gregarious host. “Mrs. Willingham and I enjoy entertaining you young military men from the States.”

“Thank you, sir,” Clay said noncommittally.

He glanced at Jo Anna and saw the bright tears of confusion shining in her dark, questioning eyes. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. He had kissed her, wanted to make love to her, but only because she reminded him of Mary. He had no choice: He left her there wondering what she had done wrong.

Clay hurried down the stone steps of the steeply terraced lawn, taking them two at a time. When he reached the white wall bordering the Willingham property, he anxiously let himself out the gate. Then he turned to look back up at the house on the hill.

Exhaling heavily with relief, he opened his hand and let the perfect white orchid drop to the ground.

His earlier light mood gone, Captain Clay Knight put his billed naval hat on his head and headed down toward the string of brightly lighted saloons lining Ipanema Beach.

“…A
ND I DON’T FEEL
it’s fair to subject my wife and daughter to the danger,” said Pres Templeton, the Prebles’ closest neighbor, whose mansion was less than a quarter mile down along the bluffs from Longwood. “I’ve sold the house to a nice young couple from Nashville. William and Leah Thompson. The wife’s a cousin of Andrew Johnson’s. Well-bred, genteel people. Fine folks, fine folks.”

“So you’ll be leaving Memphis, Pres?” said John Thomas.

The two men were in John Thomas’s book-lined study on a frigid afternoon in early January. Mary Ellen was delighted that her father had finally agreed to come down and visit with his old friend and neighbor.

For the past few weeks, John Thomas had begun coming downstairs occasionally. And when he did not, he requested that the
Memphis Appeal
be put on his breakfast tray. Mary Ellen knew the reason for the change. Rumors of impending war had piqued his interest as nothing had since Julie’s death.

But today was the first time he had agreed to entertain a visiting guest.

Hovering anxiously just outside the study door, Mary Ellen heard Pres Templeton say, “If war does come—and it looks to be inevitable—I can’t allow my womenfolk to stay here in harm’s way.”

“Well, why don’t you send them away and stay here yourself?” John Thomas’s voice had regained some of its former strength and authority.

Pres Templeton hemmed and hawed and finally said, “I wanted to do that, I surely did. But Mrs. Templeton wouldn’t hear of it. She insists I go to Europe with them. You know Brandy’s such a spirited handful, her mama can’t handle her alone.”

“For God’s sake, Pres,” said John Thomas, “your daughter is how old? Twenty-eight? Thirty?”

“Brandy’s thirty-two, but she—”

“And she’s been married twice, as I recall.”

“Yes, and both of her husbands were no-good scoundrels who treated her badly and made her unhappy,” said Pres Templeton. “Brandy’s…well…very vulnerable. She’s like a child, really. We have to keep a close protective eye on her.”

Eavesdropping, Mary Ellen smiled at such an absurd statement. Brandy Templeton was about as vulnerable as a serpent, and there was nothing childlike about her. She’d been a woman by the time she was thirteen or fourteen, and a cunning, dangerous one at that. Half the ladies in Memphis would heave a great sigh of relief if Brandy Templeton left town. The two “no-good” scoundrels her father spoke of had both been fine, fantastically wealthy gentlemen and had settled very generous sums on Brandy to free themselves from their miserable marriages.

There really was nothing like a parent’s love.

Pres Templeton left after a half hour, and Mary Ellen expected her father to go straight back upstairs. Instead he joined her in the parlor and said, “Mary Ellen, would you ask Titus to have the brougham brought around. I think I’ll go into town for a while, see what they’re saying on the streets.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear more Southern states are seceding from the Union.” His dark eyes shone with a hint of their old liveliness.

“Why don’t you ask Titus yourself,” Mary Ellen suggested, knowing how hurt old Titus was because his despondent master had hardly spoken to him in more than a year.

“I’ll do that,” John Thomas said, nodding. He went into the corridor and called out, “Titus, where are you? I need your help!”

Grinning from ear to ear, the graying Titus was there in the blink of an eye. “Yes, suh, Mast’ Preble. What you be needin’? I sho’ get it for you.”

John Thomas smiled at the devoted old servant, who, he suddenly realized, was beginning to shrink from his years-long battle with chronic arthritis. John Thomas put a hand on Titus’s thin, stooped shoulder and said, “Could you please see to it that the brougham is brought around. I’d like to go into town.”

Bobbing his gray head eagerly, Titus said, “I do that right now.” He turned to leave.

John Thomas stopped him. “Titus.”

“Yes, suh?” His eyes were big, questioning.

“I’m sorry for…I’ve been a…”John Thomas cleared his throat. “I honestly don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”

Titus chuckled happily. “You never gonna have to find out, Mast’ Preble.”

His silver-gray eyes cold, his dark face set in hard lines, Captain Clay Knight drank alone at the bar in a rowdy Rio outdoor cafe. He turned up the shot glass, drained it. It was the fifth one he’d downed.

He was attempting to get drunk. Very drunk. He had every intention of drinking himself into a stupor. Morose, his mood so black he was oblivious of what went on around him, Clay motioned for another drink. The smiling barkeep poured him the sixth shot of whiskey and started to move away. Clay reached out and caught the man’s arm.

“Leave the bottle,” he ordered.

The barkeep shrugged and left the half-full bottle. Clay wrapped his long fingers around it possessively.

Idly he wondered how many shots of straight bourbon whiskey it would take to make him so drunk that he would immediately fall into a dreamless sleep when he got back to the
Witch.
It would be an interesting experiment.

Pondering the subject, Clay looked around with indifference. The cafe was full of laughing, drinking people, and more than half were women. But he saw no one with whom he’d care to share a drink, much less a bed. He sighed and took another drink. His first night in Rio was proving to be very disappointing.

Clay spent another hour drinking at the bar. Then, finally, half drunk, totally bored, and bone tired, he left the noisy outdoor gin palace.

Alone.

Yawning, he made his way back toward the harbor and the
Water Witch.

Head hung, hands in his white trousers pockets, he was not paying attention when he stepped into the wide Avenida Rio Branco—and was very nearly run down by a fast-moving white carriage pulled by a matched pair of huge sprinting whites.

The driver shouted a warning and hauled up on the reins. The terrified horses whinnied and reared; their forelegs pawed wildly at the air, their hind legs danced in the dirt a few short feet from the startled Clay. Clay whirled away seconds before the horses’ front hooves came down with deadly striking force.

“Beware, sailor!” the shaken driver shouted.

Before Clay could reply, the door of the covered carriage opened and from inside the darkened interior came a woman’s low, sultry voice.

“Won’t you allow me to drive you to your ship, Captain?” she said in unaccented English. “It’s the very least I can do after almost killing you.”

Unsmiling, Clay stooped and picked up his billed hat. He dusted the dirt from its flat crown and cast another look at the open door of the carriage. He was mildly curious about the woman inside, wondering if her looks fit her husky voice. Unhurriedly, he walked toward the carriage, asking the fates for only one favor: that she
not
have blond hair.

Clay climbed into the shadowy carriage, stepped across the seated woman, and sat beside her. She immediately tapped the ceiling, and the carriage began to move. Clay tossed his hat on the empty seat opposite, reached up, and turned on the coach lamp above his head.

And he began to smile.

The woman beside him had an excess of dark lustrous hair dressed elaborately atop her head. She had an even greater excess of full, tawny breasts spilling from the tight bodice of her low-cut summer evening gown. The generous size of her beautiful bosom was further accentuated by the smallness of her waist. Clay was sure he could span it easily with his hands and was already hoping he’d get the chance.

He couldn’t be certain about the size of her hips since she was seated, but he’d bet a month’s pay that they were appealingly wide and that she had a pair of firm, tawny-skinned thighs beneath her long skirts and crinolines.

“Do I pass muster, Captain?” she said, smiling at him.

“Forgive me. I was staring rudely, wasn’t I?” he said, then smiled. “You more than pass muster, Miss…”

“Mrs.,” she corrected, and laughed gaily when a flash of disappointment darkened his smoky eyes. “Mrs. Dawn Richards Campango. My friends back home in America call me Richy.” She laughed then, a low, lusty sound that made Clay’s belly tighten with a quick rush of desire.

“It’s quite late for you to be out alone in Rio, Mrs. Campango. Why isn’t your husband with you?”

“Because he’s six feet under,” she said flippantly. “The poor old dear expired five years, leaving me all alone. Isn’t that terribly sad, Captain?”

“Breaks my heart,” Clay said, smiling once more.

Again she laughed, and Clay laughed with her.

She turned slightly on the plush white velvet seat and boldly laid a gloved hand on his knee. She said, “Are you due back at your ship, or will you join me for a nightcap, Captain…Captain…?”

“Knight,” he said. “Clay Knight. I’d love to join you for a nightcap, Mrs. Campango.”

She put out the tip of her tongue and licked her ruby red lips. Then her emerald eyes flashed naughtily as she slowly slid her white-gloved hand up his trousered thigh. “Wonderful,” she said. “I’ve been saving a bottle of hundred-year-old brandy for just such an occasion.” She lowered her long, thick lashes seductively and added, “I’ve been saving myself as well, Captain.” Her lashes lifted and she looked into his eyes. “Just for you.”

Clay’s chest expanded against his snug-fitting uniform blouse. He could hardly wait to get to her place.

“Her place” turned out to be the magnificent white clipper moored next to the
Water Witch.

As the dark-haired Dawn Campango led him up the long gangway, Clay told her about admiring her sleek vessel earlier in the evening.

“I know,” she said. “I saw you. From the portal of my boudoir I admired you admiring the
Açúcar.”
She laughed gaily then and informed him, “I’m American, as you can probably tell, but my late husband was Brazilian and he named this craft for me. Raul always said I was ‘sweet as sugar,’ which, of course, I am.”

When they stepped onto the teak deck of the
Açúcar,
Dawn Campango took Clay’s arm and said, “Now come let me show you around.”

She led him straight through the grand salon and into the enormous master suite. At the very center of the room was a circular bed, where gold-and-coral sheets of silk were turned down for the night. The ceiling was lined with gold-and-coral silk damask, and directly over the round bed was a huge mirrored starburst. On one of the wood-paneled walls hung the stained-glass likeness of a naked goddess.

When Dawn saw his eyes were focused on the stained-glass goddess, she said, “She’s me.”

“Oh, really?” He frowned in mock skepticism. “How can I be sure?”

She smiled. “You’ll see. Very soon you’ll see.”

Laughing, she removed her gloves and tossed them onto a marble-topped table. She went to a dark wood cabinet, opened it, and withdrew a bottle of cognac. While she splashed the aged brandy into a couple of crystal snifters, she said, “Now you know all about me, Captain. Tell me about yourself. Where’s your home?”

Clay shrugged wide shoulders. “I was born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee, but the sea’s my home.”