Terence raced up the stairs after Joanne. She looked stunning in a blue sundress of such stark simplicity that one noticed only her, her face and her body and not the dress at all.
He unlocked the door to the new apartment he’d rented on the edge of the desert just so he’d have someplace to bring her. Flicking on the light, he then swung her up into his arms and swept her across the threshold as if she were his bride. He was making a total ass of himself, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“All day I’ve wanted this, to be with you, alone,” he said, his voice low and deep, as he let her go in such a way that her body slid against his on the way down.
“Me, too,” she whispered. “The whole time I was buying Mexican pots and pottery.” When she smiled he noted the rapid pulse in the hollow of her throat.
“I can’t believe you made me go shopping and then to lunch,” he grumbled, “when you knew what I wanted. You even made me tell you all about my suspicions regarding Hart’s sudden fame since Operation Mex-Tex-Zero.”
“It’ll be better since we waited,” she said.
“Hunger being the best sauce?”
“Something like that,” she replied breathlessly.
When he was sure she was standing on both feet and had her balance, he crushed her lips with his mouth. At the same moment, he shoved his hands under her thin silk sweater.
“You damn sure took your time eating lunch,” he muttered. “Two glasses of wine.”
“The merlot was excellent, you must admit,” she teased.
“Dessert even?”
She laughed. “I thought we should get acquainted. You know—converse.”
“I felt I was going to go wild every time you smiled and flirted and touched my leg or thigh under the table. Then you unzipped me…but only halfway. You knew what you were doing, didn’t you?”
Again she laughed. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had more fun.”
She was braless, which he’d known by her jiggle when she’d walked ahead of him through the flea markets of El Paso.
She didn’t do a thing to stop him when he cupped her breasts and caressed her nipples until they peaked between his fingers.
Several, long, wet kisses later, her hose and panties were on the flax carpet. He clasped her around the waist and lifted her higher. She wrapped her legs around his hips, and he walked with her toward his dining-room table. With a single swipe of his arm, he sent papers and books flying. With infinite care he laid her down on the smooth, ebony surface and rubbed his swollen penis against the soft dampness between her thighs, making sure she was ready.
“How come you didn’t wear a bra today?”
“I did. But on the outskirts of El Paso, I thought about you and ripped it off and threw it out on the highway.”
It was his turn to laugh.
He kissed her throat and caught her musky scent, which sent him over some edge. When she arched into him, he drove inside her with a fierceness that had been beyond him, until her. Moaning, she clung. As always the first time was too fast.
When they made love in the shower, he took his time until she was screaming and pounding the tiles as her climaxes went on and on.
“You can’t get enough,” he said afterward. “As a small boy I used to fantasize about meeting a nymphomaniac.”
“I have a lifetime of doing without to make up for.”
Terence didn’t want to ruin the few hours they had together by asking about her loveless marriage to Caesar. Later. Still, he was curious. She seemed so untouched in some ways, like an innocent young girl. She was as thrilled with him as a virgin having her first affair.
He knew it wouldn’t last.
But he intended to enjoy every minute of it.
He bound her to the bed with ribbons, and when she struggled frantically against them, he turned her over on her back and took her. Afterward when they were exhausted, they slept for hours.
When she got up, she dressed again and redid her makeup in his bathroom. Once again, she looked regal and untouched in a simple blue sundress—cold even. Then, like a queen, she began wandering about his apartment, looking at everything. She thumbed through a stack of newspapers on his coffee table, sifted through the papers he’d pitched off his table. He felt on edge, as if his privacy were being invaded.
“I see John Hart is making more headlines,” she mused.
“All that hoopla about Operation Mex-Tex-Zero?”
“They make it sound like he alone is responsible for the seizure of those two thousand kilograms of cocaine at the border,” she said.
“Worth umpteen millions. What I want to know is where’s he getting his information. It just seems…”
“What?”
“Too pat. Odd. He’s had a fairly average career until now.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m talking out of hand. All I know is that lots of bodies have been turning up in Ciudad Juarez lately. They’ve all been tortured. Rumor has it Morales is on a rampage. I’m glad Mia has a bodyguard.”
She laid the newspaper down.
“Life is tough for a lot of people here in El Paso, but it’s ten times worse in Ciudad Juarez,” he said.
She sighed. “I never imagined you in a cozy apartment like this.”
He saw no reason to inform her he’d rented it just for her.
When she pushed the door to his office open, a prickle of alarm shot through him.
“Joanne—”
Ignoring him, she slipped inside his office.
“There’s nothing of you in the rest of the apartment,” she said as she fingered his computer, his books and then the pictures of Abby and Becky. “The furniture is so new, it reminds me of a hotel room.”
She lifted the photograph of Abby on her golden horse and set it down. Then she picked up the picture of the twins when they were three and still in pigtails. For a long moment she held the photograph up to the light. Despite the fact that it wasn’t heavy, her hand began to shake.
He thought he heard her whisper, “Oh, no.”
Then he could do nothing but stand paralyzed for several more long seconds, willing her to put the picture back down. Did she know? Had she somehow learned about the twins? Electra’s girls? His? Had Caesar known?
No. She couldn’t know any more than Caesar could have known. Electra had been very specific on that point. She’d told him she’d taken great pains to insure the adoption arrangements between them would be totally confidential.
Finally Joanne put the picture down, and he was able to breathe again. Without looking at him, she said, “They are lovely. Children are so much fun, especially little girls, aren’t they?” Her tone was perfectly neutral.
He nodded and was glad when she came out of the room.
Quickly he shut the door.
“I’m thirsty,” she said, moving past him, careful to avoid his touch.
He dashed into the kitchen and found her a bottle of water.
She took it. “I have to go,” she said without opening the bottle.
“I thought you were going to spend the night.”
“I’m feeling tired all of a sudden. It’s a long drive.”
“You could rest here. There’s a bed.”
She laughed, but not lightly as before. The atmosphere was different suddenly—charged.
Without another word, she went to the door. He opened it, intending to follow her.
She held up her hand. “You know how I hate goodbyes.”
“But this isn’t—”
“No. Of course not.” She smiled ever so tenderly. “We’ll see each other soon. I’ll call you…tonight as soon as I get home.”
Then why was her voice so strange and sad?
It was over. She was ending their affair before it had hardly begun.
“Joanne—”
“Don’t worry so—”
“Why are you going?” he whispered, frantic to change her mind.
“Because I love you.”
“Don’t then!”
“I can’t explain. Don’t ask me to. We’ve got to stop this—before we’re in too deep.”
“We already are,” he thought, but it was too late.
She was gone.
It was a picture-perfect spring morning. Sunlight filtered through the mesquite trees and the cottonwood that shaded the new barn as Mia brushed and talked soothingly to Renegade, the troubled gelding, a thickset sorrel, Cole had bought on a whim two weeks ago. Except for Gus, who was lurking just out of sight somewhere in the trees, watching the barn, she was alone.
“Why did you buy him?” she’d asked Cole as Kinky had unloaded Renegade from the horse trailer.
“This beautiful beast was on his way to the slaughterhouse,” Kinky had said. “Cole’s gotten softhearted.”
Despite his narrow escape, the gelding had exuded such quiet confidence when he’d stared into Mia’s eyes before he was led to the barn. She’d thought of Shabol.
“I thought you said this horse was crazy,” she’d said. “He doesn’t look crazy.”
“Just you try to ride him,” Cole had muttered, stroking the animal.
“He rolls over on them,” Kinky had said. “Or slams them into a railing.”
“Somebody must’ve abused you mighty bad,” Mia had murmured to the big darling.
He’d become her pet project. Every morning and afternoon she brought him a coffee can full of oats and then slipped a hackamore on him when he was done eating and led him about the corral for half an hour or more. By the third morning he’d been standing at the gate waiting for her.
Wing Nut usually followed Mia to the barn, dog tags jingling, toenails scraping wildly on the concrete floor of the barn while he dashed about eating some oats, too, and, unfortunately, gobbling any horse apples he managed to find.
Now Renegade was her soul mate. The tacit understanding and affection they shared were truly remarkable. Not that she’d ridden him.
She loved getting up early and working with him and then all the other horses in the barn. She’d pick up any stray rocks she found in the barn so they wouldn’t break up the horses’ feet.
When she was done in the barn, she always felt stronger. Slowly, surely, with their help, she was getting past Mexico. This morning while she’d been sweeping and feeding everybody and mucking their stalls, she’d seen a spotted fawn and its mother, and an armadillo and a jackrabbit on the edge of the lawn. Such sightings rooted her in her real life. This was home, where she belonged. Mexico was a bad dream. One day soon, she’d feel safe again.
The day was heating up. Glancing at her watch she realized it was time for Vanilla to get up and have her breakfast. Quickly Mia put the brushes away and led Renegade outside the barn so he could roam and explore. She removed the halter and stepped back. Hesitating, he gave her a long look, which she took to be both affectionate and euphoric. Then with a final goodbye snicker, he turned. After pawing the earth, he exploded, racing away on galloping hooves toward the trees where the deer had been.
Laughing, she packed up her things, closed the door to the tack room and then headed to get her purse, which she’d left by the sink.
The moment she stepped into the little room, she stopped, her attention caught by a splash of red beside her purse. For a second she rocked back on her heels. Then she saw that it was a beautiful rose; a single, long-stemmed, bloodred rose.
Puzzled and yet enchanted, and somewhat worried, she ran to it and picked it up and twirled it beneath her nose. Wondering about the identity of her mysterious admirer, she went to the doorway and stared at the trees where Renegade had vanished.
The horse was gone. If Gus were out there, he was invisible. The wind sighed in the oak trees, and she wondered who her secret admirer was.
Indecision and procrastination were driving Shanghai crazy. It was shortly after eleven, and he was in a lousy mood as he drove down the ranch road with all his windows open.
What to do? What to say? How to approach her? What would she do?
The air was balmy now, but it would get hot later in the afternoon. He’d rolled up his sleeves. He’d thought he’d hate everything about being back in Spur County and was surprised how much he liked the feel of the wind in his hair just as he liked the dry scent of the grass and cacti and the earthier smells of cattle and horses. Odd, he didn’t long for the scent of pine.
Shanghai had been staying at a cheap roadside motel outside Chaparral for the past three days and nights and he still hadn’t worked up his nerve to confront Mia.
Today. He punched her cell-phone number into his cell and put his phone to his ear. But, hell, no sooner had it started ringing than he flipped his phone shut—again. Maybe he needed to ride the back roads a while longer, thinking about his past, and about his future, too. Thinking about her.
A man didn’t have much time on earth, so he couldn’t afford to waste it. What the hell did he want to do with the rest of his life?
What really mattered? Fame? Fortune? Cheap thrills and cheap women who made a man feel momentarily alive?
Or just settling down to a comfortable, ordinary life with somebody special you got a real kick out of being with? A relationship like that would take work. He’d have to reveal himself. He couldn’t hide.
When he was a kid, he’d been a smart-ass with all the answers. He’d wanted to be somebody. He’d wanted his name to mean something, the way the Kemble name meant something if only to the rodeo crowd. Back then he’d been determined on hating all Kembles forever—even Mia.
Well, he wasn’t a kid anymore, and the notions that had served him then weren’t working all that well now. Hate was a mighty poor companion.
Hardly knowing what he did, he made first one turn and then a few more. Before he knew it he hit the blacktop road that wound through unimproved pastures to Black Oaks. Its hard surface was cracked and laced with tall weeds. Nobody came this way much anymore. In some places the asphalt was no more than a broken path that cut through the dense thickets of mesquite and live oak and huisache. As he observed the ranch land he’d once worked, he saw that thousands of mesquite-choked acres needed to be chained.
Black Oaks didn’t really matter to the Kembles. Caesar had just wanted the Knights gone and Black Oaks forgotten. So, he’d let it go wild.
Well, Caesar was the one who was gone now. Death and time damn sure had a way of leveling things. Cole was in charge now.
Shanghai rounded the last bend. When he saw the ancient Knight homestead, which had once served as the headquarters for a vast ranch that had taken a century to build and far less than that to crumble into nothing, he stopped.
The house was dark. It looked lost and as shapeless as a shadow in the pools of purple beneath the trees. At least when his mother had been here, she’d had red gardenias and purple petunias in the window boxes this time of year. She would have had baskets dripping with plump ferns hanging from every eve, too.
Just looking at the sagging roofline knotted his stomach. If something wasn’t done, the place would fall down upon itself in a few years. Frowning, he hit the gas again and drove closer, but when he braked again in front of the one-story, frame house, a peculiar kind of dread filled him. For a second or two he became the lost, frightened little boy who’d grown up here. Then he shook himself.
It was funny how the place seemed to have shrunk since he’d left. Away on the road, he’d remembered it bigger.
He stared at the unpainted, warped boards for quite a spell before he worked up the guts to open his door and climb out.
After his mother had gone, he’d felt so small here, so ashamed. The Kemble name had been so big it had dwarfed him. Maybe things would have been different if his mother hadn’t run off. But his daddy had gotten a whole lot meaner after she’d left. All Shanghai had wanted during the last years he’d lived here was to escape.
Why hadn’t she taken Cole and him with her? That question had tortured him for years. Deep down he was still afraid to really love a woman.
Even though Shanghai wanted nothing to do with the house and its pain or his mother’s betrayal, he felt this place in his bones as he felt no other place he’d ever visited. Maybe he had unfinished business here.
Staring at the drooping porch, he remembered how his mother used to swing him on the porch swing. She’d had the prettiest voice, and he’d sung along with her. His favorite song had been “You Are My Sunshine.”
He’d never been able to carry a tune, so he’d probably sounded like a lunatic, but, oh, how merrily she’d clapped when she’d praised him.
A brunette with blue eyes, she’d been so sweet, too sweet for his daddy, he supposed. Shanghai remembered her soft voice in the darkness, too, when she used to whisper goodnight to Cole and him. When she’d run off, he’d lain in his bed and had closed his eyes and had pretended he heard her voice saying good-night to him. Then one night, he’d forgotten how she’d sounded. Oh, how he’d cried then.
A breeze gusted through the trees, causing a shutter to bang around back. He felt a sharp stab of loneliness as he climbed the steps.
He didn’t need this. He had no business here. He should have stayed away forever. Maybe he would have if John Hart hadn’t called him and told him about the hit out on Mia’s life. Then Wolf had told him about two hit men who’d attacked him.
As he opened the sagging screen door and let himself inside, Shanghai’s gut clenched. His footsteps sounded hollow as he stomped about, but the three tiny bedrooms and the small bath were just as he remembered them.
Not that he wanted to remember the nights he’d cowered under his bed when their daddy had brought home a woman and the two of them had hit the bottle. Shanghai had hated the loud sounds from that bedroom, the bed banging against the thin wall.
When he’d been sober, his daddy had been as quiet as a scared bird. In town he’d been easygoing with everybody and always ready for a game of cards. But Shanghai had never trusted the quiet weakling or the easygoing man everybody else knew. He’d always known the mean drunk was there, just waiting to come out—at least when it was just the two of them.
Shanghai remembered the last time he’d seen his father and the words that had kept him away all these years, even after his father had died.
You’re not mine!
Your mother married me with a no good bastard in her belly.
Shanghai had really felt like a nobody when his father had screamed that. Was it true? Did it matter anymore?
Shanghai was still lost in his thoughts a few minutes later, when he heard an engine being revved outside before the driver turned it off. Looking out, he saw a woman get out of a bright red pickup. She was wearing a pink T-shirt and tight jeans that hugged her butt in all the right places. She had long red hair that rippled halfway down her back. In the distance he saw another pickup stop. A man with white hair was watching her.
Cole had told him they’d hired a bodyguard.
Conflicting emotions crowded his mind—pleasure, a visceral thrill, fear, protectiveness. Hell, Shanghai still didn’t know what he’d say to her.
When she opened the back door of her pickup, she waved to her bodyguard. Then she freed a little girl, who was also wearing a pink T-shirt, from her car seat. The child wriggled to get loose.
“House,” Vanilla shouted, running forward, pointing.
When Shanghai strode outside, the little girl turned back and held out her hands to Mia, who swiftly picked her up. Then she ducked her head, hiding from Shanghai.
“She’s shy,” said Mia, whose smile was almost as shy. “She’s barely used to me.”
Suddenly he was so glad to see them he felt like an utter fool. What the hell had taken him so long? Even so, his jaw went taut, and he couldn’t seem to smile.
Mia was beautiful with the sunlight filtering through the trees and gleaming in her bright hair. He’d never seen anybody so beautiful in his whole life. His chest tightened painfully.
“Hello, Vanilla,” he murmured, trying to sound casual as he descended the stairs.
“I heard you’d come home,” Mia said. “I kept think ing—”
She probably thought he was a complete idiot.
“I’ve been meaning to come by.”
“Shouldn’t you be at some big name rodeo?”
“I used to think so.” In spite of himself he grinned. As if in response, her face softened, too. “I used to think I should be anywhere else,” he said.
“But you’re here. Why?”
“You heard anything from your friend Morales lately?” He tensed again as he wondered if she’d slept with the bastard.
She went paler. “You still with that girl you drove off with?”
“Abigail?” He shook his head. “We broke up. A few days ago.”
“Because of me?”
“Well, I didn’t see how I could come back here and leave her wonderin’. She took it real hard. I hurt her pretty bad. I’m sorry about that. But I guess some things can’t be helped.” He nodded toward the pick up. “Your bodyguard?”
“Gus.”
Mia’s eyes tugged at him, lured him. He swallowed the bait and moved in closer. Vanilla peeped over her mother’s shoulder and shot him a flirtatious glance. When he smiled, she buried her face against her mother’s plump bosom again. Lucky her.
The kid with her elfin ears and bright blue eyes was cute. Really cute. Much cuter than in her pictures. And she’d grown.
“When you didn’t call, I figured you weren’t ever coming back,” Mia said, bouncing Vanilla on her hip. Her voice was pleasant enough, but her pretty, whiskey-colored eyes were haunted.
He sighed and shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other. “Well, I’m here now.”
“Why?”
“When I heard Morales was loose, I was on my way to Nebraska,” he said. “At some point I just did a U-turn and headed here. Hell, I don’t know why I do half the things I do. That’s why I get in so much trouble.”
Mia’s smile was slow and warm, and it did funny things to Shanghai’s insides. He felt all mixed up.
“I didn’t sleep with him. I told you that already.”
“Right.” His throat felt so tight he could barely swallow. “I’ve tried to quit thinking about you and Morales.” His gaze drifted over her. “But Cole said he called you.”
For a long time they just stood there. “Okay.” He fought to get a grip.
When Vanilla peeked at him again, he smiled. Vanilla laughed, causing the tension between Mia and him to ease.
“I stopped at one of those great big toy stores and bought her a present,” he began, his voice gentle. “I didn’t know what she’d like, so I just got her somethin’ that struck me.”
He loped past Mia to his car and pulled a stuffed white-and-black dog out of the back.
“Why, that’s precious,” Mia said when he held it up.
Vanilla squealed in delight.
“Look what I’ve got, little darlin’,” he said, bending close to Vanilla and waving the stuffed toy so that its ears flopped as he pretended to play peep-eye. “It’s a dog. His name is Spot.”
“What do dogs say, Vanilla?” Mia asked.
Vanilla’s head popped up. When she saw the dog again, she broke into a slow grin. “Arf! Arf!”
The stuffed dog had a huge black-and-white head with enormous dark eyes.
Mia bit her lip. “He does look a little like our Spot.”
“Only cuter.” Shanghai heaved in a deep breath. “I bought him because we both loved that mutt so damn much.”
Mia’s sparkling eyes were lifted to his as Vanilla held out her hand to take the stuffed dog. “Mine!”
“Yes, little darlin’. He’s all yours.”
When Shanghai handed her the stuffed toy, she wrapped her arms around it and laid her head on top of its head. “Arf!”
Shanghai stared past them. “When I left, I made a pact with myself I was never coming back here. Not for anything.”
“And now?”
His gaze fell on Vanilla. “I’ll stay until this Morales situation is sorted out. That’s for sure. As for the rest, we’ll take it one day at a time.” He paused. “I think for starters, you and me—we need to talk.”
Vanilla began to kick and wriggle to get down.
“Talking is not so easy when she’s around. She’s never still a minute.”
“When?”
“You hungry?” she murmured.
“What?”
“It’s lunchtime at the Golden Spurs. Sy’rai has cooked fried chicken and all the stuff that goes with it.”
“Cream gravy?”
“And mashed potatoes. Green beans and iced tea, too. Oh, and a salad. She always makes a fresh green salad out of her garden.”
“Pie!” Vanilla chirped, grinning bashfully up at Shanghai.
“Cherry pie today,” Mia said. “Vanilla likes to sit in her chair and eat.”
“Chair! Eat!” Vanilla chirped, pointing to the truck.
“Mia, I brought you something, too.” Shanghai felt his face get hot.
Quickly, in order to get the embarrassing moment over with, he pulled a box of chocolates in a golden box out of his truck and gave it to her.
“Aw, hell,” he said. “Might as well go for broke.” He grabbed a long-stemmed, bloodred rose off his seat and handed it to her, too.
“I know it’s kinda corny,” he said, aware of the slight huskiness in his voice. “A red rose and all.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered, smelling the delicate red petals.
Their eyes locked. Hers were warm and sparkling. “I wondered about that other rose this morning. That was sweet.”
He felt his cheeks heat again. “Corny.”
“Sweet.”
He wanted to kiss her so bad he hurt. But he knew it was too soon.
“I’m not real good at giving girls flowers,” he said. “I remembered how you threw that rose at me and how nasty I was about it at first. I thought maybe you liked red roses.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I wanted to forget you.” His voice was low and faintly hoarse.
“You were doing real good until you said that.”
“Do you want me to lie?”
“No, but maybe you’d better stop while you’re ahead because of the roses and the chocolate and Spot.”
“But how could I forget, when I couldn’t get the good times with you out of my mind, darlin’? No matter how I tried, I kept reliving them over and over in my mind.”
“Me, too,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s a start then. We both have a lot to forgive each other for.”
“Do you think you can? It seems to me I’m the one who needs the most forgiving,” he said.
“I hope so, but I’m still afraid, Shanghai.”
“That makes two of us.”
When she smiled, his heart brimmed with intense emotions, some good and some bad, but the strongest of them all was hope.