Fire Brand (12 page)

She felt a sting of pleasure that ran down her taut body and settled in her lower stomach. She heard herself make a sound deep in her throat and pulled her mouth from under his.

“It frightens you, doesn't it?” he asked with a faint scowl on his face. “Haven't you ever felt passion before?”

She swallowed. She shook her head, beyond words. Her lips were tingling, faintly swollen from the long touch of his mouth on them. Her eyes fell to his mouth and found it equally swollen. Her breasts shook with her heartbeats. He was very close, and the intimacy of the hold he had on her was making her body throb in the most disturbing way. She felt herself tremble and wondered what to do about it.

His hands moved, raising her higher against his chest, while his lips paused just above hers. “I won't let it get out of hand, if that's what you're nervous about. Give in to me,” he whispered sensually. “I'll teach you what you want to know without making you afraid.”

The words didn't really make sense until his mouth settled down on hers and began to rub against it, parting her lips with slow expertise while his hands slid to her hips and slowly, achingly, drew them completely against his.

She'd never felt a man's aroused body before—not like this. Not so that she was a willing participant. Her mind was drowning in the sweetness of a heady pleasure like nothing she'd ever known before. She clung to Bowie's powerful neck and didn't protest the intimacy of his hold, not even when his fingers contracted hungrily on her hips.

He felt that submission with a thrill of pride, because he could feel her innocence. Very likely, this was the first time she'd even been kissed properly, much less anything more intimate. His body sang with delicious sensation, rippled with it. He breathed in the gardenia scent of her and put his tongue delicately against the inside of her upper lip, teasing it. He felt her mouth begin to open, welcoming him, and with a groan of pure anguish, he pushed his tongue inside it, his arms swallowing her hungrily, crushing her against his body.

She tightened her arms, feeling him pull her up as he rose, feeling his body absorb her weight as her feet hung off the ground in his bearish embrace. His mouth was doing the most intimate things to hers, and she loved it...loved it! Her body throbbed where he held it to his. His mouth was the center of the universe. She was living only through it, and if he stopped, she was going to die...!

When he suddenly put her down and started to move back, she cried out and clung to him, her eyes opening like dark olive flowers, helplessly caught in his black gaze.

His eyes were full of thunder. His heartbeat was so hard and heavy that it shook her, and he was breathing as roughly as she was, but he seemed to be in complete control. The hands that put her quietly away from him were deft and completely steady.

She tried to speak, but tears spilled down her cheeks. The intensity of emotion was new, just like the helpless trembling of her body.

“No...!” she protested helplessly when he moved away from her, and then flushed at her own boldness.

“I promised you I wouldn't let it get out of hand,” he reminded her. “No normal man can keep that up for very long,” he said with a gentle smile. “You get my meaning, I believe?”

She did, all too abruptly. The changed contours of his big body would have been enough to bring it home, even if his wicked smile hadn't.

She caught her breath, wrapping her arms around her breasts. They felt oddly swollen, like her mouth.

“My gosh,” she whispered aloud, as the intensity of what they'd shared loomed over her like a threat.

“Want a cigarette?” She shook her head as he flicked a match and took a draw from the cigarette. He seemed perfectly at ease, except for a faint glitter in his eyes. “You and I are explosive together,” he remarked.

“I never dreamed I could let anyone kiss me like that,” she whispered, without meaning to give herself away so completely.

“You don't trust me enough to tell me what happened, but I think I've got some of it worked out. Somewhere along the line, a man lost control and frightened you.”

She swallowed. There was a glimmer of truth in what he'd guessed, but he hadn't come near the real story.

“Something like that,” she agreed, to placate him and keep him from probing further.

“Were you raped?” he asked.

She felt her face going scarlet, because she hadn't expected that question. “No!” she burst out automatically.

“Talk to me,” he said gently. “I'm not going to look down my nose at you or give any lectures.”

“I can't!”

She was almost in tears. He gave it up. Upsetting her was the last thing he wanted to do. He moved closer, pulling her forehead against his T-shirt and holding it there. “Stop it,” he said softly. “I won't pry. One day, you'll tell me everything.” His mouth brushed gently over her temple.

“I never meant to let this happen,” she whispered tearfully. “It's all so complicated. I can't... I can't ever be intimate with a man, Bowie. I can't...!” She looked up with tragic eyes.

He touched her lips with a lean forefinger. “You can be intimate with me,” he whispered. “Not right away. Maybe not for a long time. But sooner or later, you'll tell me all about the past, and I'll ease you through the first time.” His black eyes narrowed. “And it will be the first time, won't it, Gaby?”

Her eyes couldn't move. He'd trapped them. “Yes,” she breathed. “But I won't be able...”

His mouth brushed hers into silence. “Suppose you get on the phone after lunch and invite John Hammock to that party Friday night?” he asked, changing the subject with remarkable ease.

The suddenness of the remark startled her. “What?”

“I want you to invite John to the party,” he said simply. “Aggie used to be sweet on him, and his wife died last year. He's good-looking and a conservationist.”

“Bowie, I don't think it's going to work. Your mother is really interested in Mr. Courtland.”

“Mr. Courtland is going home. He just doesn't know it. Humor me—I know what I'm doing.” He smiled wickedly. “John's got a way with women.”

“You might not believe it, but so does Mr. Courtland,” Gaby said firmly. “He's not what he seems. And I don't think he's an escaped convict. Did you see how he handled that rope, and the horse?” she persisted. “Even Bandy isn't that good, and he's been a horse wrangler his whole life. Mr. Courtland has a rare talent, and there's something very authoritative about him.”

“Well, he seems pretty ordinary to me,” he replied. “His clothes are off the rack, and he doesn't know a damned thing about cattle, even if he can throw a rope.”

“Bowie, after you left the table, he told me what he thought about the Japanese import deal.”

His black eyes searched hers. “Did he?”

“And he knows what a Hereford is. Are you sure you checked with the right people in Wyoming? Because I'd bet money that man has an interest in cattle, somehow or other.”

He pursed his lips. “Then that might be a good project for you. Ask him a few leading questions. Dig out some information.”

“I tried. Aggie stopped me. Do you have any ideas?”

“I might fly up to Jackson the first of next week.” He frowned. “That might be the best way. I've got to get this guy out of here before Aggie does something stupid.”

Gaby moaned silently. She'd never been so confused and uncertain. She hated acting behind Aggie's back, but like Bowie, she couldn't sit on her hands and do nothing. “He seems like a very nice man, Bowie, and he looks at your mother as if she's his whole world.”

“That's a talent any man can fake, and don't you forget it,” he said.

“Were you faking what just happened, to get me on your side?” she asked, her curiosity aroused.

His dark blond eyebrows shot up. “You think a man can fake desire?” he asked with real surprise.

Then she remembered the feel of his body against hers, and she burned all over.

“My God, Gaby,” he mused as she turned quickly and moved away from him. “I'll call the
Guinness Book of World Records
right now. There can't be another woman your age in America who could second that opinion...”

“You stop that,” she muttered as he fell into step beside her and they walked toward the back door of the house. “I wasn't thinking.”

He laughed softly. “You're going to be an education for me,” he said thoughtfully. And when she looked at him angrily, he added, “and I suspect I'm going to be a hell of an education for you.”

She wouldn't have touched that challenge with a ten-foot pole. She moved quickly to the back door, trying not to notice his amused glance as she fumbled the screen open and almost fell into the kitchen in her haste to get away from his taunting presence.

Montoya looked up as they came together into the dining room. “Ay! Tía Elena will have a fit if you sit down like that, Bowie.” The older man shook his head.

“What's wrong with me?” Bowie demanded.

Gaby had to bite her lower lip to keep from giggling. His white tee shirt was covered with grease. So were his brawny, hair-covered forearms, and there was even a streak of it in his hair.

“Grease,” Montoya said politely. “You should work well now, since you are liberally anointed with it.”

Gaby couldn't hold back the laughter. Bowie gave her a dirty look and glared at Montoya.

“I'm not that dirty.”

Just as he said it, Tía Elena came in and a veritable torrent of rapid-fire Spanish left her lips. Bowie answered her in the same tongue, with equal fluency, and they went back and forth for several seconds before he threw up his hands and strode out of the room.

“I'll take a damned shower,” he was muttering. “My God, you have to be scrubbed with lye soap and disinfectant before you can get a meal in this house...!”

“Just remember the doctors say that we should all cut down on grease, Bowie!” she couldn't resist calling after him.

He said something stormy in Spanish that made Tía Elena blush as she hurried into the kitchen to get the coffeepot.

“There is something you should know,” Montoya said.

“What?”

“Bowie wishes you to invite Señor Hammock to the party, in hopes that his mother will notice him and forget her new friend.”

“Yes,” Gaby agreed. “Well, she might,” she added doggedly.

“Señor Hammock is newly engaged to Señora White,” he said with a sigh.

“Great,” Gaby moaned. “That was our last hope.” She looked up at him. “We'll have to think of something else, and quick.”

“He seems not a bad man,” he said. “Are you both so certain that he is up to no good?”

“We don't know, because we can't find out anything about him,” Gaby replied. “But we're working on it.”

“Work fast,” Montoya advised. “Marriages are difficult to put aside.”

“You're telling me!”

Meanwhile, her mind was working overtime. In between fighting progress and a stepfather, Bowie was finding incredible ways to get under Gaby's guard. He was taking her over. But he didn't realize the threat the past held, and she did. She was as vulnerable and as out of control as Aggie. She was frightened, too. It gave her a new and binding kinship with the older woman, but it also made things worse.

CHAPTER EIGHT

G
ABY
DIDN
'
T
SHARE
what she'd learned from Montoya with Bowie. They ate a brief, pleasant lunch, except that Bowie's black eyes kept straying to Gaby's mouth, and she knew that he was remembering, as she was, the fever that had sprung between them in the garage.

She had to get out of the house, even if only for a little while, so she went driving into Lassiter.

Bob Chalmers, the editor of the
Lassiter Citizen
, was a friend of Aggie's, and she stopped in to say hello. Bob was a former Phoenix resident, and he knew Johnny Blake.

“Haven't seen him in years, though.” He grinned, offering Gaby a seat in his office. Out in the newsroom, several girls were setting type, proofreading, laying waxed copy on the pages, and talking on the telephone. Gaby also noticed through an open office door that a middle-aged, rather heavyset man was talking on the phone while he typed on an enormous electric typewriter.

“Looks unfamiliar to you, I suppose,” Bob mused, watching her expressions change. “We get out one issue a week, on Tuesday, and the paper hits the stands late Wednesday afternoon. We have eight employees, of which only three are full-time, and one reporter—Harvey Ritter.” He cocked his head toward the open office. “Harvey used to work for one of the big San Antonio papers before he moved here. Judy, sitting at the typesetting machine, has been here for ten years. And Tim, back in the dark room in photography, almost came with the newspaper. He used to run the linotype machine before we went to offset press and retired hot type.”

“I don't know much about weekly papers,” Gaby confessed, “but I've heard editors say that a daily is much easier on reporters, because there are plenty of people to do the support jobs. Here, a reporter has to be a jack of all trades, doesn't he?”

“That's for sure. Harvey threatens to quit every Thursday.” He leaned forward, chuckling. “That's the day when everybody reads the mistakes in the paper and calls to complain. I myself always leave the office to have lunch with someone or other in Tucson.”

“You coward,” she teased.

“I've lived this long,” he pointed out. “Why don't you quit that Phoenix rag and come to work for me,” he said suddenly. “You're a top-notch reporter, and you aren't afraid of controversy. Harvey does good political columns, and he's pretty expert on water and agriculture, but he doesn't like stirring up trouble. Right now, we need somebody to stir things up.”

“I saw last week's front page,” she said hesitantly.

He cleared his throat. “And, probably, the editorial page?” he suggested. “I cut your stepbrother to pieces. I won't apologize—I think he's wrong. We need jobs in Lassiter. We can't afford to put the emphasis on heritage to the point that it leaves hungry people in its wake.”

“Oh, I agree,” she said, and didn't correct his assumption that Bowie was her stepbrother. It was a common one, and it did no good to try and convince people that there was no connection between them. She usually just let it go. “In fact, that's why I'm here. Johnny wants me to do a piece on the agricultural outfit that's trying to buy land from Bowie. I thought you might be able to point me toward them.”

He beamed. “Could we get you to do a sidebar for us, after you run your story?”

She smiled. “I think I might be able to talk Johnny into that.”

“Great! Come on, I'll take you around to the real estate office where Mr. Barry works. He's acting as agent for the agricultural combine. I understand he had words with Bowie this morning?”

Gaby felt her face go hot. This was going to be a rough assignment. “He had several words with Bowie.”

“Well, we'll work it out eventually,” he said. “Controversy doesn't last long, which is good news for local citizens and bad news for the papers.”

He led the way out the door. “Hey, Harvey, Gaby's going to do us a sidebar on the combine project! She's going to stir up a hornet's nest!”

Harvey stared at her through his thick glasses, but he didn't smile. “That's nice of her,” he said, and abruptly picked up the telephone to start dialing without another word.

“Don't mind him,” Judy whispered as they passed the petite blonde. She grinned. “He's just mad because Bob asked him to do it and he wouldn't. You're stealing his thunder.”

“I hope I won't cause you any trouble,” Gaby told Bob.

“Not a bit of it. Come along.”

He introduced her to Alvin Barry, the real estate agent Bowie had ousted from Casa Río only hours before.

“This job is getting me down,” Mr. Barry said, shaking hands with Gaby. “I never realized that Mr. McCayde would take such a hard line. He's going to find himself in a mess of trouble before this is over.”

“He usually does,” Gaby murmured dryly. “But he has his point of view, Mr. Barry, and I feel that he's entitled to it, despite the fact that it conflicts with yours,” she added, wondering why she felt driven to stand up for Bowie when she disagreed with him as much as everyone else did.

Mr. Barry cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Miss Cane, I'd forgotten the family ties. What can I do for you?”

“I want to know about the agricultural project,” she said simply. She sat down and dug out her pocket tape recorder. “I'd especially like to have the names of the executives, so that I can contact them and discuss it with them as well.”

“Good idea,” Bob agreed as he sat across from her in front of Alvin Barry's big oak desk.

“They're rather hard to track down at times,” Mr. Barry said, “but I'll do what I can. They, uh, sent me some press kits, just in case they were needed. Here you go. Mr. Chalmers already has one.”

“Yes, I do.” Bob pursed his lips as he watched Gaby thumb through the slicks of harvesters at work on huge planted fields, and agricultural irrigation in full swing.

Gaby was frowning. She looked up. “I understood that this was to be a kind of big truck farm—you know, one of those ‘come and pick your own produce' kind of things—but this is cotton. These slicks show nothing but cotton production.”

“That's in other states—Southern states,” Mr. Barry said easily. “The main thing is to get the land, you see. Mr. McCayde has ten thousand acres that would suit admirably. It's level—although the agricultural people now use laser-leveling to make the fullest use of irrigation water—and it's near a major highway.”

Gaby felt a niggling doubt in the back of her mind. Something wasn't right here. She didn't feel comfortable. That was usually her first indication that people weren't on the level with her.

“How about using effluent for that irrigation?” she asked.

Mr. Barry blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Even Bob looked momentarily blank. “Effluent is recycled waste water,” she explained. “It's much more economical, and less damaging to existing water supplies, to use that for agriculture in some instances.”

“Well, that's not really in the projection,” Mr. Barry said.

“Then what provisions are they going to make for contaminants leaching into the groundwater table? And exactly what amounts of groundwater do they envision pumping out? Gan they adhere to the Groundwater Management Act with what they plan on doing here?”

“My God,” Bob said, his voice soft with respect as he stared at Gaby. “You've done your homework.”

“Unfortunately, I haven't done mine,” Mr. Barry said with a grimace. “I have to admit that I can't answer your questions at this time, Miss Cane. Mr. Samuels is our executive vice president in charge of acquisitions, and I know he'll be eager to tell you what you want to know. This is, uh, for the Lassiter paper, is it not?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I'm with the
Phoenix Advertiser
.”

Mr. Barry looked frankly uncomfortable. “I can't imagine that such a big newspaper would be interested in our speculative efforts way down here in Lassiter,” he said with a growing ruddy complexion.

“Ours?” She latched onto the word. “I thought you were only acting as advance man.”

“Well, I do have a small interest in the company,” Mr. Barry said.

“I see.” Gaby pursed her lips. “Well, do you have a telephone number where Mr. Samuels can be reached?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.” He fumbled in his desk and produced a business card. “Terrance Highman Samuels, Jr.,” it read, “Vice President, Bio-Ag Corporation.” The headquarters were in Los Angeles. Gaby looked up from it. “Isn't this a long way for this corporation to come looking for land?” She frowned.

“As you know, Miss Cane, land is growing higher in price near cities, and a great deal of good agricultural land is being diverted for industrial parks and housing. Arizona is one of the last frontiers, so to speak, in agricultural land.”

“And one with growing water supply problems,” she pointed out. “The Colorado River is Arizona's biggest water resource, even if we do have to share it with four states and Mexico. But it's on the other side of the state. Tucson is going to benefit from the Central Arizona Project, but we aren't. And the Gila River's water, which flows north of us, is already under siege. We have small water resources around Lassiter, and agriculture is one big water user.”

“You really must speak with Mr. Samuels, I'm afraid,” Mr. Barry said, and stood up, smiling as if he had to force it. “I'm sorry I know so little about my subject. Perhaps that press kit will be of some assistance.”

“Perhaps it will. Nice to see you, Mr. Barry, and thank you for your help,” she added politely.

“Some help,” Bob scoffed when they were walking back down the sidewalk toward the newspaper office. “The press kit seemed straightforward enough. I used most of the slicks they sent, along with the announcement that they were going to try to locate a project here. But until you started asking those questions, I didn't realize how much I took at face value. Where did you learn so much about water?”

“I'm Johnny's resident expert,” she said with a faint flush. “Somebody had to go to the meetings on the Central Arizona Project and sit in on round-table discussions about water. I was picked. I don't even mind. Water is a fascinating subject.”

“I gathered that.”

“I don't know nearly as much as I'd like to,” she added. “I'm a novice. But I know how to ask questions, and I can sort of understand the answers. Plus, I have sources that I can call to ask questions if I need to.”

“I thought this project was a dream come true when it started,” he mused. “But now, I've got questions.”

“I'll contact Mr. Samuels,” she promised, “and see about getting some answers. Mr. Barry doesn't know much, and that's really understandable. The project is still on the drawing board. Presumably, the organizers haven't had time to come down here and talk about it.”

“That will probably be their next step. I'll bet you money that Mr. Barty is on the phone to them right now.”

She grinned. “In that case, I may not need this phone number after all.”

“Be sure you don't lose mine,” he said. “And while we're about it, will you think about that proposition I made you? You'd be one hell of an asset to us. I'll even match whatever Johnny's paying you.”

She was flattered—very flattered. “I'll promise to think about it.”

He beamed. “Thanks.”

She did think about what he'd said, all the way back to Casa Río. It would be a challenge to work for a small weekly paper, but in some ways, less of a hassle. She'd be near Bowie... She knew that was where her train of thought was leading her.

All day, she'd thought about his ardor in the garage, about the way he'd held her and kissed her, about the things he'd said. She'd gone into town to avoid him, because it was all going too fast. He was backing her into a corner, and she was afraid of what could happen.

The odd thing was that he didn't frighten her physically. She found him terribly attractive. Despite her mental scars from years past, he was the one man who didn't bring them open again. He was tender and slow, and she loved what it felt like to be in his arms.

But she didn't dare allow her emotions to become involved. It was too much of a risk. On the other hand, she didn't know how she was going to manage to keep him at arm's length.

When she arrived at Casa Río in her white convertible VW, Aggie and Courtland had already returned. Apparently she was late for supper.

Gaby had changed this morning to go into Lassiter. She was wearing a white sundress, white pumps, and she'd put her hair into a neat, cool bun tied with a white ribbon. The look Bowie gave her when she sat down at the table was intense and extremely flattering. It made her pulse race wildly.

“You look nice,” he remarked, smiling at her. “Very cool.”

“It's blazing hot out,” she said, “I went shopping,” she lied, because it was too soon to tell him what she was up to, “but I didn't find anything I liked.”

“It's too hot to shop, darling,” Aggie murmured, smiling at her and then at Courtland. “We had a nice trip up to Cochise Stronghold, and we stopped at Pearce to let him see the museum there. You remember it, Gaby, in an old country store.”

“Yes. It's got everything from antiques to signed posters of John Wayne's movies.”

“And some fascinating remnants from the mining era,” Bowie added.

“Did you get the telephone calls made, darling?” Aggie asked Gaby.

“Every last one.”

“Every
last one?” Bowie queried with a raised eyebrow.

She nodded, and he smiled secretively as he lowered his eyes back to his plate. Gaby wondered what he was going to think when he found out that John Hammock was engaged to be married.