Sundancer cheyenne serie.., p.11
Sundancer (Cheyenne Series), page 11
At least she thought it was Cain. He looked so different, it was hard to believe he was the same unshaven disreputable half-breed who had ridden into Leather Shirt's camp, armed to the teeth. He still looked dangerous but in a totally different manner. His piercing black eyes skewered her intently, emphasizing the harsh planes of his bronzed face and straight unsmiling mouth. The somber elegance of his black evening clothes complemented his gleaming ebony hair, now freshly barbered. That long lean body was made to wear such clothes, she realized with shock as he turned away from the balustrade and walked off like a sleek black panther stalking his prey. Yes, still dangerous, very dangerous, but sophisticated in an urbane way she would never have imagined.
Lawrence's eyes followed hers and he realized who held her mesmerized for that brief moment. “I see he works the floor for MacKenzie now just like he did for us.”
“I beg your pardon?” Roxanna said, embarrassed. How utterly reckless and schoolgirl-silly to have been caught staring at Cain! ‘‘You know Mr. Cain?”
“He worked four years for my father, rather in the same capacity as he does for your grandfather—he's a gunman hired to deal with trouble—brawling trackmen, tinhorns, any sort of toughs on the line.”
Cain was scarcely dressed to subdue drunken railroad workers tonight, but Roxanna did not want to discuss him with her prospective husband. “I didn't realize Mr. Cain was employed by the Central Pacific. He spoke very little after securing my release from the Cheyenne. You do know I was abducted and held for ransom, don't you, Larry?” she asked, deciding the direct approach was best.
As they strolled past a palm-lined corridor heading toward the terrace, he replied, “You're very brave to speak about it.” His expression was grave, leaving the rest unsaid.
“There's not much to speak of. The Indians wanted guns for hunting and knew somehow that my grandfather would be willing to trade them for my safety. They did not harm me.” She looked directly at him as she spoke, trying to gauge whether or not he believed her.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “That's a great relief. We heard the most scurrilous rumors—that is—Father was afraid—no, I mean...I'm making a terrible botch of this, aren't I?” His smile was embarrassed and boyish and utterly irresistible.
Roxanna felt herself warming to him even if there was none of the sizzling summer lightning she felt with Cain. Damn Cain! She returned Lawrence's smile. “It's all right. I think my grandfather was worried about the gossip, but I expect now that everyone can see I'm unharmed, it will die down.”
“I certainly hope—that is, I'm sure that it will. Would you care for some refreshment?”
They chatted about superficial things, her life in St. Louis, his in San Francisco, the race between the Union Pacific and Central Pacific. He was young and earnest, occasionally inept, but so sweet about it that she did not mind. Roxanna quickly realized from his frequent references to his father that it was Andrew who made all the decisions in the Powell family. The thought of living in the same house with that hawk-faced man made her shudder. She hoped if she and Lawrence married that they could move into a place of their own, but it was too soon to consider that.
After several more dances, Jubal approached them with an older couple whom he introduced as Jonah and Sarah Grady, a wealthy mine owner and his wife who were interested in investing in railroad spurs. The men excused themselves and headed to the bar, leaving Roxanna in Sarah's company. She was a slightly plump woman with graying brown curls and merry hazel eyes that protruded from their sockets.
‘Those men will talk railroads until they've laid tracks twice around the equator,” she said warmly, taking Roxanna's arm. “Why don't we repair to the ladies' sitting room? While the gentlemen smoke on the terrace you can relax for a few moments.”
Roxanna felt relieved and pleased at the prospect. “To be honest, Mrs. Grady, my facial muscles are about locked from smiling at so many people. I would dearly love to rest a bit.”
They found one of the small parlors on the mezzanine set aside for the ladies and took a seat on a delicate damask upholstered settee near the back of the room, secluded by several large potted ferns. Roxanna sighed in contentment and arched her back to relieve the terrible tension of being “on stage” in her role as Alexa Hunt. Just as she was about to reply to Sarah's question about her hairdresser, a woman's high whiny voice interrupted them.
“I tell you, Emmaline, it's absolutely shocking. That Hunt hussy sashaying around with decent God-fearing white women after letting a pack of greasy bucks have their way with her. Why, any woman with an ounce of self-respect would’ve killed herself before she'd submit to that fate.”
“Now, Berta, maybe the savages didn't harm her. She doesn't look as if anything dreadful happened,” Emmaline suggested.
“Humph! They say that the Scot's Injun, Cain—why, he's little more than a savage himself—brought her back. She spent days alone with him on the plains. If the redskins didn't touch her, you can be certain he did!” Berta responded.
“I do suppose you're right. Imagine spending weeks with those savages and then—”
Roxanna rose from the settee and stepped around the potted fern. “And then falling for Mr. Cain's charms?” she interrupted curtly.
Emmaline, a small wisp of a woman, crimsoned with embarrassment and fanned herself, but the big horse-faced Berta stepped forward belligerently. “You have no shame.”
“With good reason. I have nothing of which to be ashamed, unlike some catty backsniping gossips I've encountered,” Roxanna replied with a cool disdain she was far from feeling.
“Why, I've never,” Emmaline gasped.
“This city has enough of your kind already, but they normally keep their place down on Cherry Creek,” Berta hissed.
“You seem acquainted with the locale. So tell me, Berta, what is it like down on Cherry Creek?” Roxanna inquired dulcetly.
For a moment she thought the big woman was going to strike her as a dull red flush blotched her beefy sallow face, but then she turned and swept from the room, sending one of the palm plants wobbling when her outdated wide hoops struck the pot. Emmaline scurried after her, leaving Roxanna and Sarah alone.
Roxanna seemed to wilt, all the cool bravado of moments earlier evaporating when Sarah placed one arm around her young companion's shoulders and said, “My dear child, you must pay no mind to women like those.”
Roxanna rubbed her temples with her fingertips, then raised her head and faced the kindly woman. “This is all over the city, isn't it?”
Reluctantly Sarah nodded. “Give them time, my dear, and people in Denver will find something else to gossip about.”
“I'm not so certain that I'll ever be accepted in polite society, regardless.” Just then several young women entered the retiring room, all chatting at once. “If you'll excuse me, I think I need to be alone for a few moments.”
With a worried look, Sarah Grady nodded, watching Alexa Hunt walk proudly from the room. What a pity for such a splendid young woman to have survived so much and then fall victim to the petty viciousness of Berta Wolcott.
Roxanna made her way down the long dimly lit corridor, unaware of her surroundings as thoughts tumbled chaotically in her mind. What would happen now? Would Lawrence Powell break the engagement because of the scandal? What would Jubal do? She realized her speculations about his loquaciousness were correct. Roxanna considered what to do if Jubal's hoped-for merger failed. Remaining with him, posing as his granddaughter, was always a risk. If her well-kept secret about the Indian captivity was out, how much more difficult would it be for someone to uncover her real identity? The corridor dead-ended, but one door to her left stood ajar. Hearing voices down the hallway, she stepped inside, blinking to accustom her eyes to the gloom.
Where can I go? Who can I turn to? She stood alone, shivering in the darkness, her arms wrapped around herself. Then she aimlessly turned and walked across the floor, refusing to give in to the tears that stung behind her eyelids.
Suddenly a steely arm clamped around her waist, pulling backward until she slammed into the hard wall of a man's chest, a very tall man's chest. All her breath was crushed from her as she tried to turn and push away her assailant, but he was too strong.
“The party's downstairs. You're a long way from your fiancé. Have a lover's quarrel already?”
Cain's silky low voice made her freeze. What else could go wrong tonight? “Let me go,” she demanded.
“Mmm, I don't know. Feels pretty good holding you close the way Powell did,” he replied, smelling the delicate essence of lilacs from her silvery hair.
‘‘Larry was a gentleman. He didn't take liberties the way you do.”
“That's what you call it, now—taking liberties? I reckon you took a few yourself back in that storm...only I didn't object—but then you're right, I'm no gentleman.”
“At least we agree on one thing,” she gritted out, turning toward him when he released her. He crossed the floor in two long strides and raised the wick on the gaslight, then stood facing her with his arms crossed over his chest. The expensively cut black wool suit molded to his long legs. The stark white shirtfront contrasted sharply with his bronzed face, now scowling at her. Earlier, from a distance, Roxanna had not seen that he was still armed. Now with his jacket hanging open, she saw the butt of a small pistol protruding from a shoulder holster.
“Don't you go anywhere without carrying a weapon?”
Cain shrugged and the sapphire studs on his shirtfront and cuffs winked at her mockingly. He responded matter-of-factly, “Not when I'm working.”
“Working? At a ball?” She dimly remembered some comment of Larry's about Cain working the floor, whatever that meant.
“Whenever you put a hotel full of rich men together with a bar full of whiskey, there's bound to be trouble. If not from them, then from business rivals who weren't invited, sneak thieves—”
“And you thought I was a thief?” she asked incredulously.
“I heard someone enter Jubal's conference room in the dark while I was checking next door.”
“If this is so almighty private, then don't leave the door standing open next time.” She started to walk by him, desperate to escape, for the tears she had banked earlier suddenly seemed ready to deluge her.
“Whoa, princess, not so fast,” he murmured, snaking out a long arm to intercept her.
“What are you going to do—arrest me?” She stiffened in his arms, fighting the urge to weep with every ounce of her willpower. But then Cain always seemed able to break that willpower without even trying.
He could sense her trembling and drew her nearer. “You're strung tight as a high-wire in a circus act.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, feeling the silky bare skin, massaging it gently with his fingertips.
“Don't—please, don't.” Her throat was raw. She hated herself for pleading.
“You've heard the gossip, then?” He cursed when she refused to reply, standing rigidly in his arms, refusing to look at him. “Did Larry boy tell you the engagement is off?”
“No,” she replied too quickly.
“It will be. But he won't have the nerve to face you. Old man Powell will inform Jubal—if he hasn't already.”
“Will that make you happy? Why should you care whether or not someone else wants me? You don't want me!”
“Like hell I don't!” Cain dug his fingers deep into her pearl-strewn hair, forcing her head back as his mouth ground down on hers in a ravaging kiss. He pressed her silk-clad body against his, tilting his hips intimately into hers, feeling the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest.
This kiss was no gentle exploration or swift teasing foray into her mouth. He slanted his lips across hers and plunged his tongue deep inside with swift wicked strokes, leaving her breathless...and hungry for more. She could feel the hard rigid pressure of his erection riding low against her belly and his fist tangling in her hair, pulling it loose from its pins as his fingers massaged her tender scalp. He tasted hot and dark, a potent blend of tobacco and despair that sent an answering need singing along her veins, just as it had every time they touched. She could feel those sapphire shirt studs digging into her bare flesh above the low-cut gown. Her breasts grew taut and ached for his mouth on them once again. Without her realizing it, her hands curved around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer.
Cain released her lips, then moved along the curve of her jaw line, down her exposed throat, to the wildly fluttering pulse that beat there. He buried his face in the lilac-scented cloud of her hair, inhaling her essence, then swept his hand down to cup her breast and raise it to his mouth like an offering. The pale creamy swell seemed ready to pop from its silk cocoon as he nuzzled it, feeling her fingernails digging into his back through his jacket. When she arched against him, his knees nearly buckled. He wanted to pull her beneath him on the carpet and take her, rucking up the billowing ball gown, feeling silk-clad legs wrap tightly around his hips.
Just as he was about to give in to the temptation, the sound of footsteps and men's voices echoed from down the hall—coming this way! “Quick, into the other room,” he whispered, shoving her through the open door. Taking a seat on the corner of the heavy cherry wood conference table, he straightened his clothes and smoothed back his hair, draping one arm casually across his thigh to conceal the telltale bulge in his trousers.
Cain was able to get rid of the two half-drunken mercantile owners with a minimum of fuss once he pointed out to them that the mayor's suite, to which they'd been invited for drinks, was at the opposite end of the hallway. As soon as they ambled out the door, he quickly closed it, then pulled open the other door, where Alexa was hiding.
She was gone. The French windows leading onto the outside balcony were open, the lace curtains blowing softly in the night breeze. One swift glance up and down the long porch indicated that she had made good her escape from him. It was no doubt for the best. If they'd made love there on the floor she would have hated him afterward. Already he knew the arrogant stubborn little chit well enough to be certain of that.
“I should be grateful,” he muttered to himself, combing his fingers through his hair in frustration. “She'd probably have run crying to Jubal.” The minute he said the words aloud, he knew they weren't true. Alexa was too proud to admit that she'd succumbed to passion, least of all with a man like him—and too honest to lie about her own complicity in the act.
“Princess Alexa, what will happen to you now?” he wondered as he closed the French windows and retraced his steps back into the conference room. Powell was certainly going to break off the deal with MacKenzie. After the firestorm of tittering gossip that swept the ballroom tonight, the Indian-hating Central Pacific chief would see no other option. Perhaps not least of all because Alexa's name had been linked to Cain's own. That for sure would disgust the aristocratic Andrew Powell. And weak-livered little Larry would go along with whatever his father said.
Would Jubal send her packing back to St. Louis? Cain doubted it. The old man was too stubborn to bow to gossip. But then he might be moved to protect his granddaughter from further hurt by sending her away, perhaps even to the East Coast or Europe. It was that protectiveness that had backfired tonight. The old man should have warned the girl what she would be up against this evening—Christ, as if she could be oblivious to the backbiting! Anyway, it was no concern of his.
Then why did it eat at him so fiercely? He could still see the tears she tried to hide glistening in her aquamarine eyes, feel her trembling in his arms. He'd found her alone in the dark but not the way he'd described to her. He knew she was no intruder because he'd seen her wandering down the hallway like a lost soul and followed her. When she stepped inside the dark, deserted room he knew she wanted to be alone—but was powerless to grant her wish.
From the moment he saw her gliding across the floor in Larry's arms, a vision in silk and pearls, he had ached to hold her again. “Forget her, Cain. She's nothing but trouble for a man like you,” he chastised himself as he walked down the long deserted corridor leading back to the mezzanine. There was a lot of work to do before the night ended.
But the idea nagging in the back of his mind would not let him alone. The day MacKenzie had commissioned him to search for his granddaughter, he had first thought of it, then dismissed it as crazy, a pie-in-the-sky dream. When he saw her emerging from the stream at Leather Shirt's camp, it recurred with sudden impact, for she was a beauty, not the homely spinster he'd imagined. He knew the chances of keeping secret what had happened to her were slim and he also knew what Andrew Powell would do when he learned the truth.
This is your golden opportunity to take something away from the bastard—something he's too stupid to value.
But it was not so simple as that. Jubal might fire him for his temerity. Even if the old man agreed, Alexa might spit in his face. Alexa. She was dangerous, very dangerous. He desired her too much. That gave her power to wound him in ways that he had never even let himself imagine before. But she was the key to it all—to destroying Powell and achieving everything he had dreamed of since he had been a boy in Enoch's classroom.
Cain walked down the wide marble stairs and began another discreet sweep of the ballroom, looking for potential trouble. As the night grew late, guests often drank too much, resulting in fisticuffs. Occasionally an uninvited visitor tried to steal some man's money clip or woman's jewelry. This was as much a part of his job as controlling brawling track workers or negotiating with hostile Indians along the trail.
He was tired of living by his fists and his guns, tired of risking his life, tired of working for wages—albeit in recent years the wages had been damn good. He wanted what the men at the top had—the powerful, independent rich white men who built railroads and empires. But those men were risk-takers. None—not Powell, not MacKenzie—got where they were without risk.
If he didn't take the risk, he would never be given another chance like this. Would the price of his dream be too high?
