Jeopardy Page 3

  “It’s Metta’s work.” he said from behind her.

  He moved so quietly, she hadn’t known he was near. But now her skin reacted, and a quiver of warmth skimmed along her arms and up her legs. She swallowed against the sudden tightness of her throat. “I guessed that. And the Stetson hanging on one of the legs?”

  “Mine.”

  “What does Metta have to say about your using her work as a hat rack?"

  “She thinks it's a great idea that someone’s finally found a practical purpose for it.”

  She laced her fingers together. “Your home is terrific. I really like it. It’s . . . unexpected, very unusual.”

  His lips moved in a suggestion of a smile. “What did you expect? Ranch house furniture and an open campfire?”

  “Something like that, I guess. Pretty stereotypical thinking, huh? Actually, this place is very much like you.”

  “Why is that?”

  She knew there was a touch of the provocative in her answer, but she decided not to let that stop her. “Because I have a feeling no matter how much I explored, I would never see everything.”

  He stilled, and she waited for his reaction. Silence surrounded her, but her senses picked up danger.

  When he finally spoke, though, all he said was, “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, brandy, something else . . . ?"

  “Coffee will be fine.”

  His expression moody, he lightly touched a finger to her cheek. “Explore, Angelica."

  He disappeared behind a divider, and she was left to deal with the wash of heat sweeping through her. For a moment she stayed where she was, feeling and absorbing the sensation. But his invitation was a lure she couldn’t resist for long.

  The bookcases held a wide assortment of books— leather-bound, hardcover, paperback. The latest Stephen King novel stood beside the complete works of Shakespeare. A row of scientific books marched above a row of Louis L’Amour westerns.

  She continued around the room and found a Regency mahogany Pembroke worktable that held a large baccarat bowl filled with arrowheads. Further on, an exquisitely tooled, silver-trimmed saddle was displayed beneath a French Impressionist painting.

  She noticed a red button, pushed it, and jumped with surprise when an electric train chugged out from under a table, smoke billowing from its smokestack. Its track had been arranged in areas where people wouldn’t normally walk, and the little train cheerfully wound under and around the furniture and traveled over fine Oriental rugs and gleaming hardwood floors.

  Obviously Amarillo Smith was a man who did things in a different way, and, it took not a second for her to realize, she loved his way of doing things. The revelation shook her.

  “Here it is,” he said, returning with two cups of steaming coffee and handing her one.

  “Thank you.” She chose to sit on the nearest couch. He dropped down onto the same couch not too far from her.

  She took a sip of the coffee. The hot black liquid fortified her. Then it hit her. He hadn't asked if she took cream or sugar. He had known she didn’t. No, she immediately corrected herself. He must have guessed.

  She was surrounded by contradictions and puzzles. A French Impressionist painting and a show saddle. A crystal bowl and a collection of arrowheads. An electric train and Oriental carpets. And heading the list of contradictions and puzzles was Amarillo.

  She turned to him. “You grew up in West Texas, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve never been there. I’ve seen pictures of it, though.”

  “No photograph could begin to capture what it’s like.”

  There was a tone akin to reverence in his deep voice. Her better judgment told her she couldn’t afford to be any more intrigued with him than she already was, but her curiosity was strong. “Then tell me.”

  “Telling is easy. It’s miles of nothing but wind and barbed wire, sand and dust, mesquite and coyotes. But you can’t understand its immensity or its spirit unless you go there and see for yourself.”

  “You sound as if you really love it.”

  “I do. West Texas is cruel and elemental, but it also has a very special kind of beauty.”

  And using all those elements, it had formed a man like Amarillo, she thought.

  She wanted to ask why he had left, but she already knew at least part of the story, enough to know she shouldn’t ask more. Nico had once told her that Amarillo had married a girl he had met in college. A year later his wife had been killed in a tragic accident, and he had moved to Boston, where her elderly parents lived, to be near them and care for them. She had heard that they had both died within the last two years.

  “I go back as often as I can," he said continuing. “I have business interests there.”

  She hadn’t known, but then, there was no reason she should. She usually made an effort to stay away from him. That’s why she was amazed when she heard herself saying, “You’re coming to the ball, aren’t you? I’m counting on you to buy a table. It’s for the Children’s Fund.”

  His lids dropped to half veil his eyes. “How about I just give you the money?”

  “You’re not coming?” She set her coffee aside; he did the same.

  “With Nico away, I don’t feel I should leave things unattended here. We have a number of ongoing cases at the moment. ...”

  “I also happen to know that you have a large staff of very competent people."

  “I guess I’m arrogant enough to think that things won’t be done properly unless I’m at the office to oversee them.”

  He was giving her a polite, socially acceptable excuse, she reflected. She should accept it. He obviously did not want to be at SwanSea at the same time she was, at least not without the buffer of Caitlin and Nico. She was relieved, she told herself. With a glance at her watch, she stood. “It’s midnight. It’s time I was going.”

  He didn’t argue with her. “I’ll walk you to your car."

  * * *

  A fog had moved in since they had been inside. It swirled around them in feathery patterns, parting as they moved through it, then closing behind them again. Water lapped, a boat moved up the river, a foghorn sounded in the distance.

  To Angelica, the night had an otherworldly feel about It, but then again, the whole evening had been out of the ordinary for her.

  She opened the car door. Amarillo leaned in, put the cake box in the seat next to hers, then straightened.

  “Thank you for this evening,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”

  He nodded without expression.

  “Give me a good report when you talk to Nico.”

  “I will."

  He was waiting for her to get in the car and drive away, but she couldn’t quite make herself leave him yet. She knew the next time she saw him, they would be surrounded by other people. He would be with someone else, as she would. The two of them would probably never again be alone together in just this way, wrapped in night and fog.

  On Impulse, she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  The touch of her lips on his skin was a shock to his entire system. His hand came out to steady her, but when she was standing again, he couldn’t seem to release his grip on her arm. Even through the leather jacket he could feel how soft she was. And the way she smelled . . . Her scent whispered around him, leaving in its trail a sensual impression of satin and velvet.

  Earlier he had watched unobserved as she had wandered around his home, looking at and touching objects and furnishings he had collected over the years, leaving prints and impressions of herself on his things that he doubted could ever be wiped away. She was insidious; she was all things female. He wanted to sink into the scented femininity of her and soak himself.

  With a growl of anger and despair he drew her against him and brought his mouth down on hers. And immediately his tongue found hers. He had never thought he would kiss her, yet, surprisingly, he already knew the delectable taste of her and even the irresistible rose-petal texture
of her skin.

  He slid his hand beneath her jacket and up her back. He felt silk. And fire, low in his stomach. The silk didn’t take him unaware. The fire did. It was instant and all-consuming. How could that be? What was the explanation? It bothered him that he didn’t know. He didn’t like things that bothered him.

  Abruptly he wrenched his mouth away, but the sight of her, fresh from being kissed by him, nearly undid him. Her skin was flushed with desire, her lips were parted and moist, ready for more of his kisses. He gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt. “We need to stop, Angelica.”

  “Do we?”

  Her question carried a soft, bewildered innocence that played havoc with his senses. He could have her. . . .

  “Yes, dammit, we do.” With a barely suppressed violence he shoved the car door closed, pushed her back to it, then brought himself down on her, increasing the pressure against her until every curve of her body was impressed into him. He looked down at her for a second longer, his eyes hard and glittery. “Yes,” he said again, this time with a thick whisper. “We do.” And he took her mouth with his.

  She shouldn’t be giving in this easily, she reflected hazily, then wondered why she thought she should resist. Her mind was having a hard time catching up to the idea of this sudden frantic need she felt for him, but the truth was she wanted him with a desperation that was growing by the second. She burrowed her fingers through his hair and gave herself up to him.

  A fever raged in his blood and in his head. He pulled at her blouse until it was loose from the waistband, then quickly unbuttoned her blouse. “I’ve wanted to do this forever,” he muttered. “Forever.” Impatiently he shoved her slip and bra straps off her shoulder, then delved beneath the lace to what he sought.

  Her skin burned as his hand moved over her, caressing and kneading until the pleasure threatened her reason. Her breasts swelled and throbbed, and she began to squirm, trying to get closer to him. There was an aching in her that cried out for relief. Then his fingers found the nipple, and the pleasure took on an edge that brought her close to madness. Needs, wants, desires joined, grew, until she was lost in the passion, in the fog, in him.

  Frustrated by the restriction of her clothes, desperate to have her, he cupped her hips and lifted her, sliding her up the car until he could bend his head and draw the tightly beaded nipple he had been tormenting into his mouth. And as soon as he did, a hard shudder raced through him. From having nothing of her to being on his way to having everything of her within the space of a few seconds was almost too much for him. Glorious and powerful sensations were overwhelming him. He had feared it would be like this.

  He tightened his hold on her and sucked strongly, pulling at the nipple. Her sweet, mindless moans and gasps entered his brain, inflaming and urging him on.

  Suddenly another sound intruded, a metallic, grating sound, and everything in him tensed, then froze. Reality came rushing back. Metta was using her grinder, he realized. With a violent oath he wrenched away and lowered her until her feet touched the ground.

  It was as if she had suddenly been deprived of oxygen. She felt dizzy, confused, bereft. “Amarillo?” she whispered. “What happened?”

  “Damned good question.” A scowl deepened the lines of his face. With jerky motions he reached out and straightened her clothes.

  He started to say something, then stopped. He lifted his hand as if he would touch her, then let it drop. Abruptly he turned and walked away.

  Angelica felt as if a steamroller had just driven over her. He had walked away from her!

  Her eyes hurt as she stared into the fog, but it had swallowed him up without a trace. She was completely alone, as If he had never been there with her. But her body knew better. Beneath the silk blouse her skin still burned where his hands had touched and her breast still ached for the feel of his mouth once again.

  Why had he left her? Her mind screamed out the question, but no answer came back to her.

  She swatted at her suddenly damp face with the back of her hand and came to the conclusion that Amarillo had the right idea. It was time to leave.

  Once more at home, standing by one of the huge windows, Amarillo gazed out at the night. Why in God’s name had he done something as stupid as even getting near Angelica, much less kissing her? Years ago, with great deliberation, he had mentally pushed her out of the inner circle of his life. Over time he had watched as she had danced and laughed, fascinating first one young man and then another. He had been unmoved by the sight.

  But then, suddenly, tonight he had closed the distance between them—and all it had taken was the feel of her lips on his cheek as she had given him a brotherly kiss good night. Something had snapped inside him. He had come undone.

  His gut was tied in painful knots. He had to regain the distance between them, because if he didn’t, he was very much afraid that the one kiss and all that had gone with it would just be the start. He picked up a pillow and hurled it across the room.

  * * *

  Angelica closed the door of her renovated brownstone behind her and collapsed back against it. She felt as if a storm had thundered through her world and turned everything upside down.

  She closed her eyes and remembered. The fog. The river sounds. Amarillo’s mouth on hers, on her breast. Her blood turned hot merely thinking about it. It was almost as if there'd been a part of her that had been waiting all these years for the moment when he would take her into his arms and make love to her. It was hard for her to believe, even harder for her to admit to herself, but it was true. And they had almost made love.

  The intensity of what had happened between them jolted her to her very core. She wasn’t a woman to forget everything and let herself go completely with a man, no matter who the man was.

  But the scary thing was she had done just that. And the man had been Amarillo.

  What was he thinking about her, feeling about her? He had been the one to break away. She had been willing to—

  The phone rang, and her heart leapt into her throat. Amarillo.

  She raced to the phone and answered breathlessly. “Hello?”

  “I told you to be a good girl, but you’re not minding."

  She began to tremble. “W-what?”

  “Good girls shouldn’t go out. They should stay home and do as they’re told.’’

  The line went dead. Slowly she replaced the receiver in its cradle. Her hand went to her forehead and found it damp with perspiration.

  Don’t you dare let this get to you, she ordered herself. Everyone got the occasional crank call.

  Then why did this one bother her so much?

  She wrapped her arms around her waist and hugged herself tightly. She supposed it was natural to be a little upset. Any woman who lived alone would be.

  But the call meant nothing. Nothing.

  Three

  “Good morning, Miss DiFrenza.”

  “Good morning. Miss DiFrenza.”

  Angelica smiled and murmured “good morning” in response to the cheerful choruses of greeting. It was a routine she went through each morning as she arrived at work and made her way to her office. The store her great-grandmother, Elena, had founded was in her blood, and she loved everything about it, always had, ever since she was a little girl and Elena had brought her to work with her. The symmetry and order reflected in the layout of display cases and clothes racks pleased her, the smells and textures of the different types of merchandise made her happy.

  But today a disturbance rippled beneath the pleasant familiarity of her routine. She had dreamt in the night. When she had awakened, she had been left with only vaguely disquieting wisps of the dream. Why was it bothering her, she wondered. And why was she giving more than a moment’s thought to the antics of her mind while she slept? Dreams never made sense anyway.

  Which brought her to the subject that was truly worthy of disturbing her, she thought gloomily— what had happened between her and Amarillo the night before.

  In her office Angelica sank
into her chair and viewed the jumble on her desk. As usual, the open calendar containing her day’s schedule sat square in the middle. Judith had an energetic first-grader who needed breakfast, wardrobe consultation, and a ride to school every morning. Consequently, she was unable to arrive at work the same time Angelica did. But each evening before she went home, she always positioned the calendar on the desk so that it was impossible to miss.

  Uncharacteristically Angelica ignored the calendar and gazed instead at the phone. Would Amarillo be in his office yet? He had seemed so angiy when he had stalked away. Why? What had happened? Had she done something wrong? Anything other than practically dissolve in his arms, that is?

  Dammit. Her hand sent the calendar and a pile of fabric samples to the floor. She had to stop thinking like that! But how? She had been the one left to deal with feelings of acute embarrassment and humiliation. He had walked away.

  “Miss DiFrenza? I wonder if I might have a word with you before you get too busy.”

  Angelica looked up to see William Breckinridge, the mem who had headed DiFrenza’s jewelry department for the past ten years, standing in her office doorway. The call to Amarillo would have to wait, she thought. Smothering her Impatience and pasting a smile on her face, she said, "Come in, Mr. Breckinridge. Actually, you are on my list to see today.”

  “I hope it’s about the charity ball. We do need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do. Won’t you sit down?” She indicated a chair, reflecting that he was the only employee with whom she worked who waited for her to ask him to sit.

  “I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”

  She sighed. “Not at all. Whatever is most comfortable for you.” He was a man in his early fifties with silver hair and a formality that only could have been with him from birth. Fortunately there was no doubt that DiFrenza’s customers enjoyed his rather stuffy, even superior manner. She supposed it gave a certain ceremony and importance to the matter of paying thousands for a necklace or a pair of earrings. Normally she was all for anything that helped sales, but this morning she found his attitude irritating.