Forbidden Fire (20 page)

“Off!” she commanded. “Ian, you rake—”

“Ah, but you were well warned to stay away!”

“I was in my own bath!”

“You saw fit to wage war.”

“I saw fit to defend myself!”

She had entered this marriage knowing everything.

But the texture of his tongue upon her flesh was rough and sleek and exciting, and the flames that had touched his eyes were growing to burst into a fire at the center of her being. She could not allow this.

This was too much like falling in love with him. She seemed to need the laughter in his eyes, the curve of his smile. She hated him because he had others in his life, and not because of the way he had manipulated her own life.

His kiss moved lower. His tongue tasted a patch of bubbles that remained high upon her breast. His fingers curled over hers and entwined, and his kiss moved farther down. Slowly. So slowly. The tip of his tongue just moving over her naked flesh, lower and lower upon her breast.

“You—you do not want me,” she reminded him.

His face lay within the valley of her breasts. He paused, pressing a kiss there, running his tongue lightly over that valley. She ached for more. Longing to have him take her deeply into his mouth. She wanted to run her fingers into the darkness of his hair and draw his face to hers and kiss his lips. And she wanted to strip away the soaked pin-striped suit and feel the naked tension of his body.

She swallowed hard and repeated her words, “You do not want me here, Ian. Ian!” She tried to escape his hold, twisting in a fury. But she could not fight his weight and his hold, and he had not released her. As she twisted she was only wedging herself more closely to him. His lips were pressed deeply against her breast, and the fire raged more deeply between her thighs. “Ian!” Taut and still, she called his name.

He was silent for a long moment. Then the husky, muffled velvet of his voice came to her. “Ah, but I do want you,” he murmured.

“Let me go!”

“Is that what you want?”

His head rose above hers. There was no laughter in his eyes, only darkness. His features were tense, his jaw hard as his gaze sought hers.

“Ian—”

“What of you, Marissa? Do you want me?”

She caught her breath, unable to speak. His eyes were dark and demanding upon hers. This time they were not doing battle, nor were they jesting. And yet she was too afraid to answer him. She could not spill out her feelings, even if she could completely understand them herself. Then they came clear to her.

Love me! she wanted to cry out. For I have fallen in love with you, in love with a memory, perhaps. And even in love with the anger and the challenge and the arrogance. For I've seen the care, and the tenderness, too. And I've seen the beauty of what can lie between two people, and I never knew that my heart ached for that loving, too.

But he could not love her. He was in love with a ghost, and he made love with faceless women who did not count.

And she couldn't say she loved him, for she was living a lie. She wasn't the woman he thought he had married.

And still she wanted to touch his face, to draw it to hers, to taste his lips upon hers.

She did. She reached out, her fingertips falling upon the curve of his cheek and the bronzed contours of his face. Then she cried out, alarmed at herself, incredulous that she could forget her pride.

“No!” She twisted from beneath him, and he let her go. She sat with her back to him, her spine straight but her head lowered. “No!” she said, and the sound was more desperate than angry.

Not when you long for a dead woman! she added silently. Not when I would be nothing more than a dance-hall girl. She couldn't say those things to him.

“And I meant to taunt you!” he murmured.

She looked at him. He was propped on one elbow, watching her with a wry smile.

“Pardon?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” His eyes closed, and a ragged shudder swept his body. He stood, and to her amazement he stripped the cover from the bed with a fluid motion and set it around her shoulders. “Breakfast is a buffet downstairs. We do share the dining room, since I haven't two, I'm afraid. We need to get started, it's a busy morning. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

She rose uncertainly, holding the cover around her. He grinned, came to her and stared into her eyes, then gave her a firm smack on the derriere. “Get cracking, lady. I'm American nouveau riche, a Yank, remember, not British gentry. I have to work to maintain my bank accounts.”

He didn't wait for her answer, but left her, slipping through to his own room. She rose and followed him, meaning to lock the door. But she hesitated and did not touch the lock.

She turned pensively instead, and walked slowly to the bathroom to dress.

Ten minutes later she found him in the dining room.

A walk down the curving stairway brought her to the entry. She discovered, by walking to her left, that the dining room was there, beyond a large parlor with huge bay windows looking down the lawn to the street. Ian was sitting at the end of the table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. He looked up when she arrived. He had changed into a navy suit with a paisley vest, and his errant hair had been combed.

“Biscuits and eggs are on the buffet,” he told her, and he reached across the table, where a place had been set for her, and picked up her cup. A coffee urn was sitting before him, and he looked at her before pouring from it. “Would you prefer tea?”

She shook her head and slid into her seat. “Coffee is fine, thank you.”

He poured her coffee. “You need to eat something. We'll be out all day.”

“I'm not very hungry—”

“You need to eat. Lee, would you kindly fix Mrs. Tremayne a plate?”

Marissa started, unaware that the Chinese woman had been standing in the corner. Lee came forward to do as she was bidden, and Marissa stood, determined that she wouldn't require any help from Lee.

“Thank you, Lee. I can manage myself.”

Exotic dark eyes touched her for a moment, their hostility still evident, then they fell as Lee bowed her head. “As you wish, Mrs. Tremayne.”

Marissa walked to the buffet and helped herself to fried eggs and biscuits and bacon and sat at the table. She had come down intending to be as mature and reasonable as she could. She had wanted to talk, to form some kind of a livable relationship between them.

But with Lee in the corner of the room, she couldn't talk. She sipped her coffee, which was delicious, and bit gingerly into a piece of bacon.

“I'll try to show you and the O'Briens something of the city this morning,” Ian said, glancing at his paper as he spoke. “But I'll need to bring James into the emporium after lunch, and I've an appointment myself. John will be at your disposal to drive you around should you choose.”

Lee cleared her throat, as if waiting for permission to speak. Ian glanced her way curiously.

“Perhaps Mrs. Tremayne and her friend would prefer exploring on their own. The cable cars are wonderful.”

“Yes, Lee, they are. But perhaps they should become a little more familiar with their surroundings before exploring on their own. It's a beautiful city—it can be a dangerous one, too.”

Marissa buttered a biscuit, smiling sweetly as a touch of resentment rose within her. “Um. I understand that the Barbary Coast offers all manner of entertainment, theaters and the like.”

“I think you are mainly thinking of years past, when brothels were thicker than flies, my dear.”

“They've all gone then?” Marissa queried innocently.

His eyes were hard. He sipped his coffee, then set his cup down. He leaned forward with a pleasant smile. “Not at all. But then, my love, I mean to show you the finer sights of your new city. Are you ready?”

She wasn't ready at all, but it was apparent that he was determined to go. He was on his feet, pulling her chair out for her. “Tell John to meet us at the emporium around two, Lee, to pick up Mrs. Tremayne and Mrs. O'Brien.”

Lee nodded. “Will you dine at home, Mr. Tremayne?”

“Yes, we'll be home for dinner, thank you. Come on, Marissa, let's go.”

He caught her hand and led her to the foyer, then frowned. “You'll need a cloak of some kind. The weather here changes quickly. Hurry.”

She raced up the stairs and dug in her bags for a lightweight cape, then swept up her small reticule with her comb and money. She couldn't have moved faster, but when she reached the entry, he was pacing.

He pushed open the front door and led her down the steps. “If you'll wait here, I'll bring out the car.”

“The car?” she asked. He'd picked her up in a carriage. In all her life, she'd never been in a motorcar.

He smiled. “You're not afraid of automobiles?”

“No, no, of course not.” She hurried after him, almost crashing into his back when he stopped.

“I said I'd pick you up.”

“I know, but I'm anxious to see it.”

“It?” He smiled. “Them, my dear.” He started walking again, around the main house to the carriage house. The doors were open. To the left were stalls with horses, among them the matching blacks that had drawn the carriage that had come for them at the station. Near the stalls were several different carriages from a row of three motorcars, all shining even in the dim light.

She stared at them until he beckoned to her. “Do you know much about them?” he asked her.

She shook her head.

Ian caught her hand and took her to the rear of the carriage house, to an automobile painted a deep green. It barely resembled a carriage, and had a huge nose. “She's French,” he told Marissa. “A Levassor-Panhard, with her Daimler motor here in front.” Marissa paused to study the vehicle, but he was already moving on to the next. She followed after him. “This is a Renault, also French. And in front of us is an American car, a 1901 Olds.” He opened the passenger door and took her hand, helping her up. She smiled with excitement. Perhaps her smile was contagious, for he laughed. “Had I only known you would have come here without the slightest argument if I had commented on the automobiles!”

He cranked the engine. Marissa jumped as the auto burst into life, then chugged its way out of the carriage house and down the driveway. The breeze swept by her and she turned to him. “It's wonderful! But how very odd! I had thought that you were such an avid horseman. Why, you were riding when I saw you—”

She broke off quickly, hoping he did not remember the time she was thinking about, when he had come riding up so heatedly to the Squire's the year before the Squire died. She tried desperately to remember if he had ridden to meet her in the city of London, but her mind had gone blank, and she could feel a nervous flush rising to her cheeks.

“Was I riding?” he said.

“Oh, maybe I was wrong. I don't remember,” she said quickly, looking at the road.

“I do love horses. And I've a few magnificent animals in my stalls.”

“I know. The blacks are gorgeous.”

“I've riding horses, too.” He shrugged. “I love horses, but I do see motor vehicles as the way of the future. Eventually, I daresay, the cars will outnumber the horses.”

They had come to the caretakers' cottage. Mary appeared at the front door, waved, then reappeared with Jimmy behind her. Both were as awed with the Olds as Marissa had been, and Ian allowed them the time to walk around it as he answered Jimmy's questions about fuel and speed and mileage. Then the two crawled into the back, and Ian told them they had a little time, and he'd show them all he could of the city of San Francisco.

From Nob Hill they drove to Union Street and Pacific Heights, then by Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill. They took a detour through Chinatown, then headed toward the waterfront. Along the road, Ian stopped the car atop a hill where they could look down on much of the city. They left the car to stand on the cliff, and Marissa was startled when Ian's hands fell on her shoulders and he pointed out at the city, lightly dusted in fog this morning. Marissa felt a glow of warmth. The morning had been pleasant, she thought. Her excitement over the Olds had pleased him, it seemed. It almost had seemed as if they might be friends this morning. But she couldn't let that happen. She was too haunted by the life he had led, by the things she didn't know—and by the things she hadn't told him.

“It's so beautiful!” Mary said, slipping her arm around Jimmy's waist.

Ian released Marissa and turned to the car. “Think you'll adjust?” he asked Jimmy jovially as they all got back in.

“Aye, that I will. It's a wonderful place, and you're proud of it, I think, Mr. Tremayne,” Jimmy replied.

A slow smile curved Ian's lip. “That I am indeed, Jimmy. She's a grand place, never too hot, never too cold.”

“Paradise,” Marissa murmured.

“Yes, except for—”

He broke off, frowning.

Except for the tremors that sometimes shook the earth, he added silently.

He shrugged. He didn't know why he had avoided mention of the quakes that had shaken the city in 1865. Except that his meeting this afternoon was with the businessmen who wanted to build by the waterfront, in the landfill area.

“Except for what?” Marissa asked him.

“There are no exceptions,” he said.

“But you just said—”

He was suddenly curt and impatient. “It's late. We must hurry if you want lunch before going to the emporium.”

Marissa fell silent. Ian was quiet as they drove down the hill, then entered the city traffic. Horse-drawn conveyances vied for space with the autos, and Marissa saw her first trolley car. Then Ian pulled up by a curb, and they exited the car. She didn't need him to point out the emporium—it couldn't be missed.

It was a large three-storied building with “Tremayne's” written across the bricks of the top floor in large black letters. But Ian took her arm, guiding her away from it. “We'll lunch here.”