The Tiger Lily (12 page)

The
smile dying on her lips, Sabrina turned slowly around, silently furious with
herself for having made the mistake of not scanning the patio area before
showing herself. She had been so certain that Alejandro was alone that she had
looked no farther than his chair, and it came as an unpleasant surprise to find
that Brett Dangermond was lounging indolently against one of the adobe columns
that supported the extended eaves, watching her.

She
might not have been quite so furious and disconcerted if she could have known
that the sight of her as she twirled in front of Alejandro had left Brett
feeling as if he had just received a fist in the solar plexus. There was a
crazy leap in his pulse, and his heart contracted painfully in his chest as he
stared intently at the lovely vision.

The
infant was definitely an infant no longer—she was a beautiful, desirable woman,
he admitted grudgingly. Too desirable, his brain warned; she is a woman, a
silken, corrupt trap. A sardonic expression on his face, Brett conceded the
wisdom of the warning, grimly ordering himself to treat her as the child, the
"infant" he had once had a fondness for. He didn't dare view her as a
woman. She was a child, and children could be teased, indulged, and petted. Women
could not. Women were dangerous.

Assessingly
his gaze ran over her slender body again, and despite his vows, despite his icy
determination not to be moved by her, he could feel the heat of desire coiling
up through his loins. Virulently he cursed under his breath, enraged at his
body's betrayal. He was going to have a damned dangerous time of it, what with
one part of him insisting that she was a child while another part responded
violently to the young, vibrant woman that she was.

Becoming
uncomfortably conscious of his prolonged stare, Sabrina lifted her chin
angrily. She was clearly seen in the light of the lanterns, but Brett had
chosen a shadowy archway in which to lounge, and she could see only the gleam
of his white shirt, the scarlet sling appearing almost black in the gloom. His
features were completely hidden in the darkness, only the red tip of his
cigarillo revealing the location of his head.

A
tight smile on her soft mouth, with far more forwardness than she knew she
possessed, she walked coolly up to him and then swept him a deep, disdainful
curtsy. A challenging glitter in her eyes, she asked dulcetly, "Well,
senor
?
What is your verdict?"

This
close, his features were plainly discernible, although the expression in his
eyes was hidden from her. As she stared at him, seeing for the first time the
lean, hard face without its disguising beard, she was aware of a curious
flutter in the region of her stomach. He was undeniably handsome, but not in
the most accepted sense—Carlos, she admitted reluctantly to herself, was
actually the more handsome of the two, but there was something about Brett's
face. . . .

His
mouth was absolutely beautiful, full and perfectly chiseled, the lower lip
possessing a frankly sensuous curve; his nose was an arrogant blade in the dark
face, the nostrils too wide and flaring for classical beauty. The heavy black
brows had a naturally insolent slant; the jade-green eyes were deep-set and
shadowed by ridiculously feminine lashes. His jaw was too square and determined
for perfection, and yet taken all together, his features comprised an intensely
masculine face, such an arresting, powerful face that its imperfections were
instantly forgotten.

As
Sabrina stared, that beautiful mouth curved into a mocking smile, and taking
the cigarillo from between his teeth, he murmured mockingly, "Perhaps we
should have your verdict of me first. . . . You've certainly studied me long
enough."

Sabrina
flushed, her temper rising. "I apologize," she said stiffly. Then she
added smartly, "You seemed to be hiding here in the shadows, and I
couldn't help wondering if your features were so frightful that you dared not
reveal them."

"Sabrina!"
Alejandro expostulated, but Brett only smiled, not a very nice smile.

Lazily
pushing himself away from the adobe column, he stood in the pool of light that
shone on Sabrina, and, the green eyes hooded, he demanded softly, "Well?
Now that you can see me clearly—are my features so very frightful?"

He
made an extremely romantic figure as he stood there in the golden, flickering
lantern light, the scarlet sling vivid against his white shirt, the black
breeches hugging his long, muscular legs, the black boots gleaming. A lock of
thick blue-black hair had fallen across his forehead, increasing his rakish
air, and as the dancing light played across his hard face, Sabrina muttered
unwillingly, "No, as I'm certain you know very well!"

It
was as if the two of them were alone on the patio, Alejandro's presence
momentarily forgotten. Intently Alejandro watched them, not displeased by the
almost tangible tension between them, or the sarcastic exchange of words. They
strike fire from each other, he thought with pleasure. A fire that could
consume them both and burn forever.

Brett
grinned at Sabrina's reply, his strong white teeth a brief flash in the
darkness of his face. "Such graciousness, infant! You'll unman me!"

Unsettled,
confused by the contradictory emotions he aroused within her, she abandoned any
attempt at politeness. He was laughing at her, teasing her, mocking her, and
Sabrina's volatile temper rose further. Under her breath, she hissed, "I'd
like to unman you—with a razor-sharp blade!"

Brett's
infuriating laughter rang out across the patio, and an imp of mischief dancing
in the depths of his eyes, he murmured silkily, "It's been tried, infant,
believe me." The mischief suddenly vanished from his eyes, and he added
harshly, "It's been tried by women far more proficient than you at
castrating a man!"

Staring
at that unexpectedly dangerous face, Sabrina shivered, angry and wary at the
same time. We're like two mortal enemies, she thought wildly, compelled to
fight the moment we see each other, for reasons neither of us even knows. Why?
Why do I feel the need to quarrel with him, she wondered painfully, and at the
same time long for ... ? Even she wasn't certain what she longed for, and
bewilderedly her eyes searched his face, seeking an answer.

His
eyes were on hers, his gaze as intent as hers, and catching a glimpse of the
expression buried in those jade-green eyes, she was instantly very glad that she
was a woman—and that her father was seated nearby.

Alejandro
had not heard their last exchange, but he was aware that something had passed
between them, something that wasn't making either of them exactly happy, and
knowing how quick-tempered his daughter could be, he called out hastily,
"Come now, you two, you must share this conversation with me."

With
an effort, Brett tore his eyes away from Sabrina's, and shrugging his broad
shoulders, he said easily, "I was merely agreeing with your earlier
statement--Sabrina is indeed lovely. You have good reason to be proud of your
daughter . . . even if she has a tongue that can wound fatally."

Alejandro
smiled wryly and nodded his head. "Si, this is true. Often I have wished
that she had been born dumb." The tense moment disappeared and with an
unladylike snort, Sabrina started to turn away, but Brett reached out and
captured her arm. Adding to her confusion and conflicting emotions, he took her
hand, and bending low over it, he pressed his warm mouth into the palm. His
lips seemed to sear where they touched, and her heart began to behave most
erratically.

An
unbelievably attractive smile on his mouth, he said huskily, "Shall we cry
peace, infant? I promise to behave myself—as best I am able—if you will promise
to curb that wicked little tongue of yours."

Suffused
with an inexplicable, intoxicating burst of happiness, all her earlier
reservations gone, she gave him a radiant smile. An enchanting dimple appeared
in one cheek, and she agreed almost shyly, "
Si
, Senor Brett, I
would like it above all things."

Brett
blinked at the blinding smile, feeling suddenly as if he had drunk too much
wine. Reluctantly releasing her hand, he placed it on his forearm, and with
teasing gallantry, he escorted her the short distance to where Alejandro sat.
His eyes brimming with laughter, Brett tweaked one of the fiery tendrils that
curled near her ear and murmured, "Now that your daughter and I have made
our peace, I have a strong feeling that I shall indeed enjoy my stay with you."

The
harmony between them was fragile, but it was harmony, and as she prepared for
bed that night, Sabrina was aware of a pleasurable tingle of anticipation for
the morrow. Dinner had been delightful, Brett amusing them with some of his
less outrageous escapades in Europe. They had exchanged family gossip, of
which, not unnaturally, Brett had little to contribute, but he was able to
answer their questions about Sofia, Hugh, and the children easily enough.

But
while Sabrina had enjoyed dinner and the cessation of the unexpected and
confusing hostility between her and Brett, she hadn't quite been able to
control a slight feeling of disappointment and perhaps just the tiniest bit of
resentment when, after dinner, Alejandro had banished her as if she were still
a child. He and Brett had retired to the small salon to enjoy a glass of fine
Madeira that Brett had brought as a gift and to smoke their cigarillos. As
Sabrina usually joined her father in this ritual, partaking of a glass of
sherry or something else equally innocuous, her reaction wasn't surprising. The
after-dinner relaxation, the casual mulling over the events of the day, the
planning of what would be done the next, was one of Sabrina's favorite times
with her father, and she was dismayed at being denied it. When Tia Francisca
came to dinner or they were entertaining other guests, she perfectly understood
the reasons why she couldn't join the gentlemen, but Brett? When Carlos came to
dinner, she wasn't excluded, she thought mutinously. What made Brett so
different? Forlornly she wondered if, for the duration of his stay, she was to
be banished each night, to spend the hours before retiring in lonely solitude
while Brett usurped her place in the salon with Alejandro. She didn't think she
was going to like that—or put up with it for very long!

Unhappily
conscious of the fact that she was whipping herself into a rage against Brett,
and for a petty reason at that, Sabrina determinedly focused her thoughts on
more agreeable things. Like how Brett's presence had pleased her father, and
how he had made her laugh at dinner. And then there was tomorrow, too, when
they would show their visitor the ranch.

Suddenly
feeling more charitable toward the situation, Sabrina snuggled down into her
soft featherbed mattress. It was pleasant, she decided sleepily as she lay
there, to see Senor Brett again, and unwilling to delve any deeper into her
emotions, she left it at that. She would not think of his kiss, or the way her
heart jumped when he smiled at her, or the way her blood skipped in her veins
when he looked at her a certain way. . . . No. She would keep the peace between
them.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

 The
next day was a fine one, warm and sunny without the debilitating humidity that
would become more apparent as the days grew longer and hotter. Sabrina joined
her father and Brett as they lingered over breakfast, discussing the
possibility of growing sugar on the Rancho del Torres.

Surprised
at the topic and the discovery that it was the reason behind Brett's visit,
Sabrina listened intently as the two men talked, but she found her thoughts
wandering down an unpleasant path. Why hadn't Alejandro mentioned the idea of
growing sugar to her before now?

During
the past few years, there hadn't been any major decision made concerning the
ranch that Alejandro hadn't asked her opinion on first, and she was perplexed
that he hadn't done so this time. She was not angry, not even piqued, but
confused. She had always understood that one of the reasons Alejandro had
solicited her views about the running of the ranch while she was still a child
and had encouraged her less than womanly pursuits was that he had been training
her for the day when she might have to run the ranch alone. She had grown used
to being consulted about the disbursement of their fortune—the cattle they
would sell, the horses they would buy, the crops they would grow—and yet now it
was clear that without a word to her, Alejandro was embarking upon an ambitious
scheme that would commit a large amount of their land, time, and money.

She
glanced at her father, a slight frown marring her forehead. Why? Why had he
been so . . .so secretive about the sugar project and Brett's impending
arrival? It didn't make sense. Unless it was Brett's influence upon her father.
. . .

Her
frown deepened and she shot Brett an assessing look. This morning there was no
sign of the previous day's bandit. His face was freshly shaved, his clothes
were clean and unrumpled, but she couldn't quite shake the memory of that
bearded, dangerous male who had confronted her yesterday. She had sensed an air
of lawlessness about him. But now, completely oblivious of her, he was involved
with explaining the cultivation of sugar to Alejandro, his handsome face
relaxed, the green eyes lacking that disturbing cynical gleam.

Why
was he here? she wondered again. Nacogdoches had nothing to offer him. Perhaps
he had lost his fortune and was here to swindle her father? Knowing her
thoughts were unworthy, she writhed with embarrassment that she had even
considered such ideas.

Ashamed
and just a little angry with herself, she set about being as charming and
welcoming to their guest as possible. After a prolonged breakfast, the three of
them wandered about the grounds near the hacienda, Sabrina on her very best
behavior, and then later in the day, after siesta, they all walked down to the
stables.

The
del Torreses were noted breeders of both horses and bulls, and as the three of
them ambled from one corral and stable to the next, there was much to hold
Brett's interest. Unlike most ranches, Rancho del Torres had many facets; the
fortune that Sabrina's grandfather had brought from Spain with him had allowed
the family far more license to follow their own inclinations than was normal.
Their wealth had grown since the first day Enrique del Torres had stepped forth
in the New World. There were warehouses and wharves in New Orleans, a cotton
plantation in upper Louisiana, silver mines and land in Mexico.

With
almost unlimited wealth behind them, they lived a life very different from that
of most of the settlers who came to the Americas—the majority of the Spanish
settlers were only able to eke out a meager living in the untracked wilderness,
but the del Torres family lived in baronial splendor. They were able to indulge
their fancies, so it wasn't surprising that the del Torres ranch was
meticulously maintained, or that their stables contained some of the finest
imported Spanish brood mares and stallions to be found west of the Mississippi
River. Most of the breeding stock for the bulls, too, had come originally from
Spain to Mexico in Enrique's time, and looking with an experienced eye at the
size, the breadth of shoulder, the powerful haunches, and the wicked horns on
some of the huge black beasts, Brett decided that not even in Spain had he seen
such magnificent animals.

Idly
he asked, "Do you sell them just for breeding, or do any of them end up in
the bull rings in Mexico City?"

Alejandro's
face creased in a wide smile. "Would you believe,
amigo
, that last
year I was able to sell several to a marquess in Madrid? It was, I think, the
height of my ambition--del Torres bulls bred, born, and raised here in the
province of Texas returning triumphant to the land of their ancestors. Ah, yes,
but I was pleased. But to answer your question—most of them are used by
breeders here in Texas to improve their own herds, although some are used
locally in the bull ring."

Brett
looked surprised. "Bull ring? Bullfights, here?" he asked, one
eyebrow rising skeptically.

"
Si
,here," Alejandro replied. A twinkle in his eyes, he added, "A
Spaniard is a Spaniard no matter where he is, and where he is, you can be
assured that there are bullfights. It is a passion with us! Shall I arrange one
for you while you are our guest?"

Brett
nodded his head, his gaze on some of the powerful beasts as they trotted and
snorted in a huge corral nearly half a mile away from the horse stables.
"I'd like that," he replied simply.

Like
the del Torres fortune, the ranch was huge and far flung. It comprised nearly fifty
thousand acres of almost tropical lushness, and it would have been impossible
to view it in one day. The majority of the lands were still in virgin
wilderness, and it was only near the hacienda and outbuildings that the
civilizing hand of man was revealed. Most of the cattle and horses roamed
freely throughout the seemingly endless acres of the ranch, numerous vaqueros
keeping watch over them. Only the finest, the prize animals that were used to
maintain the excellent standard of the del Torres herds, were kept in the
corrals and paddocks that sprawled out some distance from the hacienda.

After
days in the saddle, Brett found it a pleasure to stretch his long legs, the
leisurely walk through the stables and barns just what he wanted. His arm was
still in the sling, but he would have discarded it this morning if Bonita
hadn't been so outraged at the notion. It still ached some, and as the hours
passed and the ache became more pronounced, he decided wryly that she had been
right—it was much too soon to lay the sling aside.

Sabrina
noticed the faint look of pain about his mouth, and aware that it was probably
caused by his wound—the wound she had given him—she asked with compunction, "Is
your arm bothering you? Have we walked too far for you? Would you like us to
return to the hacienda so that you can rest?"

If
Brett had been on the point of flagging, nothing could have stiffened his spine
more effectively than her contrite words. Pity, he thought sourly, he could do
without, and to be viewed as an object of pity by the little devil who had
given him the wound was at once amusing and annoying. He chose to be amused
though, and, a crooked smile curving his mouth, he said, "Infant, I may be
years older than you, but I am not in my dotage! My arm does ache a little, but
it's nothing that you should bother your pretty little head over. Besides, you
should be pleased—you meant to cut deep."

Sabrina's
lips tightened.
Well
See if she ever offered him sympathy again! He
could die for all she cared!

The
day turned out to be one of mixed enjoyment for her. She found the conversation
stimulating, and as she was nearly as knowledgeable about the ranch as
Alejandro was, she frequently took part in the discussions. Brett's infuriating
attitude though, did nothing for her temper. Being mocked, teased, and treated
as if she were a child, a brainless child, considerably lessened her enjoyment
of the day. No one had ever treated her as he did. Even her father, in his most
paternal moments, listened, if not always intently, at least interestedly, to
what she had to say. Brett merely smiled indulgently as she spoke and then
turned away to converse with her father about the very thing she had just
explained!

But
if she found Brett's attitude infuriating, she was also almost unbearably
conscious of his tall form next to hers as they walked about the stables, of
the way he smiled, of his deep, husky laugh and the attractive crinkles that
formed near his eyes when he grinned. She was irritated with herself for being
so very aware of him, and a dozen times during the day, she scolded herself,
telling herself repeatedly that she was not seven years old! She was not to be
charmed into a childish adoration as had happened in Natchez. Remember how that
particular incident ended, she reminded herself sternly, the humiliating
spanking Brett had given her suddenly vivid in her mind.

The
following days sped quickly by as Brett and Ollie settled down in the gracious
del Torres hacienda. Alejandro was an exemplary host, and his home was both luxurious
and delightful. There was not even the barrier of language to make his guests
feel uncomfortable—-Alejandro and Sabrina spoke excellent English, and Brett
and Ollie had picked up the occasional Spanish phrase in their travels.

By
the time the visitors had been at the ranch five days, Brett's wound had healed
sufficiently for Bonita to decree that the sling was no longer needed. With a
mocking gleam in his eyes and suspect meekness, Brett laid it aside.

Sabrina
had grown so used to that scarlet sling that the morning he joined them for
breakfast on the patio without it, she was startled.

"Your
sling?" she inquired.

Brett
grinned. Seating himself across from her, he helped himself to a warm tortilla,
slathering it with butter and blackberry jam. Lightly he said, "Your
guardian angel has decided that I don't need it any longer—thank God! I was
afraid she was never going to let me be rid of it."

Alejandro,
who was seated next to Sabrina, laughed. "You must make allowances for
Bonita—she is a thwarted mother and cannot help but cluck over us all."

His
mouth full of tortilla and jam, Brett rolled his eyes expressively and nodded
his dark head energetically.

Instantly
defensive, Sabrina said stiffly, "You should be grateful for her care—she
is well known for her success with the ill."

Swallowing
his mouthful, Brett retorted mockingly, "I am not, as you can see for
yourself, ill. As I told you at the time, I've survived worse wounds."

Sabrina
snorted and buried her nose in a cup of hot chocolate, wishing perversely that
he didn't look so disgustingly vital as he sat across the table from her. Five
days of his company had done nothing to resolve the turmoil within her. One
moment she was drawn irresistibly to him, and the next she was certain that she
had never met a more arrogant, condescending swine in her life!

Alejandro
obviously had no such problems, and more and more Sabrina found herself pushed
into the position of mere onlooker. It was with Brett that Alejandro discussed
the day's events, Sabrina supposedly amusing herself with womanly tasks. It was
Alejandro and Brett who rode out to inspect the possible sites for the sugar
cane—Sabrina spent the day indoors writing out the invitations to the fiesta
they were to give on Saturday to introduce Brett to their friends and
relatives. Brett seemed to dominate all of Alejandro's waking hours, and while
Sabrina could make excuses for her sudden rejection—they were men, they hadn't
seen each other in a long time, Brett was their guest—she still couldn't help
but feel forlorn and a little resentful. She could deal with Brett's intrusion
into their lives; it was her exclusion she had trouble coming to grips with.

Alejandro
was orchestrating his attempt at matchmaking badly. Not wishing to reveal his
fond desire, or to appear to throw Brett and Sabrina into each other's arms, he
did the exact opposite. Unconsciously he kept them apart, inadvertently
banishing Sabrina from her common routine and his company.

Alejandro
was also taking much pleasure in the company of a man he would have been proud
to call his son. He adored his daughter and he would no more have hurt her than
he would have cut off his right arm, but he wouldn't have been human, or
Spanish, if there hadn't been times when he dreamed of a son. As Sabrina had
grown older, he had put aside such dreams, delighted with her quick
intelligence and her boyish skills. But in Brett's very masculine company,
Alejandro lost his head a little and the dreams came back. His current
absorption in that young man was understandable, if excessive. Sabrina's
growing resentment and bewilderment were also understandable, and Alejandro
would have been utterly horrified if he had realized what he was accomplishing.