Fire Brand

Bowie would fight it, with his environmental priorities, and there were enough special interest groups to help him. Bio-Ag would need an ally. She smiled, thinking of ways to circumvent Bowie’s efforts.

The road wound around past the sewage treatment plant and reservoir; then, it became a straight shot out to Casa Río. It was visible in the distance, far off the main highway, on a wide dirt road with fields that combined wildflowers and improved pasture. Bowie’s Brahman cattle grazed in that area, where cowboys during roundup would draw straws to see who had to brave the thickets of brush to roust out the strays. Prickly pear cactus, ocotillo, cholla, creosote, sagebrush and mesquite were enough of a threat, without the occasional potholes and diamondback rattlers that could give a horseman gray hairs.

On the other hand, there was clean air, open country, the most spectacular scenery on earth, and the glory of palo verde trees in the spring. There were red-winged blackbirds, sage hens, cactus wrens, and owls. There were rock formations that looked like modern art, and wildflowers bursting from the desert. Gaby had the top of the VW convertible down, and her eyes drank in the beauty of the landscape unashamedly. She had her memories of Kentucky—of lush green pastures and white fences and huge groves of trees—but they were pale against this savage beauty.

She crossed over the bridge that sheltered a tributary of the San Pedro. It was early for the summer “monsoons,” so there was barely a trickle of water in the creek bed. It was more of a sandy wash right now than the swollen, deadly creek it became after a good, heavy rain. Past the bridge was a long ranch road that led back from the flat valley into a small box canyon. There, in a small grove of palo verde and mesquite trees, stood Casa Río.

It was old. The beautiful parchment color of the adobe walls blended in with the mountains behind it. The house was two stories high, and despite its stately aged appearance, with wrought iron at the windows, and the courtyard gate that led to the porch, it had every modem convenience. The kitchen was like something out of a Good Housekeeping layout. Behind the house was a garage, and adjoining the house was an Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool that was heated in winter. There were tennis courts and a target-shooting range, and a neat stable and corral where the breeding horses were kept. Farther away was the working stable, the barn, and a modern concrete bunkhouse where the six full-time bachelor cowboys lived. The foreman, assistant foreman, and livestock manager—all three married men with families—had small houses on the property.

The driveway led around the house to the garage, but Gaby parked at the front gate, leaving her luggage in the trunk. She admired the only real home she’d ever known. There were flowers everywhere—pots and planters of geraniums and begonias and petunias. There were blooming rose bushes in every shade imaginable to either side of the house. The small courtyard garden had a winding, rock-inlaid path to the long front porch under the overhanging balcony that ran the width of the house. A staircase with inlaid tiles led up the side of the porch to the second-story balcony through a black wrought iron gate. There was a towering palo verde tree just beside it, dripping yellow blossoms, and a palm tree on the other side of the house. Ferns hung from the front porch, where wicker furniture beckoned in the shade of the balcony.

She opened the big black, wrought iron gate and walked into the garden, smiling with pure pleasure as she meandered down the path, stopping to smell a rose here and there.

“Always you do this,” came a resigned, Spanish-flavored voice from the porch. A familiar tall, spare figure came into the light, his silvery hair catching the sunlight. “Bienvenida, muchacha.”

“Montoya!” She laughed. She held out her hands, to have them taken in a firm, kind grasp. “You never change.”

“Neither do you,” he replied. “It is good to have you here. I grow weary of cooking for myself and Tía Elena. It has been lonely without the Señora Agatha and Señor Bowie.”

“Have you heard from Aggie?” she asked.

“Sí. She arrives today or tomorrow.” He glanced behind him and leaned forward. “With a strange hombre,” he added, “and Señor Bowie does not like this. There will be trouble.”

“Tell me about it,” Gaby groaned. “He talked me into coming down here as a chaperone, and God only knows what Aggie’s going to say when she finds me here.”

“When she finds you both here,” he corrected.

“¿Qué hablas?” she asked, lapsing into the natural Spanish that seemed so much a part of Casa Río because its staff and Bowie spoke it so fluently.

“Señor Bowie came an hour ago,” he said. “He seems to have had no sleep, and he has already caused Tía Elena to hide in the bathroom.”

She felt a ripple of pure excitement that she shouldn’t have felt at the remark. “Bowie’s here? But he’s supposed to be in Canada...”

“Not anymore,” Montoya sighed. “He left the project in the hands of his foreman and caught a plane to Tucson. He says that he cannot stand by and let his mother make such a mistake. He is going to save her.”

He said the last tongue in cheek, and Gaby smothered a laugh. “Oh, my.”

“If you laugh, niña, make sure the señor does not see you do it,” he said dryly. “Or you may have to join Tía Elena in the bathroom. He has the look of the coyote that tried to eat our cat last week.”

“That bad, huh?” She shook her head. “Well, I’ll go see what I can do. Poor Aggie.”

“We know nothing of this man,” Montoya reminded her. “He could be right, you know.”

“He could be wrong, too.”

“The señor?” Montoya put his hand over his heart. “I am shocked that you should say such a thing.”

“I’ll bet,” she mused, grinning as she went past him. “Where is he?”

“In the house.”

“Where in the house?”

Montoya shrugged. “¿Quíen sabe? I have better sense than to look for him.”

She gave him a mock glare and went inside. Tía Elena, fifty, and severe as night in her black dress with her hair pulled back into a bun, peeked around the corner, her black eyes wary.

“It’s only me,” Gaby teased. She hugged the thin older woman and laughed. “Still hiding, I see.”

“Is it any wonder?” Elena asked, shaking her head. “I do nothing right, you see. The bed is made with colored sheets, the señor wanted white ones. I have polished the floor too much and he does not like it that it is slippery. The bathroom smells of sandalwood, which he hates; the air conditioner is set too low, and he is roasting; and I am certain that before dark he will find a way to accuse me of having the clouds too low and the sand too deep in the backyard.”

Gaby laughed softly. Bowie on a rampage could do this even to people who’d lived with him for years. She patted Tía Elena on the shoulder gently. “It will all blow over,” she promised. “It always does.”

“I am too old for such storms.” Elena sighed. “I will make a salad and slice some meat for sandwiches. The señora and her friend will arrive soon.” She threw up her hands. “No doubt the señor will accuse me of trying to poison the meat...” she muttered as she went back into the kitchen.

Gaby went down the long hall of the first floor, skirting the staircase that led to the upstairs bedrooms, past the sweeping Western motif of Bowie’s study, past the elegant grandeur of the traditional living room, past the library with its wall-to-wall bookcases, pine paneling, and leather furniture, past the huge kitchen, and down the covered walkway to the pool house. And there was Bowie.

He was cleaving the water with powerful strokes, easily covering the length of the Olympic-sized pool and turning with quiet strength to slice back through the water to where Gaby stood watching.

His head came out of the pool, his blond hair darker wet than dry, his black eyes examined her curiously. She was wearing designer jeans, but they weren’t tight. The long, trendy, red-and-gray overblouse disguised her figure, except for its slenderness and the elegance of her long legs. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail with a red ribbon, and her dark glasses were still propped on her head.

“Taking inventory?” she asked.

“Not particularly. You’re late.”

“I’m early, and what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Canada,” she reminded him.

“I couldn’t stop worrying about Aggie,” he said simply.

He put his big hands on the side of the pool, and with devastating ease, pulled himself out. As he got to his feet, Gaby found herself gaping at the unfamiliar sight of him in nothing but white swimming trunks.

They were very conventional trunks, but they did nothing to disguise the sheer magnificence of his powerful body without clothing. She’d seen him this way before a time or two, but it had never affected her so much. Bowie had a physique that was nothing short of breathtaking. He was a big man, formidable in height as well as size, but there wasn’t a spare ounce of excess weight. He was perfectly proportioned—streamlined from his broad, hair-covered chest to his lean hips, flat stomach, and long, powerful legs. He had a natural tan that the sun only emphasized, its darkness enhancing his blond hair and giving his body a particularly masculine glow. He wasn’t pale or flabby, and while there was hair on his chest and flat stomach and legs, it wasn’t unsightly.

Bowie wasn’t unaware of that keen, helpless scrutiny. He rested his hands on his hips, his black eyes narrowed, as he studied her expression with open curiosity. She’d never looked at him in quite that way before, and he found it disturbing. He found her disturbing. It hadn’t been only Aggie’s unknown suitor who’d brought him here today. He’d brooded all weekend about the way he’d felt when he’d taken Gaby to supper in Phoenix. It had worked on him until he’d put the Canada construction project in the hands of his project foreman and hot-footed it down to Lassiter.

Gaby didn’t know that, and he had too much intelligence to let her know. He was sure that if he signaled his interest, she’d turn tail and run. The very way she dressed spoke volumes about her repressions.

“Why don’t you get into a swimsuit? I’ll race you across the pool,” he said with a faint smile.

She lifted her eyes to his and felt her heart race in her chest. “I didn’t bring one,” she fabricated. She didn’t own one.

“There are several in the pool house,” he replied.

“I have to unpack,” she said. “And get my things out of the car...”

“Montoya will already have done that, and Tía Elena will have your things in the drawers before you can get upstairs,” he mused. “If she’s out of the bathroom.”

“I hear that you sent her in there in the first place,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“Lies. All lies. I’m not half as bad as my publicity around here,” he told her. He pursed his lips, letting his eyes search over her flushed face. “The water’s cool, Gaby,” he coaxed, a note in his voice that Gaby hadn’t heard before.

Her body tingled. It was so tempting. But she might be unleashing emotions that she couldn’t handle. She knew Bowie only as Aggie’s son, as the heir to Casa Río. It would be dangerous to start thinking of him as anything more personal. A man his size was a considerable threat out of control...

“Maybe later,” she said, forcing a smile. “Okay?”

He didn’t press his luck. He didn’t want to scare her off. He smiled back, his black eyes kind. “Okay, honey.”

The endearment made her knees weak. That smile had done some damage, too. Bowie was by far the handsomest man she’d ever seen in her life. She could only imagine how many hearts he’d broken over the years.

“Just what are we supposed to be doing here?” she asked, biting her lower lip. “Aggie’s going to be furious, and she’ll know immediately why we’re here.”

“We’ll throw her off the track,” he promised. “You aren’t backing out on me?”

“Heavens, no,” she said. “I don’t want Aggie hurt any more than you do. But if we look like we’re interfering, she may very well send us both packing. Right now, it’s her house. We’re interlopers, even if we are family to her.”

“I know that, too. I don’t like trespassing on her privacy. I didn’t do it much, even when Dad was still alive.”

“I guess you resented me more than you ever said,” she ventured, studying him.

He smiled faintly. “From time to time. I didn’t fall in line when he wanted me to; then, we didn’t speak for two years while I was in Vietnam. After I got back, I worked in a construction gang for a rival company. It was Aggie who persuaded me to talk to my father, and he eventually wore me down. That was the year before you showed up. There’d been no time before, and there was none after. You were their hearts. They both wanted a daughter. They got me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I never knew the whole truth.”

“You still don’t. But it was a long time ago. No need to brood about it, tidbit. Did you have to fight for your time off?”

“I told Johnny I’d get him a great scoop on that agricultural conglomerate that’s trying to locate here.”

His face went hard. “Is the job all you think about?”

“That’s not fair,” she replied. “I had to have an excuse. You don’t just walk out the door and tell your boss you’re taking a vacation!”

“Why in hell not?” he demanded. “My God, Gaby, you’ll inherit part of Casa Río. There’s more than enough here to support both of us for life.”

“I don’t want part of Casa Río!” she shot back. She knew she must be pale; she could feel the blood running out of her cheeks. “It’s your birthright, not mine. If there’s any outsider here, it’s not your mother’s friend, it’s me!”

He moved toward her, big and confident and a little frightening because of the sheer size of him. She had to look up to see his eyes, and all the while she was aware of the hard muscle of his body, the broadness of his chest, the masculine beauty of the darkly tanned hands holding the towel as he patted his chest with it absently to absorb the moisture.

“I don’t think of you as an outsider, despite the fact that we don’t see much of each other,” he said quietly. “And I don’t resent what Aggie feels for you—not anymore.”

“Oh, I know that, but it should be yours. You love it more than I ever could. Someday you’ll marry and have sons to inherit it...” She stopped because the thought of Bowie marrying someone and having children upset her.

“Oddly enough, Gaby, I don’t get along very well with most women,” he told her honestly. “I don’t flatter, I say what I think, and I expect intelligent conversation.” He smiled lazily. “Shall I tell you what most of my escorts expect from me, or are you sophisticated enough to guess?”

She was and she could. “You can hardly blame them,” she said defensively, and her eyes ran over him softly, making fires where they touched. “My gosh...!” She averted her eyes from his chest and shoulders.

He felt the impact of her eyes like brands on his skin. He moved a step closer, so that with one more step he could have stood against her. The nearness of her slender body, even in its habitual camouflage, made his breathing rough. He looked at her soft mouth and wondered again how it would taste under his in passion. He wondered if Gaby had ever known passion.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he said deeply. “I meant, my escorts expect some tangible evidence of my regard: a diamond necklace, roses at breakfast—that sort of thing.”

She lifted her eyes to his hard mouth and forced them all the way to his black eyes. “What a pity they don’t know you,” she murmured. “You aren’t at all the kind of person who deals in buying and selling bodies.”

He felt his body go taut and hoped to God she didn’t notice what was happening to him. Her unexpected perception aroused him totally. “How do you know that?” he asked.

She smiled softly. “I don’t know. Aggie talks about you a lot, and so do other people. I’ve learned a lot about you that way.”

He didn’t have room to talk. He’d learned a lot about her the same way. He liked very much what he saw. She had a lovely figure, and a sexy, soft mouth. Besides that, she had a big heart, plenty of spirit, and an impish sense of humor. He’d never really known anyone like her.

“I’ve got to get dressed,” he said, forcing himself to think sensibly and not give in to the urge to make a grab for her. “Montoya said that Aggie was on the way.”

“And you want to be ready—lying in wait to ambush them, right?” she teased, wondering why it felt so natural to play with Bowie.

He smiled back. “That’s the general idea.”

“It’s never wise to mix in other people’s business.” She sighed.

“I know that, too,” he told her. “Get going. I’ll be along in a minute or two.” He would, when he got himself under control again, he thought ruefully. He was reacting to her in a totally unexpected way. He had to curb his instincts before he frightened her.

“Okay.”

It was almost a relief to get away for a few minutes and gather her shattered nerves. Being close to him produced the most incredibly sweet sensations. She wondered how it would have felt if she’d gone in the pool with him—if he’d held her while they were both barely dressed. She wondered if his hands were as capable and expert as they looked, and how it would be if she let him touch her with them. The most erotic images danced in her brain—Bowie towering over her in the shallow area of the pool; his hands peeling away the top of her swimsuit, baring her to his eyes; bending, putting his hot mouth over her soft skin...

Blushing furiously, she moved quickly out of the pool area, her legs feeling like rubber beneath her.

She’d only gotten as far as the hall when a commotion outside caught her attention. She went quickly to the front porch, just in time to see Montoya embracing a radiant Aggie. And a few steps behind her was the source of all the excitement at Casa Río—a tall, lean figure of a man about Aggie’s age, looking perfectly at home, his eyes, steady and adoring, on Agatha McCayde.

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