Blue-Eyed Devil Read online

  “Just remember, this weekend’s not about you and Nick. It’s about the bride and groom.”

  “Weddings are never about the bride and groom,” I said. “Weddings are public platforms for dysfunctional families.”

  “But they have to pretend it’s about the bride and groom. So go with it, celebrate, and don’t talk to your dad about Nick until after the wedding.”

  “Todd,” I had asked plaintively, “you’ve met Nick. You like him, don’t you?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you don’t already see it, nothing I say could make you see it.”

  “See what? What do you mean?”

  But Todd hadn’t answered, and I hung up feeling mystified and annoyed.

  Unfortunately, Todd’s advice went by the wayside as soon as I started a foxtrot with Dad.

  My father was flushed from champagne and triumph. He’d made no secret of wanting this wedding to happen, and the news about my new sister-in-law’s pregnancy was even better. Things were going his way. I was pretty sure he had visions of grandchildren dancing in his head, generations of malleable DNA all at his disposal.

  Dad was barrel-chested, short-legged, and black-eyed, with hair so thick you could hardly find his scalp beneath. All that and his German chin made him a striking man, if not a handsome one. He had some Comanche blood on his mother’s side, and a bunch of German and Scottish ancestors whose futures had been hamstrung back in their native countries. So they had come to Texas looking for cheap, winterless land that only needed their labor to bring forth prosperity. Instead they got droughts, epidemics, Indian raids, scorpions, and boll weevils the size of their thumbnails.

  The Travises who had survived were the most purely stubborn people on earth, the kind who relied on their backbones when their wishbones were broken. That accounted for Dad’s stubbornness . . . and for mine too. We were too much alike, Mama had always said, both of us willing to do anything to get our way, both of us eager to hop over a line the other one had drawn.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Punkin.” He had a gravelly voice, edged with the perpetual impatience of a man who never had to ingratiate himself with anyone. “You look pretty tonight. You remind me of your mama.”

  “Thanks.” Compliments were rare from Dad. I appreciated it, even though I knew my resemblance to my mother was, at best, slight.

  I was wearing a light green satin sheath, the shoulder straps fastened with two crystal buckles. My feet were strapped in delicate silver sandals with three-inch heels. Liberty had insisted on doing my hair. It had taken her about fifteen minutes to twist and pin the long inky locks up into a deceptively simple updo that I could never hope to reproduce. She was only a little older than I, but her manner had been maternal, gentle, in a way my own mother had seldom been.

  “There,” Liberty had murmured when she was finished, and picked up a powder brush to dust my nose playfully. “Perfect.”

  It was really hard not to like her.

  As Dad and I danced, one of the photographers approached. We leaned close and smiled into the blinding white flash, and then resumed our previous distance.

  “Nick and I are going back to Massachusetts tomorrow,” I said. We were flying commercial—I had put two first-class tickets on my credit card. Since Dad paid my Visa bill, and went over it personally, I knew he was aware that I’d bought Nick’s ticket. He hadn’t said anything about it. Yet.

  “Before we leave,” I continued, “Nick’s going to have a talk with you.”

  “Looking forward to that.”

  “I’d like you to be nice to him,” I said.

  “Sometimes I’m not nice for a reason. It’s a way to find out what someone’s made of.”

  “You don’t need to test Nick. You just need to respect my choices.”

  “He wants to marry you,” Dad said.

  “Yes.”

  “And then he reckons he’ll have a first-class ticket for life. That’s all you are to him, Haven.”

  “Have you ever thought,” I asked, “that someone could actually love me for myself, and not for your money?”

  “He’s not the one.”

  “I get to decide that,” I shot back. “Not you.”

  “You’ve made up your mind,” Dad said, and although it wasn’t exactly a question, I said yes, I had. “Then don’t ask for my permission,” he went on. “Make your choice and accept the consequences. Your brother sure as hell didn’t ask what I thought about him marrying Liberty.”

  “Of course he didn’t. You’ve done everything possible to push them together. Everyone knows you’re crazy about her.” Appalled by the edge of jealousy in my own voice, I continued quickly. “Can’t we just do this the normal way, Dad? I bring my boyfriend home, you pretend to like him, I go on with my life, and you and I call each other on all the major holidays.” I made my mouth into the shape of a smile. “Don’t stand in the way, Dad. Just let me be happy.”

  “You won’t be happy with him. He’s a nonstarter.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never spent more than an hour in Nick’s company.”

  “I’ve been around long enough to know a nonstarter when I see one.”

  I didn’t think either of us had raised our voices, but we were getting a few curious glances. I realized our mutual haranguing didn’t have to be loud for other people to notice. I struggled for calm, and kept my feet moving in a “dancing out of rhythm but by God still dancing” kind of shuffle. “Any man I wanted would be a nonstarter to you,” I said. “Unless you got to pick him.”

  I thought there was just enough truth in that to make my father mad. “I’ll give you a wedding,” he said, “but you’ll have to get someone else to walk you down the aisle. And don’t come to me later when you need money for a divorce. You marry him, I’m cutting you off. Neither of you will get a plug nickel from me, you understand? If he has the balls to talk to me tomorrow, I’m going to tell him that.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I pulled away from him just as the music ended. “You do a mean foxtrot.”

  As I left the dance floor, I passed Carrington, who was running to my father with her arms outstretched. She was Liberty’s little sister. “My turn,” she cried, as if dancing with Churchill Travis were the best thing in the world.

  When I was nine, I thought bitterly, I’d felt that way about him too.

  I PUSHED MY way through crowds of people, and all I could see were mouths and more mouths . . . talking, laughing, eating, drinking, air-kissing. The accumulated noise was mind-numbing.

  I glanced at a wall clock in the hallway, an antique Ball regulator that had once belonged to the Buffalo Bayou, Brazos, and Colorado Railway. Nine o’clock. In about a half hour, I was supposed to meet Liberty in one of the upstairs bedrooms to help her change into her going-away outfit. I couldn’t wait to get through that particular ritual. There was only so much misty-eyed happiness I could take in one evening.

  The champagne had made me thirsty. I went to the kitchen, filled wall to wall with caterers and their staff, and managed to find a clean tumbler in one of the cabinets. Filling it with water from the sink, I drank in big quenching gulps.

  “Excuse me,” a waiter said urgently, trying to push by me with a steaming chafing dish. I shrank back to let him pass, and wandered into the oval dining room.

  To my relief, I saw the familiar outline of Nick’s head and shoulders near the dark arched doorway that led to the dine-in wine cellar. He had gone through the small wrought-iron gate and left it ajar. It looked like he was heading into the vault, which was lined with oak barrel stays that sweetened the air. I figured Nick must have gotten tired of the crowds and had come early to meet me. I wanted him to hold me. I needed a moment of peace in the middle of the cacophony.

  Skirting around the dining table, I went to the wine cellar. The gate closed behind me with a smooth clack. Reaching for the light switch, I flipped it off and went into the cellar.

>   I heard Nick mutter, “Hey—”

  “Just me.” I found him easily in the darkness, giving a low laugh as my palms slid over his shoulders. “Mmmn. You feel nice in a tux.”

  He started to say something, but I tugged his head down until my half-open mouth skimmed the edge of his jaw. “I missed you,” I whispered. “You didn’t dance with me.”

  His breath caught, and his hands came to my hips as I wobbled a little in my high heels. The wine-sweet air filled my nostrils, and something else . . . the scent of male skin, fresh like nutmeg or ginger . . . a sun-warmed spice. Exerting pressure on the back of his neck, I urged his mouth to mine, finding softness and heat, the tang of champagne melting into the intimate taste of him.

  One of his hands traveled up my spine, coaxing out a shiver, a sweet shock, as the warmth of his palm met my bare skin. I felt the strength of his hand, and the gentleness, as it closed over my nape and tilted my head back. His mouth barely grazed mine, more a promise of a kiss than an actual one. I made a little sound at the brush of his lips and kept my face upturned, straining for more. Another lush descent, a dizzying pressure as he opened my mouth with his. He reached deeper, his tongue finding ticklish places that drew a shivering laugh from my throat.

  I tried to curl around him, holding him with my arching body. His mouth was slow and searching, the kisses hard at first, then loosening as if unraveling from their own heat. The pleasure thickened, hard flushes rising through me, bringing the desire to full-slip ripeness. I wasn’t aware of moving backward, but I felt the frame of the tasting table high against my bottom, the sharp edge digging into my flesh.

  Nick lifted me with astonishing ease until I sat on the chilled table. He took my mouth again, longer, deeper, while I tried to catch his tongue, tried to draw him as far inside as possible. I wanted to lie back on the table, an offering of aching flesh on sterile marble, and let him do anything he wanted. Something had been cut loose in me. I was saturated with excitement, drunk with it, and part of it was because Nick, who always seemed so in control, was fighting for selfrestraint. His breath came in ragged puffs, his hands gripping my body.

  He kissed my throat, tasting the thin, susceptible skin, his lips stroking the throb of my pulse. Panting, I slid my hands up to his hair, so soft and thick, layers of heavy silk in my palms.

  Not at all like Nick’s.

  A cold shot of horror went down to my stomach. “Oh, God.” I was barely able to force the words out. I touched his face in the darkness, encountering hard, unfamiliar features, the scrape of shaven bristle. The corners of my eyes stung, but I wasn’t sure whether the imminent tears were caused by embarrassment, anger, fear, disappointment, or some unholy combination of all of them. “Nick?”

  My wrist was caught in a powerful hand, and his mouth dragged softly over the insides of my fingers. A kiss burned the center of my palm, and then I heard a voice so smoky and deep I would have sworn it belonged to the devil.

  “Who’s Nick?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE STRANGER DIDN’T RELEASE ME IN THE SCALD-ing darkness, only stroked my back in an effort to loosen the tight chain of my vertebrae.

  “God, I’m sorry,” I said through chattering teeth. “I th-thought you were my boyfriend.”

  He sounded rueful. “At the moment, I wish to hell I was.” His hand moved up to the bare nape of my neck and squeezed with gentle pressure, relieving the cramp of tiny muscles. “Should I turn on the lights?”

  “No!” I clutched at him.

  He held obligingly still. A smile colored his voice as he asked, “Mind telling me your name?”

  “Absolutely, positively no. No names.”

  “Okay, boss.” He eased me down from the table, steadying my balance with his hands.

  My heart pounded violently. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I—I feel like I should pass out or scream or something—”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I really don’t want anyone knowing about this. I wish I didn’t know about it. I wish—”

  “You talk fast when you’re nervous,” he observed.

  “I talk fast all the time. And I’m not nervous. I’m in shock. I wish I could undo this. I feel like one of those error pages you get on the computer . . .”

  “A Four-Oh-Four?”

  “Yes. This is a major Four-Oh-Four.”

  He made a quiet sound of amusement. “It’s okay,” he said, easing me closer. The proximity of his body was so comforting that I couldn’t bring myself to push him away. And his voice was soothing enough to stop a herd of stampeding cattle in their tracks. “Everything’s okay. No harm done.”

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “ ’Course not. If Nick found out, he’d kick my ass.”

  I nodded, even though the idea of Nick kicking this guy’s ass was laughable. Even through the layers of his tux I could feel the contours of a body so hard and powerful it seemed invulnerable. In a flash, I remembered the guy in the reception tent, and my eyes widened in the darkness. “Oh.”

  “What is it?” He’d bent his head low, and his hot breath stirred the hair at my temple.

  “I saw you at the tent, standing in the back. You’re the one with the blue eyes, aren’t you?”

  He went very still. “You’re the bridesmaid in the green dress.” A low, ironic laugh escaped him, the sound so delicious that every hair on my body stood up. “Shit. You’re a Travis, aren’t you?”

  “I admit nothing.” I struggled to catalogue the shame and excitement that stung the insides of my veins. His mouth was so close. I wanted more of those sweltering kisses. I felt terrible about that. But the warm sunny fragrance of him . . . he smelled better than any human being I’d ever met. “Okay,” I said unsteadily, “forget what I said about not exchanging names. Who are you?”

  “For you, honey . . . I’m trouble.”

  We were both still and silent, caught in a half-embrace as if every forbidden second had formed a link in a chain around us. The part of my brain that was still functioning urged me to pull away from him with all due haste. And yet I couldn’t move, paralyzed by the sensation that something extraordinary was happening. Even with all the noise outside the wine cellar, the hundreds of people so close by, I felt as if I were in some faraway place.

  One of his hands came up to my face, fingertips exploring the curve of my cheek. Blindly I reached up and felt the backs of his fingers, searching for the hard band of a ring.

  “No,” he murmured, “not married.”

  The tip of his little finger found the outside rim of my ear and traced delicately. I found myself slipping into a strange, pleasant passivity. I can’t do this, I thought, even as I let him pull me closer, his hand tucking my hips into his. My head felt heavy, tipping back as he nuzzled into the soft space beneath my jaw. I had always thought I was pretty good at resisting temptation. But this was the first time I’d ever felt the pull of serious lust, and I wasn’t at all equipped to handle it.

  “Are you a friend of the groom,” I managed to ask, “or friend of the bride?”

  I felt him smile against my skin. “Wouldn’t say I’m popular in either quarter.”

  “My God. You crashed the reception, didn’t you?”

  “Honey, half the people here crashed the reception.” He traced one of the straps that held my dress up, and my stomach gave an excited leap.

  “Are you in the oil business? Or ranching?”

  “Oil,” he said. “Why’d you ask?”

  “You’re built like a roughneck.”

  A laugh rustled in his chest. “I’ve stacked my share of drill pipe,” he admitted. His breath was soft and hot against my hair. “So . . . you ever go out with a blue-collar guy? I bet not. Rich girl like you . . . you’d stick with your own kind, wouldn’t you?”

  “You’re wearing a nice tux for a blue-collar guy,” I countered. “Armani?”

  “Even roughnecks get to dress up now and then.” He braced his hands on e
ither side of me, lightly gripping the edge of the table. “What’s this for?”

  I leaned back to preserve the small but crucial distance between our bodies. “The tasting table?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s for uncorking and decanting. We keep wine accessories in the drawers. Also white cloths to drape over the top, so you can judge the color of the wine.”

  “I’ve never been to a wine tasting before. How do you do it?”

  I stared at the outline of his head, now dimly visible in the heavy shadows. “You hold the glass by the stem, and you stick your nose right into the bowl and breathe in the scent.”

  “In my case, that’s a considerable amount of nose.”

  I couldn’t resist touching him then, my fingers stealing up to his face, investigating the assertive line of his nose. I touched the crook near the bridge. “How did you break it?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  His warm lips slid over the heel of my hand. “That’s one of the stories I only tell when I’m drinking something a lot stronger than wine.”

  “Oh.” I pulled my hand away. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t mind telling you someday.”

  Doggedly I steered the conversation back on course. “When you take a sip of wine, you hold it in your mouth. There’s a place in the back of your mouth that leads to smell receptors in your nasal cavity. It’s called retro-olfaction.”

  “Interesting.” He paused. “So after you taste and smell the wine, you spit it out in a bucket, right?”

  “I’d rather swallow than spit.”

  As the double meaning of the words occurred to me, I flushed hard enough I was certain he could see it in the darkness. Mercifully he didn’t comment, although I heard the flick of amusement in his voice. “Thanks for the pointers.”

  “You’re welcome. We should go now. You leave first.”

  “Okay.”

  But neither of us moved.

  And then his hands found my hips, skimming upward, a callus on his finger catching at the fragile fabric of my dress. I was aware of every shift of his weight, the subtle movements of bone and heavy muscle. The sound of his breathing was electrifying.