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She had hungered for her own respectable identity ever since she’d been five and her sister had first branded her with the word bastard.
She had thought money and marriage would give her the security and the respect she craved.
Lyon was everything.
She would be whatever he wanted.
For as long as he wanted. With or without marriage.
He was hers. In that single shining moment, as he held and kissed Cheyenne, they burned with the same flame and everything was very simple.
Only later did it become so complex and terrible.
Cutter made no sound as he lifted her and carried her across the litter of white carpets, up the swirl of stairs, to the bedroom that looked across the dunes to the sea. He took time to open all the doors, so that the surf roared in their ears, so that they could smell the salt and feel the damp wind against their hot, naked bodies. Then he fell across her on the bed and, with one fist grasping her long red hair, he shaped her to him and plunged inside her.
They came together violently, in quick, fluid thrusts, like a primitive couple, their bodies sparking, rising and falling in the wildness of the ancient ritual.
They took no time to know each other.
Both were shocked.
He to discover that this wanton whose golden body responded to him with such primitive eager response was a virgin.
She to discover that pain could open the floodgates to ecstasy and knowledge of another’s soul.
They didn’t speak.
Not then.
Not later.
There were no words.
They needed no words.
They just loved. Sometimes with their bodies fused quietly. Sometimes they twisted and writhed.
All that afternoon.
Into the brief glow that is a southern twilight on a windswept beach.
And again during their long, single black night together.
Endlessly.
Completely.
But, ah, so devastatingly.
And when it was over, the island was even hotter than it ever got in full summer. Bees buzzed above the dune flowers. Cicadas sang as if under a spell.
The man and the woman lay wrapped together, each sure that, whatever happened, she could never, ever marry Martin Lord.
One
Nothing sells like celebrity murder.
Especially not on a humid, spring night in Houston, Texas, when lilacs and wisteria as well as wild water lilies have suddenly decided to bloom early—and all these magic blossoms are three times their normal sizes.
Thus, the hottest ticket in that southern city of skyscrapers, freeways and sluggish brown bayous on that cool Saturday night was the Martin Lord bankruptcy auction at the Castle Galleries in the city’s fashionable Southwest.
Quite naturally everybody, absolutely everybody, attended. The Wests from their great ranch, El Atascadero, near Westville and Theodora West’s even more famous ranching cousins, the Jacksons from their far grander ranch, were there en masse. Mercedes and Wayne Jackson, Amy and Nick Browning, as well as Megan and Jeb Jackson had all come. Yes, the rich, the greedy, the overdressed, the envious, as well as the merely curious were there to watch and to gloat at the widow’s latest humiliation, as one by one, Cheyenne’s most beloved and most prized possessions went on the auction block.
The gossips buzzed.
Had she killed Martin?
Or had his older brother?
There had always been gossip about Martin and Cheyenne Lord even before Martin’s chain-draped, nude body had washed ashore on an oyster reef in Galveston Bay six months ago. Even in Houston, the youngest, brashest city in Texas where flamboyant behavior on the part of the city’s rich is almost a duty, the couple, who had lived both extravagantly and scandalously, had continually raised the bar of vulgar excesses.
Take the Lords’s wedding seven years ago at the Jackson Ranch in south Texas when Martin had gotten roaring drunk and ridden one of Jeb Jackson’s prize bulls up the aisle to take his vows. Not to be outdone, the groom’s older brother had stormed in late during the reception and forced the bride to kiss him. And not a brotherly kiss, but a kiss so electric with white-hot passion that every single guest had been charred by its carnal sizzle. Indeed, Mrs. Gilchrist, a gray-headed society matron, whose seat had been the closest to the embracing couple, had told everyone who would listen that wisps of steam had arisen from her very own cuticles for as long as the couple’s lips remained fused.
Fortunately before Mrs. Gilchrist’s fingernails could be completely eviscerated, Cheyenne had fainted in Cutter’s arms. The rogue would have carried her off, had not the groom and his groomsmen seized Cutter by the throat and hurled him to the ground. They might have killed him, if Jeb and Tad Jackson hadn’t pulled them off and rushed the unconscious Cutter Lord to a hospital.
Cutter retaliated by seizing control of his younger brother’s fortune and firing Martin from Lord Enterprises. Thus, had it not been for Martin’s rich friends, the newlyweds would have begun their lives together almost penniless.
There had been more talk when Cheyenne had delivered a strapping, ten-pound son with a shock of ebony hair less than eight months later.
Even more talk when Cutter had showed up in the hospital nursery and possessively glowered down at the baby that looked so alarmingly like him and then exchanged cruel, damning words with the new mother who had almost died giving birth to the boy he claimed as his son.
The baby had started to cry, and Cutter had picked him up. Then as the child quieted, Cheyenne had burst into tears, and when Cutter had tried to take her into his arms, too, Martin had summoned security. Cutter had been dragged away.
There had been even more talk when Cutter had refused to back down from the financial decisions he had made regarding Martin, and the brothers failed to patch up their quarrel.
Things had quieted down a bit when Cutter had moved to the south of France, and Martin and Cheyenne Lord, aided by loans, had settled into their vulgarly stylish marriage and endeared themselves to the city by planting a magical garden and throwing frequent and flashy parties at which the bride always served her wonderfully spicy food.
The talk had resumed, however, when the bride’s married sister, the flamboyant Chantal West, had left her husband, Jack West, and seduced Martin on Cheyenne’s front lawn. The gossips had had a field day with the rumors Chantal started about Cheyenne. Soon everybody knew that the sweet, sad-faced Mrs. Martin Lord, whose flowers grew bigger than everybody else’s and whose exotic herbs had a taste all their own, had never had a daddy to claim her. Chantal reported that Cheyenne’s mother had been a tramp who raised gators, cast spells, cooked for cowboys and slept with whichever one she took a fancy to.
It was the notorious Chantal who first made everybody aware how the weather in Houston always got warmer and how trees bloomed out of season after every Lord party. How everybody got a little crazy, too. How couples who hadn’t slept together in years would go home and make love to each other all night long.
Martin Lord, who had an obsession for upstaging his rich brother, had liked notoriety of any sort. Thus, he hadn’t discouraged his mistress from gossiping about his wife’s strange powers and scandalous past. Martin, who’d had a Texas-size ego and a mania for media attention, had gotten himself proclaimed the leading real-estate tycoon in the state. He had had an enormous import-export business as well. His wife had become a celebrity caterer and the author of five wonderful, bilingual, coffee-table cookbooks. Still, there were those who said they could see beneath Cheyenne’s beauty and sophistication to the wild bad blood that they now knew raced in her veins. Everybody said that no recipes were richer or spicier or hotter than hers. But what really made her books off-the-chart bestsellers was that rumor Chantal had started about Cheyenne’s food having aphrodisiac qualities.
The Lords had lived high. They owned a mansion in Houston’s best neighborhood, a showplace ranch in south Texas, and a villa on a high cliff in Acapulco.
They’d lived like kings. In spite of the gossips.
Right to the end.
But Martin Lord had died broke.
No.
Worse than broke.
Martin Lord had left his lovely widow and son, Jeremy, millions of dollars in debt, five million to be exact, to dangerous people on both sides of the border.
But the most dangerous enemy she had, at least as far as Cheyenne Lord was concerned, since her heart and soul were involved, was her brother-in-law whose searing wedding kiss was so well remembered. Especially by Mrs. Gilchrist whose fingernails had never quite recovered.
Tonight Cheyenne had given orders that Cutter was not to be sold a ticket to the auction; nor was he to be admitted should he dare try to make an appearance.
Still—tonight when she’d stepped out of her house and was about to get into her limousine, she hadn’t been able to ignore two rather alarming signs. A single bolt of lightning had arched over her head, scrawling a white C in a cloudless black sky. At the very same moment her magnolia tree, which had shed its last blossom the day of Martin’s death and had been barren ever since, had suddenly burst into bloom.
Cheyenne had read in these simultaneous happenings a sign.
Cutter Lord was definitely on his way.
She had slammed her door with a vengeance; fighting to catch her breath. Why was it still so maddeningly easy to remember their time on the island? Especially that moment shortly before dawn when she had cupped his face between her hands and stared deeply into his eyes, marveling at their warmth after he’d just confessed his love for her?
For her public lynching, Cheyenne had chosen to wear a skintight, black leather pantsuit and a soft black cashmere sweater that fit her like a glove. Her necklace and earrings were fashioned of serious diamonds and emeralds, a wedding gift from her husband. His only gift in seven years of marriage. Not that she had wanted another.
As the widow greeted the Jacksons, her good friends who were effusive in their friendliness, and then Theodora and Chantal West, her father’s “real” family, who were as chilly as iced champagne, Cheyenne hoped none of them noticed that her hand with the diamonds shook and that her frequent smiles were quivery as she scanned the crowd for Cutter.
Theodora, who had never before said Ivory Rose’s name aloud to anyone other than her deceased husband and then only in anger, thawed a little and murmured how sorry she was that Cheyenne’s dear mama was so ill.
Ivory Rose had suffered a stroke the day Martin had been found dead, and was confined to her bed with round-the-clock nurses, which Cheyenne was struggling to pay for.
Cheyenne’s eyes shimmered. “But I thought...that you disliked her—”
“I—I used to think so, too. But relationships are not always what they seem. I was jealous.” Theodora moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “I couldn’t help it. She was a free spirit. She was so much younger and so much more beautiful.”
“I really hated to leave her...so sick,” Cheyenne murmured, touched. “As soon as this is over, Jeremy and I will definitely go back to be with her.”
Theodora’s thin, cold hand lingered consolingly. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’ll miss her more than I’ll miss most people in Westville.” For one brief moment Cheyenne felt that maybe, just maybe, her father’s family might someday feel affection for her.
Then Chantal spoke. “My, my, Witchgirl.” Her soft voice was somehow more predatory than her fierce eyes. “How sweet you always are, dear sister.”
The two sisters looked at each other, saw themselves in each other’s faces and, as always, were unpleasantly jolted.
Cheyenne remembered growing up in Westville. There had been an unspoken competition between the rich and icily controlled Theodora West and her husband’s mistress, the fun-loving Ivory Rose who hadn’t minded at all that she’d had an awful reputation or that some of the townspeople thought she was a witch. Their competition had spilled over to their daughters because the two women had used them in their silent war with each other. Every school contest in which both girls entered had been a battle, and every time Cheyenne, the wild child, had bested her sister, the ranch princess, which had been often—and there had been those who said that witchcraft had given her the edge—Chantal had found some terrible way to get even.
Tonight Chantal’s color was high. As always, she was too intensely involved with Cheyenne, especially now that the spotlight was on her.
Although Chantal was flamboyantly sexy in a tight red sheath, and had never looked lovelier, she exuded a dangerous aura of resentment and insecurity because people had come to see Cheyenne, not her.
More than anything on earth Chantal wanted to be the star. Cheyenne’s stomach tightened. Chantal had married Jack and seduced Martin to get revenge. What might she do next?
Had their mothers not been such polar extremes, Chantal would have hated her simply for existing. Chantal especially resented their too-startling resemblance, perhaps because it proved their kinship. Perhaps, because having a double made her feel less special.
Still, if only their mothers hadn’t pitted them against each other, maybe they could have become real sisters.
No.
Cheyenne had given up on that dream. Never again would Cheyenne try to impress Chantal or the Wests. After tonight Cheyenne was through with being in the public eye, with caring about others’ opinions. Cheyenne would be finished with men, with love, with marriage and, therefore, hopefully, with this sister who had betrayed her twice.
Cheyenne wanted only her precocious son.
She wanted peace and solitude.
And safety.
For an instant she remembered Cutter’s dark, tortured face when he’d held and soothed Jeremy so tenderly right after his birth. The baby had taken to him, cooing and gurgling happily almost instantly. Cutter’s expression had softened when Jeremy had wrapped his little hand around Cutter’s finger. She had thought then how warm and lovely it had been to have his child. She had wanted the moment to last forever. When Cutter had looked abruptly from the baby to her, she had wanted him in her life so much, she had begun to weep. Even now she still wondered what might have happened if Martin had not been there.
No.
She wanted a magnolia tree without blossoms.
Theodora West left before the auction started. The Jacksons sat in the row behind Cheyenne. Chantal West vanished into the crowd just as the auctioneer began the sale with Martin’s valuable Tang horse, which went quickly.
A few lots later, the gavel pounded down so hard Cheyenne could almost feel sparks flying. Soon she forgot all about Chantal.
“Sold to the highest bidder,” cried the skinny auctioneer with the vulgar yellow tie.
Again all eyes turned to the dazzling redhead in black cashmere, who paled, the words having stung her like a whip.
Cheyenne felt as if she was dying by inches as two men rolled up a Persian carpet that had been in her bedroom and dragged it off the stage. But she kept her expression a careful blank as the bidding resumed.
She felt numb, so numb that the sounds and visions blurred. Would this nightmare that had become her life never end?
“Do I hear a thousand—”
Only a thousand.
Cheyenne, who was sitting in the center of the first row, flanked by her son and bodyguard, jumped up. She seized the microphone and began to describe how she and Martin had come to possess the particular antique crystal vase on the block. As she spoke, guests suddenly saw or thought they saw dozens upon dozens of tall yellow roses blooming and growing ever taller in the vase that now looked both magical and wonderful.
When she handed the microphone back to the auctioneer, the bidding leapfrogged as it always did after such a poignant anecdote and strange occurrence.
Cheyenne’s green eyes glassed over again as she sank into her chair once more and folded her perfectly manicured hands together with a pretense of calm.
She was used to pretending. She had grown so very, very good at it during the seven years of her miserable marriage, which had been one of public glitter and private humiliation.
But ever since Martin’s murder—no, even six months before that, when the telephone death threats had begun—it had grown harder to pretend.
It was on that day that the magnolia tree had first started to shed its blossoms. It became totally bare the day Martin had been found.
A single magnolia petal had fluttered downward outside the window as Martin had answered that first call in their dining room with its soaring columns and its Steuben chandeliers and the table that was encircled by eighteen antique gilt chairs. She had watched the magnolia petal until it disappeared. Then she focused on Martin’s eyes, which had dilated with fear. Immediately after the brief call Martin had been gray and silent.
“Martin. Please, Martin. Tell me what is going on,” she had pleaded as another white petal slid lazily to the ground.
