Page 12 of Forbidden Fire

T hat night Marissa sat at the dining table alone. She picked at an expertly prepared duck à l’orange, and wondered if it was true that Ian had been detained on business.

He had been quick to desert them that afternoon. Well, perhaps he hadn’t deserted them. He had turned Mary and Marissa over to one of his clerks, a freckle-faced girl named Sandy O’Halloran, and he had disappeared with Jimmy. Sandy had a natural friendliness and enthusiasm that was instantly endearing, and Marissa felt immediately comfortable with her.

She was the first woman Marissa had met in San Francisco who seemed honestly pleased to meet Ian’s wife.

And she obviously loved the emporium. She spent the first hour dragging them from department to department. The emporium seemed to sell absolutely everything from furnishings to garden tools, foodstuffs to recreational paraphernalia. There were bicycles and baseballs, canned goods, the latest in chemises and nightwear, spades and hoes, fine English Chesterfields.

And in the basement there was a cafeteria where the employees had their meals. Though they had already had lunch, Marissa and Mary had tea with Sandy and watched as the employees went through the line for their meals. The cafeteria seemed busy and productive, and the employees were relaxed, talking among themselves as they ate. Marissa caught the occasional covert glance at herself, but she felt that the interest was friendly and open enough, and she smiled in return when she could.

“What do you think?” Sandy asked, seeing Marissa’s interest as she surveyed the area.

“I think it’s very active!” Marissa laughed.

“Oh, well, then, you should see it on Sunday mornings!” Sandy told her.

“Why?”

“The children from St. Kevin’s have their breakfast here after church.”

“What is St. Kevin’s?” Marissa asked.

“Well, St. Kevin’s is the Catholic church, and there is an orphanage, too. Sundays are wonderful.”

“You work on Sundays?”

“Oh, no. It’s strictly volunteer service, but I do love the children. There are about fifty of the little hooligans. I’m the oldest of twelve, you see, but my sisters and brothers are all back in Ireland. I miss them, and I make up for it on Sundays. Mr. Tremayne supplies all the food, and whoever cares to shows up to help see that it’s all ladled out. The children love it. There are griddle cakes and ham and huge sausages and fish—it’s a wonder for the children, it is, all the jelly and sweet maple syrup they can eat!”

“Is it in connection with the Orphan’s Fund?” Marissa asked her suspiciously.

Sandy gave a little sniff. “No. Mr. Tremayne started his Sunday breakfast long ago. Her Highness Leroux just started with her charity appeals after she learned that Mr. Tremayne—”

She broke off in distress, her eyes very wide as she realized that she was gossiping about her employer’s mistress to her employer’s wife.

“It’s quite all right, Sandy,” Marissa said smoothly. “I’m anxious to see this Sunday breakfast. We’ll meet you again, I’m certain.”

Marissa realized soon after that Mary was wan and exhausted. John Kwan had come for them. Jimmy was busy in the offices, they learned, and Ian had gone to his afternoon meeting.

Marissa accompanied John to see Mary home, but she was determined to explore more of the city herself.

“If you’ll bring me downtown, John, I can take a cable car,” she told him.

He seemed uncomfortable. “May I show you some of the homes on our hill, Mrs. Tremayne? It will grow dark soon today. Tomorrow you could explore in the morning.”

“And you’ve been told not to let me out of your sight, right?” she asked him wryly.

She could see no reason to cause John distress, so she smiled and agreed to see more of the hill. And after they drove down the hill, where he showed her the magnificent Fairmont Hotel, not yet completed, on the brink of Nob Hill, overlooking the Bay. She was surprised to have thoroughly enjoyed both the impromptu tour and John.

But when she had returned to the house, she discovered that Ian had sent a message home; he would not be there for dinner. And so she was left in the huge dining room alone, with Lee Kwan—whom she did not one bit enjoy—serving her dinner in a stilted silence.

Lee liked her no more than she liked Lee, Marissa realized.

Marissa hovered downstairs as late as she could, but Ian did not return. Finally, when the clock had struck eleven, she gave up and went to bed. Ian still had not returned.

Nor did he disturb her in the morning. She awoke late and found that he had left the house long before she came down to breakfast.

She and Mary spent the afternoon taking a cable car ride. Mary sat on one of the seats, but Marissa could not help but hang on at the entryway, holding her hat on her head as they moved up and down the hills. The cool wind fanned her cheeks. Staring around her with fascination, she decided she loved the city more and more.

On Saturday morning, she awoke once again to find herself alone except for Lee in the beautiful Nob Hill house. More hurt than she was willing to admit, even to herself, she left the house, not mentioning a destination to Lee inside or John by the carriage house. She determined to walk downhill.

She had almost reached the nearly completed Fairmont Hotel when the sound of horse’s hooves close behind her startled her. To her surprise, Ian, mounted upon a huge bay, had reined in just behind her.

“Where in God’s name do you think you’re going?” he said with a frown.

She stepped back, surprised that her heart should hammer with such vehemence. “I am going for a walk. And don’t you speak to me that way.”

He arched a brow, then leaned low over the horse’s neck. “I’ll speak to you however I choose, my lady. You scared me half out of my wits.”

“I scared you? I do beg your pardon! You’re the one who came pounding down upon me.”

“I didn’t pound—Jinx here trotted.”

“Then Jinx here can trot away!” she retorted pleasantly and turned to keep walking.

Jinx didn’t trot away. Ian leaped from the horse’s back and halted Marissa with an arm around her waist, turning her to face him. His voice had a rough edge to it. “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”

“I didn’t know I was required to tell anyone where I was going,” she said smoothly, lifting her chin and raising her eyes to his in an emerald challenge. “You never do,” she reminded him flatly.

“I’m hardly likely to be the victim of kidnappers or thieves!”

She wished her heart would not pound so loudly, and that the whisper of excitement would not sweep so heatedly throughout her just because he was near, because he touched her. She swept her lashes over her eyes, fearful suddenly that she would give away too much of that excitement.

“Thank you for your concern. Now that you’ve voiced it and you know I’m out for a walk, I’ll thank you to let me proceed.”

He stopped her before she had taken a step. “You’ll not proceed, young woman!” he snapped. “What foolishness is this? You don’t know a thing about the city. You just presume yourself above it all, and you go strutting off not knowing if you’re waltzing into danger—”

“Danger!” she taunted him. “Here? On Nob Hill? I hardly think I’m walking through dens of cutthroats and thieves!” She laughed, but her laughter faded at his murderous glare. She slipped free from his arm and backed away. “Ian—”

“Get over here, Marissa.”

“I will not!”

“You will!” He promised, taking a step toward her.

“I will not!” He was still coming. She took another step, both dreading and fascinated by the blue fire in his gaze. “You don’t bother to speak to me for two days, and then you come riding down upon me like some hound from hell! I will not tolerate it, I’m telling you right now that I simply won’t tolerate it!”

“You could have told Lee—”

“I needed air! And I owe nothing to Lee, it is none of her affair—”

“But it is my affair!”

“No, it is not! Not when—”

She broke off with a cry. He had wrapped his arms firmly around her and was setting her up upon the bay with such vehemence she was afraid she would go right over the other side of the horse. But before she could do so he was quickly behind her, and his arms were around her as he took up the reins. Her skirt was not made for riding, and she was forced to fall between his thighs upon the English saddle or lose her balance. Her shoulder rested firmly against his chest, and as he nudged the horse into a smooth canter, she gasped and put her arm around his waist.

“Where are you taking me!” she cried out.

He leaned low. His whisper mingled with the rush of the wind. “You said you needed air!”

And she certainly received it. She could not say that he was careless, for he was an excellent horseman. Yet he rode with a certain recklessness, a wildness, that was exhilarating and exciting. She could feel the heat and energy of the stallion and the man as they rode pell-mell down the street. The wind tore at her hair and plucked at her skirt, chilled and caressed her cheeks. Where his arms touched her, though, she was warm, and deep within her, she felt a rising heat. Tiny laps of fire kissed the base of her spine and radiated like the sun’s warmth through her loins to her heart.

She didn’t know where they traveled; she didn’t care. She closed her eyes and immersed herself in the grace of the animal and the strength of the man. She felt the beat of the horse’s hooves. They slowed at last, and the horse moved at a more moderate pace.

As they walked, she opened her eyes and realized that he was staring at her, intently studying her face.

“Where are we going?” she asked him softly. She didn’t move her cheek from his chest or her hand from where it lay against his jacket.

He smiled slowly. “For air.”

Then he reined in, and, regretfully, she straightened. They were in the midst of a busy world, on a road where the trolley moved, where cars honked, where carriages jangled past.

“The Palace Hotel,” he said, indicating the handsome structure before him. His voice had a whimsical quality to it. “General William T. Sherman and President Ulysses S. Grant have stayed here, among others. Caruso will come here on tour soon.” He leaped down from the horse and reached up, his hands warm and firm around her waist as he lifted her down beside him. “But there is much, much more to make her great.”

He was clearly talking about something that mattered to him, and Marissa was surprised he was doing so to her. He took her hand and walked closer to the hotel, sweeping out an arm to include all of the construction. “She is built on massive pillar foundations that go twelve feet deep, and iron-reinforced brick walls are two feet thick. There’s a huge tank of water in the basement, and there are seven more tanks upon the roof. One hundred and thirty thousand gallons of water to fight fires, and five miles of piping to distribute it. Each of the eight hundred rooms is fitted with a fire detector that triggers an alarm in case of fire, and watchmen patrol every floor every thirty minutes. There have been a number of small fires here, and all successfully fought.” He fell silent.

Marissa, her fingers curled in his, knew nothing at all about building. But it suddenly mattered very much to her.

“Ian, how do you know all this?” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “It’s my business to know.” His hand still holding hers, they strolled along the street. “I’m just so damned frustrated. This is the way things should be built. In San Francisco, at least. And those fools who have asked me to design their offices on the waterfront don’t seem to realize that. They don’t mind paying for an architect, but when I start telling them about pilings and hoses and water tanks, they start crying poverty.”

He fell silent, and Marissa walked quietly beside him. “What are you going to do?” she asked at last. “They couldn’t possibly—compromise you.”

He stopped and turned to her with one of the slow, lazy smiles that had captured her heart when she had not been aware. He brushed a stray strand of hair gently from her forehead with the back of his free hand. “No, Marissa. They will not—compromise me,” he said with a soft laugh that held a stirring note of curious tenderness. “I won’t build the damned thing for them unless they’re willing to do it my way.”

He was suddenly in a hurry again, full of energy. She had to run to keep up with him as they hurried back. A doorman held the horse at the entrance to the Palace Hotel. Ian lifted her up by the waist and leaped expertly to his seat behind her. They trotted with the traffic to the rise of Nob Hill, and there Ian gave the horse free rein so that they raced again.

Marissa closed her eyes and leaned against him. When Ian reined in the horse she opened her eyes with a start.

They were not far from his house, but it was a different home they had come to. It, too, was large and beautiful, with stained-glass windows and moderate gingerbreading, two matching turrets, and graceful ells that gave the house both size and beauty.

“It’s one of mine,” Ian said simply.

“You built it?”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“It’s—wonderful,” she admitted.

“Thank you,” he told her. He nudged the bay, and they walked in silence to the house.

Marissa had never known that she could be both excited and content at once. Her veins still seemed to leap when he touched her. But it was comfortable, so very comfortable, to rest in his arms.

But her contentment wasn’t meant to last. When they reached the house, John was out front waiting for Ian. “What is it?” Ian asked, still mounted upon the bay and holding Marissa close against him.

“A problem with—logistics, Mr. Tremayne,” John said. He glanced at Marissa. “Mrs. Leroux says there’s an emergency with the finances for the new children’s wing at St. Kevin’s. They need you immediately.”

Marissa’s spine stiffened. She pulled from Ian’s hold and leaped down from the bay.

To her distress, her skirt caught upon the saddle. She nearly catapulted over, but Ian caught her. She wrenched angrily at her skirt.

He released it for her.

“Marissa!” he called as she strode toward the house. She didn’t answer him.

And to her growing rage, she heard his laughter follow her to the house.

That afternoon she lay carelessly in a steaming bubble bath. She leaned back and closed her eyes, despising Grace Leroux, the woman at the train station, Lee Kwan—and herself. Once upon a time it had been easy to despise Ian, too. But now, though her temper simmered and steamed, she could find no outlet for it. She wanted to shake him and hurt him … and make him look at her. She wanted to share things as they had this afternoon. He had dreams, too. Perhaps he had buried the art of loving someone when he had buried his first wife, but he still knew how to dream. And he loved something. He loved building—with a passion.

She started as she heard a door slam. She thought quickly—she was certain that she had locked the door to the hall. She had no intention of being surprised by the silent Lee Kwan.

But she hadn’t locked the door between hers and Ian’s rooms. And he was coming in now, still in his riding clothes.

A flush that had nothing to do with the heat of the bath flooded her features as she frantically swished the water to make more suds. She wanted him, yes. She was falling in love with him, yes.

But she was not going to let him know it.

Heat pressed behind her eyelids and she felt ridiculously as if tears would sting her eyes again.

Not unless he fell in love with her. Not unless he could rid his life of the Grace Lerouxs and the dance-hall girls and the Lee Kwans …

She looked up, and saw he was carrying a silver tray with two teacups and a beautiful samovar.

Marissa stared at him blankly, then swore with a sudden fury. “What are you doing?”

“Bringing my darling young wife tea,” he said. His tone was pleasant, but his eyes carried a satyr’s gleam.

She sat up, trying to hold on to her bubbles. “I don’t want tea.”

“Certainly, you do.”

He set the tray upon a wicker stool, poured the tea and brought her a cup. She clung to her bubbles, glaring at him. “I do not want tea.”

“Suit yourself.” He leaned against the wall and sipped the tea.

“Would you please leave?”

“I came with a gesture of goodwill.”

She leaned back, smiling sweetly. “How’s Grace?”

“Aha! So there we are. That sweet edge of jealousy!”

She wished he weren’t quite so appealing with the gleam in his eyes, the rakish fall of his hair, even the laughter within him.

“I’m not jealous,” she said demurely. Her bubbles were popping quickly.

“You’re not?”

He was so darned sure of himself. It seemed time to test her own power.

She stretched out a leg prettily, soaping it with an oversize bath sponge. “Not a bit,” she said. “Why should I be jealous? This marriage is in name only, right?”

“It’s what you’ve said you want.”

She lowered her leg slowly and gracefully, watching it. Then she met his eyes. “You don’t want a wife,” she reminded him very softly.

He set his cup down on the tray and strode to the tub, staring at her. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”

She smiled, stretching her arms out elegantly before her. “Oh, I think not.”

“And why not?” He lowered himself, hunching down beside the tub, his fingers idly moving over the water.

She watched the play of his hands, thinking how very close they were to her naked flesh. She caught her breath, watching him, unable to answer at first. Then she met his eyes again. “You were too eager to run to the beck and call of—” she hesitated a minute, then finished sweetly “—that old bat.”

He burst into laughter, and the spark of fire remained in his eyes as he continued to swirl his hand through the water. “Not jealous?” he murmured.

“I merely call a spade a spade,” she said innocently.

His laughter faded, and his ink-dark lashes covered his eyes. “But you see, I didn’t leave my wife to run to that old bat. The wife, you see, went huffing off without a single question, giving the husband no recourse.”

She gently but firmly pushed his straying hand to the edge of the tub. “No recourse but to run to the old bat?”

“Indeed, I saw the er, old bat. But it was necessary to talk to a friend and assure him he needed to spend his money for a new wing for the children. I had to convince people that all we needed to do was come up with the price of the materials and labor, since my services would cost nothing. And they would all be praised for their generosity, with so little needed!”

She smiled. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s God’s own truth, I swear it,” he told her.

“The lady is only a friend?”

A slight curl touched the corner of his lip. He reached out, setting his thumb beneath her chin so that her eyes met his. “Not always. I would be a liar to assure you that nothing ever was. I painted you no half truths in London. But I do admit, the old bat pales mightily in comparison to the young vixen.”

She could not draw her eyes from his. She started to smile at his words, then her smile suddenly faded for he had stood up and was drawing her to her feet.

When she was standing, still in the tub with the water and the bubbles sluicing from her body, he wound his arms around her and his lips met hers. His kiss was hot and filled with a passion that invaded her being just as his tongue invaded her mouth and all the sweet crevices within.

His fingers moved over her naked spine as he kissed her. And he pressed her close against him as his lips deserted hers to roam over the arch of her throat, to find the pulse that beat heedlessly there, to linger, to roam again.

She caught his cheeks between her hands. She felt the masculine texture of them, somewhat rough and exciting, and she met his eyes again. And she stood on tiptoe to press her lips against his, to taste the rim of them, to delve within them herself, shyly taking the initiative at first, then boldly pressing forward.

The scent of him swept her. A rich scent of leather and fine brandy and man. And then she could no longer hold him to her for his kiss was pressed against her shoulders. The searing heat of his mouth curled around her breast as his passion plucked at one rouge crest. Then his lips were buried in the valley between them before moving on.

He fell to his knees, and the flickering motion of his tongue moved in and out of her navel. Then he turned her and a gasp escaped her as his kiss centered upon the base of her spine, as the fire of his tongue moved up and then down again, until a fire seared all the flesh of her buttocks, and she was certain she would fall.

He turned her yet again, and now his kiss was searing the center of her being, boldly, intimately, completely. Shock and excitement wrapped her, and she grasped desperately for his shoulders. She was going to fall. She could not fall. Sensations she could not endure began to sweep through her. Sweet, so sweet, hot and sweet and so unbearable that she could surely die.

She cried out, she had to protest. But it was no cry of protest that left her lips. The cry was sweet with growing wonder, growing desire …

Then startling, shattering knowledge. So quickly, so wonderously, so heatedly, a startling, shimmering lava burst within her. She cried out again, stunned, shivering, gasping, almost falling.

He swept her into his arms, and his lips touched hers, and she was so stunned with the wonder that had seized her, she could not kiss him. She was barely aware that he carried her into the bedroom, barely aware that she lay on the bed, stretched out, waiting for him.

And then he was with her. Naked this time. He crawled atop her and found her lips again. And suddenly she was clinging to him, shivering. Her eyes met his, he smiled, she closed her eyes, and he kissed them, then kissed her lips. And her arms went naturally around him.

And as he kissed her she began to explore his flesh. Her fingertips moved over his naked shoulders and back. She heard the sharp inhalation of his breath as she touched him. And touched him.

She shivered, awakened anew as his weight sank between her thighs. She buried her face against his shoulder as he teased her with his touch, creating a new rise of desire, of heat and dampness. She wanted to cry out, but she could not. He brought her fingers down and wound them around him, and she started at the pulse and boldness of his body. She cried out as he wedged himself hard between her thighs, then entered deep within her in a slow, sensual thrust.

The rhythm of the world took flight. In his arms, she soared. She felt the fullness of him within her, she felt the texture of his thighs, the caress of his hands, the heat of his whisper. And she felt, too, the wonder, the soaring …

And the final caress of the magic. Deep and shattering, filling her body, coursing through her. Stars seemed to burst, and disappear, and there was nothing but blackness, and she was drifting …

Until she heard her name, the whisper of her name, upon his lips.

She opened her eyes, and he smiled. The slick dampness of their bodies was still hot between them. He had not moved, but remained deeply imbedded within her even as little tremors remained to touch their bodies.

The tremors faded away, and still their eyes met. And he spoke to her again at last.

“I have learned something, Marissa,” he said, his voice amazingly tender. “I have learned that I do, after all, want a wife. I want her very much.”

Her heart seemed to slam against her chest. And she started to smile, and he caught her lips in another deep and shattering kiss.

And with that kiss, she surrendered all.