Midnight Fire Read online

  "Let's go, Carly. I don't know why the hell I brought you out here."

  He'd never before called her the pet name her brothers sometimes used. She was pleased he did. She moistened dry lips.

  "Don't you?" she heard herself say. Chase stopped tightening the girth but did not turn around. For some reason, she felt as if she wielded some kind of strange power over him, when usually she felt so vulnerable where he was concerned.

  "Why don't you join me?" she suggested brazenly. "The water feels good against my skin."

  Chase stood very still for a moment. Then he looked at her, and she saw some unidentifiable emotion move deep within his blue eyes.

  "There's a proverb in my country that I think you should heed, Senorita Kincaid," he said, his gaze holding hers. "'Charming lady be not too bold, lest you tempt like Aztec gold.'"

  Carlisle flushed with embarrassment. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replied as lightly as she could.

  "The hell you don't. I've gotten my share of invitations from willing women, but never one quite as blatant as the one you just flashed to me out of those big green eyes of yours. Like I told you before, Carly, someday you're going to tempt the wrong man and land yourself in very serious trouble. Believe it or not, I have enough honor left in me not to seduce my friend's sister. No matter how much she wants it." Carlisle felt her face grow hotter, but he went on with calculated cruelty. "So don't waste your virgin's teasing on me."

  Abruptly, he pulled his horse toward her. Without another word, he hoisted her into the saddle and mounted behind her. As they rode back in silence, Carlisle held herself ramrod straight and haughty, but she felt foolish and naive and, most of all, angry, because every word he'd said was true. She had wanted him to wade into the water and pull her roughly into his arms. She had wanted him to kiss her again, as he had in the coach, because she craved the breathless, tingling arousal she'd felt when his mouth twisted over hers and made her moan. What was happening to her? What had he done to her?

  After Chase deposited her back in the coach, damp and disheveled, Carlisle huddled in the seat, humiliated beyond belief. She'd tried to entice Chase, despite his rude, callous treatment, despite all the bad things Javier and Arantxa had told her about him. Well, she vowed resolutely as she settled back on the seat, preparing herself for a long, uncomfortable ride, it would never, ever happen again.

  5

  For the next three days, Carlisle avoided Chase as they trekked onward toward the mountains, spending the nights in dusty cantinas or accepting the hospitality of small hacienda owners along the way. On the fourth day, as twilight crept over the peaks looming majestically against the horizon, they finally reached the bank of the Santa Catarina River, where they were to meet Esteban's wife and her gypsy clan.

  Carlisle looked around eagerly as Esteban helped her from the coach. Chase had kept his distance since they'd returned from the stream, and he barely glanced at her now as he dismounted, his attention on the encampment, where news of their arrival was beginning to circulate.

  A flock of dark-haired, dark-eyed people quickly surrounded Esteban. He laughed, clasping both men and women fondly to his breast as he greeted each one by name. Most of them embraced Chase with the same unbridled enthusiasm, especially the women, Carlisle noticed, wrinkling her nose. She jerked her head around as a shrill feminine squeal rent the air.

  "Esteban!"

  A tiny woman, not five feet tall, came flying toward Esteban, her scarlet skirt flapping around her legs.

  "Conchita!" Esteban cried, laughing with pleasure and opening his arms.

  To Carlisle's shock, Conchita leapt onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her bare legs around his waist in the most scandalous fashion imaginable.

  "You are so mean to leave me all alone for so long!" she cried. "Mi madre say you look for another woman!"

  "So you have missed me much, eh?" Esteban swung her around until she shrieked. "Let me show you how much I have missed my sharp-tongued little Conchita!" Esteban said, pulling her head back and kissing her passionately on the mouth while his hands wantonly explored her hips and waist. Conchita's people began to clap and cheer, and Conchita made a great show of rubbing her body provocatively against him.

  When Esteban's hands disappeared beneath his wife's skirt, Carlisle blushed and looked away, but she heard Chase laugh. It was just like him, she thought with a dour twist of her lips, but she could not help but peek again at the entwined couple, beginning to think she might learn the secrets of the marriage bed right then and there. Esteban, however, had already lowered his wife to her feet, and the gypsy girl was shaking a finger at Chase.

  "Don Chaso! You are angry with me, no? You have given me no greeting at all!"

  Chase grinned, and Carlisle was astonished again as he kissed Esteban's wife on the lips as heartily as her husband had. Carlisle's gaze went quickly to Esteban, who only threw back his head and laughed, not seeming to mind his friend's familiarity with his wife. And, of course, Chase Lancaster didn't mind, she thought crossly. Conchita was just another sparrow to devour! Disgusted, she watched him release Conchita, who immediately rushed to Carlisle.

  "Ah, so you are the gringa Don Chaso tell us about! And so tall and bonita, with all that flaming hair."

  Conchita looped her arm through Carlisle's and pulled her toward the circle of wagons, chattering the whole time. "There's to be a fiesta grande tonight! For you and Don Chaso! We will drink and dance all through the night, sí? I will teach you the jarabe. I am the best dancer of all my gypsy kin."

  "Gracias," Carlisle said, wondering what the jarabe was as Conchita introduced her to several men who had run to meet them.

  "This hombre, he is my cousin Emilio, and this one, he is Paco. They are wild with el diablo, so you will like them very much, yes?"

  Conchita laughed knowingly, and Carlisle nodded, smiling as more gypsy hombres hovered around, all black-haired and slim, dressed in tight black pants and the long-sleeved loose white shirts called camisas. Brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles, all were introduced in quick succession until Carlisle felt so deluged with Spanish names that she couldn't imagine being able to put faces to any of them. Except for the tall, bearded young man called Emilio, who looked at her with such raw, smoldering hunger that he was hard to forget.

  Carlisle caught sight of Chase, who stood a short distance away, each arm draped around a pretty girl. The sight annoyed her, but why should she care what he did? Why, indeed? Except that she needed to be on better terms with him so she could garner information for Javier.

  Finally, Conchita led her past several wagons, their side panels painted with murals of mountain valleys, bullrings, and ocean vistas. Each had a high driver's seat, but at the rear, the wagons resembled small cottages with retractable steps and curved shingled porches to shield the back stoop. Conchita's wagon was a brilliant azure blue with cherry-red molding and decorative trim. The painting on the side portrayed a dancing senorita in a flowing mantilla.

  "You will sleep in my own wagon, Dona Carlita, so you will feel welcome." Smiling with pride, Conchita held back a silk curtain, striped with gold and black.

  "I really hate to take your bed, Conchita. I—"

  Conchita frowned, her fists planted firmly on her slender hips. "But I say you will! You are Don Chaso's honored guest, and he is Esteban's patrón. You must accept or we will be insulted, comprende?” Her lips curved slyly. "And Esteban will not mind. He likes to make love to me under the stars."

  Carlisle could think of nothing to say to Conchita's intimate revelation, but she smiled as she ducked inside the wagon, beginning to admire Conchita's lack of inhibitions. She laughed to herself, wondering what Miss Martin, one of the strictest of her childhood governesses, would think of the hot-blooded little gypsy. But how free Conchita and her people were! Carlisle couldn't wait to rid herself of the endless, silly rules of etiquette and be more like them.

  "Gracias, Conchita. I mean no insult. You're very kind.
Esteban is a lucky man."

  Conchita's smile widened. "My Esteban, he is my life, mi vida. He's a good hombre, too. He never beats me like my cousins do their women." Her dark brown eyes flicked down over the tight-fitting bodice of Carlisle's full-skirted gown of lavender silk.

  "You have a hard, hot journey in that big purple dress of yours, no? But esta noche, tonight, you must dress like the gypsy so you can dance with us!"

  Conchita threw open a small wooden trunk and pulled out a lemon-yellow blouse with purple embroidery around the scooped neckline.

  "Sí," Conchita said, retrieving a matching cotton skirt with a wide ruffle decorating the hem. She thrust it into Carlisle's hands. "All my cousins and brothers will fight for you at the fandango! But I must go now and find my Esteban. My bed has been cold and lonely, you understand, no? I will send little Carlos with water for your bath. Then you must rest if you are tired, for our fiesta will last until mañana!"

  Abruptly, Conchita was gone, the striped curtain waving desultorily in her wake. As Carlisle stood alone, looking around the dim interior, she was possessed by the most peculiar sensation of unreality. How incongruous that she, Carlisle Kincaid, one of the richest heiresses from Chicago, was somewhere in Mexico, in a painted gypsy wagon, seriously considering donning a costume that required no petticoats, panniers, or corselettes. And why? To dance and drink wine with a bunch of gypsies!

  She laughed aloud, imagining what Gray would say. He'd be absolutely furious with her, and with Chase Lancaster for allowing it. Her girlfriends from the convent, on the other hand, who'd spent nearly every waking moment craving exciting adventures, would be green with envy. Even Arantxa, who'd enjoyed more freedom than any of them. Well, Carlisle decided, holding the skimpy yellow blouse against her chest and peering into a dusky mirror hanging on the wall, she intended to take advantage of this night and enjoy herself, for she'd certainly not find herself in such bizarre circumstances again.

  Chase stood with his back propped against a high wagon wheel and drank deeply from a skin bottle of aguardiente. In the clearing amidst the wagons, Conchita's clan was already laughing and singing while the músicos strummed their guitars and the women shook their tambourines. The dancers, men as well as women, whirled and stamped, feet bare, arms waving over their heads, castanets clicking, raven hair flying, until Chase's blood pounded through his temples in raw, primal excitement. He liked the passionate life the gypsies led; he liked to be among them. They made no pretenses, Conchita's people. They lived and loved as they saw fit, and the rest of the world be damned.

  Already they'd shocked Carlisle's naive sensibilities; he'd seen the expression in her emerald eyes when Conchita had kissed him. He frowned and drank more of the white sugar cane rum. She hadn't emerged from the wagon yet. He'd been watching for her, and that irritated him—almost as much as she irritated him. She was a tease. She'd proved it again at the arroyo when she'd invited him into the water with her. But taking her on his horse with him had been his idea, and he should have known better.

  Since the first time he'd felt her lips surrender under his mouth and heard her weak moan, he'd wanted to kiss her again. He couldn't deny he wanted her, but he sure as hell couldn't act on his desire. He was on dangerous ground with her. And he'd already decided that once they arrived at the hacienda, he'd let Esteban and Conchita entertain her, so he could keep his distance. She was just too damn desirable.

  Chase would never have dismissed Senora Alvarez if he'd known his mother had taken his brother, Tomas, to their home, the Casa Amarilla, in Mexico City. Now it would be difficult to leave Carlisle at the ranch while he traveled on to the city, especially since she was so eager to get there herself. But journeying alone together all the way to the capital was unthinkable—not in his present state of mind.

  A blazing bonfire had been built in the center of the clearing, and across from him, he saw one of Conchita's cousins, a young hombre named Emilio, rise to his feet, his eyes fixed on the back of Carlisle's wagon. Without looking, Chase knew that Emilio was watching Carlisle, and he turned to see what held the man entranced.

  But he was in no way prepared for her appearance. Her low-cut yellow blouse bared soft white shoulders, and she'd unbound her hair, damn her, allowing a fiery, shimmery riot of curls to tumble down her back. Each time she moved, the leaping flames of the fire glinted through the coppery tresses. As she stopped on the back platform of the wagon to watch the dancers, Chase knew without a doubt that every man present would want her.

  Muttering a low oath, he frowned blackly. Was she out of her mind, appearing among so many hot-blooded men looking like that? Was she so blind to her own beauty that she didn't realize how she affected the opposite sex? Or, more likely, he thought furiously, had she done it on purpose? No wonder Gray had seen fit to confine her to a convent. Chase was beginning to think that was exactly where she belonged.

  From her place on the wagon stoop, Carlisle was glad to see Conchita rushing toward her. The tiny gypsy girl pulled Carlisle by the hand to a place beside Esteban. Several women were dancing by the fire, and Carlisle watched them, trying in vain not to feel self-conscious in the loose, unfamiliar, but unbelievably comfortable clothing. Night had cooled the air, and everyone seemed very pleased to see her, smiling and laughing and constantly refilling her tin cup with some kind of sweet white wine.

  Gradually, she began to relax, the quick, riveting strum of the guitars invading her brain and making her pulse race. The gypsy women danced as if possessed, lifting their full skirts and allowing their naked legs to flash in the firelight, their faces flushed with exertion and excitement. She longed to join them, to forget propriety and modesty, to laugh and stamp her bare feet on the hard-packed earth.

  "Don't drink too much of that. Aguardiente's a lot more potent than it tastes."

  Chase was standing beside her, hands on his narrow hips. He wore the white, full-sleeved shirt and black pants of the gypsies, and he was furious, his blond brows drawn down, his mouth set in a tight, thin line.

  "You're asking for trouble, wearing that kind of outfit here," he said angrily. "Don't you have any sense at all?"

  Carlisle's own ire leapt. She was tired of him telling her what to do.

  "Why don't you just leave me alone? You're the one who brought me here! I wore this because Conchita wants to teach me the jarabe, or some such thing—"

  "You're not going to dance the jarabe. Is that clear, Carlisle? You'll cause enough trouble among the men as it is. I'm not about to see someone knifed on your account!"

  "Knifed? What on earth are you talking about?"

  "The men here fight over the women they want. And the way you're being ogled right now, there'll be a whole pack of them after you."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Everyone's being very nice to me. You're just afraid I might have a good time for a change!" He probably wanted her to sit in the wagon by herself all night! But he wasn't going to spoil her fun. She'd wear what she wanted to, and she'd dance if she liked.

  "Ah, senorita, I have never seen such hair as yours, like the fire of the setting sun," said a voice near her ear, so soft and caressing it gave rise to a chill.

  Turning quickly, she found Emilio smiling at her, his brilliant black gaze wandering over her face and hair. He picked up a fragrant lock that lay over her shoulders.

  "It is like fine silk, querida," he murmured.

  As Carlisle stared into his handsome face, his teeth appeared, white beneath his thick, downward-slanting mustache. She'd never seen eyes that glittered so brightly, like twin obsidian disks.

  "Gracias," she murmured uncomfortably, sipping her aguardiente and daring to glance sidelong at Chase, who had taken a seat on the ground beside her. A black scowl riding his brow, he said nothing, only tipped a skin bottle to his mouth.

  As time went by, the wine took hold of the dancers, and the guitars gained momentum, rising to a throbbing, surging fever pitch. Carlisle drank more cautiously, heeding Chase's warning as she listened to
Emilio's flowery compliments, which flowed without pause into her ear.

  "You like our fandango, eh?" Emilio asked, and Carlisle vaguely felt his arm settle around her shoulders.

  "Sí. The dancing is wonderful."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chase pull a pretty girl close and kiss her. The woman was more than willing, because she caught her fingers in Chase's blond hair and pulled his head down, demanding more. Unfortunately, Carlisle knew exactly how the girl felt, all breathless and weak. She'd want him to keep kissing her, whether she liked him or not. Carlisle frowned. Chase was the one who'd probably get knifed, she thought contemptuously.

  "And now, Dona Carlita!" Conchita cried suddenly, jumping to her feet. "I will show you our jarabe as I promised! And I am the best, am I not, my Esteban?"

  "Sí, you are the only one," Esteban answered, his eyes glued to his wife as the music died. Then one músico stepped forward and began to pluck slow, haunting chords from his guitar. Conchita, only swayed at first, like a slender reed in the wind. But when she suddenly came out of her lethargy, stamping her feet and arrogantly tossing back her head, chills ran through Carlisle.

  Fascinated, she watched Esteban step into the circle, his arms held behind his back, his eyes locked upon his wife as she came slowly toward him, snatching up her skirt to reveal her feet. Slowly, sensuously, she leaned up against him, so close her breasts touched the front of his shirt. As Esteban grabbed for her, Conchita whirled quickly out of his reach, haughtily turning her back, spurning him, her expression disdainful.

  Carlisle's breath caught, but the onlookers cheered and clapped in time with the staccato rhythm as more guitarists joined in. Carlisle's heartbeat thudded with the riveting beat, her eyes widening as Conchita writhed and twisted, moving close to Esteban's loins and undulating her hips against him in the most indecent way possible, her eyes half closed, her mouth parted and wet.