Forbidden Fire (22 page)

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.