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Excerpt
Her world
is built on Happily Ever Afters. His world is built on a cynical distrust of
fairytale romance. Will he prove that she’s just another huckster selling fake
dreams?
Wealthy businessman Steven Winngate
thinks bestselling novelist Kathleen "Brandy” Alexander is researching him for
a book. When he finds her in the desert outside Las Vegas, lost and sick from
the heat, he wonders if she’s pretending to be a stranded hiker—conning him
just to score an introduction.
But Brandy is the real deal—honest,
innocent and very distraught by her sudden dependence on the handsome blue-eyed
stranger who rescued her. He says his name is Lance Reynolds, but that rings
false. Soon she and "Lance” are circling each other amidst the glitter of
Vegas, trying to break down the wall of mystery between them.
Passionate, intense, romantic and
intriguing—this hot battle of the sexes will burn both sides.
Janelle Taylor has written more than
fifty novels, with nine New York Timesbestsellers and sales in the millions. Bell Bridge Books is proud to publish
her novel, VALLEY OF FIRE, for the first time in ebook. Visit her at www.janelletaylor.com.
Coming soon!
Chapter One
Brandy’s shaky fingers mopped the
continual beads of perspiration from her forehead and upper lip for seemingly
the millionth time; an unnatural crimson flush was visible beneath her golden
tan. Her respiration was labored and shallow; she hadn’t realized that
oppressively high heat made it difficult to breathe and to remain alert. Her
dark emerald eyes were glazed with a torment never before experienced,
unspeakable fear glittering within their expressive depths. Tawny hair clung to
Brandy’s moist neck and stuck to the edges of her face; her damp shirt and
jeans were glued uncomfortably to her sleek body. For the first time in her
life, Brandy Alexander was literally petrified, a feeling which played havoc
with her normal self-assurance in handling a trying situation, a feeling which
assailed her too often these days.
With nerves on edge, Brandy irrationally
berated the reflective glare from the freshly washed hood of the rented
Cadillac DeVille. She also fumed at the mechanic who had failed to notice the
impending trouble spots which had led to the car’s breakdown, including the
vital air conditioner. Without it, the black Caddy was like a brick oven,
baking her flesh and roasting her brain.
To instill new hope into her rapidly
vanishing spirits, Brandy cautioned herself against overdramatizing this
strange and precarious situation. She should not allow herself to readily
accept the dire fate which was nakedly glaring her in the face, much like a
threatening stare from one of the deadly villains in her novels.
On the last weather report, the man had
stated the temperature for Las Vegas was one hundred and eighteen degrees, but
it seemed more like one hundred and fifty degrees in the scenic Valley of Fire
where she was helplessly imprisoned in a steaming, useless vehicle. The heat
was now unbearable, yet bear it she must if she wished to survive.
For the past four hours, Brandy had
waited and prayed for help to arrive. Her patience and hope had run a race to
see which one would give out first. From her vantage point, their perilous race
had ended in a tie. The heat had steadily increased within Brandy’s expensive
confines; yet, she had instinctively known the greater danger of abandoning the
car and heading off down that winding, black-topped road that stretched out
endlessly before her weary gaze like some deadly, sleeping viper that might
awaken any minute and strike at her if she dared to tread upon its stygian
back.
Brandy absently promised herself that in
the future she would be reluctant to leave the cool protection of her rustic
ranch house in the midst of summer. She sighed wistfully as she closed her eyes
and envisioned the verdant cedars and the lofty pines with their heady odors
and a backdrop of intoxicating blue, the sigh painful to her parched throat. It
was easy to picture the massive white oaks and the slender willows which
surrounded her home, along with the colorful goldenrods, bluebells, and the
bluish-green of the Kentucky grasses dancing in a gentle breeze. Yet, for all
of her creative ability, Brandy could not realistically imagine the cool, crisp
breeze which stirred her long hair and clothes as she worked on her screened
porch or as she walked barefoot in the surrounding fields and woods or waded in
the swift-running brook near the house.
At the moment Brandy was too ensnared by
this frightful dilemma to worry about her many problems, such as her future
commitment to Devon Publishing Company, the assignment which had innocently
placed her in this dangerous circumstance. She tried unsuccessfully to recall
the name of the man who had suggested the Valley of Fire as the best location
to research her new science-fiction novel. Even if Brandy could recall his
name, how could she blame him for her accident? In the future, perhaps she should
stick to writing romances, mysteries, and westerns; inexplicably, each
science-fiction novel written had held uncanny surprises for her.
Brandy felt she could hold the Farley
Rent-A-Car Agency responsible for the empty water container in the trunk, if
not for the broken air conditioner and radiator hose. Ironically, the man at
the rental company had been the very person to warn her against traveling into
the desert without "at least one quart of water per person.” This predicament
should certainly teach her to look out for her own interests and safety in the
future, just as she had done in the past. It annoyed her to realize she had
foolishly overlooked such a vital matter as her own preservation. Brandy
pondered her sudden disappearance of courage, resolve, and stamina which had
aided her successful writing career and her independent life-style.
Lately Brandy had permitted too many
problems to interfere with her sound judgment and independence. For the life of
her Brandy could not justify or rationalize her decision to rewrite her last
historical romance novel to suit Webster Books. She had not needed that large
advance, nor the sizable royalties from its following landslide sales. Perhaps
that was the raw nerve. She had allowed herself to be talked into adding
several explicit love scenes and a glorified murder to her original manuscript
for Love’s Cruel Arrows, additions she had vainly argued against as
being unnecessary to sales and as too vivid for taste. Plus, Brandy had fretted
over offending the Sioux Indians with the harsh changes in several scenes.
But she had watched the novel climb to
the heights of the bestseller lists and had even been approached for a movie
sale. Even more irritating were the scriptwriter’s demands for more drastic
changes, more detailed sex, and more gory violence. She had wanted the novel to
stand on its own literary merits and to mirror American Indian history, not
become a sensational insult to their noble heritage. How could she
intelligently argue with what the public demanded from its writers and movie
producers? Evidently it was true that an author could write her own book just
to a certain point. Maybe that was the crux of her vexation: with the changes,
it didn’t seem like her book anymore. Brandy wondered if the money and fame
were all that important...
Brandy could still hear Casey’s final
arguments: "Please listen to me, Brandy; you can write all day and toss those
manuscripts into a desk drawer if you refuse to give the public what they
demand. If they want sex, gore, and realism—close your eyes and let someone
else type your final manuscript. What good is all the literary talent in the
entire world if no one buys and reads your work? You don’t have any choice; the
publishers and readers have certain demands which you must meet. When you
finish this current science-fiction title, we’ll have to settle on the movie
rights to Arrows. You know they’ll refuse its purchase without those
specific changes. Think about it long and hard; they won’t wait forever for an
answer.”
Who knows? Brandy thought now. Maybe Casey was
right. Maybe she did have to furnish her public with juicy romances which left
nothing to their imagination. After all, Casey Treavers was the best literary
agent around, and they had been best friends for years. So far, Casey had never
steered Brandy in a wrong or an unprofitable direction. Casey was more than
competent. She was dependable, genial, trustworthy, and vivacious. Still, the
taste of a sellout lingered in Brandy’s pleasingly shaped mouth.
Brandy perched herself sideways on the
seat to avoid the full intensity of the sun’s rays and to catch any possible
breeze which might pass through the car’s open doors. The escaping steam had
long since ceased its climb into the torrid air. Once the sustained s sound
had halted, she had been encompassed by total, eerie silence.
There had been no need to burn her
fingers by lifting the hood; whether it was the radiator or simply an
inexpensive hose, there was nothing she could do. For a woman who had been in sole
control of her own life for so long, Brandy was distressed by her recent bouts
of helplessness and defeat. It now seemed to her as if other people or novel
events were stealing her confidence. Brandy couldn’t help but question if
success was coming too easily these days. The challenge and love for writing
still burned fiercely within her, but something was wrong. Brandy wasn’t as
carefree and happy as she should be; she wanted more from life and from
herself.
With all power gone from the motor,
Brandy had not even been able to move the stalled car from its precarious
position in the center of the narrow, winding road. To alert any possible
motorist of danger, she had opened all the doors. Once it had sufficiently
cooled, she had also lifted the hood, then the trunk. Having taken all
conceivable safety precautions, Brandy had sat down to await assistance.
It had not taken long for her to become
acutely aware of the intolerable heat. Nor had it taken but moments to discover
the empty water container in the car’s roomy trunk. Numerous realities had
quickly settled in on Brandy’s astute mind—there was no water available, even
though Lake Mead was only miles away; there was no comforting shade other than
the minute amount offered by the car; the highway was now deserted; and it was
only midday, hours until release from the heat and glare.
The chartered bus tours had made their
scenic trips to this particular location as near to sunrise as possible. Most
vacationers came to Las Vegas to gamble or to be entertained by extravagant
shows, not to tour a deserted wasteland over thirty miles from town. At midday,
all intelligent people were surely within air-conditioned enclosures! With
luck, new tourists would show up at sunset, hours from now...
Time had passed at a snail’s pace since
her misfortune. At present Brandy was experiencing feelings of overwhelming
solitude which were only natural for these harsh conditions. Leaf-green eyes
scanned the rugged terrain which surrounded the car. In all honesty this portentous
phenomenon of Mother Nature did provide the perfect panorama for Twilight
over Venus. This site certainly did seem to be magically transplanted from
another world.
Creosote bushes, naked yuccas, and
assorted species of small cacti sparingly dotted the otherwise barren, hostile
ground. There was not a single tree of any consequence within sight. The ground
was covered by a mixture of rocks and gravel of varying sizes and in multiple
shades of black and dull white. All except for those imposing dark red mountains
surging upwards as if in brazen challenge to the heavens themselves.
This magnificent, uncanny range of peaks
and valleys had given this site its more than accurate name. When the rising or
setting sun touched those vermilion-colored hills, their surfaces burst into
blazing life, as if angrily inflamed from the decades of battling the raw
elements of wind, rain, and harsh temperatures. The alert eye could study the
striated, pitted surfaces which attested to this merciless attack by the
climate and elements, forces which had viciously lashed at their textures and
fashioned them into weird or realistic shapes and images, an endless battle
which had imbued this valley with an aura of mystery and haunting splendor.
Nervous laughter filled Brandy’s chest
as strange images and illusions flickered through her susceptible mind. Upon
first sighting this area, Brandy had been awestruck by its wild beauty and
fascinated by its unearthly presentation. Those craggy surfaces of dehydrated
and baked russet clay appeared to be the mischievous works of some playful,
alien giant. The shapes and facades had instantly reminded Brandy of the
mud-drippings she had made as a child from the red clay that was so abundant in
the South. The dying sun fondled those rusty contours with fiery fingers and
stirred them to flaming life as if the Phoenix itself were imprisoned within
them, fiercely struggling to be reborn. Brandy had been compelled to return
again today with her camera and more film in order to capture the Valley’s uncanny
spell. Too, just standing in the midst of such sights created feelings of
wonder and finiteness, and she needed to capture such moods and feelings on
paper while experiencing them.
Feeling elated by this timely discovery
of nature, she had not felt the slightest hesitation about returning here
alone. She had always worked alone, denying the possibility of being influenced
by another person’s reactions to sights and sounds which she was researching
for an upcoming novel. Strange, it almost seemed as if she had been
irresistibly drawn back to this valley one more time...
Being a science-fiction author as well
as writing in other genres, Brandy chuckled as she contemplated strange mental
tuggings to this valley as if by some alien force, as in a recent movie
concerning alien encounters. If this was some unearthly test of her mettle or
courage, she hoped it would soon terminate. Brandy instantly cautioned herself
against such silly dramatics and her overactive imagination, for this situation
was very real and very frightening.
Since Brandy refused to wear a watch she
had no accurate way of knowing what hour it was. She was annoyed and surprised
that the Caddy didn’t have a digital clock. However, judging from the sun’s
position and the season, she reasoned it to be around five o’clock. This being
Brandy’s first visit at this late hour, she had no way of knowing about the
signs which warned against entering this secluded area too close to nightfall,
nor could she know of the grounded helicopter which normally patrolled this
area.
The heat and the lack of water had taken
their toll upon her. By now, she had trouble concentrating upon the rapidly
approaching sunset. In fact, she could not seem to think clearly or to focus
her attention upon any mind-consuming idea. Brandy’s thoughts flitted from one
idea to the next like an industrious honey bee darting from one fragrant flower
to another in its avid search for nectar. Her head was light and dizzy as if
she had hastily consumed too much champagne.
When Brandy attempted to wipe the
moisture which gathered on her upper lip and forehead, she thought it strange
to find her fingers numb and tingly. A curious limpness washed over her, making
movement difficult. She fervently wished her heart and pulse would cease their
violent race with each other. Brandy mutely ordered the imaginary bees to move
away from her ears and to halt their incessant humming. She had written about
death and torment countless times, but she had never contemplated her own
death. Just before she lost consciousness, Brandy wondered why it was becoming
so dark and dreamy. She wondered if she was indeed dying.
As
Steven Winngate topped the
steep hill within visual distance of the black Cadillac which was unexpectedly
parked in the middle of the highway, his mind was on his upcoming meeting with
the executives of the development company he was planning to invest in if his
conclusions about an expensive resort in this promising area were correct. A
man who usually had several business deals going at one time, Steven was
evaluating a future deal while concentrating on an imminent one. He had assumed
he had time to check out this area before heading to his dinner meeting
concerning a new oil lease and refinery. Sighting the peril before him, Steven
struggled to shift gears and to maintain control of his sleek and powerful
Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He made an urgent attempt to brake his speed and to
halt before crashing into that car. The smell of scorching rubber flew upwards
into the infuriated man’s flaring nostrils. The ear-splitting screams of
melting tires being eaten up by the hot, hungry pavement simultaneously pierced
his ears.
Steven was relieved he had cautiously
reduced his speed after topping that last hill on this snaking road. He gripped
the clutch so hard that the knuckles on his left hand blanched white. His toes
ached inside his expensive Nocona snakeskin boots as he rapidly shifted
foot-gears and lowered his speed in a wild attempt to prevent his bike from
leaving the blacktop road and helplessly tearing off across those cutting
rocks, biting cacti, and devouring sands. Still, it would be better to risk the
landscape than to collide with a parked car. Steven called upon all of his
skill, determination, and brute strength to conquer this unexpected danger.
At last he brought his Harley-Davidson
to a stop, within inches of the front bumper of the Cadillac. Unsuppressed fury
and rapid breathing caused his nostrils to flare and his well-muscled body to
stiffen. Steven angrily gritted his teeth as he jumped off of his motorcycle to
challenge some idiot to a battle which might knock some sense into his stupid,
reckless head. A booted foot kicked the park stand down so forcefully that he
almost overturned his huge machine. Ocean blue eyes were stormy and threatening
as Steven swaggered towards the open door, fists clenched tightly.
Steven assumed this predicament was some
childish prank or an ignorant action since the car had obviously not been
wrecked or parked on the almost nonexistent shoulder of the highway. He leaned
his towering six-feet-four-inch frame over to peer inside the car. The irate
man’s sole intent was to verbally, or possibly physically, attack its
hare-brained occupant. Observing the eye-catching figure of what Steven
considered to be a youthful female slumped over on the front seat, he cautioned
himself to bring his volatile temper under some civil measure of control until
he could analyze this puzzling situation which could have left him crippled.
"Miss? Are you sick?” his deep, resonant
voice inquired. When there was no answer or movement, Steven lightly shook
Brandy’s left shoulder and called out to her again. Still no reaction.
Steven walked around the car and
approached the front seat from the right side. When the woman made no attempt
to respond, he leaned forward and pulled her limp body out of the steaming
vehicle. He gently laid her upon the loose dirt beside the road, knowing the
pavement was still full of heat from the day’s sunning.
When Steven pushed wet amber hair from Brandy’s
flushed face and viewed it for the first time, he unknowingly stared into her
arresting features which were stunningly surrounded by clingy curls the shade
of aged brandy. A pleased gaze appreciatively scanned unblemished, golden skin.
Long, lush lashes fanned out on her moist cheeks. She had a pert nose which was
neither too small nor too large. Steven lifted one lid to peer into a forest
green eye with flecks of yellow, enchanting eyes which reminded him of an
exotic jungle cat. For a man who was finding himself too bored and restless
these days, this unexpected predicament stimulated his senses. If it was
thrills or challenges he needed to enliven and tantalize him, this adventure
certainly presented them.
The intrigued man gave free rein to his perceptive
mind. Even though this enticing creature was darkly tanned to a golden honey
shade, he could easily make out the rosy flush upon her exquisite cheekbones.
Her mouth was wide and full with a heart like dip. Laughing sapphire eyes noted
delicate creases around her mouth and eyes which hinted more at a sunny
disposition rather than at marking her age, which he approximated at
mid-twenties.
Being a handsome and wealthy bachelor
who was incessantly pursued by females, Steven’s eyes leisurely slid over the
stirring figure of this unknown challenge. He assessed Brandy to be around
five-feet-five-inches tall, probably weighing in at around one hundred and
fifteen pounds, wet. Brandy possessed a supple and firm body, giving the
impression of vitality and discretion, qualities which appealed to him.
Brandy’s dark blue designer jeans
boasted of a flat stomach and slender, shapely legs. Her tapered, poplin shirt
with its bold hues of wildflower faces revealed her nicely rounded bustline.
Brandy’s flushed, yet ashen, features and clammy clothes and body informed the
alert Steven of a mistakenly impulsive nature which had gotten her into this
predicament.
A capricious grin flickered across
Steven’s face as he noted the white tennis shoes upon her feet. Somehow those
snowy Adidas looked incongruous with her costly jeans and shirt, even more
inconsistent with the expensive gold jewelry which she was wearing. He lifted
her left hand to check out a nagging suspicion. There was no wedding band
there, only an emerald and diamond dinner ring.
Steven shrugged his massive shoulders
and decided this somewhat careless female was most appealing and nicely rounded
in the right places. He lifted a smooth, graceful hand to check her rapid
pulse, detecting the doughy feel of her flesh. He pulled her chest close to his
alert ear to listen to her drumming heartbeat, enabling him to catch a whiff of
a lingering fragrance which stirred his blood.
Steven noted the excessive dampness of
her golden mane as he laid her head upon the ground. He was briefly baffled by
her unconscious state. It didn’t appear she was visibly injured, and she
certainly had not been involved in a wreck. It looked as if she had suddenly
halted her car and had fallen over on the seat. He worried when he could not arouse
her. If she was drunk, she didn’t give off any odor of liquor. If she was
drugged, she had rashly overdone it. Feeling obligated to assist her, Steven
berated her accidental intrusion into his tight schedule. He glanced at his
watch. Fate couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to attack this beauty.
Steven walked over to the car to solve
this mystery. It was only a few moments before he located the broken hose and
the empty radiator. He wondered if she had been left behind by some companion
who had gone for help or if she had been traveling alone; either action was
dangerous. It was also clear she had either consumed all of her emergency water
or she had left town without any: another stupid mistake. Steven scolded
himself for his irrational interest in this maiden in distress; he had enough
clingy and hungry females pursuing him at present.
Steven Winngate sighed heavily in rising
annoyance. He couldn’t deny he was partially to blame for his troubles with the
opposite sex. The problem was that he was weary of playing games with women who
wanted more from him than he was willing to give or to sacrifice. A curious
loneliness and restlessness were plaguing him these sultry days. He would admit
he wanted a woman to share his life, one who loved and wanted Steve and not
"The Steven Winngate.” If the missing facet to his life was a compatible woman,
why was it so impossible to locate one? He certainly had a lengthy line of
conquests behind him. Why was it so annoying to have women drawn to his looks,
prestige, and wealth? A self-made man with what he had to offer couldn’t help
but attract countless females. Now here was another feminine problem dumped
into his lap and at a most inconvenient time.
A sensitive, strong-willed man like
Steven Winngate couldn’t just ride off and leave a helpless female out here
alone and ill. Obviously she was suffering from heat exhaustion. Her car was
out of commission, and she was sinking fast. In addition, there could be
another victim out there somewhere seeking help, but possibly needing it more
than she did. It was approaching time for his meeting. There was no way he
could meet both obligations if he didn’t get moving.
He cursed silently. There was only one
humane choice; he would have to lay aside his business and pleasure to take
this fetching, troublesome female back to Vegas to the hospital. She was
vulnerable and beautiful... He grinned devilishly. Perhaps
she might find some appropriate way to express her appreciation to him for
saving her life.
With luck, he might locate a highway
patrolman to hand her over to within the first few miles. Steven reached inside
the car and pushed the gear into neutral, then forcefully rolled the car off
the side of the highway and pulled on the emergency blinkers. Until the battery
gave out, that would offer some hint of the vehicle’s hazardous location. The
patrolman could send someone out to tow her car into town.
Just as a precautionary action, Steven
gathered her possessions to lock them in the trunk of the Cadillac. He grinned
as he picked up a pair of sporty, canvas sandals with a two-inch heel—shoes
which were more harmonious with her obvious taste and status than the running
shoes she was wearing. He noticed the camera and briefcase without placing any
significance on either item. Steven casually flung her beige canvas shoulder
bag into the trunk, without thinking to search it for her identity. However,
his curiosity urged him to open the shimmering gold shopping bag which
contained a size eight sensuous silk dress in muted shades of blue, green, and
purple.
He closed the bag as images of how she
would look in that stylish dress flickered in his mind, the fusion of shades
perfect for her natural coloring. He slammed the trunk. Aware of the passage of
time and his uncommon indecisiveness, Steven dropped the car key into his jeans
pocket. He closed the car doors in order to remove the steady drain on the
battery from the interior lights, energy the flashing lights would require.
As the towering man walked over to where
Brandy lay, a new thought came into his already irritated mind. How could he
carry an unconscious female back to town on his bike? Steven stalked over to
glare down at her. Then he gathered her light body into his strong arms and
headed for his bike.
Sturdy legs agilely straddled the motor
in his jeans. He sat the girl before him, careful to keep her legs and ankles
away from the hot engine and tailpipe. He placed her left leg across his right
thigh and her right leg over his left thigh. He removed his yellow bandana
which served to entrap his perspiration as well as dress up his western attire.
He bound her hands together and slipped them over his head, allowing them to
rest around his narrow and firm waist where not an ounce of excess flesh was
permitted to exist. The span of his muscular chest and the measured reach of
her bound arms brought their heated bodies into close contact. Steven reached
backwards and placed her feet within the saddlebags on either side of the back
wheel. Steven knew he had no choice but to toss the metal tops off the road. He
would worry about replacing the covers later. It was more important to prevent
her feet from flaying wildly in the wind. With her secured tightly to his
powerful body and her feet prevented from any dangerous mischief, they were ready
to move out.
For the first time, Steven realized he
had not even removed his indigo helmet. Needless to say, his mind had been
elsewhere since this adventure began. Suddenly aware of how this confining
setup might appear to curious eyes along the way, he quickly struggled to
unbutton his denim shirt. He certainly did not want to draw any unnecessary
attention to either of them. Another intruding newspaper or magazine article
about him didn’t sit well at all. He was weary of being publicly exploited. Even
with his great wealth and power, he couldn’t always protect his privacy, but he
damn well gave it his best shot. A lazy grin raced across his enticing features
as he recalled how he had solved the invasion of his privacy by his most
troublesome and persistent intruder...
During his attempt to remove his shirt,
Steven became acutely aware of Brandy’s soft and curvaceous appeal. He grinned
as he visually traced her multiple advantages, including a seductive figure, a
mouth which invited searing kisses, exceptionally striking features which
teased at a man’s dreams, and a dainty chin which offered a hint of youthful
mischief. Her skin mutely enticed caressing; her carefree mane the color of
ripe wheat compelled fingers to wander freely through it. The admiring gaze
waxed serious. Steven’s frame grew taut as he caught his train of thought and
recognized the discomforting strain upon his jeans. He demanded his logical
mind to explain how an unconscious female could have such a potent effect on
him. She was too attractive and compelling. No doubt she had broken quite a
number of hearts. Women with such looks always used them without mercy!
He placed his denim shirt around her and
secured the long sleeves behind his back. He blindly worked to hide her bound hands
within its concealing folds. He sighed in relief, for now it would merely look
as if she had fallen asleep or as if she was a totally unbridled spirit who was
immodestly snuggling up to her lover! But what did he really care about the
feelings and thoughts of total strangers? All that concerned him was his
privacy and pride, and damn anyone who trampled on them.
The only problems he now faced were no
helmet for her and the unknown length of her unconscious state. Of course it
wouldn’t matter if the police halted him for this precarious riding position or
for her missing helmet. He would gratefully hand her over to someone else. The
real danger lay in her coming to. If she suddenly awoke and started fighting
with him, they could both be thrown from his bike. Still, he had to chance her
rescue and get on to his waiting appointment before those impatient executives
headed for their private Lear jet at the airport. One would think men
accustomed to waiting months for an oil well to come in would learn some patience.
Steven lowered his face shield and
kicked back the park-stand. Finding the correct gear with his right foot, he
switched on the ignition and gripped the clutch with his left hand. The roar of
the engine brought a smile to his sensual lips. Nothing pleased Steven more
than a smooth-running, efficient piece of machinery which belonged to
him. He pulled on the light switch and eased the motorcycle around. He
gradually increased the gas intake to the engine and eased off so smoothly that
Brandy didn’t even shift an inch within his embrace, not that she could.
Along the snaking blacktop highway,
Steven’s keen eyes continually scanned the darkened roadside for evidence of a
possible companion. If this woman had been traveling with someone, her
companion could have gone in the opposite direction towards Lake Mead. As soon
as he came into contact with help, Steven would notify the authorities of this
strange situation and of her abandoned car.
If one could be grateful for small
favors, Steven was extremely pleased with the illuminating full moon which was
climbing over the mountains. It was dark now, and the heat of the day had
become less demanding. They journeyed for miles with the arid breeze nipping at
their bodies. Soon, Steven was forced to halt the motorcycle in order to
confine her tawny curls within her shirt to prevent their whipping into his
line of vision and endangering their safety. He savored the feel of her hair as
he imprisoned it.
As he steadied the bike with his strong
legs, he berated himself for a stupid oversight. He reached around her and
retrieved his water bottle. He forced the thin spout between her lips and then
squeezed on the bottle. Most of the tepid water dribbled from the corners of
her mouth, but he saw that she was instinctively swallowing some of the
lukewarm water. He did this several times until she moaned softly and snuggled
up to his hard chest as an injured child to a parent. A curious feeling of
protectiveness washed over him, one which warmed him.
Even though the woman had not awakened,
Steven knew he had helped her in a small way. He moistened her lips, then
replaced his water bottle. He checked her confines and rested her damp face
against his light blue, V-neck T-shirt. He unknowingly hugged her tightly. Insome mysterious way, he almost felt as if she now belonged to him for all
time. Didn’t the Chinese have an old saying about if you saved a life you owned
it? He eased off once again.
They had traveled for thirty-three miles
before he spotted a patrol car just up ahead of them. Steven fed his engine
more gas as he hastily attempted to catch up with the car which was beginning
to pull away from them. He blinked his headlight time and time again to attract
their attention. He pressed his horn with his right thumb. At last the officers
seemed aware of his motives and slowed down. Finding a safe location, the
patrol car eased off the side of the highway.
Steven pulled over as soon as he was
even with them. He turned off his engine to be easily heard and understood.
"I’ve got a problem for you. I found this girl in the Valley of Fire. I don’t
know how long she’s been out. I was taking her to the hospital in town, but you
fellows could do it faster. Her car’s abandoned beside the road back
there—broken hose to the radiator. I left the lights on as a warning, but the
battery will be drained pretty soon. I locked her things in the trunk. I’ve got
the key in my pocket.”
Steven reached behind him and yanked the
shirt from around their joint bodies. He ducked as he pulled her bound hands
over his head. He lifted her feet from the metal saddlebags and let them hang
free across his legs. Suspicious eyes observed both him and the captive girl.
"Here, take her. She’s your problem now.
I’m already late for an important meeting as it is,” he stated impatiently, the
rosy illusion over now and feeling a curious denial which he didn’t understand.
The Nevada patrolmen had slowly and
cautiously gotten out of their car. Both men studied this arrogant man who was
issuing orders like a commanding officer. This was a domineering man and an odd
situation which demanded closer scrutiny.
"Not so fast, mister! Who is she? What’s
your name?” the first officer questioned. He was a big, burly man who brooked
no foolishness or intimidation, and positively didn’t like inexplicable events
like this one.
"How should I know who she is? Never
laid eyes on her till she nearly caused me to wreck my bike out there. I came
over a hill, and there she was. Stalled right in the middle of the road. Dumb
blondes! Since her car was out, I brought her along with me. For all I know,
there might’ve been somebody with her. Seems crazy for a woman like this to be
out there alone. I didn’t see anyone on my way in, but he could have headed
towards Lake Mead—especially if he’s a stranger to these parts. Wouldn’t hurt
to check it out,” he advised the two startled men.
"If you don’t mind, we’ll ask the
questions,” the indignant officer tersely stated.
"Go right ahead, officer, but please
make it snappy. As I said, I’m late for a meeting. This little vixen’s already
been a load of trouble. I’d be delighted for you to take her off my hands.”
"You claim you don’t know who she is?”
one officer skeptically asked. "You just happened on her out there?”
"That’s absolutely correct!” Steven
snarled, aware of their doubts and his swiftly fleeing time.
"Where’s her purse, her driver’s
license?” the second man joined in on the irritating interrogation.
"I told you before, I locked her things
in the trunk of her car. I didn’t think about bringing her purse or ID. She
looked in pretty bad shape, so I tossed her on my bike and headed out. I
suggest you get her to the hospital in a hurry.”
Before the man could reply, Steven
cunningly transferred his enticing burden into the second officer’s arms. The
speechless bachelor gazed into her lovely face. He caught himself before
whistling his appreciation of her beauty, but failed to conceal the hungry look
within his wide eyes, an offensive reaction Steven didn’t like.
"Hold on here a minute. Who are you? How
do we know you didn’t harm her in some way? Is she drunk? On drugs?” the first
man queried, knowing how it would appear on his record if he allowed a criminal
to slip through his fingers.
Steven sighed in annoyance and
frustration. "I was only doing a good deed for some female in distress. I have
no idea what’s wrong with her. I assumed it was heatstroke. I haven’t laid a
finger on her except to help her,” he stated as politely as possible
considering his turbulent state of mind and the officers’ subtle implications.
"Let me see your license,” the first
officer demanded.
"Come on, now, I’m late,” Steven argued,
reluctant to divulge his identity, knowing the media would find this episode
amusing.
"The license,” the officer insisted,
piqued by Steven’s smug manner and odd behavior. This muscular rogue wouldn’t
be released until he was convinced of his claims.
Steven angrily withdrew his wallet and
pulled out his card. He handed it to the offensive man who was delaying his
progress now that he had completed his duty to mankind. He watched the
officer’s eyes narrow with suspicion and flicker with alertness. The first man
held it up for the other one to scan. The two men locked gazes following their
intense study of the man before them and the card in the officer’s tight grip.
"Says here you’re Steven Winngate.
Funny, you don’t look like no oil millionaire to me. Got any other proof of
your identity? Did you steal this license from Mr. Winngate?” the man scoffed
doubtfully, recognizing the name on the imprinted card.
"All the cards in my wallet carry the
same name: mine. Just what is an oil man supposed to look like?” Steven snapped
in rising aggravation at this ridiculous delay. How dare these men question him
like a common criminal!
The second officer injected, "What’s she
doing all tied up like this? You calling off some joke or kidnapping plot?”
"This is absurd!” Steven stormed. "I’ve
never seen her before in my life. If I was guilty of some crime, would I
simply ride up and hand her over to two policemen?” Steven didn’t realize that
the first officer had just noticed the Colt .38 special wedged into his boot,
the snub-nosed pistol he always carried for protection. He had removed it from
the saddlebag to avoid it being bounced out of the open container.
Sighting the weapon, the first officer
cautiously drew his gun, intimidated by the towering man before him, painfully
recalling when Lieutenant Starnes recently lost his life when responding to an
"officer needs help” call. He was also aware that his partner’s hands were
full, while this man’s were now free. He leveled the .357 Magnum on the shocked
Steven and softly warned, "Just take it easy until we can check out you and
your wild story. Cliff, put the girl in the backseat. Be sure she’s really out.
See if she has any weapons or ID on her. Then handcuff this man. His tale is a
little curious to me. Steven Winngate, huh? After we leave her at the hospital,
we’ll check out your ID.”
"You must be kidding!” Steven angrily
exploded. "If you dare to arrest me, you’ll be making a terrible mistake. I
told you, I’ve never seen her before tonight. I should’ve left her out there
and called in her location from my hotel! As for her being tied up, how else
could I hold her on the bike with me?” he growled, alerting the two men to his
dangerous fury. Steven’s whirling mind was tallying the cost of this good deed;
if he failed to show up within the next hour, he would lose an oil option which
would cost him five hundred thousand dollars! No impulsive female was worth
that much money. He suddenly wondered if he was being intentionally delayed;
after all, the impending deal was worth millions.
"There ain’t no need for your smart
mouth. If you’re telling the truth, you’ll be free to go in a little while. If
not...” He allowed his silence and tone to slide out
meaningfully, clearly doubting Steven’s words. The officer had concluded the
stranger was much too tense to be trusted, but he didn’t mention the partially
concealed weapon until his partner’s hands were free. Besides, what would a man
like Winngate be doing riding a motorcycle in the middle of nowhere? Winngate
was alleged to be one of the wealthiest men alive, a man who had a Midas touch
where oil was involved.
They debated for a few more minutes as
the second officer put Brandy in the backseat and lightly frisked her for
hidden weapons. He pulled out his sharp knife and cut the bandana from her
wrists. He stuffed it into his pocket, perhaps as evidence. He returned to his
partner’s side to handcuff the reluctant, furious man.
Steven was outraged when the first
officer ordered him to place his hands on top of his head, but complied when he
realized how serious the man was. The officer then told his partner to take
Steven’s weapon from his boot. Steven was firmly shoved against the car and
frisked for other weapons, much to his astonishment and fury. "I have a permit
for that gun!” he shouted angrily at this treatment. "It’s in my wallet.”
"Only if you’re really Winngate,” the
officer sneered. "Cuff him.” With that, Steven Winngate was placed in
handcuffs.
It didn’t help matters when Steven
refused to explain his confidential trip into the Valley of Fire or his
critical meeting tonight. He vowed to make these two bumbling officers—and the
female who had inspired this trouble—rue this day.
The first man had to forcefully guide
the hot-tempered Steven to the car and to shove him into the backseat with
Brandy. Steven fumed when Brandy slumped against his shoulder. He mentally
determined to make all three of these people pay for this humiliating invasion
of his privacy and this unforgivable attack upon his masculine pride: all
because he had played the Good Samaritan! Right now, Steven’s mental wrath was
directed at the woman next to him.
The officer radioed ahead to the
hospital to inform them of their arrival with a possible heatstroke victim.
They also notified another patrol car to check out Steven’s story about her car
and her accident. After asking Steven several questions, the officer fed his
description and those answers over the radio to be checked out by the sergeant
on duty.
By the time they reached the Las Vegas
Hospital, both men were profusely apologizing to the impatient prisoner in the
backseat. After turning Steven over to the hospital officials and answering
their countless questions about her, Steven was driven back to his hotel. The
second officer hopped out the moment the car halted to open the door for a
surly Steven.
Both men pleaded forgiveness for their
gross error in judgment. "Sorry, Mr. Winngate. We had no way of knowing you
spoke the truth. Men like you ride around in fancy limousines with chauffeurs,
not alone in the desert on some motorcycle. Can’t blame us for doubting your
word. You were carrying a gun and acting mighty strange. If we can be of any
assistance to you, don’t hesitate to call on us,” the first officer stated as
he shifted nervously beneath Steven’s frigid glare.
Bringing his temper under reasonable
control in order to extract a favor from these two men, he smiled genially and
declared, "There is one favor you two can do for me. I would greatly appreciate
it if you could record one Lance Reynolds as the man who rescued that damsel in
distress this afternoon. A man can’t be too careful with his reputation and
privacy. I wouldn’t like the media to get wind of this little fiasco. Do you
follow my drift? Publicity? Golddiggers?”
"As far as the records go, Lance
Reynolds assisted some stranger in the Valley of Fire this afternoon. You can
bet me and my partner won’t mention your name to anybody. We’ll keep this
little incident a secret between us. There’s a service bringing in her car
right now. By midnight, we’ll know who she is and why she was out there.
Appreciate your understanding, sir. I’ll have your bike delivered tomorrow,” he
promised with a smile.
"Excellent. And if you gentlemen ever
need a favor, don’t fail to contact me. In case you talk to that young lady,
don’t reveal my real name to her either. I have enough females chasing after my
money now,” he said with a lazy chuckle. He keenly noted the phony smile upon
Cliff’s face and recalled how this officer had eyed the unconscious goddess.
The patrolmen returned to their car and
pulled out. A well-dressed man rushed from the hotel lobby. Steven’s sapphire
eyes locked on his longtime friend and business partner. It was obvious Brent
was sorely distressed, but Brent was always uptight when so much money was
involved.
"Where the hell have you been, Steve?
I’ve been at my wit’s end to keep those men here until I could locate you! This
deal’s too big to blow. We have exactly twenty minutes left on that option,”
Brent Hartley said anxiously. He was the only man who dared to address Steven
Winngate in such a bold manner.
Steven laughed before exclaiming, "If I
told you, old buddy, you’d never believe it! Just call me Sir Lancelot in the
future,” he playfully murmured as he headed into the plush hotel for the
long-awaited meeting in his rented penthouse, thoughts of the lovely stranger
lost for the present.
