Golden Paradise (Vincente 1) (14 page)

"This I do not know. You will have to find the future through the passing of time."

"I know that I love him. I am miserable because he will marry Isabel Estrada, a most unlovable person. Why did I have to love someone who can never love me?"

"Time, Valentina . . . allow time to pass." Salamar turned away, disappearing into the cabin.

Tyree studied the fifty-year-old brandy with appreciation before taking a sip. Rolling it around on his tongue, he smiled at his friend, Marquis Vincente. "I don't know how you came by this brandy, but I know men who would kill for just one taste."

Marquis placed his glass on Tyree's desk and rested his hand against his black boot. "I was given a case of the brandy by my future father-in-law. I believe he came by it in Spain."

"Well, wherever it came from, thank you for this bottle."

Tyree and Marquis had known each other for twenty years. Tyree had been a boy of twelve when he came to California with his trapper father. Marquis's father had been attacked by a bear, and Tyree's father had come along just in time to save his life. Despite the care the Vincente family gave Tyree's father, he died of his wounds. The Vincente family had taken young Tyree into their home and he and Marquis had become like brothers.

It had not mattered to the young boys that Marquis's family were aristocrats and Tyree's father had been only a trapper from Tennessee. It was Marquis's grandfather who had lent Tyree the money to build the Crystal Palace. The establishment had done so well that Tyree had been able to repay the loan within the first year.

"What brings you to town, Marquis? I had thought the arrival of your new bride-to-be would keep you closer to Paraiso del Norte."

Marquis frowned. "I came to San Francisco to aid a friend; I was hoping I might be able to enlist your help as well."

"You know if you want my help all you have to do is ask, Marquis."

"Are you acquainted with a ship called the
Southern Cross
?" Marquis inquired, taking another sip of the brandy.

"Yes, of course. She's a frigate that sails out of Boston. Her captain is a giant redhead, and as mean as they come. I have barred him from the Crystal Palace because he and his crew invariably start a fight and break the place up."

"Do you know when the
Southern Cross
is due to dock in San Francisco?"

"No, but I can find out." Tyree looked at his friend with a puzzled expression on his face. "Why do you need to know?"

"I fear the father of a friend of mine has been shanghaied by the crew of that vessel. I want to find out for sure."

Tyree's eyes danced. "Is this friend of yours male or female?"

Marquis smiled. "She is female."

"Friend or lover?"

"She is an angel. You have never seen a woman like her. Her hair is golden and her eyes are like quicksilver. Her face is so perfect. She is intelligent and witty and—"

"Enough," Tyree interrupted, laughingly holding up his hand. "You are whetting my appetite. You don't sound like a man who is about to be joined in blissful matrimony"—he arched an eyebrow—"unless the angel you are talking about happens to be your betrothed, Isabel Estrada."

Marquis looked grim for a moment, then he shrugged. "No, I was not speaking of Isabel. My friend is in trouble and I want to help. This has nothing to do with my betrothed," Marquis said indignantly.

"I see. . . ." Tyree laughed. "I will keep my eyes open. As soon as I have any news of the
Southern Cross
, I'll send word to you."

"This is very important to me, Tyree. I am afraid for this woman. She lives alone with an ailing mother and a strange, exotic-looking maid named Salamar."

Tyree's ears perked up at the mention of Salamar's name. He remembered that Jordanna had a maid named Salamar and decided there could not be two such women in San Francisco. The friend Marquis was talking about and his dancer, Jordanna, had to be the same person. "What is your friend's name and where does she live?" he asked. "Perhaps I can keep an eye on her for you."

"That is what I was hoping you would say, Tyree. But I want you to understand that this woman is a real lady. She is . . . different from the women you are usually associated with. I will expect you to treat her as a lady at all times."

Tyree lit his cigar and chuckled. "You can trust me to do the right thing. Regardless of what you believe to the contrary, I can be a perfect gentleman when the occasion calls for it."

"I'm counting on that. I told her your name and said you would be getting in touch with her."

"Tell me about this woman," Tyree pressed. He had honored Jordanna's wishes and had not allowed anyone near her. Nor had he taken it upon himself to find out who she was. But he couldn't be blamed if her identity happened to fall into his lap, could he?

"She came from England to join her mother and father. When she arrived, she found her father was missing and her mother ill. I do not know if she needs money, but I would like you to find out. If you discover she is in need of anything, make sure that she gets it, and I will see that you are repaid. She is proud, so I do not think she will take charity. Take care not to offend her in any way."

Tyree swirled the amber liquid around in his glass. So, he thought, that was the reason Jordanna had been so desperate for a job dancing for him. He smiled to himself. She needn't have worried. Even though he now knew her identity, the secret would be safe with him.

"How did you meet such an outstanding woman?" Tyree asked guardedly.

"I met her when she had an accident while searching for her father."

"I see." Tyree took another sip of brandy. "Tell me, have you heard about my new dancer?" Tyree watched Marquis's face carefully. He wondered if Jordanna had told Marquis about her dancing. He was almost certain she had not.

"No," Marquis answered with little interest. "But then I don't get much news from San Francisco. I hope she is more exciting than the last one you hired. She had the face of a horse and the legs of a hairy goat."

Tyree chuckled and shoved the newspaper across his desk toward Marquis. "Here, read what this reporter thinks about my new dancer."

Marquis scanned the paper, noting that the reporter's praise was high indeed. He went on and on about the woman being poetry in motion . . . too lovely to be believed . . . the toast of California—a mystery lady that no one knew.

"It says that the dancer wears a veil, so therefore she could still be hiding a horse face," Marquis remarked lazily, tossing the newspaper back on the desk. "Have you seen her unveiled?"

"No."

"I fail to see the attraction of a woman who hides her face and dances across the stage. I have very little liking for dancers anyway."

"As I recall, your sister dances a beautiful Spanish dance," Tyree reminded him. "Are you only scornful where dancing professionally is concerned?"

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But the Spanish dance is a thing of beauty—it is an art. Can your dancer master the Spanish dance?"

"I don't know. I will tell you this, though. She has worked for me for over a week and not once has she danced the same dance."

"I think I would be bored with your masked dancer. I would much rather spend the evening with Bonita."

Tyree knew that Marquis kept his mistress, Bonita, at the Madison Hotel. There had been a time when he had come to town once a week to see her. Lately, he hardly came at all. "Why don't you come and see my dancer tonight? Come and judge for yourself if you find her boring."

"Perhaps I will. What have I got to lose but time, Tyree?"

*                                          *                                          *

The men in the smoke-filled room seemed tense with excitement and anticipation as they waited for Jordanna to make her appearance. Marquis sat at a front table with his arm draped about Bonita's shoulder, a wine glass balanced between his fingers. He gave his mistress a smile that melted her heart. Bonita snuggled close to him, feeling happy for the first time in weeks. Marquis had finally come to see her.

"Why do I hardly ever see you anymore, Marquis?" she asked, almost afraid to press him. Marquis was not the kind of man that a woman could easily hold.

Marquis hugged her to him and laughed heartily. "You see more of me than any other woman does."

"I always knew when your betrothed arrived from Spain that my days would be numbered . . . but I had hoped—"

His eyes narrowed, reminding her that she was not to speak of his betrothed. When he saw her distress, he lifted her chin and smiled down at her. "Tonight is not the time for long faces. We are together, are we not?"

Bonita nodded, knowing she had already lost Marquis. She doubted he would ever come to see her after tonight. Oh, he would be generous, and he would be kind, but she would miss him so much.

The music filled the room, and all eyes became glued to the stage. A lively Spanish song was building in tempo and suddenly the curtains rose, revealing a woman dressed in red shimmering material. Her floor-length gown was tapered to a long, ruffled train in back. Her dazzling costume picked up the lights from the lanterns and gave her the appearance of motion, even though she was standing still. Around her hair was a shimmering red net that dropped down over her face. As always, the only part of her face that showed were her eyes, and no one could tell their color from such a distance.

The men were going crazy, hollering and whistling. She stood poised with her arms in the air, waiting for the right moment to begin her dance. Several bags of gold dust were tossed upon the stage in tribute to the mysterious beauty.

Tyree seated himself at Marquis's table, watching his friend's face. "Good evening, Bonita. It is good to see you again," Tyree said, raising her hand to his lips.

"Are we about to be entertained by your famous mystery lady that I have been hearing about, Tyree?" Bonita asked.

"That's her," he answered, laughing in amusement, his eyes locking with Marquis's. "It seems she will do a Spanish dance tonight."

"No doubt you told her to," Marquis sneered. "There is more to dancing than just drawing a man's eye."

"Just wait," Tyree said. His eyes suddenly lit up. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I will wager a hundred dollars that you will say after Jordanna's dance that she is the most talented dancer you have ever seen. I will expect you to be honest about it."

Marquis reached into his pocket and counted out the money while Tyree did the same. "We will let Bonita hold the bills until after the dance," Tyree said, chuckling. He knew the bet was as good as won. When he handed the money to Bonita, she giggled, pushing it down the front of her gown.

Marquis's shoulders shook with laughter. "So far all your Jordanna has done is stand there and allow these poor fools to go wild. I do not call that dancing. I am afraid you will lose, my friend."

"Just watch," Tyree said, nodding at the stage. "You haven't won yet."

Valentina moved her foot just the merest fraction of an inch and her fingers clicked the castanets as though introducing herself to the audience. Slowly, enticingly, her hips began to move with the music, the movements smooth and sultry. All at once the music became faster and she began tapping her feet in rhythm. Faster and faster her feet tapped until the audience went wild. Marquis was not even aware that he was holding his breath.

The slim, shapely arm moved gracefully over the dancer's head while she spun around in a circle. Then there was a pause—as if her body was about to take flight—alerting the audience there would be a change in tempo. Gracefully she flowed across the stage, taking the heart of every man present with her. She danced, she whirled, she arched her back and moved her hips. She was pulling, stimulating, drawing the audience to her.

Marquis was stunned. He was sure he had never seen anything so beautiful. The fact that her face was hidden seemed to add to the beauty. Every man at the Crystal Palace could imagine her face as he wanted it to be.

Hearing a sulphur match grating against the bottom of Tyree's boot, Marquis watched Tyree light his cigar. His friend blew out a puff of smoke and smiled. They both knew that Tyree had won the bet.

The dancer's feet tapped out the tempo of the music like a drum roll, then she arched her back and crossed her lovely arms in front of her. Too soon, she raised a dainty hand into the air; she waved good-bye to the audience and hurried off the stage.

Marquis found himself jumping to his feet yelling "Brava" at the top of his voice. The din was deafening because over a hundred men chanted Jordanna's name, calling to her, begging her to return.

"Will she come back?" Marquis asked when the noise had finally died down.

"No, she will not be back tonight," Tyree told him.

"Do I win my bet?"

Marquis sank down in his chair feeling as if the dancer had drained him of his strength. She had put so much into her dance and she had taken it out of her audience. "You win," Marquis admitted, wishing the mysterious woman would return. "She is the best I have ever seen."