An expression of unbearable intensity swept his face briefly. He was at the door, opening it. And then he was gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The tension in Jack was coiled and strained, explosive. He paced deliberately through the salon and found a chair, which he promptly placed against a wall. He sat, his back to the wall, facing the entrance to the salon and, beyond that, the foyer and the stairs.
Even if Kincaid used the back entrance, there was only one way up those stairs to Candice’s room.
Candice. God, he couldn’t believe his passion for her.
It hadn’t died—just the opposite. It had grown even hotter.
And a baby. Usen had willed it—she was carrying his baby.
He was filled with fierce resolution. The urge to protect and comfort her had nearly choked his breathing. But fighting that urge, equally strong, was his pride—and she had wounded it mortally.
He wanted her and their child more than anything, but he vowed she would never again make him feel powerless.
And he was glad to have any excuse to kill Kincaid.
One question tormented him. If she really had been forced to leave with Kincaid against her will, then why hadn’t she come to him for protection? It wouldn’t have mattered to him that Kincaid was her husband. But she hadn’t turned to him for help, when she damn well knew he could end Kincaid’s life in the hair’s breadth of time it took for him to draw his two Colts. He glanced down at his one empty holster grimly.
The answer was too obvious. In front of her family and Tucson, Candice would not and could not acknowledge her relationship with him. He smiled tightly. He no longer cared what she wanted or what she was afraid of. His child was not going to be born a bastard.
He would gladly kill Kincaid. Kincaid had takenhiswife, and it didn’t matter whether it was against her will or not. Kincaid had taken his wife, and he had used her and possibly abused her. For that he would die.
The salon was crowded and noisy now with drinking customers. A pianist was playing a hearty tune, and one of the half-clad girls was singing along, the others roaming and entertaining. Jack was aware of every movement around him, his senses tuned in to nothing but Kincaid’s arrival.
At that precise moment, she appeared in the doorway, looking beautiful despite her whore’s clothing. She saw him and made her way purposefully toward him, her face stricken and determined, She shoved through the crowd, ignoring men who touched her and tried to pull her into their laps as she passed. Jack steeled himself against her.
“Jack,” she cried, her face strained, eyes huge. “Please don’t do this.”
He was too aware of her hands on his arm and chest, her fragrance, her nearness.
“I’m afraid.” She moaned. “What are you going to do? Call him out?”
“You’re in my line of vision,” he told her coolly.
She gasped and stepped aside, glancing worriedly at the doorway. “What should I do?” she asked tersely.
“Stay out of my way,” he told her, his eyes on the doorway.
He watched her walk away, agitated. He imagined her with Kincaid, their bodies slick and wet, Kincaid driving into her. He wanted to believe her—that tonight was the first time she’d been playing the whore, just as he wanted to believe that Kincaid had forced her. Youfool, he thought. Your preoccupation with her is going to get you killed one of these days—as it almost did in Tucson.
He was Apache. He could sit motionless and wait for hours, if need be. Two hours passed, and it was well after midnight. Jack was not stiff, not sore. Two hours was nothing. He was as alert as ever while he waited for his enemy to appear. And even though his eyes were fixed on the stairway, he always knew where Candice was. He could sense her hanging back by the bar, her anxiety communicating itself even across the room to him. And no one made a move toward her.
It was half-past two when Kincaid appeared. Jack caught a brief glimpse of the man before he disappeared up the stairs. Jack stood, moving the chair away from his legs with one booted foot, waiting for Kincaid to return.
He appeared in the entry of the salon looking as immaculate as ever in a dark suit, the jacket unbuttoned. His gaze ran quickly, excitedly, over the salon, and Jack saw his eyes gleam as he found Candice. Then he saw Jack, and his countenance froze as their gazes locked.
“Kincaid,” Jack said coldly. He was standing in a draw stance, legs slightly spread, thighs tensed, hands ready at his holsters.
Kincaid had opened his jacket and moved it aside so as not to interfere with his draw. Already, people had noticed both men and what they intended, and were clearing away. “So you’ve come for her,” Kincaid said, smiling with no humor.
“You stole my wife,” Jack said softly, but his voice rang out in the sudden silence. Then there was no one between him and Kincaid. Only chairs and tables separated them as they faced each other at a distance of twenty feet. “You will die for that.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he sensed Candice coming closer, could feel her nearness, and saw her out of the corner of his eye. “Candice, get back,” he said, never taking his eyes from Kincaid.
“No,” she cried. “Stop, please, stop this!” He could feel her coming.
