Spring Bride
Sandra Marton
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1cd7532b-a362-5d38-aae0-6756d32c07f6)
Excerpt (#u421d40fd-b31c-5723-9e12-9874c7294ba1)
Dear Reader (#u3b5a3b14-95e7-5b6b-b39f-a66e7209d90c)
Title Page (#ub1865f6e-8735-5e0b-a4a5-b8e9e582ecb4)
Prologue (#u5ffc3c76-e2af-5bfd-84b8-73ec9cacde16)
Chapter One (#u9addf130-aada-53ce-b666-ddd4e7a9df8a)
Chapter Two (#u83ab32f6-f8c1-5e84-9a4b-f7d82ea4550d)
Chapter Three (#u5144de40-8314-5840-902d-f0c0bddd28d4)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
When Charles Landon dies, the legacy he leaves behind has very different implications for each of his four children. For vulnerable KYRA LANDON it means a passionate encounter with ANTONIO RODRIGO CORDOBA DEL REY, a man way out of her league! What all of the Landons find through Landon’s Legacy, though, is the key that will finally unlock their hearts…
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the exciting world of the Landons, and to the legacy that changes the lives of an entire family.
The idea for these books came to me when a friend and I met for lunch at a restaurant in New York. While we were waiting to be served, I overheard some women talking at the next table. They were discussing what makes a man exciting. “He has to be gorgeous,” said one. “And a rebel,” said another. “And not the least bit interested in being tamed,” said a third. The next thing I knew, Cade, Grant and Zach Landon sprang to life inside my head. They were certainly handsome, rebellious and untamable, and when I wondered what kind of woman could possibly put up with them, their beautiful sister Kyra materialized and said, well, she’d always loved them, even if they were impossible!
In this final book in my series, meet SPRING BRIDE Kyra Landon, who goes searching for adventure and finds more of it than she can handle in sexy Antonio Rodrigo Cordoba del Rey, a fiery Latin for whom revenge is more than just a word.
Settle back and enjoy. It’s been four months of love, laughter and tears as you’ve discovered the full meaning of Landon’s Legacy.
With my very warmest regards,
Sandra Marton
Spring Bride
Sandra Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_9e522cc2-cec4-584c-9fd5-d92fc8558df6)
SHE was not the sort of woman Antonio Rodrigo Cordoba del Rey found attractive or even likable, but that hadn’t kept him from watching her for the past hour.
Crazy, Antonio thought with a little frown. What was there to look at, when you came down to it?
She was tall and willowy—far too slender for his taste, though the high thrust of her breasts and the curve of her bottom beneath the little black silk dress she wore were, he had to admit, interesting.
It couldn’t have been her coloring, though it was striking. His preference was for blue-eyed blondes with skin the color of fresh cream. But this woman had skin the sun had buffed to a golden hue and eyes so gray they were almost silver. Her hair was short and dark auburn, and when she tilted her head, it framed her heart-shaped face with the color of autumn leaves.
There was even a way about her that set his teeth on edge. The tilt of her chin, the too-polite smile that was pasted to her lips…Antonio’s gaze narrowed. He knew the type. Underneath the soft gold skin and the hair that glowed with red and amber fire lived an ice princess, filled with scorn and cool hauteur.
She reminded him of those museum sculptures that had little signs on them warning an unworthy public that they could look but not touch.
…she reminded him of a time in his life he had thought he had forgotten.
Antonio scowled and turned his attention to the woman’s escort. It was obvious he thought himself one of the lucky ones who would eventually be permitted to touch. It was there for the world to see in the way he’d danced attendance on her, first throughout the nonsensical cocktail party that had preceded dinner and then through the meal itself, when she’d made no attempt at conversation and merely toyed with the chicken and mushrooms on her plate.
It was not good food, of course. What did the North Americans call such banquet fare? Rubber chicken, wasn’t that it? But good manners demanded one make a pretence at eating it. The woman had not bothered making a pretense of anything. She was bored with the charity event, bored with her table companions, bored with the man who’d brought her—and she didn’t give a damn who knew it.
Not that her attitude was a surprise. Women of her class were often like that, especially the ones who knew how beautiful and desirable they were. Here I am, their cool faces told the world, and aren’t you fortunate? Just don’t expect me to feel the same, or even to pretend that I do ..
“Antonio?”
He watched as the woman’s escort leaned toward her, said something, and smiled. It was a nervous smile; Antonio could see that even at this distance. Surely, she could see it, too, could sense that the man needed some little reassurance. A smile in return, or a word.
She offered, instead, a shrug of her bare, elegant shoulders and an almost imperceptible pout of that soft, cinnamon-colored mouth.
“Antonio? I’m talking to you.”
What a fool the man was! Why was he hovering beside her like a pet poodle waiting for a treat? Why didn’t he tell her to stop treating him like a dog, or get up and walk out?
There was a simple way to put a woman like her in her place. A man had to strip away that cold insolence and reduce a woman to what she really was, naked flesh and hot desire.
It was, Antonio thought with a cold smile, a lesson that brought them all to their knees.
That was what he would do with this one, if she were his.
His body tightened. He would take her in his arms, kiss that contemptuous mouth until it was swollen with desire. He would carry her out of here, take her to his private plane, and at twenty thousand feet, in the privacy of the darkened cabin, he’d strip away that black dress so that her breasts tumbled into his hands and take her over and over until she understood what it was to be a woman and not an unattainable symbol…
“Antonio! What on earth is the matter with you?”
A graceful, red-taloned hand landed on his arm. Antonio blinked, cleared his throat, and fought free of the images that had suddenly blazed to life in his brain.
“Susannah,” he said, and with some difficulty, smiled at the woman seated beside him. She was golden-haired; she was blue-eyed; she was all the things he liked to enjoy—and she was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind
He took a deep breath. Hell. Perhaps he had Only a crazy man would waste time conjuring up such foolish imaginings about an ice princess when he had a hotblooded woman at his side.
”Querida,” he said softly. He took her hand in his. “I am sorry. My thoughts were a million miles away”
The blonde smiled, but her eyes were hard. “Really? I didn’t think the brunette on the other side of the room was quite that far away.”
“What brunette?” Antonio said, smiling. “I was thinking about you.”
The blonde’s smile relaxed. “For a moment I thought that you’d forgotten all about me.”
“Could the tide forget the moon?” Antonio said smoothly. He moved closer to her. “I have done as I promised,” he murmured. “I represented my country at the opening of the Denver Dance Folklorico Festival. Would you think it unkind of me if I suggested we leave and go someplace more private?”
He saw the little tremor of anticipation shudder through Susannah’s body. She was ready for him, he knew. She had damned near been ready from the instant they’d met in Vegas—or was it Reno? For a moment, he couldn’t remember. His business took him everywhere and there were always women, beautiful women who were happy to become involved even when he made it clear—and he always did—that the liaison would never be permanent.
“You are too arrogant, Antonio,” a woman had told him once with something that approximated a laugh, “but then, what else could you be, with your looks and your money?”
It was probably true, Antonio thought as he rose to his feet, but there was no immodesty in admitting it. His looks were a fact of life, the only gift given him by the parents he had never known. As for his money—he had worked hard for what he had, and he owed no apologies to anyone. It was only those born to wealth, who thought it made them better than the rest of the world, who owed apologies. He had learned that a long time ago, from a woman with the face of an angel and the heart and morals of a puta.
Hell! What was wrong with him tonight? It was the woman, dammit, the one across the crowded room. There was nothing about her beauty that could possibly remind him of Jessamyn but everything else was the same: the look of boredom, the air of insolence.
All at once he knew she was looking at him.
The knowledge moved over his skin like a breath of flame, but he gave no hint of his awareness. Instead, he drew back Susannah’s chair, helped her to her feet, shook hands with the men at the table, kissed the hands of their ladies.
And then, only then, as if it were a little gift he had been savoring, he took Susannah’s elbow, turned around, and looked straight at her.
He felt as if he’d been hit in the belly with a sledgehammer. It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected to find her eyes on him; it was what followed. The sudden rush of heat in his blood. The desire that knotted his gut. The way everything else dimmed and faded until there was only him, and her, and the need to—to…
The woman’s mouth thinned with derision. She lifted her chin and turned away sharply, and suddenly Antonio felt as if he were standing here not in this expensive, custom-tailored tuxedo but in the T-shirt and work boots he’d worn for so many years.
“Antonio, you’re hurting me!”
He glanced down, surprised to find Susannah at his side, even more surprised to see the way his fingers were crushing her wrist. He loosened his grip instantly, offered a quick apology, and then he slipped his arm around her waist and led her through the room, not in a straight line but on a path designed to take him directly past the table where the woman with the silver eyes and hair the color of autumn leaves was seated.
When he reached her, he let go of Susannah, put his hand gently in the small of her back and steered her ahead of him. It was all very proper, but it gave him just the time he needed. He saw the astonishment on the redhead’s beautiful face as he looked down at her.
”Señorita,” he said politely. “Do you, by any chance, speak Spanish?”
She stared up at him, her eyes wide. After a moment, she nodded.
Antonio smiled, leaned down, and spoke in his native tongue in a whisper meant for her alone.
“Does it disgust you, to want a man like me?”
She gasped and jerked back, and he laughed softly.
“Perhaps it would make you feel better, señorita, to know that I would sooner take a vow of chastity than take a woman like you to my bed.”
He straightened to his full height, nodded politely to the others at the table. Then he strolled unhurriedly after Susannah, through the ballroom and straight out the door.
Kyra Landon felt as if someone had just tossed a bucket of ice water over her head.
The world was full of crazy people. At twenty-two, despite her father’s best efforts to keep her wrapped in cotton batting, even she knew that.
But she had never before come up against anyone as crazy as the man who’d just strutted past her
“Kyra?”
Her head snapped up. Ronald was staring at her, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in a knot. The other people at the table were staring, too. My God, she thought, and her color deepened, if any of them understood Spanish…
“What on earth did that man say to you?”
The arts commissioner’s wife leaned forward. “It had to have been something incredible,” she said eagerly. “Just look at the way you’re blushing!”
“Of course it was something incredible,” the ballet master’s boyfriend simpered. “A man that gorgeous wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t incredible. Isn’t that right, Miss Landon?”
Kyra cleared her throat. “Do—do any of you speak Spanish?” she said, crossing her fingers in her lap.
The ballet master sighed. “I studied it in high school, but I don’t remember a thing beyond te amo.”
Everyone laughed. Kyra felt her heart start beating again.
“Listen, if that guy insulted you…” Ronald’s narrow jaw trembled. “If he did, I’ll-I’ll…”
“No,” Kyra said quickly. She put her hand lightly on his arm. Ronald was an inch shorter than she was and probably five pounds lighter. The man who’d just pulled that act of unbelievably crude and rude machismo had looked to be the size of a tree; he could probably pick Ronald up with one hand tied behind him. “No,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips, “he, ah, he didn’t insult me at all.”
Ronald didn’t look convinced. “What’d he say, then?”
“Ah, he said…he said he hoped I’d tell whoever was in charge that, ah, that the new center is magnificent and, ah, that he was sorry he couldn’t stay for the ballet performance but that—that dinner was superb.”
Oh God, why didn’t I stop when I was ahead? Her audience had looked half-convinced until she’d added that bit about the meal. No one would believe that, not in a million years…
“Well,” the arts commissioner’s wife said with a little smile, “he would think that, I suppose. I mean, he’s Mexican. Anything cooked without all that hot stuff, the chilies and what-have-you, would be an improvement.”
“Spanish,” Kyra said. All the heads swiveled toward her again and she swallowed hard. “He wasn’t Mexican.”
“Did he tell you that?” Ronald said, his brows knotting together again.
“No, of course not. I just—well, it was the way he spoke. His Spanish wasn’t Mexican, it was Castilian. I studied it in school for five years. I mean, and…and…”
And I am making a complete ass of myself. But then, it was a minor miracle she was able to talk any sense at all, considering what had happened, considering that an absolute stranger who’d spent half the evening undressing her with his eyes had dared speak to her that way…
“…don’t you agree, Kyra?”
Kyra blinked. “Agree with what?” she said, looking at the ballet master’s lover.
“I was saying, a man that big could never be Mexican.” He batted his lashes. “He was at least six feet tall, and all those muscles…”
He was more than six feet, Kyra thought. At least sixone or six-two. And yes, he certainly had a lot of muscles. You could tell, even beneath that dinner jacket. She had never seen a man with broader shoulders or with a broader chest, for that matter, and yet when he’d stood up she’d seen that his waist was narrow, and his hips. And he had such long, long legs…
The truth was that he was the best-looking man she’d ever seen. His face wasn’t a pretty face, nor even conventionally handsome. The bones were too pronounced, the nose too aquiline for movie-star good looks. But it was a wonderful face just the same: eyes so blue they might have been bits of a summer sky, fringed with lashes the same midnight black as his hair; cheekbones that might have been sculpted out of clay; a wide, sensual mouth, a square chin.
She had noticed him at least an hour ago. Lots of women had; she’d seen the sly little glances shooting his way. But then, to her surprise, she’d suddenly felt his eyes on her during the cocktail party. She’d wanted to turn around, to see if she were imagining things, but she hadn’t. He was too blatantly masculine, too arrogant, a man who thought he owned the world and everything in it. You could see it in the way he held himself. The blond number with him was the sort who ate that stuff up but Kyra knew better.
Besides, it would have meant being rude to Ronald, who was trying his best to entertain her despite the fact that her thoughts were back home, with her father. Charles hadn’t been well for months and today he’d seemed worse than usual. But he’d still insisted that a Landon had to attend the Arts Center opening.
Kyra’s mouth narrowed. And when he insisted, to try to reason was to court disaster.
“…to find our seats?”
She looked up. Ronald was on his feet; he was trying to pull back her chair and she realized, after a moment, that everyone else was filing out of the ballroom.
“Oh.” She smiled broadly. “Sure. Sorry.”
She took the arm he offered and let him lead her into the auditorium. The houselights dimmed, the curtains opened, and a dozen men wearing skintight leotards came leaping onstage to the beat of a drum.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Ronald whispered.
Kyra tried not to wince as a gong began sounding mournfully in the orchestra pit. “Wonderful,” she said, and settled back in her seat.
She tried to pay attention to what was happening onstage, but her thoughts kept drifting to what had happened at dinner. If only she hadn’t looked at the man. She’d tried not to, even though she’d known he was looking at her. But finally she’d just had to peek and when she had…
God, when she had!
That look of raw desire in his deep blue eyes had done something strange to her heartbeat and suddenly she’d felt a need so primitive it had terrified her with its intensity She’d been even more terrified that it had shown on her face. He’d seen it. And he’d known exactly what it was. That was why he’d said that awful thing to her.
Kyra sprang to her feet. Ronald looked up, startled, and she shook her head, smiled as best she could, and mouthed that she was going outside, to the ladies’ room.
What was the matter with her? To think that a man like that should hold any appeal for her was ridiculous. If she ever took an interest in a man, it would certainly not be in one who went around parading his boorish masculinity.
And yet, when she felt a hand press lightly on her shoulder, when a deep, male voice said, “Miss Landon?” Kyra swung around, her pulse racing.
Had the Spaniard come back? Was he going to tell her he’d never wanted to make love to a woman as much as he wanted to make love to her? Would she have the courage to say—to admit…
But it wasn’t he. It was the manager of the new Arts Center.
“Miss Landon,” he said quietly, “there’s a phone call for you in my office. I—I’m afraid it’s not good news.”
Kyra’s mind went blank. She managed to nod, to smile politely and make her way past him. She knew, even before she reached the office and picked up the phone; she knew who was calling, and why.
It was the doctor, phoning to tell her that her father, Charles Landon, was dead.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_00ffbf18-d2ca-56f1-a5bc-a586934b64fc)
IT WAS a perfect morning, one that could make you forget that a raw Colorado winter was only weeks away. The early autumn sky was cloudless and so bright a blue that it was almost able to soften the dreary lines of the Landon mansion that dominated the top of the hill.
Kyra sighed as she paused beside the lower paddock and leaned on the railing. Last spring’s foals were playing some kind of catch-me-if-you-can game in the meadows. Their long legs flashed and their silky manes flew as they galloped past each other. Beyond the foals, the mares grazed on the tender grass with quiet dignity.
A smile curved across Kyra’s mouth. This was what made life on the estate bearable: the herd of elegant Morgans, the magnificent land rolling away to meet the soaring majesty of the Rockies…Her heart had always been here and not in the house looming above her, a house that had now become hers.
She turned, tucked her hands into the rear pockets of her jeans, and began walking slowly up the gravel path that led to the aspen grove behind the house.
There was a time she’d wondered why her father had ever built something so ugly. She knew her brothers thought it was because Charles saw all that stone and stained glass as a testament to his wealth and power. But that couldn’t have been the reason. There were other houses in the foothills of the Rockies that had cost small fortunes yet still managed to capture the mountains’ wild beauty.
When the reason finally came to her, it was so basic that she knew it to be true.
Charles had simply never given a thought to the aesthetics of Landon House. He’d have demanded the mansion be imposing in size and that it be built of the finest—meaning the most expensive—materials.
The rest of it wouldn’t have interested him.
The architect had understood. He’d seen the character of his client and given him exactly what he wanted. A house that reflected its owner, a house that was show without substance, that had no heart or soul. And Charles had been satisfied. He knew nothing about hearts, or souls. Not of houses, not of people.
Not even when it came to his daughter.
Kyra sighed deeply. It seemed impossible that she had spent a lifetime living a lie.
“You’re the only one who’ll never disappoint me, Angel,” Charles had said, right up to the end.
But she had disappointed him, virtually every day of her life. In her heart, where it counted, she’d never been the perfect angel he’d thought she was.
It was cooler here, in the aspen grove. Kyra gave a little shiver and pulled up the collar of her denim jacket
Her life had changed right after their mother’s death. Kyra couldn’t remember Ellen Landon; she’d died when Kyra was only a toddler. All she knew was that suddenly she’d become the center of her father’s existence.
“My little lady,” he’d say, swinging her into his arms, “you’re the joy of my life!”
But if she was his joy, her brothers were his affliction. Charles had no patience for them. He treated Cade, Grant and Zach with a coldness that bordered on cruelty. To this day, Kyra couldn’t figure out the reason. She only knew that when she was five, she’d discovered the power she held.
It happened one rainy afternoon when the household was between nannies. Her brothers had been chasing each other through the halls, an activity that was never permitted. Caught up in the spirit of the game, they’d gone flying into Charles’s study and somehow an urn had gone smashing to the floor.
Kyra would never forget the terror that had settled over them. She’d been terrified, too, knowing what was coming, knowing her beloved big brothers were going to be punished.
The boys didn’t shrink from their duty. That night, they met Charles at the door and confessed to what had happened.
His face went cold. “Which of you broke the urn?”
The boys looked at each other. “We don’t really know, sir,” Grant replied.
Charles’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth, sir,” Zach said, his voice changing pitch in the middle of a word. “We were all running, and-”
“You’ll all be thrashed unless the guilty boy steps forward.”
“But we’re trying to tell you, Father,” Cade whispered, “we don’t know which of us did it.”
“So be it. Who will be first?”
There was a moment’s silence and then Grant stepped out in front of his brothers.
“No,” Zach and Cade shouted, but Grant hushed them.
“I did it,” he said.
“Did you? Or are you trying to protect your brothers?”
Grant stared at his father. “I—I—”
“You all need a dose of responsibility,” Charles said through his teeth, and he herded them into the library and slammed the door.
Kyra didn’t think, she simply reacted, bursting into the library after them. Charles swung toward her, his face dark, his hand on his belt, and she forced a painful smile to her lips, somehow knowing with a wisdom far beyond her years that to plead for mercy would not work.
Instead, she began babbling about her new pony and how she’d spent the afternoon learning to nde it. Slowly, the flush faded from her father’s face. Finally, she asked him to come and watch her ride.
She held her breath and waited.
Charles looked from her to his sons. After what seemed an eternity, he jerked his head toward the door.
“Go to your rooms,” he snapped, “and figure out how you’re going to replace that urn. You’re getting off easy this time.”
His hand had closed over Kyra’s, and it had taken all she had to keep smiling.
And just like that, she’d become the perfect daughter.
Her brothers had never guessed. As far as they were concerned, she was just a sweet little kid with an easygoing temperament who’d never realized what the old man was really like.
And why should they have believed anything else? Kyra thought with a sigh as she left the aspen grove behind and made her way toward the house. She’d found a way to make life easier for everybody and all it took was a little creative effort.
Except she’d never intended to play the role for quite so long. Her brothers were gone and she was of age. It was time—but the first, subtle signs of Charles’s failing health had brought her plans to an abrupt halt.
How could she have turned on him then, when he needed her? For all his terrible faults, he was her father. And if she hadn’t liked him, she had certainly loved him.
Her boot heels clattered on the steps as she made her way to the kitchen door and pushed it open With a sigh, she crossed the room, plucked a mug from the cupboard and filled it with coffee.
Well, there was nothing to hold her back now. Her father was gone. Grant, Cade and Zach had returned to their own lives. It was time to go about hers. But what kind of life did she want? Did she want a job? A career? A college degree?
Kyra didn’t have a clue. She only knew she needed to do something. Something she chose, for herself, by herself, with no advice from anybody—not even from her brothers.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love them. She did, with all her heart. It had been wonderful, having them home the week of the funeral, but it had only reminded her that, as far as they were concerned, she was still just a kid.
Cade had spent every moment—very sweetly, of course—telling her what to do and how to do it. Zach had asked a hundred times if she didn’t want him to take a look at the household accounts or show her how to balance her checkbook. And Grant had done everything but pat her on the head and call her his good little girl.
It had all come close to driving her crazy but she’d gritted her teeth and endured—until the reading of the will. In retrospect, she knew it was the will that had finally tipped her over the edge.
Charles had left his private fortune, the mansion and all its vast acreage to Kyra; he’d left Landon Enterprises, his multimillion-dollar empire, to his sons.
Anger had swept over her as the attorney’s voice faded to silence. Her father had done it again, she’d thought bitterly; even in death, he’d managed to keep her from the real world.
And, as soon as the attorney was gone, her brothers did it, too, giving her benevolent smiles and saying how happy they were that the mansion would be hers.
“We’re so happy for you, Princess,” Grant said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “We know how you love this house.”
And before she could say hell, no, I hate it, he turned to Cade and Zach and they began discussing the quickest way to divest themselves of Landon Enterprises. They wanted no part of the Landon legacy but she—she was expected to jump for joy over her inheritance!
The realization left her tight-lipped with fury but she said nothing. What could she say in the face of such damnable male insensitivity?
And then, just as she was getting over her anger, Grant met with Victor Bayliss, who’d been their father’s second-in-command at Landon’s, and came back with news that put a halt to her brothers’ plans to sell the company.
There were serious problems to deal with in Dallas, Hollywood and New York, Grant told Cade and Zach, ignoring Kyra even though she was in the room. She told herself it was understandable; thanks to Charles’s will, she didn’t have anything to do with Landon Enterprises. But the more she listened, the shorter her temper got.
Didn’t Cade or Grant or Zach see the obvious solutions to the difficulties facing them? She certainly did, but no one was asking her for her opinion. No one ever had.
That was when she exploded.
“For goodness’ sake,” she snapped, “are you all stupid? The answers to your problems are right under your noses!”
She pointed out how easily Cade could deal with the Dallas crisis, how readily Zach could handle the problem in California. There was a moment’s pointed silence and then, to her amazement, her brothers agreed
No, Kyra thought grimly as she remembered the scene, no, they’d done more than agree. They’d acted as if the ideas were theirs, not hers. Not a one of them had thought to say, wow, Kyra, that was pretty good thinking. Thanks for your help. We really needed it!
But how could they? The big jerks had been too busy flashing each other goofy grins and putting on that disgusting display of male bonding they’d called, since childhood, the Deadeye Defenders’ secret handshake.
“Damn,” Kyra muttered.
She could not, she would not, go on being treated like a child! She would not settle into the life that was expected of her, chairing dumb committees for causes she didn’t believe in, attending silly functions where she was supposed to smile prettily and pretend she was having fun…
…and where a man like the Spaniard could say the things he’d said and then vanish into the blue.
Her coffee mug clattered against the table top.
The Spaniard? What on earth had made her think of him? Not that it was the first time. Like it or not, the man had been lurking inside her head for days.
Well, it was understandable. It wasn’t easy to forget such a pretentious, self-important cretin.
Impatiently, she rose from the chair, kicked it back into place, and dumped her mug into the sink To think she’d let him get away with such rude behavior. Why hadn’t she told him he was a jerk? In Spanish, of course, Spanish every bit as perfect as his. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. According to her father, learning to converse in three different languages had been part of the education of a proper lady.
So why hadn’t she hurled an insult straight back into his handsome, insolent face?
You are a toothless dog, she could have said. You are a worm. You are an animal…
Except he was none of those. That was the trouble. He was the best-looking hunk she’d ever set eyes on and he knew it. It was why he thought he could get away with eyeing women and then sidling up to them and insulting them…
“Hello! Anybody home?”
Kyra spun around, her eyes wide with surprise. “Cade?”
“Squirt?”
“Cade!” She gave a screech of delight, raced from the kitchen, and threw herself into her brother’s arms.
He laughed as he twirled her around. “That’s what a man wants,” he said as he set her on her feet, “a greeting that really makes him feel welcome!”
Kyra grinned up at him. “What a wonderful surprise! But why didn’t you phone and tell me you were coming? I’d have met you at the airport.”
Was it her imagination, or did his smile dim before he answered?
“Well, it was kind of a last-minute decision. Anyway, I figured I didn’t need to make a formal announcement that I was coming, now that the old ma—I mean, now that Father’s not…”
“Of course you didn’t.” Kyra looped her arm through his. “You’ll always be welcome—wherever I live.”
Cade smiled. “Thanks, Squirt.”
“What are you thanking me for?” She hugged him. “I love you, you big jerk. Now, come on. Tell me all about Texas while I get you something to eat.”
“To tell the truth, I’m not hungry.”
“Coffee, then. I’ll put up a fresh pot while you tell me what Dallas is like.”
There was no doubt this time; she could definitely see his smile dim.
“There’s nothing to tell It’s just a city.”
“Well, did you accomplish what you went there for? Was that oil company doing as badly as you’d thought?”
“Yeah,” Cade said in a flat voice. “It was a mess, thanks to—thanks to—”
“Thanks to ‘the old man,’ you mean.” Kyra smiled and touched his hand. “It’s all right to call Father that,” she said softly. “To tell the truth, it’s how I usually thought of him.”
Cade’s face went cold. “What do you mean? Did he give you a hard time, once we were all gone?”
Kyra hesitated. Now was the time to tell him, to say that there were all kinds of ways to mistreat someone, that she had been trapped in a golden cage all her life…
But Cade looked so tired. And there was a darkness in his eyes that she’d never seen there before.
She smiled brightly. “No, of course not. I was Father’s angel, remember?”
Cade let out his breath. “Yeah.” He smiled, then glanced wistfully at the stairs. “Sis, would you mind if I crashed for a while? I’m really beat.”
“Of course. You go on up and take a nap.”
“Just give me a couple of hours and then tell Stella to pile on the bacon and eggs.”
Kyra chuckled. “You will have to take your chances with my bacon and eggs, little brother. I gave Stella a couple of weeks off.”
“But you can’t cook.”
Kyra tried not to bristle. “Believe it or not,” she said lightly, “you really can teach an old dog new tricks.”
Cade laughed. “Old?” he said, ruffling her hair. “Old, at twenty-two?” He drew back, looked her over, and frowned. “Is that why you look different? Because you’re cooking for yourself?”
“Hey,” she said with mock indignation, “is that an insult?”
“I’m senous, Squirt. Are you eating enough? Maybe you need vitamins.”
“Cade,” Kyra said gently, “do us both a favor. Don’t think for me, okay?”
It was only a teasing throwaway line, but her brother’s face darkened with anger.
“What is this?” he said harshly. “The new female battle cry?”
Kyra blinked. Whatever had happened to him in Dallas, it wasn’t good.
“You really do need some sleep,” she said gently. She stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his stubbled jaw. “We can talk when you’re back among the living.”
Cade sighed and shot her a weary smile. “Good idea,” he said, and stumbled up the stairs.
When she heard Cade moving around, Kyra put aside the magazine she’d been reading, went into the kitchen, and laid four strips of bacon on the griddle. She hesitated, made a face, and added four more.
She’d done a lot of thinking the past couple of hours and she’d finally decided it would be silly not to ask his advice about her future. If anyone could help her with some ideas, her brother Cade was the one.
Just look at what he’d done with his own life, she thought as she began cracking eggs into a bowl. Cade had started out to be an engineer and ended up wildcatting for oil in all sorts of exotic places. He’d understand her need to shed her chrysalis and try her wings.
The Spaniard, on the other hand, would not. He’d want a woman to live in an ivory tower with a stove at one end and a bed at the other. The time at the stove might be worth it, though; he’d probably know how to keep a woman very, very happy in that bed.
One of the eggs slipped from Kyra’s hand and smashed against the tile floor. She looked down at the yolky mess, shook her head, and grabbed for a handful of paper towels.
What was wrong with her? Why had she thought of that man again? It was crazy. She was crazy, she thought grimly as she mopped up the egg. To waste even a minute of time thinking about somebody like that…
“What?” Cade said, plopping himself down at the table. “No groaning sideboard?” He grinned. “I’m disappointed.”
Kyra dropped the paper towels in the waste bin and wiped her hands on her jeans.
“I’m going to make lots of changes,” she said airily. “How do you want your eggs? Fried or scrambled?”
“Your choice, babe. I’m starved. If I’ve eaten in the past twenty-four hours, I sure as hell don’t remember it.”
She waited until he’d finished everything, including two cups of coffee, and then she sat down across from him.
“Great breakfast, Squirt.”
Kyra smiled. “Not bad for an amateur, huh?”
Cade smiled back. “Matter of fact, I’ll have one last cup of coffee before I head to the office.”
“The office?”
“Yeah. I’ve got to look for some papers.”
Well, Kyra thought, here was an opening. It had crossed her mind that there might be something for her to do there, at the Landon Enterprises office, until the business was sold. She could learn to do things. Operate a computer. File letters. Answer the phone.
“What kind of papers?” she said.
Cade shrugged. “Nothing you’d understand.”
“Try me,” Kyra said, still smiling.
“Look, Sis, I know you mean well, but—”
“Why do I have to practically beat you guys on the head to make you listen to anything I have to say?”
She spoke lightly, but Cade shot from his chair. “What in hell’s going on here?” he said furiously. “I’ve about had it with this crap.”
“Well, so have I,” Kyra said, just as furiously. She sprang to her feet. “Just because I’m your little sister-”
“You mean, just because you’re female! Well, let me tell you something, Kyra. I’m male, yeah, but that doesn’t make me the enemy! If a man didn’t love a woman he wouldn’t—” Cade clamped his lips together. “I’m going downtown. If Zach or Grant calls, tell them they can reach me at the office.”
Kyra nodded coolly. “Yes, sir.”
Cade started to answer, thought better of it, and stormed out the door.
Cade spent the rest of the week either at the office or on the telephone. Neither he nor Kyra referred to the harsh words that had passed between them.
Kyra knew something was bothering Cade. He wasn’t just short-tempered, he was restless. She could hear him pacing his room at night—but then, she paced hers, too
What was she going to do with her life?
Late one moonlit night, after she’d pounded her pillow flat, she gave up trying to sleep and slipped down to the kitchen in her long flannel nightgown. She curled up in the bay window that looked over the new snow that had fallen on the shores of Crystal Lake.
Moments later, she heard Cade coming down the stairs. He seemed surprised to find her in the kitchen, sitting in the moonlight and staring out into the night.
“What are you doing up?” he said.
Kyra didn’t answer. What could she say? I’m depressed? I’m down? I’m trying to decide if I want to study manicuring or brain surgery?
Cade frowned. “It’s late. And it’s cold. You should be…you should be…”
Kyra looked at him, her brows raised, and he frowned.
“Hell,” he muttered. “Do I do that a lot?”
“Do what?”
“You know. Do I tell you what to do? Am I overprotective?”
Kyra sighed. “You’re not like Father, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He drew back as if she’d struck him. “Of course I’m not! I’m nothing like him. I’d never be like him!”
“No. You wouldn’t. You’re not dominating, or unkind. And you’re certainly not selfish.” She smiled. “But sometimes you do like to control people you love.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe, down deep, you think you have to control them to keep them from abandoning you.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “I wonder if it has something to do with what happened the night of your twenty-first birthday.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Come on, Cade, don’t play dumb. It was when you learned Father had bought off that girl you were so crazy about. You were so hurt—”
“You’re nuts! I wasn’t hurt, I was angry.”
“Losing her that way must have been awful. But someday you’ll meet a woman…”
Suddenly, she knew. He’d met someone already; it was the reason he paced the floor, the reason he looked haunted—the reason he was questioning himself.
“Oh, Cade,” Kyra whispered, “you’ve already met her, haven’t you? And you don’t know what to do about it.”
Her brother’s eyes snapped with anger. “Thank you for that brilliant, and useless, analysis!”
He pivoted on his heel and marched from the room. Kyra watched him go, and then she sighed and turned her face to the window.
Had she deepened his wound by telling him the truth? She didn’t think so. Cade was hurting, but at least he was feeling like something more than a self-sacrificing martyr, which was what she’d been feeling like lately.
Hell. It was what she’d been feeling like ever since she was five years old and she’d become everybody’s idea of an angel, and she was sick of it!
Kyra got to her feet. She had to do something soon or she’d go crazy! She had to experience life, to feel…
To feel.
Does it disgust you, to want a man like me?
She came to a dead stop, the deep, husky voice echoing inside her head.
What would have happened if she’d said no, no, wanting him didn’t disgust her at all? If she’d said that wanting him had terrified her even as it had thrilled her, that it had made her feel alive in a way she never had before?
Her breath caught in her throat. My God, she really was losing her grip!
A change of pace, that’s what she needed. But how did you manage that when you were trapped in a house you hated, in a life you hated, with nothing more important to do than go on being the perfect little princess you’d always been?
You could take a trip, Kyra thought suddenly. You could go somewhere you’d never been before. You could see new things, do new things, meet new people…
But where? Where did she want to go?
She hurried into the library, threw on the light, and snatched a leather-bound atlas from the shelf. Then she opened it to a map of the world, shut her eyes, and stabbed it with her forefinger.
Her eyes flew open and she looked down. Her finger was resting in the middle of the Caribbean.
How could you go for a vacation on an ocean?
You could take a cruise, she thought, and smiled. A cruise in the sunny Caribbean.
Kyra’s smile became a grin. “Why not?” she said jauntily, and then she slammed the atlas shut, turned off the light, and trotted up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f799619e-47bc-5c36-821b-c47933384d61)
EMPRESS of the Caribbean was hardly the ship of anyone’s dreams. And autumn, with its potential for storms and rough seas, was not the best time to cruise the Caribbean.
But Kyra was having the time of her life.
It wasn’t as if this was her first trip away from home. She’d skied in Switzerland, gone to horse shows in Ireland, and Charles had even let himself be convinced that she could spend her last semester at Denver’s finest private school for girls as an exchange student in England.
But always, in her travels, there’d been her father or a chaperon at her side. And now here she was, thousands of miles from home, on a trip she’d planned, start to finish, all by herself.
Actually, no one even knew about this tnp. She’d thought of calling her brothers and telling them she was going away, but what for? Did Cade or Grant or Zach phone her when they were heading off somewhere? Of course they didn’t.
Then, why should she?
Stella, the housekeeper, knew. And Ted West, who oversaw the stables, had to be told, but that was it.
Kyra zipped up her white cotton skirt, then drew a pale yellow T-shirt over her head. For the first time ever, she was responsible to absolutely no one but herself.
Maybe that was why the Empress seemed such a dream ship, despite her dated accommodations. She had chosen the ship on impulse, from an advertisement in the Sunday paper.
Adventure! the ad had shrieked. Excitement! Romance on the High Seas!
All those capitals and exclamation marks had to mean something.
And they did, she thought, smiling as she slipped on a pair of white thong sandals. For her fellow travelers, adventure meant visits to sites of pre-Columbian settlements and museums. Excitement was wondering if the wheezing old tour buses that greeted the ship at each port would be able to get to the top of the next hill, then betting that their brakes were better than their engines as they rocketed back down to the harbor through one hairpin curve after another.
As for romance…it was sweet to watch white-haired senior citizens dancing cheek to cheek. It was also about as close to “romance” as she wanted to get, Kyra thought briskly as she screwed a pair of small gold hoops into her ears.
As far as she was concerned, the cruise advertisement had put things into exactly the right perspective. Adventure and excitement came first. There’d be plenty of time for romance somewhere down the line, but not for a long, long time.
Some women didn’t agree, and that was their privilege. Lots of girls she’d grown up with were engaged to be married. She knew that most of them hadn’t led lives as restricted as hers, but even so, as far as she could see, they’d simply traded their new freedom for chains of their own making.
Kyra brushed her hair, then put a white baseball cap on her head and adjusted the brim low over her eyes. Men—even her brothers—just seemed to be proprietorial as a breed. Of course, none of the men she’d ever known would be anywhere near as proprietorial as that good-looking Spaniard.
She could imagine what he’d be like! Expecting a woman to drop everything and come running if he crooked his finger, demanding her total attention be centered on him, jealous every moment she was out of his sight.
Not that there wouldn’t be compensations. Kyra’s breath hitched as she remembered the banked fires smoldering in his blue eyes, the harsh, almost cruel sensuality of his mouth. A man like that would know how to please his woman when she was in his bed at night. She’d lie beneath him eagerly, her lips parted, waiting for the brush of his lips, the touch of his hand…
Color poured into Kyra’s cheeks.
“Honestly,” she said, scowling into the mirror, “what on earth is wrong with you?”
Weeks had passed since that embarrassing night at the Arts Center. Why should she waste even a minute thinking about that horrible man? He certainly wasn’t anybody to fantasize about, not unless you were interested in setting feminism back a couple of centuries.
She swung briskly away from the mirror, looped the strap of her white purse around her wnst, and made her way out of her cabin.
Mr. and Mrs. Schiller, the elderly couple in the cabin next to hers, were just locking the door. Mrs. Schiller looked up and smiled.
“Good morning, dear. Don’t you look charming!”
Kyra smiled back at the white-haired woman. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said. “We get to spend almost a whole day in Caracas!”
Mr. Schiller nodded. “Excellent city, Caracas.”
Mrs. Schiller took her husband’s arm as the little group started toward the elevators
“Won’t you join us for breakfast, Kyra? There’s still half an hour before the bus leaves.”
“Thank you, but I’m not taking the tour. I thought I’d see the city on my own.”
Mrs. Schiller looked uncertain. “Are you sure you’ll be all right alone in a strange city, dear?”
“Big city, Caracas,” Mr. Schiller said, shooting Kyra a look from beneath his bushy white brows. “Got to keep your wits about you, young woman.”
Kyra smiled politely. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”
Like all the other ships that listed Caracas as a destination, Empress of the Caribbean actually docked at a port called La Guaira. It was grimy and unattractive, but no one—least of all Kyra—cared. A short ride in a taxi, and she was in the center of the bustling, modern capital of Venezuela.
She’d planned her day carefully, using a guidebook and the brochures she’d picked up on ship. A cable-car ride up Mount Avila first for a breathtaking view of the Caribbean coastline, and then brunch at the Humboldt Hotel. After that, she would head down into the city and pack as much sight-seeing as she could into the remaining hours.
By midafternoon, Kyra was weary but happy. She had zigzagged Caracas on foot and by taxi; she’d seen almost everything on her list, from the beautiful gardens and fountains of La Casona to the cobbled streets and tiled roofs of the old city near the church of La Pastora. She’d even managed to spy a slow-moving sloth in the trees at Plaza Bolivar.
Now, as the sun began angling across the sky, she glanced at her watch. It was getting late, but she had at least an hour to browse the shops, and to see what she could add to her growing collection of souvenirs. Just thinking of them made her smile. Nothing she’d bought had been costly and most of the things were probably foolish but each had been fun to choose and would forever remind her of this trip in a way that expensive items from faceless hotel gift shops couldn’t.
That was something her father had not understood, Kyra thought as she headed for a stretch of shops the purser had recommended. She still remembered the look on his face when she’d handed him a tiny replica of Windsor Castle that played “God Save the Queen” when you moved a switch set into one of its turrets after her semester in England.
“How…how nice,” he’d said.
She’d almost explained that it wasn’t “nice” at all, that it was tacky and funny and that was why she’d bought it—but then she’d thought that if she had to explain all that, it wasn’t worth the effort and so she’d smiled and said yes, it was, and actually, she’d bought it for herself.
“Oh,” he’d said with obvious relief, and Kyra had taken back the little castle, handed him the very proper cashmere scarf she’d bought at Harrods, and listened while he praised her for her good taste.
Nobody was liable to praise her for showing good taste now, she thought, smiling as she made her purchases. An oversize straw bag in the shape of a donkey for Stella, a papier-mâché parrot for herself, an assortment of silly T-shirts for her brothers…the gifts were fun to buy and would be fun to give.
And that was what this trip was all about, she reminded herself as she came out of the souvenir shop. Fun…
Kyra sucked in her breath as a clock in a window across the street caught her eye. Was that really the right time? She shifted her packages to the crook ot her arm and checked her watch.
“Damn,” she muttered, and hurried to the curb.
“Taxi,” she called, lifting her hand—the hand that so invitingly dangled the strap of her pocketbook. ”Hola! Taxi!”
Later, she would remember seeing it happen in a terrible kind of slow motion. The approaching motorbike, the grubby hand reaching out, the fingers closing tightly around the strap…
But at that moment, all Kyra knew was that a motorbike came whizzing past, something tugged sharply at her hand, and before she had time to react, it was all over.
The thief, the motorbike and her pocketbook were gone.
For a second, she couldn’t believe it. She stood staring after the bike while the sounds of the street faded; all she could hear was the thump of her own heart, and then she felt her knees turn liquid.
How could such a thing have happened? This was the middle of the day, the sidewalks were jammed with people…people intent on their own business, as they’d have been in any city back home.
Big city, Caracas. Got to keep your wits about you…
Kyra spun toward a woman coming out of the souvenir shop.
”Señonta,” she said in an unsteady voice, ”por favor…”
The woman smiled helplessly. “Sorry,” she said without breaking stride, “I don’t speak Spanish.”
Kyra stared after her. Well, neither do I, she thought wildly.
Calm down, she told herself, just calm down. You do speak Spanish. You can find a taxi, ask the driver to take you to the nearest police station, and report this.
Or was it best to head for the ship? It would be sailing soon; would anyone realize she wasn’t on board? And even if they did, would they hold up all the Empress’s other passengers just for her?
Of course they would, Kyra told herself, but the sinking feeling in her stomach said otherwise.
“Oh God,” she whispered, and she flew back into the shop where she’d bought the shirts and the straw bag. It took time to convince the clerk that she absolutely had to take all those things back, precious time Kyra didn’t have to waste, but finally she was out on the street again. She hailed a passing taxi and crossed her fingers.
She had just enough money to get to the docks. All she could hope now was that she’d also have just enough time to get to the Empress before the ship departed.
But she didn’t. The dock where the Empress had been moored was empty. All that remained of her was a windtossed brochure bearing the ship’s logo and the words, See Exciting Caracas blazoned across it in shrieking crimson.
Kyra stood in the deserted street, staring out over the oily water, telling herself there was no reason to panic.
Why should she panic? she thought, swallowing a hysterical laugh. Just because she had no money, no passport, no credit cards? Because she hadn’t the foggiest notion where to find a police station or the American Embassy? Because, now that the Empress was gone, she could see just how deserted these grimy streets really were?
”Buenos días, señorita.”
Kyra spun around. A man was grinning at her, his two gold-capped front teeth flashing in the late-afternoon sun.
“You are ’merican, si?”
His gold teeth were impressive, but so were his tattoos. A snake sporting huge fangs writhed on one arm; a pierced heart dripped crimson blood down the other.
Kyra cleared her throat. “I—I…”
I, what? Why was she stammering? So he had gold teeth. So he had tattoos. So what? She was on her own now; she wasn’t in a place where she’d be rubbing shoulders with men in tuxedos. Gold teeth and tattoos, she thought firmly, did not mean he was a bad person!
And so she smiled politely. “Yes,” she said, “I am. Could you tell me where I can find the American Embassy?”
“Ah, but the embassy is closed at this hour, señorita.” Gold Teeth frowned. “Is there some difficulty?”
Kyra nodded. “I’ve been robbed.”
Gold Teeth gasped. “Robbed? By one of my countrymen?” He clucked in sympathy. “That is most unfortunate. You must report this to the policía at once.”
Kyra managed a slight smile. “I would, if I knew where to find the nearest station. I don’t suppose you’d know…”
He turned and pointed toward a dark alley. “Of course. It is right through there.”
Kyra peered over his shoulder. The alley wasn’t just dark, it was almost black She couldn’t see more than a couple of feet into it.
“Where?” she said. “I don’t see…”
“Ah, you must go to the end, señorita. And then there is a right turn, and a left, and another left…” Gold Teeth looked at her. “Come, señorita. I will take you there myself.”
Kyra looked at the alley, then at her would-be rescuer. Suddenly, old Mr. Schiller’s voice rang in her ears.
Got to keep your wits about you…it said.
She took a step back. “No,” she said politely, “thank you very much for offering, but—”
”Señorita.” Gold Teeth smiled slyly, shuffled closer, and breathed cheap whiskey into her face. “You have no money, yes? An’ no man to help you.”
“I’ll be fine, señor. I am grateful, but—”
His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.
“Be nice,” he said, “an’ I be nice, too. Otherwise—”
“Let me go,” Kyra demanded, twisting furiously against him.
Gold Teeth laughed as if she’d made a wonderful joke. “Sure. I let you go. But first—”
“I would suggest you take the lady’s advice, compadre.”
The voice came from behind her. It was male, deeply pitched, and though it was almost lazy in tone, there was no mistaking the authority in it.
Gold Teeth almost snarled with annoyance.
“This is not your business, man.”
“I have made it my business. Let go of the woman and I will permit you to leave here in peace.”
Gold Teeth threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I am shaking with fear.”
The stranger’s voice hardened. “For the last time, let her go.”
“Why?” Gold Teeth’s smile twisted into an obscene grin and he nodded his head slyly. “Now I unnerstand. You want her for yourself.” Kyra stumbled as he shoved her aside. “Come and get her, then,” he said, and suddenly there was a knife glinting in his hand.
The man shot past Kyra with the swiftness of a jungle cat. There was a blur of motion, a thud, a groan. The knife went flying and Gold Teeth fell to his knees, swayed there, then sprawled flat on his face.
Twice in one day, Kyra thought hysterically, twice in one hour something incredible had happened too fast for her to see!
Her rescuer bent, lifted Gold Teeth to his feet. He said something in Spanish Kyra couldn’t understand but Gold Teeth certainly did. Even though he was swaying unsteadily, he gulped, nodded, and took off.
Kyra dragged air deep into her lungs and took a step toward her rescuer, who was standing with his back to her and his hands on his hips, watching her assailant as he vanished into the alley.
My God, she thought with admiration, he wasn’t even breathing hard.
With a shaking hand, she took off her baseball cap and ran her fingers through her hair.
”Señor,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ”Señor, I am so grateful…”
”Señorita,” the man said sternly, “this man was a—a marrano…” He shook his head. “Do you speak any Spanish?”
Kyra went very still. No, she thought, no, it couldn’t be.
Her heart rose into her throat. She watched as her rescuer dusted off his hands and then turned toward her.
“He was, you would say, a pig. So you will understand when I tell you—”
Cristo!
Antonio Rodrigo Cordoba del Rey stared at the woman. No. No, it couldn’t be!
His sapphire eyes turned almost black with shock as he stared at her, at the face he had not managed to forget, despite the weeks that had gone by since he had first seen it.
He saw her throat work convulsively.
“No,” she whispered, “no! I don’t believe it”
Antonio rubbed his hands over his eyes but it didn’t help. When he looked again, she was still standing there in front of him, dressed in a skirt and sandals and a T-shirt instead of in a little slip of black silk, but there was no mistaking her identity.
This was the woman who had reduced him to such foolishness that night in Denver. He had thought of her a dozen times since then, never without his gut knotting with anger, always assuring himself that the only saving grace in the whole damned scenario was that he would never, ever, have to see her again…
Yet, here she was. Por Dios, how could such a thing have happened?
He took a step toward her, his fists knotted as he fought for self-control.
“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
The woman’s head snapped back as if he’d struck her.
“What am I doing here?” she said. Her voice was breathy, as if she’d been running. She moved closer, her head tilted up, her eyes locked on his. “What do you mean, what am I doing here?”
Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot believe this. What have I done that the gods should drop you into my lap a second time?”
Kyra stared at him. The arrogant, insolent, self-centered jerk…
“My sentiments precisely,” she sputtered. “Suffering through one encounter with you was enough for a lifetime. No woman should have to endure your presence twice!”
A dark flush crept across his face. “You should count yourself fortunate for this second test of your stamina, señorita. Had it not occurred, you would have found yourself involved in a much more interesting adventure with your charming friend!”
“That—that creature was not my friend!”
A chill smile curved over Antonio’s mouth. “You should choose more carefully when you decide to ‘play with the natives’.”
Kyra’s eyes turned from silver to smoke. “I do not have to stand here and listen to these insults!”
“You most certainly do not.”
“Fine.”
She spun away, but the memory of his disdainful little smile, even of the way he was standing, with his arms crossed over his chest, enraged her. All that smug male superiority…how dare he? She took a breath, turned, and faced him again.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are, without question, the most…the most insufferable human being imaginable?”
One midnight black eyebrow rose in lazy amusement.
“And to think that moments ago you were almost on your knees to me with gratitude,” he drawled.
Kyra’s color heightened. “You only wish!”
The smile faded from his lips. “My only wish is that I awaken in a few seconds and find out that you have once again been nothing but a bad dream!”
“Really?” Kyra purred. “Have I been in your dreams, señor?”
Antonio flushed. Dammit, why was he letting her draw him into this ridiculous battle of words? As it was, he had made a stupid slip. He had been dreaming of her ever since that night they’d first encountered each other; incredible, X-rated dreams that were ridiculous when you considered that he was not a man who needed to waste his sexual energies in fantasies and that this tart-tongued, mean-tempered American was the last woman he’d ever want in his bed.
“Well?”
He looked at her. Her head was tilted at a slight angle and she was watching him with catlike intensity.
He took a step toward her. “I see that you are a woman who likes to live dangerously. But I must warn you, señorita, that it would be reckless to push a man like me too far. You might not escape as easily as you did a few moments ago.”
Kyra’s heart kicked against her ribs. He was right. Not about the incident with Gold Teeth but about what was happening now. You didn’t tease a man like this; you didn’t dangle bait and wait to see if he’d snap it up. She remembered all too clearly the way he’d watched her that night, the sexual heat that had smoldered between them.
“Perhaps it is I who should have asked that question of you, señorita.”
She looked up. He had moved closer to her; they were standing barely a whisper apart. She swallowed, then cleared her throat.
“What—what question?”
“About dreams,” he said. His smile was sexy and dangerous. “Have you dreamed of me, señorita?”
Kyra stepped back. “Never,” she said, her chin lifted. “Unless I’m in the middle of a very bad one right now.”
Antonio’s nostrils flared. He reached out and clasped her by the shoulders.
“Do you feel the bite of my fingers? I promise you, what is happening is no dream.”
Yes. Yes, she could feel the bite of his fingers, feel the heat of his touch. She could see that his eyes were the color of sapphires, that there was a small, almost invisible scar angled across his jaw; she could smell his scent, equal parts sun and sea and raw male anger.
He looked down at her, his eyes dark, and then he drew her forward against his hard body.
“We are both here. In the flesh—isn’t that what you Americans say? And just so there’s no further confusion m your mind, I will prove it to you.”
And before Kyra could stop him, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0e9f21b0-1b67-5d40-8a87-679ed954328f)
ANTONIO sat behind his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d tilted his leather-and-oak chair back on its legs and now he was scowling at the ceiling instead of at the door, which was what he’d been doing for the last five minutes or for however long it had taken him to count silently to a hundred in Spanish, in English, and finally even in the Indio dialect he’d spent most of his adult life trying to forget.
It hadn’t helped. His patience, never his strongest asset, he had to admit, was wearing thin. But then, why wouldn’t it? His scowl deepened as he leaned forward and let the front legs of his chair bang against the wideplanked teak floor.
How much time could a woman spend in the ladies’ room, for God’s sake?
Antonio rose to his feet, stalked to the window, and turned his scowl on the rain. Damn the weather, anyhow. He’d been away so long he’d almost forgotten the cloudbursts that were so common to the tropics. If only it had started to rain sooner. Maybe then none of this would have happened. Maybe his secretary wouldn’t have looked outside and seen a woman—a turista, she’d saidbeing harassed just outside the door.
“Shall I call the police?” Consuelo had asked.
Antonio had hesitated. Calling the police seemed like overkill. This wouldn’t be the first drunken sailor to make a pest of himself on the docks.
And so he’d sighed with resignation at the interruption, risen from his desk, and assured Consuelo that he would deal with the problem.
And so he had, he thought now, suppressing the faintest smile of satisfaction. It was a long time since he’d used his fists, but then, disarming a fool with a knife was not a skill one forgot.
His smile turned into a frown as he remembered how the smile of gratitude disappeared from the turista’s lips when she’d realized who it was that had saved her beautiful neck. Did she really think she was the only one who was appalled by this unbelievable coincidence? To find himself face-to-face with the woman again…
Not in a million years would he have imagined such a thing!
Antonio turned away from the window. One good thing, at least, had come of this encounter.
He knew with certainty that he would not be bothered by unwanted images of the American’s coldly beautiful face any longer.
Inconceivable as it seemed, her face had haunted him, but that was over now. He’d seen her again and the only emotion he’d felt had been disbelief. Better still, he’d given her a taste of her own medicine. He’d kissed her, had the satisfaction of knowing that he could make her tremble with desire for a man like him…
Who was he kidding? She hadn’t trembled. The kiss had only lasted for an instant but it had been long enough for him to feel her go rigid with shock in his arms.
And then the skies had opened up and Consuelo had stuck her nose where it didn’t belong yet a second time. She’d come dashing out into the street, shot him a look of fierce remonstration, and before he could stop her, she’d put her arm around the woman and rushed her inside.
Now here he was, cooling his heels, a captive in his own office, dammit, waiting for the American to deign to reappear so he could call her a taxi and send her back to wherever she’d come from, so he could get back to work and maybe, just maybe, tie up his business in Caracas so he could get out of here and be back on San Sebastian Island tonight.
He shot back his cuff, glared at his watch, then marched to the door and yanked it open.
“Consuelo,” he bellowed.
His secretary looked up from her desk, her expression impassive.
”Sí, señor?”
Antonio folded his arms over his chest. “Where is she?”
“She is still in the ladies’ room, señor.”
“Does she think I have the day to waste?”
“I am certain she will only be another few minutes. She asked for a comb and—”
“And you obliged? What for? Are you her maid?”
Consuelo’s tone grew cool. “The señorita has been through a most unfortunate experience, señor. I should think any decent human being would feel some compassion for her.”
Antonio opened his mouth, then closed it again. The rebuke was unsubtle, but then, lack of subtlety was one of his secretary’s assets. Consuelo was old enough to be his mother; she had been with him for ten years, and whenever he needed to be brought back to size—as, he supposed, he might on extremely rare occasions—she was the only one with the courage to do it.
“She has had a difficult time, Señor del Rey,” Consuelo added softly.
Antonio’s mouth hardened. “Perhaps she has also learned a lesson. The world and its inhabitants are not toys put here for her amusement.”
He turned and slammed the door behind him before Consuelo could respond. Then he walked to his desk and sat down behind it.
What god with a bad sense of humor had brought the woman to Venezuela and then deposited her outside this office on the one day in weeks—in weeks, dammit!—he had chosen to stop by?
It was insane.
“Insane,” Antonio muttered, slapping his palms against his desk.
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