How to Tame a Modern Rogue

by Diana Holquist

  Mateo broke out of his reverie as if he’d forgotten Sam was there. “I’m talking about you. I didn’t know you didn’t know she wasn’t sticking around. They’re never loyal. No one is loyal. They’ll turn on you. That’s why I hang with Paula now. That old girl is loyal till the end.” His voice was cold.

  Sam watched Mateo’s profile. He wasn’t talking about Ally. But what was he talking about? Sam had seen this guy before. Who was he? They’ll turn on you. Don’t be ahero…

  Sam caught a glimpse of despair on Mateo’s face, and all at once, he knew who he was. “Bloody hell. You’re not Brazilian.”

  Mateo had him by the collar and down in the sand on his back in an instant. “Enough. Not another word.”

  “You’re—” Sam couldn’t believe he had missed it. The fake Brazilian accent had thrown him. The blue, yellow, and green on Paula’s rigging. No Argentine would show those colors. Like a Brit sporting German yellow, red, and black. The world’s best camouflage because any true Argentine would rather scoop out his guts with a rusty rake than show Brazil’s colors. “But how—?”

  Mateo slammed him harder into the sand, straddling him. “I’m not.”

  Ally called, “Are you okay? What’s going on over there?”

  “Grand. Just grand.” Sam didn’t fight back. He let the smaller man hold him down while his mind raced. He glanced at the fire, but he was pretty sure Ally and her grandmother couldn’t see them in the dark, outside the small circle of light. But he could see Mateo’s face, all right. Well, not Mateo, Sacco. Bloody, bloody hell. Who knew? The man was wild with anger. “Okay, okay, you’re not who I think you are.” Sacco fucking Poblano is sitting on me, wanting to kill me.

  What an honor.

  “Don’t you forget it,” Mateo hissed.

  “Were there really death threats?” Sam asked. Mateo—Sacco—had played right midfield on the Argentine National team. Two years ago, his team had made it to the finals in the World Cup, the biggest prize in soccer. It was the Super Bowl and World Series and NBA Finals all rolled into one. Real worldwide competition. Nothing compared.

  “Death threats?” Mateo said. “You think I’m that big a coward to run from threats? There were death attempts.”

  Sam thought back to the fury of that game. After ninety minutes of some of the best soccer ever played, the game had ended in a tie. Nil-nil. It came down to penalty kicks. An almost unheard-of event in World Cup finals history.

  A player had to be brave to take a penalty kick. The advantage went to the kicker; they were expected to make the goal. There was little a goalie could do unless he got lucky. Or if the kicker missed…

  But missing was unacceptable.

  The penalty kicks came down to Sacco. If he scored, Argentina would win the biggest prize in soccer. If he missed, Italy would take it all.

  That fact that “Mateo” was on this beach, working as a coachman and pretending to be from Brazil, said it all.

  He had missed the net.

  Sam cringed as he remembered. It was an unforgivable sin to miss the net. If his shot had been blocked, well, that was bad, but forgivable. But to miss? In the World Cup final? The game on the line? Players had been shot on the street in South America for lesser sins.

  “You thought you’d be like Escobar,” Sam said. Andres Escobar was a Colombian player who mistakenly put the ball in his own net. He was shot dead outside a bar in Medellín. His girlfriend claimed the shooter had yelled, “Gooooooooaal,” as he fired the bullets, mimicking the famous call of the Latin sports announcers.

  But Sacco hadn’t just missed his shot. He hadn’t even been close. He had shot like a child. Skied it. The Argentines went as far as to say, like an Englishman.

  All of Argentina would never forget that shot.

  Italy had won the cup.

  “My name was dirt,” Mateo/Sacco said. “My countrymen shunned me. People spit on me in the streets. Then the death threats started. People said my kick was so bad, I had thrown the game. Schoolchildren started to mimic the Colombian shooter, using their fingers as guns, pointing at me and shooting while they yelled ‘Gooooaal!’ It got so I couldn’t go into the streets anymore. And then, well, I got shot at in the grocery store. Hit my leg. I ducked behind the canned goods, then ran like hell and never looked back.”

  Mateo’s story made Sam think of Ally. “The trouble with trying to be a hero in the real world is that sometimes, you fail,” Sam said.

  “You know it,” Sacco said.

  “Sam? Mateo?”

  All Sam could see of Ally from his position in the sand was her ankles. It was a flashback to a million fights he had gotten into in school: a teacher’s ankles. The toe tapping irritably. But no teacher had ever been barefoot with ankles as thin and tempting as Ally’s. Of course, there was no little rose tattoo or sexy ankle bracelet or even painted toes. And yet, he still wanted those plain, knobby ankles like a starving man wanted food. I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone…Don’t try to be a hero…In the real world…

  “You got it?” Mateo whispered into Sam’s ear. “Not a word to anyone.”

  “Got it.” No way was he fighting Sacco Poblano. He’d just as soon fight Jesus. If Jesus had played soccer, he’d have been bloody Sacco, taking the fall for the team.

  Mateo let him up and Sam shook the sand from his shirt.

  “What is going on here?” Ally asked.

  “Just a little friendly competition,” Mateo/Sacco said.

  “He’s just mad because I finally scored on him,” Sam said. He brushed sand off his shirt and out of his hair. Sacco Poblano, the up-and-coming Argentine soccer whiz kid.

  “Liar. I’ve seen you play, Sam,” Ally pointed out. “You couldn’t score on him to save your life.”

  “Hey! That’s not fair! I’m a damn good player. It’s just that he’s—”

  Mateo’s body coiled. “Watch yourself.”

  “It’s just that he’s rather good,” Sam said. “For a Brazilian.”

  Sam sank next to Ally into the cooling sand. Ally could feel his dark mood as if it were something she could touch. The news of her parents hung over her like a fog that disconnected her from the world. Sam felt like her link back. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. But his mood stopped her.

  Granny Donny had gone back inside, and Mateo was a shadow, talking softly to Paula as he got ready to lead her back to her makeshift stable in the garage.

  “You and Mateo okay?” Ally asked Sam.

  “Fine.”

  “Thanks for dinner. I’m so tired, I feel like I’m fading faster than the fire.”

  “No problem.”

  He sure was terse tonight. “Thanks for staying to help with the house. I really—”

  “No biggie,” he interrupted.

  They sat in silence for a while. Men. Maybe she should jump him and pin him to the ground as Mateo had, wrestle his feelings out of him.

  Mateo called his good-byes to Ally, then disappeared as he led Paula into the darkness.

  Ally had been planning what to say all night, but now, her breath caught. Everything had shifted after talking to her grandmother, and her footing felt unsure. Now her bet on Sam felt more dire. All her cards on the table. She resisted the familiar urge to retreat and cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. “Will you sleep with me tonight, Sam?” She held her breath. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted him to make love to her, and then she’d tell him about her parents and he’d tell her it would be okay, she wasn’t alone; she never had to be alone again. Her heart pounded as she waited.

  But Sam didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, grabbed the bucket, and walked to the ocean, becoming a shadow along the shore. He returned and doused the fire with water. They both watched as the embers sizzled and smoked to a dull gray. He began tossing sand over the soggy remains. A year or so later, he said, “So, do you want to fuck me or the duke tonight?”

  Ally’s heart sizzled out like the fire.
His voice was so cold, the night around them turned frigid as his words floated in the air between them. “I don’t want to fuck anyone,” she said.

  “No? What about the princess? I think she likes that.”

  “Sam? Are you okay?” ‘Cause you’re acting like a real jerk. Why had she taken this risk? What made her think she could risk this? The pain of his rejection spread through her.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me, Ally?”

  “No.” She didn’t want to talk about her parents now. All she wanted now was to hold Sam. To have him hold her. But he was pushing her away.

  “Ally, you never told me you were moving to San Francisco.”

  “That’s what you’re upset about? Me moving?” She had forgotten San Francisco. It seemed unimportant, trivial.

  He sat down next to her. “Not important? This isn’t a game, Ally. But it seems to be one for you. Still. After everything.”

  Her already scattered thoughts were blown into further confusion by his attack. She needed to process everything that had happened tonight. It was running together. Sam, her parents. Sam asking her to run off with him. Not run off, that was her parents who ran off. Who were dead. Her head was spinning. “We’ve only known each other a few weeks.”

  Sam scowled. “Ally, hell, I’ve known you since 1812. It’s been almost three hundred years. We have something, Ally. Or I thought we did. Except then I find out that you were planning on leaving for California. You told Sacco—” He paused. “You told Mateo, and not me. Were you going to tell me?”

  She blinked away the black spots that were dancing in front of her eyes so she could focus on Sam.

  “You think I take falling in love lightly?” His voice was heavy and rough.

  Love? Her heart hammered as if it might be trying to tear itself out to find life in a more worthy chest. “What do I know about love?” Except that everyone she loved most left her.

  “You know everything, in your heart.” His eyes were dark and growing darker. “But you don’t really feel your heart, do you, Ally? You ignore it. You ignore everything around you. Your grandmother saw something deeper in me that made me a better man. But you can’t see it. You won’t ever see it, no matter what I do. I’m fed up, Ally. I did my best. Life is too short to keep chasing something that isn’t there. So tell me now that you trust me. That you think I’m worthy. Tell me now that you might be able to love me. Tell me, Ally, or, frankly, that’s it. I’m done trying to convince you that we should be together.”

  Guilt, anger, and pain rose inside her. It wasn’t his fault her parents were dead, but he represented everything her parents had stood for—had died for. Fun. Passion. It all rushed together, converged and melded and boiled over. They say they love you but then they leave you. The pain seared her insides.

  Her hesitation sent Sam over the edge. His eyes narrowed and he stood up and took a step back.

  The black heaviness of her parents’ deaths consumed her. Love isn’t possible. It’s a fantasy, like everything else. “You should go, Sam.”

  “Ally.”

  “I’m sorry.” It felt good to push him away. To feel her pain and loneliness as deeply as she could. To be the one who did the leaving, not the one who was left. She knew she was hurting him. She even knew she was hurting herself. But at that moment, she didn’t care. Her heart felt black and she needed to be alone, to feel that pain as deeply as possible.

  There was something raw about the duke, in his eyes, his touch, and in his voice. Alexandra couldn’t have said what it was, but she knew instinctively, the way all women do, what to do about it.

  —From The Dulcet Duke

  Chapter 28

  Princess?”

  Ally stirred on the guest room bed in her Regency-palace bedroom. Earlier that night, Sam had stalked off down the beach. Ally had gotten into bed, expecting to cry. But instead, she fell into a deep sleep almost instantly.

  She had been dreaming of the duke.

  And now here was the duke. Well, no. It was Sam by the side of her bed.

  “Hmm?” She tried to sit up, but before she could, Sam was kissing her.

  She struggled to wake up fully, but instead, she fell even deeper, not into sleep but into his lips, his warmth, the intoxicating smell of his musky skin. She opened her lips, tasting him. She remembered that taste like a dream. My secret lover, the duke, coming to me in the night…

  “Sam—”

  “No. This is the duke.” He covered her body with his and she melted into him. “Sam is pissed.”

  She was starting to wake up, but a part of her didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to stay in the hazy fantasy of her dream and not think about what she was doing and where she was going with this dangerous man. He wants from you what you want from him…

  “Don’t ever use me, Princess.” His hand snaked under her pajama top and he grasped her breast roughly, almost clumsily.

  It felt divine. Human contact.

  He pulled up her shirt and bit her nipple just exactly right. Warmth spread through her.

  “I wasn’t using—”

  “You were. You are.”

  She moaned. “That’s. Not. True.” He knew exactly how to touch her. She could barely stand the ecstasy of it. He kissed her, working his way down to her stomach, past her stomach, holding her hips firm so she couldn’t struggle away.

  She surrendered to his touch, the roughness of his face against the inside of her thighs, the pull of his mouth. She came, spiraling even further out of reality, exactly where she wanted to be.

  He said, “Let me make love to you.”

  She pulled him up to her as she tried to find her breath. Her whole body was humming with desire and need. She pulled him tightly to her, his body long against hers. She felt some of the tension he was holding ease out of him as he entered her.

  “I thought I was losing you,” he said as he pushed his body against hers, pushed into hers, as though if he pushed hard enough, their bodies would fuse. “But I never had you.”

  What was he talking about? She didn’t care. Her body rose up to meet his. His hand was between her legs, and she fell back into the sensation of him inside her and his hand against her, not caring that she wasn’t sure what was happening, why he was upset at her, whom she was even making love to, the duke or Sam.

  No. This was Sam. No one else could make her feel this way. But he was different tonight, rougher and more demanding. It wasn’t like the love they’d made at the hotel, which had been tender and even lighthearted. This was the love of a gentleman injured and a gentlewoman in pain, each easing the other in the most ancient way of the world. Whatever is wrong in the world, there is still this; there is still us. We can attack each other until we’ve reached the core, and there, no matter how violent the approach, is peace.

  “Come for me,” he murmured, his voice rough with need as his hand moved against her. She felt him shudder inside her and she held him to her as closely as she could as her own body trembled.

  It felt ridiculously, amazingly, perfectly delicious.

  It felt like a healing.

  Sam woke up early. The first rays of the sun were piercing through the blinds. Ally’s head was on his chest and her perfect mouth was just slightly open. She was curled up against him, her legs around his.

  Bloody bollocks, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her last night. Worse, he wanted his hands right back on her now. He didn’t understand the pull she exerted over him. She had, after all, told him to leave. She had spoken everything he had feared. Everything he knew all along but hadn’t wanted to admit. He’d been her dupe. I don’t need her. I don’t need…

  The way the morning sun lit up the side of her face. The way they were both alone in the world. The way she made him be a better man…

  Bloody hell.

  Something had clicked deep inside him. But to her it was always a game. She had shut him out completely. A woman who couldn’t love. Couldn’t feel love. Couldn’t recognize it.
He was a fool to have ever thought she’d feel otherwise. He had broken his own rules by getting serious about a woman again.

  He gently slid from under her. She stirred, then curled back up with a contented sigh. Well, he’d played the duke for the last time. He was back to being Sam. Back to his old life. Who the hell needed this?

  I do.

  He wanted to talk to her so badly that it hurt, but he hadn’t done much talking in his life, and it was impossible to know where to start. She had accepted him last night, without words, had even been tender with him in a way he didn’t entirely understand. Which, of course, made everything worse. Her soft moans. Her begging him for more. Her brown eyes fixed on his like he was her hero.

  Don’t try to be a hero. He would never forget Mateo’s words. In the real world, heroes were punished. Exiled. In the real world, heroes failed and were not forgiven.

  In real life, out of her bed, he was nothing to her. She still didn’t trust him. Still didn’t believe in him. It was the story of his life, fighting for conditional love. The worst damn feeling in the world. He’d had enough.

  Sam was gone.

  What had she done?

  She had woken up that morning, thinking he’d be there. But he wasn’t. She had searched the house, feeling like a fool. Even searched the beach. He was gone.

  Ally tried to keep busy and not think about last night. She spent the morning buying supplies and doing drywall patchwork, and now she was draping the furniture with the sheet-curtains the Fish had left behind. Her grandmother had tried to help, but Ally had chased her out to take a ride with Paula and Mateo. A few neighbors had come around, and Ally knew they would have to find Paula a permanent place to stay before people started to complain. Granny Donny was pleased with the task of saving the horse. Mateo had told her Paula’s story the day they got to the house, and Granny Donny had risen to the occasion with gusto before she even finished her iced tea.

  Ally was relieved Granny Donny was gone. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts so she could untangle them. She poured paint into a small can and started cutting in the corners of the room.