Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

‘Hola, chica,’ he said. ‘What you doing, huh?’

  From some undiscovered depth Chellie found the strength to smile at him. ‘I thought I’d go down to the bar for a drink.’

  ‘Where’s that hombre who hired you?’ He was frowning.

  ‘Asleep.’ Chellie gave him a long, meaningful look from under her lashes. ‘And not much fun any more.’

  He looked her over. ‘Why you in those clothes? And where your wig? You supposed to be blonde.’

  ‘My dress got torn.’ She shrugged casually. ‘And that wig is so hot. Surely I don’t need it just to buy a beer?’

  A slow, unpleasant grin curled his mouth. ‘I have beer in my room, chica. You want more fun? You have it with me.’

  ‘No.’ Chellie took a step backwards, her hand closing on the strap of her bag in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

  He noticed at once, his gaze speculative. ‘What you got there, hija?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she denied, lifting her chin. ‘And I’m going to have my drink in the bar—without company.’

  For a moment he stared at her, then, to her astonishment, she saw him nod in apparent agreement. It was only when he slid to his knees, eyes glazing, then measured his length completely on the wooden floor that she realised who was standing behind him, grasping one of Mama Rita’s wooden candlesticks and looking down at his victim with grim pleasure.

  She said shakily, ‘My God—is he dead?’

  ‘Not him.’ Ash stirred the recumbent body with a contemptuous foot. ‘I knew what I was doing. He’ll have a bad headache when he wakes up, that’s all.’

  ‘All?’ Her laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Breaking and entering, and now GBH. What next, I wonder?’

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for you.’ He went down on one knee, and rifled through the unconscious man’s pockets, producing his keyring with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘But I plan to get out of here before he’s missed.’ He got to his feet, his glance challenging. ‘I have your passport, so are you coming with me? Or would you rather stay here and accept his next invitation? It may not be as cordial as the last,’ he added drily. ‘But perhaps you don’t care.’

  Not just the rock and the hard place, Chellie thought. This was the devil and the deep blue sea, and she was caught between them, as trapped as she’d always been.

  And, it seemed, she had to choose the devil…

  For now, she told herself, but not for ever. That was the thought she had to cling to. The resolution she had to make.

  She felt a small quiver of fear, mixed with a strange excitement, uncurl in the pit of her stomach as she looked back at him, meeting the blue ice of his gaze.

  She said lightly, ‘What are we waiting for, Galahad? Let’s go.’

  Chapter Three

  THE air outside was warm and so thick she could almost chew it, but Chellie drew it into her lungs as if it was pure oxygen.

  She thought, I’m free. And that’s the way I’m going to stay. For a moment, she felt tears of sheer relief prick at her eyes, but she fought them back. Because there was no time to cry. Instead she had to make good her escape. Or the first part of it, anyway.

  Getting out of the club had been just as nerve-racking as everything that had gone before it. They had dragged Manuel, who had already begun to stir and mutter incoherently, into the office and locked him there with his own keys.

  The way to the back door led past the girls’ dressing room, so they’d had to waste precious seconds waiting for the coast to be clear. He’d gone first, to unlock the rear door, and had slipped past unseen. But when it had been Chellie’s turn she’d found herself catching Jacinta’s startled gaze.

  She’d made herself smile, and even give a little wave, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but there was no certainty that the other girl wouldn’t mention what she’d seen once Chellie’s absence had been discovered. In fact, she might not be given a choice, Chellie told herself with a pang.

  However, she needed to put space between Mama Rita’s and herself and waste no time about it, she thought, breaking into a run.

  ‘Take it easy.’ The command was low-voiced but crisp, and her companion’s hand clamped her wrist, bringing her to a breathless halt.

  ‘What are you doing? We need to get out of here. They’ll be coming after us…’

  ‘Probably,’ he returned. ‘So the last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves. If we run in this heat, we’ll be remembered. If we walk, we’re just another anonymous couple among hundreds of others. So slow down and try and look as if you want to be with me. And for God’s sake stop peering back over your shoulder. Your whole body language is shouting “They’re after me”,’ he added, his tone faintly caustic.

  ‘Oh, please excuse me,’ Chellie hit back, heavily sarcastic. ‘But the role of fugitive is still rather new to me.’

  ‘Just as well,’ he returned, unmoved. ‘Hopefully you won’t have to play it for long.’

  He released his grip on her wrist and clasped her fingers instead, drawing her closer to him, adapting his long stride to her shorter pace. Making it seem, she realised unwillingly, as if they were indeed a pair of lovers with the rest of the night to spend together.

  On balance, Chellie thought she preferred a bruised wrist to this implied intimacy. The touch of his hand, the brush of his bare arm against hers was sending a tantalising ripple of awareness through her senses, which, frankly, she didn’t need or understand.

  Life had taught her to be wary of strangers—to maintain her cool in unfamiliar situations. After all, it had taken a long time for Ramon to get under her guard, until, unluckily, she’d taken his persistence for devotion rather than greed.

  But now she’d been thrown into the company of this stranger. Condemned, it seemed, to endure the proximity of a man who had no apparent compunction about committing burglary or hitting over the head anyone who got in his way. And knowing it had been done for her benefit hardly seemed an adequate excuse.

  Someone who’d just walked in off the street and apparently felt sufficient compassion to take up her cause, she thought uneasily. And, on the face of it, how likely was that?

  Sure, he’d offered her a way out, and she’d taken it. Yet she was risking a hell of a lot to accept his help, and she knew it. Which made her undeniable physical reaction to him all the more inexplicable. But if she was honest she’d been conscious of it—of him—since that first moment in the club when their eyes had met. And she’d found herself unable to look away.

  When she was a small child, someone had warned her about wishing for things, in case her wish was granted in a way she did not expect. And Nanny had been quite right, she thought ruefully.

  Because only a couple of hours ago Chellie had sung about wanting ‘someone to watch over her’, and that was precisely what she’d got. And every instinct was warning her that, among so many others, this could be her worst mistake so far.

  The sooner I get away from him, the better, she thought, her throat muscles tightening. But that’s not going to be so easy. Because I seem to have passed seamlessly from Mama Rita’s clutches into his.

  Oh, God, how could I have been such a fool? And is it too late to redress the situation somehow?

  She drew a breath. ‘What did you do with Manuel’s keys?’

  ‘Threw them into an open drain.’

  ‘Oh.’ She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘That’s—good.’

  ‘I thought so,’ he returned with a touch of dryness.

  She looked down at the cobbles. ‘This boat we’re leaving on—where is it exactly?’

  ‘It’s moored at the marina,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t that the first place they’ll look?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because they have no reason to connect me with boats.’

  ‘You don’t seem very concerned.’

  ‘And you’re tying yourself into knots over possibilities,’ he retorted.

>   Chellie subsided into silence again, biting her lip. Then she said, ‘My passport—you did find it?’

  He sighed. ‘I told you so.’

  ‘Then—could I have it, please?’

  He gave her a swift sideways glance. ‘Thinking of making an independent bid for freedom, songbird?’ He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t get half a mile.’

  Knowing he was right did nothing to improve her temper. Or alleviate the feeling that she was cornered.

  ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘like Mama Rita, I feel I need something to guarantee your good behaviour.’

  She gasped. ‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ she demanded huskily.

  ‘Not as far as I could throw you with one hand, sweetheart.’ He paused. ‘Any more than you trust me.’ He slanted a grin at her. ‘Grind your teeth if you like, but I’m still your best bet for getting out of here unscathed, and you know it. And what’s a little mutual suspicion between friends?’

  ‘I,’ Chellie stated with cool clarity, ‘am not your friend.’

  He shrugged again. ‘Well, my Christmas card list is full anyway.’

  ‘However,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘I’d still like my passport back.’ She paused. ‘Please.’

  ‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘The authentic note of the autocrat. That didn’t take long to emerge. From downtrodden victim to “she who must be obeyed” in one easy step.’ His voice hardened. ‘And what am I supposed to do now, darling? Turn pale and grovel? You should have tried it with Manuel. He’d have been most impressed.’

  ‘How dare you.’ Her voice shook.

  They had stopped walking. Suddenly Chellie found herself being propelled across the quayside and into the shadows between two wooden buildings, where he faced her, his eyes glittering, his hands gripping her shoulders, immobilising her completely. Making her look back at him.

  ‘Oh, I dare quite easily,’ he said. ‘Because someone should have stopped you in your tracks a long time ago. And then perhaps you wouldn’t need me to get you out of this mess now.’

  ‘I don’t need you,’ Chellie flung back at him recklessly. ‘There’ll be other boats. I can find a passage out of here without your questionable assistance.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, grimly. ‘But probably not tonight. And that’s only one of your problems. Because how long can you afford to wait? How long before word gets round that a girl with eyes like a cat and a bad haircut is trying to leave port and Mama Rita tracks you down?’

  He paused. ‘And there’s the small question of cost,’ he went on remorselessly. ‘You’ve no real cash, so are you really prepared to pay the alternative price you might be charged? If so, you could find it a very long voyage.’

  ‘You’re vile.’ She choked out the words.

  ‘I’m a realist,’ he returned implacably. ‘Whereas you…’ He gave a derisive laugh. ‘In spite of everything that’s happened, you still haven’t learned a bloody thing, have you, sweetheart?’

  She said in a stifled voice, ‘Please—please let go of me.’

  ‘Afraid I might want to teach you a valuable lesson?’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Not a chance, sweetheart. You’re not my type.’

  But he made no attempt to release her, and Chellie, trapped between the hard male warmth of his body and the wall of rough planking behind her, felt herself begin to tremble inside.

  Suddenly the world had shrunk to this dark corner, and the paler oval of his face looking down at her. The sheer physical nearness of him.

  She was dimly aware of other things too. Men’s voices shouting angrily and the loud blare of a vehicle horn. But all that seemed to be happening in another world—another universe that had no relevance to her or the quiver of need that was growing and intensifying within her.

  She saw his head turn sharply, heard him swear quietly and succinctly under his breath, then, before she could even contemplate resistance, he swooped down on her, and for one startled, breathless moment her mouth was crushed under his.

  But not in anything that could be recognised as a kiss. That was the real shock of it all. Because the tight-lipped pressure of his mouth on hers was simply that—physical contact without an atom of desire or sensuality.

  A harsh, untender parody of a caress.

  And one that was over almost as soon as it had begun.

  Chellie leaned back against the wall, her legs barely able to support her, looking up at him, trying and failing to read his face.

  She said in a voice she barely recognised, ‘What was—that about?’

  He said, ‘That was Manuel in a Jeep, with another guy driving him.’ He paused. ‘Bald, built like a bull. Do you know him?’

  ‘Rico. He’s a bouncer at the club.’ Chellie spoke numbly, trying to drag together the remnants of her composure without success. ‘Did they see us?’

  ‘I think they might have stopped if so,’ he said drily. ‘Besides, I made sure you were well hidden.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. And, again, ‘Yes.’ So that was why…She shivered.

  He took her hand again. ‘Come on.’

  She hung back, staring up at him, her eyes blank with fright. ‘What are we going to do now?’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  He shrugged. ‘We go down to the marina and get aboard the boat, as planned. What else?’

  ‘But—everything’s changed.’ Her voice was a little wail of protest. ‘They’ll be there first—waiting for us.’

  ‘Then we’ll make damned sure they don’t see us.’ He sounded appallingly calm. ‘But I’d bet any money that they’re not going anywhere near the marina. Trust me on that, if nothing else.’

  He put his arm round her and set off down the quay again at a brisker pace. ‘On the other hand, I’d prefer us not to be loitering around on their return journey. Going on a wild goose chase often brings out the worst in people,’ he added wryly.

  Chellie went with him mechanically, her thoughts in turmoil. But it wasn’t simply the threat of discovery that plagued her. Because, to her own amazement, that no longer seemed to be her first priority.

  Instead, she found she was reliving the moment when she’d stood with him in the darkness with his mouth on hers. Examining—analysing every trembling second of it.

  And realising, to her horror, that she’d wanted more. That she’d needed him to recognise that she was female to his male. That she—wanted him.

  The breath caught in her throat.

  My God, she thought, with a touch of hysteria. It’s completely crazy. How can I be feeling like this? I—I don’t even know his name.

  Nevertheless, that was the shaming truth she had to face—to endure. That there’d been more than a moment when she’d actually wanted her lips to part under his, inviting—imploring his deeper and more intimate invasion. When she’d longed to feel his hands on her body—the sting of his thighs against hers.

  A soft, aching instant when she’d been ready to go wherever he might lead.

  A small sound escaped her, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

  He noticed instantly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Chellie disclaimed instantly. ‘At least—I—don’t think I’m handling this situation very well.’

  He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was abrupt. ‘You’re doing all right.’

  It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. She’d hardly expected praise of the highest order, but she’d hoped, at least, for a little warmth and reassurance.

  She thought, I wanted him to smile at me as if he meant it…

  But I mustn’t think like that, she told herself in sudden anguish. It isn’t right. And it certainly isn’t safe.

  Although his arm round her felt safe. Safe—but oddly impersonal. Just as his kiss had been.

  Well, now she knew the reason for that totally sexless performance. I made sure you were well hidden.

  Someone to watch over me, she thought wearily. That’s what I wanted, so I can hardly complain abo
ut the way he does it. And it was only a minute ago, anyway, that he told me I wasn’t his type.

  She felt her face warm at the memory. She could only be thankful that she hadn’t yielded to that swift, burning temptation and responded to the taste of his mouth. Oh, it would have been so frighteningly easy—and such a disaster.

  Because he wasn’t her type either, she reminded herself forcefully. He was more than merely attractive, and he might have an educated voice, but that was only a veneer. Underneath there was a darkness—a danger.

  And certainly no Galahad either, she thought. He was just a buccaneer, like all the others who’d once pursued their predatory trade up and down the Caribbean sea.

  If she’d met him in London, or down at Aynsbridge, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

  Unless he’d looked at you first, said a sly voice in her brain. And you’d suddenly found you couldn’t tear yourself away…

  Her problem was that she wasn’t accustomed to instant sexual attraction. Had always written off that kind of emotion as cheap. Told herself that passing attractions could have no place in her life.

  Liking should come first, she’d always believed. A mental attunement that could blossom into real love—Shakespeare’s ‘marriage of true minds’ that ‘looks on tempests and is never shaken’.

  So how, then, did she explain Ramon? A chapter of accidents, she supposed wearily. She’d been searching desperately for a way to break her father’s yoke and release herself from the stultifying boredom of her life. Something that would take her further than non-stop partying.

  She had also been rebelling over his persistence in pushing Jeffrey Chilham at her as a future husband. It was to have been a purely dynastic marriage—Jeffrey, a widower at least twenty years her senior, was poised to take over the running of the corporation when Sir Clive retired—and there was nothing the matter with him that a complete personality transplant could not have cured.

  He was correct, worthy, and so ponderously indulgent in his attitude to her that she’d often longed to fling herself at him, screaming, and sink her teeth into his jugular vein.

  As a result, she’d been driven to parading a succession of totally unsuitable young men in front of her father. She’d had no intention of marrying any of them. She had just wanted to convince Sir Clive that she was a person in her own right, and not for sale. That she was capable of finding her own husband.