Crime Of Passion

by Lynne Graham

  'Don't you dare,' Rafael grated down at her in a snarling undertone.

  And the violence in the atmosphere was explosive, catching her breath in her dry throat. Raw aggression had flared in his smouldering gaze and instinctively she backed away, massaging her bruised wrist as he freed her, her heartbeat thumping so loudly in her ears that she felt faint and sick, but still she wanted to kill him, still she wanted to punish him for saying those filthy things to her.

  'I'm not like that,' she murmured tightly, turning away, despising the little shake that had somehow crept into her voice, betraying her distress. 'And even if I was, it would be a cold day in hell before I let you touch me.' There was so much more she wanted to say but she didn't trust herself. Once before, she had attempted to reason with Rafael in her own defence. He hadn't listened. He had shot her every plea down in flames, immovably convinced that she had betrayed him in another man's bed. Afterwards she had felt even more soiled and humiliated by his derision. She would never put herself in that position again.

  The silence went on forever, reverberating around her in soundless waves.

  'Are you able to settle your bill here?' Four centuries of ice in that chilling enquiry—well, what did she care? Numbly she shook her head. 'I'll take care of it.'

  For five minutes, she simply stayed there in the empty room, struggling harder than she had ever had to struggle for control. When she had managed it, she walked down to Reception and found him just moving away from the desk. Without once glancing in his direction, she climbed back into the Range Rover. He would take her to the airport, put her on a flight back home. She really didn't care any more.

  The silence smouldered, chipping away at nerves that were already raw and bleeding. 'I presume you can take care of the passport problem,' she muttered, half under her breath, thinking of the bribery he had apparently employed to get her out of her cell.

  'What passport problem?' His accented drawl was dangerously quiet.

  'Well, obviously it went with everything else in my

  bag,' she pointed out, surprised that he hadn't grasped that fact yet. .

  He uttered a raw imprecation in his own language.

  'Oh, don't be shy.. .say it in English!' Georgie sud­denly heard herself rake back with a sob in her voice. 'You think I'm a stupid bitch!'

  'Georgie...' Fluent though his English was, he couldn't quite handle the two syllables of her name coming so close to each other. He slurred them slightly, his rich dark voice provoking painful memories. 'Don't start crying '

  'I am not crying!' She bit her tongue, tasted blood, blinked back the scorching tide dammed up behind her eyelids.

  Soon after that, he stopped the car and got out, leaving her alone for about ten minutes. She waited, enveloped by a giant cloud of unfamiliar depression. It took Rafael to do this to her. He slammed a lid down on her usually bubbly personality. He made her seethingly, horribly angry. And he hurt her. Nothing had changed. She didn't even lift her head when he rejoined her.

  'We're here.'

  Rafael opened the door. One of his security men already had her bag in one beefy hand.

  Rafael extended a black coat.

  'What's this?' Georgie had yet to focus on any part of him above the level of his sky-blue silk tie.

  'I bought it for you. You cannot walk through the airport with—with your top falling off,' Rafael shared flatly.

  She wanted to laugh, because she had managed to forget that she was still wearing yesterday's torn and dirty clothes. But somehow she couldn't laugh. She stuck her arms in the sleeves of the expensive silk-lined raincoat. It was light as a feather but so long it had to look like a nun's habit. Numbly she watched Rafael's fingers do up the buttons. It took him a surprisingly long time, his hands less deft than she had expected.

  His double standards were perhaps what she most loathed about Rafael Rodriguez Berganza. He had un­doubtedly stripped more women than Casanova. Maria Cristina had been a gossip while they were at school. Rafael had a notorious reputation for loving and leaving beautiful women. But Georgie would have known anyway.

  Many very good-looking men missed out on being sexy. But not Rafael. Rafael was a blatantly sexual male animal, flagrantly attuned to the physical. The air around him positively sizzled. So why the heck was this sophis­ticated, experienced Latin-American lover having so much difficulty buttoning up her coat? Unwarily she collided with glittering golden eyes, and it was like being struck by lightning.

  He was so close she could smell a hint of citrusy af­tershave, overlying clean, husky male. Her nostrils flared. Her nipples tightened into painful sensitivity, a spiralling ache twisting low in her stomach. Nearby, someone cleared their throat. She tore her gaze from Rafael's and met the looks of visible fascination emanating from bis bodyguards, standing several feet away. She realised that she and Rafael had simply been standing there staring at each other. Devastated by her overpowering physical awareness of him, Georgie turned away, her throat closing over.

  In silence they entered the airport. Her head felt in­credibly light and her lower limbs weak and clumsy. Exhaustion, stress and lack of food, she registered, were finally catching up with her.

  Officialdom leapt out of nowhere at them. The crowds parted. Uniformed guards paved every step through the airport, down an eerily empty concourse, their footsteps echoing. There was no sign of other passengers. Clearly she was being put on the flight home either first or last.

  As they emerged into the fresh air and crossed the tarmac, she realised incredulously that Rafael intended to see her right on to the plane to be sure she went. It made her feel as though she was being deported in dis­grace. And that was when it happened—something that had never happened to Georgie before. As she fought to focus on him and say something smart on parting, her head swam alarmingly. The blackness folded in and she fainted.

  'Lie still.' As Rafael made the instruction for the second time and Georgie attempted to defy it, he lost patience and planted a powerful hand to her shoulder, to force her back into the comfortable seat in which she was se­curely strapped. 'I don't want you to swoon again.'

  If he used that word again, she would surely hit him. 'I didn't swoon, I passed out!' she hissed, twisting away from his unwelcome ministrations. 'And will you take that wet flannel out of my face?'

  Dense black lashes screened his clear gaze from her view, a curious stillness to his strong, dark face. 'I was trying to help,' he proffered very quietly.

  'I don't want your help.' She turned her head away defensively.

  You swooned with Rafael and you really hit the jackpot, though, she conceded. The entire aircrew seemed to be hovering with wet flannels, tablets, and glasses of water and brandy. Any minute now the pilot would appear and offer her some fresh air! Dear Lord, she hoped not! Her violet eyes widened in disbelief on the clouds swirling past the port-hole across the aisle... they were already airborne!

  'What are you doing on this flight?' Georgie de­manded, feverishly short of breath. 'We've already taken off!'

  Rafael rose up off bis knees, smoothed down the knife creases on his superbly tailored trousers and said some­thing to the crew. Everybody went into retreat. He lowered his long, lithe frame fluidly into the seat op­posite and fixed hooded dark eyes on her.

  'This is my private jet.'

  'Your what?' Georgie gaped at him.

  'I am taking you home with me. Until your passport can be replaced, you are stuck in Bolivia.'

  'But I don't have to be stuck with you!'

  Unexpectedly, Rafael sent her a shimmering, sardonic smile. 'A lamb to the slaughter... I don't think.'

  'I don't know what the heck you're getting at, but I do know you could have left me in my hotel...or thrown a few backhanders in the right direction the way you did to get me out of my prison cell!' Georgie derided, hor­rified at the prospect of being forced to accept his grudging hospitality.

  He went white beneath his dark skin, his facial muscles freezing. 'How dare y
ou accuse me of sinking to such a level?' he ground out incredulously. 'I have never stooped to bribery in my life!'

  Georgie licked at her dry lips. 'I saw you give the policeman the money,' she whispered.

  Rafael surveyed her with growing outrage, registering with an air of disbelief that his denial had not been ac­cepted. 'I do not believe that I am hearing this. The policeman, Jorge, took the money straight to the village priest! The roof of the village church has fallen in and my donation will repair it, thereby enhancing Jorge's standing in the community but granting him no personal financial gain,' Rafael spelt out with biting emphasis. 'I wanted to reward him for his efforts on your behalf. Although he did not believe that you were entitled to claim my friendship, and he was afraid of being made to look foolish, he telephoned me. Were it not for his persistence and his conscientious scruples, you would still be in that cell!'

  His explanation made greater sense of the villagers' response to him than her own hasty assumption that he had used cash to grease the wheels of justice. She reddened, but she did not apologise.

  "The young truck-driver had lied about you but he withdrew his story,' Rafael continued icily. 'You were then free to leave without any further output from me. I did nothing but straighten out a misunderstanding.'

  She bent her head, her empty stomach rumbling. 'Do you think you could feed me while you lecture me?'

  'Feed you?'

  'I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday.'

  'Por Dios,' Rafael grated with raw impatience. 'Why did you not say so?'

  A microwaved meal arrived at speed. Georgie ate, grateful for any excuse not to have to speak while she attempted to put her thoughts in order. 'I am taking you home with me,' he had said, as if she was a stray dog or cat. 'Home' was the ancestral estancia on the vast savannah bounded by the Amazon. And the concept of Rafael taking her back there quite shattered Georgie. Even when she had been Maria Cristina's best friend at school, Rafael had blocked his sister's every request to bring Georgie out to stay on the estancia with them during the holidays.

  Memory was taking her back, although she didn't want it to. Georgie had won a fee-assisted place at an ex­clusive girls' school to study for her A levels. She had met Maria Cristina in the lower sixth. At half-term, she had invited her friend home for the weekend but, in some embarrassment, the Bolivian girl had explained that her brother, Rafael, who was her guardian, would not allow that unless he had first met Georgie and her parents.

  Georgie's father had been amused when he received a phone call from Rafael, requesting permission to take Georgie out for the afternoon in company with his sister. 'Charming but very formal for this day and age,' he had pronounced. 'You'd better mind your "p"s and "q"s there, my girl. I think you're about to be vetted.' Georgie still remembered coming down the steps in front of the school as the limousine swept up. She had guessed just by the way Maria Cristina talked that her friend was from a wealthy background, but she had not been prepared for a stretch limousine complete with chauffeur and security men. Then Rafael appeared and Georgie had been so busy looking at him that she had missed the last step and almost fallen flat on her face. He had reached out and caught her before she fell, laughing softly, dark eyes rich as golden honey sweeping her embarrassed face. 'My sister said you were accident-prone.'

  As Maria Cristina introduced them, his hand had lingered on hers, his narrowed gaze oddly intent until rather abruptly he had stepped back, a slight flush ac­centuating his hard cheekbones.

  He had taken them to the Ritz for afternoon tea. Georgie had been quieter than she had ever been in her life before and painfully shy, a condition equally new to her experience. Right from that first moment of meeting, Rafael had attracted her to a frighteningly strong degree. And Georgie hadn't known how to handle that at­traction. It had come out of nowhere and swallowed her alive, draining her of self-will. She had sat there on the edge of her seat, barely able to take her eyes off him, terrified he would notice.

  After the Ritz, he had taken them shopping in Harrods. Maria Cristina had casually spent an absolute fortune on trifles, and when Rafael had bought his sister a gold locket he had insisted on buying one identical for Georgie, smoothly dismissing her protests. Then he had ferried them back to her parents' home where he had been invited to stay to dinner.

  Newly conscious of just how rich her friend and her brother were, Georgie had been uncomfortable at first, fearfully watching for any signs of snobbish dis­comfiture from either of them. Her father was a primary schoolteacher and her stepmother, Jenny, a post-office clerk. Their home was a small, neat semi-detached. Half the neighbourhood had come out to stare at the stretch limousine. But Rafael and Maria Cristina had made themselves perfectly at home with her family... Steve hadn't been there that first time, Georgie recalled absently.

  'Do you want to know the only thing Rafael asked about you?' Maria Cristina had laughed after her brother had gone, shaking her head in wonderment. 'Is that hair natural?'

  For the remainder of her time at school, Georgie had been included in all of her friend's term-time outings with her brother. Gradually she had lost her awe of Rafael, learning to judge her reception by the frequency of that rare and spontaneous smile of his that turned her heart inside out, but also learning to accept that he observed strict boundaries in his behaviour towards her and was prone to cool withdrawal when her impulsive tongue came anywhere near breaching that barrier.

  'Rafael likes you,' Maria Cristina had said once—just one of many desperately gathered little titbits.

  'You make him laugh...'

  'He thinks you're very intelligent...'

  'He wonders why you aren't studyng Spanish...' What an agony of hope that had put her in! But then, it hadn't all been good news.

  'He thinks you flirt too much...'

  'He said if you wore your skirts any shorter, you'd be arrested...'

  'He believes that the two of us will only be adults when we stop telling each other absolutely everything!'

  But Georgie had never told Maria Cristina whose photograph she kept in that locket which she wore con­stantly. She had been horribly embarrassed the day her friend chose to tease her about that secrecy in front of Rafael. He had silenced his sister. Dark eyes had inter­cepted Georgie's anxious gaze and he had smiled lazily, and she had known that he knew perfectly well that it was his photo, taken by her with immensely careful casualness the previous year.

  She had met Danny Peters at a sports event a few months before she sat her final exams. They had run into each other several times, quickly forming an easy friendship. Danny had just been ditched by his steady girlfriend and Georgie had supplied a sympathetic ear. When he had asked Georgie to attend his school formal with him, she had agreed, well aware that he merely wanted to save face in front of his friends. It had been a fun night out, nothing more. But Maria Cristina had gone all giggly about it and had insisted on talking about Danny as Georgie's boyfriend. Had she mentioned Danny to Rafael?

  For, one week later, Georgie had come home from visiting her grandmother one afternoon and a scarlet Ferrari had been parked in the driveway. She had raced into the house and frozen on the threshold of the lounge, seeing only Rafael, nothing else but Rafael impinging on her awareness. His very presence in her home without his sister in tow had told Georgie all she needed to know.

  'Rafael thought you might like to go for a drive,' her stepmother had mumbled in a dazed voice. 'You should get changed.'

  She remembered Steve catching her by the arm before she disappeared into her bedroom. 'He's going to make a bloody fool of you,' he had condemned in a furious undertone. 'But money talks, doesn't it? I can't believe my mother is encouraging him!'

  Georgie sank back to the present. With a not quite steady hand, she massaged her stiff neck and strove not to lift her head and look at Rafael. But it was so difficult when she was remembering that glorious afternoon, the sheer joy that he had come, the overwhelming ex­citement of just being alone with him for t
he very first time. She had walked on air into that Ferrari.

  Before he reversed the car, he had lifted a hand and quite calmly reached for her locket to open it. And then he had smiled lazily, pressed a teasing promise of a kiss against her readily parted lips and dropped a bunch of red roses on her lap. 'If it had been anyone else, I do believe I would have killed you,' he had laughed softly.

  He had been outrageously confident of his reception, hadn't even tried to hide the fact. Georgie had had the bewildering feeling that she was being smoothly slotted into a pre-arranged plan, and in a sense that had of­fended her pride. She might have been head over heels in love with Rafael but she hadn't liked the idea that he knew it too.

  He had been entirely complacent about the idea that she had spent eighteen months waiting for him to show an interest in her, that he was indeed her first real boy­friend. . .if a male of his sophistication could even qualify for such a label. But he had also been careful to tell her that the day she told her sister she was seeing him, their relationship would be at an end. At the time, not telling Maria Cristina had really hurt. But later she had been grateful that she had kept quiet.

  'She's asking you if you want coffee.'

  Georgie's head jerked up, her cheeks warming as she found both the stewardess and Rafael regarding her en­quiringly. 'I'd love some,' she mumbled, shaking her bead as if to clear it and hurriedly fixing her attention elsewhere.

  Rafael added that she liked her coffee with both milk and sugar.

  Georgie tensed, childishly tempted to say she now took it black and unsweetened but biting her lip instead. Four years ago, Rafael had chosen her food for her, and had allowed her only the occasional glass of wine, refusing to allow her any other form of alcohol in his company.

  'He's a flipping tyrant,' Steve had sneered that final evening, witnessing Rafael's unashamed domination in action. 'I can't believe the way you let him order you around. If you want a drink, I'll get it for you!'