by Gayle Wilson
She put her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes. How could she know it would never matter to her? How could she really guarantee something like that? Was he wiser than she in wondering how the reality of what had been done to him would eventually affect her feelings?
She straightened and looked at the woman in the mirror. If she could doubt the depth of what she felt, why shouldn’t he? Why should he believe her when she said that none of it mattered?
You’ll have to take it on faith. Paul’s words echoed through her doubts. Every relationship, every commitment, every marriage was based only on faith. Faith that feelings didn’t change, that vows really were forever. If you could know it for fact, her mother had always said, then they wouldn’t call it faith.
The aquamarine eyes of the woman in the mirror swam with sudden tears.
“Damn it,” Rae whispered to her reflection. “You cry, and it’s over. You let him see you cry, and he’ll have you on the next flight to El Paso.”
Angry with herself, she pulled the robe off the hook behind the door and slipped it on, belting it with fingers that trembled. She took another look in the mirror. There was no evidence of the fear, the sudden doubt that she might be wrong. The woman reflected there seemed serenely sure and, Rae realized with wonder, despite the total absence of makeup, almost beautiful. Simply a woman anticipating being with the man she loved.
Rafe was leaning back against the stacked pillows, wearing only the bottoms of a pair of black pajamas, his chest and shoulders broad and dark against the white of the bed linens. He looked perfectly relaxed, completely masculine, and she wondered suddenly how many times he had waited here for someone as he waited now for her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when she hesitated beside the bed.
“You look so…practiced,” she said finally.
“Practiced?” he questioned. He caught her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. His fingers gripped her shoulders.
“Like you wait for someone to come out of that doorway every night.” She could hear the wrong note in her voice. The playboy brother. Suddenly she was jealous of anyone else who had ever touched him.
“This is my brother’s house. I have never brought anyone else here. I swear that. There has never been another woman here with me. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching to touch her lips to his. “I know I don’t have the right—”
“You have the right,” he said, opening his mouth under hers. She felt the response course through her body like a current.
He finally broke the kiss and leaned back to look at her. “I’ve lain in this bed so many nights and thought about you. I thought that never again would I be able to touch you, and now you’re here.”
“You made the decision to keep me away, in the dark about who you were.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing. Maybe I was.”
“Are you regretting—?”
“No,” he interrupted and she heard the depth of emotion. “Whatever happens, I can’t regret having you here. I thought it was better for you to send you away, but I want you so much.”
He took her face gently between his hands and studied her features a long time, as if memorizing them, and finally he lowered his mouth to hers again. She put her arms around the hard, bare shoulders and could feel the muscles move under her fingers as he tightened his hold on her body, moving his hand down her spine to force her closer.
He kissed her until she couldn’t breathe. Finally he raised his head and lightly touched her mouth and eyelids and then her forehead with his lips.
“You are again overdressed for the occasion,” he whispered and competently, with the fingers of one hand, began to undo the knot she’d tied to belt the robe.
“Rafe,” she said, trying to remember why she should resist this. The image from her mirror flashed in her head, and she put her fingers over his.
He shook his head. “No more, querida. No more hiding.”
She let him slide the robe off her shoulders, and it fell around her as she sat before him. She watched the dark eyes find the scarring, the ugly mark of the bullet she had taken to save his life.
And then they lifted to smile into hers.
“Whenever you’re ready to have this done,” he said, lowering his mouth to trace lightly over the scar, “I know a very good plastic surgeon.”
He looked up, still smiling, to let her examine his face.
“Yes,” she said after she had looked a long time. “Yes, you certainly do.”
“I didn’t like your eyes that day, querida,” he said.
“Why hadn’t you had it done before?”
“They always wait until a scar has healed as much as possible on its own, and at that point I didn’t care. I’d had a couple of operations on my legs, been in and out of hospitals for months, and I was tired of it all. And I had believed, until I saw your eyes that day, that I would never again care what a woman thought about my face.”
He lowered his mouth to her throat, and she closed her eyes. She had dreamed so many nights that he would touch her like this. His lips found the smooth, fragrant valley between her breasts, and his tongue made languid patterns against the ivory skin. She wanted more, so she found his hand and cupped it under her breast. He looked up and smiled at her.
“No patience,” he whispered, but he didn’t remove his hand. It caressed with the old sureness, with an almostinstinctive knowledge of what she wanted. Finally he touched her there with his lips, and she felt as if her skin were on fire and only his mouth could stop the burning. When he took the peak into his mouth and suckled hard, she gasped at the pleasure.
He turned her so that she lay on the bed, her body fully exposed to him for the first time, and his slow smile curved. He lay down beside her, propped on one elbow, and ran his palm lightly from her breasts to her stomach and as far as his long arm could reach down her legs. Then he moved his hand up again, its callused strength trailing against the silken texture of her inner thigh, gently smoothing skin that tingled with the anticipation of his destination. He watched her face as he began to touch her where she had known he would, where she ached for his touch.
Her eyes closed as he made her respond with all the authority he had always had over her body, over her emotions. His mouth moved against her throat and down again to nuzzle softly over the pearled nipples. Her breathing deepened, her lids drifting open to watch him stroke her breasts with his tongue. She began to move under his fingers, and he looked up to find her watching him, her bluegreen eyes locked on his face, and he smiled at her.
“I want you,” she whispered. “Make love to me. Please.”
He guided her until she was astride him as she had always been before, helping him move into the emptiness that had been inside for so long.
She saw the deep breath that racked his body as she slowly took all of him into her soul, and then he whispered, “I think I’m the one who will not be able to have patience. I want you so much. Forgive me, my heart.”
But he didn’t leave her behind. She watched the desire build in his face and knew that he loved her. She smiled above him and, feeling his urgent hands against her waist, she moved to give him the most pleasure, the deepest joining, the strongest answer to his need. Finally the sensations began inside her body that corresponded to the convulsions jolting through his. Too soon she lay against his chest, still joined, but exhausted by what they had shared. She stretched her legs out atop the long length of his. His lips lightly touched her forehead, which rested beside his chin.
“Again?” she suggested and felt the small spurt of laughter shake the broad chest she lay against. Instead his arm tightened around her, his hand finding her hipbone. He ran one caressing finger over its protrusion. When he pulled her to lie beside him, she wanted to cry out at the separation. She moved her hand over his stomach and into the darkness below that was exposed by the opened pajamas.
He let her touch him, and eventually s
he felt him grow hard against her fingers. There was nothing tentative about the way she caressed him now. When he began to again position her over him, she resisted his direction.
“No. On top of me,” she whispered. “I want to feel your weight against me. I want to feel every inch of your body over mine.”
She felt his breathing pause, the skillful hands hesitate, and she knew something was wrong. Suddenly, dark fingers locked on her upper arms to hold her body prisoner against the bed, as forcefully as the black eyes held hers. She waited, wondering, and eventually the tenseness of his hands eased.
“Indulge me, querida,” he suggested softly. “The other’s easier for me.”
Her stomach lurched with the realization of what he’d just confessed—the reason he had always wanted her on top. She could hear what his honesty had cost in the rawness of the whisper she had loved before she had loved him.
But into her mind came the memory of when he’d first made love to her. She had never forgotten the hard strength of his body over hers, driving, controlling, commanding her responses with such tender surety.
“The first time…” she began and then wondered why she was questioning. It didn’t matter how they were together. It had never mattered to her.
“Not impossible, querida,” he explained, the same remembrance caught in the seductive caress of his voice. “I’m still mobile enough to make love to you, my heart,” he said, finally smiling at her before he added, “any way you desire.”
She swallowed against the lump that suddenly crowded her throat as he dropped a kiss on the very tip of her nose.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I—”
“No,” he said. “No apologies. I told you. No more hiding in the darkness. For either of us.”
She nodded, still meeting his gaze.
“It’s just…easier,” he said again, “if you’re willing to take the more active role. And you were always so willing.”
Easier. Another euphemism. Less painful for the brutally damaged legs.
She reached for his mouth, and he let her kiss him, but then he lifted his lips from hers and loosened the pressure of his hands against her arms. She lay very still, forcing her eyes to hold his, fighting tears he would never be allowed to see.
“Don’t ever pity me, querida,“ he ordered, his voice as soft as before, but she recognized the depth of emotion behind the warning. “That I won’t tolerate. Not even from you.”
“No,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Only when he smiled at her again, did the tightness in her chest begin to ease.
“You never wondered?” he asked, his thumb smoothing a curling strand of auburn hair away from her temple. His lips lowered to trail along her throat.
“I never thought about it.”
When he spoke again, his breath was skimming teasingly over the moisture that had gathered between her breasts.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t think about it now.”
And after a while, she didn’t.
THE SHRILL ALARM threw her back into a panicked response to dangers that no longer existed. She woke instantly, mouth dry, heart pounding, her body automatically preparing to meet whatever threat was there. She felt his arm tighten comfortingly around her, holding her and holding back the fear.
“It’s all right, querida,“ Rafe said quietly. “I have you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
He reached for the phone that had already pealed again into the dimness of his bedroom. He didn’t release her, even as he answered it.
She felt her tension ease as she listened to his soft Spanish. Carlos, calling from Colombia, she realized after only a few sentences. His family wanted to check on him, of course. She waited for him to explain that he wasn’t alone, that they no longer needed to worry about his spending Christmas by himself, but the conversation continued without any mention of her. And still he held her, occasionally smiling down into her eyes as he talked, his thumb making small, caressing circles over the soft skin inside her elbow.
Rafe didn’t intend to tell them she was here, she realized. Not even Carlos, whom she had met, who had been kind to her. And why should he? Maybe she was only one of his many pleasant memories.
She wondered if she could live with that. Her dreams had always centered around white lace and babies. That was how she’d been raised. To take someone home to meet her mother. And to be taken home. Instead, it seemed, he wasn’t going to mention her. Not even, Oh, by the way, don’t worry. I’m not spending Christmas alone.
When he hung up, he pulled her closer, his mouth against her forehead.
“I’m sorry the phone woke you,” he said.
“Were you asleep?” she asked, trying to let the pain of the other go.
“I’ve just been watching you.”
“Great,” she said, embarrassed. He had always seen her at her worst. Mouth open? Snoring, maybe? “Do you know that you snore?” she asked, remembering the night she’d lain awake listening. The night she’d betrayed him. The night she’d warned Kyle he wasn’t dealing with the cartel.
“No,” he said, leaning to kiss her, “but I know that you don’t. You sleep beautifully, like an angel.”
“And lines like that have really worked for you?” she mocked. There was something wrong with her tone-—the pain covered over, perhaps, but still there. And of course, he knew.
“What’s wrong, querida?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Rae?” he questioned.
“Why didn’t you tell Carlos I was here?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, but his eyes never left her face.
“Why do you think I didn’t say anything to Carlos?”
“Because it wasn’t important enough to mention?” she suggested bitterly.
“Is that what you think? That I don’t consider this important?”
“Then why didn’t you tell Carlos I was here? Are you embarrassed I’m with you? That I’m in his home?”
“Embarrassed?” he repeated. “Why the hell would I be embarrassed that you’re with me?”
“Because I’m not like the others,” she admitted. She had always known that, from the time he’d sent Diego with the black silk. That’s what his women wore.
“There are no others, Rae,” he said.
She nodded, but her eyes fell. He touched her chin, lifting her head until again she met his gaze. “There are no others, querida. And whatever there might have been before…” She waited, hoping for something. “Having you here, Rae, is the most important thing in my life.”
“Then why didn’t you tell Carlos? They’re worried about you because they think you’re spending Christmas alone.”
“This is a private line, direct to my bedroom. He knows where I am. If I told him you’re here, he’d know you are in my bed.”
“I don’t care if he knows,” she argued, but somewhere inside she knew that she did.
“I care, querida,” Rafe said softly. “I’m a little old-fashioned when it comes to you.”
“So you don’t kiss and tell, Mr. Ramirez. That’s very nice to know.” A little old-fashioned. Like white lace. Maybe someday.
“And besides, Carlos has already told me I’m a fool. I didn’t want to listen to my big brother say ‘I told you so.’” From somewhere a thread of amusement had crept into that confession.
“A fool?”
“For letting you go,” he acknowledged softly.
“I knew I liked Carlos.”
He smiled at her.
“So, are you going to?” she asked.
“Am I going to what?”
“Let me go?” she whispered. She turned her head to kiss him, giving the lightest brush of her lips against the corner of his mouth.
“Querida, there’s so much—”
“I don’t care, Rafe. None of it’s important. Nothing you can say matters against what I feel.”
“Rae-”
“No comm
itments. I’m not asking you for anything but to be with you. Whatever rules you want.”
“Damn it, Rae, I don’t want rules. I just don’t believe-”
“Faith,” she interrupted, turning against him to push her tongue into his open mouth. “Just take it on faith.” She felt the tension of their argument in his body, and she fought it, trying to convince him with her kiss that this was right and inevitable, no matter what problems he imagined might interfere.
“Until you do believe,” she whispered. Her breasts touched the muscled contours of his chest, and she smiled at the depth of the breath he suddenly took. She moved until once more she was over him, watching the midnight eyes close as she tried to convince him that what she had said was true. Nothing else mattered. Nothing but this. Nothing but what they created together in the darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
They drifted through the week he had promised her before the return of his family. There were literally no outside distractions to their rediscovery of each other, and the chains that had bound her to him from the first tightened through the long days.
They spent hours talking, recounting childhood escapades, family stories. Their worlds were so different, and she began to recognize the vastness of the gulf that his wealth, education, and family’s position put between them.
Rafe was lying beside her one rainy afternoon, drawing patterns on her skin with his finger dipped in the wine he was drinking. At first, he had written messages that he teasingly demanded she interpret, but they had become so increasingly suggestive that one thing had led to another. Now they lay together in the twisted sheets, as he lazily moved one dark finger over the ivory skin of her stomach.
“When…” she began and found she couldn’t put her fear into words.
“What?” he questioned at her hesitation. He bent his head to lick the wine from the design he had drawn.
“When will you go back to Colombia?” she asked, and saw the surprise in his eyes as they lifted to meet hers.
“Colombia? Why would you think I’m going back to Colombia?”
“Grajales said you handle your family’s investments. I just assumed…”
