Private Passions

by Rochelle Alers

  Closing her eyes, Emily felt the rapid pounding of her heart keeping tempo with his. She hadn’t meant to tell him now, but if he was to become her lover, then he had the right to know, to know that she had waited for him.

  “I couldn’t…not with the others,” she confessed, her voice much shakier than she wanted it to be.

  It was Chris’s turn to close his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Emily had dated Keith Norris for a year, yet their relationship had remained platonic. And now she was willing to sleep with him and give him the most precious gift a woman could offer any man. A gift she would only offer up once in her lifetime.

  “I will never dishonor you, Emelia.” There was a faint tremor in his voice, as though some deep emotion had touched him. “I will treasure you always.”

  What he did not say was that he would never be unfaithful to her. Unlike Alejandro Delgado, who’d slept with his wife and any other woman he’d found himself attracted to.

  Emily smiled. “Thank you.”

  They lay together until their passions cooled, then rose and made their way down to the water. Chris swung Emily up in his arms and carried her out where gentle waves lapped against his chest. Lowering his head, he kissed her gently on the lips as she slid down the length of his body. Her arms circled his strong neck, her full breasts flattening against his chest.

  Pulling back, he smiled at her. He wasn’t disappointed when she returned it with a sensual one of her own. “I love you, baby,” he whispered against her moist lips.

  Burying her face in his neck, Emily breathed a kiss under his ear. “And I you.”

  Their simple declaration of love stayed with them as they cooled their passions in the clear, azure waters of what had become their private retreat. They tired of swimming and returned to the beach to lie under the tropical sun until the heat absorbed the moisture from their hair, skin and clothing.

  * * *

  Emily lay across the four-poster bed, peering through the swathing of sheer gauze drapery. The rumble of thunder disturbed the solitude as fat drops of rain beat against the shuttered windows in a rhythmic tapping. The distinctive smell of rain wafted into the bedroom, mingling with the haunting, cloying scent of tropical flowers and fruit.

  She and Chris had cleaned up the remains of their lunch, then returned to the house for a siesta. Both were silent, each lost in their own private thoughts. It was if they were loath to speak because their respect for each other’s privacy had become paramount to them.

  She had fallen in love with Christopher Delgado almost eighteen years earlier. Now she lay on a bed in a house on a sensual tropical island in the Caribbean, while Chris lay on a similar bed less than two minutes from her, filled with a dizzying anticipation of what she knew she would come to share with him.

  Offering him her virginal body did not frighten her as much as she feared she could satisfy him. Turning over on her belly, she pounded the pillow under her head.

  “I’m too old for this,” she mumbled against the embroidered antique fabric.

  She should have been like some of the other girls she had gone to high school and college with. She should have relinquished her virginity when she had her first serious boyfriend, instead of waiting for a man who knew she existed but chose to interact with her in the same manner as he did his own sister.

  The other girls never knew she was saving herself for one man—none except Sara Sterling. Sara was the one who listened to her most prized secret, a secret she could not tell her parish priest. Her best friend had listened while she poured out her heart when rumors were circulating that Christopher had considered proposing marriage to a fellow law student. The rumors ended abruptly when the young woman eloped with one of their law school professors less than a month after their graduation.

  “Would you like company?”

  Emily’s head came up quickly and she shifted on the bed to find the subject of her musings standing in the doorway, dressed only in a pair of walking shorts.

  Her pulse raced uncontrollably as she surveyed his tall, lean body. The sun had quickly darkened his skin to a rich mahogany brown. It was as if she were seeing him for the very first time. His short hair, usually brushed neatly against his scalp, was tousled in sexy waves. Hairy, muscular forearms were crossed over his equally muscled, hair-matted chest, making it difficult for her to draw a normal breath. Years of skiing had given him a magnificently developed upper body.

  Rising up on an elbow, she parted the mosquito draping, moved over and patted the mattress. “Come.”

  Chris strolled into the bedroom, lay down beside Emily and pulled the sheer draping around the bed. His sensitive nostrils caught the familiar scent of lilies clinging to her skin, the delicate nightgown she wore to cover her nakedness and the bed linen. Turning on his side to face her, he felt a familiar stirring in his loins, wondering if he had made the right decision to come to her bedroom. He had spent an uneasy half hour in his own bed, tossing and turning, his mind filled with the images of their passionate coupling on the beach.

  His obsidian gaze lingered on her suntanned face. The freckles across the bridge of her delicate nose were no longer visible, and the added color made her eyes appear much lighter than they actually were.

  He placed a hand on her velvety cheek. “Are you using a sunscreen?” She nodded. “You’ve gotten a lot of sun in just a few days. You’re going to ruin you skin.”

  She closed her eyes tightly. “Do you see any crow’s-feet around my eyes?”

  Chris forced himself not to smile. “No.” His hand moved up to her already mussed hair, smoothing back the raven curls.

  Her eyes opened and she stared at him staring back at her. “Will you still love me when I’m wrinkled and gray?”

  He heard the apprehension in her voice. This was an Emily Kirkland he did not know. The woman he knew had always presented herself with supreme confidence and self-assurance. Even when he had come to her after the police shot the man who had been stalking her, she had exhibited a calm that was almost unnatural. She’d teased him, saying it was better that the police captured the crazed man rather than her father or brother. His gaze narrowed. Where had her uncertainty come from? Why this fear of him not loving her?

  “Will you continue to love me even though I am wrinkled and gray?” he asked, answering her question with one of his own.

  “You’re not wrinkled and gray,” she countered quickly.

  “I have lines around my eyes when I smile and I’m graying at an alarming rate. I’m willing to bet that I’ll be completely white before I’m forty.”

  She touched the corner of one of his eyes with her forefinger. “They are called character lines. And your salt-and-pepper hair is sexy.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Yes, hardly.” She ran her fingers through his hair, lifting the strands. “You should wear your hair like this. It would make you look less staid, less severe.” A roll of thunder shook the earth, followed by a flash of lightning, and Emily jumped slightly.

  A slight smile curved his mouth. “You sound like Reanna.”

  She lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Reanna?”

  Chris nodded. “Reanna Benton. She’s my publicist. Two weeks ago I had a session for a complete image makeover. I sat for official photographs in formal and informal dress, and she selected the two poses that will go on the campaign buttons.”

  “Are you ready for this campaign?”

  Anticipation fired his dark eyes. “I was ready two years ago after I defeated Billy Savoy by only sixty-four votes.”

  “If you defeat Savoy—”

  “There are no ifs, Emily,” Chris said arrogantly, interrupting her. “I will defeat the man again—this time by more than sixty-four votes.” His unwavering stare matched his resolute declaration.

  She
met his accusing gaze without flinching. “After four years as governor, what are you going to do? You know you’ll be ineligible for a state elective position for four years thereafter.”

  He glanced over her shoulder, staring through the sheer drape shrouding the bed. “Sara and I have talked about opening a practice together. We haven’t decided whether it will be Delgado and Lassiter, or Lassiter and Delgado.”

  “You’re going to give up your apartment in Santa Fe and move back to Las Cruces?”

  His gaze returned to hers. He nodded. “More than likely I will. Dad said he’ll wait until after the election before he decides what he’s going to do with the horse farm. Salem has approached him with the idea that Sterling Farms become a registered stud farm.”

  Salem Lassiter, his veterinarian brother-in-law, owned the property abutting Sterling Farms, and he and Matthew Sterling had shared many hours discussing the future of the horse farm. Matthew had spent nearly thirty-five years breeding and training champion Thoroughbreds, but at seventy years of age planned to move to a much smaller house with his wife. Matt and Eve looked forward to occasional visits from their children and grandchildren in between the other activities they had planned for themselves.

  Closing her eyes, Emily buried her face against his bare chest. Chris professed that he loved her, but not once had he spoken of a future together. Swallowing back her disappointment, she settled against his body and willed her mind blank.

  “Do you mind going out in the rain?” His soothing voice caressed her ear.

  “No,” she answered, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “Where do you want to go?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’d like to do a little shopping.”

  “We can go into the center of the city. There are a few malls and dozens of stalls where you can buy handmade crafts.”

  Chris brushed a gentle kiss across her forehead. “Do you have a date for New Year’s Eve, Miss Kirkland?”

  Easing back, her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Why do you ask, Mr. Delgado?”

  He grinned down at her. “Will you honor me by going out with me tomorrow evening?”

  Emily ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, bringing his fiery gaze to linger on her mouth. “I’ll let you know after I check my book,” she teased.

  Curving a hand around her neck, he lowered his head and brushed his mouth over hers. “Whoever he is had better find himself another date. You belong to me.”

  Emily stared at him, complete surprise on her face. “What’s going on with you?”

  Chris’s expression changed, becoming suddenly grim. “Nothing,” he mumbled angrily. “I don’t plan on sharing you with Keith Norris, or any other man, for that matter.”

  She went completely still, nothing moving—not even her eyes, which had paled to a forbidding pale green. “Let’s get something straight, Christopher Delgado. You don’t own me. No man owns me. I see who I want, whenever I want,” she continued recklessly.

  A silence ensued, bristling with tension, while they regarded each other like wary strangers. Chris knew he had made a great faux pas. He could not treat Emily like the others because she was nothing like the other women in his past. Perhaps that was why he had been so drawn to her, because she was totally impervious when it came to catering to his every whim, unlike the one or two women who had campaigned vigorously to become Mrs. Christopher Delgado.

  It hadn’t mattered to Emily that he was the doted-upon son of one of Las Cruces’s prominent families, or that once he entered adolescence members of the opposite sex were drawn to him. The fact that he claimed above-average intelligence and that his parents owned a multimillion-dollar horse farm meant nothing to Emily Kirkland. She had grown up relating to him as if he were her older brother. There were occasions when they argued like siblings, and one or two times when her quick temper had gotten the better of her, when she came at him spitting and clawing like a ferocious cat. He’d always managed to subdue her by holding her wrists or placing his body over hers until she submitted to his superior strength.

  If any other woman had said to him what Emily had just said, he would’ve gotten up and walked away from her—forever. But he could not walk away now; he had bared his soul and confessed his love for her. He loved her and she loved him. Their families and destinies were linked since before their birth.

  His hands fell away and he moved off the bed, his gaze never leaving her face. “I’d better get dressed if we’re going out.” His voice was deceptively calm, masking the rage he had successfully repressed.

  Emily lay back on the pile of pillows cradling her shoulders, staring up at the ceiling. She did not know what had possessed her to challenge Chris with the threat that she would see other men, but she refused to begin a liaison with him in which he would dictate what she could and could not do.

  She loved him, but she refused to surrender her will. And if he thought he knew her, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

  No one knew Emily Teresa Kirkland that well. Not even her parents.

  Chapter 9

  December 31

  Wakefulness did not rest easy for Emily. It was the last day of the year and the thunderstorms of the previous day had given way to a thick haze that blanketed the coast, making visibility nearly impossible.

  She struggled to open her eyes, her lids fluttering several times before she was able to focus clearly on the jalousie-shuttered windows. Diffused light filtered through the slats, giving no indication of the hour.

  Turning over on her back, she closed her eyes again. She and Chris had established a temporary truce. After her verbal reprimand they had driven into town without exchanging more than half a dozen overly polite words. She’d waited in the car while he visited several shops to purchase souvenirs for his parents, sister, brother-in-law and nephew.

  Their silent impasse continued until they shared dinner at the Almond Tree. The popular restaurant boasted an extensive à la carte menu featuring Jamaican specialties, as well as seafood and steaks. They were served by candlelight on a terrace overlooking the sea. Several cruise ships had docked, and the disembarking passengers crowded the streets, shops and restaurants, adding a boisterousness to Ocho Rios’s normal carefree frivolity.

  Chris had sampled a dish made with ackee and codfish—Jamaica’s national dish—discovering it much to his liking. However, he’d confessed that he found it difficult to understand some of the local dialect, known as Jamaica Talk. She had lapsed easily into the dialect, then translated what she’d said for him. He tried it, bungling the words, and she’d laughed at his attempt, saying it was easier to learn than Spanish. Chris’s parents were fluent in Spanish, while her father had taught her the language. Her laughter dispelled their strained mood, and they’d spent the rest of the evening exchanging flirtatious smiles.

  She opened her eyes. Pushing back the mosquito netting, she sat up and swung her long, tanned legs over the edge of the bed. A minute later, she left the bed and made her way across the room to the adjoining bath.

  * * *

  Emily walked into the kitchen and was met by the smell of brewing coffee and the sight of Chris standing at the sink. Two large bananas and a pineapple rested on a counter near his left hand. She stood motionless, charmed by his attempt to prepare breakfast; she had always teased him about his inability to cook. Crossing her arms under her breasts, she surveyed his muscular, athletic legs under a pair of cutoff jeans. A startlingly white T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, emphasizing the sun-browned darkness of his skin.

  “Would you like some help?”

  Chris glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Emily’s voice, juggling a mango he had picked from one of the trees earlier that morning and catching it before it fell into the sink.

  “Not yet,” he replied. Turning around, he fla
shed a warm smile. His gaze cast an approving glance at her scantily clad body in a pair of shorts, tank top and bare feet. “Are you hungry?”

  She walked into the kitchen and leaned against the countertop, staring at his well-defined profile. The scent of soap lingered on his skin, indicating that he had showered, although the stubble on his lean cheeks revealed he hadn’t shaved. The slight puffiness under his penetrating dark eyes showed that he hadn’t had a restful night’s sleep.

  “No.”

  And she wasn’t hungry. She’d found herself eating more often here than she did in Santa Fe. Her diet in Ocho Rios included a lot of fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. Her exercise regimen was swimming several times a day in the ocean instead of trying to schedule swimming laps in an indoor pool at a local sports club.

  “Are you sure you don’t need help?” she asked, grimacing slightly as he began to practically mutilate the mango, peeling away too much fruit as he wielded a small, sharp knife over the firm skin.

  Chris handed Emily the knife. “Let me watch you.” She deftly peeled the mango, her slender fingers making quick work of the task. “You make it look so easy,” he murmured.

  “Practice, Chris.”

  “I never had to practice.”

  “That’s because you were spoiled by a live-in cook.”

  “And you’re not spoiled” he asked, rinsing his hands.

  “No. At least I learned to cook, Christopher Blackwell Delgado. I don’t fill up on coffee whenever I get hungry.”

  Moving behind her, he gathered her into his arms, holding her gently and making her his prisoner. “You didn’t have to go there, Miss Kirkland,” he growled near her ear.

  It was difficult for her to breathe as she felt the pressure of his body against hers. She stared down at the dark brown arms cradled beneath her breasts.

  “Chris.” His name came out in a shivering whisper.