Private Passions

by Rochelle Alers

  She and her brother had come to Las Cruces to spend the summer. Chris, Sara, Michael and Emily Kirkland, and Billy Hall, the live-in housekeeper’s son, were inseparable. They rode horses, camped out in the desert, and, on several occasions, went hunting with Matthew Sterling.

  Late one afternoon, during a violent thunderstorm, he and Emily sat out the storm in the barn. She’d sat on the floor, gathering pieces of hay until she had a fistful. Then, without warning, she’d grasped the collar of his shirt and pushed the hay down his back. He’d reacted quickly, pushing her down and straddling her body, threatening to retaliate if she didn’t apologize. She stubbornly refused, and he’d lowered his body over hers until their faces were only inches apart.

  A shaft of light from the partially closed door swept over her face, highlighting her eyes when lightning lit the darkened skies, and he was mesmerized. It was as if it was the first time he’d realized their color. They’d become pinpoints of brilliant green against her chestnut-brown face. Neither had moved, both entranced by an awareness that hadn’t been there before. He’d felt the faint stirring of sexual arousal and scrambled off her prone body. Not wanting Emily to see him in a state of arousal, he’d walked out of the barn and into the fury of lightning bolts bouncing off the wet earth.

  She screamed for him to come back, but he’d ignored her until he was once again in control of himself and his body. It would be another four months before he celebrated his sixteenth birthday, but it had become a summer to remember. A time when the mere sight of the slim, long-legged, curly-haired girl reminded him that he’d been born male. It was also the first time he understood the unrestrained frenzy of the stallions when they encountered a mare in heat. He’d wanted to mate with his childhood friend. A rush of shame and guilt assailed him after he regained control of his runaway passions. Shame that he lusted after a girl whom he had always thought of as a younger sister. Guilt that he wanted to sleep with her when she’d trusted him to protect her.

  And now, almost twenty years later, he still lusted after her. But now she was his wife. A wife he couldn’t sleep with, touch or talk to whenever he wanted to because of the divergent paths their careers had taken. However, they had been given a weekend—hours wherein they could shut out the outside world to become reacquainted and share their love and passion.

  “I love your smell,” he crooned close to her ear.

  Emily closed her eyes and smiled. “Thank you.” Her sultry voice had lowered to a seductive whisper.

  He moved closer, molding his chest to her back. “Are you hungry?”

  A dreamy expression crossed her face. “Which hunger are you talking about?”

  A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Will I find Emily Kirkland-Delgado on the menu tonight?”

  Turning in his embrace, she offered him a saucy look. “Yes.”

  “Entrée or dessert?”

  Her lashes came down, hiding the desire she was unable to conceal from him. “Both.”

  Chris threw back his head, laughing. “Well, if that’s the case, then I suggest we go upstairs and dine.”

  Chapter 27

  Emily wasn’t certain why, but suddenly she felt shy when she stood in the middle of a large bedroom with a king-sized bed as its focal point. The bed’s iron and steel frames, black goose-down comforter and earth-tone throw pillows hinted of a masculine touch. A fire in the fireplace had been reduced to smoldering embers. The odor of fragrant burning wood chips lingered in the air.

  Her gaze was fixed on Chris’s tousled graying hair as he concentrated on unbuttoning her jacket. “Who owns this cabin?”

  His head came up as he gave her a direct stare. She noticed an emerging stubble on his cheeks and cleft chin and wondered if he’d shaved earlier that day.

  “It belongs to Steve Washington.”

  “Mr. Highway Patrol.”

  Chris pushed her jacket off her shoulders, dropping it on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. “He told me you were very calm after he pulled you over.”

  She shrugged her shoulders under the cashmere sweater. “It’s not the first time I’ve been stopped.”

  “How fast were you going this time?”

  “Only about ten miles an hour over the limit.”

  Cradling her face between his hands, he dropped a kiss on her pouting lips. “When are you going to stop speeding?”

  “I wasn’t speeding.”

  “What do you call speeding?”

  Pursing her lips, she appeared deep in thought, then said, “Ninety.”

  Chris’s nostrils flared as he let out his breath through tightly compressed lips. “Emily, don’t.”

  “You know I’m an expert driver.” And she was. Her father had given her tactical training, navigating obstacle courses at high speeds once she’d earned her driver’s license.

  “That’s not the point. Please don’t make me worry about you, baby girl.”

  “Please don’t lecture me, Chris,” she countered in a quiet tone. “Not tonight.” Moving closer, she pressed her full breasts to his chest. “I thought we were going to make love.”

  Bending slightly, he swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Placing his knee on the side of the bed, he lowered her to the mattress, his body following.

  “Stay here while I fill the bathtub. I thought we’d share a bath.” He placed a light kiss on the end of her nose before he left the bed and made his way to an adjoining bathroom.

  Emily lay in the semidarkness, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, trying to sort out the turns her life had taken. She’d married the man she had loved for more than half her life, yet she couldn’t reveal to the world that gubernatorial candidate Christopher Delgado was her husband. Another man had acted as a go-between in order that she could spend less than seventy-two hours with a man with whom she’d exchanged vows.

  I’m living a lie, a silent voice whispered in her head. She hadn’t told her parents, brother, relatives or friends that she was now Emily Delgado, wife of Christopher Blackwell Delgado. Hot tears sprang up behind her lids and she squeezed her eyes tightly to stop them from spilling down her cheeks.

  Meeting Chris in an out-of-the-way place for a few hours was not what she wanted. It was she who had insisted they keep their relationship secret because of her career. And it was Chris who perpetuated it once he proposed marriage.

  She covered her face with her hands, trying vainly to stave off a swell of hopelessness, berating herself for slipping into a morass of despair. All her life she’d prided herself on being in control—of everything. But since she’d become an earwitness to murder, she was more unnerved than she was willing to admit.

  Her mother had called her after she’d read an account of Bettina’s murder in a Florida newspaper, and she had minimized her involvement in reporting the story. Only William Savoy, his chief advisers, Governor Savoy, KCNS news chief Richard Adams and the Santa Fe Police Department knew she was the last one to see Bettina Gibson alive.

  In the past Emily never would have withheld anything from her parents—especially her mother. It was as if Vanessa Blanchard-Kirkland claimed an inherent gift that told her when someone was lying to her.

  She had remained in West Palm Beach for a week following her grandfather’s funeral, while the Sterlings and Lassiters departed the following day. Chris had flown back to Santa Fe that evening.

  Her father had been quiet and distant, and she thought it was because he was grieving his father’s death. She hadn’t known that Joshua Kirkland had confronted her husband about their association. When she’d sat with Chris during the memorial service for Samuel Claridge Cole, it seemed the most natural thing to do. After all, he was her husband.

  Turning over on her side and cradling her head on her arm, she closed her eyes. A hissing soun
d shattered the silence as minute pieces of burning embers sent up showers in a brilliant orange-yellow glow as Emily concentrated on listening to her own heartbeat. Her pulse had slowed.

  She hadn’t realized she had dozed off until she registered the familiar scent of Chris’s aftershave. He shook her softly while calling her name. Rolling over, she tried making out his features. He’d turned off the bedside lamp, and the only illumination came from the adjoining bathroom. The side of the bed dipped with his added weight.

  “Wake up, baby. I want to undress you.”

  She did not protest when he removed her boots, socks and slacks. Her sweater, bra and finally her bikini underpants followed. The tender graze of his fingers feathering over her breasts and down her rib cage caused her to hold her breath. His magical hands continued their foray on her naked body, communicating and awakening her dormant passions.

  Sitting up, Emily curved her arms around his neck, pressing her cheek to his. The stubble was missing; he’d shaved. Burying her face against his throat, she kissed the firm flesh, the side of his strong neck, then lower to the mat of crisp hair on his chest. Jolts of electricity shot through her breasts when they made contact with the silk fabric of his kimono-styled bathrobe.

  The pulse in his throat quickened with her sensual assault, and Chris swept her off the bed and carried her into the bathroom. She was lighter, weighed much less than she had before, and he wondered how she had lost so much weight in such a short period of time. He would only have her for two nights, but during that time he would make certain she ate.

  Emily gasped aloud when Chris stepped into the bathroom. Lighted candles burned on a window seat, around the ledge of a sunken, cream-colored marble tub and a matching marble dressing table. The ledge also held two fluted crystal glasses, a matching vase filled with a profusion of pale peach roses and a bottle of champagne in a silver bowl. The calming scent of vanilla wafted in the air. The only other illumination was from a fire burning behind a decorative grate to a fireplace carved into the same wall from which the tub was built. It was a place where peace and quiet met.

  Jets pulsed in the tub as Chris lowered her into the warm, swirling waters. Her gaze, locked with his, revealed her surprise and delight. The soothing water lapped up around her breasts.

  “What a wonderful way to celebrate a reunion.” Her voice was pregnant with emotion.

  Removing the black silk robe with embroidered Japanese characters indicating love and peace, Chris dropped it to the floor and stepped into the tub. The oversized tub was large enough to accommodate four adults.

  Moving closer to Emily, he settled her between his legs, his chest pressing against her back. “I’d like to think of it as our celebrating our first anniversary.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “We’ve only been married a month.”

  Lowering his head, he kissed her ear. “That’s what we’re celebrating—our first month.”

  Her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Is this what I have to look forward to every month of my life with you? Aren’t you afraid of running out of innovative ways to celebrate each month?”

  Cradling her breasts between his hands, he massaged the firm globes of flesh until they grew heavy against his fingers. “I want to celebrate every month the first year, then every year thereafter.”

  Smothering a moan, Emily tried to ignore the gentle massage of his fingers sending currents of desire through her. Resting the back of her head on his shoulder, she closed her eyes, reveling in the passion only Chris could elicit from her.

  Her hand moved between his thighs and grasped his maleness. It was his turn to moan when she held him captive, his swelling flesh hardening against her fingers as she stroked him in a strong, measured rhythm. She released him long enough to turn and straddle his thighs. Before Chris could recover, she reached between their slick bodies, seizing him again, while her breasts flattened against his damp, hair-covered chest.

  He curved an arm around her waist and within seconds joined her body to his. Every element added to the sensual coupling: the burning candles, smoldering fire, warm swirling water and dammed-up passions.

  The water in the tub added a buoyancy to their lovemaking that hadn’t been there before. Emily tightened her grip on her husband’s neck. Her long legs circled his waist and she rode the waves of ecstasy. Her eager response matched his own, and both sought a penetration so deep that they ceased to exist as separate entities.

  His mouth was everywhere—her neck, throat, shoulders. It was as if he wanted to devour her—whole.

  Curving her arms under his shoulders, Emily concentrated on the swollen flesh pushing against the walls of her womb with each unrestrained upward thrust. Closing her eyes, she shuddered uncontrollably when the first spasm shook her.

  “Chris!” His name was a desperate whisper against his ear. She called him again.

  He was past the point of no return. Nothing mattered. Not the campaign, William Savoy, or the fact that, as governor of New Mexico, he would have more authority than those of most states. As Governor Delgado he would have the usual powers of pardon, reprieve and veto; in addition he would appoint most of the state boards, departments, agencies and commissions. Consequently, he would be the virtual master of patronage and the state’s political organization.

  But all that really mattered was the woman he’d claimed as his wife. He loved Emily with an intensity that frightened him. Now he knew how Alejandro had felt about Eve Blackwell; whenever he was with Emily he wasn’t in control of himself or his existence. It was she who unknowingly held the power to destroy him. All she had to do was open her mouth and tell him to drop out of the race and he would. She possessed the power to tell him to come—and he would. Go—and he would.

  While buried deep in her soft, scented body he became whole again. She’d become his past, present and future.

  Their bodies were in exquisite harmony with one another as their passions peaked, exploding in a deluge of fiery sensations that took them beyond themselves. Emily’s gasps of wonderment matched Chris’s deep groans of fulfillment. Her eyes opened. He stared at her, an expression of savage carnality radiating from his black gaze. He’d become someone she did not recognize. The man to whom she had offered her virginity and married had transformed himself into a complete stranger.

  Closing her eyes, Emily collapsed against his chest, struggling to slow her pounding heart. They lay together, limbs entwined, Emily suddenly aware of the import of this coupling. Her husband had not protected her. Christopher Blackwell Delgado had waited for her most fertile time of the month to make love to her without contraception.

  A soft smile curved her mouth. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Chris had just buried his father, and if he had gotten her pregnant, then the blood of Alejandro Delgado-Quintero would continue to flow in his grandchild.

  She lay in the comforting arms of her husband, feeling the strong pumping of his heart against her breasts. “Happy anniversary, darling.”

  Raining kisses along the length of her neck, Chris chuckled. “Happy anniversary to you, too, wife.” Pulling back, he stared at her upturned face. Moisture dotted her face, lashes and hair. “Will you share a glass of champagne with me?”

  Her lips parted as she offered him a sensual smile. “Of course.”

  Chris was loath to withdraw from her, but he did so reluctantly. Moving across the tub, he uncorked the bottle of champagne, filling the flutes with the pale, bubbling wine. Emily eased closer, accepting the glass from him. They touched glasses, then sipped. The bubbles tickled Emily’s nose as she stared at her husband over the rim.

  Placing his glass on the ledge, Chris reached for Emily’s left hand. She stared, motionless, when he reached around one of the candles and withdrew a ring. The flickering light bounced off the three large stones in the platinum band. He sli
pped the circlet with its central oval diamond flanked by two slightly smaller ones on her third finger. Her gaze was fixed on the magnificent three-stone anniversary band.

  “You deserve to wear a ring that no other woman has worn before.”

  She knew he was referring to the wedding band he’d slipped on her finger, which had belonged to his paternal grandmother. And she also suspected he hadn’t forgotten that Keith Norris had given her a ring.

  The magnificence of the stones were apparent even in the diffused light. Her head came up slowly, her eyes filling with tears that turned them into another kind of jewels.

  “It’s beautiful, Chris.” Her tantalizing voice had lowered, sending a shiver of desire along Chris’s nerve endings.

  “I love you, Emily. I know I tell you that, but somehow it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.”

  She shook her head, tears flowing down her silken cheeks. “It’s enough,” she whispered.

  Pulling her against his body, Chris held her gently as she rested her head on his shoulder and cried. He lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers, tasting her salty tears.

  “I promised Alejandro that if we have a son I would name him after him.” Emily nodded, not saying a word. “Do you want a baby, Emily?”

  There was a moment’s silence before she said quietly, “Yes.”

  “We can start trying this weekend.”

  The warmth of his champagne-scented breath and the soft, soothing sound of his voice swept over her. “I’d like that very much.”

  Chris released Emily long enough to refill their glasses. Tilting his head at an angle, he smiled at her. “Here’s to another generation of Coles, Kirklands, Sterlings and Delgados,” he said in Spanish.

  She touched her glass to his, smiling broadly. “¡Salud!”