“Look, there’s this guy who works with Jim named Mike Hughes. He’s really nice, Krista, and he thinks you’re pretty. How about a date, you and Mike, and Jim and me? We could go out to dinner—” She let the sentence end abruptly. It was obvious that Krista had no interest in the unseen Mike Hughes. “Let’s see…there’s also Darren Carter. He’s kind of shy but good-looking and nice. Or maybe…”
“Or maybe no one. Don’t set me up with anyone, Royce Ann, okay?” Krista pushed her chair back. “I’ve got to get home—work to do. Why don’t you come over to the house tomorrow for lunch? Around one?”
Royce Ann heaved a sigh even as she accepted the invitation. She didn’t like Krista’s interest in the Mexican, especially now that it had reached the point that she didn’t even want to meet other men. Royce Ann knew that, despite her money and sophisticated air, Krista McLaren was still rather naive and innocent. Rafael Contreras could hurt her—hurt her badly. Royce Ann had to persuade her to leave the man alone.
Richard Houseman was waiting for Rafael outside the border-patrol station. He looked hot and out of place in his three-piece suit, and as Rafael parked the truck, Houseman pulled off the jacket and tossed it through the open window of his car. “Contreras.”
Rafael returned the curt greeting with a nod.
“I hear McLaren’s daughter has arrived.” Houseman wiped at the sweat that trickled down his forehead. Damn. Contreras looks like it’s fifty degrees out here instead of a hundred, he thought crossly. “You seen her?”
“Yes.”
He waited for the other man’s opinion of the woman, but none was forthcoming. “Well? Is she going to be a problem?”
For the case, probably not. For Rafael himself, undoubtedly. Already he’d spent too much of his time thinking about her, both hoping to see her and praying he wouldn’t. Wanting her and knowing he couldn’t have her.
Rafael shook his head, and the midday sun glinted off his mirrored sunglasses. Ordinarily Houseman preferred to see the eyes of the person he was talking to, but with Contreras it didn’t matter. Those black eyes revealed no more of his thoughts, his feelings, than the mirrored lenses did.
“I don’t think she’ll stay long,” Rafael finally volunteered.
“Do you think she’s involved?”
Rafael trusted his instincts, and though he sought to dislike the woman, his instincts said she had nothing to do with the smuggling. “No.”
“I’ve got to get back to New York. The next shipment from McLaren is due there tomorrow. Did you check the shipping office here?”
“I was there today. So was Krista McLaren.”
That caught Houseman’s interest. “Was she sending or receiving?”
“Receiving.”
“Any idea what?”
Rafael shrugged.
“Can you find out who and where it was from?”
“New York. She sent it herself. A week before she left.” Rafael had seen the invoice on the floor after the fall he, Krista and the deliveryman had taken. It had been very easy to pocket it without being seen.
That killed Houseman’s interest. “Probably personal things she couldn’t bring with her. Keep an eye on her anyway, will you?” He glanced at the expensive gold watch on his wrist. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”
Rafael watched him get in the rental car, loosen his tie and start the engine. The next thing he did was reach for the air-conditioner controls. Some people never got used to the desert heat. He liked the desert, and he liked the heat. He leaned back against his truck for a moment and just let himself feel the sun’s rays. For that moment he was relaxed, at ease, and into his unguarded thoughts came Krista. Did she like the heat? Or was she like her fellow New Yorker, Houseman, who thought eighty degrees was a heat wave, or her Southern-belle friend, Royce Ann, who simply refused, according to her husband, to go anyplace that wasn’t air-conditioned?
He summoned up a mental picture of Krista as she had looked the last time he’d seen her, less than thirty minutes ago, in those white shorts that were almost indecent and that flimsy white garment that passed as a shirt. She was a beauty, with those sky-blue eyes and that smile that seemed to appear from nowhere, and the body—the body was nice, too. All that perfectly tanned skin that looked baby soft.
Rafael wanted her. He wanted to make love to her. He desired her in a way he hadn’t desired any woman—not even Rebecca. Was he doomed to unwise affairs with beautiful, rich, blue-eyed blondes who didn’t understand words like honesty, trust and commitment?
He imagined himself touching her, raising that skimpy shirt and pulling it over her head. Her breasts would be bare underneath; he’d seen that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were rather small but very nicely shaped, and he pictured his hands on them. Her nipples would harden beneath his fingers, and when she was moaning for more, he would take one in his mouth and suckle it till it grew even harder….
Rafael felt a corresponding swelling in his own body, and he muttered a vile curse. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and the enticing, arousing, tormenting picture of Krista disappeared into a swirl of spots. He wished the same would happen to the real Krista as he crossed the parking lot to the air-conditioned building.
He liked the heat, but sometimes it was better not to get too hot.
Krista unpacked her carton of supplies in her new workroom and immediately set to work. Music, soft rock, filled the room from the small stereo Ruben had carried in earlier.
Years of training and practice had made Krista a reasonably decent artist—but only decent. She lacked the talent of so many of the other designers she knew. But she could turn her decent sketch into a pattern, and the pattern into a completely-finished garment, with amazing ease. It helped her wardrobe. Except for her jeans, courtesy of Lee, Levi’s and Wrangler, nearly everything she owned was a Krista McLaren original. She designed clothes for herself, and after years of hard work, other women were starting to like them, too.
The McLaren collection was known for the comfort of its casual clothes and the romance of the dressier ones. Her dresses, skirts and tops were soft and flowing, with ruffles and ribbons and lace, like the outfit she was working on. She studied the skirt pattern she had just completed, then lifted a length of fabric, a lightweight cotton in pure white. She placed it alongside a smaller piece of material, eyelet in a pink so pale that one had to look twice to see the color. She had dyed the fabric herself, before leaving New York, to get the shade she wanted. She added several yards of eyelet lace in the same pink and went to work.
She pinned the pattern to the white cloth, making minor adjustments, then cut out the pieces with dressmaker’s shears. The skirt was simple—very full, with an elastic waist for comfort and a twelve-inch-wide ruffled hem. She sewed it together, edged the hem with pink lace, then set the skirt aside and reached for the eyelet.
The camisole top went together as quickly as the skirt. She had made the pattern before leaving New York, and the construction, like the skirt, was simple. The front of the camisole was pink eyelet, lined with the same white cotton that made up the back. Wide eyelet formed the straps. She added elastic at the waist, which made a ruffled hem, meant to cover the waistband of the skirt.
Krista snipped the last thread and rose from the sewing machine. She stripped off her shorts and tank top and pulled on the new outfit. It was a perfect fit, and she turned in front of the triple mirror to admire the new clothes.
Perfect. They were soft, feminine, romantic. This was what she would wear when she seduced Rafael Contreras.
A blush colored her cheeks. Her friends in New York would be astounded if they could see her now, planning the seduction of a man who didn’t want her. The Krista they knew spent her time avoiding seduction. Still, she wished she could get some tips from a couple of them—like Angeli, the beautiful Italian model who lived next door and had a different lover every week, or Isabella, a celebrity photographer and princess of some tiny, obscure European country. Her love
rs, she admitted, outnumbered her loyal subjects.
They knew men—Angeli and Isabella and the others. They would know how to break through the defenses of a man like Rafael Contreras. Krista knew very little.
There was a knock at the door, followed immediately by Art McLaren’s entrance. He looked around the room, and a frown of displeasure crossed his face. “What the hell is this mess?” he demanded.
Krista’s hopes had risen with his entrance. It wasn’t often that her father sought her company. Now they fell again. “Hello, Dad.”
“What have you done to this room?” he demanded, ignoring her greeting as he had so often ignored her. He walked to the center of the room, his big frame dominating the area.
“I need a workroom while I’m here,” Krista said. “I just finished this. What do you think?”
His sharp blue eyes skimmed over her, barely noticing the clothes; then he shook his head, his gray-flecked brown hair lifting slightly. “I don’t know why you can’t buy your damned clothes like everyone else.” He turned in a slow circle, again looking at the changes she had made. “Workroom,” he scoffed. “What do you know about work? You’ve never done a day’s work in your life. I didn’t send you to all those damned schools just so you could sit around and sew all day.”
“No, Dad,” she agreed, disappointed yet again. You sent me to all those schools to keep me out of your way, she added silently.
“Hell, the least you could do is get married and have some children. Maybe they could make me proud. God knows you’ve failed at that.”
Krista sat down on the edge of the table. Now was the time to change the subject, before he began listing everything she’d failed at. She knew the list by heart, anyway. “Dad, do you know a man in town named Rafael Contreras?”
Art’s alert eyes were drawn back to his daughter. He pulled up a chair and sat down, then lit a cigarette. He muttered, “I just don’t understand it—hiring Mexicans to be in charge of the border. Everyone knows how those people stick together. Hell, you put them in charge of the border, you may as well just open it up and let every damned person in Mexico move up here.”
His daughter winced. She’d never realized that Art was so prejudiced, though Juana had tried to warn her. But then, she didn’t know her father well enough to know how he felt about anything besides her failure as a daughter.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How do you know Contreras?”
There was a time to be honest, and Krista quickly decided that this wasn’t it, so she lied. “I don’t. I just saw him in town one day.”
It wasn’t a real lie, she consoled herself. Her brief encounters with the man didn’t constitute knowing him.
Art sensed his daughter wasn’t being completely honest, and he rose from the chair and strode toward her. He held her chin in one hand and looked down into her face. “If you need a man, there are plenty of good ones in town. Americans. If you’ve got to have someone to amuse you while you’re here, find one of them. Stay away from the damned Mexicans.”
Krista pulled free of his grip, coolly replying, “I’ll keep that in mind, Dad.”
He blew smoke from his cigarette into her face before walking to the door. “We’re having company for dinner. People I’m doing business with. Dress pretty and act nice.”
“Yes, Dad.” She stared at the door as it closed behind her father, and a curse came from her mouth.
Dress pretty and act nice. Get married and have children. Stay out of his way. The only things her father had ever asked of her in her entire twenty-eight years. Art McLaren had never wanted a daughter—just a little wind-up doll who performed on command and stayed in the background the rest of the time.
Krista picked up her shorts and shirt and carried them to her room. One last time before removing her new outfit, she turned in front of the mirror. If Rafael Contreras was no more impressed with her than her father had been, and she suspected he wasn’t, she was in trouble. She very well might be anyway.
Dinner was boring; the people her father had invited were boring; the whole night was boring. The three men talked a lot and said nothing. Their chatter and the smoke from their cigarettes, along with the obvious interest the older man displayed in her, combined to make Krista’s head hurt. She excused herself after dinner to go into the kitchen. As soon as she helped Juana serve one of her sinfully good desserts, she would slip upstairs to her room, she promised herself, away from that horrible, choking smoke and that horrible, leering man.
The kitchen was empty. Assuming that Juana must have run home for some reason, Krista began putting the dessert plates and forks on a serving tray alongside a rich butter-cream cake.
“Need some help?”
Mr. Baker—or was he Smith?—stood in the doorway, still leering. Krista gave him a coldly discouraging look. “No,” she said flatly.
The man came closer, and she could smell his very expensive cologne. Everything about him was expensive—his silk suit, his Italian-leather shoes, his gold watch, even his cuff links. He was a physically attractive man, though almost as old as her father, but something about him repulsed her. He reminded her of a snake.
“Let’s just forget about that cake, honey, and you can be my dessert,” he suggested.
Krista picked up the tray, holding it securely in front of her. “I don’t know what your business is with my father, Mr. Baker, but I’m not part of it. Now I suggest you get out of my way, or you’ll be wearing Juana’s best French butter-cream cake all over your best silk suit.”
He looked ready to refuse until the door behind Krista opened and the housekeeper came in. She correctly assessed the situation in an instant and moved to take the tray from Krista. “I’m sorry. My errand took longer than I expected. Please, señor, go back and sit down, and I will serve your dessert. You’ll be leaving for your appointment, señorita?”
Krista seized the opening gratefully. “Yes, Juana, I will. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Mr. Baker.” She fled up the back stairs as Juana politely insisted that the man leave the kitchen.
In the safety of her room, behind locked doors, Krista changed from her dress into jeans and a snug-fitting T-shirt. It was a lovely night, and she was going out into it. She didn’t want to remain in the house with her father’s lecherous friend, and a drive sounded wonderful.
She drove fast, the top of the dark blue Mustang down. She liked the sense of power, of risk, that high speeds brought; she found it exhilarating. She had to slow down to the speed limit, though, when she reached Nueva Vida. One more speeding ticket, her insurance agent had warned, and she’d find it cheaper to hire a chauffeur than to pay her premiums.
At nine o’clock on a Monday night, activity in Nueva Vida was almost nonexistent. The lone policeman she saw was in the bank parking lot, reading a book by the squad car’s interior light. All the stoplights on the main street had been turned to continually blinking yellow, and Krista drove through the entire town without once touching her brakes.
She drove about a half mile farther south, realized she was heading for the border and swung her car into a wide U-turn. Too late she saw the truck approaching from the south, and she jammed the accelerator to the floor, jerking hard on the steering wheel.
Over the squeal of the Mustang’s tires came that of the truck’s as its driver slammed on its brakes, swerving to the left to avoid plowing over the small car. The Mustang left the road at an alarming speed; then Krista remembered to move her foot from the gas pedal to the brake. The car skidded over sandy dirt, uprooting several small shrubs. Only the seat belt kept her from bouncing out of the open car before it finally shuddered to a stop in a small ditch some fifty feet off the road.
Krista’s heart was pounding so loud that for a moment she could hear nothing else. Slowly she became aware of the car’s engine, still running, and a song coming from the radio, then the sound of running feet. From out of the night a dark figure reached her car, and Rafael Contreras demanded, “Are you all right?”
Rafael stared at her, then muttered something in Spanish. She caught the word Dios, which she knew meant God, and she assumed he was either damning her or asking God to remove her from the face of the earth. At that moment she wouldn’t have objected to a little disappearing act.
“What the hell were you doing? You could have gotten us killed!”
She swallowed hard, trying to think of a proper response, like “I’m sorry.” What she’d been doing was obvious—and stupid—and she saw no reason to make it easy for him to point that out. After a moment she said, “You scared me.”
Rafael’s eyes widened, and he turned his back to her, leaning against the rear fender of the sports car. He had scared her? She had made a U-turn on a curve—on a curve, for God’s sake—had forced him to practically burn out his brakes to avoid hitting her, had run herself off the road, and now she said he scared her!
His heart rate slowing to normal, Rafael turned back, opening the car door. “Get out.”
“I…don’t think I can.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Then…” His eyes swept over her, and he noticed that both her hands were still gripping the steering wheel tightly. He pried her fingers free, then bent over to unfasten the seat belt. He was slow to straighten again. Her different scents—perfume, shampoo, soap—filled his nostrils, and they all smelled good. He wanted to gather up a handful of her hair to smell, to press his face against the soft flesh between her small breasts and inhale the scent of her.
Damn it, stop, he commanded himself. None too gently, he helped her from the car to stand on wobbly legs, then turned his anger with himself on the woman responsible for it. “I’ve seen you three times today, señorita, and that’s three times too many,” he said coldly. “When you said we were destined to run into each other, I didn’t think you meant it literally.”
Within Reach Page 3
