He’d done it. He’d made love, not once, but three times, with the woman who could destroy his life. The only woman who held any power over him. Art McLaren’s daughter. Rebecca Halderman’s clone. Rich, beautiful Krista.
He knew that something vital inside him had changed. His life would never be quite the same without her. But he couldn’t regret one minute of the last two hours. They had been too perfect, too exquisite. He would never regret letting Krista into his life, not even when she was gone and he was alone.
Her breathing changed subtly, indicating that she was asleep. This was the time to ease her out of his arms and go to the room across the hall to sleep. Still, Rafael held her. He turned his head and breathed in the scent of her hair and the musk of her perfume before pressing a kiss to her forehead. She sighed softly and turned onto her side, her arm gliding over his ribs to hold him close. Her leg moved, knee bent, to rest between his legs, and she sighed again and became still.
He would lie here with her just a few minutes longer, hold her just a little longer….
His eyes slowly closed, and his breathing became as deep and even as Krista’s. The shadows moved across the room and covered them with a blanket of darkness.
There was a brief moment, when Rafael awoke to a sunfilled room, when he couldn’t remember why this person was in his bed. He didn’t share his bed with any woman; it made him restless, and he didn’t sleep well. Then he realized that he felt very rested, and he recognized the scent of the woman he was lying behind, and he remembered the feel and the taste of the small breast his hand had covered possessively in his sleep. He didn’t share his bed with any woman, but he could share it with this woman.
His fingers moved reflexively over her breast and found its nipple hard. “Are you awake yet?” a soft, sexy, feminine voice asked.
“Yes.”
Krista turned to face him, remaining in the circle of his arm. She wasn’t sure what to expect from him this morning. Blue eyes probed his face, finding no hint there. At last she bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his unshaven cheek. “Good morning.”
Is it? he wondered. You shouldn’t be here. I’m a damned fool for letting you stay. But he chose to ignore the silent voice. For this weekend he would be a fool.
“What would you like to do today?”
Rafael looked down. Her body was against his, her breasts pressing into his chest, and he almost smiled. What would he like to do? He’d like to keep her in his bed, naked and soft and warm, and feast on her body. He found the idea of making love to Krista all day most appealing.
“First,” he began slowly, “you need some clothes.”
“All right. And then? What do you usually do on Saturdays?”
“Work.”
It was the answer she expected. Hadn’t he been working in the intense afternoon heat when she’d come over a few weeks ago? “All right. You work and I’ll watch you.” She smiled shyly. “I might even help you.” She placed a kiss on his chin, then wriggled out of his arms, left the bed and hastily dressed. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
Rafael rose from the bed and walked to the closet. When he came out he was wearing a pair of cutoffs. “I’ll get your horse.”
It took her an hour and ten minutes to ride home, pack, shower and drive back in her Mustang. Rafael was sitting on the porch steps, wearing faded jeans and no shirt or shoes, drinking a glass of ice water. He met her at the car, taking the expensive leather suitcase from her.
“Thanks.” She leaned toward the floorboard and came up with a box holding three pots. “This is an ivy, and the lacy one is Spanish ivy, and this is a coleus. We can take some cuttings and root them, and you’ll have plenty of plants in no time.”
Rafael looked at the plants that he’d told her he couldn’t take care of and just shook his head. He was beginning to learn that this was typical of Krista: she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Did you eat breakfast while I was gone?” she asked.
He shook his head, holding the door open for her. He had showered and shaved and sat on the steps, watching for the cloud of dust that signaled her return, and he had watched the time, wondering if she might change her mind and not come back.
“Good. I brought Juana’s famous recipe for cinnamon rolls, and just in case you don’t have all the ingredients, I brought them, too.” She nodded to a paper bag wedged between the pots. “I guarantee they’re the best rolls you’ve ever tasted.”
She set the box on the dining table and removed the plants, then carried the sack into the kitchen. Rafael refilled his glass from a pitcher in the refrigerator before sitting down on a bar stool to watch.
“Why are you here?”
She spared only a quick glance from the mass she was stirring in his largest bowl. “Here with you, or here in Nueva Vida?”
“In Nueva Vida.”
“I came to visit my dad, though I don’t know why, and to see my old friends, and to get out of New York,” she said candidly. “I don’t like New York much.”
“Nueva Vida must be boring after the city.”
“No, I definitely haven’t been bored. Have you ever lived in a city?”
“San Diego.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.’
“Why not?”
“Too many people.”
“Did you find Nueva Vida boring after you left San Diego?’
“No, but—” She had trapped him before he realized it. “But you’re different.”
Krista frowned uneasily. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You don’t have to make it sound like an insult. What are the old cliches? ‘Variety is the spice of life.’ ‘Viva la différence.’” Her easy smile returned. “Let me add a little spice to your life, Rafael.”
He couldn’t stop the quick grin that turned up the corners of his mouth. “You already have.”
Krista looked at him, and kept looking long after the grin was gone. Without commenting she turned her dough into an oiled bowl, covered it with a dish towel and set it outside on the porch. “That will rise in no time in this heat,” she explained when she returned. She measured brown sugar, spices and nuts into a bowl, set a pan of butter on the stove to melt and reached for a battered coffeepot. “Want some coffee?”
He nodded. “It’s in the freezer.”
“That’s where I keep mine, too. Have you ever been married?”
Rafael watched her spoon the coffee grounds into the basket. She filled the pot with water, then turned in time to see his scowl. “No.”
“Is that look for the institution of marriage or for a close call?” she teased.
“Both.”
“I like the idea of marriage. I plan to get married someday. I’m going to have about a dozen kids.”
“And hire how many servants to take care of them?”
“None.”
He looked skeptical. “What about your parties and your trips and your career?”
Krista shook her head. “You have some strange ideas about me, Señor Contreras. Why would I want to do those things if I had a husband and children to be with instead?” She drew a bar stool close to his and sat down. “I think you have me confused with someone else…maybe that woman who made you stop smiling years ago. Am I a lot like her?”
He didn’t want to talk about Rebecca, to notice the similarities between her and Krista. He didn’t want to do anything but look at her and touch her and make love to her.
“Why do you live in New York if you don’t like it?” he asked to distract himself and to lead her away from Rebecca.
“It’s as good a place as any, I suppose.” She retrieved the dough from outside and began working it, rolling it out, spreading it with melted butter, then with the sugar mixture, shaping it into a tight roll, then slicing it. She arranged the pieces of dough in a pan and set them aside to rise a second time. When she was ready to talk again she moved to a new subject. “Tho
se pictures on your bedroom wall—is that your family?”
“Yes.”
“Show them to me, please.”
Rafael hesitated, then extended his hand and led her down the hall to his room. There were four photographs. He pointed out his parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters and their families, rattling off names that were melodious and exotic sounding. Krista was intrigued by the names and the numbers.
“There are so many of them!” she exclaimed. She was trying to count, but she couldn’t remember which were brothers and sisters and which were in-laws.
“There are twelve. I’m the thirteenth. The unlucky one.” The one responsible for the worst time of their lives, he finished in his mind.
Krista glanced at him, but his face gave away nothing. She moved to look at the final picture. “A family reunion?”
“A year ago.”
“Why aren’t you here?”
“I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
Rafael walked out of the room. Back in the kitchen he poured two cups of coffee while Krista put the rolls in the oven. He sat down again on the bar stool. “I haven’t seen my family in seven years.”
His voice sounded harsh and raspy in the silence of the house. Krista waited for him to continue, but nothing came. “Why not?” He obviously loved them.
Rafael stared into his coffee for a long time. Finally he shook his head, refusing to answer. Krista was familiar enough with guilt to recognize that that was what kept him from his family. He felt he’d done something to hurt them, and his guilt kept him away. The unlucky one, he’d said. “Whatever it was,” she said softly. “I’m sure they don’t blame you. They look too nice, too loving.”
Her insight made him withdraw from her. Krista could actually see him pulling into himself, the hard coldness protecting him until the painful memories had been buried again.
“Every summer at the Del Mar fair, north of San Diego, they sell cinnamon rolls that smell almost as good as those.” Rafael grasped Krista’s wrist and pulled her to him, fitting her between his thighs. His breath was warm and moist when he pressed his mouth to the hollow at the base of her throat. His tongue moved slowly to wet the skin; then it followed a trail up her throat to her ear. “Why are you here, Krista?” he murmured, his mustache brushing over her ear at the same time that his hands unbuttoned her blouse. “Why?”
“Because I want to be,” she responded. She gasped when his hands found and covered her breasts.
“I’m glad you are.” Rafael ducked his head to suck one hard coral bud into his mouth, and Krista cried out softly, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders.
The buzzing started softly, then grew into a harsh, discordant noise that was impossible to ignore. Slowly Rafael raised his head, refastened the buttons on her blouse and gently pushed her away. “The rolls,” he said.
She went to the oven and shut off the timer before opening the door. The aromas of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread filled the room. They ate on the sofa, coffee cups balanced on their knees, their plates filled with hot, sticky rolls.
“Are they as good as the ones at the Del Mar fair?” Krista asked, fishing for a little flattery.
“Better.” He cleared the dishes away. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her, tasting the last bit of syrup on her lips. “I’ve got to do some work on my truck. You can stay in here where it’s cool.”
And let him get out of her sight? Not very likely. “I’ll come out and watch you and dream erotic dreams,” she said with a secretive smile.
With a man like Rafael, was there any other kind?
Chapter 6
“It’s hot outside,” Rafael warned, his attention concentrated on her mouth. He liked that smile, and he reached up to touch it, to capture it.
Krista turned his right hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it, then raised his left hand. She stopped suddenly when she saw it.
Silence echoed in her ears as she stared at the four deep scratches that extended from wrist to knuckles. They were scabbed over and healing, but still looked very painful. Sickened by the knowledge that she had done that to him when he left her party, Krista tried to speak, but no words would come out. Rafael followed the line of her gaze. Quietly he assured her, “It doesn’t hurt.”
“I’m sorry, Rafael.” She gave the hand a kiss so fleeting that he barely felt it. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s all right. Come on.” He led her out of the cool house into the stifling heat. His Bronco was parked under the only tree, but it provided little shade. Krista leaned against the trunk and watched him, though he spent most of the time under the truck and all she could see were his jeans-clad legs.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Three years here, two in town.”
“It’s nice. I like it here.” She sighed softly. “It’s so quiet.”
“Usually.”
Krista leaned over the fender and under the open hood, and through the spaces around the engine she could see half of his face. “Are you implying that I make a lot of noise?”
“Are you denying it?”
“No.” She smiled ruefully. “I like talking to you. I like hearing your voice. It’s sexy.”
When he finished with the truck it was after four o’clock. “After I clean up,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag, “we’ll get some dinner. Do you like Mexican food?”
“Sure. Las Rosas or Maria’s?” she asked, referring to the two Mexican restaurants in town.
“La Paloma. Across the border.”
“Do I need to change?”
Black eyes skimmed over her tiny shorts and thin cotton shirt. “Maybe you should,” he answered, though he certainly approved of the way she looked.
While he was showering she cleaned up and put on a pale blue cotton skirt and a sleeveless knit sweater of a darker shade. She brushed her hair into a ponytail, bent from the waist and braided it, then sprayed on perfume and added some gold jewelry—bangle bracelets, a necklace and earrings. She was sitting on the sofa when Rafael came out wearing blue jeans and a cream-colored shirt. The sleeves were rolled to just below his elbows, exposing strong, dark forearms.
“Is this better?” she asked, standing up so he could see the outfit.
“Nice.”
Though Krista was used to more effusive compliments from the men who took her to dinner, his single word meant more, for she was sure compliments didn’t come often from this man.
The drive into town and across the border passed in the silence that Krista was learning to accept. Dinner at the small restaurant was also fairly quiet.
La Paloma was plain—rickety tables covered with vinyl cloths and straight-backed chairs—but the food was exceptionally good, and the dining room was crowded. “If I got to eat food like this all the time I’d be so fat,” Krista said with a satisfied sigh. “I love Mexican food.”
“My mother cooks like this.”
“Where do they live?”
“North of Mexico City.”
“Are you the only one living in the United States?”
“We all lived here once. In California.”
“But they chose to return to Mexico?”
Rafael stared at some point just past her. “No.”
“Were they there illegally?”
“No. They were forced to leave. They lost everything they owned.”
Krista gently laid her hand over his, but he didn’t appear to notice. “Why did you stay when they left?”
“It seemed best.” He pulled free of her and rose to his feet. He paid the bill, then, with his hand on her elbow, steered her toward the door.
Their next stop was on the edge of town: a small, dark smoky bar. The music was country, and the patrons were Mexican, mostly men. There were only two women besides Krista. She followed Rafael to a table in the corner. As soon as he seated her, he went to the bar, returning with a Coke for her and a long-necked bottle of beer for himself. “Not your u
sual hangout, is it?” he asked, moving his chair closer to hers.
“No, it isn’t.” She smiled knowingly, trailing her fingers lightly over his injured hand. “That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? To show me how different we are.”
There was a slight twitch around his mouth that for an instant she thought would become a smile; then his face settled in that chill, forbidding mask that was so familiar.
“Maybe it is,” he admitted, acknowledging the correctness of her guess with a nod.
She took a long swallow from the can of Coke that wasn’t as cold as his beer. “It won’t work. This isn’t your usual hangout, either. I’m a very flexible person, Rafael. If I want something badly enough it doesn’t bother me at all if I have to bend a little to get it.”
He believed that. What he couldn’t figure out was why she wanted him. Was he so different from all the men she’d known before? Was that his attraction for her? Rafael didn’t kid himself. He knew that very few people he’d met liked him; his somberness, his aloofness, made most people uncomfortable. Once he’d heard the wife of one of his fellow agents describe his presence as “chilling,” so why was Krista going to such trouble to get around his refusals?
A sad, mournful tune came on the battered jukebox that stood at the opposite end of the small room. Krista put her drink down and scooted her chair back. “Come and dance with me.”
“Why?”
“Because we only have tonight and tomorrow before you send me away, and I want to have one dance with you first. Because you refused to dance with me at my party. Because I want you to hold me in your arms, against your body.” Her voice got huskier with each word, until it was a hoarse whisper, and her eyes were heavy with desire.
After that invitation he knew he would never make it through a dance without making his response to her visible to everyone there, but he swallowed the last of his beer and took the trembling hand that she extended, letting her pull him from his chair and onto the dance floor.
The cleared area was small, and the other two women were dancing with a couple of customers, so they were forced to dance closely, though they would have anyway. Rafael held her to him, one hand splayed across her spine, the other drifting from the curve of her hip to her waist, then her shoulder, then back down again, his fingertips grazing the side of her breast. Their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to thigh, Krista’s breasts flattened against the hard strength of Rafael’s chest, the silver buckle of his belt pushing into her stomach, his thighs brushing against her legs. When she moved her hips against his, she could feel the evidence that their closeness affected him as strongly as it did her.
Within Reach Page 9
