Funny how things worked out. That woman had thrown away something that Krista would give her soul for: Rafael’s love. It was so funny it made her want to cry again.
“What were you two talking about in Martin Thompson’s office?” Royce Ann probed none too subtly.
“Midnight swims. They can be dangerous, you know.”
Royce Ann gave her friend a look that said she must be crazy, but Krista didn’t notice. She was lost in memories.
Krista fell back on that old standby—work—to keep herself busy over the next two weeks. She managed to resist trying to see Rafael by keeping herself shut up in her workroom, spending long hours making patterns and cutting them out, and longer hours sewing them together. But her work didn’t demand enough concentration to keep her thoughts from the silent, dark man.
The first few days she concentrated intensely on the problem: how could she make Rafael Contreras fall in love with her? Despite the fact that he didn’t like her, didn’t want her, that he wrote her off as a shallow, spoiled, rich kid—despite all those things, surely there was some way to make him want her, to make him love her.
Finally she accepted the fact that there wasn’t. No one could make a man as strong and independent as Rafael do anything he didn’t want to do, and he didn’t want to want her or love her. That gave her a new problem to consider: how could she make herself forget him and get on with her life? No matter how many times she asked the question, she got the same answer every time: she couldn’t.
Late Friday afternoon, at the end of the second week, Krista dressed in a loose, flowing skirt of deep purple cotton and a ruffled, fitted camisole to match. Not even bothering with shoes, she took the black stallion from the stables. She didn’t pretend she was just out for a ride. She was going to Rafael’s house. She didn’t plan to approach him; she just wanted to be near, to maybe catch a glimpse of him.
Diablo came to a stop beside the small shed, patient with his mistress. It was another moonlit night, light and shadow. The shadow of the shed covered her, hid her.
Rafael was restless, a condition he knew too well. He told himself it was because his work was tedious and boring, because he was tired, because his life wasn’t exactly satisfactory at the moment. He told himself all sorts of lies, and sometimes he even pretended to believe them. Tonight, though, he was in no mood for lies, for pretense. Tonight he could admit the source of his restlessness: Krista. In those two short days she had crawled beneath his skin, into his heart, his very soul. He wanted to see her, talk to her, hold her, kiss her, love her. God, how he wanted her!
He had gone to the phone to call her three, four, five times, but each time reason stopped him. She was out of his league. He was taking part in an investigation into her father’s activities. She was too easily hurt, and he would hurt her. She deserved better than him.
They were all good reasons to stay away from her, and they kept him away from the phone. But they did nothing to ease the ache in his body or the one in his heart.
He went out onto the porch and leaned against a post, staring into the night. Moonlight and shadow—like the first night they’d made love. He remembered every detail of that night: how the moonlight had gleamed in her hair and on her golden body; how she had ridden from the shadows on the stallion as black as night. He even remembered the soft whuffling noise the horse had made.
He wasn’t remembering it; he was hearing it again—now. He pushed himself away from the post, his eyes searching the night. There, by the shed. A hint of dull gold.
Krista realized she had stopped breathing, and she filled her lungs with air. He was standing so still on the porch, backlit by the living-room lights that shone through the open door. He looked magnificent in jeans that hugged his body, clinging to his low waist, his slim hips. His chest was bare, and she remembered how smooth it felt beneath her hands, against her breasts.
Tears demanding to be shed closed her throat. He was so damned handsome, so strong and masculine. He was all she ever wanted from life, but he didn’t want her. He stood less than twenty yards away from her, but she couldn’t bridge the gap that separated them, because he didn’t want her.
Rafael moved down the steps and started toward her, his gait smooth and graceful despite the fact that the ground was hard and his feet were bare. She couldn’t leave, and so she waited, wondering if he would be angry, and not caring.
He stopped beside the stallion, reached up and lifted Krista off. Still holding her, he slid down the wall of the shed until he was sitting on the ground, and he settled her across his hips. He kissed her, his tongue pushing into her mouth, and she hungrily accepted its entry. His mouth was greedy, demanding, trying to satisfy a lifetime of hunger with one kiss.
He slid his hands along her thighs and discovered only her tiny panties beneath the skirt. The silky fabric tore beneath his strength, and there was only her warm flesh against his hands. A groan escaped his throat, only to be swallowed by her mouth.
“Touch me,” he demanded against her lips. “Feel what you do to me.” When she hesitated an instant he guided her hand, pressing her fingers against him. “Feel how much I want you, pequeña.”
“I want you, too,” she whimpered, touching him as he touched her. “Please, Rafael…”
She undid his jeans, and he slid farther down and lifted her onto him, groaning as she took him inside her. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her, guiding her. Their breath came fast, uneven, ragged. Krista’s pleas were soft, Rafael’s hoarse, but both were frantic, both a little bit desperate. Krista cried out, with pleasure and with pain. She thought she would lose consciousness under the power of the release that shook her. She clung to Rafael, knowing he was enduring his own agonizing climax, yet still she held him, as if he might prevent her from dying from the ecstasy.
The ground was hard and cold, the body beside her soft and warm. Krista opened her eyes and, in the shadows, saw Rafael’s eyes only inches away. “I tried to stay away.”
He touched a finger to her mouth to stop any more words.
“I didn’t mean—”
He stopped her again and loosened her arms from his shoulders. He stood up and pulled his jeans to his waist, zipping them.
She thought he was going to leave without a word, but he carefully lifted her into his arms and started toward the house. He set her down on the steps. “I still can’t offer you anything,” he said quietly, “but the temporary use of my body, and pain. Another weekend with nothing to follow. If that’s not enough, if you don’t want that, then leave now, please. If you can accept that, if you can accept a cold bastard who can’t give you more but is too weak to say no…stay. Spend the weekend with me.”
It wasn’t enough. One weekend would never be enough, but it was better than nothing, and she told him softly that she would like to stay. He took her into the house and offered her first a drink, which she refused, then himself, which of course she accepted.
The house was quiet for the next hour. At last Krista sighed. “It gets better every time.”
She lay in his arms, her hand gripped in his and resting on his chest. The moonlight glinted off her golden hair, bathed her skin in its beams. She was beautiful, and he would want her until the day he died. He accepted that, just as he accepted that he couldn’t have her.
Krista turned her head to the side, her eyes drinking him in. She saw only the left side of his face, a perfect profile, and she thought he was without doubt the sexiest man she had ever seen. Despite the harsh planes of his face and the stern set of his mouth, he was handsome and sensual. She traced an imaginary line down his forehead, between his eyes, over his nose and mustache to his mouth. It moved beneath her fingertip in a brief kiss.
“Tell me about her, Rafael.”
In the night, his arms holding her tight, he didn’t need to ask who. There was no reason to pretend ignorance. He could be honest about that, at least. He could tell her the story that might help her understand why he was what he was.
&
nbsp; “I was born in Mexico, in a small farm town. We were very poor. I had to quit school when I was eleven and go to work to help support my family. When I got a little older I began crossing into the United States illegally to work. Eventually I got caught near San Diego. I was sick, half-starved. The agent who caught me took me to his home, took care of me, and when I was better he took me back to my family. Later he helped us come into the country legally, to live. He even helped me become a citizen.”
He stared up at the ceiling, his gaze never wavering, his voice never changing, but emotion showed in the tightening of his mouth, the tautness of his body. These were bad memories, and Krista regretted disturbing them.
“My father had always wanted a farm, and eventually, with all of us working, we were able to buy a small one. Right down the road from us was one of the biggest farms in the state. Her father owned it. She used to find excuses to come to our place. She’d watch me work.”
Slowly his eyes closed in remembrance. “She was beautiful, like an angel.” His voice got softer. “Golden hair, blue eyes, a smile that could light the darkest night. She was a beauty.”
He stopped then, and Krista was glad. Jealousy of this unknown woman was twisting her heart. The reverence in his voice when he spoke of her…! He could never feel that way about her, she was sure, and it broke her heart.
“We became lovers—secretly, of course. Her father would have killed any man who dared to touch Rebecca without his permission. We had to sneak around to see each other, but it wasn’t hard, because her brother, Brian, was seeing my sister, Josefina, so we covered for each other. I loved Rebecca, and she said she loved me, too. She said we could run away and be married. We made arrangements to meet at a motel fifty miles away. When I got there Rebecca was waiting. She wanted to make love before we went to get the license. Her father and some of his workers found us, and she told him that I had forced her to go. She said I had raped her. They beat me until I was more dead than alive. Later he forced my family off their land. They lost everything and had to return to Mexico. When he found out about his son and Josefina, he sent him away, even though Brian told him that he loved her and that she was pregnant. She never heard from Brian again. Not when she wrote to him from Mexico about the baby’s birth. Not even when she wrote to him two months later about the baby’s death. Losing Brian, then their daughter, almost killed her.”
He heard Krista’s gasp, and his fingers tightened around her hand. “Rebecca came to see me once in the hospital, to tell me that she was getting married to some rich white man. She’d wanted to marry him all along, but her father didn’t like the man’s family, so he’d refused to give his permission. She’d known how he hated Mexicans, and she’d been certain that if her father knew she was having an affair with one, he would marry her to the white boyfriend in no time. I just happened to be the first one she came across who was gullible enough to believe that she’d want him, stupid enough to believe she loved him.”
He shifted to draw her even closer, stroking her hair as he talked. “Rebecca had instructed the housekeeper to tell her father where we were. She had timed it so we would be in bed when they came. It was too bad Josefina and Brian got hurt, she said, but everything had worked out perfectly.” He swallowed hard and took a few breaths to cleanse his mind. “That was the last time I saw her.”
Krista was crying. There was no sound, but he felt the hot tears on his chest, trickling across his skin.
“Why do you cry?” he asked wearily.
“She wasn’t worth your smiles,” she whispered. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Rafael.”
His eyes closed to narrow slits, and he exhaled an empty sigh. “So am I, querida.”
“Do you think I’d use you like that? Because my skin is white, my hair gold, my eyes blue?”
He thought she already was using him. He knew she believed that her feelings were sincere, but he also knew he was a novelty, a diversion. But he didn’t say so, because he knew the reply would hurt her, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her, not tonight. “I think I’m tired, querida,” he evaded. “And I think I’d like to sleep tonight, holding your body against mine. And I think, pequeña, little one, that I’d like to wake with you in the morning and make love with you again before we get out of bed.”
She let that satisfy her, let him snuggle her closer, let the warmth and security of his presence lull her to sleep. But she remembered, even as she drifted off, that he hadn’t answered her question. His refusal to answer was an answer in itself.
Yes, he thought she would use him. He thought she couldn’t be trusted, because she reminded him of Rebecca. She wanted to protest but didn’t have the energy.
“I wouldn’t hurt you….” The rest of the denial was lost in sleep, but Rafael understood. His mouth almost made it to a smile before falling into its usual lines. This was a woman who was probably worth his smiles. Unfortunately, he had no smiles to give. He had nothing to give but the two things he’d offered earlier: his body, and pain.
God help them, she had accepted both.
“Why can’t there be more than just another weekend with nothing to follow?”
Rafael had gotten his wish: he had awakened that morning to find Krista’s hands and mouth gentle on his body. They’d made love, each giving until there was nothing left to give, taking until it had all been taken. Now they were dressed, Krista in a long chambray shirt of his, Rafael in jeans, and they were sitting at the small dining table, the remains of their breakfast in front of them.
He considered her question for a long moment, his eyes dropping to stare into his coffee. At last he said, “Just understand that there can’t be.”
“Why not? Don’t you think it would be worth the effort?” Her voice was sharp, close to demanding.
He tensed. “Don’t use that tone of voice with me,” he warned. “I may be too weak to send you away, but you’re not too weak to go. If you don’t like what I’m offering, leave.”
“I like it. But I want more.”
Though he’d had a good night’s sleep, Rafael felt tired again, emotionally tired. “So do I,” came his dry, empty reply, “but there isn’t any ‘more.’ This is all I can give—today and tomorrow. When you take it, there won’t be anything left.”
“Is it because of Rebecca? I remind you of her, don’t I?”
He started to deny it, to assure her that no other woman occupied his heart. Instead he remained silent—guiltily silent.
Krista felt as if the wind had been knocked from her. She felt hurt, betrayed, cheated. Even if he still loved Rebecca, he must also despise her for what she’d done to him, and Krista reminded him of her. “Do you want me to go home now?”
He had been watching the effect of his nonreply on her. It had been an easy lie; he hadn’t even needed words for it. But he was sick of lies, sick of hurting, and he pulled her around the table into his arms and said, “No, pequeña, I want you to stay. This weekend is ours, yours and mine. There is no one else. No one, Krista, including Rebecca.”
She smiled slowly. “Yours and mine,” she echoed. “I wish it could last a million days.”
“Two days, Krista. It isn’t much, is it?”
She hugged his head to her breast. “Two days with you is worth more than two years with any other man. What shall we do with them? I need beautiful memories to hold on to.”
His mouth found her flat nipple beneath the fabric of his shirt and nuzzled it into a peak that was hard with longing. “I can think of one thing we can do, querida, that is always muy hermosa, very beautiful. Like you.”
When his fingers pushed the shirt away she arched her back, offering his lips access to her breast. “Oh, yes,” she murmured when he nursed the hard, tingling nub. “Make love to me, Rafael. Make love to me in Spanish.”
He carried her down the hall to his bedroom, where he did as she requested. He worshiped her body from head to toe, bathing her soft golden flesh with kisses and caresses meant to drive her wild, and every word he whisp
ered, every plea, every command, every word of adoration, was whispered in Spanish. Though she spoke no Spanish she understood everything, each softly uttered phrase, for they were words a man whispered to his lover, and she needed no further translation.
“What would you think if I said I loved you?”
Rafael looked sharply at Krista, feeling a prick of fear inside. Was she hinting for a response before making the announcement? Or was it just a hypothetical question? He hoped desperately for the latter, but he feared the former. What would he think? He would think it was a whim that would pass before long. He would think that the rich, spoiled daughter of Art McLaren was too shallow to understand what love really was. He would think that the novelty of a once-poor Mexican lover would disappear as quickly as it had come. And he would think he was the luckiest man in the world, to have her pretend love for even a short time.
“I don’t know, so don’t say it to me,” he replied, a little more harshly than he’d intended. “Wait until you find the right man, then tell him.”
Krista tilted her head slightly, looking at him with her lips pursed. “And what kind of Mr. Right should I be looking for?”
“Someone with money. Someone who can give you prestige and blue-eyed, blond-haired children.”
Those were Rebecca’s words; Krista was sure of it. Rafael was just repeating them. “I’m not interested in prestige, and I don’t care if my children have blue eyes or black, or blond hair or black.”
He said nothing.
Krista pulled herself out of his arms and sat up in bed. “I don’t judge people based on their bank balances and their social standing! I don’t want your idea of Mr. Right, Rafael, I want you!” She wiped angrily at the tears clouding her eyes. “Damn it, Rafael. Damn it, don’t let me cry!”
Within Reach Page 12
