GABRIEL HAWK'S LADY

by Beverly Barton

  "You're right," she said. "You are the trained professional. And I understand that unless I'm willing to—" she took a deep breath "—play the game by the rules, we won't be able to rescue Frankie and get him out of this country alive."

  Hawk stepped back, separating their bodies, then grabbed her wrist and tugged her forward. "Come on, honey. We're going to a party."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  On the jeep ride from Papa Joe's to the king's palace, now occupied by the rebel forces, Rorie tried to prepare herself, both mentally and emotionally, for her first meeting with General Mateo Lazaro. The U.S. government officials with whom she'd spoken, after Peter and Cipriana's execution, assured her that General Lazaro had played no part in the brutal murders. But she wasn't sure she believed them—not now that she knew her own government had a secret agenda, that they had been backing the rebel army since the beginning of the civil war.

  Hawk had convinced her that she must play the game—to pretend, to act the part he had assigned her. Pretense and lies went against her nature, against every good and honest instinct she possessed. She wasn't a very good liar. The few times in her twenty-seven years when she had lied, her dishonesty had shown plainly on her face. Her father had told her that her facial expressions were very revealing. That had been after the one and only time she'd ever tried to lie to him. She had fibbed about going with her friends to see an R-rated movie.

  Murdock drove through the palace gates, waving to the guards and hollering greetings in their native language. He parked the jeep directly in front of the palace, then got out and opened his arms for Dulcina. Laughing giddily, the young woman jumped into Murdock's waiting embrace. Her dress swirled up around her thighs, exposing a long expanse of slender dark leg and three layers of stiff red-and-black petticoats. As the two entered the palace, Murdock called out greetings to the soldiers, addressing several by name.

  Rorie shivered at the thought of how familiar Hawk's good friend was with these brutal men—General Lazaro's soldiers. They were part of the same army as the men she had seen gun down innocent civilians earlier in the day.

  "Try not to look like that when I introduce you to the general," Hawk told her. "Smile and be gracious. Use your Southern charm. And just keep telling yourself that being friendly to Lazaro is a means to an end. He can help us rescue Frankie."

  "I'll do my best, but I'm not a practiced liar." The words, Not like you, hung silently between them. But she could tell by the way he looked at her that he knew what she'd left unsaid.

  "Remember, this is a party." Hawk stepped down out of the jeep, then assisted Rorie. He kept his hands around her waist after her feet hit the ground. "Force yourself to eat the general's food and drink a little of his wine. Accept his hospitality tonight and tomorrow morning we'll be able to leave La Vega with the conquering hero's blessing."

  "I don't feel much like a party." Rorie swung her head from side to side, disgusted by the unkempt condition of her hair. "My hair is a mess, my clothes are wrinkled and I need a bath."

  "All in good time." Hawk wrapped her arm through his and escorted her into the palace.

  She tensed every time Hawk spoke to one of the rebel officers. She could tell that he knew them and they him. What exactly had Hawk's assignment in San Miguel been three years ago? And just how closely had he worked with the rebel army?

  The banquet hall was filled with soldiers of every age and physical description. From boys in their teens to old men in their seventies. From handsome, dashing officers, who had apparently bathed and changed clothes for the celebration, to dirty, bloodstained, heavily bearded ruffians, who looked as if they'd come directly from battle. And female soldiers—some young, some middle-aged; some attractive, some decidedly unattractive. And at least three dozen women like Dulcina, attired in bright, shiny dresses that revealed their undeniable physical charms.

  Rorie wasn't surprised to see so many prostitutes hanging on the arms of various officers. But she was surprised to see so many women wearing battle fatigues, with gun belts strapped to their hips.

  A band played a tune with a hot, Latin beat and many of the guests danced together, their bodies undulating to the sensuous rhythm. Servants paraded in and out, carrying trays of food, while others kept the wineglasses filled.

  Murdock shouted a greeting to a tall, slender man walking directly toward him. A path cleared for the man as he approached, and Rorie knew instantly that this had to be General Lazaro. The general grabbed Murdock and hugged him with robust camaraderie. The two exchanged hardy slaps on the back, and then the general eyed Dulcina.

  "¡Muy hermosa! Very pretty." The general slid a long, lean finger down Dulcina's throat.

  "She's yours for the night, Mateo." Murdock released Dulcina, who instantly draped herself on the general's arm.

  "Muchas gracias, my old friend." Lazaro ran his hand down the girl's back, lifted her dress and petticoats and squeezed her hip. "Now, to more serious business. Did you bring Hawk with you?"

  "He's right over there." Murdock motioned to Hawk.

  "Ah, I see he has persuaded Señorita Dean to accompany him," Lazaro said.

  General Mateo Lazaro was not what Rorie had expected. She had pictured him a hard, grizzled gorilla fighter; ugly, bearded and at least fifty. Instead, the man who stood before her, watching her like a bird of prey, was clean-shaven, handsome, not a day over forty, and filled out his battle fatigues quite impressively. Almost as tall as Hawk and almost as good-looking, Lazaro possessed a thick mane of black hair and large, chocolate-brown eyes.

  The general shook hands heartily with Hawk. "It is good to see you again. Murdock tells me that you have accompanied Peter Dean's sister into our country to find her nephew and take him to the United States."

  Hawk pulled Rorie forward, placing her at his right side, about a foot in front of him. "General, let me introduce you to Aurora Dean. She's eager to meet the man of the hour."

  Lazaro smiled, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. He reminded Rorie of an old Latin movie star known for his mesmerizing smile. The general bowed graciously, then reached out and drew her hand to his lips. When he raised his head, he did not release her hand. His gaze spanned the length of her body, lingering first on her breasts and then returning to her face.

  "Bella. Bella."

  Lazaro lifted a strand of Rorie's hair from her shoulder, and it was all she could do not to cringe. Her cheeks flushed as warmth spread over her face, but she smiled weakly and forced herself to reply to his compliment.

  "Thank you," she said, looking away shyly.

  Lazaro seemed to approve of her demure response. His smile widened. He released her hair, letting it fall over her shoulder, the tips brushing across her breast.

  Hawk moved to Rorie's side and slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her up against him. Instinctively, Rorie leaned on him, thankful for his presence, knowing that Hawk had just laid claim to her. Lazaro glanced at Hawk's possessive hold on Rorie. He nodded to Hawk, silently acknowledging the other man's ownership.

  "You are a fortunate man, Hawk," Lazaro said. "A fortunate man, indeed." Lazaro snapped his fingers and a servant came running. "Wine, por favor! We will toast my victory today. And we will also drink to the success of Señorita Dean's quest to find her nephew."

  Hawk tightened his hold around Rorie's waist, warning her to keep quiet. The servant returned quickly with a tray of filled wine flutes. Those assembled around the general lifted their glasses.

  Murdock proposed the first toast. "To the rebel army's victorious takeover of the capital!"

  Beaming with narcissistic delight, Lazaro hugged Dulcina to his side as cheers filled the banquet hall. When the cheers died away, Lazaro lifted his glass again and nodded to Rorie.

  "To the success of Señorita Dean's search for her nephew. May she find him unharmed and safe." A hush fell over the room. The general narrowed his gaze, hooding his eyes with his thick, black lashes. "And may
Francisco Dean live a long and happy life in the United States." A boisterous round of cheers and applause rocked the banquet hall.

  Rorie shuddered involuntarily when she downed half a glass of wine in a show of support for the general's toast.

  "Come, my friends, and eat with me at my table." Lazaro led the way to the head of the enormous banquet table.

  Rorie remembered dining here only once before—a few months after she had arrived in San Miguel for her year of missionary work with Peter. She had been invited to attend King Julio's sixtieth birthday party, a lavish affair that had ended for her after Cipriana and her father had quarreled bitterly.

  The general led the group to his table, then took his place in the king's elaborately carved chair. Already sitting to his right was a young female soldier, whose heated glare raked over Dulcina as Lazaro seated the prostitute on his left.

  "Hawk, you remember Major Santiago, don't you?" Lazaro asked, signaling to the proud young woman at his right.

  Rorie watched the visual exchange between Hawk and the major. Closed-mouth smiles. Friendly nods. Two pairs of dark eyes that glimmered with memories.

  "Congratulations, Consuela, on your promotion to major," Hawk said. "When I left San Miguel, you were Captain Santiago."

  "Consuela is one of my most valued officers," Lazaro said. "She has become my right hand. No soldier has been more loyal to me or more devoted to the cause."

  Rorie wondered if the general had any idea that Consuela was in love with him. Probably not. But if he did, he obviously didn't care.

  All during the meal, Mateo Lazaro laughed and drank and kissed Dulcina repeatedly. By the end of the feast, he had dragged the giggling prostitute onto his lap. And all the while the general enjoyed himself with Murdock's "gift for the night," Consuela Santiago flirted outrageously with Hawk, who sat between the sexy major and Rorie.

  When Consuela led Hawk onto the dance floor, Rorie tried to pretend indifference. But even a partially intoxicated Lazaro noticed her discomfort.

  "Do not worry, beautiful Aurora." While the general turned his attention to Rorie, Dulcina clung possessively to his neck, squirming about in his lap. "Hawk and Consuela are old friends. He dances with her to be polite. He knows that she is trying to make me jealous."

  When Rorie didn't reply, the general laughed loudly, tossed Dulcina onto the floor as he stood and held out his hand to Rorie. "You will dance with me."

  Shocked by the general's request, Rorie only stared at him for a moment, then when he approached her chair, she rose slowly and accepted his arm.

  "You and I will make Hawk and Consuela jealous. ¿Sí?"

  "¿Sí?" Rorie went willingly into the general's arms.

  He waltzed her across the dance floor as if she were as light as air, then when they neared Hawk and Consuela, Lazaro pulled Rorie very close and nuzzled her neck.

  "If you were not Hawk's woman, I would ask you to stay the night with me."

  Rorie shuddered. "General, I—"

  "My name is Mateo." He brought her hand to his lips, opened his mouth and glided the tip of his tongue over her hand.

  Rorie gasped. "Mateo … I have risked everything—my very life—to come to San Miguel to find my nephew. Help me, and I promise that I will take him to the United States and he will never come back to San Miguel."

  "I have heard that your brother was a fine man. I am sorry that he and his wife met such a terrible fate at the hands of Emilio Santos." Lazaro grinned at Hawk when he whirled Rorie past the other couple. "I do not condone anything that that butcher does. He calls himself my comrade, but he is not. He and his followers are renegades. They do not love San Miguel and the people of this country the way I do. Santos is not fighting for freedom. Santos is fighting for the love of killing."

  "I've been led to believe that Emilio Santos will kill Francisco, if he finds him."

  "You must find the boy first and get him out of the country. I will provide you and Hawk with whatever you need."

  "You're most generous, Gener—Mateo."

  "When this war is over, I want peace and prosperity for San Miguel. I am tired of the bloodshed." Lazaro looked directly into Rorie's eyes. "I would never harm Prince Francisco. I am not a murderer of children. But I do want the royal line to end with King Julio. For this reason, once you have found the young prince, I will help you and Hawk get the child safely out of San Miguel."

  "I believe you." Rorie stopped dancing, stood on tiptoe and kissed Mateo Lazaro's cheek.

  As Lazaro propelled Rorie across the dance floor, Hawk watched and listened when he heard the general and his partner laughing. What the hell was Rorie laughing about? He had told her to be friendly to Lazaro, but he hadn't told her to charm the pants off the man. Hawk knew that if Lazaro could have his way, he would take Rorie to his bed tonight.

  "Over my dead body," Hawk mumbled.

  "What did you say?" Consuela asked.

  Hawk stopped abruptly on the dance floor when he saw Lazaro lead Rorie toward the doors opening into the enormous entrance hall.

  "Excuse me." Hawk released Consuela and stalked off toward the huge gilded doors.

  He ran into the entrance hall, but halted when he saw Lazaro kiss Rorie's hand and order a guard to see Señorita Dean safely to her room. The general stood at the foot of the marble staircase and watched Rorie's climb. When he turned around, he threw up his hand in a greeting to Hawk.

  "Your lady was tired and wanted to retire for the night," Lazaro said. "She is much woman, your Aurora Dean. If only I were the man who would share her bed tonight." The general sighed dramatically, then threw his arm around Hawk's shoulder. "Come back to the party and give your woman time to bathe and prepare herself for you."

  Hawk's body tightened with arousal at the thought of sharing Rorie's bed. He would have no choice but to share her room, since Lazaro thought they were lovers. But Rorie certainly wasn't upstairs preparing herself to share a night of passionate lovemaking with him.

  * * *

  Rorie soaked in the gigantic marble-enclosed tub. The luxury of a warm, scented bath soothed her frazzled nerves and almost seduced her into believing that all was right with the world. But all was far from right. She was enjoying the hospitality of a man who claimed he wanted peace, who said he was tired of all the bloodshed, and yet today she had witnessed the brutality of his soldiers. The general had given her his assurance that he wouldn't harm Frankie, that indeed he would help her and Hawk get the boy out of San Miguel. And downstairs, on the dance floor, when Mateo Lazaro had looked at her with his warm, brown eyes, she had believed him. But now, an hour later, alone with her thoughts, with her mind no longer befuddled by Lazaro's charm or her own jealousy over Hawk's attentions to Consuela, Rorie questioned the general's sincerity.

  So what if Lazaro hadn't been completely honest with her? All that mattered was that he keep his word about giving Hawk and her safe passage out of La Vega. Once they took Frankie away from the nuns at the Blessed Virgin Mission, they would return to Cabo Verde and wait for Hawk to arrange for a ship to pick them up and return them to the United States. After tomorrow, there would be no reason for her ever to see General Lazaro again.

  Rorie dried her body with the wraparound towel and blotted her wet hair. She returned to the sumptuous bedroom suite, intending to retrieve her dirty clothes, wash them and lay them out to dry for morning. But her clothes had disappeared. A sheer, white cotton gown, adorned with heavy lace, lay across the foot of the bed. Compliments of General Lazaro? Had he instructed a servant to provide her with a gown? But whose gown? One that Nina Hernández had not taken with her to Puerto Angelo?

  Surely her clothes would be returned to her in the morning. If not, she would have to ask Hawk to find her something suitable for their journey. Hawk. Hawk!

  "Humph!"

  Gabriel Hawk was probably still downstairs, getting rip-roaring drunk and pawing Consuela Santiago. Or maybe he and the major had already retired for the night to one of the many bedrooms
in the palace.

  "I don't care if he spends the night with her," Rorie said aloud. "I don't care. I don't care."

  A nagging little voice inside her head said, "Don't lie to yourself, Rorie. You do care. You care very much."

  She dropped the towel to the floor, stepped over it and picked up the beautiful gown. She slipped it over her head, letting it fall loosely about her, the hem brushing the rug beneath her feet.

  Turning toward the back wall, she gazed at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and almost didn't recognize the alluring woman staring back at her. The sheer fabric of the gown did nothing to hide her body; it simply gave the illusion of covering. Her long mane of hair hung seductively over one shoulder, short, damp tendrils curling about her face. She looked like a woman prepared for her man. A woman ready to embrace life with passion.

  But her man was with another woman—a woman who would give him exactly what he wanted.

  Hawk is not your man, she told herself. He is your employee. Your guide. Your bodyguard. That's all he is. All he ever can be.

  The servant who had brought the gown and taken away her dirty clothes had also turned down the satin coverlet on the bed and lit a dozen candles throughout the room. The suite reminded Rorie of something out of a fairy tale—the bedroom of a queen or a princess. But this was no more than a guest suite in the palace, one of dozens of such rooms.

  Rorie heard an occasional sound from downstairs, a distant strain of music and laughter. From the streets outside the palace walls came louder celebratory noises and sporadic episodes of gunfire. The war was not over, only partially at rest. Tomorrow, Lazaro would have to make plans to move across the island to Puerto Angelo, and face the king's army once again.

  And tomorrow, she and Hawk would drive to the mission high atop La Montana Grande. She couldn't wait to find Frankie, to see for herself that he was alive and well, to hold her little nephew in her arms once again. But would the child even remember her? He hadn't seen her in such a long time. He'd been a babe of three when Captain Garcia had stolen him. Now Frankie was six years old. What if he didn't remember her? What if he didn't want to leave the mission with her?