The Disenchanted Duke

by Marie Ferrarella

  His eyes met hers. "No more than you trust me."

  Something tightened within her. She inclined her head. "Fair enough."

  Lying back down, she realized that he'd propped himself up on his side and was looking at her. A jittery feeling snaked its way through her body. And then Max moved closer to her until the top of his torso was almost directly over her. Her heart began to hammer harder than she was happy about, the beat keeping abreast of the throbbing in her pulse.

  She needed him back in his space, not invading hers. "Unless you're looking to pick bullets out of your teeth, Ryker, I'd back off right now if I were you."

  Max heard the slight thread of tension in her voice, felt the crackle of electricity between them. "You need to relax, Rivers."

  The jerk was being condescending, as if he could read what was in her mind. How could he? She couldn't even read what was in her mind right now. Except that she didn't want him so close to her. "And you need to back off, Ryker. Now."

  He didn't move a single muscle. "Is that a challenge?"

  Was she going to have to fight him off after all? Every muscle in her body tensed. "If that's what it takes to get you back on your side."

  She had pretty eyes, Max thought. Even when they darkened. He'd never been partial to blue-gray before. "You know, as a young boy, I could never resist a challenge. My mother said I was a constant source of worry for her."

  His mother used to despair, he remembered fondly, that he would die an early death, led there by his own recklessness. Instead she had been the one to die too early, through no fault of her own.

  "At least you had a mother," Cara heard herself murmuring, her voice hardly audible above the rushing noise in her ears.

  She knew she should push him away, knew that all it would really take would be one quick turn and a well-placed flexing of her knee and any impromptu moves on his part would be summarily terminated.

  But curiosity got the better of her. Curiosity and a strange physical pull that crept out of nowhere and presented itself to her with his name on it. Desire unfolded within her like a deck of cards being fanned out before a magic trick took place.

  "You have a death wish." Her lips practically touched his as she uttered the declaration.

  "Maybe."

  And maybe he just had an insatiable thirst to discover what it felt like to kiss her. An insatiable thirst that wouldn't be quenched until he found out on his own what her lips tasted like.

  And then he wasn't speaking any longer and neither was she.

  Contact occurred and the air around them suddenly became even warmer than it already was, its edges singeing the instant their lips met.

  He gathered her to him. Or perhaps she pulled him in toward her. The logistics weren't clear. They overlapped. All that mattered was that they occurred.

  He tasted of something dark and sweet and compelling. She felt like she was a dried flower getting its first taste of summer rain with the promise of more lingering in the air.

  Cara wound her arms around his neck, telling herself she was anchored in reality so it was all right if, just for the moment, she lost herself in this sensation. Purely for reasons of edification. A woman always had to know exactly what she was up against.

  Max felt Cara's heart hammering against his chest as he drew her still closer against him, felt the heat of her body infiltrate his.

  Or maybe that was his heart suddenly going into double-time. He couldn't tell. He'd done this simply on a whim, because he couldn't resist certain challenges, just as he'd told her. But once he'd thrown his hat in the ring, he found himself being sucked in completely as he reached to retrieve it.

  If he'd had socks on, she would have knocked them off. Or at least curled them.

  What he was entirely certain of was that Cara Rivers had created this itch, an itch so intense, it was almost impossible to scratch.

  Or to bury.

  But he knew he had to. Business and this kind of thing really didn't mix.

  More's the pity.

  Okay, time was up. It was time to come up for air, Cara's brain pleaded, before it became completely oxygen deficient.

  With more than a little effort, Cara finally managed to wedge her hands against his chest. She pushed with all her might, which, to her surprise, had decreased considerably. Still, she did manage to create a very small space between them.

  She could only pray she didn't sound as breathless as she felt. "Curiosity satisfied?"

  She certainly didn't pull any punches, Max thought. A smile curved his mouth. He ran the back of his knuckles slowly along the silky skin of her face and watched her eyes widen before she got better control over herself.

  "Not in the least. Whetted, actually."

  "Too bad," Cara said, finding a ribbon of strength to tap into. She pushed him back even farther, then struggled up into a sitting position. "Because that's all she wrote."

  Intrigued, Max drew his thumb along her bottom lip, allowing his mind to wander a little further. Watching her veiled reaction in her eyes. There was a complete untapped vein of sensuality right before him.

  "I don't think so."

  "I'm not interested in what you think, Ryker. Just in what you do. And for your own well-being, what you should do is go lie down on your side of the bed." She felt under her pillow and produced her gun. She pointed it at him, leaving the safety on. "Now."

  He didn't believe in forcing himself on someone. Especially someone with gun, safety or no safety. Besides, the world seemed to be just the slightest bit tilted at the moment. Just like in the bar last night. Except that this time, he hadn't been deliberately drugged by anything. Only her.

  He struggled not to show Cara that he was searching for his bearings and that she was the cause of this disorientation.

  "I never argue with a lady."

  "Hah," was her only response. What a crock. He'd argued with her the better part of the time they'd been together.

  With exaggerated movements, she turned her back on him and punched up her pillow. She knew damn well that she wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. But that was all right. Not sleeping fit in with her plans.

  Several minutes went by. Max found that his curiosity hadn't abated. "What did you mean by that?"

  She sighed. It was obvious that the man wasn't going to just peacefully drop off to sleep. He was going to give her trouble.

  So what else was new?

  She kept her back to him, feeling it was a lot safer that way. "Mean by what?"

  "That at least I had a mother."

  He would have picked up on that, she thought in annoyance. Why had she let that slip? "I wasn't speaking in tongues."

  There was something defensive in her voice. His curiosity peaked, he turned around, only to find himself looking at her back. He squelched the impulse to turn her toward him. No use borrowing trouble. "Didn't you have a mother?"

  She didn't bother suppressing a sigh. The man was making things difficult for her on a whole host of levels. She tried to ignore the restlessness she felt, the kind she couldn't put a name to but bothered her nonetheless. "Are you getting paid extra to annoy me?"

  "I'm not getting paid to do anything at all with you," he told her mildly. "For the record, I was just s being curious."

  "Well, don't be."

  Struggling with her exasperation, and the nameless feeling that insisted on continuing to grow within her, a feeling that might have been labeled attraction if she wasn't so damn sure it wasn't, she punched her pillow again, trying to add dimension to it. It couldn't have been flatter than if it had been run over by every single one of the wheels on an eighteen-wheeler. It was obvious that comfort was not the byword of this motel. Several attempts later, she bunched the pillow beneath her head, folding it as much as possible.

  Cara stared at the rusted handle on the bureau. "No, I didn't," she finally said quietly.

  He'd thought she'd lapsed into total silence. Hearing her answer, he turned back to look at her again. "Divorced
?" he guessed.

  She'd never known her mother or her father. She'd overheard one of the social workers say that she'd been found on a park bench when she was only several days old. Her parents hadn't even thought enough of her to leave her on a hospital or church doorstep. For all they knew, a stray, hungry animal could have come across her and ended her life before it ever began.

  Cara's laugh was short and without any accompanying humor. "From me, maybe."

  She could feel him propping himself up on his elbow by the movement of the mattress. There were going to be more questions. As she had done most of her life, going from one school system to another more times than she wanted to ever remember, Cara headed him off at the pass. It was always easier fighting on her own terms than waiting for the first jab to be thrown.

  Refusing to turn around, to see pity in his eyes, she addressed the dingy mirror over the bureau.

  "You're sharing your bed, so to speak, with a bona fide orphan. I spent the first seventeen and a half years of my life in foster homes. Sad music accompanying credits. End of story. Now go to sleep."

  Her answer only raised another question. "Aren't you supposed to be in the system until you're eighteen years old?"

  She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising. He was prying. Served her right for saying anything at all.

  "Yeah."

  "But you only stayed seventeen and a half—" He left the sentence open-ended, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

  Annoyed, she finally turned around to look at him. Ryker seemed much too close for either their own goods. She pretended not to notice.

  "I ran away for the last six months. When I was eighteen, the system was through with me." And so would life have been, if it hadn't been for Bridgette Applegate. Cara believed that from the bottom of her soul. "Now shut up and let me get some sleep before I really do shoot you."

  He'd opened up old wounds. It didn't take a brain surgeon to realize that. Part of him wanted to ask why she'd run away, but he knew how dear privacy was, how precious it was especially when you were denied it. He'd been there. Had seen its effects on his mother when the press wanted to know how she felt about her husband's flagrant indiscretions.

  It was in his mother's memory that he backed off. If Rivers wanted him to know the reason she ran away, she'd tell him on her own. If not, well there were a lot of questions in life that went unanswered.

  Such as why someone as good and kind as his mother had remained with the likes of his father. And why his father had felt the need to indulge in cheap affairs when there was someone waiting for him at home who could love him unconditionally. Someone, according to what his aunt Gwendolyn, the queen, had once told him that the duke had loved in return. But he just couldn't conquer the lust that governed him.

  Since both his parents were now gone, "why" was a puzzle he wasn't destined to ever solve. And one, heaven willing, he wouldn't be destined to repeat in his own life. For apples did not fall far from their trees and children were often doomed to repeat the sins of the fathers. He knew that he would rather remain unmarried all of his life than to bring the kind of grief to a woman that he had seen in his own mother's eyes.

  Max laid down again, staring at the ceiling. "Good night, Rivers."

  "Good night, Ryker," she growled into her pillow.

  For some reason, her response made him smile. Max closed his eyes. They had to get an early start in the morning if they were going to catch up to Weber. Lying here, wondering about the woman beside e him wasn't going to help him do that.

  He thought about her anyway. Eventually he managed to drift off to sleep.

  * * *

  The early-morning sun was just beginning to feed its way through the spaces in the curtains where the weave had thinned when Max opened his eyes again.

  It felt as if he'd just closed them and he gradually became aware of his body. It ached as if he'd spent the night sleeping on a pile of stones. He supposed that getting up was actually a relief.

  Stretching, Max sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to get his mind focused and into gear.

  It was then that he realized the place beside him was empty.

  Instantly alert, he looked to the bathroom. The door was closed. She was probably just in there, he told himself, but still, he was taking no chances. He knew better when it came to Rivers.

  On his feet, he crossed to the paint-scarred door and rapped on it.

  "Rivers, you in there?"

  There was no response.

  He put his ear to the door and heard nothing. No running water, no movement of any sort. An uneasy feeling got more than a toehold on him.

  "Rivers?" he called again, more urgently this time. When there was still no response, he tried the knob and found it locked. Was she inside and playing games just to get to him? He had no idea how her mind worked, only that she was perverse.

  "Look, if you're in there, open the damn door. Now." Still nothing. "Okay, I'm coming in. If you're in there naked, that's your problem."

  Throwing his shoulder against the door, he nearly took it completely off its rusted hinges.

  Cara wasn't in there naked. She wasn't in there at all.

  Max cursed roundly. This definitely did not look good.

  Spinning on his heel, he ran outside into the courtyard to where he'd parked his car. He knew that she could have just gotten up and was out, getting breakfast at the small cafe they'd passed on their way here, but somehow, he didn't think his luck was particularly running that way.

  He was right.

  The car wasn't where he'd left it. She'd taken it. Suppressing another curse, Max immediately checked for his keys. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he found them exactly where he'd put them.

  How the hell had she managed to steal the car without the keys?

  This woman appeared to have more hidden talents than a con game had angles.

  Max looked around, hoping that he was wrong, that he'd somehow just forgotten where he'd parked the vehicle in the dark.

  But there weren't that many places to look. He hadn't forgotten where he'd parked the car. It was gone and she had taken it.

  Storming into the small office, he saw the office manager dozing in a corner, his head forward, small drool marks forging a trail down his faded shirt. The picture on his small television set was rolling so that it appeared the woman's waist was on her head as she pitched a set of knives guaranteed to cut through steel and the hardest man's heart with ridiculous ease.

  Fisting his hand, Max rapped on the desk hard and the man jumped up, bumping his shins against a chair as he scrambled forward. Focusing on Max, the man blinked, then sank back into his semistupor state.

  "What?"

  Max knew it was useless to ask, but he did anyway. "The woman who was with me last night when I checked in, did you see her leave?"

  The man stared at him slack-jawed. He scratched the stubble on his face.

  "You mean she's gone?"

  Well that answered that. Blowing out an angry breath, calling himself several kinds of a fool for not handcuffing her to the bedpost the way instinct had told him to, Max strode out the door.

  "Does this mean you'll be checking out?" the man called after him, leaning as far over his desk as he could manage. "There's a half day charge after six in the morning, you know."

  Max ignored him.

  Trying to think, he walked into the courtyard again. He scanned the area, looking out onto the street, hoping against hope.

  Hope died a quick, harsh death.

  Rivers was nowhere in sight. Somehow, she'd managed to start up his car and make good her escape. The woman had too many hidden talents.

  Hurrying back to their room Max took a fast inventory of what was there. Her things, including the laptop she'd brought in with her, were gone.

  Rivers had played him for a fool.

  Again.

  Chapter 7

  Stupid Americans.

  Toying with his bour
bon and soda, Jalil Salim looked up and studied his own face in the mirror that lined the back of the hotel bar. He watched his mouth curve in a self-satisfied smirk. It had been almost too easy. He would have enjoyed more of a challenge, wanted more of an adrenaline rush than what he'd sustained.

  Did they really think they were going to catch me?

  The thought seemed ludicrous. Salim raised the two fingers of amber liquid in his glass to his lips and drank deeply. He closed his dark eyes for a moment, savoring the bourbon's hot, raw burn as it made its way down his throat into his stomach.

  Except for the bullet that had grazed his shoulder, the Americans had proven to be unworthy adversaries. A great deal like the fools in Montebello.

  Salim set the glass down, wrapping both hands around it and hunching the thin, wiry body beneath the light gray suit, as if he meant to surround his glass. Idly he looked in the mirror and watched the people in the hotel bar come and go without really taking note of them. He was too busy congratulating himself on eluding capture.

  The whole thing was rather stupid on his part, he supposed. He shouldn't have tried breaking into the Chambers ranch. It was beneath him. He should have left it to someone else. The brotherhood could have sent him someone to handle that. He had enough on his mind without looking over his shoulder, trying to elude being captured again by some would-be American law enforcement dolts. If he hadn't gotten out on bail because of a technicality, he might be rotting in jail right now.

  Bail, what a foolish, foolish concept. That was why his country was so superior. It didn't have such things as bail. If you were believed to be guilty, justice was swift. It did not mince around.

  Lucky for him the authorities here in the United States could be easily circumvented. Here people took you at your word and believed in an honor system.

  As if they were on the same plain as he, Salim sneered into his drink. Why else would they have released him, believing that he would be back when the time for trial came. s

  Idiots.

  Jalil laughed to himself. If those poor fools only knew what his true mission here was, they would be stunned and horrified. As well they should be. He liked the idea of striking fear into people's hearts. Fear was a way of controlling people, of wielding power. The more fear you struck, the more powerful you were.