by Diana Palmer
“Señor Rourke will escort you to where the others are gathered backstage,” he said, nodding and bowing. Then he deserted her.
“Aren’t you going to turn around, Tat?” he asked very softly.
She took a deep breath and faced him. He looked different. She couldn’t understand why at first. Then she realized it was because his hair was short. He’d cut his hair. She wondered why. It had been in that long ponytail for years.
“Hello, Stanton,” she said quietly. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
He looked down at her intently, his one eye narrowed and piercing as he drank in the sight of her, the memory of her in his arms making his heart race. There were no more barriers. He could have her. He could hold her and kiss her. He could make love to her…
He shook himself mentally. He had to go slow. “I was at a loose end,” he said carelessly.
“I see.” She was uneasy. She kept looking around, as if she wanted to be rescued. In fact, she did.
He looked around, too. “Did you come alone?” he asked suddenly, and there was a bite in his voice.
She swallowed. “I’d asked Ruy to come with me, but he had to fly to Argentina to treat an old friend.”
“Ruy…Carvajal, your doctor friend.”
“That’s right.”
He scowled. “You aren’t dating him, for God’s sake?” he asked curtly. “My God, Tat, he’s twenty years your senior!”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s older than I am, yes.”
He felt his muscles tighten from head to toe. She couldn’t be getting involved with the doctor. Surely not!
His silence coaxed her into looking up. His expression confounded her. In another man, it would look like jealousy. But Rourke would never be jealous of her. He hated her.
She moved restlessly. “We should go backstage.”
“Are you going to be here overnight?” he asked as they walked.
“I fly back to Manaus in the morning,” she replied.
“I’m here overnight, as well.”
She didn’t say anything. She knew that he was going to avoid her like the plague, as usual.
“Which hotel are you staying in?” he asked abruptly.
“Why? Do you want to make sure you can get one at least half the city away from it?” she burst out.
He stopped dead. “I’ve got a lot to make up to you,” he said solemnly. “I don’t even know where to start. I’ve done so much damage, Tat,” he added in a husky tone. “Far too much.”
She looked up at him, shocked.
He reached out toward her face, only to have her jerk back from him and avert her eyes.
It hurt more than he’d ever dreamed anything could.
“Tat,” he whispered roughly, wounded.
“Don’t you remember?” she bit off. “You told me…never to touch you. You said that I was repulsive…” Her voice broke. She walked around him and moved blindly to the back, where a man in a suit was motioning to them to get with the other honorees. She didn’t look to see if Rourke was coming behind her. She didn’t want to see him.
He followed her, his heart torn out of his body at her words. Yes, he’d told her that; he’d been brutal with her. How could he have forgotten? He’d hurt her so badly. Now, after years of tormenting her and himself, he finally had a chance to start over with her. But judging by what she’d just said, it was going to be a very hard road back.
* * *
The award ceremony was lengthy. General Machado made a speech. His director of the interior made a longer one. The presenter made an even longer one. By the end of it, Clarisse’s feet hurt. She was glad she was wearing low-heeled shoes.
One by one, the honorees went out to receive their awards, made a short speech and shook hands with the General. Clarisse did the same, smiling up at him as he bent to kiss her cheek, the medal in its velvet case held tightly in one hand.
“Thank you for coming,” he whispered in her ear.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she whispered back.
She shook hands with him and carried her award off the stage.
She waited while the others received their medals. Rourke joined her, somber and quiet. He hadn’t liked the General kissing her. He was fuming inside.
Clarisse saw his expression and felt her heart sink. He was angry at her again. It was familiar, though. Nothing really changed, least of all Rourke’s bad opinion.
* * *
She left her award with her coat in the cloakroom and nursed a rum drink. She’d already refused half a dozen requests to dance. She bristled at the thought of strange hands on her skin, and the dress was low cut in back. So she stood by herself, watching other people enjoy the music on the dance floor.
She felt heat at her back and stiffened. She always knew when Rourke was close. She wasn’t sure how. It was rather uncanny. She turned, her whole posture defensive.
“You’ve never danced with me, Tat,” he said, his voice deep and velvety as he drank in the exquisite sight of her.
She sipped the rum, for something to do. “Have you had all your shots?” she asked with quiet sarcasm.
There was a pause. He drew in a breath. “How about a truce, just for tonight?”
She studied him with apprehension, her face wary, her eyes wide and worried.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. His face was taut, and not with revulsion. He looked as if he was hanging in midair, waiting for her to answer. At his side, his big hands were curled into fists. “Just for tonight,” he repeated in a voice so soft that she had to strain to hear it.
He’d tormented her for so long. The pain, the memories, were in her wide blue eyes, in her sadness. She bit her lower lip, hard, and twisted her small evening bag into an unrecognizable shape in her cold hands.
He moved a step closer, so that he was almost right up against her. His breath caught as he breathed in the floral perfume she wore, just a hint of it. His hands came up, very slowly, and went to her waist. He was hesitant.
“Trust me,” he said at her forehead. “Just this once.”
“You don’t like me to touch you,” she managed in a choked tone.
His eye closed on a wave of pain. “I lied.” He looked down into her shocked face. “I lied, Tat,” he whispered. “I want your hands on me. I want you close, as close as I can get you.” He drew in an unsteady breath. “Humor me.”
She hesitated. It would start the addiction off, all over again, just when she was thinking that she could finally get over him.
“Come on.” He took the drink from her cold hands and put it on the table. Then he caught the other small hand in his, linking his fingers into hers, and led her into the large room where the orchestra was playing. Couples were moving slowly to a bluesy tune.
He turned and curved one long arm around her waist. He slid his fingers in between hers and rested them over his spotless white shirt. He moved closer and led her, to the rhythm of the music. He could hear her breath catch, feel the tenseness in her young body slowly give way to the seduction of the slow movements.
“That’s more like it,” he said roughly at her temple.
She thought she felt his mouth there. Surely he wouldn’t do that, though, she reminded herself. She should pull away. She should run. He was going to hurt her. This was the way it always was. He was kind, or seemed to be. Then he pushed her away, taunted her, tormented her…
She pulled back and looked up at him with anguish in her face.
“No,” he whispered, wincing as he read the apprehension there. “I meant it. I swear to God, I won’t hurt you, Tat. Not with words, not any other way. I give you my word.”
That was serious business with him. If he made a promise, you could bet money on his keeping it. She searched his hard face. “Why?”
He let out a breath from between chiseled, very masculine lips. His gaze went over her head to the wall beyond. “I…heard some gossip, years ago. Malicious gossip. Long story short, I thought we were relat
ed by blood.”
She stopped dancing. She gaped at him. “Wh…what?” she asked, and started to jerk away from him.
His arm curled her into his tall, muscular body and held her there. “It wasn’t true,” he said. “I had it checked out. Your mother’s blood type was O positive,” he said through his teeth. “And your father’s blood type was B positive. I’m AB negative, like K.C. You’re B positive.” He hesitated. “I had a covert DNA scan done from a sample of your blood. Don’t ask how I got it,” he said when she opened her mouth. “I’m a spy. I have ways. I spoke to a geneticist. There is no way in hell we could be related. Not even in the most distant way. “
She was standing very still. All of a sudden the past eight years made absolute sense. He’d behaved sometimes as if it was tormenting him to be near her, as if he wanted her but he wouldn’t permit himself to touch her, or her to touch him.
The realization made her face change, made her expression change.
His jaw tautened as he looked down at her. “Oh, God, don’t you think I wanted you, too?” he whispered in anguish. “Wanted you, ached for you, for years! And I couldn’t…I didn’t dare even touch you…!”
Tears welled up in her eyes. It was like dreams coming true. She couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered, and suddenly dragged her body against his, holding her. He started shivering, from the force of desire, so long denied.
She pulled back abruptly, her eyes horrified. “Are you all right, Stanton?” she asked at once. “You’re shivering! It isn’t the malaria recurring?” He’d had it years ago. She’d nursed him through one bout of it when she was a child, in Africa. She reached up hesitantly to touch his face. “You do feel a little warm…”
He was almost in shock. He was shivering with desire and she didn’t know it. But she was experienced. She’d had men. How could she be ignorant of something so basic?
He scowled. Impulsively, his hand slid down to the base of her spine and pulled her very close, letting her feel the sharp, immediate arousal of his body.
She went scarlet and tried to get away from him, struggling to escape the intimate contact, which she’d only ever felt once, the Christmas Eve that she’d almost given in to his ardor. No man had been allowed to touch her that way since. It was still embarrassing.
Rourke felt as if Christmas had come. He let her move away, but his one good eye was brimming with joy, with exultation.
He bent his head a little, so that he was looking right into both of her eyes. “You’re still a virgin, aren’t you, Tat?” he asked in a rough whisper.
“Stan…ton!” she choked, and averted her eyes.
He slid his cheek against hers. He shivered again. “I don’t have malaria,” he whispered. “That part of me is looking for a soft, warm, dark place to hide in.”
It took her a minute to work that out. When she did she colored even more. She hit his chest. “Stanton!”
He laughed softly, with utter delight, nuzzling his face against hers. “You couldn’t do it with anyone else, could you, Tat?” he teased.
And there it was. Assumptions. Arrogance. He knew how she felt. He’d said it would be a truce, but it really wasn’t. He was moving in for the kill. Now that he knew what she really was, he’d never relent. He’d stalk her until he seduced her. He might sound pleasant; he might even sound as if he cared about her. But at the end of the day, he just wanted sex. He’d desired her for years, but thought he couldn’t have her. Now he knew that he could. And it was true. She had no defense. Except one.
“Ruy asked me to marry him,” she said quietly, without looking up at him.
He went very still. “What?”
She swallowed. “He may be much older than I am, but he’s a good, kind man.” She closed her eyes. “I said yes, Stanton,” she lied. It was the only protection she could give herself from a one-night stand that she didn’t want, couldn’t bear. She loved him too much. “So if you’re thinking in terms of a night in bed with me, think again. I won’t cheat on my fiancé.”
His whole world exploded. He stared at her with anguish that he couldn’t even hide. He started to speak, but before he could get a word out, General Machado appeared beside them with Maddie beaming at his side.
“We are getting married,” Machado said, laughing softly as Maddie actually blushed. “I wanted you both to know.” He shrugged. “I am years too old for her, but what the hell. I love her.” He looked at the pretty brunette with eyes that worshipped her.
“Almost as much as I love him,” Maddie tried to joke, but her eyes were eating him.
“Congratulations,” Rourke said, hiding his own misery. He shook hands with the general and kissed Maddie on the cheek. “I’m happy for both of you.”
“So am I,” Clarisse choked, repeating his gestures. “I hope you’ll be so happy together.”
“Same here,” Rourke added.
They smiled, then laughed, then talk revolved around the awards and how they came to be. The general mentioned that his son, San Antonio police lieutenant Rick Marquez had wanted to come, but his wife was in the early stages of pregnancy and wasn’t doing well; Rick couldn’t bring her with him, or leave her, so he sent his regrets via Skype. The general and his son spoke often these days.
Rourke went through the motions of paying attention, but he was dying inside. He was too late. Tat had finally given up on him. She was going to marry the damned doctor in Manaus.
* * *
He wandered away. Tat noticed him dancing with a ravishing blonde, laughing down at her. She smiled sadly to herself. Why did she ever expect things to change? There was Rourke, being himself, coaxing women to his bed. She imagined the ravishing blonde would give him what Clarisse wouldn’t, a single night of pleasure.
It disturbed her that he’d found a replacement so quickly. Well, what had she expected? That when he realized she wasn’t a blood relation, he’d declare eternal love and produce a wedding ring? Fat chance of that ever happening. She’d had a lucky escape, because it wouldn’t have been possible for her to refuse him. She loved him too much, despite everything.
She turned with a sad little smile and went out of the building, caught a cab and went back to her hotel room. It was just as well not to trust in dreams.
* * *
She was sleeping. She woke suddenly, just after an attack of some sort, bombs going off, a rifle shot. She was wet with sweat, even in the air-conditioned room. She still had nightmares from her ordeal in Barrera. The phone was ringing off the hook.
She answered the phone, noting that it was three o’clock in the morning. “Yes?” she asked, surprised at the call at this hour.
“Miss Carrington? It’s O’Bailey. You remember me?”
She searched her memories. “You’re the computer hacker. You were with us when General Machado led the counterrevolution.”
“That’s me, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “The general said you were here for the awards ceremony. I was, too, but I arrived late. I heard a commotion downstairs and when I looked in the bar, well, it’s really bad. He’s going to kill somebody or get himself arrested. That would really upset the general with all the international press here, and I thought…”
“He?” Clarisse asked.
“Rourke,” he replied. “He’s totally out of control. I’ve only ever seen him drunk a time or two, and he’s dangerous when he drinks. Somebody has to get him out of there, or the general’s policemen are going to arrest him and put him in jail.” He hesitated. “There are reporters in the hotel, too. If one of them sees him…”
“Rourke is drunk?” She was dumbfounded. “O’Bailey, he doesn’t drink hard liquor. Well, maybe he drinks, but he never has enough to make him lose control…”
“Ma’am, he just threw one of the bouncers through a glass window.”
“Oh, good Lord!” she exclaimed.
“I was wondering if you could come down here and maybe talk to him.”
She hesitated.
She was afraid of Rourke in a temper.
“Ma’am, there’s always one person that a drunk person can be controlled by. With my dad, it was my little sister. She could just lead him by the hand, when he’d kill another man for trying to make him stop drinking. I don’t think Rourke would ever hurt you. But I’ll be there if he tries to. Please?”
“Are you downstairs?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll meet you in front of the bar.” She hung up.
* * *
She put on slacks and a yellow pullover blouse. She didn’t wait to make up her face. She met O’Bailey outside the lounge downstairs, where a vicious loud voice was cursing in Afrikaans. She winced.
“He’ll listen to you,” he said. “I know he will.”
She gave O’Bailey a grim look. “I’ll try,” she said.
She walked into the bar. There was another man, one who looked about half as drunk as Rourke. He spotted her and got up, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, look what a pretty little fairy just walked in the door,” the man exclaimed. He caught her by the arm and tried to pull her to him. “Precious, how about coming up to my room…?”
In an instant, Rourke had him by the throat. His one eye was dark with rage. “You touch her again and I’ll kill you!” he said through his teeth. He threw the man backward. He fell over a table and picked himself up and ran out of the lounge, holding his throat.
“Stanton,” Clarisse said softly.
He looked down at her. He was breathing roughly. He reeked of whiskey. He peered at her, frowning. “Why are you here, Tat?” he asked in almost a whisper.
“I came to get you.” She slid her cold, nervous hand into his. He’d frightened her when he grabbed the man by the throat. But he didn’t look violent at all now. “You have to come with me.”
“Okay,” he said easily.
She tugged on his hand. He let her lead him right out of the room, to where O’Bailey was waiting. She could hardly believe it. The bar was a wreck. Men, big men, were against the wall, behind tables, as if they were hoping Rourke wouldn’t notice them. Grown men were afraid of him, but he was following along with Clarisse like a lamb.
