Proud Revenge Passionate Wedlock

by Janette Kenny

  Her gaze fixed on Miguel’s, and the invitation in her pale eyes was bold and lurid. Sí, she always made it obvious she’d welcome his attention, and a glance hinted the Tejano didn’t seem aware of his daughter’s flirtations.

  Allegra noticed, though. She tensed beside him. He’d always found that spate of jealousy in her unnecessary before, for he’d given her no reason to believe he’d stray.

  He inclined his head toward the Tejano and his daughter in turn. “Señor and Señorita McClendon, allow me to introduce mi esposa, Allegra.”

  “Nice to meet you, señora.” The Tejano swallowed Allegra’s hand in his much larger one, his somber look putting Miguel on alert. “I was mighty sorry to hear about that accident. My condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Allegra said, her tone polite, her smile brief but gracious as she extracted her hand from his.

  “Miguel, you didn’t tell us you were still married,” Tara said, her full lips pulling into a pout.

  He gave a shrug of impatience. “I keep my personal life apart from business.”

  The Tejano’s daughter smiled. “Spoken like a man who guards his secrets well.”

  As well she knew! The way Allegra looked from Tara to him convinced him that she’d recognized the familiarity between them.

  “You know, if it’d been anyone but your husband, I’d never have parted so easily with those old sisal haciendas,” McClendon said and favored Allegra with a conspiratorial wink.

  “You are friends then?” she asked.

  McClendon gave a good-natured laugh. “I’ve known him since he was a boy.”

  Yet the Tejano had haggled over the price to the point Miguel’s patience had nearly snapped. “If you, señor, weren’t an old friend of my father’s, I would have called off negotiations months ago.”

  “How long did it take to solidify this deal?” Allegra asked.

  McClendon scrubbed a beefy hand along his ruddy jaw. “Reckon it took close to seven months.”

  Allegra’s smile was as tense as her spine, but it was the pain in the wide eyes that clashed with his that hit him like a gut punch. “So this was the business deal that took so much of your time.”

  He inclined his head once in answer, unwilling to say more in front of the McClendons. Like his father, he was careful to keep business and family apart.

  In fact he was more guarded about it because he didn’t want his wife to interfere in his business dealings as his madre had done.

  Tara McClendon struck a siren’s pose by the window, but her action screamed calculating artifice. “What I can’t understand,” she said as she lifted a martini off a tray, “is why are you willing to trade three fabulous hotels for those run-down plantations?”

  “Competing with the Riviera Maya crowd lost its allure,” Miguel said.

  “But renovating old haciendas appeals to you?” Tara asked.

  “Sí,” he said as he assisted Allegra into her chair. Her subtle floral fragrance was a more powerful aphrodisiac than Tara McClendon’s intensely exotic scent.

  She’d caught her hair up in a knot of sorts, but a few strands trailed down the slender column of her neck. If he bent a bit more, he could press his lips to skin that would be warm and soft.

  Sí, he’d lost his appeal for the resort life, but not for the woman he’d found on the beach.

  “The properties complement the historic haciendas I’ve already renovated into luxury hotels and resorts, and preserve a rich part of history,” Miguel said.

  “Going to cost you a fortune to restore them,” McClendon said.

  Miguel shrugged off the concern about cost. The properties were the legacy he’d hoped to pass down to his children, he admitted as he took his place beside his wife. Even after the tragedy, he remained determined to increase his empire for his family he’d have one day.

  His madre repeatedly advised him to divorce Allegra and find a proper wife now. A woman who would be content to delve into worthy efforts befitting a señora of her station. A woman who would give him children and accept that she had no place in a man’s world.

  He slid a glance at his wayward wife.

  She looked everywhere but at him, but he suspected the McClendons were too busy ordering their dinners to notice her pique. The fact she seemed annoyed with him wasn’t a surprise.

  Perhaps she was upset that he’d been negotiating with McClendon for six months or more. But he wasn’t in the habit of explaining his actions to anyone.

  Business was business, and family was family. The two did not mix.

  The waitress opened the door to leave and an ice-blond niña darted into the room in a rush of giggly effervescence. Her blue eyes sparkled with life, and her laughter bubbled clear and infectious.

  His chest tightened with longing. What would Cristobel have been like at this age?

  “I’m so sorry.” A woman rushed in after the girl and swept the laughing child up in her arms.

  Red-faced, she left mumbling another apology, but the child’s laughter remained. To be that free and happy—

  The Tejano chuckled. “Kids are the same the world over.”

  “Sí.” His gaze flicked to Allegra.

  The longing in her eyes took his breath away, for in that split second there was no doubt she still grieved for their daughter, too.

  McClendon lifted his whiskey and water in a toast. “Here’s to big families and providing the means for the next generation to make their mark on the world.”

  Miguel’s blood flowed thick and hot at the thought of fathering a legacy. Sí, one day he’d remarry and sire children. One day he’d start a family again.

  He glanced at Allegra and noted the worry pulling at her artfully arched brows. Surely she didn’t think he intended to start over again with her?

  “¡Salud!” Miguel said, gaining supreme satisfaction when Allegra’s smiled wavered and her cheeks flushed a telling pink.

  Allegra’s head throbbed by the time they took their leave of the Texan and his daughter. Tara McClendon had attributed to a good deal of her angst. The woman had no compunction about flirting with Miguel in front of her.

  Unwanted jealousy continued to fester as Miguel handed her into his waiting sportscar under the watchful eye of the paparazzi. Her thoughts had froze on what had occupied Miguel’s time during the past seven months—his business deal with McClendon.

  Or more precisely, his relationship with Tara.

  Allegra doubted it was coincidence that Miguel had suddenly moved out of their bedroom the same month he’d embarked on a business deal with McClendon. He’d claimed he’d done so out of concern for her during her difficult eighth month, but after meeting Tara, that excuse seemed too convenient.

  The American desired Miguel and had commanded the past seven months of his attention. Had they become lovers as well as business associates?

  Allegra bristled with jealousy and anger. How dare he accuse her of taking a lover when he was spending the bulk of his time with Tara McClendon!

  “Is something bothering you?” he asked as they sped down the avenue.

  “Nothing at all.”

  She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was jealous. For what did that say about her feelings for Miguel?

  She shifted uneasily on the plush seat, afraid she knew. She still loved the man who’d broken her heart. The closure she’d sought wouldn’t be quick, or painless.

  A rainbow of lights from the resorts, hotels and nightclubs reflected off the water, turning the Playa del Carmen shoreline into a lively prism. It was a carnival atmosphere that never changed. Though it was pretty to look at, she found the hustle and bustle of the resort life too cloying.

  Had Miguel truly tired of competing with the other moguls along the Maya Riviera? What was the lure of acquiring defunct plantations?

  Her fingernails dug into her palms again. Why hadn’t he ever discussed his business dealings with her? Why hadn’t she pressed him to understand his world?

 
“I wasn’t aware you’d gotten so deeply involved in rural real estate,” she said.

  “It was a natural transition.”

  “How so?” she asked. “Why are you so keen on acquiring the haciendas?”

  He shot her a quizzical glance before turning his attention back on the road. “They are three of the oldest plantations in the state of Yucatán.”

  “They have historical significance then,” she said over the salsa beat dancing on the wind, holding back her surprise that he’d discuss even this small bit of his business with her.

  “Sí, the value to me is two-fold.”

  “How so?” she asked as he smoothly maneuvered the sports car through traffic.

  He accelerated, passing cars with ease and proving he was a man clearly in control. “Why the sudden interest in my holdings, querida?”

  “I’ve always been interested in what you do, but you never volunteered to discuss your world,” she said. “When we were alone, you either seemed too exhausted to engage in a chat, or we spent the time in bed.”

  He shrugged. “You never complained.”

  “I should have,” she said.

  The only sounds were the waves crashing against the shore. She heaved a frustrated sigh, certain he’d shut her out again.

  “Fine, I will tell you. For the past year I have been acquiring and restoring henequen plantations to their former glory,” he said. “I have converted the larger ones into luxury hotels, and the smaller ones into private resorts.”

  “I gathered that McClendon owned three plantations,” she said in an attempt to keep the conversation moving, scarcely believing he was actually sharing a small part of his world with her.

  “Sí, but he wouldn’t sell them outright.”

  “Did he have plans for them?” she asked, interested beyond measure.

  His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “No. They were tax write-offs for him, and he was content to let them crumble into dust. Two of them were already in deplorable condition. Time was of the essence to save them.”

  The passion in his voice caught her by surprise, for the only time she’d seen that intense emotion from him was during sex. To think that he cared this deeply about his culture showed a side of him she hadn’t known existed.

  “What changed his mind about selling them?” she asked, intrigued by his restoration project.

  “Tara McClendon,” he said, and she grimaced at the twinge of jealousy her name evoked. “Though she held no interest in restoring henequen plantations, she saw the potential in owning luxury hotels on Riviera Maya.”

  “They were your bargaining chip.”

  “Sí. It still took an inordinate amount of time to finalize the deal.”

  “Six or seven months,” she said.

  A curt nod was her answer.

  Allegra cut a glance to the sea that danced with whitecaps, as if it shared her anger over the obvious. Her marriage had taken a sudden downward shift the month before the accident—the same month Miguel struck up this deal with the McClendons.

  Her mind spun with images of Tara tonight—the overt flirtations, the meaningful glances, the casual to the point of intimate way she seemed around him.

  Yes, their fathers had been friends, but there was more here that roused her darkest suspicions. There was a closeness between them that spoke of an intimacy.

  “Is Tara McClendon your lover?” she asked.

  “Why do you care?” he shot back.

  A good question and one she damn well wasn’t about to answer. “How telling that you’d evade the question. Let me rephrase it. Are you and Tara still lovers?”

  He muttered a dark curse and stared out the windshield, clearly annoyed she’d pressed him for an answer. It must be one he didn’t care to give, for the muscles in his bare forearms rippled and bunched, and his jaw clenched as if in protest of offering a response.

  Her stomach crinkled with dread long before he said, “No.”

  But they had been. He’d mixed business and pleasure with his mistress. He’d shared his exciting world with Tara instead of with his wife.

  “She wants you,” she said, not about to let him know how badly he’d just hurt her.

  “I learn from my mistakes, querida. I don’t repeat them.”

  In the wee hours of the morning, Miguel sprawled on the bed in the master bedroom. Despite the welcoming cool breeze that caressed his naked body, he was unable to sleep.

  Two scenes kept replaying in his mind. Her obvious terror in the car that she insisted was a flashback of memory. Her earlier claim that she’d been hospitalized the past five months.

  The memory loss could be the result of her hitting her head on impact. A severe injury would have required hospitalization. At the least, she may have needed therapy in an effort to regain her memory.

  But if any of that were true, then why hadn’t his madre mentioned it? Why hadn’t her uncle told him her mind had blocked the accident when he’d followed her to England? Why hadn’t he been informed that his wife had been hospitalized for the past five months?

  Because they were lies. She hadn’t been injured. She’d ran off with Amando. She’d known exactly what she’d been doing then and now.

  He pushed from the bed and prowled to the patio doors, too restless to attempt sleep. The tempest was bearing down on the Yucatán with the same ferocity as generations of conquistadors before him, unyielding and uncompromising, devoid of any compassion.

  It would make landfall without conscience and decimate anything that stood in its way.

  Miguel didn’t believe this part of the peninsula would take a direct hit as it had in previous hurricanes, but the destruction would still be widespread.

  Evacuation was imminent. The main highways would be congested with those heading inland in search of lodging. Shelters would be crammed with those who’d stayed, out of choice or necessity.

  As before, he’d return to his family’s hacienda. Only this time he’d have Allegra with him.

  Sí, he’d have Bartholomew Fields investigated and prove she’d never been a patient there. He’d confront her with the proof of her infidelity and her artful lies. He’d have the satisfaction of watching her squirm before he cast her out of his life forever.

  This time when she left him, it would be in disgrace.

  The wind whipped his hair and ribboned over his tense body as he crossed the palapa. He planted both hands on the low railing and he tipped his head back, bending into the wind.

  A flap of white rippled on the terrace above him. Allegra. He knew it was her without looking.

  In the early days of their affair, they’d made love right here on nights such as this with the moon watching. Even after they’d married, the charged atmosphere of a storm heightened their own desires.

  His hands tightened on the rail as his body quickened. Was she aware he was down here, longing for her? Was she tempting him to take her now?

  He bounded up the stairs and stepped onto the terrace, determined to find out her game. Instead of scampering back into her room, she stood at the upper railing.

  The wind plastered her white gown to her body and tore at her hair. Her head was turned so the moonlight illuminated her features, and the longing he saw there called to him.

  They’d shared this sexual connection from the start. But during the last trimester of her pregnancy, they’d had to refrain out of concern for her health.

  That’s when she’d badgered him to be included in his business ventures. He’d made that mistake before with Tara long ago, and he’d vowed never to mix his corporate world with a lover again—even if that lover was his wife.

  That’s when they’d lost touch. Now this thing between them called to him, as fierce as the incoming storm.

  He crossed to her in half a dozen strides, his gaze locked on hers and his body pounding with need. She was his wife. His!

  “I want you,” he said in a voice that had grown gruff with need.

  Her chin came up
in a show of defiance that caught him off guard. “You had me once, but you cast me aside for an affair with Tara McClendon.”

  Where the hell did she get that idea?

  He sat on the chaise and planted both hands on the curved arms when he ached to pull her to him. “You are jealous.”

  “No, I’m angry that you hold to this double-standard,” she said. “You accuse me of being unfaithful when you were doing the same thing.”

  “I never broke my vows, querida.” At least not the vow of fidelity. “Tara and I had an affair five years ago.”

  He brushed back the hair blowing around her face and cupped her jaw. Her eyelids drifted shut as she leaned into his palm.

  A sigh whispered from her and danced along his nerves.

  She was getting to him again. Had gotten to him, for he opened his mouth but no sound emerged. Words deserted him completely when she opened her eyes and their gazes collided once again.

  Raw need flowed from her and rolled into him with the force of the tide crashing to shore. He tried to rein in the desire racing through him.

  Her fingers traced his jaw, his strong chin, the hard bow of his mouth, and he was lost. How many nights had he dreamed of coming to her like this?

  His mouth came down on hers with fierce hunger. Her lips soft, her resistance palpable. But only for a charged moment.

  She opened to him with a ragged moan. Or was that him voicing his need?

  He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Didn’t want anything but this woman. To sink into her and hold tight. To brand her as his again.

  Their mouths met in a fusion of fiery need. His hands tore at her gown, eager, as clumsy as that first night he’d met her on the beach. He’d wanted her with a ferocious hunger then.

  He still did.

  He walked her backward to the wicker chaise and eased her onto the cushions. Her fingers glided over his chest and torso, stoking a fire in him that threatened to rage out of control.

  He burned for her as he had from the start, and he vowed she’d feel the same flames that had consumed them then. He slid fingers that quaked up her bare legs that trembled apart at his touch, his thumbs tracing an invisible line from the bend in her knees to her sex. He memorized the velvet texture of her skin. He drew the spicy-sweet scent that was uniquely her into his lungs, an aphrodisiac he didn’t need with her.