She threaded her fingers through his thick wealth of hair, anchoring him to her, dizzy drunk with desire. God she loved this man. She’d always love him.
That thought temporarily numbed her as he made short work of ridding them of clothes. She gave a halfhearted effort to shove his T-shirt off, but the tactile feel of his hot skin, bunched muscles and abrasive scrape of black hair beckoned to be explored at leisure.
He pulled her down onto the carpet, his hands boldly stroking her as his mouth claimed hers in a deep kiss that left her breathless and quivering like a just plucked bowstring. Her hands clutched at his broad shoulders as her legs parted to welcome him closer, the movement natural and right.
“Mi amante,” he said, the words a sultry caress against her lips as he flexed his lean hips and sank into her pulsing core in one long, deep push.
She bowed her back to pull him in deeper, her nails scoring the taut muscles in his back. “Yes,” she said. “God, yes.”
For one glorious moment she drank in every nuance of this joining when her body came vibrantly alive. She’d forgotten many things, but she’d never lost a second of making love with Miguel.
Nothing compared to the moment when they came together as lovers, when the world stopped and their hearts beat as one, when they became one. Nothing ever would.
His mouth swooped down on hers, his possession so fierce she trembled. She locked her legs around his lean hips and tried to hold back the explosive need bubbling in her. Tried to control her own emotions. Tried to stretch out this erotically wonderful joining.
But the blood of conquistadors and fierce warriors ran in his veins like a mighty river. Cultured and wild. Ruthless and commanding, never giving an inch.
He knew where she was sensually vulnerable, where to touch her to make her stretch and sigh with pleasure like a sated cat, where to strum and stroke to tighten the thread of desire until she was reduced to a quivering wanton.
She moved with him in this charged erotic dance of lovers, her toes curled on his hair-roughened calves and her blood a deafening roar in her ears. One more thrust, one more intimate stroke, and she came apart in a glittering climax.
She screamed his name and clutched him close, her fingers scoring his back as the spasms went on and on.
He let loose a hoarse shout and rocked into her once more. His long, powerful frame stretched over her, his hands clutching her close, as the aftershock of desire rippled through him again and again, drawing her own climax out with his.
For several, luscious moments they lay there with arms and legs entwined. Bodies joined. Sated. At peace.
On a long sigh that vibrated with male satisfaction, he rested his weight on his elbows and eased from her. “Tomorrow I will deal with my madre.”
She stared up into his dark, magnetic eyes and felt her heart seize, for his expression was remote, not giving her a hint of his feelings.
“Do you want me to join you?” she asked, attuned to the muscles tensing in his big, powerful frame that held her prisoner, sensing that he dreaded confronting his mother.
“No. I must do this alone.”
Her heart ached that he continued to fight battles alone when she was here to support him any way she could. Could she make him see that it was wrong?
He lowered his head, and she turned her face to avoid the kiss that would surely boggle her mind more. His lips grazed the sensitive skin behind her ear and she shivered and stifled the sigh of pleasure caught in her throat.
“About the school I want to develop,” she said, soaking up every delicious second of being cradled in his arms, skin-to-skin, heart to heart.
“No more talking,” he said, and captured her mouth with a kiss that was so arrogantly possessive that she could do nothing but sink into him, into desire.
It was enough for now, she thought right before his seductive prowess blotted everything else from her mind but the pleasure she’d found in his arms.
Quintilla Barrosa was descended from old Castilian stock. Aristocrat with thin ties stretching back to Spain’s nobility.
That was clearly evident now as she sat in the sala enjoying imported tea. She watched him cross to her with shrewd eyes that were a cold icy-blue.
“Por favor, el verdad,” he said and dropped Allegra’s jewelry on the side table.
“The truth is ugly.”
Not an iota of guilt or remorse registered on her refined face. She wore the mantle of haughty disdain well—a sangre azul to her soul.
The wealth of her family lines had vanished, but not the desire to live a life of leisure as was fitting a blue blood. But while Miguel had always known his madre held herself superior to even his father, he never dreamed she’d do anything this devious.
“You lied about Allegra’s jewels. Why?” Miguel asked, the demand cracking like a whip in the austere room.
Her chin canted to a regal tilt. “I didn’t want her to return to claim them, for she wasn’t worthy of one piece.”
“That was not for you to decide!”
His madre cut him a cold, assessing glance. “Even after all she’s done, you still want her back. You are a fool.”
“She’s my wife!”
“A fact that grieves me. While you spent your days and nights ensuring your family would continue to live in comfort, your unfaithful wife was dallying with the guard you hired to protect her!”
A guard who’d nearly brought about her death. A guard who was getting rich off the misfortune of the refugees. “We are talking about your deceit. Not hers.”
She huffed in annoyance. “Do yourself a favor and find a woman who can give you children.”
“Because you know Allegra can’t?”
“What does it matter?”
A great deal. It was the difference between being a protective parent and a vindictively controlling one.
The cold stab of betrayal sank into Miguel’s heart at the thought of his madre keeping so much from him. “Why didn’t you tell me about the details surrounding Allegra’s surgery?”
She flung a hand in the air. “If you’d known, you’d have flown off to England and brought her back here.”
“Sí, you are right.”
He tamped down his choking anger and stared at the aristocratic woman before him. She had done an excellent job of painting Allegra in bold, sinister colors. Yet Quintilla Barrosa y Gutierrez wasn’t without blame, either, for she’d lied to Miguel when he’d desperately needed the truth.
“I want her out of my casa,” his madre said.
He inclined his head. “I will take her away tomorrow.”
His madre visibly relaxed at that. “Bueno. When can I expect you to return?”
“I won’t,” he said, and had the satisfaction of watching the first twinges of unease harden her aristocratic features. “The casa is yours to maintain, but the land in mine. I do not have to live here to manage it.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“My casa.”
She sputtered in outrage. “With her?”
Miguel smiled in answer.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said.
“No, I’m righting a wrong.”
“What did she say?” Allegra asked the second Miguel returned to their room. Even her body shimmered with nervous energy while his still pounded with black anger.
“She admitted she’d hid the jewelry in the doll so you couldn’t return and claim it,” he said. “As for why she lied about your surgery, she decreed you and I should divorce because you are unable to bear children.”
She downed her head at that undeniable truth. “So she is guilty of going to extremes to protect her son.”
“That was meddling, not protecting,” he said. “She will pay for her part in deceiving me.”
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “She’s your mother.”
His mouth twitched in the parody of a smile. “All my life madre was concerned I’d inherently exhibit tendencies of my native lineag
e.”
The remark was lightly delivered, yet she caught an underlying hint of annoyance there. “A waste of energy, for you are certainly the role model for future debonair Hispanic billionaires.”
“Then you must thank Madre, for if my birth mother would have lived, I would’ve learned the ways of my Indian ancestors from an early age.”
Allegra discounted his observance and honed in on the heart of the issue. “Quintilla isn’t your biological mother?”
“No. My padre married Quintilla Barrosa when I was barely a year old.” He glanced at her, and she read the flicker of pain carved deep in his soul. “My madre was Mayan. She died in childbirth.”
She digested that news with care, and so much about the man she’d married became clearer. The long weeks he’d spent in the village. The rapport he had with the gentle Mayan Indians. His plans that he’d recently worked on that would bring modern necessities to the remote villages. Water purification systems. Power sources.
His dangerous excursion with the mercy mission into Guatemala.
He wasn’t a billionaire looking for a contribution loophole. He was one of the indigenous people, and he hid it from the world. He was helping his people.
The proud Mayan warrior on one hand, and the aristocratic conquistador on the other. She loved both, but she was still far from understanding either side of him.
The trill of his phone rudely interrupted. He answered with a curt, “¡Hola!”
Not one emotion showed on his face save the minute tightening of his jaw. He listened for the longest time, and she knew instinctively that the news was bad.
“Por favor, espéreme,” he said to the caller and hung up.
“What is it?” she asked.
“There is damage at the beach house. I must leave now.”
“You won’t shut me out of this, too,” she said, more a plea than a demand.
He stared down at her for the longest time, and she saw the war going on inside him this time. He’d never included her in any of his dealings. He’d never even told her what he was involved in, or where he was going.
He was adamantly opposed to her being involved in a school for the Mayans. But she wouldn’t back down on that. And she feared he wouldn’t, either.
He was having enough difficulty with her insistence of accompanying him to the beach house. Her beach house!
His chest rose and fell, and his lips thinned a fraction. “Very well. We leave for Cancún together.”
Allegra grew more apprehensive the closer they got to Cancún. The storm had left its mark across the peninsula, toppling trees and leaving the evidence of flooding in the flattened grass and rivulets carved in the shallow ditches.
Miguel’s frown hinted he was surprised by the damage as well. That only served to increase her worry, for he was a native accustomed to dealing with these storms.
“It is worse than I expected,” he said as he turned down the road that led to the beach house.
A small army of people were busy picking up debris strewn everywhere. Though the houses looked intact at first glance, a closer inspection showed the destruction.
He pulled into the last driveway, and Allegra’s heart plummeted. The lamina roof had been ripped off, and the old mango tree she’d adored had fallen onto the casa.
Her spirits sank, for she had wondrous memories of her and Miguel in this house. This had always been the place she came to escape the world.
“Can it be repaired?”
“Sí, querida,” he said. “Though it will take time.”
Like mending a broken heart?
“I want to see it, Miguel,” she said. “I want to know what needs to be fixed.”
And she didn’t mean just the house but them as well, for she’d been kept in the dark for six long months and she was tired of everyone making decisions for her.
“Okay.” His gaze swung back to the beach house and she watched in an odd fascination as his body tensed in increments until he looked carved from stone. “We will inspect the casa together. But,” he interjected with enough force to freeze her to the sumptuous leather seat, “you will listen to me regarding your safety.”
“It’s a deal.”
They entered through the front door with Miguel leading the way and Allegra following in stunned silence. Her heart sank as she took in the house she’d loved.
The water damage was horrendous, ruining the furnishings and carpets. A strong musty odor hung in the dank air.
She’d met her heart’s desire here. She’d returned to find peace. And she’d agreed to his indecent proposal because it gave her one last chance to be with him.
“It will have to be gutted,” he said as his leather shoes crunched the grit covering the pasta tiles. “Everything inside is ruined.”
“Not everything.” She took the small framed photo of Cristobel off the shelf and felt her heart warm.
“How did that survive such destruction?” Miguel asked, coming to stand so close to her she felt his warm breath feather over her nape, felt the heat of him embrace her.
“Divine providence, perhaps,” she said, and leaned her back against the strong wall of his chest as she’d done countless times in the early days of their marriage.
His hand skimmed up her bare arm to cup her shoulder, the touch firm and comforting. “I’ve seen enough here.”
She scanned the room and nodded for she knew there was nothing else inside worth saving. It would have to be rebuilt from the ground up. Like their marriage?
Miguel led her outside, but instead of heading toward the car, he guided her toward the beach. Halfway down the incline his hold on her hand changed, his long, blunt fingers entwining with hers and making them one in the public way of lovers.
He stopped at the sea wall at the end of her property and sat, giving a gentle tug for her to join him. She did, their shoulders brushing and hands still entwined.
“So what have you decided,” he asked as the cooling breeze whispered off the turquoise sea.
She tipped her face up to the sun and sighed. “About the house?”
He tapped their twined hands on his muscular thigh. “About us?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m serious about taking an active role in the school.”
He heaved a weary sigh and his fingers tightened around hers. “I know that, and I’m serious about keeping you safe.”
“You won’t stop me then?” She stared into his dark, troubled eyes and saw the war going on within him.
“I won’t stop you,” he said as he pulled her close and enveloped her in his arms. “We cannot change what is done, but we can start over in our casa and build new memories together.”
Could they? She was terrified to believe it possible, for there was one thing that neither of them could change. “You’d be happy with a wife and no heir?”
“Sí, as long as I have you,” he said, and continued that languid glide of his hands up and down her back. “But if you are willing, I’d like you to see a French doctor that I met through the mercy missions. He’s a fertility specialist.”
She bit her lower lip, knowing that was her only hope. “I’d like that, but there’s still no guarantee that I’d conceive.”
He skimmed his fingers over her face and her heart stuttered. “We have already learned that there are no guarantees in life. If we can’t get pregnant, then there are other options if we really want children.”
“Adoption,” she said, and he nodded. “I won’t go back to the life we had. I won’t live my life on the fringe of yours.”
“You won’t, for you are my equal. My partner.” He brushed his lips across hers, the kiss achingly short and sweet. “I won’t let you go again.”
“That sounds terribly arrogant,” she said.
He shrugged. “You are mine, querida.”
“And possessive,” she said with heat, but she couldn’t stop the smile from teasing her mouth.
“You love me.” He turned to face her, and the bar
e emotion burning in his eyes thawed the cold that had hidden in her for so long. “And I love you. That is why we are going home today.”
“You’re serious,” she asked once she stopped reeling over his avowal of love.
“I would not joke about something as important as us.”
He planned to take her home—as in the home he’d built for them. That realization hit her with a tsunami of emotion so strong and pulsing with emotion that she couldn’t help but be swept away on it.
“Any objections?” he asked.
“Not one.”
EPILOGUE
ALLEGRA CURLED ON a rattan chaise in the shade of the portico and watched her husband.
Despite the odds, Allegra’s two surgeries done by the noted French gynecologist had been a huge success. She’d never dreamed she would get pregnant again. How good it was to be wrong!
“You are your father’s son,” she said as she opened her blouse so two-month-old Diego Estefan Gutierrez could sate his hunger.
How long she’d yearned for a home.
For a child at her breast again.
For the love of her husband.
Her gaze lifted to Miguel’s as he reached the portico and squatted beside the chaise, his sensual eyes feasting on her. Her body hummed with awareness as his gaze locked with hers.
“I am jealous,” he said and pressed a kiss to her lips that left her blood humming for more.
“You have been neglected the past few months,” she said.
“Sí, but I’m not complaining.”
“Yes, you are,” she said without rancor. “But that’s all right.” She trailed a finger down the center of his chest and warmed at the heat flaring in his eyes. “We’ll take care of your needs soon.”
One dark eyebrow lifted in mock surprise. “And when would that be, carino?”
She sent him a take-me-now smile. “Tonight,” she said. “And every one that follows it.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4095-1
PROUD REVENGE, PASSIONATE WEDLOCK
First North American Publication 2009.
Copyright © 2009 by Janette Kenny.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
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