by Janet Dailey
“Why not? It concerns me; therefore, it’s my business, too,” she reasoned stubbornly. But Laredo shrugged and said nothing. “Surely you have contacted my father by now. Is that why this man is here? To tell you what he said?”
Laredo breathed in deeply, a brief glitter of impatience in the look he gave her. “Don’t push it, Sheila.” He sounded very calm. “When there is anything definite, you will be informed.” With that, he pushed himself to his feet to end the conversation.
“Tell your boss that I would prefer to go to my room now,” she requested, fighting the trapped, helpless sensation.
His blue gaze bounced to Ráfaga and ricocheted back to Sheila. “The rest of the house is too chilly and damp. Stay here by the fire, where you’ll be warm and dry.”
“What would happen if I went, anyway?” she challenged.
“You’d be brought back,” Laredo stated and turned away.
Frustrated, she began combing her hair again, listening to the crackle of electricity that matched her own nervous tension. Again Sheila felt the disturbing absorption of Ráfaga’s gaze, but she didn’t let it capture her.
Short minutes later, the stranger rose from the table. Ráfaga walked the man to the door, giving an order to the guard. The man left his post to accompany the stranger into the rain. With the guard gone, Sheila knew she wouldn’t be allowed to go to her room until he returned.
The departure of the stranger signaled the beginning of another discussion between Laredo and Ráfaga. Certain that it had something to do with her, Sheila listened, catching a note of dissension in Laredo’s tone. He was obviously disagreeing with some decision that had been made.
When Elena arrived to cook the evening meal, Sheila didn’t get up to help. No one objected, certainly not Elena. However, the brunette’s appearance halted the discussion between Laredo and Ráfaga. Judging by Laredo’s disgruntled expression, Sheila guessed that he hadn’t succeeded in changing Ráfaga’s mind.
Nibbling at a corner of her lip, she wondered if her father had offered less money than had been demanded for her release. Perhaps Laredo was willing to settle for less. Or maybe it was the other way around.
All through dinner Sheila considered the possibilities. If her absorption was noticed, it drew no comment. No one at the table appeared to be in a very talkative mood, although Sheila noticed Elena was making subtle attempts to make up to Ráfaga.
When the meal was finished, Elena brought coffee to the table. Sheila saw the way the brunette leaned across Ráfaga, deliberately brushing her breasts against his shoulder and arm. A shudder of disgust ran through her at the blatantly suggestive action.
Immediately she felt Ráfaga’s gaze. It sliced over her, sharp, yet strangely aloof. Sheila stared at the darkly mirrored surface of her coffee, as black and inscrutable as his eyes.
Ráfaga looked away and said something to Elena. Whatever it was ignited her temper. A vituperative, stream of Spanish was directed at him. The brunette’s hands gestured contemptuously at Sheila. Somehow, again, she was the subject of their quarrel.
After two calming replies that had no effect, Ráfaga snapped out an order. Flashing him a poisonous look, Elena turned on her heel and stormed out the door.
Sipping at her coffee, Sheila stared at the dirty dishes on the table. With a sigh of resignation, she stacked and carried them to the basin, leaving the men to finish their coffee at the table.
Sheila had barely begun washing up when the door burst open and Elena swept in, her dark hair covered by a shawl. She hurled the bundle in her hands at Ráfaga and walked out. Sheila glanced at the brightly colored cloth bundle. His dirty laundry? she wondered, and a wry smile teased the corners of her mouth.
The door had slammed shut as Ráfaga straightened up from the table and began walking toward Sheila, carrying the clothes. She stiffened irately. If he thought she was going to do his washing, he was in for a surprise.
Before he handed her the bundle, he shook it out. Sheila stared at the embroidered front of a blouse and the crimson fullness of a skirt. There were obvious signs of wear, the material thinning at the creases of the hems. They were castoffs of Elena’s, grudgingly and angrily given.
Sheila didn’t care. The prospect of wearing clothes that hadn’t had their buttons ripped off or ended suggestively at mid-thigh was altogether too appealing to refuse because of pride.
The coarse blanket of her makeshift sari suddenly began to scratch her naked skin. She took the clothes eagerly from his hand and hurried to her bedroom, forgetting all about the dishes in her haste to change.
The blouse was a little tight around the shoulders and the skirt was short. It didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, they were a perfect fit.
Her attitude changed with the donning of the clothes. Sheila felt suddenly, if temporarily, buoyant and carefree. Gliding back to the main room, she was unconsciously motivated by a desire to show off her new clothes. They gave her a confidence she hadn’t been aware was lacking.
Ráfaga was the first to look up when she reentered the room. His inspecting gaze traveled over her from head to toe in a clinical appraisal that was hardly the reaction her ego wanted. Sheila found Laredo halfway to the door with his rain slicker on.
“You can’t go, Laredo,” she protested and hurried to him.
He smiled at her indulgently. “It’s getting late.”
“Stay a while,” Sheila coaxed.
She was unaware of the alluring picture she made. Her face was aglow with enthusiasm, a natural smile parting her lips, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. Her hair glistened antique-gold in the firelight. The creamy whiteness of her skin contrasted perfectly with the crimson skirt flaring about her legs.
“I. . .” Laredo hesitated, his blue eyes running over her with obvious approval and a glint of something more.
“Come on.” With carefree abandon, she took hold of his arm with both hands. “I have a whole new outfit and I want to celebrate the occasion before the newness of my secondhand clothes wears off.”
“All right.” Laredo grinned and shrugged out of his slicker.
Sheila took it and hung it back on the hook near the door. As she turned back, the skirt swirled about her legs. Framed by the firelight, her hands were on the snug waistband, her stance faintly provocative.
“You haven’t said how I look,” Sheila reminded him. “I admit it isn’t exactly chic, but—” She let it trail off, smiling up at him warmly, in the midst of a friendly and playful mood.
“It’s more than you usually wear,” he commented with mock sadness, “but it’s a definite improvement on the slacks.”
“Chauvinist!” She laughed.
His eyes darkened to an intense shade of blue. “You are stunningly beautiful, Sheila,” Laredo said quietly.
She hadn’t set out to deliberately charm him, but she readily basked in the ardent admiration of his look.
“I certainly feel more comfortable.” She smoothed a hand over her skirt, absently studying the contrast of her fair skin against the vivid red material.
“Tell me”—Laredo reclaimed her attention—“what kind of celebration are you planning for your new clothes?” Gentle mockery veiled the dark blue fire of his eyes.
“I feel like dancing,” she declared.
“Sorry.” A smile of mock regret briefly curved his mouth. “I’m afraid the musicians have the night off.”
The scrape of a chair leg jerked Sheila’s head toward the sound, suddenly reminded they had an audience. Ráfaga’s features were drawn in a harshly cold mask, dark and dangerous and decidedly Spanish.
Sheila did not need to be told that the blood of cruelty ran in his veins. It was in the ruthlessly molded line of his jaw and mouth, faintly arrogant and savagely noble. He was walking toward a rain-darkened window and Sheila followed him with her eyes.
The unwelcome reminder of his presence chilled some of her pleasure in the moment. She glanced back at Laredo. Determination shimmered in her eyes.
“We can dance whether we have music or not,” Sheila declared.
“You’ll remember.” Placing her left hand on his head in disagreement, the firelight glistening over his brown hair.
“You’ll remember.” Placing her left hand on his shoulder, she forced him to take hold of her right hand and began humming a ballad.
Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Laredo smiled a crooked smile of amused indulgence and rested a hand on the curve of her waist. His initial, leading steps were awkward and out of tempo, but Sheila persisted until he found his coordination.
“See!” She smiled at him, pausing in her humming of the familiar tune. “You haven’t forgotten.”
“I guess not. At least you still have all your toes.” He grinned. “You were taking quite a chance, dancing with me barefoot. I could have stomped all over them.”
“I wasn’t a bit worried,” Sheila assured him.
They circled the small open area of the main room. The swirl of her skirt flamed scarlet in the firelight. The flickering light lent a magic atmosphere to the room, blocking out reality. Laredo whirled Sheila around in a tight spin, his hand shifting to the small of her back as she laughed and clutched him for support. He slowed his steps, smiling down at her.
“And you were trying to convince me you had forgotten how to dance,” she teased.
“I guess I was wrong.” He shrugged briefly.
“I guess you were.”
“It’s crazy, but do you know what this reminds me of?” Laredo held her in his arms, his steps slowing to an absent swaying.
The arm around her waist tightened and Sheila let herself be drawn against him, contentedly nestling her head against his shoulder. His strength was comforting.
“No. What?” she questioned, smiling against his shirt.
“The dances—the proms I used to go to.” His hand absently caressed her back. “Holding you like this, it doesn’t seem so long ago.”
Sheila tipped her head back to see his face, handsome with an engaging boyish charm. She saw his downward gaze slide to her lips. She only had to make the slightest move to invite his kiss. But that wasn’t what she wanted.
His reference to home and the way things were swept away the few moments of enchantment. Suddenly the new clothes didn’t matter to her at all. She wanted only to get away, to go back to her home, and to safety. Perhaps Laredo might provide the way and means, after all.
“When is my father going to pay the money for my release?” she asked.
Laredo stiffened. “I don’t know.”
“Who’s going to get it?” She tried to make the question sound casual and unimportant. “It will probably be split, I suppose, with each of you getting a share.”
“I imagine so.” A mask stole over his face, but Sheila knew it was fragile and could be broken.
“That’s too bad. For one man, it would be a lot of money.”
“Yes,” Laredo agreed curtly.
“You know you could have it all, don’t you?” murmured Sheila.
His muscles contracted, rejected what she was saying. He would have withdrawn, put some distance between them, but Sheila remained pressed against his length.
“Sheila—” he started to protest, but she interrupted.
“No, listen,” she insisted. “You could have it all, every penny. You could take me home. The money would be waiting. My father would see to that.”
“It’s no good.” Laredo shook his head firmly.
“Yes, it is. We both would be home, where we want to be. We could go out for a walk here one afternoon and never come back.” She hurried to convince him of the feasibility of her plan. “You could have a couple of horses waiting for us and we could ride off and be miles away before anyone knew we were gone.”
“I can’t go back. I explained all that.”
“But you can this way. Don’t you see?” Sheila argued persuasively. “You’d be a hero. You would have rescued me. Your family and friends would be proud of you and my father would be grateful. He knows a lot of influential people. He’d find some way to make sure you’d never have to come back here.”
“I—” He was frowning, his resistance appearing to weaken.
Sheila touched her fingers to his lips, silencing his protest. Then she let her hand slide along his strong cheek to the silky brown hair near his temple. She ran her fingers through it lightly in an obvious caress. The arm around her waist tightened automatically, drawing her upturned face closer to his.
“You’d have a small fortune for bringing me back—plus my father’s gratitude and help.” She let her voice grow husky and soft. “And mine, too, Laredo. I know you find me attractive. And I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life repaying you for taking me away from here. Money, respectability, and me,” she promised, “all three, if you want them. All you have to do is take me away, take me home.”
“No!!” Ráfaga’s voice, low and ominous, like rolling thunder, ripped them apart. He was facing them, cold fury darkening his eyes. “You will not seduce him to do your bidding with words, Señora, nor with deeds. Laredo knows the punishment for leaving here without my permission. And he knows that if he takes you with him, I will find him and kill him. When a man has to choose between money, a woman, or his life, he will choose his life. Laredo will take you nowhere until I say you may leave!”
The color drained from her face. Sheila stared at him, her mouth opened with shock—not because of what he said, but because of the fact that she had understood every word of it. He had spoken in flawless English.
“What . . . how?” In her confusion, she couldn’t even word the questions. “You speak English,” she managed to say lamely.
“Yes, I speak English,” he agreed coldly.
“You could have told me.” Sheila recovered some of her poise.
“Would it have stopped you from calling me a bastard?” Ráfaga taunted. “Or from wishing to carve out my heart with a knife and slice it into thin pieces? I think not.”
Sheila recalled too well the insults she had hurled at him when she believed he could not understand what she said. She burned at the discovery.
“No, it wouldn’t have made any difference,” she agreed angrily. “So why didn’t you tell me? Why did you pretend that I needed Laredo to translate anything I wanted to say to you? Did you enjoy making me look stupid?”
“I had no wish to talk to you, nor to be expected to answer your questions. Also”—an eyebrow lifted in cold accusation—“if you had known I understood English, you would never have spoken to Laredo in front of me as you did just now.”
Her gaze darted to Laredo, standing quietly to the side. He had known Ráfaga spoke English fluently and had made no effort to warn Sheila of her foolishness. Her anger broadened to include him, too.
“You could have warned me,” she accused.
“It wasn’t my place.” Laredo shrugged.
“No, that’s right,” Sheila agreed caustically. “You’re with him, aren’t you?”
“I told you that from the very beginning,” he answered calmly.
Hatred and contempt coursed through Sheila. “I don’t know which of you I despise the most.” She glared. “You, Laredo, for being a traitor to your own kind, or you . . .”—she flashed a venomous look at Ráfaga’s saturnine expression—“. . . for being . . .”
“I do not care what your opinion of me is,” Ráfaga interrupted coldly. “I only wish you to understand and believe that attempts such as you made tonight will not succeed. No one here will help you escape.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Sheila tossed her head defiantly, her darkly golden mane of hair glistening in the firelight. “Money can buy a lot of loyalty.”
His obsidian gaze narrowed. “You are very rash, señora. You speak without thinking. I will learn of any future attempts you make. And if you persist—” He let the unspoken threat hover in the already charged air. “I should not like to deny you the little freedoms you no
w have.”
“Freedoms? What freedoms?” Sheila took an angry step toward him. “I am a prisoner here against my will!”
Ráfaga was unmoved by her anger. “I have permitted you the freedom of this house and certain liberties outside of it under guard. Would you prefer it if I confined you to your room?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Sheila gasped, trembling with the turbulence of her emotions.
“I may”—he faced her calmly, his expression hard and unrelenting—“if your wagging tongue proves to be too much of a nuisance.”
There was no thought to what she did. Instinct alone guided her hand toward his cold, patrician features. It was seized in mid-air by his iron fingers. Reflex lifted her left hand to complete what her right had started. It, too, was imprisoned in his grip before it reached its target.
“Let me go.” Sheila refused to struggle, letting him hold her hands in front of her, as if manacled by his grip.
Ráfaga gave her a menacing look before he shifted his attention to Laredo. “You may go,” he told him. “I think señora’s celebration is over.”
At the sound of an obedient footstep, Sheila turned her head, seeing Laredo walking to the yellow rain slicker hanging near the door. A desperate anger filled her at the thought of being left alone with Ráfaga.
“No, don’t go, Laredo!” she protested, calling him back. “You can’t leave me alone with this beast—this sadist!”
Her cries fell on deaf ears. Laredo didn’t even hesitate as he pulled on his slicker and walked out the door.
“What kind of a hold do you have over him?” she hissed, straining her wrists against his unyielding grip.
“He owes me his life,” he replied unemotionally. “To you, he owes nothing.”
“And how long are you going to make him pay? For the rest of his life?” Sheila accused.
“He has only to tell me he wishes to go and he may leave,” Ráfaga informed her. “He stays of his own choosing. He gives me his loyalty of his own choosing. He can leave anytime—as long as he does not take you.”
“Yes, you swore you would kill him if he tried.” The bitter taste in her mouth coated her voice with the same acidity.
