Carrera's Bride

by Diana Palmer

  “He has enemies, ma’am,” he replied. “He is protecting you.”

  Her heart warmed at the suggestion. She hadn’t considered that. She began to smile and couldn’t stop. Protecting her. She liked that.

  Marcus was waiting for her at the door of his house where John dropped her off. He waited just until the cab was paid and waved away before he pulled Delia into his house, closed the door and kissed her half to death.

  His hot face slid into her throat and he held her as if he feared she might be torn from his arms. “I can’t bear this,” he whispered roughly. “It’s torture, being away from you even for a few hours.”

  Which was exactly how she felt. She kissed his warm neck drowsily. Her whole body throbbed. She wanted him. It was mutual, she could feel the instant response of his big body to her closeness.

  His big hand slid around to the upper part of her thigh and tugged, pressing her hard against that part of him that was most male. He groaned.

  She felt him shudder and her heart soared. He belonged to her. She’d never been more sure of anything.

  “If you want to,” she whispered, “I will.”

  He groaned again, sliding his mouth across her cheek to find her hungry lips. He kissed her with aching need, both hands on her hips now, rubbing her body roughly against his until they both shuddered.

  But abruptly, he pulled back, let her go, and turned away to the sliding glass doors overlooking the ocean. He opened them and let the eternal breeze off the ocean cool his fever.

  Delia joined him, still unsteady from the unexpected burst of passion. She folded her arms across her chest with a long, heavy sigh.

  He glanced down at her, his dark eyes stormy. “I want to,” he said without preamble. “But we’re not going to,” he added firmly. “I’m not going to try to turn you into my mistress. I have too much respect for you.”

  She was surprised by his straightforwardness. “You aren’t anything like your reputation, you know,” she said softly.

  He laughed harshly and turned his attention back to the white-capped waves breaking on the sugar-sand beach. “You don’t know that part of my life at all,” he said. “And I don’t want you to.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” she began.

  He turned and took her by the shoulders. “My past is brutal. But I’m trying to start over, despite how it looks.” His fingers contracted. “Listen, I want a family, children, a home—a real home—of my own.” He looked tortured. “But there are things I have to do first. I have obligations that I can’t share with you, people depending on me.”

  She was curious. “You’re mixed up in something, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said bluntly. “Something bad and dangerous, and I can’t share it.”

  “Are you…in danger?”

  He drew in a sharp breath and looked out at the ocean over her blond head. “Yes.” Her concern made him ache to tell her the truth. But he didn’t dare. He looked down into her wide, trusting eyes and he grimaced. He touched her cheek with a tender hand. “You have to trust me, as hard as that may seem. I know it looks bad, but there is one great truth here—my feelings for you. Those are as real as that ocean out there.” He bent and kissed her softly. “I adore you!”

  She pushed close into his arms and kissed him back. She felt safe, treasured, comforted. She felt as if she were a part of him.

  Marcus was feeling something similar. He should send her back to her hotel and have nothing else to do with her until this was all over. He was putting her life at risk. But he needed her, so desperately.

  He stood in the wind, just holding her close, for a long time, his turbulent gaze on the ocean, which seemed as restless and tormented as he felt.

  “When it’s all over,” he said huskily, “you and I will make plans for our future. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she whispered.

  He bent and kissed her, one last time. “We’d better get going,” he said gruffly. “Before I do what we both want.”

  She searched his eyes, uncomprehending. “Why don’t you want to?”

  He framed her oval face in his big, warm hands. “I’ve already made one almighty mistake, taking you to bed on our first date. I’m not making it again. My mother raised me to respect innocence. It goes against everything I believe in to make a convenience of you.”

  “But I’m crazy about you,” she whispered.

  He actually flushed. “Yeah. I’m crazy about you, too. But we’re building a relationship that will last a long time. We need to go about it slowly. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she said reluctantly.

  “Besides that,” he worried quietly, “I’m too careless with you. I want children someday, that’s no lie. But I don’t want them right now. It’s impossible. My life is too complicated.”

  Her heart skipped. She could be pregnant, and he didn’t want children right now. She gave him a pained look.

  “Don’t look like that,” he said softly, smiling at her. “It was just one time. There’s no real risk. Right?” he added, a little uneasily.

  “Right,” she lied, and forced a smile. “No real risk at all.”

  “So we won’t take any more chances. I was careless. I won’t be careless again, and neither will you.”

  “Got it,” she agreed.

  “Now,” he said, releasing her. “I’ve got a great itinerary. In the next few days, Miss Mason,” he added with a grin, “I’m going to educate you in the folklore and history of the most interesting group of islands on earth!”

  And he did. They started out early in the morning and came back at sunset. He strolled her down Prince George Wharf, through the gigantic straw market, where he bought her a beautiful purse and hat adorned with purple flowers. He took her on a carriage ride, where the horse pulling it wore a hat, too.

  They saw the water tower, the artificial waterfall, Government House, and where a James Bond film was made. They went out into the ocean on a glass-bottomed boat, with a skipper who serenaded the crew in a reggae beat. They toured Fort Fincastle and Fort Charlotte. They walked along Bay Street and had lunch in quaint bistros. They toured the botanical gardens and Delia raved about the koi pond. They toured a hotel complex where an underwater aquarium was the key attraction. They saw a sponge warehouse and ate conch soup in a restaurant on the bay, where passenger ships were berthed at the wharf and tiny tugboats sailed to turn the big ships in the harbor.

  Every night they had supper at Marcus’s house, with Smith standing guard. And in the evenings, Delia lay in Marcus’s arms on the patio near the big swimming pool, and listened to the waves crash on the beach as they talked about a future.

  It was an idyllic time; two weeks of unbelievably sweet memories. During that time, Delia missed her period, and she felt nauseated not only in the morning, but at night, as well. She lost her appetite, and grew so tired that she started going back to her hotel no later than nine o’clock, pleading lack of sleep.

  Marcus wasn’t suspicious. He knew nothing about pregnant women, never having been around one—not even his sister-in-law when she was pregnant with his niece and nephew. He’d mentioned it once when they were talking. Delia was confident that she didn’t have anything to worry about in that sense. But what was she going to do?

  It was a problem she didn’t want to have to face anytime soon, but the odds were against her being able to hide her condition. Especially when Barb came back. Her sister was a vacuum cleaner when it came to information.

  Marcus made a lobster bisque while Delia made a fruit salad and poppyseed dressing, plus homemade rolls, to go with it. They’d shared food preparation only once before, but this particular night they didn’t want to have someone bring food in.

  Delia loved working in the kitchen with Marcus. They talked as they worked, and Delia teased Marcus about the size of his Shark Chef apron, which featured a cartoon shark grilling shrimp on a barbecue grill.

  “We could try it on you, honey,” he mused, “but I expect it would
wrap around three times. You’re tiny compared to me.”

  “I like that,” she said with a warm smile.

  He put the bisque off the burner to rest before it was served. Then he caught Delia close and kissed her hungrily. “I like it, too,” he whispered at her lips. “You were almost too small for me in bed,” he added with a dark affection in his eyes when she flushed. “That’s why you got so sore.” He bent and kissed her again. “But you’ll fit me after the first few times,” he added outrageously, teasing her lips with the point of his tongue.

  She hid her face against his chest and laughed softly at the thrill of remembered pleasure the words provoked. “Are you…big?” she asked.

  He roared.

  She hit his chest, still without looking at him. “Well, how am I supposed to know about things like that?” she asked reasonably. “I’ve only ever seen men in magazines, and they sure didn’t look like you did that night!”

  He laughed deep in his throat. “You couldn’t take your eyes off me,” he recalled gently. “I loved it. I can’t remember feeling like that in my whole life. It was like flying.”

  “I felt that way, too.” She sighed and curled closer. “I love being with you.”

  “Yeah. Me, too,” he said, but he sounded remote, distracted.

  She lifted her head at the odd tone and gave him a long, curious appraisal. His face was taut and his eyes were troubled.

  “Have I done something wrong?” she asked worriedly.

  “As if you could,” he chided. He bent and brushed his lips gently over hers. “I’ve got a problem or two that I can’t share with you. Nothing major. Honest.”

  “It wouldn’t be another woman?” she asked uncertainly.

  He laughed softly. “No. It wouldn’t be. I haven’t had feelings for any woman in a long time.” His big hand brushed her cheek. “None of them were ever like you,” he added. “You’re special.”

  “So are you,” she replied.

  “Besides,” he added, “how far would I have to look to find another woman who knew quilts the way you do?” he teased.

  She laughed. “Speaking of quilts,” she added, tugging loose to go to her purse. “I found something in my pocketbook last night that I didn’t even know I had. I want to give it to you. It’s a pattern for a memory quilt that I’m working on.”

  She brought it to him. It was a small square with graceful curved lines and a tiny embroidered flower in the center.

  “This is beautiful,” he commented. “I don’t embroider well, though.”

  “I do. It’s one of my better skills. That’s why I did the center square of the block like this. It’s rather a variation on the Dresden Plate.”

  “Yes, I noticed, but you’ve pieced every wedge section individually. This is going to be a lot of work if you hand quilt it.”

  “I want to do it by hand,” she replied. “It’s a labor of love. The fabric in that block comes from dresses worn by my grandmother and my mother, Barb and me,” she added, pointing out the different fabrics. “I want to make a quilt that I can pass down to my own children one day. If any of them quilt.”

  He was studying her face, the block held loosely in his big hand. “Maybe they’ll like it as much as we do,” he said quietly.

  Which could only intimate that he was interested in fathering her children, and she brightened immediately.

  “Thanks for letting me keep this,” he told her. “I think I might do the same, with fabric from my niece and nephew’s clothing and my sister-in-law Cecelia’s. Maybe she’s got something left from Carlo, as well.”

  “Carlo?”

  “My brother. The one who died of a drug overdose.” He didn’t add that it was an injected overdose, that Carlo was killed for tipping off the feds about Fred Warner’s Colombian money-laundering connection.

  “How terrible for you. And for them,” she added. “Your sister-in-law, does she come here to see you with the children?”

  “From time to time, in the summer,” he said. “The kids are five and six, respectively, and in school now. They’re called Cosima and Julio.” He smiled with remembrance. “They’re really cute. Smart, too. Carlo was brilliant with figures.”

  “What led him into drug use, can you tell me?”

  He shrugged, moving away to put the quilt block on top of the counter. His fingers traced it lightly. “Why does anybody use them?” he asked coldly. “He was never strong enough for life, in the first place. Every time he and Cece had an argument, or he had pressure at work, or one of the kids got sick, he turned to narcotics for relief. I tried to stop him, Cece tried to stop him. We even had his parish priest talk to him. But he didn’t want to quit. In the end, he took one hit too many and his heart stopped. He ended up in the hospital and we finally got him into rehab. It was a bad time,” he added. “A real bad time. He was back on the right track and mad as hell at the people who got him hooked.”

  He stopped short of telling her that Carlo had gone after Fred Warner for revenge, since it was Fred who got him hooked. Fred wasn’t aware that Marcus knew that. He thought Marcus considered him one of Carlo’s friends. “Anyway, Carlo died of an overdose and Cece came apart at the seams. I ended up with the kids, down here in the Bahamas, with a nanny until she could cope again.”

  “Is she nice?” Delia asked, trying not to feel jealous.

  “Yes. She’s nice,” he replied. “Pretty. Talented. She’s a commercial artist. She lives in California now.”

  “Wow.”

  He gave her a long look. “Are you jealous?” he asked in a deep, husky tone.

  She shifted restlessly. “Maybe. A little.”

  He laughed. “I’ve never even kissed her. She’s definitely not my type.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “How about you?” he wondered. “Do you secretly pine for Barney?”

  She laughed, too. “Oh, sure, I hide under his bed at night hoping he’ll notice.”

  “Barb would have you for breakfast,” he commented.

  “Probably. Barney’s definitely her type, but I think of him as a big, cuddly brother. He’s sort of like my hero, in a lot of ways. He’s looked out for me since I was little, like Barb. Besides,” she added with a flirting look, “I like big, dark men with deep voices.”

  He smiled broadly. “I like slight little Texas girls.”

  “That bisque is going to get cold,” she said after a minute.

  “So it is. We’d better eat it quick.”

  After they did the dishes, Marcus pulled her down onto a chaise lounge with him and they listened to classical music while the wind danced in the casuarinas pines and the ocean roared softly along the shoreline.

  “It’s so nice here,” she murmured. “I love the Bahamas.”

  “Me, too. I feel as if I’ve come home, every time I come back here. The people are wonderful, and the climate is like paradise.”

  “It has so much history.”

  “Yes. And so much beauty.” His hand contracted in her long hair. “But it can be a dangerous place, too. When Barb comes back, you and I are going to have to be distant acquaintances. You know that, don’t you?”

  She sighed. “Yes. I guess so.”

  “It’s not what I want, either, Delia,” he confessed. “But I can’t afford to rock the boat.”

  “Can I do anything to help?” she asked him.

  He moved restlessly. “This is something I have to do alone,” he said, almost absently. His hand smoothed her hair. “Some people are coming here tomorrow,” he added. “That means you can’t phone me or come over here.”

  Her heart fell. “I can’t talk to you?”

  “The phones may be bugged,” he replied. “I don’t want you in any danger.”

  “Now you’re scaring me,” she told him.

  His broad chest rose and fell heavily. He’d said too much. He had to backtrack to keep her from getting suspicious.

  “They’re just businessmen, but it’s a big deal going down, and q
uickly. I can’t have any distractions, is what I mean. Nothing dangerous. Okay?”

  She let go of the fear. “Okay,” she agreed.

  His hand filtered through her soft hair. “Worried about me?” he probed.

  Her fingers toyed with a button of his silk shirt. “Always,” she confessed.

  She made his blood sing. He felt her body in the red sundress warm and fluid against his on the chaise lounge. She smelled of flowers. He could feel the quickness of her breath. It was going to be a long dry spell after this.

  His big hand moved under hers and flicked open shirt buttons. He guided her fingers under the silk and taught her the motion and pressure he liked.

  He felt warm and strong and just faintly furry. She loved the feel of his chest against her. She bent and drew her mouth along his collarbone, noticing with pride the way his big body shivered at the caress.

  “Turnabout is fair play,” he said in a husky tone. He unbuttoned the sundress and discovered to his delight that there was no bra under it. He pulled her closer, so that her breasts were pressed into the thick hair that covered his chest. “That’s nice,” he groaned.

  “Yes.” Delia slid her arms around him under the shirt, reveling in the wonder of being close to him. She ached to merge into his own body, there in the starlight, with the waves crashing on the nearby beach.

  He turned her so that she was under him. His long, powerful leg eased between both of hers and insisted on dominion.

  She didn’t fight him. She loved the warmth of his big hands on her breasts as he kissed her with ferocious hunger. She arched up to his hands, gasping as the pleasure began to grow all over again.

  He moved, so that his hips were directly over hers, so that they were as close as possible without the clothes that separated them.

  “Oh, baby,” he groaned into her mouth. “This is the closest to heaven it gets in the world. Feel how much I want you, Delia.”

  What he felt was blatant. His skin was damp with the passion that grew in him by the second.

  “What if I can’t stop?” he ground out against her mouth.