by Ann Major
Maurice had never seemed quite so tall, or her room so small. She, too, felt tinier beside him. When the next thrilling tingle traced the length of her spine, she really did begin to believe a little in magic.
She handed him a glass, and when their fingers brushed, his felt harder, more callused than Maurice’s—hotter, too. Remembering how warm Rafe’s skin had always burned, she drew back jerkily at the unexpected shock.
When he jumped back, as well, a new primal tension seemed to leap between them. Shrugging his shoulders, Maurice was the first to recover.
She saw the faintest flicker of moonlight on crystal as he lifted his glass. Strange, how the gesture seemed almost defiant.
His aim was unerring in the dark; his hand-cut goblet clinked against hers.
“To us,” she whispered throatily.
“Ditto.” He bit out the word.
Ditto? Alarm fluttered in her tummy. Where had that come from? Usually, Maurice’s faintly accented English was so cultured.
Maurice speedily drained his glass. Usually, he took his time over food or wine or good champagne.
Odd, how he suddenly reminded her of a certain other, much rougher, lower-class individual. Rafe had had far lustier appetites.
She attributed the odd behavior to Maurice’s excitement. To her nerves.
For no reason at all, she thought of Pita’s glowing black eyes when the woman had brought her the potion-laced bottle of champagne.
Dear God.
The spell was supposed to make her fall in love with Maurice, not fantasize about Rafe.
Cathy set her glass down abruptly, for already she felt an incredible heat bubbling through her arteries.
“Don’t you want your champagne?” he murmured.
“I-I feel so hot.”
“So do I.” He put his glass down beside hers, so that the edge of its bottom was balanced precariously on top of hers. “That’s how we’re supposed to feel,” came his disturbingly low tone.
When he moved closer, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Easy,” he whispered gently, soothingly.
“It’s just that it’s been so long,” she murmured.
“How…long?”
Neither of them noticed that his French accent had altered slightly.
“Six and a half years,” she whispered. Just thinking about Rafe made her feel weak.
For a moment, he stood without moving in that silent darkness.
“Who was he?” Maurice demanded tightly, his tension almost explosive.
After a long time, she replied in a low, choking tone. “Sadie’s father, of course! I’ve told you before there’s never been anyone but him. Our breakup…was traumatic.”
She heard him catch his breath as if he’d suffered some great shock, and the quick rasp of that harsh sound was deeply unsettling. When he reached savagely for his glass of champagne, it tipped and shattered. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“It doesn’t matter.”
He gulped from her glass and then poured himself another.
Pita had said the more he drank, the more powerful the effect would be.
Which was utter nonsense.
“Maurice, there is no reason for you to be upset. It’s been over for six long years.”
“You’re sure?” His tone was lower, rougher—different.
“Quite…quite sure. I…I never even think of him.”
“Why is your voice trembling, then?”
“Because…just because the whole experience with him was so awful. I hurt my family. Then there was Sadie. I gave up college…my plans for a career in photography. My whole life. I came here to raise Sadie. He totally disrupted my life. I—I…It still upsets me to even think about him.”
“How does Sadie feel about him?”
“She has her fantasies, but he’s the last man I would want in her life. When you adopt her, you’ll be the only father she’ll ever know.”
“You really think that suitcase full of iguanas meant so little?”
“They are harmless creature. I do hope you aren’t holding that against her. She is young, high-spirited, and I’m afraid I haven’t been the best disciplinarian. You see, I was overly-disciplined. That’s why I rebelled. But she’ll become more civilized when you become her father. She’s going to respect you and love you as soon as she gets to know you.”
“She had better.”
“Oh, Maurice…I’m so sorry we got started on Rafe and Sadie when all we should be thinking about is ourselves. We’ve had so little time to be alone together. You’ve been so patient. I’ve made you wait so long. You…don’t know how important tonight is to me.”
“To me, too.”
“Do you believe in love? In true love?”
“I believe that the right man and the right woman can find happiness together. If other people will let them.” His voice sounded a little strange.
“Other people?” she asked.
When he set her glass down, she refilled it and placed it in his hand.
“Make a toast to true love,” she whispered.
“To us,” he muttered.
“To true love,” she said softly. “Say it.”
There was only silence as he downed his glass.
When he reached for her, she suddenly lost her nerve again and shrank away.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
“Maurice… I—I feel so unsure.”
“Trust me,” he whispered. “Trust your belief…in true love.”
When she felt his hand on her breast, a shudder went through her.
“Everything is going to be all right,” he said, his warm fingers sliding inside her nightgown to caress her.
The thought of Maurice’s white hands on her body had always seemed alien, foreign. But tonight it was as if Rafe were stroking her, not Maurice. And his expert hands made treacherous desire flame through her.
She remembered the potion Pita had put in the champagne and the way Pita’s spells had a way of backfiring. Was that why she was getting hot for Maurice by fantasizing about Rafe?
For one instant, she was tempted to go on fantasizing about Rafe and let Maurice continue. Then she was horrified at herself. It seemed so wrong, so unfair. A lie.
“I—I can’t go through with it,” she murmured guiltily, stumbling backward.
How was she going to go through with the wedding? She thought of her mother, of the long months of detailed planning. There were to be twelve bridesmaids and four flower girls. Her mother would never forgive her if Cathy didn’t march down the aisle in that Spanish colonial chapel in her white veil and Irish-linen gown etched with handmade Venetian lace. The dress alone, a Paris original, had cost a fortune.
Armi would be apoplectic. The match had been his idea from the first. He had worried about Cathy’s depression over Rafe and had diligently worked to persuade her that the only way to get over Rafe was with another man. Someone suitable, of course. Armi had carefully maneuvered her into spending time with Maurice. And wanting to please them after all the grief she’d caused them, she’d gone along.
For a moment, Cathy just stood beside Maurice, trapped, too aware of his tall, patiently waiting form. But the vision of the wedding gown that was hanging on a mannequin in her bedroom at Casa Tejas made her pulse race even more chaotically. And suddenly she knew she wasn’t up to tonight.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then, panicking, she dashed for her bathroom, her intention to barricade herself behind the thick door until he gave up and left.
But he raced after her. As she struggled to close the door on him, he jammed his foot inside and then forced it open. She was weeping as his arm snaked out of the darkness and dragged her against his hard body. Before she could protest, his soothing hands were in her hair. His hot lips were against her mouth.
“I feel it’s my duty as a Frenchman to show you how wonderful sex can be.”
“No… No… I want… I want…” But she could not hurt him by spe
aking another man’s name.
“You want me. There’s nothing to be so afraid of…darling.”
“No—”
But his fingers slid against her scalp, and his warm breath against her heated lips sent spiraling quivers of desire through her. Then his hands tightened, and he arched her body into his, forcing her head back, his mouth claiming hers in a bruising kiss that was so violent she could barely breathe. She fought him, pounding her balled fists against his massive chest even as his hard mouth gave her pleasure, the immensity of which she had only known with Rafe.
The floor rumbled beneath their feet, and a red haze glowed around them like fire. Had Pita really wrought magic? Or was it just another baby earthquake?
Cathy’s hands quit pounding and splayed weakly against his shoulders in surrender. She wanted Maurice. Wanted him desperately because in her imagination, it was Rafe who was kissing her, Rafe who was loving her.
The wanton fantasy was too powerful to resist.
So was the man.
She was supposed to be falling in love with Maurice. As usual, Pita’s spell had gone a little haywire.
How many nights had she dreamed of another night with the man she had considered her one true love before she’d realized it had all been a lie? Lies or not, Rafe had gotten into her blood. Wanting to hate him, she had lain alone in her bed, desiring nothing more than the warmth of his body next to hers. For six and a half long years she had wanted this.
Cathy sighed, surrendering to this uncomfortable, unwanted need that made her shamelessly substitute Maurice’s body for the rogue she really wanted.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s been so long.”
“You’re hungry for this, as hungry and as starved as I am…my darling,” he muttered in a mellifluous whisper that belied dark, dangerous emotion. He picked her up, and when he started toward her bed, her hands moved around his wide shoulders and clung tightly to his neck.
He released her at the foot of the bed, and they stood together for a long moment, not touching, just wanting. Then his hard mouth found hers again, his lips and tongue branding her his—forever.
One swift gesture and her nightgown and peignoir had been shredded and fell from her lush body to the floor.
Her nakedness made her shamelessly bolder, surer of her allure and her feelings. She began to touch him in the way she had once touched Rafe, her fingers blind in the pitch-blackness, but skilled. One of her hands ripped his silk shirt out of his waistband. The other slipped under the silk and wandered over his lean-muscled abdomen and broad chest.
He ripped off his shirt and caught her to him. His tongue came into her mouth and mated with hers. Then his hands moved across her skin, handling her with a rough expertise that left her gasping.
He stripped off the rest of their clothes and pulled her down onto the bed, covering her with his body. His exploring fingers seemed to know every erogenous spot, and just as he knew where to touch, he knew how to touch to make her quiver and beg for more. Until soon she was melting against him.
Their passion was so fresh and wonderful that even before he found a condom and rolled it on and entered her, she was already his, in body and soul.
When he carried her to the spiraling heights of the greatest glory she had ever known, it wasn’t Maurice’s name she cried out in ecstasy.
It was Rafe’s.
A shudder went through them both.
Only when it was over did she realize what she had done and try to apologize.
“Maurice, I’m so sorry—” She started to roll away, feeling a desperate remorse that she had used him, but his hard hands circled her like a vise, pulling her back and pinning her tightly beneath his body.
“I feel so ashamed,” she whispered brokenly. “I don’t know how—Maurice, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
“Forget it.”
“It was so glorious, and I…I feel like I ruined everything.”
“On the contrary.”
She could feel him smiling tenderly in the darkness. As usual, Maurice’s kindness and generous nature were the moral superior of that other rogue who would have been passionately jealous had she called out another man’s name at such a moment.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
He put a gentle finger to her lips. When he spoke, his accent had never sounded quite so French. The S changed to a Z; his R’s rolled charmingly in that guttural way. “There iz nothing to forgive…my da-r-r-r-ling.”
Then his mouth reclaimed hers, and soon they were both beyond coherent thought. All she wanted was for him to make love to her again.
Seven
Rafe awakened groggily, with a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and a headache pulsing fiercely behind his hot eyelids. He was disoriented in the darkness; the only thing he knew for sure was that he had one hell of a hangover.
Then Cathy stirred beside him, and her warm fingers lightly skimming the length of his torso sent a tingle of alarm radiating through him.
He was in Mexico. There was a price on his head.
He had imprisoned Maurice and seduced this woman whom he loved…under false pretenses—again.
If she hadn’t despised him before, she damn sure would now.
As the enormity of his guilt struck him, Rafe felt too sick to enjoy the blissful sensuality of her warm body cuddled against his own. Too sick to savor the immensely soothing comfort in the rightness of her legs and arms entwined around his.
She was so deliciously small, so soft and sweet-smelling. Had it not been for the guilt, he would have been profoundly happy to have her lying still and quiet beside him.
The champagne made his memories hazy. But he could remember enough to hate himself. He had believed the last thing he wanted was to be the father of the pixie-faced imp in the snapshot. But he’d found out he was, and when Cathy had admitted that she hadn’t ever slept with anyone except him, a fierce possessive joy had blazed through him.
Maybe if he hadn’t drunk so much champagne, his blood wouldn’t have turned to fire when he’d taken her in his arms. Maybe then he would have been able to resist her even after he discovered she was fantasizing it was he making love to her instead of Maurice.
Rafe cursed himself when he remembered how she’d run from him and tried to lock herself in the bathroom. He’d grabbed her and kissed her; he had all but forced himself on her. Then, instead of confessing the truth when she’d called out his name and begged his forgiveness, he’d taken her again and again—the need to prove that she belonged to him in that most basic way overpowering all else.
Not that he could totally regret the sex. He liked remembering her hands tightening around the corded muscles at the base of his spine, pulling him closer and deeper inside her. He liked remembering how her thighs had encircled him, how she’d arched her body eagerly to his, begging him to love her, shuddering deeply in total surrender each time they’d climaxed.
Nor could he regret the pleasure that lingered afterward when he had lain stroking her tangled hair, realizing, fool that he was, he loved her more than ever, realizing that only in her arms could he lose his hellish loneliness.
Throughout his life, Rafe had lost too many people—his father, then his mother, and finally Cathy. After Cathy, except for Mike and Vadda, Rafe had found it increasingly difficult to form meaningful relationships. Vadda was pregnant, and when Cathy had inadvertently let him know he was Sadie’s father, Rafe had thought of the photograph albums filled with pictures of Sadie. He had known he had to be part of his child’s life and share that rare kind of sweetness Mike had found with Vadda.
Cathy drew in a deep breath, then let it go. The slender arm draped across his chest tensed and moved to his waist. Then she pulled her hand off him completely.
Rafe sensed the exact moment when her eyes snapped open, when she realized she was in bed with a man. He felt her stiffen and withdraw. When she sat up warily, he sat up, wary, too.
“Maurice,” she said in a ter
se, awkward tone, primly gathering the sheets up around her neck, “I think you’d better go back to your own room before Sadie—”
“We have to talk.”
“Not now. Sadie gets up very—”.
Rafe leaned across Cathy’s side of the bed, snapped on the light.
“Now!”
Cathy’s dark eyes flashed with startled bewilderment as she leveled them on Rafe’s tanned face. Before she could speak, he caught her fiercely beneath him and pinned her down.
“The brat probably inherited that early-bird trait from me, Skinny. I can’t just go. I’m sure you agree this is kind of complicated.”
Cathy whitened. He winced as her gaze sharpened and burned unforgivingly across his harsh features.
Then she grew so still, he thought she’d calmed down. He was conceited enough to think maybe she even liked waking up to him instead of Maurice. Smiling down at her, Rafe made the mistake of relaxing. That’s when she bucked and lunged at him like an enraged cat.
But he was quicker, straddling her slim body, catching her clawing hands in one fist, and covering her mouth with his other. He found these activities to be most enjoyable—since they were both naked.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered as she thrashed more wildly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his palm so hard he let out a pain-filled, male yelp.
“You don’t want to hurt me? That’s rich! How could you be so low?” she whispered on a raw note of shame and rage. “To let me think…you were the man…I loved…”
“Maybe I am,” Rafe jeered softly.
She glared up at him. “No! Not in a million years! This…this is a nightmare. I love—” She broke off mutinously.
“Say his name, and you’re a liar!” A black fire smoldered inside Rafe. “You want to be here with me! You wanted to make love to me last night as much as I wanted to make love to you. Admit it, Cathy.”
Her beautiful face was ashen. “N-no. You’re wrong,” she murmured in a low, choked tone.
“I’m Sadie’s father and the only man you’ve ever slept with. You called out my name. Not his. And because of that, I’m willing to forgive and forget everything, Skinny-”
