Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (49 page)

"No," Elena whispered, "no, it's not true."

But it was. She knew it; she had known it from the moment she'd returned home. The reality she'd been denying for days engulfed her. Tears filled her eyes again, and with sudden, ridiculous clarity she realized that she hadn't cried this much since her mother's death.

Rogan's eyes darkened. "Hell," he said gruffly, "don't do that. I didn't mean to make you cry."

"It's
not you. Really. I’m all right.”

But
she wasn’t. it wasn't all right. He watched as tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and then he took a step forward and his arms encircled her. Their eyes met; his head bent slowly towards hers.

Elena's heart raced as his mouth touched hers again. She started to struggle against him, but a slow warmth began spreading through her as she felt the firm pressure of his lips on hers. She sighed, her lashes falling against her cheeks, and Rogan made a sound in the back of his throat as he gathered her more closely against him. His kiss hardened, became more demanding, and her lips parted willingly beneath the gentle pressure. She felt the scalding touch of his tongue, tasted the sweetness of his mouth—and then, suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders and he was pushing her away from him.

Her eyes flew open. She stumbled back a step. Rogan stared at her for what seemed an eternity, and then he took a ragged breath.

"If I ever see you in the streets alone again," he said hoarsely, "you'll regret it." His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Do you understand?"

Elena was shaking. “I understand that you are--that you are--“

"Senorita?"

Elena spun around. "Juan," she said with relief. "How did you find me?"

Her chauffeur stood at the head of the alley, looking from her to Blake Rogan.

"Are you all right,
senorita
? I waited at the flower stalls, but when you did not come, I decided to look for you myself."

"I'm fine," she said quickly, knowing how she must look, her dress torn, her mouth smeared with blood
--Blake Rogan’s blood. She forced a smile to her face. "Really, Juan, I'm all right. Thanks to this--this gentleman…”

She turned quickly, but somehow it came as no great surprise to see the alley looming dark and empty beyond her.

Blake Rogan had vanished.

Sunset in Santa Rosa had always been Elena's favorite time of day. The hot red disc that was the sun seemed to balance precariously over the mountains that ringed the city, bleeding crimson flame on the rugged peaks while night gathered its forces. Then, with breathtaking suddenness, it would fall and allow everything to be cloaked in indigo velvet.

But on this, the night of her twenty-first birthday, not even the fierce beauty of the setting sun was enough to dispel her uneasiness. Tension in the city had grown. There were ugly rumors of danger on the streets and roads, and Elena's father had refused to let her leave the ranch since that day at the market, that day two weeks ago when Blake Rogan had kissed her...

Elena switched on the bedside lamp and undid the towel from her hair. She hadn't told her father about that part of it, of course. Juan had told him all he knew of the incident, that the American had saved her from rape, perhaps even from death, and there had been no reason for her to add anything more. Her father's only regret was that he hadn't been able to thank her savior personally. She wondered what he'd say if he knew that Rogan had forced his kiss upon her.

She crossed the room swiftly and opened the wardrobe door. Actually, she knew what he'd say. There was enough old-fashioned Spanish blood in Eduardo Esteban's veins so that he'd fly into a rage. In her father's world, men didn't take advantage of women. Obviously, in Blake Rogan's world, you took what you wanted when you wanted it. But, if her father chose to think of him as a hero, let him.

What harm was there in that? Besides, for some reason that she preferred not to explore, she wanted the knowledge of Rogan's kiss to be hers and hers alone.

It wasn't as if she would ever see him again, she reminded herself as she peered into the wardrobe. A man like that didn't move in the same circles as the Estebans. Americans like Rogan were the sort who drifted ever southward, searching for something that didn't exist. Central America was only a stopover for that kind of adventurer.

She took a green silk dress from its hanger and pulled it over her head. Certainly, she had no wish to see the man again. There wasn't even any logical reason to think of him as often as she did—unless it was because he'd saved her from her own foolishness. Yes, she thought, holding the dress against herself, yes, that was the reason. Of course it was.

She dropped her robe to the floor and slipped the dress over her head. It was a bit tight across the breasts and hips, and she looked at herself critically in the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. Too snug, she thought wryly. The dress had a rounded neckline and a softly draped skirt. It had been fine when she'd bought it two years before, during her last visit home. But she'd been nineteen then, she reminded herself with a frown as she peered into the mirror. Her breasts hadn't been quite as full and her hips hadn't been as gently rounded. The dress had been fitted for a girl, and somehow, during the intervening years, she'd grown into a woman.

There was nothing else in the wardrobe that would do. All her old dresses were there, but none of them would fit any better than this. She'd brought clothes with her, of course, but nothing festive. It had never occurred to her that there'd be an occasion for a party dress, not after all the rumors she'd heard about what was happening in San Felipe. But she hadn't counted on her father's stubbornness.

"Are you saying we should not celebrate my only child's twenty-first birthday?" Eduardo Esteban had demanded when she'd gently tried to turn aside his plans. "Nonsense,
querida.
Of course we shall have a party. A fine one!"

"Yes, but with things the way they are, Papa..."

"Don't worry about that,
querida.
There is still wine in the cellar—even some champagne. And you know that Maria works magic in the kitchen." He had smiled and put his arm around Elena's waist. "Would you deny an old man his pleasure?"

And she had smiled and put her head on his shoulder. "You're not an old man, Papa," she'd said softly.

She bent now and picked out a pair of black silk sandals. No, she thought, he wasn't old. But he looked as if he were. Lines and shadows had appeared in her father's face during the past days. He was worried. She knew it, even though he denied it. Just last night, at dinner, he'd told her he was going to arrange for her flight back to Miami.

"Will you come with me?" she'd asked quickly.

Esteban had shaken his head. "I must stay,
querida.
I will be safe, I assure you. All this nonsense will be over soon."

"I won't leave you. I'll stay with you, Papa."

Her father's eyes flashed. "You will do as I tell you, Elena.
It's..."

"...for the best," she said. "I know."

Their eyes met across the table; finally, she'd looked away. She wasn't a child to be sent away quietly any more, she'd thought, but there was no sense in forcing an argument. She would do what she had to do, when and if the time came. Until then, she'd do what she could to make her father happy. And that meant she'd smile and try her best to enjoy the party tonight.

"This is an important occasion, Elena," he'd said. "You must tell me who you wish to invite."

The answer had come to her without any warning. "Blake Rogan," she'd said immediately. Her father's eyebrows rose and color had washed into her cheeks. "I just thought it might be a way to thank him for his kindness," she'd said quickly.

"A good idea, Elena. If we can locate your Mr. Rogan, we shall invite him."

She'd felt the heat in her cheeks. "He's not
my
Mr. Rogan, Papa," she'd said coolly.

"You're the one who keeps talking about thanking the man. But now that I think of it, I doubt if it's a good idea. Anyway, you'd never be able to find him."

Elena blinked her eyes and stared into the mirror. What on earth had made her think of inviting Blake Rogan tonight? Good manners? She smiled at herself as she ran her comb through her hair. Yes, of course. That was it. Her mother had taught her to do the proper thing, as had an endless succession of housekeepers and, of course, so had the teachers at boarding-school. They had all taught her well. She never used the wrong fork or forgot to write a thank-you note. Her whole existence had been "proper". Maybe that was why Rogan's lean, muscled body had felt so exciting against hers. Maybe that was why she could still remember the sweet potency of his kiss.

And maybe that was why she’d told her father that she’d decided against inviting him.

“I’ve changed my mind,”  she’d said, when he’d asked the reason. “I’m sure you’d never be able to locate him. Even if you did, he wouldn’t  accept. We’re not the kind of people he’d be comfortable with.”

“
Querida.
Surely I did not raise you to sit in judgment on others.”

No. Her father had not. And she never did. It had been an ugly thing to say and she didn’t know why she’d said it, except that the thought of seeing Rogan again frightened her as much as it excited her.

There was a light tap at the bedroom door. "
Querida?
May I come in?"

Elena touched her hands to her pink cheeks and swallowed hard. "Yes, of course," she said after a pause, "come in, Papa." She flung the door open and smiled. "How do I look?" she asked, twirling before him.

"You look lovely. You're the image of your mother."

That's the nicest compliment you could have given me," she said, kissing his cheek. "Thank you, Papa."

Eduardo Esteban's smile faded. "Elena," he said slowly, "I've been thinking of what we discussed at dinner last night."

"You've changed your mind about my leaving? Oh, I'm so glad to hear it. I..."

"I've decided to make arrangements for your departure, Elena. You will fly home next week."

"No," she said quickly, "I won't. I'm not going without you, Papa."

Her father sighed. "You not only look like your mother, you sound like her. Don't be stubborn, child. I only want what's best for you."

"And I want the same thing for you, Papa. If you think it's unsafe for me to stay here, then it's time for you to leave, too."

"We've been all through this, Elena. This ranch belonged to my father and my father's father. I will never just walk away from it. Besides, there are different dangers for a young woman than there are for me. You know that. If your Mr. Rogan hadn't come along in time..."

Elena clucked her tongue. "For the last time, Papa, he's not
my
Mr. Rogan. I keep telling you that. You make him sound like a saint."

Her father smiled. "Not a saint, Elena."

"Papa, about this Mr. Rogan of yours..."

Her father laughed. "He's not
my
Mr. Rogan, either,
querida."

Elena
smiled. "OK, I deserved that. But..."

"Enough talk for tonight, Elena." Her father offered her his arm and she took it. "It's time to join our guests and celebrate your birthday."

She smiled as they stepped on to the balcony that ran the length of the second floor.

"I can't believe you'd make a party now, Papa," she said as the sound of laughter and music drifted up the wide stairway.

Later, she would remember the darkness in her father's eyes as he bent and kissed her cheek.

"Perhaps that's the very reason I did it,
querida,"
he said softly, and before she could answer, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and began to lead her down the steps.

* * *

Her father had outdone himself, Elena thought an hour later as she drifted from room to room. There was tinned pate and caviar, dredged from who knew what hidden source. And there were cheeses and fresh breads, even an enormous platter of
paella—
clams and chicken and sausage served over rice. There was red wine and white wine and even bottles of cool, dark beer imported from Mexico—all things that were in short supply in San Felipe lately. Elena suspected he'd depleted the wine cellar and the pantry. But no one seemed to care.

What on earth was wrong with her? she thought, shaking her head. This was her birthday party, and here she was, walking around with a phony smile plastered to her face, feeling as depressed as if she were at a funeral. No, she thought, no that wasn't really it at all. She felt as if she were in Rome the night before the barbarians sacked it. Everyone was eating and drinking and having a wonderful time. But there was something artificial about all the merriment, as if people knew the end was coming and were determined to have one last fling.

Her face ached from the effort it took to keep smiling, and her ears rang with the sound of the forced laughter. Even the music was too loud; someone had put on a stack of CDs and no matter how many times she turned down the volume, it was always turned up again within minutes. If this was a birthday party, it was like none she'd ever attended. And she hadn't seen her father in more than an hour. She'd gone looking for him earlier, but he was nowhere to be seen. She'd searched out Juan and asked him if he knew where her father was.

"Your father is in his study,
senorita,"
he'd said.

Again, that chill hand had clutched at her. "Is he ill?"

The chauffeur had shaken his head. "No, no, he is fine,
senorita.
It is a matter of business. He is meeting with someone."

"Business? In the middle of all this?"

Juan's dark, Indio face had been impassive. He'd shrugged, and finally she'd given up and drifted off again, moving from group to group, chatting and laughing until she couldn't keep up the pretense any longer. Now she stood in a corner, a glass of watered-down wine in her hand, a cool smile on her lips, watching the partygoers carry on. When she realized that she felt more like an observer than a participant, she decided it was time to go outside for a breath of fresh air.

She wound her way through the crowded house until she reached the double doors that led to the patio. She opened them and slipped outside, leaning back against them and sighing with relief as they swung closed. The old, solid oak doors muffled the music as effectively as if she'd pulled the phonograph cord from the wall. The night air was cool; for a second, she thought of going back inside for a scarf, but then she remembered the noise and the raucous laughter, and she decided it was better to be chilled than to be inundated with all that unreal hilarity again, and she wrapped her arms around herself and took a few cautious steps forward.

She could see nothing. The night was deep and dark; a crescent moon rode high in the black sky, but it cast little light on the flagstone patio. Usually, the patio was lit at night. And, on the night of a party, the regular electric lights were always augmented with festive paper lanterns, both here and in the flower garden to the side of the house. But there were no lights at all tonight. Her father had tried to explain the darkness by making a joke about Santa Rosa's power company.

"You know how it is, Elena," he'd said. "We don't want to tempt fate by putting a strain on the system."

She'd let him think she believed that, but she'd overheard Juan saying that lights might only make the house a target. Although it was a frightening possibility, it was a more reasonable one than her father's excuse.