Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (50 page)

An owl called in the darkness and Elena shuddered. Her eyes widened, as if trying to see into the blackness beyond the patio. Perhaps coming out here hadn't been such a good idea, she thought. She'd never been afraid of the dark, and certainly she'd never been afraid of the ranch, but tonight she felt like a stranger here. Nothing seemed familiar, not the shadowed outlines of the trees and bushes beyond the patio, nor the sigh of the breeze that brought the spicy scent of herbs and the sweetness of the flowers drifting to her from the garden.

"Good evening."

The voice was male, soft and vaguely familiar. A neighbor? Or perhaps it was one of her father's friends. But the man had spoken to her in English—in American, to be specific. She could tell that by the accent...

Elena's heartbeat quickened. "Rogan?" she whispered.

A shadowy form moved in the darkness. "At your service,
senorita,"
he said. "We meet again, it seems."

Was she crazy, or was there a thread of laughter in his voice? "What are you doing here, Rogan?" she asked after a pause. "Did my father invite you?"

"Would you prefer to think I gatecrashed, Miss Esteban?"

There
was
laughter in his voice. She could hear it clearly now, and it infuriated her. In fact, the man's presence infuriated her. What on earth was he doing here?

"I asked you a simple question," she said tersely. "Did my father invite you here?"

Rogan stepped forward. In the faint wash of moonlight, he seemed even taller and more broad-shouldered than he had that day at the market place.

"You
invited me, Elena," he said softly.

She felt her cheeks flame, and she was grateful for the darkness which must be shielding her from his eyes as it was shielding him from hers.

"I did no such thing."

He laughed softly. "Are you calling your father a liar?"

"No, of course not."

"He told me
he invited me at your specific request."

She closed her eyes as she remembered the impetuous words she'd spoken the week before.

"My father misunderstood me," she lied. "He had been saying he wanted to thank you for helping me that day at the market, and I merely suggested it was too bad he didn't know your whereabouts, that if he did, he could invite you to this party by way of expressing his gratitude. There was nothing personal in it."

"Your cordiality is overwhelming," he said, and she felt herself blush again.

"I'm not trying to be impolite, Mr. Rogan. I merely wanted to set things straight between us. I wouldn't want you to think..."

"You didn't tell him everything that happened that day, Elena."

"I don't know what that's supposed to mean," she said quickly. "I always tell him everything."

She drew back as Rogan took a step forward. He looked nothing like the man she'd met in Santa Rosa. His dark hair was combed back neatly, although she
could see that it was a little long. He wore a white shirt, even a tie beneath a dark, well-fitted suit. The bristly beard was gone. Only his cold blue eyes were exactly as she remembered them.

"Surely, not everything," he said softly.
“You must have some secrets you want to keep."

Elena swallowed drily. "Mr. Rogan..."

"Such formality, after what we shared."

Elena stared into his eyes and then she turned on her heel and started towards the house.

"Goodnight, Mr. Rogan. I'll tell my father you had to leave without saying goodbye."

She gasped as his hands bit into her shoulders. "You're not afraid of me, are you, Elena?"

Her eyes closed as she stiffened in his grasp. "I won't dignify that with a response. "

"I seem to remember saving your neck the last time we met. Now you're acting as if I was the one who tried to hurt you."

Elena's eyes opened. "You have an amazingly selective memory. No, you didn't try to hurt me. But you... you... You forced yourself on me, and..."

His laughter was quick and deep. "Forced myself on you?" Rogan's fingers tightened as he turned her slowly towards him. "That's a lovely, old-fashioned phrase,
senorita,
but it doesn't apply to what happened that day. Those snot-nosed little bastards were trying to force themselves on you, not me."

Elena's chin lifted. "Did you think I'd forgotten that you kissed me?" she demanded.

A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Yes," he said softly, "actually, I was beginning to think just that. I mean, you didn't tell your father about it. He'd hardly have been so... eager to do business with me if he knew how you'd melted in my arms."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pull free of his grasp. "I did no
suchI... What are you doing?"

"Refreshing your memory," he said softly, slipping his arms around her.

He drew her closer to him, and Elena put her hands flat against his chest. "Let go of me," she said. "If you don't, I'll..."

"You'll what?" His voice was a husky murmur, and she could feel his warm breath against her face. "Your father told me this was your twenty-first birthday. In my world, that means you're a woman." A shudder ran through her as she felt the light brush of his mouth on her earlobe. "You were woman enough when I kissed you in the market-place."

A slow, sweet lethargy was spreading along her spine and through her limbs. Rogan's hands were slipping along her back. She could feel the heat of his palms and fingers through the thin silk dress. Her hands were still pressed against his chest, and she could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath them, but he was gathering her closer against him, bringing her into the hard warmth of his body.

"Listen," he said softly. "Someone's playing the guitar. Do you hear it?"

Yes, she thought as the faint strains drifted towards her, yes, she could hear it now. It was coming from the bunkhouse down by the corral. One of the
rancheros
was playing a soft, sad melody on a Spanish guitar.

"
Mi corazon,"
Rogan said, whispering the familiar words in her ear,
"mi amor, siempre juntitos..
. My heart, my love, always together..."

She took a deep breath and then another. "Mr. Rogan," she said, "you can't..."

He laughed softly. "Can't I?"

She wanted to push him from her, to slap his face, to tell him he was an impudent bastard. But instead, she was melting as she had before, her eyes closing expectantly, her mouth parting as his head bent towards her. And then, suddenly, the doors to the house opened, and music and light blasted apart the dream world his soft words and touch had created.

"Let go of me," Elena demanded.

But he already had. She felt his arms drop away from her and his hands grasped her shoulders as he took a step back.

"Your wish is my command,
senorita,"
he said, his voice thick with insolence.

"You just wait until I tell my father," she said breathlessly. "He'll have you thrown out of here. He'll have you tossed out of the country. He..."

"Good evening, Mr. Rogan."

Elena blinked in surprise. "Papa?"

Eduardo Esteban smiled. "I see you and Mr. Rogan found each other without my help, Elena. I hoped you would; I didn't want to spoil the surprise."

"The surprise?" she repeated flatly, looking from her father to Rogan.

"Mr. Rogan is your birthday present,
querida.
You said you wished him to be present at your party, and here he is!"

She watched incredulously as her father clapped Rogan on the back. Both men were smiling, but Rogan's smile seemed strained. Not as strained as mine, she thought suddenly, as she forced her lips to curve upward.

"Well," she said finally, and then she cleared her throat. "Well, that was very thoughtful of you, Papa. And now, if you'll both excuse me…"

"Elena."

She paused half-way across the patio and waited for her father to tell her she was being rude. But when he spoke again, it was to Blake Rogan.

"Has it gone as I said it would, Mr. Rogan?"

Elena turned towards the two men and frowned. "What are you talking about, Papa? Has
what
gone as you said?"

Her father shrugged. "Mr. Rogan and I had a discussion earlier this evening. He had some questions and I suggested he seek the answers himself."

"Questions?" She looked from one man to the other, but neither looked at her. Instead, Rogan scowled.

"She flirts with danger," he said flatly, staring at Eduardo Esteban. "I don't think she'd recognize trouble if it bit her on the
ass."

Elena gasped. "Are you talking about me? Papa, did you hear what he said?"

Her father waved a dismissive hand in her direction. "That may be true, but my daughter was brought up to be obedient. She will do as she is told."

Rogan barely glanced at her. "She's not as obedient as you think, Esteban. She'll do what I tell her to do, though. My methods aren't the same as yours, but they've worked so far."

Elena felt a flood of heat start at her toes and race towards her face.

"You...you son of a bitch," she whispered. "You bastard. You..."

Eduardo Esteban sighed. "She has, as I have already told you, spent most of her life in the United States. I apologize for her bad manners, Mr. Rogan. But I think, under the circumstances, you would rather she have spirit than not, don't you agree?"

"I suppose so. But if I go through with this, I sure as hell don't want her deciding to be liberated at the wrong moment."

Elena's head swiveled from one man to the other as if she were at some insane tennis match. They were talking about her as if she were some kind of commodity that one was trying to sell the other and the other didn't want to buy. None of it made any sense, but no matter how many times she tried to interrupt, neither man paid her the slightest attention.

Finally, she stepped between them and held up her hands.

"Stop it!" she demanded furiously. "Someone had better tell me what's going on around here. Have you lost your mind, Papa? You're allowing this man to... to discuss me, as if I were up for sale or for rent."

Her father stepped forward and put his arm around her shoulders. "Forgive me,
querida.
I should explain, of course. You see, Mr. Rogan may be able to help me get you out of the country."

Relief flooded her senses. "For goodness sake, Papa," she said with a quick smile, "is that what this is all about? I'm not going. I already told you that."

Eduardo Esteban nodded. "Yes, I know."

"Besides, you told me you I was flying home next week. I thought that meant you'd bought me a plane ticket."

"I have,
querida.
But..."

Elena shot Blake Rogan a cold look.

"So what is he supposed to do, hmm? Tie me up and carry me off against my will?"

Rogan made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I think I'll say goodnight to you now, Senor Esteban," he said, and then he turned to Elena. "Good night, Miss
Esteban. You'll forgive me if I don't call you
senorita
any more. Now that I've heard your rather fluent English vocabulary, the whole idea of you as some helpless Spanish flower begins to pale."

Elena's eyes narrowed. "I don't care what you call me, Mr. Rogan," she said coldly. "Just make absolutely certain I never have to set eyes on you again."

Rogan paused beside the patio doors. "Hold that thought, lady," he said coldly. "Frankly, I think it's one hell of a terrific idea."

He stepped into the house and the door slammed shut behind him.

Elena murmured in her sleep and turned her face into the pillow, twisting the sheets and light blanket around her body. In her dream, she was back in the marketplace, hurrying up the hillside that curved above the town square. There were footsteps behind her and the cruel sound of laughter, and now she could feel the hot, rank breath of her pursuers on her neck.

"No," she whispered, burrowing her face more deeply into the pillow, "no, don't..."

"Elena..."

Someone was calling her name. In the dream, she gasped for air, drawing it deep into her aching lungs as she raced towards a dark alleyway ahead.

"Elena..."

A man stepped out into the alleyway ahead of her. Yes, she thought, as a fierce exaltation swept through her, yes, it was he. She'd have known those wide shoulders
, that aggressive stance anywhere. And his eyes, the color of the midday sky...

"Rogan," she whispered, "thank God it's you."

"Elena! Elena, you must wake up.
Querida,
please!"

Her eyes flew open and she stared into her father's face. The bedclothes were tangled around her in a damp knot.

"What is it, Papa?" she whispered. "What's wrong?"

Her father smiled at her the way he used to when she was little and she'd awaken with a nightmare. He was seated on the edge of her bed, fully dressed as if he were ready to go out for the day. But her bedroom was still in darkness, except for a wavering pool of light that fell over the bed. Candlelight, she thought in surprise, and then she grasped the twisted blanket and sat up. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Elena," her father said softly.

She nodded. "That's all right," she murmured, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "Has the power gone off?"

"Elena, you must get dressed."

She leaned back against the pillows and stared at him. "I don't understand, Papa. Is something the matter? Are you ill?"

He shook his head. "No, no, I'm fine. But you must get dressed. There is time to pack a small suitcase, if you wish." He rose from the bed and she watched as he marched across the room and pulled open her cupboard door. He was all dark shadows now, and his voice was muffled as he leaned into the wardrobe. "This one will do," he said, pulling her overnight bag from the shelf and tossing it on the foot of the bed. "Be quick, Elena. There's not much time."

Fear roughened her voice. "Papa, what are you talking about? What's going on?"

"The city is falling," he said with an abruptness that made the breath catch in her throat. "Get dressed quickly and come down to the library. There's no time to waste."

She watched in disbelief as the bedroom door closed after him. What was he talking about? He'd looked so worn lately; perhaps the tensions of the country were too much for him. Elena's heart pounded as she scrambled from the bed and pulled on her robe. She would go downstairs and phone for a doctor. What her father had said—that the city was falling—was insane. Things were bad in San Felipe, yes, but surely not that bad? Her birthday party had only ended a few hours ago, amid laughter and toasts for her health and happiness, even though she'd had to force herself to smile and say all the right things. She had not been enjoying the party to begin with, and Blake Rogan had put the finish to her evening.

If there were fighting in Santa Rosa, she would have heard something wouldn't she? The ranch wasn't very far from town. Well, there was the distant sound of thunder, yes, but that was because of the rain.

The thunder rumbled again and she stirred uneasily. There was a strange, flat quality to the sound, as if someone were setting off fireworks.

"Oh, God," she whispered as a flash glowed on the horizon. She wasn't listening to the sound of thunder.

It was gunfire.

The realization thrust her into action. Elena hurried to the dresser and began to pull clothing from its drawers. Underthings, shirts, sweaters, whatever her hands fell on was tossed, helter-skelter, into the suitcase and then she snapped it shut.

She stripped off her robe and nightgown. Dress quickly, her father had said, and she did, tugging on the first things she thought of, a pair of jeans and a shirt. Normally, she never wore anything like that in his presence. Such clothing was unfeminine, he said, and belonged in America, not in San Felipe. But she doubted that he would mind how she looked tonight. She pulled on a pair of cotton socks and her sneakers, snatched up the suitcase, and hurried down the stairs.

Her father was waiting in the library. He'd lit her mother's ornate silver candelabra. As she entered the room, he turned to her and held out a brandy snifter.

"Tell me," she began, and he shook his head.

"Drink this first," he said.

"I want to know what's happening."

"Drink, Elena."

Wordlessly, she took the glass from him and sipped at it. The dark, fiery liquid brought tears to her eyes, and she shook her head and handed it back to him.

"I don't like it," she said.

Her father sighed. "Do you remember when you were a little girl,
querida
? Your mother and I would sometimes tell you to do something, that it would be for your own good, and you would say, "I don't like it". But we would insist, and eventually you would obey."

Elena stared at her father. "You're going to send me away, aren't you?" she said softly.

He reached out and touched his hand to her cheek. There was a tremor in his fingers, and somehow that frightened her more than anything else that had happened so far.

"Elena," he said softly, "there is very little time. I just want to tell you that I love you."

"Then, let me stay with you, Papa."

"And your mother loves you, too, as she watches you from Heaven. She, too, would say that you must do what I tell you. Do you understand, Elena?"

A succession of sharp-sounds echoed through the night, closer than they had been before.

"We must go now, Elena."

So, she thought, the trouble was finally upon them. She was surprised at how calm she suddenly felt. Her mother had always told her that the only way to deal with the devil was to face him without fear. The anticipation of fear was always worse than the reality.

"Well, then," she said calmly, "I suppose we'd better get going. Where are the servants?"

Eduardo Esteban shrugged. "Gone. I think they knew before it all started. We are alone, child. Give me your suitcase. I've brought the car around front."

"No, that's OK, Papa, I can carry it. Where are your things?"

But her father was hurrying to the door, impatiently motioning for her to follow him into the dark night.

She settled beside him in the front seat of the Cadillac as he gunned the engine to life. Strange, she thought, staring into the darkness, but she'd never sat in the front seat of this car before. She'd tried, but Juan wouldn't permit it.

"It is not proper,
senorita,"
he'd said, and his dark eyes told her she'd insulted his sense of propriety with her casual American ways.

Come to think of it, she'd never seen her father drive the car, either. It was a night of "firsts", she thought, and suddenly she had an insane desire to laugh aloud. The sound of guns in the dark, dressing this way in front of her very proper, very old-world father, and now the way they were riding in the Cadillac—but then, she'd never been in the midst of an insurrection before, had she? She took a deep breath.

"Where are we going, Papa?"

He reached across the seat and patted her knee. "I know what's best for you,
querida."

"That's what you told me the first time you sent me off to boarding-school, remember? I was only thirteen, and I begged you not to sen
d me away. "I know what's best for you," you said. It was hard for me to understand."

There was a heavy silence and then her father nodded. "This time it may be even more difficult for you, Elena."

The soft hairs on the nape of her neck stirred. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you must do as I tell you, no matter how distasteful it seems."

His words held a warning, but of what? Suddenly she thought of the single suitcase. "Where are we going, Papa?" she asked, trying to control the rising note of concern in her voice. "You still haven't told me."

"I'm taking you to safety, child."

"Are we going north? Are the roads safe?"

"No, I'm sure they're not. But that doesn't matter. Soon, you'll be on a plane headed for Miami."

"You mean,
we'll
be on a plane..."

"No. I am staying here, where I belong. You are leaving without me."

Elena shook her head. "No," she said quickly. "That's out of the question, Papa."

Her father's voice was sharp. "You will do as I tell you," he said. The Cadillac lurched as it whipped around a sharp curve in the road. "You went to school in the United States, Elena. Your mother was an American. You, yourself, live as an American lives
."

"Don't be foolish, Papa. I'm your daughter. I'm as much a San
Felipian as you are. It says so on my passport."

Eduardo Esteban turned towards her. "Yes, it does," he said bitterly. "And only because of my own foolish pride. Your mother wanted you to have an American passport, but I insisted. You were my daughter, I said, with the blood of the
Estebans in your veins. And now..."

Silence
filled the car and finally Elena touched her father's arm. "And now?" she prompted.

"And now I shall remedy that," he said grimly, pulling the car to the curb.

A large building stood back from the road, silhouetted against the dark sky. Lights gleamed in several of its windows.

"The American Embassy? Why have we come here?"

Her father was already out of the car. "Hurry," he said as he opened her door. "There's no time to waste."

Elena scrambled out of the door. "But they won't let us in," she said. "Not in the middle of the night. Not..."

Her father gave his name at the gate and the soldiers waved them through. The Embassy compound was a mass of confusion. People were hurrying back and forth in the dark. Elena's father clutched her wrist and pulled her along beside him towards the building entrance.

Was he going to request sanctuary? No, she thought, that couldn't be it. He'd said he was going to put her on a plane headed north. Not that she'd let that happen, she told herself with conviction. Her father could argue all he liked, he could remind her of what an obedient child she'd been, but there was no way she was leaving here without him.
That
was definite.

They were on the second floor of the building now, hurrying down a poorly lit corridor. Her father had said he was going to remedy the fact that she didn't have an American passport, but that was impossible. Nobody in this place was about to issue passports now. You needed all sorts of papers, none of which she had with her. And, even if she had, not even American efficiency would include stopping everything for as long as it took to document those papers and make up a passport in the middle of a revolution.

"Senor Esteban! It's a damned good thing you got here. I wasn't going to wait much longer." A man had stepped into the corridor from one of the offices. He gestured to them impatiently. "Come on, come on, let's go."

Now, suddenly, the taste of fear filled Elena's mouth. She turned to her father, her green eyes searching his face, until finally he looked away from her.

"Papa?"

Her father sighed. "One moment," he said to the man, and then he put his arm around Elena's shoulders and began walking her slowly towards the end of the hall.
"Querida,
this is going to be difficult for both of us. Remember, as I talk to you, that I love you and that this will be for the best."

What was he going to say? Why was he making all these apologies? He was sending her away again, yes, but there was more to it than that. There was something he wanted to tell her, something he was afraid to say
.

"What is it?" she pleaded. "Why are we here?"

"Come on, Esteban, get it over with."

Elena gasped and spun towards the all too familiar sound of Blake Rogan's voice. He was standing in the doorway of one of the offices, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, watching her through narrowed eyes.

"This conversation doesn't concern you, Mr. Rogan," she snapped. "My father and I would like some privacy, if you don't mind."

Rogan laughed. "Shall I tell her why she's here, Esteban? Or are you afraid she'll be less than thrilled if she hears it from me?"

The light here was better than it had been on the patio a few hours before. She could see Rogan clearly, see every flawlessly tailored inch of his grey suit, his highly polished shoes, even smell the faint scent of what was surely an expensive cologne. But none of it mattered. The man still looked like a bandit, come down from the hills to wreak havoc in the lives of normal people. Elena took a deep breath. It was inconceivable that this man and her father should have discussed her, but clearly they had. She thought back to the curious conversation Rogan and her father had had on the patio, thought of the plans her father had made to fly her home, and a bitter smile touched her mouth.