Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set (55 page)

"Parched. My throat's like sandpaper."

White foam spewed from the bottle as he opened it and handed it to her. "Drink up," he said. "Half for you, half for me."

She closed her eyes with pleasure as the warm, bitter liquid spilled down her throat. After a few gulps, she handed the bottle to Blake, watching as he tilted it to his mouth and finished the beer. He grinned at her as he wiped his hand across his lips.

"Better?"

She nodded. "Much."

"OK," he said, hoisting the makeshift pack on his shoulder again, "let's move out. What we both need is a hot meal, a bath, and a soft bed."

She laughed as she fell in beside him. "Half a pint and the man's drun
k." They walked in silence for few minutes and then she looked up at him. "Blake, why haven't we seen anybody else? I mean, is that good or bad?"

"Good, I hope. I think it means we guessed right—that all the action's back there on the
road."

"Yes, that makes sense. I just wonder...I wonder how long it will take to reach the mountains." Elena glanced at the dark jungle on either side of the road. "I guess we'll still be here by nightfall," she said, trying to sound unconcerned.

"Maybe. But this trail's got to lead somewhere. What I'm hoping is that there's a village ahead."

"And if there isn't?"

He shrugged again. "If there isn't, Princess, we'll just have to do the best we can."

They walked on in silence. Talking took energy—more than she had, Elena thought. And it invited the ever-present gnats to try for a landing in her mouth. She glanced at her watch. It was getting later and later. She was soaked with sweat; the wet, wonderful taste of the beer was only a memory. It was beginning to look as if they would still be here by nightfall—although even that idea was beginning to sound good. At least she could take off her sneakers and close her eyes and...

Blake grabbed her wrist. "Smell that?" he asked. "Do you know what it is?"

"Yes," she said wearily. "It's me. Between the sweat and the bug spray, I..."

Her words drifted into silence as a delighted smile spread across her face. What she smelled was wood smoke. And it carried with it the scent of something delicious, something that made her stomach growl.

Blake laced his fingers through hers. "Remember the hot meal I promised you, Princess?"

"Don't forget the bath," she whispered as she followed him along a widening path. . "And the soft bed..."

He grinned. "There it is," he said. "It's not Santa Rosa, but it sure as hell looks pretty good to me."

"Paradise," Elena said, staring at the cluster of thatched huts that stood scattered in a clearing. She sniffed appreciatively. "I just hope they're in the mood for guests."

Blake laughed softly. "How could anybody be less than thrilled with a couple as elegant as us? Come on, let's go. I made dinner reservations for seven and it's pushing towards that now."

The village dogs discovered them before anyone else. Their excited barking brought the villagers from their huts, and soon they were surrounded by women in long, colorful skirts and men in pale cotton shirts and trousers. The Indians' smiles were polite but cautious, until Blake began to speak to them in the clicking Indio tongue. Shy smiles turned into grins of welcome and, within minutes, Elena and Blake had been invited to dinner and to stay the night.

"Where did you learn to speak that?" Elena murmured.

He shrugged modestly. "I've been south of the border before."

Of course he had, she thought, as the village men surrounded him. Men like Rogan had been travelling in these jungles for centuries, caught up in a never-ending search for gold, for precious gems, for the exotic and the exciting. Was that what she was? Was she an adventure, a story Blake would trot out on a cold winter's night for amusement? Would he have to search his mind for the name of the woman he'd once taken as his wife?

Blake's arm slid around her. "Hey," he whispered, "why the long face?"

"I... I guess I'm just tired. And hungry." Elena managed a smile. "It's been a long day."

His expression softened. "Yes," he said, "I know it has. You'll feel better after you've eaten."

The sun wa
s sinking behind the trees by the time they'd finished a simple meal of chicken and yams, wrapped and baked in palm leaves. And Elena, who always thought of herself as a night person, was yawning.

Blake rose to his feet. "Let me find out about the sleeping arrangements, okay?"

Elena nodded and yawned again. She watched as he crossed the clearing and sought out the old woman who'd served them their meal. The woman peered up into his face as he spoke and then she said something. Blake answered and she gave him a toothless smile.

"OK, Princess," he called, "it's bedtime."

They followed the old woman as she shuffled to a small hut on the far side of the clearing. She mumbled something to Elena, who smiled and shook her head.

"I don't understand her, Blake. What's she saying?"

"She's wishing us goodnight. Tell her "thank you"."

"Gracias, senora.
Buenas noches."

The woman patted her arm, said something that made Blake laugh, and then scurried off.

Elena turned to Blake with a puzzled smile on her face. "What was that all about?"

He grinned. "You're not going to like it."

"Come on," she insisted as she followed him into the hut, "tell me what she said."

"She assured me that many strong sons have been conceived in here."

Elena's mouth fell open. "What?"

He touched his finger to her mouth. "You'll catch a mouthful of gnats," he said, and then he laughed softly. "It's the bridal suite, Princess. They had nothing else to offer."

"You mean, you told her we were married? But—"

Her words fell into silence as Blake's hands cupped her shoulders. The hut was cramped aid dark, barely large enough for two. Suddenly, the laughter was gone.

"I told her the truth, Elena," he said softly. She swallowed drily as his hands slid down her arms. "We are married. And this is our wedding night."

Her breath caught as their eyes met. Blake's pupils were as black and deep as shadowed pools. Elena swayed in his grasp. He was going to kiss her, she thought, and her heart hammered crazily. He was going to take her in his arms and kiss her and...

"Would you rather sleep outside?"

"Yes," she said quickly.
“I mean, it’ll be cooler.”

Am
usement danced in his eyes. "So, you're not worried about the vampire bats?"

Elena grasped his sleeve. "What vampire bats? My father never mentioned vampire bats, and he camped at archaeological sites for years."

Blake shrugged. "Why would he have told you about them? It's not exactly a bedtime story for children, is it? But you don't have to be too concerned. They're not the way they're made out to be in films." He smiled at her. "The bats prefer horses to people. Well, that's if there are horses around. But they're willing to take a meal from somebody's big toe if that's what available."

"You're making that up," Elena said positively, but one look at his face told her he wasn't. "All right, Rogan," she said quickly, "you've made your point. We'll sleep in here. You on that side of the hut," she added firmly, pointing with her finger, "and me on this side."

Blake scuffed the mat with the toe of his boot. "There's only one mat, Princess. Are you offering to give it up?"

She lifted her chin and stared at him. "You're a perfect gentleman, aren't you?"

He grinned. "I'm a man in need of a good night's sleep, sweetheart."

She stared at him for a second and then her chin rose. "Is there a place where I can wash?" she asked coolly. "I'd like to scrub off some of this dirt."

"After you," he said, making a sweeping bow. "Our hostess said the facilities are just up the trail."

The facilities were a small spring that bubbled up from a rocky cairn. Elena watched as Blake unconcernedly pulled off his shirt, bunched it up and soaked it in the water. He scrubbed at his neck and shoulders, and then he ran the wet shirt across his chest. In the fading daylight, the muscled planes and ridges of his arms and torso looked as if they'd been touched with gold. When he opened the top button of his jeans,
she turned away.

“W
ould you step behind a tree or something?" she asked stiffly. "I... I'd like to get washed, too."

"Of course,
” he said solemnly. “Forgive me. Modesty's such a nice quality in a bride. I'll see you at the hut."

She said nothing while he moved off. After a moment, she unbuttoned her shirt—his shirt, she reminded herself—and knelt beside the spring. She eased the shirt off her shoulders, and then bent forward and cupped her hands in the water.

The cool sweetness of it made her gasp. Elena splashed the water over her face and dribbled it over her shoulders and breasts. Sighing with pleasure, she bent forward and let it spill over her hair. Perhaps there'd be time tomorrow for a real scrub, she thought, but for now, the water alone felt wonderful. She got to her feet and looked around her. It was almost dark and she was still alone.

Quickly, she slipped off her sneakers and socks, unzipped her jeans and stepped free of them.

The air was still warm, and it felt like silk against her flesh. She stood there for a moment, wearing only a pair of cotton bikini underpants, and then she sighed and reached for the shirt. If only she had the courage to sleep in just the shirt, she thought, picking it up slowly. But at least she'd had the heavy jeans off for a little while. At least...

"Dammit, Elena, what the hell are you..."

She gasped as Blake stepped into the clearing. In that final moment before nightfall, he was visible only as a silhouette against the trees. He took a slow step forward and she felt a pulse begin to beat in her throat.

"I thought something had happened to you," he said. His voice was thick and husky. "I thought..."

“ I didn't realize..." She stuffed her arms into the sleeves of the shirt and pulled it around her. Her hands trembled as she began to do up the buttons. "I didn't realize I'd taken so long," she said. "Just let me..."

"Let me," he said in that same thick voice. She stood still while he reached towards her, barely breath
ed ase he buttoned the shirt. His hands brushed lightly across her breasts.

"Blake..."

The word was a whisper. She swallowed as his hands closed on the collar of her shirt and drew her forward. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.

"Elena," he said softly. "Princess.."

He reached out and touched his hand lightly to her cheek. A tremor raced through her at the heated feel of his skin against hers. He whispered her name again and her head lifted, her eyes searching his. He bent to her slowly, slowly, until finally his mouth touched hers.

"Don't," she murmured.

But her body betrayed her. She moved against him and his hand spread along her cheek, cupping her face, raising it to him, and all the while his mouth was on hers, tasting her, urging her to taste him in return, and she knew that she wanted the kiss to go on forever. She wanted more—to touch him, to be touched, to beg him to teach her all the things that existed only in the shadows of her dreams. And then, without warning, he grasped her arms and put her from him.

"No," she whispered, "please..."

His hand brushed her cheek and she opened her eyes. The moon was rising above the trees. In its faint light she thought she saw a glimmer of sadness in his eyes.

"It's all right, Princess," he said softly, "I understand. It's been a long day."

She wanted to tell him that he hadn't understood her plea at all. But, before she could speak, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to their hut. Inside, in the velvety darkness that wrapped her in its soft embrace, he lowered her gently to the sleeping mat. Elena waited, breathless in the silence of the jungle night, as Blake lay down beside her. His arm closed around her waist and he drew her against him. Her breathing quickened as she felt the heat of his bare chest press against her back, felt the roughness of his denim-clad legs against the naked flesh of hers. The pulse in his throat beat erratically against her temple as she nestled her head under his chin.

"Goodnight," he whispered. His lips touched her hair, and then everything was still.

Mazatal
.

The name of the town almost a day's walk from the Indian village sounded magical. Elena had imagined an exotic city rising from the dark green of the rainforest with ancient Mayan majesty.

What she found was a miserable collection of unpaved streets, adobe shacks, and scrawny dogs which lay slumbering in the afternoon heat, beneath the brooding splendor of the Mountains of the Moon.

Their trek through the jungle had ended.

"It looks OK," Blake said after a moment. "I don't think the fighting's reached here yet."

Elena sighed. "I want a hot bath," she said. "And a cold drink. And..."

Blake grasped her wrist. "Wait."

"For what? There's nothing happening—you just said so. And I..."

One look at his face silenced her, and she sank to the ground beside him, her back pressed to the trunk of a tree. Blake squatted on his haunches beside her, staring down into the town. Elena followed his gaze, and suddenly realized that there was a flurry of activity in the town square.

"Troops?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "No," he said finally, "not troops." He smiled and got to his feet. "We're in luck. It's fiesta time in Mazatal."

Elena rose and took his outstretched hand.

"They're putting up the banners in the plaza now. It's four o'clock. Siesta's over and people are pouring into the square."

"We're going to look awfully out of place for a festival," Elena said as she looked down at her stained and ripped clothing. "I thought the idea was not to draw attention to ourselves."

"We won't if we get into the crowd and keep moving." Blake smiled down at her upturned face. "We'll be all right, Elena," he said softly. "I promise."

By the time they'd scrambled down the hillside, the streets of the little town were filled.

Blake slid his arm around Elena's waist and they moved into a crowd. No one gave them a second glance, except for one man whose dark glance swept over Elena's tousled hair and stained clothes. But when Blake's eyes locked with his, the stranger's face paled. He touched his hand to his hat and murmured something which Blake acknowledged with a curt nod.

Elena glanced up at the man beside her. The confrontation had been silent but impressive. No wonder the
campesino
had backed down. There was a dark, dangerous look about Blake, as if he belonged in this wild, untamed town. His hat was drawn down over his eyes, as it had been when they first met. A two-day beard shadowed his cheeks and jaw.  His shirt was damp and clung tightly to his muscled shoulders and torso, and his jeans were molded to his narrow hips and long legs.

He was, she thought suddenly, every man's fear and every woman's desire. Her blood began to pulse swiftly in her throat.

Blake looked down at her and smiled. "What's going through that pretty head of yours now, Princess?"

"I... I was just wondering where all these people came from," she said. "I mean,
Mazatal's in the middle of nowhere."

A child raced into the street ahead of them, a yapping dog at its heels, and collided with Blake's legs. The little boy went down in a tangle of limbs, his face contorting, but before he could cry, Blake scooped him into his arms and swung him high into the air.

"Guardete, nino,"
he said, laughing as the boy's round, black eyes widened. "You could get hurt in all this traffic."

He set the giggling child down on the pavement and clasped Elena's hand in his. "Amazing, isn't it? Fiesta time brings everybody in from miles around. Don't tell me that a little girl who grew up in San Felipe never went to a fiesta."

"Only the ones in Santa Rosa. And they weren't like this."

Blake laughed as they stepped around a group of Indians painted in stripes of white and brown clay from head to toe

"No, I'll bet they weren't."

Elena was peering over her shoulder. "Blake?" she whispered. "Those men had tattoos on their faces."

"They're probably
Xivera
Indians." He drew her closer to him and put his lips to her ear. "Headhunters," he whispered.

"You're teasing me.".

“A little. I mean, they were, twenty or thirty years ago." He watched her wide eyes as she tried to take in the profusion of sights, and then he took her hand in his. "Come on, Princess," he said. "We'll take a quick trip through the market, buy what we need, and then we'll join the party."

She looked up at him. "Really?"

He touched his finger to her mouth and nodded. "Really," he said gently. "We might as well enjoy ourselves."

* * *

Elena stood before the cracked mirror in her hotel room, brushing her hair. It was still damp, and the ends curled softly on her shoulders. She'd soaked in the tub for an hour, until the water, none too hot to start with, had cooled and chilled her skin.

"You'll never be able to get us rooms," she'd whispered to Blake as they stood inside the crowded entrance to
Mazatal's only hotel.

But he'd done more then get them rooms, she thought, securing her hair behind her ears with tortoiseshell combs. He'd got her the only room with its own bath.

"The Honeymoon Suite," he'd said with a grin as he handed her the key.

Her heart had seemed to stop while she'd waited for him to tell her they were sharing it. But his smile had twisted suddenly and he'd turned away from her. When he'd spoke
n, his voice had been brusque.

"I'll meet you downstairs at seven," he'd said, and a strange hollow feeling
had expanded in her chest as she'd watched him stride away.

She put down the brush and turned to the bed. Blake had bought her an armful of clothing at the market—things for the mountains, he'd said, sneakers and jeans and shirts. And then, without asking her opinion on color  or style, he'd carefully chosen a blouse, skirt, shawl, and leather sandals for her to wear this evening.

"This one," he'd said, almost gruffly, handing her a cream-colored blouse woven of cotton so soft and fine that it had the substance of a spider's web. "And that," he'd added, pointing to a black skirt with masses of red roses at the hem and waist.

She
hadn't had the heart or the courage to tell him the outfit wasn't to her taste. The blouse was too plain, the skirt too gaudy. She sighed as she slipped the blouse over her head. It settled like gossamer over her shoulders, clinging lightly to her breasts.

She looked at her reflection in surprise.

There was nothing plain about the blouse; she was amazed she'd ever thought so. There was a delicate pattern of tiny flowers in it, roses, she realized, like the ones on the skirt.

Her skin glowed golden against the creamy cotton.

She picked up the skirt, stepped into it, and looked at herself again. A slow smile curved along her mouth. The skirt was soft and feminine, fitting closely from waist to hip and then flaring gently until it was a mass of heavy folds that ended just below the knee. Elena turned slowly, watching as the skirt whirled softly away from her bare legs. The outfit was simple, yet it emphasized the curves of her body.

Her skin tingled as she imagined Blake's face when he saw her.

Suddenly, she remembered another evening when she'd stood before a mirror, staring at her reflection. She had been on the threshold of puberty, but her mother was never there; there was no one to tell her about the mysteries her body would undergo on its way to womanhood. Margarita, the ascetic housekeeper who'd believed that fasting was good for the soul, had come upon her just as Elena had lightly touched her newly burgeoning breasts.

"Look, Margarita," she'd said with innocent wonder, "I'm becoming a woman."

The housekeeper had grasped her wrists roughly and pulled her hands to her sides.

"Stop that,
nina,"
she'd hissed. "Believe me, it is best to remain a child as long as you may."

And then she'd told her all about men, about the things they wanted of a woman's body.

Elena's face had whitened.

"But...but why?" she'd whispered. "Why would a woman let anyone do those things to her?"

Margarita had grimaced. "It is a duty,
nina.
It is a woman’s sacrifice.”

There had been no other talk of sex
, even when her mother had returned home, only one quick question.

"You know all about that sort of thing, don't you, darling?" her mother had
said.

Embarrassment had made Elena nod her head.

In boarding-school,  whispered conversations after lights-out made her suspect that there might be more to it than Margarita had told her.

Eventually, she'd come to believe that what happened between men and women was terribly overrated and not worth all the attention the world seemed to give it.

It might even be pleasant, as Jeremy's soft goodnight kisses sometimes were...

It would be different with Blake.

Heat flooded through her as she remembered the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands on her. The fiery excitement his touch had caused had shocked her.

Never, except in the hidden depths of a dark dream, had her flesh quickened before. And when his hands had brushed her breasts—even the memory made her nipples tighten and ache.

Elena turned quickly from the mirror and snatched up the shawl Blake had bought her. He was not the villain she'd thought him to be, that much was true. He had a sense of honor; he could have abandoned her at any time in the past days and he hadn't. But he was still an adventurer perennially in search of an elusive pot of gold. It was why her father had been able to buy his services. And once he'd brought her safely to Miami, he'd be off chasing another rainbow.

"You've got jungle fever, Elena Teresa," she said aloud
, but her voice lacked conviction, and she had to pause at the door and rest her forehead against the cool adobe wall before she could trust herself to leave the room.

Her new sandals slapped softly against the wooden st
eps as she went swiftly downstairs.

The little hotel was crowded; people brushed by her as she went through the lobby to the rear courtyard where dinner was being served. She hesitated as she stepped out into the cobble-stone courtyard. It was crowded with tables and chatting diners; candles flickered and a guitar played softly in the background. Her glance went from table to table. Everyone was dressed for fiesta. The dark-eyed women glowed and the men were handsome in the tall, dark way many of them
were in this northern province, but none had hair the color of chestnuts and eyes the color of the sky.

The weakness trembled within her again, and Elena closed her eyes.

"Stop it," she whispered to herself.

"I can't," a deep voice said just beside her. "I always get this foolish look on my face when I see a beautiful woman."

Her eyes flew open and she stared into Blake's face. He was standing beside her, smiling down at her, and the breath caught in her throat when she looked at him. How beautiful he was!

He was wearing white linen trousers that fitted him snugly, and a dark brown shirt, the top buttons left undone so that the golden column of his throat was exposed. His thick, dark hair was still damp, as if he'd just come from the shower.
He'd shaved, too, and the smoothness of his skin made his eyes seem even more blue than she remembered.

He smiled into her eyes. "Good evening, Princess," he said softly.

Elena cleared her throat. "Good... good evening," she murmured. "You look..." She swallowed hard. "You look... nice."

Blake's smile tilted.  "So do you."

She looked up at him quickly, half expecting to see that glint of cool amusement she'd seen in his eyes in the past, but he was smiling at her with quiet solemnity.

"Shall we go in to dinner?"

She nodded and he took her arm, leading her across the courtyard to a candlelit table near a bank of gloriously blooming red flowers. Was it her imagination, or were the other diners watching them? No, she thought, it was true. She dismissed the appraising looks of the men: she was Spanish enough to know that Latin men always measured an unknown woman. It was the women who surprised her. They were watching Blake from beneath their lashes and she realized, with a sudden swell of pride, that they envied her for having a man like him at her side, envied the possessive curve of his arm around her waist and the intimate smile meant for her alone.

She looked up at him as he pulled a chair out for her. Their eyes met, and her heart began to race.

"Thank you."

Blake slid into the chair opposite her. "You're welcome, Princess. I hope you don't mind—I've already ordered for both of us."

"Don't tell me you're asking me for my opinion, Mr. Rogan."

He sighed. "I don't suppose we could declare a trace tonight, could we?"

The hint of a smile curved across her lips. "I was only teasing. Actually, I owe you an apology."