Love Captive
By
Jacqueline Hope
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
"Just Who Do You Think You Are?" Anne Demanded.
Carlos's black eyes glared furiously into hers. "You've just told me who I am," he said, his breath coming hard and fast. "Your captor. Your enemy."
The next moment, Carlos stepped even closer, pulled Anne against him; and his mouth came down on hers, more demanding than ever before. Carlos's arms went around her and he held her pressed tight against him, his mouth capturing hers, possessing hers. Anne found herself almost unable to breathe. Her heart beat so fast it frightened her. She wanted to cry out, to break free, but she couldn't. Instead, she found herself responding to him, to the dizzying passion of his kiss.
JACQUELINE HOPE, a Californian by birth, has been a housewife and a writer ever since her marriage in 1959. "Love and writing seem to go together for me," says the author, who has published numerous contemporary romances and is currently involved in writing soap operas and historicals as well.
Dear Reader,
Silhouette Romances is an exciting new publishing series, dedicated to bringing you the very best in contemporary romantic fiction from the very finest writers. Our stories and our heroines will give you all you want from romantic fiction.
Also, you play an important part in our future plans for Silhouette Romances. We welcome any suggestions or comments on our books, which should be sent to the address below.
So enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette. They're for you!
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Silhouette Books
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Copyright © 1982 by Jacqueline Hope
Map by Tony Ferrara
First printing 1982
ISBN 0 340 32690 5
Chapter One
As Anne McCullough glanced around the dimly lit, crowded nightclub, she noticed the tall, dark-haired man who stood toward the rear of the bar. At first glance she thought him the most attractive man she'd ever seen, with an aristocratic face so handsome it took her breath away. She wondered momentarily, excitedly, if he could be the man her brother Michael had sent her here to meet. The next moment she dismissed this possibility as wishful thinking. Still—in this small room swarming with dark-eyed, dark-skinned Arabs, only half a dozen men looked European.
Narrowing her eyes, Anne stared even more intently across at the man. Michael had sent her here to meet a man named Carlos Philip Alvarado-Castellon who, according to Michael, came from a wealthy Spanish family that had blood or marital ties to every royal house of Europe; Carlos himself would one day be a duke. The tall, slender man upon whom she gazed so intently was not only incredibly handsome, there was also something so self-assured about the way he stood, with such an arrogant tilt to his head, she could easily believe that through his veins coursed the blood of kings.
As Anne thought this, she felt her pulse pound hard with excitement. The next moment, laughing at herself, she forced her eyes to move away. Only in the movies did people look as they were supposed to look. In real life, appearances were almost always deceptive. The tall, arrogant stranger with the elegant air was probably the son of a cab driver and a hardworking seamstress. Carlos Philip Alvarado-Castellon, heir to a dukedom, would most likely turn out to be a hefty, swarthy-complexioned man who looked like a small-town butcher. Smiling at the thought, Anne swung her eyes back around to enjoy the sight of the attractive man standing by the bar.
Her attention focused across the room, she was unaware that she was receiving a number of interested looks herself. The light-brown hair shot with gold, and pale blue eyes which had always seemed so ordinary back home were attracting fascinated stares here in this land of dark-eyed, dark-haired beauties. More than one interested male had caught sight of the slim, fair girl in the navy-blue traveling suit who sat all alone at the corner table. Anne, who had chosen the suit for the efficient, businesslike air it lent her, was totally oblivious to the fact that it also emphasized the feminine curves of her figure and brought out the blonde highlights in her hair. Absentmindedly sweeping the golden curtain away from her face, Anne smiled to herself.
It still seemed impossible to her that she was here, in a crowded little nightclub in a rundown section of the city of Tangier, Morocco. Two days before she'd been safely home in Baltimore, Maryland, secure in her dull little rut. Then Michael had phoned, pleading with her to drop everything to fly to Morocco to help him. He had written and phoned her before about his hectic romance with Dorrie—Dolores Camilla Marie Matilda Alvarado-Castellon. They'd met in Venice, Italy, when both were there as tourists, had found each other enormously interesting and attractive, and Dorrie had repeatedly sneaked away from the aunt who was acting as her chaperone to spend time with Michael. When the aunt caught on, she had angrily dragged Dorrie home to Spain, to her father's castle in Palencia. Dorrie's passport had been destroyed, she had been stripped of all funds, and kept under virtual house arrest. For several weeks a frantic Michael hadn't heard from her, then she'd written him to meet her in Salamanca; she was going to run away and meet him there. Once they'd been reunited in Salamanca, they'd fled south to Algeciras, and there had hired a local fisherman to take them across the narrow straits to Tangier, Morocco, with Dorrie's brother Carlos in furious pursuit.
Now they were holed up somewhere here in Tangier—even Anne didn't know where—hoping to get a passport for Dorrie so that they could fly home to the United States to be married. Carlos had left word all over the city that he wished to meet with Michael to discuss the situation, and Michael had agreed to meet him here. But then, at the last minute, instead of keeping the rendezvous himself, Michael had asked Anne to go in his stead. She had long been planning a vacation from her rather routine banking job in Baltimore and this seemed the perfect excuse to get away. She had time off coming to her, and money saved up in the bank. So—as impossible as it all seemed—here she was.
As Anne continued to eye the man standing across the room, she saw the bartender lean across the bar to speak to him. The man glanced around to look at her, his handsome face impassive. He offered the bartender a slight solemn bow, then began walking toward her, making his way easily through the crowd to where she sat.
He came to a stop on the far side of her tiny table. "Excuse me, miss," he addressed her in clear, unaccented but curiously uninflected English, "I am told you are the one I have come here to meet. I am Carlos Philip Maximilian Alvarado-Castellon, at your service. May I sit down?"
"Why, of course, please do," Anne said quickly, the words tumbling out. Excitement made her head spin. As Carlos drew out the chair and seated himself across the small table from her, she tried hard to calm herself, in particular to kill off the silly grin of pleasure she could feel spreading across her face. To be thrown into the company of such an incredibly handsome, elegant, self-assured man—
"So—how are you enjoying your stay in Morocco?" Carlos addressed her. His black eyes, under slashing dark brows, gazed steadily across at her. Anne felt her breath catch again. Close up, Carlos was even more handsome than she had thought him before. He had an arrogant, refined face, with an aquiline nose, a surprisingly sensuous mouth.
Thick, straight black hair and flashing black eyes marked him as a true son of Spain. If this was what royalt
y looked like, no wonder the common man had bowed down, for so many centuries, to pay homage to the aristocracy!
"Well, I—I really haven't had much chance even to get my bearings yet," Anne responded, still feeling breathless. A quick, joyful smile spread irresistibly across her mouth. "I arrived only a few hours ago, at four this afternoon."
"After a smooth and uneventful flight, I hope?" Carlos remarked, the corners of his finely molded mouth curling into a very slight, perfunctory smile in answer to hers.
"Oh, yes, a very nice flight," Anne agreed. If only she could catch her breath properly, calm the excited pounding of her pulse, and concentrate on the real purpose of this meeting. Any minute now, she knew, Carlos would drop these pleasantries and—and then what?
Before saying anything more, Carlos glanced away. He sat for a moment gazing idly around the room, a look of distaste spreading across his face. Anne glanced around too, seeing with dismay what she knew Carlos was seeing—the inappropriateness of the meeting place her brother had chosen. The small room they were in was dreadfully crowded, with postage-stamp-size tables all but jammed against each other. Behind a small dance floor four musicians sat playing instruments that Anne couldn't identify. The music they played sounded strange and grating, a harsh screeching in her ears. The air was thick with smoke, the noise level nearly deafening. Possibly—hopefully—Carlos would suggest that they leave here and go somewhere else.
His dark eyes circled back. "What word is it that you Americans use for a place like this—a dive, is it? This is a dive, yes?" He paused, his black eyes gazing even more intently at her, and then he said, "And why is it your brother allows you to come to a dive like this? Has he no more respect for you than that?"
Anne's pulse leaped uncomfortably. "It isn't a question of respect," she answered hastily. "He… just felt that an out-of-the-way place like this, in a… less affluent part of town, would be safer, that's all."
"Safer?" Carlos echoed the word, looking genuinely puzzled. A small smile flickered momentarily across his mouth. Glancing around, he said, "Surely no place could be less safe than this. Never would I allow my sister to go alone to this part of the city, believe me." His smile dying away, he set his lips in a firm, disapproving line as he once again glanced back at her.
Anne felt a small twitch of amusement curl her mouth. "Oh, I believe you—" she almost addressed him as "Carlos," then caught herself; possibly that wouldn't show sufficient respect this early in their acquaintance. "But—if I may say so—this is surely one of the differences between your culture and ours. Between how things are considered and done in the Old World, that is in Spain, and in the New World, at least in the United States. Back home, my brother has no right to say one way or another whether I go to a club like this. He is not my guardian or chaperone any more than I am his. I am a free adult, my own person, and I don't need Michael's permission for anything I do."
Carlos eyed her even more intently, if possible. "Ah, yes," he said, "but your brother didn't just 'allow' you to come here, he sent you here. Surely even in America that makes a difference. I would not send even my worst enemy, if she were female, to a place like this."
Anne felt more than a touch of annoyance. "And neither would my brother," she answered rather tartly, "under other circumstances. But I've already explained to you he felt that a club like this would be… well, that we'd run less of a risk in a place like this. He is dreadfully concerned that if and when he meets you, as he has agreed to do, you will have him followed and in this way will learn where your sister is."
"And that is what you meant by safer!" he exclaimed softly, a slight smile tugging on his mouth. "Ah, you Americans," he added a moment later, "how you love your intrigue, yes? Please excuse my saying so, but possibly your brother has seen too many movies. For this reason, we must meet in this foul-smelling, filthy club, and when I arrive here, instead of seeing your brother, as I expected to, I am met by a woman. And not even one with whom I might hopefully converse on a somewhat meaningful level. Rather than sending, as envoy, his father, an older brother, or even his mother, whom does he send? A snippet of a girl, even younger and less responsible than he is!"
As Carlos glanced arrogantly across with a long-suffering, condescending look, Anne felt her earlier annoyance slip into anger.
"I am not a snippet," she snapped, "nor am I younger than Michael, or in any way irresponsible. The fact is, my brother is twenty-two; I am twenty-four. We don't have an older brother to send, and our parents are dead. And I'd like to know exactly why you can't deal with me?"
"You're twenty-four, you say?" Carlos responded. "Believe me, you don't look it. I took you for about sixteen."
This was said in a tone so close to contempt that Anne felt anything but flattered. Her anger deepened into such rage she could feel the blood pounding through her veins. "Well, whether I look it or not," she cried in fury, "I do happen to be twenty-four, and I don't care who you are, Carlos Philip Whatever, you will either start speaking to me with respect or this meeting is over right now! Do you read me, mister?"
"If you mean, can I hear you," Carlos answered, his voice suddenly even softer, "not only can I hear you, half the other people in this room can hear you, despite the cacophonous wailing of those four musicians. Is it your desire to create a public scene?" He leaned slightly toward her over the table while saying this, his black eyes spitting contempt at her.
Anne leaned over toward him, lowering her voice, whispering shrilly back, "No, it is not my desire to do that, nor to have anything at all to do with you, believe me. But I came here as my brother's envoy—"
"Because he was too frightened to come here himself," Carlos interrupted, "after agreeing that he would do so."
"Because he knew he couldn't trust you!" Anne almost shouted in her fury, drawing back again. "And now I can see why. Now, are we going to work toward having a reasonable discussion or shall I leave?" She pushed her chair back an inch, ready to rise if her arrogant companion uttered one more contemptuous word.
Instead of making any move to stop her, Carlos leaned back in his chair. Black eyes still flashing contempt at her, he airily waved her off. "Go ahead, leave. That's all I would expect from you, considering who you are, sister to that fortune hunter. But, let me warn you, I shall find a way to reclaim my sister despite you both."
Half standing, Anne wavered. She bit her lip nervously, then allowed her blue eyes to move down to where she was looking directly at Carlos again. At the sight of his magnetically compelling gaze, her anger seemed to drain out of her and she felt breathless again, and rather weak. With a small, dismayed smile, she sank back onto her chair.
"Look, Carlos," she said, the first time she had dared to call him that, "we've obviously gotten off to a very bad start, so let's begin all over, all right? I'm Anne McCullough," she ended, extending her hand across the table to him as her lips moved into a friendly smile.
In a surprisingly quick and graceful movement, Carlos shot to his feet. He took her hand in his as he smiled in answer. "How do you do, Anne McCullough? It is my pleasure to meet you. Is it all right if I sit down?"
"Of course, please do."
Anne smiled even more broadly, in relief and pleasure, as Carlos reseated himself. His black eyes gazed steadily across at her, his slow smile giving that aristocratic face a new warmth and undeniable charm.
"You are right, Anne McCullough," he said, "we did get off to a bad beginning, for which I apologize. I had hoped very much to see your brother here and—"
"I know, and I'm sorry," Anne murmured placatingly. "When he explained the situation to me, I honestly tried to get him to come here with me, as he'd agreed to do, but Dorrie—"
"You refer to my sister Dolores?" Carlos interrupted, with a slightly startled look.
"Yes, your sister Dolores. Michael kept calling her Dorrie, so that's how I think of her. Anyway, he said Dorrie heatedly objected to his having agreed to meet you, that she kept insisting—and I hope you won't take off
ense at this—but, anyway, your sister insisted that you were not to be trusted. She said that you were so intent on getting her to return home with you that there was nothing you wouldn't stoop to achieve that. So in the end Michael gave in to Dorrie's tears and decided to send me here in his place."
Carlos listened to this explanation with his head slightly tilted, an intent expression on his face. "Ah, I see," he murmured when Anne finished. "And my sister is right, of course. I will do anything within my power to locate her and take her home. That's why I am here, in Morocco. But what else would any family do when a young girl has been kidnapped?"
Anne smiled. She almost gave in to an impulse to reach over to touch her companion's hand, but at the last moment she restrained herself.
"Oh, come on, Carlos," she said almost teasingly, "you know perfectly well no one kidnapped your sister. She met my brother, they fell in love, and, knowing your family would never approve of their marriage, they ran away together."
"Fell in love?" Carlos echoed grimly, drawing back, his black eyes once again glowing coals. "She's twenty years old, a child, what does she know of love? And most certainly she is right that our family will never approve of her marriage to this man. If only I could see her and talk to her, I know I could bring her to her senses and persuade her to return home with me."
Anne felt a fresh wave of annoyance. How coldly sure of himself Carlos was, how insufferably arrogant! "Well, I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting your sister," she responded rather haughtily, "but from what Michael said, she's deeply in love with him and determined to marry him no matter what your family says or does. Their plan is to fly to America as soon as possible and get married there, where the custom is for people to marry because they're in love, as Michael and Dorrie are."
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