“Then I’ll stay.”
He lapsed into silence, contemplating her, considering his options. “What about your big story?”
“I told you, Rafael—I’m not a reporter tonight.”
“What are you?”
“Your friend.”
Another silence, and he relented. “I want to go inside and check my messages,” he said. “And then maybe we’ll go someplace, take a walk, get drunk.”
“Sounds good,” she agreed, acknowledging his bleak humor with an equally bleak smile.
The front door of the office building was locked, but Rafael had a key. Inside the lobby, a single light near the fire alarm burned starkly; the shadows echoed in the emptiness. Rafael guided her through the entry to the elevators and they rode upstairs to his office.
She took comfort in the contact of his hand on her elbow. The corridor was barren and silent. Even their footsteps were muffled by the carpet. The Post building was never like this; at all hours of the day or night the rooms bustled with reporters, editors, copy clerks and columnists rushing to corroborate stories, check facts and meet deadlines.
Rafael unlocked the door to his outer office, reached around the jamb and flicked the light switch before letting her enter. Here, at last, were signs of life—the tray of the fax machine piled high with notes, the message light on the answering machine flashing frenetically. Rafael dropped his hand from her and muttered something in Spanish under his breath.
Ignoring the telephone, he strode directly to the fax machine. He lifted the top message, skimmed it, tossed it aside and pulled out the rest of the paper, which he riffled through with brisk efficiency until he reached one that seemed to bring him up short. Sandra immediately sensed the change in him, the abrupt stiffening along his back, the tension in his jaw.
“What?” she asked, moving across the room to stand beside him.
He read the fax again and lowered the entire pile. “It’s from Melanie’s agent. He says her parents want me to call them tomorrow. Her brother is flying out from Kansas, but her parents wish to speak with me.”
“That’s not unreasonable,” Sandra assured him. “Of course they’d want to hear from anyone who was with her—”
“What can I say to them?” He spun around to face Sandra, his expression contorted with agony. “What can I tell these people? ‘Your daughter was using and I didn’t stop her. I closed my eyes. I refused to see the truth. I let her kill herself.’ How can I talk to these people?”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“Of course it’s my fault. I told Diego to keep her clean, but we both knew she was on a tightrope. We knew how close she was to falling.”
“She put herself on the tightrope, Rafael. It’s not your fault.”
He shook his head. Again Sandra saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes; again he refused to vent them. Instead, he gathered Sandra into his arms and held her, held her tight. “Why are you so good to me?” he whispered into her hair.
Sandra rested her cheek against his shoulder and lifted her hands to his waist. He smelled like wine, like salt and leather and the Pacific wind, and she knew her answer was simple: tonight her heart was his.
She couldn’t tell him that, though. “I’m good to you because you’re a good man,” she said.
“You’re a reporter. You’ve found out things about me. You know I’m not good.”
She thought back to that morning, an eternity ago, when he’d lied to her about his brother. Dishonesty wasn’t good. Gang life wasn’t good. Refusing to acknowledge one’s own brother wasn’t good.
But Rafael was only trying to survive. He had never held himself up as a role model—that was Diego’s version of his life, not his own. Rafael was a man, doing his best in a cruel world. “I know what I know, Rafael,” she murmured, leaning back against his hands and peering up into his dark, tortured face. “And I know you’re good.”
He kissed her. There was nothing gentle in this kiss, nothing polite like the kisses he’d given her in his car. Nor was it an act of aggression resembling their tussle in the alley behind Cesar’s. This was a kiss of desperate need.
She met it with a hunger just as demanding, just as bold. When Rafael opened his mouth, she sought his tongue with hers. When he groaned, she tightened her hands against his back. Trust me, she told him with her kiss. You are a good man, and I need you as much as you need me.
The fax machine motor hummed with an incoming message. Rafael broke from Sandra to stare at the machine and its miserable messages, then slid his arm around her waist and led her into the inner office. He shut the door and turned the bolt, as if locking out all communication from the outside world. And then he took Sandra in his arms again.
The room was dark, but she could picture it from her visit that morning. She remembered the desk, the leather couch, the shelves of beautiful pottery. The ceramic Sol Azteca.
And Rafael. Even with her eyes closed she could see the streamlined contours of his body, the fire blazing in his eyes. As if her fingertips were eyes she could by touching him see the lean, resilient muscles layering his ribcage, the rugged bones shaping his shoulders, his cheeks as rough as emery after a day without a razor. She could see the thick black silk of his hair as she plowed her fingers into its luxuriant depths. She could see everything.
He cupped her face as she cupped his, angling her mouth to his, holding her steady as his tongue probed and sought and conquered. When he lowered his hands to her shoulders she caught her breath. It emerged in a moan as he skimmed the silk of her blouse down to her breasts, cupping them, squeezing them, drawing sensation from them.
He groped at the buttons and tugged them open, then slid his hands inside to caress her stomach, her midriff and her breasts again, this time through the thin lace of her bra. They felt swollen, heavy in his hands, her nipples stiff and hot. She moaned again but he devoured the sound with his kiss.
His hands continued to move on her, deftly arousing. Only because she was so attuned to him did she feel the nearly imperceptible trembling in his fingers as he brought them to her back, as he caressed the length of her spine and then flicked open the clasp of her bra. He guided her blouse down her arms until it hung from the waistband of her skirt, then tossed aside her bra and nudged her backward until she bumped against the sofa and sank into its soft leather cushions. Dropping to his knees before her, he trailed kisses across her cheeks, her chin, her throat, her collarbones and down until his mouth closed over one breast.
She sighed as the heat of his mouth permeated her flesh, her soul. She plowed her fingers into his hair and held his head against her, needing his lips on her, his tongue, his love.
Again she was aware of him trembling, this big, strong, no-tears hombre as overcome as she was. At her low whimper of pleasure, he leaned back and gazed up at her, his eyes bright and dark all at once. “Mujer carinosa,” he groaned. “I need you more than you know.”
“I need you, too,” she whispered.
He brought his hands to her knees, journeyed the length of her shins to her insteps and pulled off her shoes. Then he glided his hands up, caressing her skin through her nylons, pushing her skirt out of his way until it bunched at her waist. He bowed and kissed the apex of her thighs through her stockings, his breath hot and damp against her. She felt a matching heat and dampness inside, her body seized by a nearly painful longing.
She did need Rafael—not just because she hadn’t been this way with a man in ages but because of him, because he was brave enough to tremble as he touched her, strong enough to let her see his vulnerability. He was not like anyone she had ever known before. He had grown up with nothing and, like a magician, he had taken that nothing and created from it a magnificent life. Through perseverance, determination, hard work and sheer will he had become the man he was now—not for glory, not for fame, not because he wanted adulation or gratitude, but simply because he’d made the choice to succeed.
And when his success faced its greatest threat,
he was brave enough to turn to Sandra, to reach for her and trust her.
As he rose up on his knees she bent down to kiss him. His hands felt broad and hard against her naked back, and she wanted to feel his naked back, too. She slid her hands from his hair to the nape of his neck, dipping under his collar. By the time she’d moved her hands to the front of his shirt he was already there, tearing at the buttons.
He shrugged free of the shirt and Sandra flattened her palms against his chest. It was smooth, hot, tawny. No hair hid his supple physique from her. He was all skin and muscle and sinew, agility and fierce male strength.
She felt his heart pounding against her fingertips, felt the uneven rhythm of his breath as she traced a meandering path down to the edge of his rib cage, to the hollow of his navel, to the ornate buckle of his belt. Again he preceded her, his fingers quick and efficient as he opened his jeans and shoved them off. She risked letting one of her hands drift lower, but before she could reach her goal he was standing, pulling her to her feet and unfastening the button of her skirt.
She let him finished undressing her. Her knees felt weak, her thighs tense as he eased her nylons down her legs and helped her step out of them. Straightening up, he planted his hands on her hips and pulled her snugly to himself. Slowly, like a dance, he rocked her, using his body to arouse hers until she was certain her legs would give way beneath her.
To her surprise, he steered her away from the couch. “It opens,” he explained, dragging the coffee table out of the way, tossing the cushions aside and unfolding the mattress. It was already made up with a sheet.
Sandra suffered a twinge of uncertainty. “You bring lots of women here, don’t you,” she said, unable to keep her disappointment from her voice.
“No,” he said, snagging her wrist with his hand and pulling her into his arms. “I never have brought a woman here before.”
Even though his past was his own business and she had no claim on him, she wanted to believe he hadn’t entertained dozens of women, hundreds of them, on the bed conveniently hidden inside his couch. She wanted to think she was the only one. “Why haven’t you?” she asked.
His gaze leveled on her. “I never have needed a woman the way I need you,” he said.
His words were so blunt she had to believe him. With a sigh, she let him draw her down to the mattress. He sprawled out beside her, propping himself up on one arm so he could look at her as he touched her. He swept his hand the length of her body, pausing at her breasts, her belly, the swell of her hip and then venturing forward between her legs. She sighed again as he found her, as he stroked and glided and entered her with his fingers. She arched to him, understanding the depth of his need, sharing it physically as well as emotionally. She needed him. She had never needed a man the way she needed him.
She reached down and ran her hand the length of him. He gasped at her touch, moved with her, pressed against her. With another gasp, he eased her hand away and reached over the side of the mattress, to where he’d discarded his jeans. When he rolled back he held a contraceptive sheath. She wanted to thank him for protecting her, for remembering, but she thought better of it. Proud hombres didn’t like to be thanked for their sensitivity.
He rose onto her, his knees nestling between hers, his belly taut and hard against hers, his hard male flesh seeking. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders as he thrust deep, fusing his body to hers.
“Dulce,” he murmured, then brushed his lips over hers. “Muy dulce...”
Sweet, so sweet, she thought as he moved inside her, as he withdrew and thrust again, and again, his body stroking and gliding as his hand had, igniting fires deep within her, sparks and flares of rapturous heat. Each surge increased the tension, the intensity. Each plunge brought her closer to him, made her more nearly a part of him, able to share more than pain and sorrow. Able to share the sweetness.
She looked up into his face, his dazzling dark eyes, his enigmatic smile. She moved her hands down the slope of his back, his skin slick with perspiration, his muscles flexing and stretching. When she reached the taut curve of his bottom he groaned and lost his tempo for a moment, distracted by her caress. Then he began again, forging deeper, faster, urging her to keep up with him.
She held him tighter. He kissed her brow, her temple, the underside of her jaw, and she clung to his shoulders, hanging on as the heat built inside her. He shifted to nip her earlobe, and she glimpsed a mark on the skin of his upper arm, a blue-black circle fringed in flame-like points just above the hard curve of his biceps.
A bruise, she told herself, but she knew it was the sun, the tattoo, the brand of Rafael’s brutal past.
She closed her eyes but saw it, a sun blazing in her heart. Its fire swept over her, burning away everything but the passion of Rafael’s lovemaking. A faint cry escaped her as ecstasy pulsed through her. Above her Rafael groaned, his body wrenching in release.
Minutes seemed to pass before he breathed again. His body unwinding, he sank onto her and pressed a weary kiss to her lips.
She closed her arms around him protectively. It didn’t matter that she’d seen his tattoo, the proof of his lies and his sins. It didn’t matter that he was a gang member, the brother of a convict, a hermano.
She and Rafael needed each other tonight. More than needed. What they’d shared was love, and the rest—who Rafael was, who Sandra was, what he might have done in the past, what she might have to write about him in the future—was irrelevant.
All that mattered was love.
Chapter Eleven
HER SKIN WAS LIKE VELVET.
He had expected her to be strong, to have legs that could take a man, lips that could cling. He had expected her to be passionate. As he’d told her, she wasn’t a bleached-out gringa. She was a real woman. In spite of her fancy schooling and her northern upbringing, she was a mujer.
What he hadn’t expected was that her love would be more addictive than any drug, that having her once would only make him want her again.
Who the hell was she, anyway? At best, someone who could never understand where he was coming from or what his life was all about. At worst, his enemy. A reporter who could expose him, destroy him. Yet in the end, she was a woman who had realized what he needed tonight, who had generously, unthinkingly given herself to him.
He kissed her once more, then rolled onto his side next to her. He couldn’t stop touching her, tracing paths across her back, under her arm, down to her narrow waist and up the rise of her hip. Softer than velvet...her skin felt like rose petals, cool and fragrant, intoxicating.
She stroked him, too. Her slender hands moved over his chest, around his shoulders, along his arms. She grazed his tattoo with her fingertips and sent him a questioning look. “It’s an Aztec sun,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
He hated lying to her, but the truth was too ugly. Perhaps, being a reporter with canny instincts, she already knew about the gang, about Ricardo, about Rafael’s ill-spent youth swaggering down the streets of East L.A., inspiring awe with his flash and his tattoo. Perhaps she already knew he was the younger brother of a convict who had said, “If you’re my brother you will be my hermano, a brother of the sun. You will live for your brothers and die for your brothers, and steal and lie for your brothers. You will wear the insignia of the brothers on your arm, in your blood.”
Perhaps she knew. But he wasn’t going to tell her. “It’s my heritage,” he said.
Her eyes saw too much, yet she said nothing. She only moved her hand down his body, caressing, arousing. He felt his groin tense as her fingers skimmed his belly. He wanted her hand on him again, rubbing, tight and hot until he was hard enough to love her again. Merely looking at her stretched out naked next to him, her fingers dancing aimlessly across his abdomen, her mouth and breasts an inch away, the shadow of hair between her legs beckoning him... He didn’t need her to touch him. He was already there.
Instead of gl
iding lower, though, her hand detoured around his side and traced the long, slightly raised stripe of flesh that scored his skin between two low ribs. “And this?”
He should have expected this question, too. Sandra was inquisitive, always asking, digging, unearthing new information. No detail escaped her.
“It’s a scar.”
She angled her head to look at it, then traced it gently with her index finger. “It’s awfully nasty. How did you get it?”
“Sandra.” He wove his fingers into her hair and tried to divert her with a kiss.
She kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his, her body surging toward his. But when she pulled away her eyes sparkled with amusement and doubt. “You wish I’d shut up, don’t you.”
He smiled. Even if her questions irked him, her ability to joke about her nosiness turned him on. Everything about her turned him on.
“Yes,” he conceded. “I wish you’d shut up.”
She skimmed her finger over the two-inch ridge of scar tissue. “How did you get it?”
“Don’t interview me.”
She looked hurt. “Damn it, Rafael. We’ve just made love. I’m allowed to ask a question, aren’t I?”
“Will my answer appear in the Post?”
“No,” she said vehemently.
He didn’t believe her. God, he wanted to. He wanted to so much he pretended he did. “Okay,” he whispered and kissed her again.
She didn’t get anywhere near as caught up in this kiss as she had in the last. “How did you get it?” she asked again.
“I was cut.”
“Cut? What do you mean, cut?”
“I mean cut. Shivved. Stabbed. Knifed.”
She grew still, her palm molding to the curve of his side as if the blade had just been pulled out and she was trying to stanch the hemorrhaging wound. He peeled her fingers off and sandwiched her hand between his. He hoped she wouldn’t ask anything further—but he knew her well enough to brace himself for more questions.
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