by Anne Mather
‘So.’ Alejandro regarded her from between narrowed lids. ‘Tell me about Emma.’
Isobel hesitated. ‘What do you want to know?’
Alejandro stifled a groan. ‘Do not try my patience, Isobella. I want to know everything. Have you brought any pictures of her with you?’
Isobel’s breathing became a little difficult. ‘Some,’ she conceded reluctantly.
‘Then may I see them?’
‘Well, most of what I have are at home, of course.’
‘I realise that.’ Alejandro controlled his temper with an effort. ‘Naturally I did not expect anything else. But, if I could see…?’
‘All right.’
Isobel got to her feet and crossed to the table, where her phone was lying beside her coffee cup. Returning to her seat, she switched it on and quickly turned to the gallery of pictures she carried everywhere with her. Then, passing the phone to Alejandro, she said, ‘There you are.’
Alejandro flicked slowly through the selection of photographs that were stored in the phone’s memory, his reaction impossible for Isobel to read.
‘And she is two years old, sim?’
‘Two and a half,’ Isobel corrected him tersely.
‘She is very beautiful.’
Isobel’s lips twitched with an unwilling smile. ‘She’s adorable,’ she admitted. ‘But don’t be taken in by her appearance. She’s a real tomboy.’
‘A tomboy?’ Alejandro frowned and he looked up. ‘What is that?’
‘Oh, she likes doing the things boys do,’ said Isobel, unable to think of any other way to describe it. ‘Getting dirty, for example. She’s never happier than when she’s down at the stables with Aunt Olivia.’
‘E claro. Of course.’ Alejandro nodded. ‘Your aunt breeds horses too, does she not?’
‘Not thoroughbreds,’ said Isobel, remembering the almost pure-blooded horseflesh Carlos had shown her at Montevista. ‘She rears Shetland ponies and hunters, mostly for riding schools or private use.’
Alejandro nodded. ‘I look forward to meeting her.’
Isobel’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re coming to England?’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘I—’ Isobel was speechless. Then, gathering her wits, ‘It doesn’t bother me, but—’
‘Well, I shall have to if I want to meet my daughter,’ he continued, returning his attention to the pictures of Emma. Then, with a cynical smile, ‘But not yet, eh, pequena? We do not want to frighten you, do we?’
Isobel stared at him. It would have been so easy to let his comment pass unnoticed, but she found she had far too much respect for him to do that.
‘You wouldn’t frighten her!’ she exclaimed, though she could see he didn’t believe her. ‘Emma’s not some delicate hothouse flower. She’s bright and she’s resilient. Besides, children don’t look at things the way adults do.’
‘The way you do?’ suggested Alejandro bitterly, handing the phone back to her. Then, without waiting for her answer, he got heavily to his feet. ‘We will talk again, Isobella. Be assured of it.’
Moving necessitated swinging his uninjured leg across the seat of the chair again. Alejandro tried to show the same restraint he’d exhibited on his arrival, but all the physical activity he’d put himself through during the day had left him stiff, and he staggered. Grabbing the back of the chair, he tried to right himself, but it was no good. The chair overturned and he found himself pitching forward, struggling to regain his balance.
Isobel saw what was happening, of course, and jumped automatically to her feet to try and save him. But she wasn’t strong enough, and although Alejandro ordered her to get out of the way she didn’t listen to him.
In consequence, the force of his body carried her backward. She found herself spreadeagled on the sofa where she’d been sitting, with Alejandro’s not-inconsiderable weight on top of her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ALEJANDRO SWORE, forcing himself up immediately, his hands at either side of her head as he tried not to crush all the air out of her lungs.
‘Meu Deus! Perdao! I’m sorry.’ He pushed himself back, straddling her body, his knees hard against the bones of her hips. ‘Que idiota! What an idiot!’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Isobel spoke a little breathlessly, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her lips. ‘Honestly, Alejandro, it was an accident, that’s all. I shouldn’t have interfered.’
‘You were trying to help,’ Alejandro contradicted her grimly, struggling to get his own breath back. Faint colour stained his cheeks at the ignominy of his position. ‘Deus, what must you think of me? Not only disfigured, but—what do you say?—decrepit as well.’
‘You’re not decrepit!’
Isobel gazed up at him impatiently. She wanted to reassure him, to tell him that she didn’t think any the worse of him for proving he was human after all. And as for being disfigured…
Her hand moved almost of its own volition. Without hesitation, it reached up and stroked the ridge of scar tissue that crossed his cheek. He jerked back at once, but she persisted in her exploration, the skin at either side of the scar feeling as smooth as it ever had.
‘Nao,’ he said harshly, capturing her hand within his much larger one. ‘Do not do that.’
‘Why not?’
She spoke defiantly, and although she expected him to let her go now he brought her hand to his mouth. His lips sought her palm, his tongue savouring the salty moisture he found there. Then his eyes focussed on hers and she was suddenly breathless again.
‘Isobella.’ He said her name huskily, the sound both a protest and a caress. ‘This was not meant to happen.’
‘I know that.’ Isobel shivered. And then, in an attempt to lighten the situation, ‘I doubt if you intended to tackle me onto the sofa.’
Alejandro sighed. ‘That is not what I meant and you know it,’ he told her roughly.
His eyes drifted down over her supine body, lingering sensually on the wedge of pale skin exposed below the hem of her vest. When tumbling her onto the sofa, he must have inadvertently dragged the waistband of her shorts lower, because now he could see the hollow of her navel.
He caught his breath. He knew that if he touched her he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. He was already aroused, and ironically the pain in his leg was eased when he looked at her. Right now, he was fighting the need to spread his hands on her soft skin, to feel her warmth relieving the tension between them.
The curve of her midriff was such a temptation. If he kissed her there, where the indentation of her waist provided a perfect hollow for his lips, would she taste as sweet as he remembered?
He recalled everything about her, that afternoon and evening in her bed at her apartment, before the phone call from his father had destroyed their relationship: her responsiveness, her passion, her fire. How he’d buried his face against her sex and inhaled the musky fragrance that their love-making had created…
Deus!
He tried to sever his thoughts as completely as his father’s phone-call had done, but it was useless. With the proof of her arousal there in the button-hard peaks of her breasts, in the scent of her body rising unmistakeably to his nostrils, she was impossible to resist.
His fists clenched around her forearms as he tried to hold back, but the softness of her skin bruised so easily. Softening his touch, he allowed his fingers to slide from her wrists to the top of her arms. He felt the nerves in her shoulders jump as he caressed her. With every quiver in her muscles, she responded to his touch.
‘Tao doce,’ he muttered. And then, through his teeth in a final burst of conscience, ‘This should not happen.’
‘Nothing has happened,’ protested Isobel unevenly, but he could tell she didn’t believe it.
‘It will,’ he responded, his voice thickening with emotion. ‘Or do you expect me to ignore the evidence your body cannot hide?’
‘I—Alejandro…’
But it was too late. He’d already bent his hea
d towards her, capturing one provocative nipple through the thin cotton of her vest.
He sucked on it urgently and Isobel’s limbs went weak. Then, between her legs, she felt the unfamiliar gush of wetness. She was on the verge of an orgasm, and he’d hardly touched her!
‘Querida,’ he said huskily, transferring his attention to her other nipple. ‘You are wearing too many clothes.’
Once again, he sucked on her, his tongue seeking a satisfaction only she could give him. Then, with an oath, he forced the offending vest up above her breasts.
‘Melhor,’ he whispered. ‘Better. Muito melhor. Much better.’ He lowered his mouth again, and this time she felt as if his hungry tongue was draining all the strength from her body.
His mouth sought hers now, his teeth capturing the flesh on the inner side of her lower lip. He bit her, not painfully but intimately, before allowing his tongue to make an erotic exploration of its own.
Isobel moaned. She couldn’t help it. She was drowning in a sea of sexuality, and when his hands slid beneath her hips to cup her buttocks she arched eagerly towards him.
At first his fingers slid beneath her shorts, tightening the cuffs around her. But then, impatient with the constriction, he pushed the shorts down her legs. He was pleased to discover she was as naked underneath as he’d anticipated, and, after he tugged the vest over her head, she was soon totally exposed.
‘Bela,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Beautiful.’ He stroked a searching finger from her navel down over the slight swell of her belly and into the moist heart of her womanhood. ‘Muita bela.’
Isobel jerked against his invasion, and in a strangled voice she said, ‘Please—please don’t.’
‘Nao?’
‘No.’ Isobel trembled. ‘Not—not yet.’
Alejandro bent to allow his tongue to follow his fingers, and she convulsed violently. ‘You do not mean that,’ he said confidently, and Isobel’s hands sought the buckle of his jeans.
‘You—’ she said unsteadily. ‘You’re wearing too many clothes.’
Alejandro stilled. ‘Believe me, you do not mean that,’ he said tightly. ‘But if you turn off the lights…’
‘No.’ Isobel levered herself up onto one hand and gripped his wrist with the other. ‘Do you think I care what you look like?’
‘I care,’ he said flatly, but she scrambled out from under him. On her knees in front of him, she began unbuttoning his shirt with studied determination.
‘Nao!’
His hands stopped her, but she met his dark gaze without flinching.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly, freeing her fingers and cupping his face between them. Then, setting her mouth against the dry ridge of his scar, she breathed, ‘Trust me, Alejandro. I won’t let you down.’
But she would; Alejandro knew it. Knew he’d be a fool to trust any woman. Hadn’t she and Miranda proved that? But, with her bare breasts invading that part of his shirt that she’d managed to unfasten, rubbing sensually against the hair on his chest, he found himself stifling his protest, telling himself it was too late to resist her now.
Bearing her back against the cushions of the sofa, he silenced the voices in his head that warned him he was going to regret this. With the hungry pressure of his mouth against hers, he gave himself up to his body’s demands.
His shirt came free of his trousers and he felt her pushing it off his shoulders. If she winced at the sight of the scars that were like spiderwebs across his shoulder, he didn’t hear her, and when her fingers returned to the buckle of his belt he didn’t stop her.
He let her pull the belt free, let her unfasten the button at his waist, her fingers unbearably sensual against his taut flesh. Then his zip slid down and she pushed both his jeans and his silk underwear away and allowed his bulging erection to spill, unfettered, into her hands.
And—Deus!—it was good, so good, to feel her holding him. She caressed him, causing him to suck in a breath of protest as she bent and took him into her mouth.
Cristo, he could hardly breathe; hardly dared to breathe, he acknowledged helplessly, aware that he was in danger of totally losing himself.
The driving need he’d been fighting ever since he’d come here was burning like liquid fire in his veins and he knew it. There was no way he either could or would back off now. The feeling of her body next to his, the erotic slide of her tongue, were like exotic signposts to his own personal nirvana. He wanted her; that was a given. And, whatever happened afterwards, he had to have her.
Sliding his fingers into her hair, he forced her head up, feeling the coolness of the air where moments earlier her tongue had been hot against his shaft. He knew he wanted to be inside her, where her heat and her fire would carry all his resistance away.
‘Alejandro,’ she breathed huskily, arching back on one elbow so that he was given an uninterrupted view of her slender body. Her breasts were rosy-tipped and swollen where he had been sucking them, and the honey-blonde curls between her legs were already moist from the invasion of his tongue.
Without giving another thought to the torn ligaments that disfigured his leg, or the care with which he usually removed his clothes, he thrust his jeans down to his ankles. He shoved off his boots as he did so, allowing him to kick his legs free.
He saw Isobel looking at him, but there was no point in trying to hide his scars. Still, he managed not to grit his teeth too obviously when a pain shot hotly up his thigh.
Besides, Isobel’s attention was riveted on his rampant shaft, that rose thick and powerfully male from its nest of dark hair. And he didn’t have to be ashamed of that.
‘Say it,’ he said, capturing her hands in his when she would have touched him again. ‘Say you want me. Tell me, Isobella. I want you to have no doubts this time.’
Isobel gazed up into his dark, tormented face, her eyes wide and unknowingly provocative. ‘I had no doubts last time,’ she murmured, barely audibly, and guessed he didn’t hear her. Which was probably just as well. ‘I do want you, Alejandro,’ she assured him huskily. ‘Is that what you needed to hear?’
‘Yes,’ he said roughly, lowering his head to the cluster of curls between her legs and parting her folds with his tongue again. ‘It is what I needed to hear,’ he agreed, the faint stubble on his jawline absurdly sensual against her sensitive flesh. ‘Ah, cara, you are so ready for me.’ He glanced up at her, a trace of humour curling his mouth. ‘I wonder—shall I make you wait?’
Isobel’s breathing felt as if it was suspended, but she managed to say softly, ‘Can you?’ and he rose over her before covering her mouth with his.
As he did so, the throbbing head of his erection probed her moist core. Isobel spread her legs encouragingly. It was a provocative invitation, and Alejandro was not immune to her appeal. ‘You know I cannot,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Help me, cara.’ He caught his breath. ‘Deus; that feels so good.’
With her soft hands guiding him, he pressed into her. She was tight, so tight, but her muscles expanded around him, making it seem as if she had been made for just this purpose.
When he had achieved total penetration, he remained still for a moment, enjoying the sensation of her heat surrounding him. He remembered that other occasion when he’d made love to her, and acknowledged with a pang that no matter how many women he’d known, either before or since, he’d never experienced the same satisfaction with anyone else.
‘Alejandro,’ she whispered now, winding her arms about his neck and pulling his face down to hers. ‘Love me, Alejandro.’
He watched her then, watched as he withdrew almost to the point of separation, before thrusting into her again. She moaned in enjoyment, winding one leg around his hip and allowing the sole of her foot to slide sensuously against his calf.
It was an erotic caress, and Alejandro found himself unable to control his movements. Almost without his volition, his body quickened its pace, stroking in and out with an urgency that only enhanced his pleasure as well as her own.
When he felt the first
faint stirrings of her orgasm rippling around him, he groaned his approval. Her body spasmed, tightened, dragging him to the brink. Then, with the liquid heat of her essence spilling around him, he could hold back no longer.
With one final thrust, and a sense of fulfilment that was more than mere pleasure, he reached his climax. Drained, satiated, totally content for the first time in a little over three years…
Awareness of his surroundings came slowly.
He didn’t usually sleep with lamps still burning, he acknowledged, yet the light in the room wasn’t daylight, and his aching body told him that he had had no rest.
Yet, for all that, some of the frustration he often felt upon waking had been eased. And the ache in his thighs wasn’t from riding a horse, but a whole different exhaustion entirely.
Isobel. Isobella.
He shifted awkwardly, rolling onto his side and gazing somewhat confusedly around the room. Where was she? And how had she got out from under him without waking him? He normally slept so fitfully. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t known that she’d gone.
But, of course, he hadn’t. Wincing slightly, he swung his legs over the side of the sofa and ran frustrated hands through his hair.
Then, looking down at his naked body, he thought he knew why she hadn’t waited to share those post-intimacy moments. Deus, dismissing his appearance in the heat of the moment was one thing—coping with his scars in cold blood was something else.
Dragging his hands down his face, he got heavily to his feet. Then, rescuing his jeans from the floor, he hauled them on without ceremony. He was desperate to conceal his injuries before he saw Isobel again, and he stuffed his silk boxers into his back pocket, unwilling to risk being caught without his trousers.
His shirt came next, and he was buttoning it up when he heard a sound behind him. Isobel was standing in the bedroom doorway, a towelling bathrobe bulking around her.
He was relieved to see that the blinds at the windows were drawn. At least he didn’t have to worry about having an audience, though he had to admit that until now he hadn’t even thought of it.