"Don't," she whispered, clutching at his arm. "Please—you'll kill him."
"The little bastard deserves killing," the man growled, but he straightened up and the boy scrambled to his feet and ran off, his arms wrapped around his middle. "Go on," the man yelled. "If I see you again, you're dead. Rotten scum," he muttered, turning towards Elena. "What hope is there for anybody if... Hey," he said urgently, "hey, don't pass out on me now!"
"I'm not going to do that," Elena said in a breathy whisper, but even as she spoke, she felt herself sagging towards him. His arms closed tightly around her.
"All right," he said softly, "take it easy. You're fine now. Come on, take a deep breath. That's it. And another."
He cupped the back of her head and brought her face to his chest. Elena closed her eyes and buried her nose in his shirt, drinking in the smell of man and heat and sweat as if it were nectar, hearing his heartbeat thud strong and steady beneath her ear, knowing somehow that she was safe within his embrace. She took one long, shuddering breath and then another.
"They didn't... you're OK, aren't you?"
Elena nodded. "Yes," she said finally, "yes, I'm fine. They didn't...they just frightened me. Although, if you hadn't come along..."
Suddenly, he thrust her from him, holding her at arm's length, staring angrily into her face. He had taken off his sunglasses, she noticed. His eyes—blue, and cold as ice—burned into hers.
"Yes," he said, "exactly. That's what I tried to tell you before, but you weren't having any part of it, were you Miss Esteban?"
"How... how do you know my name?"
His mouth twisted. "You told it to me," he said roughly. "You rubbed my nose in it, to be accurate. Don't you remember?"
"I thought you were... Where did you come from? Were you following me?"
His hands fell to his sides. "Don't flatter yourself. I just happened to come along in time to see our two little friends hustling you off for some fun and games."
A dark flush covered Elena's cheeks. "They were only boys," she said defensively. "I can't believe..."
"How much more proof do you want?" he asked sharply, his eyes sliding from her pale face to her breasts.
She glanced down at herself, the flush darkening as she realized that the top buttons of her dress had come undone. Her gaze met his again, and something she saw in the midnight-blue depths of his eyes made her uneasy. Quickly, she grasped the gaping neckline and pulled it together.
"Thank you for your help," she said. "Now, if you'd just step aside..."
His eyebrows rose. "Step aside?"
Elena nodded. "So I can get past you," she said. "My chauffeur is waiting for me at the bottom of the hill and..."
"And you're going to walk down there and meet him."
She nodded again. His tone was pleasant, but there was something in the sudden narrowing of his eyes that made her take a step back.
"Yes," she said, "that's right. Thank you again, Mr…. Mr...."
He threw his hands in the air. "For Christ's sake," he said angrily, "here we go again! What's the matter with you, Miss Esteban? Haven't you learned a damned thing?" She flinched as he moved towards her. "Terrific," he snarled. "You're afraid of me, not the bastards who almost raped you! I'm only the man who saved your neck."
"No, that's not it," she said quickly. "You don't understand."
But how could he? she thought, looking into his face. The attempted rape had frightened her. But the pain of seeing what had happened to the place she'd always thought of as home was a wound she knew would never heal. The part of her that was American was angry—but the part that was San Felipian was busily denying the terrible truth even as it unfolded all around her.
The man was staring at her, lines of disbelief etched into his face. It was a handsome face, she thought suddenly, if you liked the hard as steel type. She certainly didn't—but he had been kind to her. More than kind. And he was entitled to some kind of an explanation.
"It's not that I'm ungrateful," she began, and suddenly tears welled in her eyes.
A shadow flickered across his face. "Oh, for God's sake," he said furiously, and then he grasped her shoulders and pulled her towards him. "Don't cry, dammit," he said gruffly. "It's all over now."
But there was no way she could stop the silent flow of tears that dampened his shirt. His hands moved softly on her back, their motion soothing and comforting, and finally Elena drew a ragged breath.
"I'm sorry," she said, moving back against his encircling arms and looking up at him. "I... I guess I'm more upset than I realized. You see, I came back to San Felipe a week ago, and nothing is the way it used to be. I can't seem to get used to all the changes."
He sighed deeply. "Welcome to the real world, Miss Esteban. You can't go home again, not really. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"
"Yes, but you see, I grew up here. And it was so different..." Her words drifted into silence as she looked at him. A thin beading of scarlet welled on his lip. "You're hurt," she said quickly.
He touched his tongue to the cut. "It's nothing. The little s.o.b. got lucky, that's all." A grin spread across his face. "Believe me, he'll remember me a lot longer than I'll remember him."
"Yes, but it's all my fault, Mr... Mr..."
His arms dropped to his sides. "Rogan," he said. "Blake Rogan. And you're damned right it's your fault." Color washed her cheeks again. Her apology had been automatic; she hadn't expected his easy and whole-hearted agreement. "If you'd listened to me the first time, if you'd let me find you a taxi, put you into it and send you home..."
Elena blinked. "Is that what you wanted to do?"
Rogan's eyes narrowed. "What did you think I wanted to do, Miss Esteban?"
She swallowed. "Well, I... I mean you... you said if I... if I wanted some excitement, you'd... you'd..."
Rogan swore softly. "I'll be damned! There I was, trying to keep you out of trouble, and you thought I was..." He shook his head. "Hell, you were quick enough to make excuses for those punks who jumped you."
Elena shook her head. She wanted to tell him it wasn't like that, that she knew her assailants would have hurt her if he hadn't come along, that only her own emotional memories of San Felipe made her defend them, but Rogan was moving towards her again, his eyes narrowed.
"Where have you been for the last few years?" he murmured. "In a convent?"
"No," she said nervously, remembering her very proper boarding-school, "not exactly, but..." She took a final, stumbling step backward and her shoulders hit the wall. "Look, Mr. Rogan, I'm sorry if I misjudged you earlier. And I really am very grateful..."
Rogan smiled. "You didn't misjudge me," he said softly. "Not entirely." Elena watched, wide-eyed, as his hand reached towards her. His fingers touched her cheek, lingering against the soft sweep of her jaw. "You're a very beautiful woman, Miss Esteban. And there are times that can be dangerous as hell. Someone should have explained that to you."
Elena's breath quickened. His fingers were hard, the pads rough as they stroked her skin, but his touch was gentle. She felt his hand curving around her jaw.
"No one has to explain anything to me, Mr. Rogan. I understand. I'm not a fool. But I've always been safe here..."
His hand cupped the back of her head. "You're not any more," he growled. "Don't you understand that yet?"
"Let go of me, please," she said carefully.
"You're not really a San Felipian, are you? You look American, you sound American…"
His fingers were threading into the dark silk of her hair. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. For some reason, her heart was thudding like a trip-hammer.
"What I am is none of your business, Mr. Rogan. And I'd appreciate it if you'd let go of me."
Rogan leaned towards her. "Get the hell out of San Felipe, Miss Esteban. Go back to wherever it is you came from b
efore it's too late."
"I can take care of myself, Mr. Rogan. This is my country. I don't need any advice from you."
She drew in her breath as his fingers caught tightly in her hair. "You damned well need it from somebody," he said fiercely. "And it might as well be me."
His free arm swept around her and suddenly his mouth covered hers in a hard kiss. Elena whimpered and slammed her hands against his chest, but Rogan only pulled her more closely against him until she could feel the full length of his body pressing against hers. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the kiss ended. Rogan's hands grasped her shoulders and he thrust her from him.
"Do you understand now?" he demanded, his eyes locked with hers. "You're a woman in a place that's going to bust wide open any day now. Anything can happen to you."
"No," Elena whispered, "no, it's not true."
But it was. She knew it; she had known it from the moment she'd returned home. The reality she'd been denying for days engulfed her. Tears filled her eyes again, and with sudden, ridiculous clarity she realized that she hadn't cried this much since her mother's death.
Rogan's eyes darkened. "Hell," he said gruffly, "don't do that. I didn't mean to make you cry."
"It's all right," she whispered, "I..."
But it wasn't all right. He watched as tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and then he took a step forward and his arms encircled her. Their eyes met; his head bent slowly towards hers.
Elena's heart raced as his mouth touched hers again. She started to struggle against him, but a slow warmth began spreading through her as she felt the firm pressure of his lips on hers. She sighed, her lashes falling against her cheeks, and Rogan made a sound in the back of his throat as he gathered her more closely against him. His kiss hardened, became more demanding, and her lips parted willingly beneath the gentle pressure. She felt the scalding touch of his tongue, tasted the sweetness of his mouth—and then, suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders and he was pushing her away from him.
Her eyes flew open. She stumbled back a step. Rogan stared at her for what seemed an eternity, and then he took a ragged breath.
"If I ever see you in the streets alone again," he said hoarsely, "you'll regret it." His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Do you understand?"
No, she thought, looking at him, no, I don't understand any of what just happened to me... But she nodded instead.
"Yes," she said, touching her hand lightly to her mouth. She looked at her finger; it was smeared with crimson. His blood, she thought dizzily. Rogan's blood. "Yes," she said again, "I understand."
He nodded. "I sure as hell hope so. Because..."
"Senorita?"
Elena spun around. "Juan," she said with relief. "How... how did you find me?"
Her chauffeur stood at the head of the alley, looking from her to Blake Rogan.
"Are you all right, senorita? I waited at the flower stalls, but when you did not come, I decided to look for you myself."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, knowing how she must look, her dress torn, her mouth smeared with blood, and she forced a smile to her face. "Really, Juan, I'm all right. Thanks to this gentleman here. Perhaps we can offer him a lift..."
She turned quickly, but somehow it came as no great surprise to see the alley looming dark and empty beyond her.
Blake Rogan had vanished.
Chapter 2
Sunset in Santa Rosa had always been Elena's favorite time of day. The hot red disc that was the sun seemed to balance precariously over the mountains that ringed the city, bleeding crimson flame on the rugged peaks while night gathered its forces. Then, with breathtaking suddenness, it would fall and allow everything to be cloaked in indigo velvet.
But on this, the night of her twenty-first birthday, not even the fierce beauty of the setting sun was enough to dispel her uneasiness. Tension in the city had grown. There were ugly rumors of danger on the streets and roads, and Elena's father had refused to let her leave the ranch since that day at the market, that day two weeks ago when Blake Rogan had kissed her...
Elena switched on the bedside lamp and undid the towel from her hair. She hadn't told her father about that part of it, of course. Juan had told him all he knew of the incident, that the American had saved her from rape, perhaps even from death, and there had been no reason for her to add anything more. Her father's only regret was that he hadn't been able to thank her savior personally. She wondered what he'd say if he knew that Rogan had forced his kiss upon her.
She crossed the room swiftly and opened the wardrobe door. Actually, she knew what he'd say. There was enough old-fashioned Spanish blood in Eduardo Esteban's veins so that he'd fly into a rage. In her father's world, men didn't take advantage of women. Obviously, in Blake Rogan's world, you took what you wanted when you wanted it. But, if her father chose to think of him as a hero, let him. What harm was there in that? Besides, for some reason that she preferred not to explore, she wanted the knowledge of Rogan's kiss to be hers and hers alone.
It wasn't as if she would ever see him again, she reminded herself as she peered into the wardrobe. A man like that didn't move in the same circles as the Estebans. Americans like Rogan were the sort who drifted ever southward, searching for something that didn't exist. Central America was only a stopover for that kind of adventurer.
She took a green silk dress from its hanger and pulled it over her head. Certainly, she had no wish to see the man again. There wasn't even any logical reason to think of him as often as she did—unless it was because he'd saved her from her own foolishness. Yes, she thought, holding the dress against herself, yes, that was the reason. Of course it was.
She dropped her robe to the floor and slipped the dress over her head. It was a bit tight across the breasts and hips, and she looked at herself critically in the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. Too snug, she thought wryly. The dress had a rounded neckline and a softly draped skirt. It had been fine when she'd bought it two years before, during her last visit home. But she'd been nineteen then, she reminded herself with a frown as she peered into the mirror. Her breasts hadn't been quite as full and her hips hadn't been as gently rounded. The dress had been fitted for a girl, and somehow, during the intervening years, she'd grown into a woman.
There was nothing else in the wardrobe that would do. All her old dresses were there, but none of them would fit any better than this. She'd brought clothes with her, of course, but nothing festive. It had never occurred to her that there'd be an occasion for a party dress, not after all the rumors she'd heard about what was happening in San Felipe. But she hadn't counted on her father's stubbornness.
"Are you saying we should not celebrate my only child's twenty-first birthday?" Eduardo Esteban had demanded when she'd gently tried to turn aside his plans. "Nonsense, querida. Of course we shall have a party. A fine one!"
"Yes, but with things the way they are, Papa..."
"Don't worry about that, querida. There is still wine in the cellar—even some champagne. And you know that Maria works magic in the kitchen." He had smiled and put his arm around Elena's waist. "Would you deny an old man his pleasure?"
And she had smiled and put her head on his shoulder. "You're not an old man, Papa," she'd said softly.
She bent now and picked out a pair of black silk sandals. No, she thought, he wasn't old. But he looked as if he were. Lines and shadows had appeared in her father's face during the past days. He was worried. She knew it, even though he denied it. Just last night, at dinner, he'd told her he was going to arrange for her flight back to Miami.
"Will you come with me?" she'd asked quickly.
Esteban had shaken his head. "I must stay, querida. I will be safe, I assure you. All this nonsense will be over soon."
"I won't leave you. I'll stay with you, Papa."
Her father's eyes flashed. "You will do as I tell you, Elena. It'
s..."
"...for the best," she said. "I know."
Their eyes met across the table; finally, she'd looked away. She wasn't a child to be sent away quietly any more, she'd thought, but there was no sense in forcing an argument. She would do what she had to do, when and if the time came. Until then, she'd do what she could to make her father happy. And that meant she'd smile and try her best to enjoy the party tonight.
"This is an important occasion, Elena," he'd said. "You must tell me who you wish to invite."
The answer had come to her without any warning. "Blake Rogan," she'd said immediately. Her father's eyebrows rose and color had washed into her cheeks. "I just thought it might be a way to thank him for his kindness," she'd said quickly.
"A good idea, Elena. If we can locate your Mr. Rogan, we shall invite him."
She'd felt the heat in her cheeks. "He's not my Mr. Rogan, Papa," she'd said coolly. "You're the one who keeps talking about thanking the man. But now that I think of it, I doubt if it's a good idea. Anyway, you'd never be able to find him."
Elena blinked her eyes and stared into the mirror. What on earth had made her think of inviting Blake Rogan tonight? Good manners? She smiled at herself as she ran her comb through her hair. Yes, of course. That was it. Her mother had taught her to do the proper thing, as had an endless succession of housekeepers and, of course, so had the teachers at boarding-school. They had all taught her well. She never used the wrong fork or forgot to write a thank-you note. Her whole existence had been "proper". Maybe that was why Rogan's lean, muscled body had felt so exciting against hers. Maybe that was why she could still remember the sweet potency of his kiss.
There was a light tap at the bedroom door. "Querida? May I come in?"
Elena touched her hands to her pink cheeks and swallowed hard. "Yes, of course," she said after a pause, "come in, Papa." She flung the door open and smiled. "How do I look?" she asked, twirling before him.
"You look lovely, querida. You're the image of your mother."
"That's the nicest compliment you could have given me," she said, kissing his cheek. "Thank you, Papa."
Deal With The Devil Page 2