Eduardo Esteban's smile faded. "Elena," he said slowly, "I've been thinking of what we discussed at dinner last night."
"You've changed your mind about my leaving? Oh, I'm so glad to hear it. I..."
"I've decided to make arrangements for your departure, Elena. You will fly home next week."
"No," she said quickly, "I won't. I'm not going without you, Papa."
Her father sighed. "You not only look like your mother, you sound like her. Don't be stubborn, child. I only want what's best for you."
"And I want the same thing for you, Papa. If you think it's unsafe for me to stay here, then it's time for you to leave, too."
"We've been all through this, Elena. This ranch belonged to my father and my father's father. I will never just walk away from it. Besides, there are different dangers for a young woman than there are for me. You know that. If your Mr. Rogan hadn't come along in time..."
Elena clucked her tongue. "For the last time, Papa, he's not my Mr. Rogan. I keep telling you that. You make him sound like a saint."
Her father smiled. "Not a saint, Elena."
"Papa, about this Mr. Rogan of yours..."
Her father laughed. "He's not my Mr. Rogan, either, querida."
Elena chuckled softly. "OK, I deserved that. But..."
"Enough talk for tonight, Elena." Her father offered her his arm and she took it. "It's time to join our guests and celebrate your birthday."
She smiled as they stepped on to the balcony that ran the length of the second floor.
"I can't believe you'd make a party now, Papa," she said as the sound of laughter and music drifted up the wide stairway.
Later, she would remember the darkness in her father's eyes as he bent and kissed her cheek.
"Perhaps that's the very reason I did it, querida," he said softly, and before she could answer, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and began to lead her down the steps.
* * *
Her father had outdone himself, Elena thought an hour later as she drifted from room to room. There was tinned pate and caviar, dredged from who knew, what hidden source. And there were cheeses and fresh breads, even an enormous platter of paella—clams and chicken and sausage served over rice. There was red wine and white wine and even bottles of cool, dark beer imported from Mexico—all things that were in short supply in San Felipe lately. Elena suspected he'd depleted the wine cellar and the pantry. But no one seemed to care.
What on earth was wrong with her? she thought, shaking her head. This was her birthday party, and here she was, walking around with a phony smile plastered to her face, feeling as depressed as if she were at a funeral. No, she thought, no that wasn't really it at all. She felt as if she were in Rome the night before the barbarians sacked it. Everyone was eating and drinking and having a wonderful time. But there was something artificial about all the merriment, as if people knew the end was coming and were determined to have one last fling.
Her face ached from the effort it took to keep smiling, and her ears rang with the sound of the forced laughter. Even the music was too loud; someone had put a stack of records on the phonograph and no matter how many times she turned down the volume, it was always turned up again within minutes. If this was a birthday party, it was like none she'd ever attended. And she hadn't seen her father in more than an hour. She'd gone looking for him earlier, but he was nowhere to be seen. She'd searched out Juan and asked him if he knew where her father was.
"Your father is in his study, senorita," he'd said.
Again, that chill hand had clutched at her. "Is he ill?"
The chauffeur had shaken his head. "No, no, he is fine, senorita. It is a matter of business. He is meeting with someone."
"Business? In the middle of all this?"
Juan's dark, Indio face had been impassive. He'd shrugged, and finally she'd given up and drifted off again, moving from group to group, chatting and laughing until she couldn't keep up the pretence any longer. Now she stood in a corner, a glass of watered-down wine in her hand, a cool smile on her lips, watching the partygoers carry on. When she realized that she felt more like an observer than a participant, she decided it was time to go outside for a breath of fresh air.
She wound her way through the crowded house until she reached the double doors that led to the patio. She opened them and slipped outside, leaning back against them and sighing with relief as they swung closed. The old, solid oak doors muffled the music as effectively as if she'd pulled the phonograph cord from the wall. The night air was cool; for a second, she thought of going back inside for a scarf, but then she remembered the noise and the raucous laughter, and she decided it was better to be chilled than to be inundated with all that unreal hilarity again, and she wrapped her arms around herself and took a few cautious steps forward.
She could see nothing. The night was deep and dark; a crescent moon rode high in the black sky, but it cast little light on the flagstone patio. Usually, the patio was lit at night. And, on the night of a party, the regular electric lights were always augmented with festive paper lanterns, both here and in the flower garden to the side of the house. But there were no lights at all tonight. Her father had tried to explain the darkness by making a joke about Santa Rosa's power company.
"You know how it is, Elena," he'd said. "We don't want to tempt fate by putting a strain on the system."
She'd let him think she believed that, but she'd overheard Juan saying that lights might only make the house a target. Although it was a frightening possibility, it was a more reasonable one than her father's excuse.
An owl called in the darkness and Elena shuddered. Her eyes widened, as if trying to see into the blackness beyond the patio. Perhaps coming out here hadn't been such a good idea, she thought. She'd never been afraid of the dark, and certainly she'd never been afraid of the ranch, but tonight she felt like a stranger here. Nothing seemed familiar, not the shadowed outlines of the trees and bushes beyond the patio, nor the sigh of the breeze that brought the spicy scent of herbs and the sweetness of the flowers drifting to her from the garden.
"Good evening."
The voice was male, soft and vaguely familiar. A neighbor? Or perhaps it was one of her father's friends. But the man had spoken to her in English—in American, to be specific. She could tell that by the accent...
Elena's heartbeat quickened. "Rogan?" she whispered.
A shadowy form moved in the darkness. "At your service, senorita," he said. "We meet again, it seems."
Was she crazy, or was there a thread of laughter in his voice? "What are you doing here, Rogan?" she asked after a pause. "Did my father invite you?"
"Would you prefer to think I gatecrashed, Miss Esteban?"
There was laughter in his voice. She could hear it clearly now, and it infuriated her. In fact, the man's presence infuriated her. What on earth was he doing here?
"I asked you a simple question," she said tersely. "Did my father invite you here?"
Rogan stepped forward. In the faint wash of moonlight, he seemed even taller and more broad-shouldered than he had that day at the market place.
" You invited me, Elena," he said softly.
She felt her cheeks flame, and she was grateful for the darkness which must be shielding her from his eyes as it was shielding him from hers.
"I did no such thing, Mr. Rogan," she said quickly.
He laughed softly. "Are you calling your father a liar?"
"No, of course not..."
"He told me he was inviting me at your specific request."
She closed her eyes as she remembered the impetuous words she'd spoken the week before.
"My father misunderstood me," she lied. "He had been saying he wanted to thank you for helping me that day at the market, and I merely suggested it was too bad he didn't know your whereabouts, that if he did, he could invite you to this part
y by way of expressing his gratitude. There was nothing personal in it..."
"Your cordiality is overwhelming," he said, and she felt herself blush again.
"I'm not trying to be impolite, Mr. Rogan. I merely wanted to set things straight between us. I wouldn't want you to think..."
"You didn't tell him everything that happened that day, Elena."
"I don't know what that's supposed to mean," she said quickly. "I always tell him everything. I..."
She drew back as Rogan took a step forward. He looked nothing like the man she'd met in Santa Rosa. His dark hair was combed back neatly, although she could see that it was a little long, as if it hadn't been trimmed in a while. It curled lightly over his shirt collar. A white shirt, she realized, worn with a tie, beneath a dark, well-fitted suit. The bristly beard was gone. Only his cold blue eyes were exactly as she remembered them.
"Surely, not everything," he said softly.
Elena's eyes met his. "I... I... What did you say?"
Rogan grinned. "I said, surely you don't tell your father everything. You must have some secrets you want to keep."
Elena swallowed drily. "Mr. Rogan..."
"Such formality, after what we shared."
Elena stared into his eyes and then she turned on her heel and started towards the house.
"Goodnight, Mr. Rogan. I'll tell my father you had to leave without saying goodbye."
She gasped as his hands bit into her shoulders. "You're not afraid of me, are you, Elena?"
Her eyes closed as she stiffened in his grasp. "I won't dignify that with a response. "
"I seem to remember saving your neck the last time we met. Now you're acting as if I was the one who tried to hurt you."
Elena's eyes opened. "You have an amazingly selective memory. No, you didn't try to hurt me. But you... you... You forced yourself on me, and..."
His laughter was quick and deep. "Forced myself on you?" Rogan's fingers tightened as he turned her slowly towards him. "That's a lovely, old-fashioned phrase, senorita, but it doesn't apply to what happened that day. Those snot-nosed little bastards were trying to force themselves on you, not me."
Elena's chin lifted. "Did you think I'd forgotten that you kissed me?" she demanded.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Yes," he said softly, "actually, I was beginning to think just that. I mean, you didn't tell your father about it. He'd hardly have been so... eager to do business with me if he knew how you'd melted in my arms."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pull free of his grasp. "I did no such thing. I... What are you doing?"
"Refreshing your memory," he said softly, slipping his arms around her.
He drew her closer to him, and Elena put her hands flat against his chest. "Let go of me," she said. "If you don't, I'll..."
"You'll what?" His voice was a husky murmur, and she could feel his warm breath against her face. "Your father told me this was your twenty-first birthday. In my world, that means you're a woman, Elena." A shudder ran through her as she felt the light brush of his mouth on her earlobe. "You were woman enough when I kissed you in the market-place."
A slow, sweet lethargy was spreading along her spine and through her limbs. Rogan's hands were slipping along her back. She could feel the heat of his palms and fingers through the thin silk dress. Her hands were still pressed against his chest, and she could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath them, but he was gathering her closer against him, bringing her into the hard warmth of his body.
"Listen," he said softly. "Someone's playing the guitar. Do you hear it?"
Elena's eyes closed. Yes, she thought as the faint strains drifted towards her, yes, she could hear it now. It was coming from the bunkhouse down by the corral. One of the rancheros was playing a soft, sad melody on a Spanish guitar.
"Mi corazon," Rogan said, whispering the familiar words in her ear, "mi amor, siempre juntitos... My heart, my love, always together..."
She took a deep breath and then another. "Mr. Rogan," she said, "you can't..."
He laughed softly. "Can't I?"
She wanted to push him from her, to slap his face, to tell him he was an impudent bastard. But instead, she was melting as she had before, her eyes closing expectantly, her mouth parting as his head bent towards her. And then, suddenly, the doors to the house opened, and music and light blasted apart the dream world his soft words and touch had created.
"Let go of me," Elena demanded.
But he already had. She felt his arms drop away from her and his hands grasped her shoulders as he took a step back.
"Your wish is my command, senorita," he said, his voice thick with insolence.
"You just wait until I tell my father," she said breathlessly. "He'll have you thrown out of here. He'll have you tossed out of the country. He..."
"Good evening, Mr. Rogan."
Elena blinked in surprise. "Papa?" she asked softly.
Eduardo Esteban smiled. "I see you and Mr. Rogan found each other without my help, Elena. I hoped you would; I didn't want to spoil the surprise."
"The surprise?" she repeated flatly, looking from her father to Rogan.
"Mr. Rogan is your birthday present, querida. You said you wished him to be present at your party, and here he is!"
She watched incredulously as her father clapped Rogan on the back. Both men were smiling, but Rogan's smile seemed strained. Not as strained as mine, she thought suddenly, as she forced her lips to curve upward.
"Well," she said finally, and then she cleared her throat. "Well, that was very thoughtful of you, Papa. And now, if you'll both excuse me…"
"Elena."
She paused half-way across the patio and waited for her father to tell her she was being rude. But when he spoke again, it was to Blake Rogan.
"Has it gone as I said it would, Mr. Rogan?"
Elena turned towards the two men and frowned. "What are you talking about, Papa? Has what gone as you said?"
Her father shrugged. "Mr. Rogan and I had a discussion earlier this evening. He had some questions and I suggested he seek the answers himself."
"Questions?" She looked from one man to the other, but neither looked at her. Instead, Rogan scowled.
"She flirts with danger," he said flatly, staring at Eduardo Esteban. "I don't think she'd recognize trouble if it bit her on the nose."
Elena gasped. "Are you talking about me? Papa, did you hear what he said?"
Her father waved a dismissive hand in her direction. "That may be true, but my daughter was brought up to be obedient. She will do as she is told."
Rogan barely glanced at her. "She's not as obedient as you think, Esteban. She'll do what I tell her to do, though. My methods aren't the same as yours, but they've worked so far."
Elena felt a flood of heat start at her toes and race towards her face.
"You...you son of a bitch," she whispered. "You bastard. You..."
Eduardo Esteban sighed. "She has, as I have already told you, spent most of her life in the United States. I apologize for her bad manners, Mr. Rogan. But I think, under the circumstances, you would rather she have spirit than not, don't you agree?"
"I suppose so. But if I go through with this, I sure as hell don't want her deciding to be liberated at the wrong moment."
Elena's head swiveled from one man to the other as if she were at some insane tennis match. They were talking about her as if she were some kind of commodity that one was trying to sell the other and the other didn't want to buy. None of it made any sense, but no matter how many times she tried to interrupt, neither man paid her the slightest attention. Finally, she stepped between them and held up her hands.
"Stop it!" she demanded furiously. "Someone had better tell me what's going on around here. Have you lost your mind, Papa? You're allowing this man to... to disc
uss me, as if I were up for sale or for rent..."
Her father stepped forward and put his arm around her shoulders. "Forgive me, querida. I should explain, of course. You see, Mr. Rogan may be able to help me get you out of the country, and..."
Relief flooded her senses. "For goodness sake, Papa," she said with a quick smile, "is that what this is all about? I'm not going. I already told you that."
Eduardo Esteban nodded. "Yes, I know."
"Besides, you told me you I was flying home next week. I thought that meant you'd bought me a plane ticket."
"I have, querida. But..."
Elena laughed softly. "So what is Rogan supposed to do, hmm? Tie me up and carry me off against my will?"
Blake Rogan made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I think I'll say goodnight to you now, Senor Esteban," he said, and then he turned to Elena. "Good night, Miss Kelly-Esteban," he said. "You'll forgive me if I don't call you senorita any more. Now that I've heard your rather fluent English vocabulary, the whole idea of you as some helpless Spanish flower begins to pale."
Elena's eyes narrowed. "I don't care what you call me, Mr. Rogan," she said coldly. "Just make absolutely certain I never have to set eyes on you again."
Rogan paused beside the patio doors. "Hold that thought, lady," he said coldly. "Frankly, I think it's one hell of a terrific idea."
He stepped into the house and the door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter 3
Elena murmured in her sleep and turned her face into the pillow, twisting the sheets and light blanket around her body. In her dream, she was back in the marketplace, hurrying up the hillside that curved above the town square. There were footsteps behind her and the cruel sound of laughter, and now she could feel the hot, rank breath of her pursuers on her neck.
"No," she whispered, burrowing her face more deeply into the pillow, "no, don't..."
"Elena..."
Someone was calling her name. In the dream, she gasped for air, drawing it deep into her aching lungs as she raced towards a dark alleyway ahead.
"Elena..."
Deal With The Devil Page 3