Deal With The Devil

by Marton, Sandra

  Blake's smile tilted. "So do you."

  She looked up at him quickly, half expecting to see that glint of cool amusement she'd seen in his eyes in the past, but he was smiling at her with quiet solemnity.

  "Shall we go in to dinner?"

  She nodded and he took her arm, leading her across the courtyard to a candlelit table near a bank of gloriously blooming poincianas. Was it her imagination, or were the other diners watching them? No, she thought, it was true. She dismissed the appraising looks of the men: she was Spanish enough to know that Latin men always measured an unknown woman. It was the women who surprised her. They were watching Blake from beneath their lashes, and she realized, with a sudden swell of pride, that they envied her for having a man like him at her side, envied the possessive curve of his arm around her waist and the intimate smile meant for her alone. She looked up at him as he pulled a chair out for her. Their eyes met, and her heart began to race.

  "Thank you."

  Blake slid into the chair opposite her. "You're welcome, Princess. I hope you don't mind—I've already ordered for both of us."

  "Don't tell me you're asking me for my opinion, Mr. Rogan."

  He sighed. "I don't suppose we could declare a trace tonight, could we?"

  The hint of a smile curved across her lips. "I was only teasing. Actually, I owe you an apology."

  "An apology? Am I going to be able to take this on an empty stomach? This sounds pretty serious."

  "It is serious. If we'd taken a vote each time a decision had to be made, we'd still be on the road outside Las Palmas. I'm sorry I didn't understand that. You've been right from the beginning."

  "Wow. I think I must be hearing the sweet voice of Elena Teresa Maria Consuelo Esteban. She's the one your father promised me, you know."

  "When he...when he made his proposition to you, you mean?"

  There was the faintest of pauses. "Yes, that's right. He told me you'd been raised as a proper senorita should." He smiled at her as the waiter poured their wine. "He never told me you were harboring a firebrand named Elena Kelly inside you.."

  She smiled at him in return. "Well, even the Kellys admit when they're wrong. I should have said it sooner, but..."

  "But you're stubborn."

  She laughed. "Of course. How else would anyone know that the blood of the Irish runs in my veins?"

  Blake's eyes darkened. "I knew it, as soon as I saw that your eyes were the color of the sea in winter, as soon as I felt the silkiness of your skin..."

  "Con permiso, senorita."

  Elena's eyes slid from his and fixed on the table. The waiter was putting a plate before her, but she had no idea what was on it. Colours, textures, everything was a blur. Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass. She took a sip and then forced a smile to her face.

  "What about you?" she asked.

  "We were talking about you, Princess."

  "Exactly. We never talk about you, Blake. I don't know anything about you."

  A lazy smile stole across his face. "Not true. You know a lot about me. You know that I sleep on my right side, that I never snore…" His eyes darkened. "That your body fits against mine like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle."

  Elena felt as if someone had touched the candle flame to her cheeks. "Don't tease me, Blake. "

  "When I awoke this morning, you were lying in the curve of my arm, with your head on my shoulder and your hand on my chest." He looked into her eyes and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Did you sleep well, Elena? You bolted from the hut before I had a chance to ask."

  No, she thought, she hadn't bolted, she'd fled for her life when she'd awakened and found herself curled in Blake's arms, with him smiling down at her and his breath warm on her skin.

  "I slept very well," she said stiffly. "Did you?"

  She wanted to call the naive question back as soon as she'd asked it, but it was too late. Blake grinned.

  "Not as well as I might have," he said lazily. He sighed as a blush spread across her face. "What am I going to do with you, Elena? When you look at me like that, I feel guilty as hell for teasing you."

  "You can make up for it," she said quickly. "You can tell me something about yourself."

  He sat back and pushed his plate aside. "OK," he said, "what do you want to know?"

  Everything, she thought, but she caught herself in time. "Well, where are you from? What part of the States?."

  "Philadelphia."

  Elena's eyes widened. "Philadelphia?"

  "Philadelphia," he repeated. "Why?"

  She put her hand to her mouth, but it was impossible to stifle her soft laughter. "I'm sorry. It's just that—I don't know, I expected you to say something like...like Texas. Or California. Philadelphia's so...so dignified and proper and..."

  "And I'm not." Blake laughed at the expression on her face. "It's all right, Princess, I couldn't agree more. That's why I took off."

  "Took off?"

  He nodded. "I was twenty-one years old and I felt as if the city was choking me to death. So I opened a world atlas, closed my eyes, and stabbed my finger at a spot on a page." He looked at her and grinned. "Don't look so horrified,. I'm exaggerating. Actually, I chose Belize rather carefully."

  "Belize? What's in Belize?"

  "Copra, cedar, swamps and smugglers. All a man's heart could desire." He looked at her and smiled. "It was a hell of a lot more interesting than Philadelphia."

  Elena's eyes met his. "Yes," she said softly, "I figured that. But you didn't stay in Belize."

  He shook his head. "Nope. I tried Somalia next. And then Singapore, I think." He grinned again. "It's a long time ago, Princess. I can't really remember where I went next."

  "Didn't you ever find a place you liked?"

  Blake shrugged his shoulders. "I found lots of places I liked. But I wasn't looking for one to settle in."

  She took a breath. "And...and you never married?"

  "The life I live is no life for a woman."

  She nodded. He was only confirming everything she'd suspected. Then why was there a sudden constriction in her throat?

  "So," she said finally, "you're the sort who wants what's over the next hill."

  "My father's words, exactly," he said, giving her a quick smile.

  "And what happens when you run out of hills?"

  "You and my father would get along well. He asked me the same question. It was just before I left for Belize—I'd turned down the job he'd found for me, you see, and..."

  "And what did you tell him?" she asked softly.

  Blake shrugged his shoulders. "I said I'd worry about a job, a real job, when the time came. Look, we've talked about me long enough. We..."

  "Wasn't your mother upset when you left home?"

  He lifted his glass and drank the last of his wine. "I didn't exactly leave home. They asked me to go."

  Her eyes widened. "They? Your parents, you mean?" He nodded, and she reached across the table and took his hand. "Oh, that's awful. How could they do that?"

  The vertical lines she'd seen before appeared between his eyebrows. "Do what?"

  "Throw you out," she said indignantly. Her fingers laced through his and she leaned towards him. "I'd never do that," she said. "I'd never throw you out, no matter what you'd done."

  His hand tightened around hers. "Wouldn't you?" he asked softly.

  Color flooded her cheeks. "N... no," she stammered, "of course not. Mothers shouldn't..."

  A mischievous grin lit his face. "Do you have maternal feelings towards me?"

  Elena pulled her hand free of his. "You're teasing me again," she said lifting her chin.

  "Yeah. You're right. And I apologize." He waited until she gave him a tremulous smile and then he smiled in return. "Now it's your turn. What's it like to live in Miami? Tropical nights on the beache
s, dancing till dawn in the big hotels..." He laughed as she shook her head. "No? You mean it's not all palm trees and orange groves?"

  "I work for my living. Don't look at me that way. I really do."

  "Elena Kelly speaking, hmm?"

  "Yes, exactly. And at the end of the day, I go back to my apartment—a furnished studio, but with an incredible view of the ocean. And I make myself dinner and curl up with a book and..."

  "Where's Jeremy while all this is going on?"

  Elena blinked. "Jeremy?"

  "Jeremy. Don't tell me your fiancé lets you spend your evenings alone."

  Fiancé... Why had she told him that stupid lie?

  "Blake, about Jeremy..."

  "In fact, why did he let you go to San Felipe by yourself? Everyone knew there was going to be trouble here."

  "He... he asked me not to go," she said. It was true, Jeremy had suggested she stay in Florida. It would be safer, he'd said.

  Blake's mouth hardened. "Asked you not to go? He should have told you not to go."

  "I make my own decisions. Jeremy know that."

  His eyes narrowed in speculation. "He's a nice, safe choice, isn't he?"

  "And just what does that mean?"

  "It means he lets you do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it. It means he doesn't really expect more than you give him. It means..."

  "He's not a petty dictator," she said, her eyes meeting his.

  "Do you love him?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  He shrugged. "I guess it's because I can't imagine you with a man like that. He sounds pale and spineless."

  "Just because you don't understand Jeremy doesn't mean..."

  "I asked you a question, Princess. Do you love him?"

  Elena let out her breath. "That's the reason people usually get engaged, isn't it?"

  His teeth flashed in a quick smile. "I wouldn't know. Getting engaged is like the bubonic plague—it's something I've managed to avoid so far."

  "Yes, I can imagine."

  Suddenly, he leaned across the table and his eyes bored into hers. "I wouldn't have let my woman go off to San Felipe alone."

  Suddenly, the heat of the tropic night was unbearable. Elena felt as if she were struggling to breathe. In one quick motion, she pulled her hand free of his and got to her feet.

  "Thank you for dinner," she said. "But it's getting late."

  Blake uncoiled from his chair and rose beside her. "You're right, it is." His arm slid around her waist. "And I promised to show you the fiesta."

  She shook her head as he led her to the rear of the cobblestoned courtyard. It was darker here, away from the candlelit tables. The single guitar had been joined by another, and several couples were dancing to the softly romantic music.

  "No, it's too late. You said we had to get an early start tomorrow."

  He trapped her in his arms. "We have time for one dance, Elena. Stop fighting me and relax."

  "I don't want to dance."

  His arms tightened around her and he drew her against him.

  She told herself he could force her to dance, but he couldn't force her to enjoy it… but, slowly, the plaintive melody began to seep into her blood, and the heat of Blake's body began to warm hers, and she felt her tension easing away.

  She closed her eyes and put her head against his chest. "That's it," he murmured. "Just relax, Princess. Let yourself go."

  But that was just what she couldn't do. If she did... if she did, she'd be lost. A tremor raced through her as she felt Blake's lips touch her hair.

  "Elena."

  His voice was soft. She lifted her head from his chest to look up at him. She could still hear the guitar, playing faintly in the distance, but somehow, as they danced, Blake had led her from the courtyard and into the darkness. His arms were tight around her, holding her against the hardness of his body. She could see his eyes glinting in the moonlight, see the shadowed planes of his face. He said her name again and bent towards her, and as his mouth touched hers she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the moment.

  She felt the touch of his mouth on hers, felt his hands moving up her spine until they were tangled in her hair as he lifted her face to his. His lips teased hers with soft, gentle kisses, that gradually changed, deepened, until she could feel his hunger for her. She whimpered against his mouth as his lips parted hers for the first passionate thrust of his tongue. Her hands moved up his arms to his shoulders, and she wound her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair, loving the thick, wild feel of it against her skin.

  "Elena, mia amante..."

  Her head fell back as Blake's lips pressed against her neck, warming the tender skin behind her ear, then trailing moistly down her taut flesh until his mouth reached the hollow between neck and shoulder where her blood pulsed frantically. His hands slid down her back to her buttocks and he drew her up to him, until she was standing on tiptoe, until she could feel the hard, driving maleness of him pressing against her, telling her of his need and desire.

  "Oh, God," she said, not knowing whether her whisper was a plea for help or a prayer of thanks. Her heart was pounding, leaping as Blake's hands slipped beneath her blouse and cupped her breasts. The touch of his fingers against her nipples almost drove her to her knees. No one had ever touched her before, and yet Elena felt her flesh bloom and bud like a desert flower that had waited for his caressing palms to bring it to life.

  "Elena, my wife..."

  His wife. Yes, she thought as his mouth and hands brought fire to her blood, yes, she was his wife. There was nothing to stop them from going to her room, to her bed, and finishing what had begun that day at the market in Santa Rosa.

  "Elena," he whispered, his hands hot against her, "Elena, come to me, come to me..."

  And she would have, she knew that later when she lay alone in her bed, still trembling with an intensity of an emotion that she'd never dreamed existed. She would have let him take her, there, in the darkness of the perfumed night, with the guitar sighing sadly in the distance.

  But suddenly there had been the sound of drunken laughter. Elena pushed free of Blake's embrace just as a group of revelers wove towards them, their raucous voices cutting through the darkness. Blake cursed harshly and reached out to her.

  "Princess, wait..."

  But she had fled.

  Chapter 9

  At six in the morning, the dusty streets of Mazatal were deserted except for a pair of snoring campesinos who lay sprawled against the wall of the cantina, an empty bottle of tequila nestled between them.

  Blake stepped over them.

  "Wait here," he said, barely glancing over his shoulder.

  Elena nodded. His words were curt, his voice hard, as they'd been ever since he'd knocked on her door an hour earlier to awaken her. Not that she'd been asleep, she thought, watching his scowling face as he peered up the dusty street. She'd hardly closed her eyes all through the endless night.

  But in the pre-dawn darkness, the light tap at the door startled her. She sat up quickly, clutching the blanket to her.

  "Yes? Who's there?"

  "Blake. We're leaving in an hour."

  The clipped words fell like blows. "All right," she'd answered, staring at the door as if she could see him through it. "I'll be ready."

  She heard the sound of something hitting the floor, and then he spoke again. "I'm leaving the carryall. Pack your things and meet me downstairs."

  She nodded foolishly, listening while his footsteps faded, and then she rose and dressed in the cotton trousers and shirt he'd bought her yesterday, deliberately concentrating on nothing but the long day ahead.

  They could be in Mexico a couple of days, if their luck held. Elena opened the door and took the carryall from the hallway. And then it would be over. She'd say goodbye and thanks to Blake Rogan an
d then she could try to forget these past days and...

  Her fingers closed on the top item in the carryall. It was the brown shirt Blake had worn last night. Before she realized it, she lifted the shirt to her face and pressed it to her lips. It smelled of him, of his clean skin and male muskiness.

  She sank on to the bed, still clutching the shirt. Forget these past days? No, she thought, burying her face in the soft fabric, no, she'd never do that. She'd never forget any of it—not after last night.

  When she'd left the courtyard, Blake had followed her and stood outside the closed door of her room.

  "Elena," he'd said quietly, "open the door." But she'd stood silently in the dark, her forehead bowed against the warped wood of the door, breathing heavily, exhausted by an nameless inner turmoil. "Princess, please, let me in." Still she'd said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "All right, Elena, if that's the way you want it..."

  As his angry footsteps had clattered down the steps, Elena had almost pulled open the door and told him that what she wanted was to be in his arms, but standing there in the dark, confused by the intensity of her emotions, she had been sure of only one thing. Her life would never be the same again if Blake made love to her.

  The morning heat was beginning to weigh down on the quiet streets of Mazatal.

  Breakfast—fruit, bread and coffee—had been eaten in silence. Over strong black coffee, he'd tersely informed her that he'd managed to rent them a truck. Not much of a truck, he'd added, but it would speed their journey through the Mountains of the Moon.

  "The sooner we reach Mexico, the better," he'd said, and Elena had nodded in agreement. What she needed, she told herself, was to put this strange interlude quickly behind her. Everything would be all right then.

  She looked up as a loud horn blasted the early morning silence. An ancient pick-up truck was rattling up the centre of the street towards them, glowing beneath a paint scheme that seemed to use all the primary colors. Blake walked towards it as it groaned to a stop.

  "It's damned well about time," he growled. "Where the hell have you been, Manuel? You were supposed to be here at six sharp."