Take It On Faith

by M. L. Rhodes

  He'd spent the morning trying to track down clues as to what Elizabeth could have done to draw Galista's wrath, and had come up with nothing. She seemed to be exactly what she claimed—an innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he knew better. He'd re-questioned Ramirez and Christo, and based on the logistics of what had happened—what they'd heard Galista's men say, as well as the fact the very first shot fired had been aimed at Elizabeth and had almost hit her—there was no doubt the shooters had been after her, even if it was for reasons she didn't understand.

  Fuck. He had no idea how he was going to repair the damage this had done to his plan. If Galista wanted Elizabeth dead, then Ramirez and Christo taking her out of the bar would be seen as a deliberate act of defiance, and next Galista would be coming after them, and him, since they worked for him.

  The only way to salvage his position would be to turn Elizabeth over to Galista as an act of good faith. Which, of course, was never going to happen. His only hope at this point was to keep Elizabeth alive and try to get her to remember something, anything, that might have brought her into contact with the elusive Galista.

  Damn this mess.

  He'd do right by his new charge, protect her, and do his best to control his temper. But it didn't mean he had to trust her. Or like her.

  He entered the room and locked the door behind him.

  The sight of her, when he realized she was asleep in his bed, sent his intentions straight to hell. He moved closer, unable to take his eyes off her. She slept peacefully. He wasn't surprised she was still exhausted—the few hours of sleep she'd gotten last night had been fitful at best.

  When he looked at her like this, there was nothing about her even remotely similar to Rosalinda. Where Rosa had been petite and almost child-like, so tiny he could wrap his hands around her waist, Elizabeth was taller and had lush, real-life curves—the kind too many women, in his opinion, over-dieted to get rid of. Rosa's hair had been straight, ebony black, and long, touching her waist. Elizabeth's chestnut-brown waves fell just below her shoulders in a riotous mass. Whenever he was around her, he had to fight the urge to bury his hands in the sexy, unruly strands. He remembered Elizabeth's cornflower blue eyes, and how genuine their expressions were—since last night he'd seen intelligence, fear, hurt, a mischievous temper, and, the biggest surprise ... desire.

  At the memory of her response to his kiss last night, another surge of need walloped him.

  Damn it. Stop, man!

  Miguel sucked in a deep breath. This situation was complicated enough. He couldn't afford to add to it because he couldn't control his own lust, for Christ sake. He was far too old to act like a horny teenager.

  Besides, as far as she was concerned, she was his prisoner. Any physical reaction she might have had last night under the influence of the mezcal he'd poured down her throat wouldn't apply to how she felt about him when she was sober. If the way she'd looked at him this morning was any indicator, she wouldn't let him close enough to touch her again anyway.

  And that was good. She should keep a healthy distance between them. She should be scared of him. Life here was too damned dangerous and unpredictable for her not to be scared.

  He shook her shoulder. “Wake up."

  She opened her eyes and blinked. When her gaze focused on him, her expression immediately grew wary.

  "I have business, and you're coming with me."

  "I am?"

  He saw his words sink in and could almost read her thoughts as she wondered if maybe this might be a chance for her to escape. The little fool.

  He bent over to retrieve her sandals from beside the bed and held them out to her. “Put your shoes on."

  The small room had grown sweltering in the June heat, and his white T-shirt she wore clung to her sticky skin. She tugged it away, but it settled right back against her breasts. Those glorious breasts. He couldn't help but look at them—he'd have to be dead not to. The thin material had molded against her every curve, outlining them in perfect detail. Her nipples had grown erect and stabbed peaks in the fabric.

  When she looked down and saw what he saw, a red flush crept up her cheeks.

  She rose unsteadily to her feet, grabbed the shoes he still held out, and awkwardly cleared her throat. “It's not like I can help it, you know?” she murmured. “Christo destroyed my bra last night."

  "They're perfect.” The honesty slipped out before he thought about it. “Don't be embarrassed for me to see them."

  Her blue eyes grew wide, and she opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but couldn't get anything out.

  Miguel turned to the rickety dresser, pulled out a black button-up shirt from a drawer, and held it toward her. “You can wear it if anyone else is around. While I would never get tired of the sight...” He allowed himself another slow perusal before his gaze slid upward and locked with hers again. “I don't like to share. Ever."

  Her shock was apparent. “I...” She cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she mumbled, taking the shirt from him.

  "Shoes,” he reminded. She still held them in one hand, his shirt in the other.

  "Right.” She tied the shirt around her waist, bent over and, with visibly trembling hands, put on and fastened the straps of her sandals. She didn't look at him, but he could tell she was trying to gauge his mood. He'd left in a foul temper earlier, so she was probably trying to figure out when he was going to lash out at her again.

  He decided it might be a good time to remind her how important it was for her to tow the line and not do anything foolish.

  When she stood, he grasped her upper arms and pulled her toward him. “I want to make it clear that I'm taking you with me for your own protection.” What he didn't add was that, after last night's events, he expected Galista's men to discover this place and come calling any time now, and when they did, he wanted her long gone. He'd already sent Christo and Ramirez off earlier.

  "Don't get any ideas about trying to escape.” He settled a hand against his gun in its holster, hoping to scare her into compliance. “I don't want to have to hurt you. But rest assured that if you cause me any trouble or disrupt my business...” He kept his tone low, and purposely left the subtle threat unspoken and hanging in the air between them. “Do we understand each other?"

  "Yes,” she said in a shaky whisper.

  "I also need to remind you that you will do whatever I ask of you. Without question."

  She bit her lip. “You ... you said ... last night..."

  "And I meant every word of it."

  "Even the stuff about..."

  He didn't know what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd said those things to her—the bits about baring her breasts and touching herself or him. He'd seen her nearly naked as he undressed her and put her to bed, so he'd had touching on his mind, he guessed. The words had made for a good scare tactic, though. And from the look on her pale face, it had worked.

  "Yes, even that."

  Her eyes widened to two swirling pools of fear. But damned if he didn't see that hint of desire once again, too. A quiver swept through her and her breathing came out in soft huffs.

  Christ. She was getting aroused at the thought. Scared as hell he might really make her do it, but aroused nonetheless. And that, in turn, sent a scalding jolt of need through him.

  Okay, it was time to put a stop to this.

  He palmed her cheek, and was distracted for a moment by the softness of her skin before he remembered his intention. “Let's practice, shall we?” he said in a curt voice.

  He lowered his mouth to hers much as he had last night in the room with his men ... hard, domineering, intent on scaring her and shocking some sense into her so she'd forget any lingering memories of her response to him last night.

  She stiffened and brought her hands up against his chest as if to protest.

  Good. Make me stop, he thought at her. It was better for both of them that way.

  But then, much to his surprise, a whimpered moan came from her throat
and she stepped closer. When she began to kiss back, at first tenuously, then with genuine hunger, something in his brain clouded over.

  It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He was supposed to be convincing her she shouldn't, couldn't have an attraction to him. And he wasn't supposed to have one for her.

  Damn.

  Her kiss was hot and sensuous, and the feel of her warm body so near him caused his resolve to weaken. Though he tried to tell himself he shouldn't trust a woman's wiles, he sensed there was nothing affected in Elizabeth's kiss, no game playing. This wasn't her attempt to soften him up or manipulate him into letting her go. It was the real deal.

  The realization shocked the hell out of him ... and ignited a fire in his blood.

  Elizabeth's hands kneaded his chest, then slid up to curl around his neck. Her full curves and arousing scent were like a drug, demanding he take more. He tore his mouth away from her lips and made his way down to the soft indentation below her ear. Her skin tasted salty from the heat, and was sweet as honey at the same time. And her hair ... all that dark hair that curled around her shoulders in long, damp waves, sticking to her skin, and smelling faintly of fruity shampoo. Damn, it was sexy. He burrowed a hand into it, bringing her closer.

  A breathless moan escaped her. She tilted her head, giving him easier access to her neck. “This is ... this is ... crazy,” she gasped. “I'm not even drunk today. Something must be wrong with me. I..."

  Miguel heard the distress in her voice mixed with the ragged gasps of her arousal.

  "Trust me when I tell you there is nothing at all wrong with you. You're a beautiful woman."

  "That's not—unnhh!"

  His lips had apparently hit a particularly sensitive spot as he explored the soft sweep of pale skin from her graceful neck down to her collarbone, teasing his tongue over and into every silken hollow. But still he wanted more.

  Their eyes met—hers passion-filled and slightly dazed—and lingered for an eternal moment. Slowly, measuring her reaction, he tunneled his hands beneath the hem of her shirt and raised it a few inches, then paused. “Do you want me to stop?” His voice was gritty with need he couldn't hide. He knew no matter what he'd set out to make her believe, the reality was that she had to be in control of this. He'd never touched a woman against her will, and he wasn't going to start now.

  He could see her pulse beating rapidly in her neck.

  Then she released a soft, deep breath. “I should make you stop, I know I should. But I don't want to. I want you to touch me."

  Another honest reaction. Miguel admired her for that. Something tightened in his chest. Damn. He really admired her for that.

  She lifted her arms in invitation and he pushed the soft material of her shirt up and over her head and let it fall to the floor. She continued to hold her arms up, and he slid his palms down them, stroking his thumbs against her satiny skin until she twitched.

  "It tickles,” she gasped, the hint of a smile curving her lips before her eyes darkened once more to a sultry deep blue.

  Miguel was lost. Those eyes. Her smile...

  When his hands reached her ribcage, she lowered her arms and clasped his biceps as if to steady herself.

  He teased his thumbs over the rigid buds of her nipples. “Does that feel good?"

  Elizabeth's eyes closed and trembling breaths slipped out of her moist, parted lips. “I ... oh ... oh, Lord..."

  How long had it been since he'd seen a woman in the throes of passion like this? A long time. Long enough he'd forgotten how damned arousing it was to hear those soft, little noises of pleasure, to watch her eyes flutter closed as she lost herself in the enjoyment of his touch. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the longing to strip her bare, carry her to a soft bed, and lose himself in her arms for the next year. Or maybe ... maybe he hadn't forgotten. Maybe this was the only woman in too long to remember who had the power to evoke such a reaction from him.

  Logic, responsibility, common sense all warred inside him, telling him this couldn't happen, that it was a complication he couldn't afford. He needed to stop.

  But when she whispered his name “...Miguel...” he knew he wouldn't stop.

  He found her lips again and stroked her tongue with his in slow, lascivious thrusts. She responded by rising on tiptoe and pressing her groin against him in guileless abandon. His cock, already straining against his zipper, swelled to its full length.

  Her warm, full breasts beckoned him, so he palmed them, loving how they fit in his hands as if they were made to be there. He squeezed gently, but was startled when she gave a soft, strangled cry against his mouth as if he'd hurt her.

  Concerned, Miguel broke away from the kiss and held her at arm's length. “What is it?” He glanced down ... and what he saw roused a deep, black fury within him. A rabid flurry of swear words burst from his mouth.

  Elizabeth's eyes opened and filled with fear. She tried to pull away from him, but he didn't let her go.

  When he realized she thought he was angry at her, he wanted to take back his explosion. But he couldn't swallow the rage. His gaze returned to the pale globes tipped with full, dusky-rose areolas and plump nipples that begged to be tasted. They were as beautiful as he'd remembered. Except, where the skin should have been perfect and unblemished, instead the delicate flesh was creased with welts of purple and blue. How could he not have seen this last night, damn it? It was possible the bruises hadn't bloomed to full color until today, but nonetheless, he was pissed at himself for not noticing before. He should have.

  "Which one of them did this?” he ground out.

  Elizabeth swallowed hard, and he knew she was trying to make sense of his mood, his words. She glanced down, her face aflame, but when she saw the bruises, her surprised gaze skittered back up to meet his.

  "Ramirez?” he demanded, his voice barely more than a growl. “Was it Ramirez?"

  She nodded.

  A powerful protective instinct inside him reared its head. He captured her chin and tipped her face up to look at him. “He won't ever touch you again. If he or Christo even look like they're coming near you, I'll kill them."

  "I ... you..."

  "I'll make sure you're safe. You won't be touched again while you're in my care. By anyone.” And that included him—he knew it could be no other way. He had no more right to touch her than his men did. As far as she was concerned, he was a criminal and no better than they.

  He lowered his mouth onto hers for one final kiss, savoring her sweet taste, her feel.

  Then he pulled away, scooped the white T-shirt off the floor, and handed it to her.

  Her eyes widened at his abrupt withdrawal.

  "Let's go.” His voice was gruff, but not from anger. It took every bit of his self control to step away and do what he knew was right, rather than give in to the aching need he felt for her. But even as he unlocked the door and held it open for her to precede him, all he wanted was to lay her back on the bed, bury himself inside her, and show her how deeply she'd affected him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Elizabeth stared in silence out the passenger window of the black Ford Explorer.

  The desert sliding past the glass teemed with life ... yellowed grass burst from the dry, red earth, and many varieties of cactus punctuated the terrain, from the towering organ pipes to different kinds of maguey. A purple mountain range loomed in the distance with dark thunderheads boiling over the peaks, threatening an afternoon storm. But what she found truly spectacular were the huge black vultures soaring off the plateaus, riding the wind, their enormous wings spread wide. She envied them their freedom and their ability to rise so high above everything.

  Yet even the awe-inspiring beauty surrounding her could only distract her momentarily from the reality of her situation, and the man next to her.

  Miguel steered the vehicle down the ribbon of empty blacktop. His face was as brooding as the coming storm. They'd been driving nearly an hour, but aside from handing her a couple of tortillas and a soda when they first go
t in the Explorer, he hadn't looked at her or said a word since they'd left the house. After his passion-filled statement that he'd kill anyone who hurt her, he'd kissed her with a hungry tenderness, then he'd pulled away. She'd been reeling, confused, weak-kneed with unfulfilled desire. But he'd given no explanation. He'd shut her out. And though she knew it was completely screwed up for her to think it since she shouldn't be attracted to Miguel at all—she should hate him and his touch—his rejection hurt.

  She wondered for the hundredth time since they'd begun this drive if she was losing her mind. She'd never, in her entire life, felt such a tangled mess of emotions. How could she have responded to him like she had? She could understand, maybe, the way she'd reacted last night. She'd been drunk, his kiss had been electrifying.

  But today? She had no excuses to fall back on. He'd been a complete bear this morning, seeming to hate the very sight of her. That should have been warning enough to stay away from him. But when he'd confirmed that he had, indeed, meant what he'd told her about making her touch herself or him if he said so, a current of electricity had zapped through her. When he'd kissed her again, her traitorous body had gotten all hot and bothered, and next thing she knew, she was halfway to heaven.

  Oh, Lord. Elizabeth shook her head. He'd even given her an out ... had asked her point blank if she wanted him to stop, and what had she said? “No!” Good God! What had she been thinking?

  She hadn't. Been thinking, that is. She'd been feeling. When he touched her, kissed her, something foreign, sensual, and exciting stirred within her. Liquid heat surged through her veins, flames ignited in her core, and she found herself wanting to feel his hands all over her. And the way he'd looked at her ... all possessive. No man had ever looked at her that way before. While she knew, logically, she should have been terrified to see such ownership in Miguel's eyes—he was her captor—instead, perversely, she'd found herself liking it. Loving it.