Private Passions

by Rochelle Alers

  * * *

  Chris thanked the young man who told him that he was only a few kilometers from Sunderland. He had been traveling for fourteen hours and had managed only two hours of sleep during that time. He had boarded a jet in Las Cruces at 2:20 a.m. Mountain Time for a nonstop flight to Miami International. However, the four-hour layover in Miami turned into six, and when the Air Jamaica jet touched down in Kingston all he craved was a shower and a bed. It wasn’t until he slipped behind the wheel of the rental car and headed west through the historic community of Spanish Town that he realized the intense fatigue was due to his body’s circadian rhythm’s inability to adjust to the different time zone.

  The verdant beauty of the island overwhelmed him: the mountain ranges, waterfalls and beautiful beaches with pristine white sand and clear turquoise waters. One winter his parents and sister had joined the Kirklands in Ocho Rios during a school recess; however, he had opted to go to Switzerland with his high school ski team.

  He’d learned to ski at six, and the first time he strapped on a pairs of skis it became an obsession. By the time he was sixteen he was ranked an expert and his coach urged his parents to let him try out for the U.S. Olympic Ski Team. However, his passion for the sport waned once he entered college. Law and politics replaced skiing, dismissing a recreational sport in favor of a competitive one.

  It had been more than two years since he’d been skiing. An accident had left him with a dislocated shoulder and broken leg. Now his workout regimen consisted of lifting weights and exercising on a treadmill and rowing machine within the boundaries of a gym set up in his Santa Fe loft apartment.

  A wry smile curved Chris’s mouth. Even though he and Sara had grown up on a horse farm in desertlike Las Cruces, while Emily and her brother Michael had grown up less than an hour from the Taos Ski Valley, their recreational interests were as different as their personalities. Sara loved riding horses, Emily preferred swimming, Michael riflery, while he favored skiing. The offspring of Matthew and Eve Sterling and Joshua and Vanessa Kirkland had grown up secure and protected, which afforded the four of them a quiet assurance years before they entered adulthood.

  He slowed the rental car, coming to a fork in the road, then turned left. Less than a quarter of a mile later he saw the house. It was a two-storied white stucco structure that was completely West Indian in character: red-tiled Spanish roof, white-tiled floors surrounding the house and Creole jalousie shutters. Exotic flowers and trees added to the lushness of the property. He maneuvered the rental car around to the back of the house, parking next to a late-model Mustang convertible.

  All vestiges of exhaustion vanished as Chris slowly pushed open the driver’s-side door and stepped out onto a sand-littered path. She’s in love with you. Sara’s revelation sang in his head, in his heart and in his veins.

  How had she fooled him? How had he missed the signs—or had Emily become such an accomplished actress that she was able to successfully hide her innermost emotions? Had he felt so comfortable with her that he saw only what he wanted to see?

  The questions continued to taunt him as he walked around to the front of the house and peered through a screen door. An entryway opened out to a parlor decorated with furnishings from a bygone era. Reaching out, he grasped a length of rope attached to a brass bell and pulled it. The melodious sound echoed in the sultry stillness of the afternoon. He waited, then pulled it again.

  When there was no sign of Emily, Chris strolled around the gallery to the back of the house. Branches of fruit trees, pregnant with their heavy yield, swayed gently. Squinting through the lenses of his sunglasses, he noted that there wasn’t another structure in sight as a stretch of white sand and the blue-green ribbon of the Caribbean in the distance served as the backdrop for the exotic setting. The sight of the ocean and the beach beckoned him, and he headed in that direction.

  The heat of the sun burned his flesh through the linen fabric of his shirt, but as he neared the ocean the gentle breezes cooled his fevered body. A copse of palm trees acted as a barrier between the beach and the lush vegetation surrounding the large house, and as soon as he stepped out onto the beach he saw her.

  Clad in a black one-piece swimsuit, Emily lay facedown on a colorful towel, her head cradled on folded arms, her eyes shielded from the sun by a pair of sunglasses—asleep.

  Slowly moving closer, Chris surveyed the length of her long, shapely legs and incredibly narrow feet. The hot tropical sun had darkened her exposed flesh to a rich chestnut brown. There was a tightening in his groin as his gaze moved slowly and intimately over her body. The rush of heaviness surprised him; it was the first time he had permitted himself to feel the passion for her that he had consciously repressed all his life. He stared at her, gorging on her exotic beauty.

  She belonged here—among the flowers and fruit growing in wild abandonment—because she was as fragile and enchanting as a delicate orchid. He wanted to lie beside her and inhale the feminine scent that was exclusively Emily Kirkland’s. He wanted to trail his fingertips over her velvety skin, committing every dip and curve to memory; he wanted to lose himself in the depths of her mysterious green eyes when he fused his body with hers—making them one for all time.

  Retreating slightly, he walked over to a palm tree, sat down and waited for her to wake up.

  * * *

  The sun had passed overhead when Emily stirred and woke up. Blinking slowly, she removed her sunglasses and rolled over on her side. A soft gasp escaped her when she saw the familiar figure of Christopher Delgado sitting under a palm tree, his back pressed against the solid trunk.

  Her heart was pounding so loudly that it became a roar in her ears. Her legs were shaking as she stood, her gaze widening when she saw Chris push to his feet and close the distance between them within seconds. He stood less than three feet away, his dark gaze capturing hers and making her his unwilling prisoner.

  He stared at her with a strange expression that made her aware that even though she had known him all her life, she really did not know him at all. He was dressed for the tropical weather: a banded-collar white linen shirt, tan linen slacks and a pair of brown woven leather loafers.

  “What’s wrong, Chris?” Closing her eyes, she swallowed back the arid taste of fear rising in her throat. Emily did not recognize her own voice. When she opened her eyes they were brimming with unshed tears. “Why are you here? How did you know where to find me?” She hadn’t told him that she would be vacationing in Ocho Rios.

  He gave her a half smile, his gaze shifting from her feathery, curly hair down to the soft swell of golden-brown breasts rising and falling heavily above the bodice of her black maillot suit.

  Extending his arms, he tilted his head at an angle. “Nothing’s wrong, Emily. Is this the kind of welcome I get the first time I come to Jamaica?”

  She felt weak with relief as her fear subsided, replaced by anger. Placing a hand over her heart, she glared at him. “What the hell is wrong with you? You show up here unexpected and all I could think of was that someone had…” Her words trailed off. Chris’s unexpected arrival had caught her off guard. There was one thing Emily never wanted to be, and that was not in control of herself or her environment.

  Chris pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, successfully concealing his uneasiness. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”

  “All of them,” she shouted at him.

  “Sara told me where to find you, and I came to congratulate you.”

  “On what?”

  “Your engagement.”

  Closing her eyes, she swayed slightly, then righted herself as Chris took a step forward. She held up a slender hand, stopping him. “What did you say?”

  “There was a televised announcement on the late edition of yesterday’s news that you and Keith Norris are engaged to be married.”

 
Her delicate jaw dropped, her expression was one of disbelief. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. Are you or are you not engaged to Keith Norris?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did he give you a ring?”

  “Yes, he gave me a ring.”

  “Then you’re engaged.”

  Emily ran her fingers through her hair. “I am not engaged. Keith drove me to the airport, and before I went through Customs he slipped a ring on my finger.”

  “You didn’t give the ring back to him?”

  “No. It all happened too quickly.” Her brow creased in worry. “He’d given me no clue that he was going to propose.”

  Moving closer, Chris rested his hands on her bared shoulders. “I suppose the poor man was desperate.”

  “I can understand desperation, but not deception.”

  Lowering his gaze, Chris studied her moist face. The sun had darkened her skin. It had also brought out a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes glowed like precious jewels in a bare face that radiated good health and a fragile beauty that sucked the breath from his lungs.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  She frowned. “I’m certainly not going to marry Keith.”

  He mumbled a silent prayer of thanks. “What are you going to do about his leaking the news to the press that he’s engaged to you?”

  “Nothing until I return to the States. Then I’m going to give him his ring and suggest he issue a statement that the engagement is off. If anyone asks me about it, my response will be no comment.”

  She smiled for the first time and kissed his cheek. The emerging stubble on his jaw grazed her delicate lips. “I can’t believe you came all this way because you believed I was engaged to marry another man.”

  “That’s not the only reason I’m here.”

  Emily shivered in spite of the heat. Chris’s face was expressionless, and a part of her wondered when he had changed into someone she recognized but did not know.

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “My father.”

  She gave him a questioning look. “Uncle Matt?” She and Michael had grown up calling Matt and Eve Sterling Uncle Matt and Aunt Eve, and Chris and Sara referred to her parents as Uncle Josh and Aunt Vanessa.

  Chris shook his head slowly. “My biological father, Alejandro Delgado.”

  Her eyelids fluttered rapidly. “I thought he was dead.” She had heard the elder Sterlings whisper the name of Alejandro Delgado on occasion, but it was Eve Sterling who had stated vehemently that her first husband and the father of her son had died a long time ago. It was apparent that she had only symbolically buried him when she divorced him.

  Cradling her face between his palms, Chris stared directly at her. “No, Emily, he’s not dead. He’s alive, but he’s dying.”

  “Where is he?” she whispered, even though they were the only two people standing on the private beach.

  “He’s returned to Mexico.”

  Vertical lines appeared between Emily’s eyes, her perceptive gaze noticing the fatigue ringing his generous mouth. There were tiny lines around Chris’s eyes that should not have been apparent in a man his age. It was as if he had spent too many hours squinting into the sun. She saw all of the signs of his visible stress but felt something in the man she had fallen in love with that she had never felt before—vulnerability.

  He was State Senator Christopher Delgado, stepson of an eminent New Mexico horse breeder. He had graduated from law school in the top one percent of his class before clerking for a state supreme court justice. It was at the urging of that judge that he had considered a career in politics. He had become the perfect candidate because he had it all: looks, intelligence, money and charisma. He had it all, yet he was hurting.

  “We’ll go back to the house,” she said. “After you’ve gotten some rest we’ll talk.”

  Chris shook his head. “No. I need to talk now.”

  “You need sleep. We’ll talk later.” There was a hint of steel in her voice.

  “You’re a hard woman, Emily Kirkland.”

  She flashed a saucy smile. “You didn’t know? I once had a man refer to me as ‘that pit bull bitch in a skirt.’” Reaching up, she curved her fingers around his wrists, pulling his hands from her face and looping her arm through his. “How long do you intend to hang out with me?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “A couple of days.”

  “You can’t stay a couple of days.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s hardly enough time for me to show you Ocho Rios.”

  He shrugged a broad shoulder. “Okay—a week.”

  “You’re a hard man, Christopher Delgado.”

  He laughed for the first time in more than fourteen hours. “What am I? A rottweiler in a jock strap?”

  Emily gave him the dazzling smile he had come to look for from her. He waited until she picked up the towel and her sunglasses, then followed her back to the house where he would stay during his unplanned vacation in Jamaica.

  Chapter 5

  Chris opened the shuttered windows in the bedroom and stepped out onto the second-story veranda. The panorama unfolding before his stunned gaze was awe-inspiring. He had an unobstructed view of the beach and the ocean. The house was perfect, his bedroom perfect, and the woman with whom he would share the Caribbean retreat was perfect.

  He had selected the first bedroom at the top of the narrow, winding staircase, and when he walked into the sparsely furnished space he felt as if he had stepped back in time. The expansive room claimed an antique mahogany four-poster bed draped in a sheer creamy white fabric. A massive matching mahogany armoire, a rocker with plump cushions embroidered with primitive African masks in earth tones of beige, brown and ocher, and two chairs with chintz-covered seats pulled up under a pedestal table covered with a linen tablecloth had beckoned him when Emily opened the wood-carved door.

  Turning, he walked back into the bedroom and closed the shutters to keep out the heat. He flipped a switch on the wall and the ceiling fan turned slowly as it worked to dispel the buildup of tropical air.

  He opened his carry-on bag, withdrew a toiletry kit and made his way to the bathroom. A weighted fatigue swept over him and he wondered if he could remain awake long enough to shave and shower.

  * * *

  Emily showered, lingering under the spray of warm water and rinsing the salt and sand out of her short hair. She stepped out of the shower stall and blotted the moisture from her body before she covered her arms and legs with a scented moisturizer. Frowning, she noticed she had chipped a particle of deep rose-pink color off the big toe of her right foot, and made a mental note to give herself both a manicure and a pedicure. Her beauty regimen consisted of weekly manicures, biweekly pedicures, monthly facials, massages and haircuts.

  From the first time she appeared in front of the television camera, her physical appearance had become as vital to her as the gathering and dissemination of political information she offered her viewing audience. Some of her colleagues felt she had become obsessive about her looks, but she ignored them because the network’s ratings usually escalated whenever she filled in for the regular anchor.

  Squeezing a small amount of mousse onto her hand, she rubbed her palms together before massaging it into her damp hair. Then she brushed the raven-black strands off her forehead and over her ears. Streams of sunlight pouring into the bathroom glinted off the diamonds in her pierced lobes. She had screwed the rare yellow stones her parents had given her in her pierced lobes the day she celebrated her eighteenth birthday and had never removed them.

  Ten minutes later she left her bedroom, dressed in a pair of loose-fitting white cotton slack
s and matching tank top, her feet pushed into a pair of colorful striped espadrilles, and headed for the kitchen.

  She hummed to herself as she mixed a pitcher of lemon verbena iced tea, then prepared a Mediterranean salad platter of thinly sliced zucchini, red pepper, tomato, Spanish onion, feta cheese, capers, black Kalamata and green olives tossed with a light, fragrant olive-oil-and-balsamic dressing. Covering the colorful concoction with plastic, she placed it in the refrigerator next to a bowl filled with clean, chilled shrimp. She would wait for Chris to wake up, then share the light repast with him.

  She filled a tall glass with the tea, walked out of the kitchen, and made her way to the rear of the house and to the gazebo containing an oversized hammock. The paperback romance novel she’d begun reading during the flight from Albuquerque to Kingston lay on a low rattan table. She picked it up, settled herself on the hammock, then quickly lost herself in the lives of the characters her favorite novelist had created.

  * * *

  Night had fallen over the island, and Emily turned on the light above a massive, scarred mahogany table in the large kitchen, adding more light to the expansive space. All of the rooms in the house had remained virtually untouched, with the exception of the addition of electricity and indoor plumbing. The kitchen and the parlor were her favorite rooms in the early-nineteenth-century structure. She’d realized, after swimming in the ocean and sunbathing on the beach, away from the curious gazes of the nearest neighbor, who lived more than a mile away, why her father had purchased the house and surrounding property, and why he and her mother visited Ocho Rios several times a year. After only two days she’d found herself succumbing to its healing and restorative powers.

  However, her cloistered existence was disturbed by the man sleeping in one of the bedrooms on the second level. She had come to the Ocho Rios retreat to be alone, to discover the real Emily Kirkland. Like Alice in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, she wanted to escape to a world of make-believe. A world where there were no Keith Norrises, Richard Adamses and most of all no Christopher Delgados—men who affected her, touched her life, men who, each in their own way, had transformed her into someone she did not want to become.