Private Passions

by Rochelle Alers

  Keith had lied about being engaged to her. Richard continued to pursue her and, because she was not receptive to his advances, had subtly manipulated her professional career. And Christopher Delgado—the man she loved with all her heart. A man who refused to acknowledge that she had grown up, that she was a woman—a woman who had and continued to repress her sexuality because she had chosen instead to live in a fairy-tale world. Because at thirty she still believed that princes married princesses and made them their queens.

  A wry smile tilted the corners of her mouth when she realized that this was the first time Chris had come to her with a problem. In the past it had always been the reverse.

  Sprinkling a light coating of flour over a smooth wooden cutting board, she turned out a mixture of yeast-filled dough. She was so totally absorbed in kneading the dough that she neither heard nor saw the man standing under the arched entrance, watching her. It wasn’t until she had placed the dough in a large bowl and covered it with a moist cotton towel that she registered movement behind her.

  “Can I help with anything?”

  Spinning around, she saw Chris leaning in the doorway, muscular hair-covered brown arms folded over his chest. He was casually dressed in a pair of black cotton slacks with a drawstring waist and a matching tank top. Her gaze widened as she surveyed his broad shoulders and bare feet.

  “No, thank you. How was your siesta?”

  He smiled, not moving. “Wonderful. It’s amazing what a little nap can do.”

  Emily turned back to the table. “A little nap? You were asleep for five hours.”

  Pushing himself off the wall, Chris made his way into the kitchen. “I forced myself to get out of bed, otherwise I’d wind up prowling the house half the night.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, noticing the moisture clinging to the strands of his salt-and-pepper black hair. He had begun graying prematurely at the age of twenty-eight and probably would be completely gray by the time he turned forty.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Taking two long strides, Chris pressed his chest to her back, trapping her between his body and the table. “Starved.”

  Swallowing to relieve the sudden dryness in her throat, Emily closed her eyes. “We’ll eat out.”

  Chris’s hands went to her bare shoulders, gently turning her around to face him. Her eyes opened, her gaze widening and fusing with his. The sensual scent of her perfumed flesh wafted in his nostrils and he curbed the urge to lower his head and kiss her lush mouth. Not the chaste kisses they usually shared, but ones that would denote the passion he had successfully concealed from her for years.

  His thumb grazed her left cheekbone. “You have flour on your face,” he explained in a quiet voice.

  She gave him a bright smile. “Thank you.”

  Seeing her smile reminded him of Vanessa Kirkland. Like her mother’s, Emily’s expression was usually solemn, closed, until she smiled. The gesture lit up her face and fired her mesmerizing green eyes. She was undeniably Vanessa’s daughter, with the exception of her eyes. The green orbs were Joshua Kirkland’s. Only his were lighter, colder, nearly transparent, while hers were dark, warm and less intimidating.

  “What time do you want to go out?”

  Emily glanced around his shoulder at a clock on a shelf of a massive built-in pine cupboard. “Can you be ready in half an hour?” It was apparent he had already showered.

  “Yes,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  She watched Chris walk out of the kitchen, and suddenly she was able to breathe normally. Staring at the space where he’d been made her aware that she had made a mistake in asking him to stay. Even though he would occupy a second-floor bedroom, the fact remained that they were together—isolated—for the first time in their lives. For one week they would reside under the same roof in a remote section of Ocho Rios. Whispering a silent prayer, she cleaned up the kitchen before she retreated to her bedroom to prepare to share dinner with her houseguest.

  * * *

  Chris sat on a deep-cushioned armchair in the parlor, staring at the soft light shining through the delicate Waterford crystal base of a lamp on a nearby table. Crossing one leg gracefully over the opposite knee, his gaze shifted to the golden light from the lamp spilling over the toe of his Italian-made loafer.

  A gentle peace feathered through his mind and body, easing some of the anxiety he’d felt before boarding his flight in Las Cruces. He’d been hard-pressed not to exhibit his relief once Emily revealed she was not going to marry Keith Norris, although the predicament surrounding Alejandro Delgado’s return to Mexico still had to be resolved.

  His serene expression changed and a muscle in his lean jaw quivered noticeably when he silently cursed William Savoy. The man had challenged him for a senate seat—and lost. Two years later Savoy was back, challenging him for the highest elected office in the state of New Mexico. Their first campaign had been virtually free of scandal and personal attacks, but all of that would change because the man would not accept losing to Christopher Blackwell Delgado for a second time.

  But Emily Kirkland was not about political ideology or a thirst for power. She differed from William Savoy and the life of politics he’d embraced because she represented a bright light and love—a love of a lifetime.

  The subject of his musings walked into the parlor, the haunting scent of lilies trailing in her wake. Chris uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet, his gaze scanning her critically and beaming his approval. A lazy smile crinkled his eyes and he inclined his head, as if bowing to a person of royal rank.

  “You look incredible,” he crooned.

  The deep rose color on her lush mouth was the perfect match for slashes of pink crisscrossing the delicate silk fabric of a lime-green wrap skirt she had paired with a matching green silk shell and slip. The airy garment floated around her long legs, ending at mid-calf. Her footwear was a pair of high-heeled mules in a shocking pink fabric.

  She offered him a dazzling smile as she admired his lightweight taupe suit, white shirt and dark brown tie. “Thank you.”

  Chris forced himself to move. Trancelike, he closed the space between them, his dark gaze studying her intently. He wanted to take her into his arms and make her feel what he was feeling, had been feeling for years. He’d repressed his love for her for so long that he had begun responding to her like an automaton. He’d kissed her mouth without the passion he knew he was capable of offering. Any other woman he had ever become involved with had been a meaningless substitute for the woman standing before him; he was finally able to acknowledge that Emily Kirkland appealed to his maleness in a way no woman had ever been able to do.

  His protective instincts had surfaced so quickly that it left him reeling. The awesome need to make certain she was safe—at any cost—frightened Chris more than it surprised him; he knew he would forfeit everything he possessed to protect her from danger—seen and unseen.

  Emily felt a slow warmth spread over her face, down to her throat, chest and even lower to a pulsing spot between her thighs. Chris had complimented her many, many times, but there was something different about him now—different in the way he looked at her.

  Reaching for her hand, he held it gently within his large, protective grasp. “Where are we going?”

  “Not far,” she said mysteriously.

  Chris smiled, the gesture as intimate as a kiss. “Good.”

  He had assuaged some of his exhaustion with more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep, but a gnawing hunger had reminded him that he needed to eat. He detested airline cuisine and had only drunk a cup of coffee on each of the carriers.

  They walked out of the house and into the warm, sultry Jamaican night. A sprinkling of stars littered the navy-blue nighttime sky. A hint of a full moon illuminated the tropica
l landscape. The cloying smell of damp earth, salt water, vegetation and perfumed flowers hung in the air, an olfactory feast.

  Sand grated under the leather soles of Chris’s shoes as he preceded Emily, opened the driver’s-side door to the racy white Mustang convertible, waited for her to slip behind the wheel, then circled the automobile and sat beside her. She turned on the ignition, shifted into gear, and within minutes they left the house, beach and ocean behind.

  Chapter 6

  Emily downshifted, slowly maneuvering into a parking space in a large clearing where more than a dozen bungalows painted in tropical pastel pinks, yellows and blues stood under a copse of towering palm trees. Each structure claimed white-shuttered windows and a red-tiled roof.

  Chris stared at the colorful buildings, nodding his approval. “Very nice,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Emily stared at his strong profile, a knowing smile curving her lush mouth. “The restaurant is near the beach.” She turned off the engine and dropped the key into her small crocheted shoulder bag.

  She waited for Chris to help her out of the car; then, hand in hand, they walked along a slate path through what looked like a small village. Strategically placed streetlamps that resembled late-nineteenth-century gaslights cast a golden glow throughout the impeccably maintained property.

  The distinctive sound of steel pans playing an upbeat tune drifted from the open windows of a large lime-green stucco building. Chris caught himself nodding his head in time to the driving, pulsing island rhythm.

  Pulling his hand out of Emily’s silken grasp, he leaned in close to her ear. With her heels, her towering height came very close to his own. “Is dancing allowed?”

  “Yes.”

  “If that’s the case, then will you save me a dance tonight, Miss Kirkland?”

  Turning her head, she stared at him. “Yes.”

  He returned her direct gaze, unable to look away. And it wasn’t for the first time that Chris acknowledged that Emily Kirkland had a wonderful voice. It was low-pitched but soft, and as warm as the cashmere sweaters she favored during the winter months.

  A white-jacketed waiter met them when they stepped into the waiting area. A middle-aged man inclined his head, offering an open, friendly smile. His eyebrows shifted slightly as his smile widened. He’d recognized the young woman he had not seen in years.

  “It’s good seeing you again, Miss Kirkland. How long has it been?”

  “Seven years.” She looped her arm over the sleeve of Chris’s jacket and smiled at the restaurant’s manager. “Mr. Alton, I would like you to meet my guest, Christopher Delgado. Chris, Lindsay Alton.”

  The two men shook hands, exchanging pleasantries before the older man signaled a passing waiter to show them to their table.

  Chris was totally charmed by his surroundings. The restaurant’s interior was much larger than it appeared from the outside. There were dozens of tables, all of them crowded, a bar, an area set aside for dancing and an elevated stage where a sextet played a rocking rendition of a popular calypso tune.

  The rattan furniture, potted palms, banana trees and orchids hanging from poles rising high above the wooden floor were all in keeping with the tropical locale, while the mouthwatering aroma of food wafting from passing trays carried by silent, efficient waiters intensified his hunger.

  When they reached their table, the waiter stepped back politely and permitted Chris to seat Emily. He waited for Chris to sit, then said, “May I bring you something to drink?” His British-accented voice was crisp and exacting.

  Emily gave her dining partner a questioning look, and he nodded. She would order for both of them. “We’ll have a passion punch.”

  Chris waited until the waiter walked away to place their beverage order, then glanced at Emily. “Passion punch?”

  Her eyes crinkled slightly. “It’s a wonderful concoction made with carrot, pear, apple, pineapple and cherry juices. Even though it’s nonalcoholic, it can be just a little wicked.”

  He shifted his eyebrows, his expression mirroring disbelief. “Wicked?”

  She nodded. “The locals say it acts much like an aphrodisiac. Women drink it when they want to conceive.”

  A mysterious smile parted Chris’s lips as he picked up one of the menus lying on the table, perusing it leisurely. “What effect does it usually have on you?” he asked, not looking at her.

  Staring at his bowed head, Emily’s face creased into a sudden smile. “I suppose you can say that I experience a tad bit of wickedness.”

  His head came up. “Only a tad?”

  She gave him a direct stare, noticing a silent expectation flowing from his large, deep-set, dark eyes. Her chest rose and fell heavily, bringing his penetrating gaze to linger briefly on her breasts.

  “The level of wickedness increases with the number consumed.” Her velvety voice had lowered to an enticing timbre.

  He leaned closer, covered her fragile hand with his, tightening his strong grip on her delicate fingers. “Will I have to be the designated driver tonight?”

  Emily’s heart pounded an erratic rhythm when she felt the electricity of his touch. Chris had held her hands more times than she could count or remember, but this time she registered something—something very different. His thumb caressed the back of her hand in a soothing, erotic motion. She was transfixed by the shape of his large, strong, masculine hand: long fingers with well-groomed, square-cut nails, and covered with a feathering of short black hair that made them appear darker than they actually were.

  “No,” she finally answered after a comfortable silence.

  “Too bad,” he countered softly. Pulling his hand away, he glanced at the menu again. “What do you recommend?”

  She studied her own menu. “Every selection is excellent.”

  “How’s the snapper?” The menu listed stuffed, baked red snapper in a piquant garlic sauce.

  “Wonderfully spicy.” They shared a knowing smile. Both had developed a penchant for hot, spicy dishes.

  Minutes later, they were served the punch in fresh pineapple shells, along with a platter containing a cold fish salad, marinated vegetables and bite-sized portions of batter-fried chicken, beef and pork.

  Chris leaned back on his chair, studying Emily. “After I leave Jamaica I’m going to Mexico,” he said without preamble.

  Emily’s expression was impassive. “You’re going to see your dad?”

  His expression changed as a mask of hardness descended, distorting his handsome face. “He’s not my dad. He never earned the right to be acknowledged as such. And to answer your question—yes. I’m going to see my father.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have to put my personal life in order. I have to tie up all of the loose ends from my past before I hit the campaign trail.”

  Emily knew he was right. She had read about too many candidates seeking public office who lost or had to drop out because their opponents had uncovered a secret or scandal that was certain to spell political doom.

  “Do you remember anything about him?”

  Exhaling audibly, he wagged his head. “No.”

  “How old were you when he and your mother divorced?”

  “I wasn’t quite two.” He glanced at a spot over her head. “My mother met Alejandro Delgado and married him after a whirlwind courtship, then divorced him before they celebrated their third anniversary. As a condition of their divorce, she was granted sole custody of me, but the judge allowed her ex-husband liberal visitation privileges. He picked me up one Friday afternoon with the intention of taking me to a Halloween party, but we never made it. He had his driver take us to the airport and we boarded a flight for Mexico City.”

  Emily’s gaze widened in astonishment. “How did he get you out of the country?” />
  “He was assigned to the D.C. consulate at the time.”

  She sat back, shocked by this disclosure. “He used his diplomatic immunity to kidnap his own son. Why?”

  “It was quite simple, Emily. He wanted to punish my mother for divorcing him.”

  It was simple to Chris, but not to her. He’d just confessed that his father had kidnapped him, taken him to a foreign country, no doubt causing his mother pain and suffering, while he sat across the table from her concealing his feelings behind a facade of indifference.

  “He hated her that much?”

  He nodded once. “I’m ashamed to say he did.”

  “How were you and your mother reunited?”

  He wanted to tell Emily the truth, every sordid detail as to how his mother met and married Matthew Sterling—the man he called dad. His mother, stepfather and sister had sworn an oath never to reveal Matthew Sterling’s former clandestine lifestyle to anyone outside their immediate family. However, her father knew, and so did Salem Lassiter, because he had married Sara Sterling.

  “She went to Mexico, met Matt Sterling, married him, and, through his connections and influence, he negotiated with the Mexican government to assist in my return.”

  Emily wanted to believe Chris, but she couldn’t. She had overheard whispered variations of this explanation so many times that she felt Chris had rehearsed it. She had to respect his right for privacy because her own family had its share of secrets and scandals, the most profound one surrounding her father. Fewer than half a dozen people outside of their family knew that he was Samuel Claridge Cole’s illegitimate son.

  She put the straw in the large pineapple shell to her lips and took a swallow of the icy-cold drink, enjoying the distinctive blend of fruits on her discerning palate.