Royce Ann stared at her. “I take it Rafe—Rafael—left sooner than you wanted?” At Krista’s glum nod she continued. “I just don’t know what to do with you. All the available men in the county are in front of you, and you’re pining for the one man who couldn’t care less.”
Icy blue eyes raked over her. “Thanks a lot, Royce Ann. Are you trying to destroy the small bit of confidence that survived Rafael?”
Royce Ann murmured an apology, then caught her husband’s arm as he passed by on the way to get a beer. “Talk some sense into her head before it’s too late,” she commanded before escaping to chat with another friend.
Jim Stone smiled faintly. “Would you like to talk, Krista?”
“Why not?” she asked crossly. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Care to take a walk?”
“Why not?”
They left the lights and noise of the party behind and headed toward the stables. “So what’s up, Krista?”
“Nothing. How about you? Your life all right?”
“Sure.” Jim leaned back against the corral fence, resting his arms behind him along the top rail. “How long are you going to stay?”
“Oh…I don’t know. Maybe a month. Maybe a week. Maybe forever.”
“Nice. Well…so much for that. What am I supposed to be talking sense to you about?”
Krista turned to lean her chin on the fence. There was one horse in the corral, a mare that trotted over for a little attention. Krista stroked the horse for a moment, then slid her hand beneath her chin to protect it from the rough wood. “You know, Jim, in New York, if I want a date, usually all I have to do is choose someone, and he’s willing.”
Jim could easily believe that. He’d had a crush on Krista himself years ago, when they’d first met.
“Maybe things got too easy. Maybe that’s why this seems so difficult,” she mused. “Maybe that’s why he seems so different.”
“I assume you’re talking about Rafe Contreras.”
She nodded glumly. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s a very private man. He does his job and minds his own business, and he expects us to mind ours. He’s good at his work—damned good. I’d rather be out there with him than anyone else.”
“Friends?”
“None, as far as I know.”
“Family?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
Krista sighed. “You’re not a lot of help.”
“Sorry.” Jim hesitantly touched her arm. “You’ve really fallen for him, haven’t you? I wish I could help you out, Krista, but…I don’t know how.”
She raised her head and turned to look at him. “You could get me a date.”
“With Rafe? I don’t—”
“Royce Ann says there’s a guy named Darren?”
“Darren Carter. He’s the tall, thin one.”
“If he’s interested in a very casual date, I think I would enjoy going out.”
“Sure, Krista. I’ll talk to him.”
Darren’s weekend date with Krista was the talk of the office Monday morning. Nick and Mike were envious, Martin Thompson almost triumphant. The look he shot Rafael shouted, “I told you so.” In Martin’s mind Rafael wasn’t the kind of man Krista would want a permanent relationship with; she would inevitably get bored. It had just happened a little sooner than Thompson expected.
Throughout Darren’s recitation of his evening with Krista and the others’ questions, Rafael’s face remained set in its usual impassive lines, but underneath he couldn’t stop the jealousy that smoldered into life. He was very careful, though, to show absolutely nothing, because he was being watched closely by Jim Stone for some response.
Who are you trying to fool? he asked himself. You want her, and she knows it. And you are jealous. You should be relieved, not wondering if she responded to Carter’s kisses the way she responds to yours, not wishing you could break his neck for touching her.
Jim Stone stopped beside Rafael’s desk. “You ready to go, Rafe?”
He rose from the desk, reaching for his coffee with his left hand.
“You’ve got some nasty scratches there,” Jim remarked. “You tangle with a tiger?”
“A cat,” Rafael corrected him, then amended that. “A wildcat.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the trash.
Jim followed him out of the building, quietly murmuring, “A blue-eyed wildcat?”
Rafael pretended not to hear him as he swung into the driver’s seat of the truck. Normally he didn’t mind working with Stone; if he had to have a partner, he preferred Jim, but today he would rather have been alone. He didn’t want to spend today with a friend of Krista’s.
The usual silence was strained as they patrolled their sector—miles of dusty, dry desert. After a couple of hours Jim thought that if he didn’t hear someone’s voice he would go mad, so he initiated a conversation—or at least he tried.
“I’ve known Krista a long time.”
Rafael stopped the truck at the top of a hill and switched off the engine. They had a clear view across the border.
“She’s a nice woman.”
Rafael stared ahead as if his partner hadn’t spoken. His eyes were hidden behind the mirrored sunglasses, and they were empty, as usual.
It was hot, but Rafael didn’t mind. When Jim turned to get a cold Coke from the small ice chest in back, he offered Rafael one, but it was refused. “Krista’s nice, friendly. It’s her nature,” Jim continued, popping the top of the can.
“Aggressive,” Rafael corrected before he could stop himself.
“Not really…well, maybe a little. But what’s so bad about that? She’s pretty, and she’s a good friend, and she’s smart.”
Slowly Rafael turned his head and Jim felt that piercing stare even though he couldn’t see it. It almost made him squirm.
“Why are you telling me this?” Rafael asked in a gravelly voice, his mouth barely moving beneath the neat mustache.
“You know why.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Have you told her that?”
Repeatedly. He looked back toward the border before answering. “Ask her.”
Whatever Rafael had told Krista, he was being chivalrous, Jim thought, in not repeating it. The man was more interested than he wanted to admit.
“She’s awfully pretty, isn’t she?” Jim took a long drink from the can, then reached into his pocket for his sunglasses. “She and Royce Ann moved here about the same time, and they were best friends in high school. For a long time I had a crush on Krista. It wasn’t until just before graduation that I started dating Royce Ann. It almost doesn’t seem fair for one woman to be so pretty, does it?”
No, it didn’t, Rafael agreed. It didn’t seem fair that she had such a strong effect on him. It didn’t seem fair that she reminded him so much of Rebecca, or that he was investigating her father. But Rafael had learned at a very young age not to expect fairness. He had to cope with what was given, and what he’d been given was a very strong desire for a woman he couldn’t have, shouldn’t even want.
He tilted his head from side to side to ease the stiffness in his neck. If he’d been alone he would have sighed hopelessly. Krista McLaren was the only woman he wanted—the only woman who could fill his hunger. How could he cope with that?
Krista L. A. McLaren.
Her name was neatly typed across the top of the folder that Rafael found in his mailbox Friday evening. The manila envelope carried a return address in New York that Rafael knew was Richard Houseman’s address. Inside the envelope was the folder, with information on Krista.
Though her career as a clothing designer was just taking off, thanks to family money she lived in an expensive apartment, drove a German-made sports car, went to fabulous parties, wore elegant clothes and dated rich and famous men, among them an Italian count and an American movie star. Her friends were models, designers, actors and people too rich to bother with w
ork. There were no ties to the drug world. If she was part of Art McLaren’s deals, the connections were well hidden.
Houseman had included photographs, neatly clipped from newspapers and magazines, the publications and dates penciled in the margins. “Brand Harris at the premiere of his new movie, Jungle of Death, with girlfriend Krista McLaren….” “Michel Deveraux made an appearance at the Cannes festival with designer Krista McLaren…” “Krista McLaren to become Lord Andrew Phillips’s leading lady?”
Apparently not, for the next photo showed Krista at the wedding reception for Lord Andrew Phillips, one of Britain’s most sought-after bachelors, and Krista’s close friend Devon Marks. The picture was over a year old, the only decent photo in the folder, and in color. Krista looked absolutely gorgeous, Rafael decided, once his erratic heartbeat had slowed. Next to her the bride and every other woman at the reception paled into nothingness. She was smiling that brilliant smile that did strange things to his breathing and his blood pressure, to say nothing of its effects on other parts of his body.
He stared at the photo for a long time, fantasizing a bit, dreaming of what he would do to her if only he could. But he liked the dream too much, so he pushed it from his mind and went to the next photograph.
The World Series, last fall. “The Dodgers may have lost the Series,” the caption read, “but Mike Davis, L.A. first baseman, doesn’t seem to mind. He and girlfriend Krista McLaren flew to Paris immediately following the final game, partying away post-Series blues.”
That fanned his jealousy, prompting him to look closely at the man. His hair was as blond as Krista’s, his eyes a light blue. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but apparently he had attracted Krista. Rafael wondered why, then decided he didn’t want to know.
There were more photographs and excerpts from gossip columns. Rafael looked at them all, then removed the picture taken at the wedding reception. He locked the folder in his desk drawer and carried the photo into his bedroom. He called himself every insulting name he could think of, but it didn’t stop him from putting the picture in his nightstand drawer.
It was cool and dark out, and Rafael needed to cool down, too. He went to the closet and pulled out a belt, threading it through the loops of his jeans. When he reached the center loop in back, he slid a leather holster onto the belt, then pushed the belt through the remaining loops. He placed a .38-caliber Colt revolver in the holster before putting his shirt on; its tails covered the gun.
There was a natural pool about a half mile from his house. It wasn’t large, but the water was clear and usually cool enough to be refreshing after the desert heat. He walked east, gradually angling south. The moon was full and very bright, casting deep, black shadows. He listened closely as he walked through the canyons, but the only noises, other than those he made himself, were the natural night sounds.
The pool shimmered in the moonlight, its water still and inviting. Rafael stopped in the black shadow of a boulder as tall as he was and removed his clothes, folding them in a neat pile. His shirt was on top, the .38 hidden beneath it, easy to reach.
He walked naked to the pool, then waded into the cool water. As soon as the water deepened he dived in, slicing through it with powerful strokes. He floated, staring up at the dark sky and seeing Krista’s face. If he made love to her once, would it satisfy his desire? Or would one taste of her sweetness make him hunger for more?
The men he worked with would laugh if they knew that cold, unfeeling, inhuman Rafe Contreras was spending most of his hours fantasizing about a woman who dated athletes and actors and noblemen. He was becoming obsessed with a woman who was so far out of his league that they didn’t even play the same games.
What would any woman want with Rafael when she could have Brand Harris, the hottest actor to grace the silver screen in years, or Mike Davis, one of the highest-paid athletes in the country? He could never compete with those men. He wasn’t rich or famous, and he never would be. He’d never be anything more than what he was right now: a hard-working, low-paid border-patrol agent, ruthless, chilling, cold-blooded. A man to be feared. A man who was going to take away the father she loved, the only family she had. A man who could never offer her anything…except love.
Rafael closed his eyes. Obsession he would accept; he could handle that. But love? After Rebecca, how could he ever love any woman again? Especially one so much like Rebecca?
No, he couldn’t allow himself to fall in love with Krista McLaren. That path could only lead to disaster.
Krista lazily swirled her Coke in its glass, watching the ice cubes circle. She wasn’t bored, but she feared that her restlessness made her seem so, and she made an extra effort to pretend interest in the conversation around her.
Three weeks had gone by since she’d first seen Rafael Contreras right here in the Blue Parrot. When Darren Carter had invited her here for a drink she had accepted, she was ashamed to admit, only in the hopes that Rafael might once again be there. She should have known better than to even hope. Rafael had made it clear last Friday that he wanted nothing from her. Why couldn’t she just accept that and forget about him?
“Sure you don’t want a drink? Beer or maybe wine?” Darren asked.
Krista smiled faintly. “I don’t drink.”
“At all?”
“Not at all.” She glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. “Darren, I hate to ask, but…I need to get home soon. I’ve got to finish some work in the next couple of days or I’ll be in serious trouble.”
“No problem. I’ve got to work tomorrow, too.” Darren was relieved at the chance to take her home. Krista was pretty, and nice enough, but her mind was obviously on something—or someone—else, and the hour they’d spent together had been uncomfortable at best. He took her straight home and didn’t try to kiss her even once. Krista thanked him politely and went inside the house, avoiding her father in the den and climbing the stairs to her room.
Her restlessness didn’t leave her. She tried to watch television, but nothing looked good. She couldn’t concentrate on the book she’d started a few days earlier, and she couldn’t even think about work, the excuse she’d used for making it an early evening.
A swim. That would be nice, she thought, and she went to the closet to choose a swimsuit.
The pink-and-white camisole and the white skirt she’d made a few weeks ago hung in a prominent spot in the big closet, neatly pressed. Krista reached out to touch the skirt, then quickly began undressing.
She would take her swim, but not in the backyard pool. No, she’d take Diablo and ride to the pool at the old Moreno place. At Rafael Contreras’s place. She wouldn’t go to his house, wouldn’t try to see him; she was just going to take a nice, late-night swim in the pond where she and Royce Ann had spent two pleasant summers. Rafael wouldn’t mind, because he wouldn’t know, and the ride would soothe her nerves.
On impulse Krista pulled the skirt over head and around her waist. She put on the camisole, then left the closet, walking past shelves of shoes. Barefoot, she left the house for the stables.
Diablo greeted her with a nuzzle before she swung onto his back. It was a beautiful night for a ride, she thought, all moonlight and shadows.
A beautiful night for lovers.
Chapter 5
Rafael left the water and went to sit in the shadow of the rock. He ran his hand through his wet hair, brushing it straight back, then leaned back against the warm rock to stare at the sky again.
He heard the sounds of a horse: the click of shoes against rock; the sliding of pebbles; the whisper of hooves in soft sandy dirt; and he instinctively reached for the gun beneath his shirt.
The night was clear, the full moon gleaming up above. The moonlight made deep shadows, shadows of pure black, like the one that hid Rafael. It was from such a shadow that the horse appeared. Rafael had seen the big animal only once, a few weeks ago, but he recognized it. Each step Diablo took separated him from the blackness and revealed more of his power and beauty. Each step also reveal
ed more of his rider.
She rode without a saddle, needing to be a part of her mount, one with the magnificent stallion. Her feet were bare, as were her legs, gold in the light of the moon. A froth of white skirt covered her hips, bunched up around her thighs, and a pale-colored top covered her breasts leaving her arms bare. Her hair fell down her back, waves of shimmering gold that caught and reflected and absorbed the moon’s rays, glowing and glimmering and gleaming.
“Krista.”
Rafael said the name in a whisper that had no sound, and his body tightened. His obsession. His fantasy. Even the thought, the saying, of her name could affect him like no other woman ever had.
As Rafael watched and listened and felt, the stallion picked his way over the stone-littered ground, circling the pool toward him. Krista moved naturally with the sway of the horse, a part of him, and Rafael wondered how it would feel if she rode him—if, instead of the powerful stallion, she were sitting astride him, legs locked around his hips, moving with the thrusts of his body inside hers.
Unhampered by clothes, his body responded again. What would she think, beautiful, rich Krista, if she could see him now, hard and aching for her? She had won. Their lovemaking was inevitable. It would be tonight.
He laid the gun down, covering it with his shirt. Still in shadow, he watched and waited.
The pool looked inviting, its smooth surface beckoning Krista. Still she sat astride Diablo, her swim forgotten. An ache had started deep inside her when she’d reached the far side of the pool. He was there, in that shadow, the man who made her feel this way. Rafael. She could see nothing, hear nothing, not even his breathing, but he was there, wanting her and making her want him.
The stallion stopped, and Krista slid to the ground. She stood at the edge of the shadow, the moon shining fully on her.
Rafael’s breath caught at the sight before him. His hands came up to reach for her, then fell back to his sides. One last time he told himself to leave her alone, but he knew the warning would be unheeded.
Krista took a step toward him, holding out her hands. “Come to me,” she invited, her voice soft and husky and sensuous. “Please, Rafael.” His feet moved of their own accord, disregarding his brain’s command to stop, until he was only two feet in front of her. There was no surprise on her face, only warmth and hunger and need. She had known it would be Rafael; no one other man could make her feel this way.
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