Runaway Mistress

by Sandra Marton

  The last thing she would do was give him that power over her heart again.

  "No!" she cried, against his mouth, and fought him, really fought him, the arms that held her, the kisses that drugged her, until, finally, he lifted his head and stared at her through eyes blurred with passion.

  "Esmé?" he said thickly. "Querida? What is wrong?"

  "You," she said, her voice trembling. "You're what's wrong. Do you really think you can — you can turn up in my life and — and manhandle me?"

  "Manhandle?" Rio's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you call it when I take you in my arms to make love?"

  "It isn't love. It's — it's you trying to seduce me."

  "I see." His mouth twisted, as if the words he spoke tasted bitter. "I manhandle you, and I seduce you. Is that what you think?"

  Esmé wrapped her arms around herself. The stable was filled with the heat of the horses, and having Rio's arms around her had always been more than enough to ward off any chill before. But now, she was cold, icy cold, with the realization that she loved a man who could never love her.

  "Yes," she said, and looked straight into his eyes. "I do. That's why I left you, Rio. I was bored. I admit, it was fun and exciting at first, that whole Latin lover thing, but after a few months, it — it grew old. I knew it was time for a change, and —"

  She gasped as he grabbed her wrist, brought her arm up between them. "Keep away from me," he said, his voice an icy whisper. "Do you understand, Esmé? Keep away from me, for the balance of the time I am here, or I will not be responsible for what I do."

  He flung her from him and strode from the stable.

  Chapter Eleven

  Esmé's arms ached.

  She had mucked out the stalls and forked in fresh straw bedding for the horses she and Rio had ridden, then started brushing the other horses in their stalls. One of the hands wandered in while she was working, watched for a while, then offered to take over.

  "Thank you," she'd replied politely, "but I'm perfectly capable of doing the job."

  The hand — a new one, and so young she doubted he had to shave more than once a week — had cleared his throat.

  "Yes'm. I know you can. I just thought —"

  "Don't think," she'd snapped. "It isn't what you're paid to do."

  Just remembering how she'd spoken to the boy made her cringe.

  "I'm sorry," she'd said quickly, and the boy had said that was okay, she didn't have to apologize, but it was a lie. She wished she could go back in time and snip out her tongue, rather than say anything so mean to the kid.

  And it was all Rio's fault.

  It had been difficult enough, gaining the respect of a bunch of cowboys, especially after half of them had seen her face in magazines, advertising everything from lipstick to automobiles. But she'd done it, showing them what Jonas had remembered, that she had a natural touch with horses.

  Rio had ruined it.

  She'd have to work twice as hard now to erase what at least some of them had seen — Rio, carrying her off like a prize.…

  Carrying her here, into the quiet shadows, where he'd have made love to her, endless love, where he'd have buried himself deep within her, rocked her and rocked her until she cried out his name…

  The horse she was grooming whinnied its displeasure. She'd stopped brushing him; her hand lay still against his withers. Esmé blinked and looked into the big, dark eyes. More, those eyes seemed to be saying, it felt so good to be stroked.…

  "Stop it," she said. The animal snorted and Esmé made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sorry, sweetheart. I was scolding myself, not you."

  She rubbed the velvet muzzle, left the stall and let herself out of the barn, out into the afternoon. The hot afternoon…

  The world spun; the path dipped under her feet.

  "Hey," a voice said, and a pair of arms went around her. Not Rio's; even as everything grayed, she knew it wasn't he who'd caught her. "Miz Bennett? You okay?"

  Esmé's vision cleared. It was the young ranch hand who'd caught her before she could faint. He was looking at her as if she might break apart.

  "I'm fine." Her voice was weak; she could tell from the look on the boy's face that her words didn't reassure him any more than they reassured her. "Really," she said, and managed a quick smile. "I'm all right."

  The boy frowned, let go of her, but kept a hand out as if she might sink to the ground.

  "You sure?"

  She nodded. A mistake, because the simple action made her stomach rise into her throat.

  "Yes," she said, and swallowed hard. "The sun —" She gestured at the blue, hot sky and bright yellow disk blazing against it.

  The kid nodded. "Yeah. It can really get to you, if you ain't used to it."

  "I'm used to it," Esmé said. "I grew up here. Why is it everyone thinks they know all there is to know about me, when actually…"

  The boy was looking at her as if she'd lost her mind. Maybe she had, she thought.

  "Thank you," she said briskly, and headed for the house before the world turned gray again, which was exactly what it was threatening to do.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Esmerelda! Are you all right?"

  Carmen was standing in the doorway, holding open the screen door. Esmé brushed past her and headed for the sink.

  "Oh, hell," she murmured, as she opened the cold-water tap. "I suppose everyone on the ranch saw me trip over my own feet!"

  "Here, chica." Carmen bustled to the sink, snatched up a dish towel and soaked it in the spill of icy water. "Put this on your forehead and sit down."

  "I'm fine, Mama."

  "Good. Now, sit down."

  "Honestly, I'm okay."

  "Must you argue about everything?" Carmen took her daughter's arm, led her to the big oak table, gently pushed her into a chair. "Just sit here and let me take care of you."

  Esmé sighed. The truth was, her knees still felt as if they were made of noodles and there were little black dots dancing in front of her eyes.

  "Thank you."

  Carmen clucked her tongue. "And it is not necessary for a daughter to thank her mother. Here. Drink this."

  Esmé took the glass from her hand. "Orange juice?"

  "Sí. With sugar added, the way you liked it when you were small."

  "The way you wouldn't let me drink it," Esmé said, with a little smile. She sipped the cold, sweet liquid, felt it slide down her throat, where it seemed to collect in a blob too large to deal with. She swallowed very carefully, and put the glass down.

  "Too much sugar?"

  "No. I just… It's the sun, Mama. I feel a little nauseous."

  "Ah. Well, take tiny sips, chica. Have you eaten anything today? I know you didn't touch your breakfast… What is it?"

  Esmé could feel the sweat on her forehead turning to icy beads. "Please. Don't talk about breakfast."

  Carmen turned and looked at her daughter. She drew out a chair and sat down across from her.

  "Did you feel sick then, too?" she asked softly. "This morning, I mean?"

  Esmé nodded. "A little. Actually, I've been feeling queasy lately." She brought the glass to her lips and took a cautious drink. "I guess that cowboy was right."

  "Which cowboy?"

  "The kid who caught me before I could pass out." She sighed and smiled at her mother over the rim of her glass. "He said it took time to get used to the heat and I said I didn't have to get used to it, that I'd grown up here. But I've been away for so long.…"

  "Long enough to have involved yourself with a man like Rio de Santos."

  Esmé looked up. Her mother's expression was unreadable, but her black eyes were flashing.

  "Mama," she said carefully, "I don't want to discuss Rio de Santos."

  "No. I'm sure you do not." Carmen got to her feet, took a cloth from the sink and began briskly wiping down the countertop. "What girl would wish to discuss her lover with her mother?"

  "I'm not a girl. And Rio's not my lover."

  "Not
anymore, but surely, he was."

  "That's the operative word, Mama. Was. Rio isn't anything to me, not anymore."

  "No?" Carmen tossed the cloth into the sink and put her fists on her hips. "Then, what is he doing here, huh?"

  "He came to buy horses."

  Carmen barked out a laugh. "Horses? You cannot be so blind, chica. He came here for you."

  "If he did, he's wasting his time." Esmé pushed back her chair and stood up. "I don't want him."

  "A woman does not turn her back on a man like that. He is the kind who leaves a woman to weep into her pillow, alone."

  "That's so old-fashioned it makes me…sick," Esmé groaned, and ran for the bathroom.

  Carmen gripped the edge of the sink. She closed her eyes, as if in supplication, though she feared her prayer was already too late.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Night had fallen on Espada. Heat lightning lit the sky as thunder mumbled threateningly from the hills.

  Esmé sat before the TV set in her small apartment behind the tack room, just off the stable, and clicked mindlessly through the channels.

  "The apartment ain't much," Jonas had said when he'd hired her, "but you can have it, if you want."

  She'd wanted. Otherwise, she'd have had to share her mother's quarters and that would have meant that Carmen would have known that sometimes she spent half the night staring sightlessly at the television.

  Lightning rent the sky; thunder pealed again, faster and closer than before. The storm was coming nearer. Maybe it would bring an end to the relentless heat. Maybe then, she'd be able to sleep.

  Esmé sighed, clicked onto an ancient I Love Lucy rerun and sat back on the sofa. She smiled slightly; she'd seen this episode before. Lucy and Ethel were struggling to keep pace with a conveyer belt of chocolate candies.

  Just the sight of Lucy downing all that chocolate made Esmé feel queasy. She clicked the set off. Except for the growl of thunder, Espada was still.

  She dropped the remote on the coffee table and got to her feet. She was wearing an oversize T-shirt and a pair of cotton panties, her favorite bedtime attire now that she wasn't sleeping with — now that she was here, on the ranch. The cotton was the coolest thing to wear and she didn't have to worry about looking sexy enough to appeal to — to anyone.

  She realized now that she'd made a conscious effort to do that, toward the end of things, once she'd become aware of how much longer Rio had been with her than he'd been with any other woman.

  "Must be something special about you," one of the girls she worked with had teased.

  Esmé had never thought about how long their affair would last before her colleague’s words. After that, it was all she could think of, and after a while, when Rio had started breaking an occasional date, when she'd catch him watching her with a funny look on his face, she'd upped what she thought of as the glamour quotient. More silk nightgowns, new perfume…

  What an idiot she'd been!

  She went into the tiny kitchen, luxuriated in the blast of icy air as she opened the freezer compartment and dumped a handful of ice cubes into a glass. Her mother was right, she thought, as she filled the glass with water. Espada's well water was cool and delicious. It was just that she'd grown accustomed to drinking bottled water in New York. She'd grown accustomed to lots of things while living in the city. The noise, for instance. When she'd first returned to Espada, she'd had difficulty sleeping without an accompanying backdrop of traffic sounds.

  Mostly, she'd had trouble sleeping without Rio. Without his arm around her; without her head on his shoulder. Without him waking her in the night to kiss and caress her before it was time to leave her in the morning.

  He'd wanted to move her to an apartment nearer to his, but she'd refused.

  "I pay my own rent," she'd said. It was true, she'd wanted to hang on to her independence…but after a while, if he'd asked her to move in with him, not to move in near him, she'd have done it in a heartbeat. The truth, the naked truth, was that she'd wanted him to love her, and he didn't. He wouldn't. He'd been up-front about that from the beginning.

  The rain finally arrived, pounding against the tin roof like a tap dancer gone crazy. Lightning flashed through the kitchen; thunder rolled overhead. The lights blinked once, twice, then went out.

  Esmé jumped, then gave a shaky laugh. A storm was only a storm. There was nothing to be afraid of.…

  The door flew open. She screamed, swung toward it and saw a figure silhouetted against the lightning-torn sky. It was Rio. Rio, soaked to the skin, looking enraged and dangerous and gorgeous enough to stop her heart.

  "Damn you, Esmerelda," he growled, and he stepped inside, slammed the door shut, and pulled her into his arms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The storm raging outside, raw and uncontrolled, was reflected in Rio's eyes.

  He had always been a passionate lover. Still, Esmé had sensed that he'd withheld a part of himself, never lost control, and that was good.

  It helped her keep her own emotions leashed.

  Sometimes when they'd made love, she'd felt as if she were trembling on the brink of eternity, that one more touch, one more kiss, would turn her inside out. She'd known better than to let that happen…but now, as he gathered her in his arms, she knew that he was going to demand everything, offer everything.…

  And she would let it happen.

  Thunder boomed over Espada as Rio's arms closed, hard, around her. His eyes filled with passion. She could smell desire on him, a hot, clean, masculine scent that sent her pulse rocketing.

  "Esmé," he said, and he put his hand in the neckline of her shirt, closed it into a fist, and ripped the cotton fabric from her throat to the hem. His gaze dropped to her naked breasts and she felt her nipples lift and swell in response.

  "Rio," she whispered, and he caught her mouth with his, took it with such need that she swayed toward him.

  He cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs stroking the crests. "Tell me that you want me," he said thickly, "that you want this."

  She rose toward him, eyes closed, lips parted, her heart thundering in her ears.

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes.…"

  Rio dropped his hands to her hips, yanked down her panties, tore them free of her ankles. A jagged streak of lightning splattered the room with light and she saw his face, exulted in what she saw there, in what she was doing to him.

  She reached for his belt but her fingers wouldn't obey quickly enough and he brushed her hands aside, tore his soaked T-shirt over his head, undid his belt, stripped away his clothes until he was as naked as she.

  Esmé's breath caught.

  He was as beautiful as she'd remembered, his body muscled and magnificently male.

  "Rio," she whispered, and touched him.

  He groaned when her hand closed around him, said something so explicitly sexual in Spanish that her knees almost buckled.

  "Is that what you want, querida?" he growled. "Is it what you want me to do?"

  "Yes," she said, "please, yes…"

  Rio's fingers wound through hers. He lifted her hands, pinned her to the wall with his weight, her arms outstretched to her sides as he bent his head and kissed her, his mouth devouring hers, his teeth nipping at her flesh, giving her pain, giving her pleasure, giving her what she'd longed for, all these lonely weeks.

  Esmé whimpered, moved against him, lifted her hips, ground her pelvis against the hard ridge of his desire. Rio groaned. She was killing him but if he had to die, he would die willingly, so long as it were like this.

  This was the woman he'd never quite been able to touch, the one he'd sensed was hidden inside the cool, elegant outer shell. She'd always been responsive and

  passionate. Still, he'd had the feeling she'd held back some part of herself, that she'd never quite let him inside her soul.

  Tonight, he knew she was holding nothing back. And neither would he.

  He lifted her in his arms, she wrapped her legs around his hips, and h
e entered her on one long, hard, exquisite thrust. She cried out his name and he kissed her mouth while he took her closer to the edge of the chasm that loomed before them.

  "You are mine," he said fiercely. "Do you hear me, querida? You are mine!"

  "Yes," she said brokenly, "yes, yes.…"

  He moved, moved again, and she gave a high, shrill cry and shattered in his arms.

  "Rio," she sobbed, and he groaned, buried his face against her throat, and emptied himself into her sweet, silken warmth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sound of thunder receded; lightning painted a distant glow on the horizon. The hall lamp flickered, once, twice, then came on.

  Esmé, still locked in Rio's arms, sighed with contentment. Her head fell forward, onto his shoulder. She knew she ought to ease herself from his embrace, that he had to be as drained as she was, but she didn’t want to end this moment. She had never felt so close to him before, or so filled with happiness.

  "Querida." His breath whispered against her ear. "Querida, forgive me. I should have taken you slowly, but I wanted you so badly.…"

  "Don't apologize," she said softly. "It was the same for me."

  His arms tightened around her. "Was it?"

  She nodded. "Yes." It was a dangerous admission, one that left her vulnerable to him, but what was the sense in pretending, after what had just happened?

  He kissed her with almost unbearable tenderness. Slowly, he let her slide down his body until her feet touched the floor.

  "I missed this," he said.

  This, Esmé thought. He had missed this, not her. Suddenly, she was aware of how wanton she must look, of how she'd behaved. She drew back a little, crossed her arms over her breasts.

  "Rio." She swallowed dryly. "I think — I think you should leave.…"

  "Don't hide yourself from me," he said softly. He clasped her wrists and gently brought her arms to her sides. "You are so beautiful, Esmé. I could never tire of looking at you."