Hotter Than Hell

by Kim Harrison

  Cat scooted away. “I warn you. I can fight. If you try anything—”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no, señorita. I will not do anything you do not wish me to do.”

  His long hair drifted across his face, softening the angles of his cheekbones and jaw. Cat’s heart was beating hard enough to be heard in California. She had been lying there, doing nothing, believing it was all another dream. But he was real. And she’d wanted him to keep on doing what he was doing, both in the dream and in reality. She still did.

  “Where is my horse?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

  He stood up. Her eyes were level with his hips. There was no mistaking his impressive erection.

  “Don’t worry, querida. He is here.”

  Cat glanced around. If the stallion were more than a few feet away, she wouldn’t be able to see his black coat in the darkness.

  “Who are you?” Cat demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  He tilted his head. She saw that he wore the same shirt as he had last night, but it was unbuttoned almost to his waist. Sleek black hair dusted his chest. His pecs were beautifully developed, his stomach ridged with muscle.

  “My name,” he said, “is Andrés. And you are Catalina.”

  The sound of her name on his tongue left her shaken. God, he was beautiful. All she had to do was hold out her arms, and he would take her. Just like that. A stranger she wanted with every fiber of her being.

  Not a stranger, her heart insisted. You know him. You know him….

  “You aren’t afraid,” he said. “You will never be afraid of me.”

  “I…” She swallowed. “I’m going to find my horse and leave.”

  “It would be far wiser for you to remain here until sunrise.”

  He was right, damn him. She couldn’t risk letting Trueno hurt himself as Kelpie had, presuming she could get the stallion to come to her in the first place.

  Andrés dropped back into a crouch, his arms draped over his knees. “You will suffer no harm from me, señorita,” he said. “Or is it señora?”

  Cat couldn’t quite believe that he was asking her such questions after what he’d been doing. “That’s none of your business,” she snapped.

  His smile was devastating. “You are no virgin, Catalina. Your response was…most satisfactory.”

  Satisfactory. Cat suppressed a moan. “You…you don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know that you deny your own passions, mi gatita.”

  “I don’t deny anyth—” Cat stopped, stung with outrage. “Gatita”—kitten—was what her grandmother had called her when she was a child. Andrés whoever-he-was had no right to use that nickname. No right.

  “I don’t generally welcome the advances of total strangers,” she said.

  “And if I were not a stranger?”

  His question compelled her to relive the dream in all its astonishing detail. Why did it seem almost like a memory? Why was part of her so convinced that she had lain in Andrés’s arms in another life?

  Cat dug her fingers into the bark of the tree trunk. This was ridiculous. The dream didn’t mean a thing, except that her fantasy life had become a little too vivid. Vivid enough to make her lose her hard-won control. Here she was, holding a normal conversation with a stranger who was clearly crazy and possibly dangerous.

  Except he hadn’t hurt her. He’d backed off when she told him to. For all her legal expertise, she couldn’t define the man who crouched before her.

  The best thing you can do now is be completely objective. Treat him as a hostile witness.

  “Why did you follow me?” she asked.

  “Follow you, señorita? But I did not.”

  “Are you saying you’ve been here all along?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “On my own feet.”

  Hostile, indeed. “Where do you live?”

  “I call no place home.”

  No horse, no home, apparently no vehicle or significant belongings. But if he were truly an indigent, he’d probably be in much worse shape than he was. No one could claim he was anything but hardy, healthy, and unmistakably virile.

  He could still be certifiably insane.

  And what’s so sane about the way you felt when he touched you, Catalina O’Roarke?

  She folded her arms tightly across her chest. She’d slept through most of the afternoon and a good portion of the night, and yet her legs were growing heavy and her thoughts were sluggish. She was very much afraid that she’d begin to ramble if she tried to keep the conversation going much longer.

  “You are tired,” Andrés said. “Sleep, gatita. No harm will come to you.”

  Laughter bubbled out of her throat before she could stop it. “I think I’ll stay awake, thank you very much.”

  Andrés stretched out where he was and made himself comfortable, resting on his elbow. “You were not always so frightened,” he said.

  Cat straightened. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You are from la ciudad, are you not?”

  “I’m from Los Angeles. What of it?”

  “I have heard that your great cities have no soul, that those who live in them have forgotten the look of the sky and the feel of the earth.”

  “That’s crazy.” Careful. “Haven’t you been to a city before?”

  “Sí. Long ago, in another place.” His gaze turned inward, remembering. “I had no love for them, even then. It is why I came to this continent.”

  “You’re not from Mexico?”

  His eyes cleared. “Did your own people not come from Méjico?”

  “My grandmother was born there. She journeyed alone to the United States when she was sixteen.”

  “Was it she who named you?”

  “Catalina was her name.”

  “Ah.” He plucked a blade of dry, fringed grass from a clump near his shoulder. “Do you know its meaning?” He twirled the grass between his fingers. “Pure. Innocent. When did you lose your innocence, mi gatita? What is the name of the man who hurt you?”

  “No one hurt me.”

  “Your eyes betray you, querida. Was he your esposo?”

  “The subject is private.”

  He got to his feet with that same feral grace and approached her, hands loose at his sides. “He was not the man for you. He mistreated you. He gave you no pleasure.”

  Cat blinked, startled to realize that she was on the brink of tears. “He didn’t…It had nothing to do with—”

  “You would blame yourself?” He stopped with the tips of his boots touching hers, such gentleness in his expression that she could hardly bear it.

  “No. I should never have…I thought I knew what I wanted.”

  “And still you do not know.” He lifted his hand, his fingers lightly touching her cheek. “I could teach you.”

  Her mind told her to jerk away, but her body held her captive to his caresses. “I came here…to be alone.”

  “So alone.” He leaned into her, lips parted. His body pressed her thighs and hip and breast. His mouth closed over hers, tongue seeking.

  Cat plunged into a maelstrom of desire. She returned the kiss, panting with excitement. She had no defense when he seized both of her wrists and pulled them up above her head, trapping them against the cottonwood’s trunk. He held her easily with one hand while his other stroked her face, trailed over her breasts and paused to unfasten the button of her jeans.

  The rational part of Cat’s brain knew how simple it would be for him to complete what he’d begun while she slept. How easy it would be to give in.

  You want it. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life.

  His fingers slipped under her panties, teasing hot and swollen flesh.

  “So wet,” he murmured into her ear. “So ready for me.”

  “I…I don’t…”

  He traced her lips with his tongue while his fingers circled. “You do,” he said. “Tell me, gatita. Tell me
what you want.”

  She tried to answer, but he didn’t wait. He withdrew his hand and began to push her jeans down her thighs, working her panties off as he cupped her bottom. He released her hands and held her with the weight of his body while he unzipped his jeans. The heat of his cock caressed her inner thigh, eased over slick flesh, thrust aggressively against her damp curls.

  Sanity returned like a blast of icy wind. Panic gave Cat strength she didn’t know she had. A sharp shove was enough to throw Andrés off balance. Cat stumbled away from the cottonwood and stopped, frozen by emotions that demanded more of her than she could ever give.

  Andrés turned to face her, his expression unreadable. Slowly he bent and picked up her jeans. He tossed them toward her, and she caught them reflexively.

  “I see that the time is not yet right,” he said. “But it will come, Catalina. It will come.”

  Without another word he walked into the darkness. Cat pulled on her jeans, fingers numb and trembling. She could think of nothing but getting far away from this place, even if she had to walk all the way back to the ranch. It wasn’t fear of Andrés that drove her. It was fear of herself.

  With only the vaguest idea of direction, she began to run, her ears straining for sounds of pursuit. Andrés didn’t follow. After ten minutes Cat’s legs were aching and her lungs burned for air. She slowed to a jog and then a fast walk. The vast sky had paled to sapphire, the stars flickering out one by one.

  She estimated that she’d gone about two miles when Trueno reappeared. He trotted up alongside her, neck arched and hooves dancing as if he had nothing for which to be ashamed.

  Cat stopped, chilled by the sweat cooling on her body. “Where have you been?” she asked, more weary than angry. “You couldn’t have picked a worse time to disappear.”

  Trueno gazed at her without the slightest hint of shame. Cat laughed. “Of course not. You’re only an animal. I was the stupid one.”

  The stallion shook his head with broad movements of his neck and shoulders.

  “Yes. Stupid. I guess I’ve learned my lesson.” She began walking again, already contemplating what Turk and Pilar would say when she finally appeared at the ranch, windblown and limping from a bootful of blisters. Trueno slowed his walk to keep pace with her, occasionally lipping her collar or nickering in her ear. She pushed his head away.

  “Someone must be missing you,” she said. “Go home, horse.”

  He cut in front of her, pivoted around and butted her in the chest.

  “Sorry. I’d rather walk this time.”

  Trueno fell back, pawing at her dusty footprints. She thought he’d finally gone, and an immense weight of sadness collected in the space beneath her ribs. But then the soft clop of his hooves resumed, and she found a little extra energy to keep walking. She spotted the dark band of exposed basalt that marked the deep gorge of the Rio Grande and set her course beside it.

  Turk and another cowboy met her around midmorning. The old hand dismounted and hurried toward her, his face long with concern.

  “Miss Cat! Are you all right?”

  Her skin went hot. “I’m fine.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “Have you been looking for me?”

  “Just about all night.” He tipped his hat back on his head and subjected her to a thorough examination. She was almost certain that he knew exactly what she’d been doing…how close she’d come to making a very bad mistake.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said, staring at the toes of her boots. “It was very foolish of me to ride a horse I knew nothing about.”

  Turk frowned. “What horse?”

  She turned around. Trueno was gone.

  “It’s a long story,” she said. “I promise I won’t let anything like this happen again.”

  Even Turk’s unfailing courtesy couldn’t quite conceal his skepticism. “You’ll ride with me, Miss Cat.” He addressed the other cowboy. “Thanks for the help, John. I’ll take it from here.”

  The cowboy waved and rode off. Turk held out his hand, pulling Cat up behind him.

  Pilar met them at the house, tight-lipped with concern. Cat found it impossible to meet the older woman’s gaze. She retreated to her room, still trying to make sense of the nonsensical.

  It was almost as if her mysterious encounters with Andrés were about much more than just sex. She’d never before been in the least bit tempted to make love with a complete stranger; she couldn’t dismiss the idea that her uncharacteristically wanton behavior had some rational basis.

  Dreams aren’t rational. There’s no excuse for you, Catalina O’Roarke.

  Night was slow in coming. Cat tossed and turned, imagining she felt invisible hands stroking her body. She got up, threw on her robe and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

  Someone scratched on the front door.

  Cat nearly dropped her glass. She set it down on the kitchen table, crept to the door, and checked the lock.

  “Who is it?”

  There was no answer. Just your imagination. But she was struck by the uncanny certainty that someone was waiting outside. Waiting for her.

  Andrés.

  Fear and anticipation held her paralyzed for a dozen heartbeats. She unlocked the door, holding her arm firm against the shaking of her fingers.

  The porch was empty. Cat flipped on the light. A small, cloaked figure stood several yards away, dark eyes deeply set in a nut-brown face.

  Cat released her breath. “Buenos noches,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  The woman only stared. Cat stepped onto the porch, pulling her robe close around her throat. “Necesitas ayuda?”

  Gnarled fingers shaped the sign of the cross. “Bruja,” the old woman whispered.

  Witch. Cat remembered the word from the childhood stories Abuelita had so delighted in telling her. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Cuidado conel caballo oscuro.”

  “Qué?”

  “Ha venido a jugar contigo.” The woman backed away, clutching the crucifix about her neck. “Cuidado. Cuidado!”

  “Wait!”

  “What is it, Catalina?”

  Pilar stood in the doorway behind her, peering sleepily over Cat’s shoulder. “Who were you talking to?”

  Cat drew Pilar back inside the house. “An old woman,” she said. “I’ve never seen her before. She came out of nowhere, gave some kind of warning, and then disappeared.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I didn’t understand all of it. First she called me a witch, and then she said something about a horse. At least I think she did.” Cat repeated the words the old woman had spoken.

  “Beware the dark horse,” Pilar translated. “He has come to deceive you.”

  All the warmth drained from Cat’s body. The dark horse. “What…what do you think she meant?”

  Pilar sat down at the table. “I have heard stories about a black horse that wanders the meseta, a great stallion who has never been caught. Some say he is a ghost, others a demon.” She shook her head. “I myself have never seen the beast, but there is always talk, especially among the old.”

  “Why would the old woman come to warn me?”

  “I don’t know.” Pilar met Cat’s gaze. “This means nothing to you? Nothing at all?”

  “I…may have seen this horse.”

  “Ah. Then perhaps you should heed the old woman’s warning.”

  “You don’t really believe it’s a ghost or a demon?”

  “No. But it does no harm to be careful.”

  Pilar returned to her room, preoccupied with her own musings. Cat made another attempt to sleep. Half-formed images of black horses and pale-eyed strangers flickered in and out of her consciousness. They seemed to blend together, hurling her into a dark space suspended between vision and nightmare.

  The day of his return was the happiest in her life. His face was darker than she remembered, carved with deeper lines of sorrow, yet the joy came back into his eyes when he saw her. He shed his heavy armor
and tight-fitting clothing, putting on the proper garments of the people.

  The marriage was arranged as quickly as possible, taking into account the most auspicious days and the advice of the tonalpouhqui. The headman and elders were convinced that Andrés brought good luck with him; they provided him with a house, to which she went when the ceremonies were complete. They lay together on the reed mat, and once again she knew the ecstasy of his touch….

  The shout sent Cat bolting from her bed, scattering pillows across the polished hardwood floor. Several moments passed before she realized that the noise had come from her own throat.

  The dreams were getting stronger. Cat didn’t know how to stop them. She was beginning to believe they were something more than dreams. But what did they mean? What was that alien world where Andrés wore armor and rode a horse, and who was the girl?

  Who am I?

  Anxious to banish the alien memories, Cat plunged into the shower and stood under the spray until the hot water was gone. Then she dressed, snatched a piece of freshly baked bread from the kitchen, and looked desperately for a distraction.

  It was Turk who provided one. “Morning, Miss Cat,” he said, looking up from the tack he was mending. “Don’t know if it would interest you, but there’s a music festival going on in Taos this weekend. Mostly local stuff…folk and something called ‘world music.’ You’re welcome to take the Dakota into town for a couple days.”

  Cat closed her eyes. “Bless you, Turk.” She went back into the house, throwing a few pairs of shirts and jeans into her duffel. After a brief exchange with Pilar—during which neither one of them mentioned last night’s peculiar visitation—Cat settled behind the wheel of the Dakota and drove south on the dirt road leading to State Route Sixty-Four.

  Taos was a colorful village, vivid with Hispanic and Native American influence, a little rustic in spite of the thriving arts community that revealed itself in numerous studios and gift shops around the Plaza. The majority of the buildings were adobe or mock-adobe, painted in tones of terracotta, turquoise, and gold. Hollyhocks and blanket flowers graced neatly fenced gardens.

  The narrow streets were busier than usual, clogged with out-of-towners arriving for the music festival. Cat found a room in a modest motel at the southern edge of town, tossed her duffel on the bed and headed out to explore.