Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  “He, the big, ugly hulk with a penchant for pistols?”

  Her face clouded with anger. “If you’re referring to the man who came here to pay you back for your Judas kiss, no. He is not my cuñado. I referred to Dr. Joaquin Navarro.”

  She moved a shoulder and lifted her nose; those movements drew Reece’s scrutiny. Her feminine ways, the creamy curve of that shoulder . . . and a thousand other things fascinated him. Again his passion was building.

  He edged closer. “Speaking of kiss, may I have one?” She tried to wiggle away, but his hand grasped her opposite hip and denied her retreat. “Just one kiss, querida?”

  With her good arm she elbowed Reece’s stomach. “Leave me alone. I’m injured.”

  “All you’ve got is a scrape, and I’ve seen to that. My man Pepe keeps a supply of herbal remedies. Since he’s away for the evening, I prevailed upon his stores.” Reece paused. He took the opportunity to run the edge of his thumb up her rib cage, then took delight in her ticklish squirm. “I can cure what ails you, mi paloma.”

  She tried to move out of his touch. “Get away from me, you rutting boar.”

  “A minute ago I was a snake, now I’m swine,” he goaded, rubbing against her. Hard and thick, long and longing-filled, his doeskin-covered shaft teased her thigh. “Can’t you make up your mind about me?”

  “Quite definitely. And I want you to get that . . . that thing away from my hip.”

  “Not.”

  “You don’t have a shred of decency.”

  “Don’t I?” He released his hold to disprove her claim. She edged toward the farthest side of the bed. Go after her, he didn’t. He got back to the question that he had tried to disregard but had been bothering him for the last hour. “So, what’s the deal with the pistolero?”

  “He is the one who was to be at my dinner. The one you were supposed to aide with information about Santa Anna.”

  “But the table was set for four. Who was the other?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  Undaunted, Reece implored, “Tell me about your ’Rasmo friend. What kept him from your dinner?”

  “My—” Alejandra’s face tightened, and not from pain, Reece assessed. “He was detained,” she said, “that is all.”

  “What’s the rest of his moniker?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “Sweetheart, I know you’re a little peeved at me for bringing Antonio—”

  “Peeved?” She reared up on the bed. “Peeved is a word one uses in relation to a lazy servant or a recalcitrant child. I am furious with you.”

  “Then why did you put yourself between me and the pistol?”

  She turned away from him. Putting weight on her injured upper arm, she tossed over to her back. “¡Maldición!”

  “Shame, shame,” he teased. “Such talk from a lady.”

  Her eyes igniting like kindling in a dry day, she hissed, “How dare you chide me? You, the treacherous wretch who broke a promise.”

  How simple it would be to tell her the truth. About everything. But he wouldn’t. As an operative for Texas, as a brother seeking his only sibling, Reece was bound to silence.

  If she must think him a man without honor, so be it.

  “Let’s analyze this supposed broken promise,” he said. “As I recall, you said if I brought Antonio to Campos de Palmas, you wouldn’t give me so much as a measly coin. Since I had no intention of taking your money, I didn’t break a promise.”

  “What do you mean, you weren’t taking the money?” Her words were as wary as her expression. “What exactly were your intentions?”

  “I had to prove my loyalty to Antonio. I showed him my head cannot be turned by a woman.”

  The look she imparted was both disbelieving and . . . and what? Disappointed? Whatever the case, she recovered and asked, “Why are you loyal to him?”

  “Why are you a Federalist?” Reece volleyed. “Because we both must act on our beliefs.”

  “Heinous Santanista—”

  “Guilty as charged, my sweet.” The heat within him simmering, he fingered a lock of her hair. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, give me an answer. Why did you step in front of a muzzle trained on me?”

  Defiantly, she responded, “ ’Rasmo was usurping my pleasure. I want to take your life.”

  “Just because I was ill-mannered enough to go against your orders?”

  “Serpiente traidora, of course not! Mexico doesn’t need your kind hiding in its grasses. So I will rid this earth of your venom because you are beneath contempt.”

  “You ought to hear yourself. You’d be amazed how silly you sound.” He received a kick to the shin for that comment. “My goodness,” he went on, enjoying the argument immensely, “you are peeved.”

  She ground her teeth before continuing her harangue. “Your background has nothing to recommend it. And—”

  “Been checking on me, eh?” His mustache lifted in a grin.

  “—you align yourself with the maniac who has brought shame on my people. You were not even honorable enough to say, ‘Alejandra, I cannot agree to your offer, for I am honorbound to my gran señor.’ ” One hand made a fist. “Your disgusting display at my home has but a part in my determination to still the flow of your blood.”

  “Since you feel that way, pretty peach, why did you try so hard to get my neck in Antonio’s noose? You should have saved your strength for a personal assault.”

  “Oooh! I have nothing more to discuss with you. Where is my brother-in-law? He will help me leave this place.”

  “Looks like he got detained, same as your pal ’Rasmo the Irascible did for dinner.” Reece turned to his side, pushing away the mosquito netting to grasp an object from the bedside table. He turned back to Alejandra. “Before you leave . . . seems you have some unfinished business.” He laid her razor-sharp knife across her midriff. “Have you mettle behind your convictions? Will you twist this in my gut?”

  Her fingers shook as she covered the weapon with the hand of her good arm.

  “Do it, Alejandra. Do it, if you must.” He slid a leg to straddle her thighs. Above her, he taunted, “Here I am. Kill me now. Or give up your quest.”

  Expelling a cry, she yanked the knife off her midriff. She raised her arm. Her eyes welded to his. For a moment he thought she would make good her intention, and he figured to disarm her if she did. Tears formed as she tossed the knife to the floor.

  “May the devil take you, Reece Montgomery!” she cried above the clatter.

  “He probably will.”

  Reece leaned forward to capture her sealed lips. She railed against him, and he reveled in the scent of flowers and woman. His tongue insinuated, probed, then prevailed in tasting the confection within. Brushing her cheek with a soft whisk of his mustache, he moved his hand in an arousing assault on her throat and earlobe. Reece heard her moan of pleasure and capitulation when her hand glided up his side to rest on his shoulder.

  “Alejandra,” he said, groaning, all teasing gone, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

  “Yet you claim no woman can sway you.”

  “It was but a claim.”

  Her voice soft, she asked, “Then why did you do me false?”

  A gust of wind beat at the French doors, one of them slapping closed. Alejandra started. “Joaquin, Erasmo—”

  “It’s neither friend nor kin,” Reece said and explained the noise.

  “It could have been them.” She presented a shoulder. “They should be here any minute. What time is it, anyway?” Without missing a beat, she went on. “It must be very late. What could have happened to ’Rasmo?”

  “This is the first time for me.”

  “What?”

  “This is the first time a woman has considered other men while she fills my bed.”

  Alejandra imparted a haughty look. “How do you know what women consider? Perhaps they don’t want to hurt your feelings by telling you the truth. Maybe they think about menus or gue
st lists . . . or maybe even how long you will keep them occupied before they can get to their duties.”

  “Is that what you’re thinking about, Alejandra?” he inquired formally. “Duties.”

  “Actually a guest list is on my mind. The one for my dinner. The one where you played me for a fool.”

  “I thought Antonio sent you to test my fealty.”

  She studied him for a moment. “Are you being truthful?”

  “Never more so in my life.”

  “Selfish brigand! Thinking of yourself alone, when the fate of Mexico could have rested in your hands.”

  Be damned if he knew the right words to use with her. So far all his explanations had ricocheted. “Don’t expect too much out of a man whose background has nothing to recommend it,” he said, parroting her earlier words. “The fate of Mexico isn’t my concern, Alejandra. Keeping in Antonio’s good graces is.” Reece moved his lips to the hollow of her neck. “But let’s forget him and all the rest. For now anyway.”

  “In the name of all things right,” she pleaded, “stop your assault. You have no right to touch me.”

  “You say I have no right to touch you,” he whispered, “but your body speaks the language of permission.”

  “You are wrong.”

  “Am I? You’re quivering, my darling.” His arm snaked around her waist. “Your breath is coming hard . . . as I’d like to do.”

  “Reece, please. This is wrong. To become lovers would be—”

  “Wonderful.”

  “—wrong. It would be wrong! We are enemies.”

  Enemies. In a way they were. And she was retreating from him. He had never taken an unyielding woman; he wouldn’t start now. He moved away from her. But, oh, how he yearned to stay atop the curvaceous body enticing him to thoughts of forced lovemaking.

  “All right, I’ve done your bidding, I’ve unhanded you.” His knees sinking into the soft mattress, he towered at her side, folding his arms. “Are you happy now?” he asked.

  Her eyes, exotic as a cat’s, shuddered. She moistened her lips. A hand went to brush a lock of hair from her temple. She touched the hibiscus.

  “What . . . ?”

  “You look lovely in red,” he murmured in reply to her startled word and expression.

  She took the flower from its resting place above her ear. And crumpled the lovely hibiscus in her palm. Pushing her feet to the floor, she got out of bed, then walked to the doors. A breeze caught the tendrils of her hair as she stared outside.

  “I prefer the gardenias of Campos de Palmas,” she said.

  It had been such a small thing, his offer of a flower. Yet he’d wanted her to be touched by it. Romantic fool that he was. Her repulse got to him.

  That miserable feeling digging at his chest, he said in a voice gravelly and thick, “You were right, you know, from the start. I shouldn’t touch you. I’ve been your betrayer, and who would want such a man between their silken legs?”

  His body, traitor it was, refused to heed his surrender. Pressure continued to press his groin. His blood still rushed, heavy and hot. Of course there was no rhyme or reason to his obsession. But who could turn off their feelings just because they weren’t returned?

  Well, she would never feel anything for him, unless . . .

  Slowly he got out of bed, walked to Alejandra and turned her to face him. His fingers curling over her shoulders, he said honestly, “I’m sorry, very sorry about tonight. It was wrong of me not to believe you. You see, I thought you and Antonio were in cahoots against me, and–”

  “In cahoots? Why did you think that?”

  “As I said earlier, I thought he was trying to test my loyalty. He knows I’m more than smitten with you. And he’s not above—Well, I want you to know I’m glad you’re the lady you claimed to be.” His lips brushed her forehead. “Could you forgive my mistake in judgment?”

  She looked up into his serious eyes. “It takes a strong man to admit he’s wrong. I’ve always respected such men.”

  In not so many words, she had forgiven him, he supposed. He would take her respect, though . . . and cherish it.

  “Do you think Santa Anna is convinced away from suspecting me?” she asked. “And what about you? I did all I could to get you in trouble with him.”

  “Antonio understands how it goes when lovers are at odds.”

  “We aren’t lovers,” she pointed out in a voice as soft as down.

  “I’d like to change that.”

  “We shouldn’t. We are still enemies.”

  He combed his fingers through the heaviness of her hair. His thumbs rested beneath her ears. “Would you like me to show you all the things I should not do to you?”

  She swallowed. Eyes the hue of an early-autumn leaf looked up at him, and no refusal showed there.

  “That is my answer, Jandra.” He smiled. “Mi querida amor.”

  As his hand smoothed over her bosom, she tensed. Why? It wasn’t fear, he was certain, and no way would he ever believe her reaction had anything to do with repulsion or disinterest or lingering anger. Innocence. It had to be that. Which puzzled him. It was as if she were a maiden at the threshold of her first encounter with a man. Excitement spiraled through him, set his blood soaring even more powerfully. He wished she were a virgin. Yet he gained a certain delight in knowing the first was never the best.

  He would be the best.

  He collected her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Now I will do all the things I shouldn’t do.”

  Chapter Eleven

  She was feeling no pain as he whispered, “Now I will do all the things I shouldn’t do.”

  The wound in her upper arm twinged, yes, but her senses were centered on Reece. It was wrong, wanting this scoundrel, this blackguard, this golden-haired god. So wrong. And more than in her heart as well as the eyes of society. He was her enemy. Earlier tonight he proved that she and her fellow Federalists couldn’t depend on him, yet his apology had appeased her anger . . . and his virility made her reprehensibly weak of will.

  Alejandra allowed him to carry her back to his bed. She leaned her head against a wide shoulder, her mouth brushing against the hair-dusted chest of the man she shouldn’t be wanting.

  He was, oh, so handsome and manly. His body was as . . . Suddenly a strange comparison came to her mind. His body was as finely honed as the machetes that cut sugar cane at her parents’ azucarera, Hacienda del Pappagallo.

  She smiled. What would he think of such a notion?

  Once again she lay on his bed. He stood over her, smiling and gazing at her. Suddenly inhibitions beset her. Shouldn’t they just blow out the light and get on with it? That was the way it had always been done.

  Her eyelids closed as she twisted her face toward the pillow. His finger moved to the corner of her eye to massage it open. “Querida, mi alma,” he murmured, his voice raspy yet tender, “don’t be bashful.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  His deep voice as warm as hot butter on pan dulce, he said, “Perhaps I’ve waited too long to show you all the things I shouldn’t do.”

  “I—I don’t know about that.”

  “I do.” His palms cupped her face. “It would be wrong to kiss you. Shall I show you the evil of it?”

  “No,” she returned without conviction, yet his lips muffled her word against his silky yet commanding demands.

  His tongue slipped into the recesses of her mouth. His mustache in tandem with his lips did wondrous things to many facets of her perception. He tasted slightly of brandy. Fine, intoxicating brandy. Bay rum, just a tinge of the oil of myrcia cologne, clung to his slightly shadowed jawline. The scent reminded her of England and Christmas—the most serene period in her life. But there was nothing serene about this moment.

  Reece moved away, fractionally. Levering above her, he combed his fingers through her hair to spread it across his pillow. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of having you here like this. Have you thought of being here?”

  She
blushed. “I shouldn’t have, but . . .”

  “Yes, you should have. It’s the natural thing when a man and a woman are drawn together. It leads to this.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I want to see you, all of you,” he whispered and tugged at the satin ties of her chemise. His sharp intake of breath curled around her. Reece’s eyes caressed her breasts. Her hands splayed over them.

  Miguel had never been so bold as to gaze upon her as if she were all his for the beholding. Her husband had respected and revered her modesty.

  Reece’s lips trailing between the cleft of her breasts, she felt the need to further cover herself. But the mouth spreading heat to her flesh moved to plant a line of small kisses to her waistband. The feel of him as he did these things, it was the firmness of a machete, the brush of a fine hair broom, the heat of an asoleadero. Nothing about his touch reminded her of anything cool or soft.

  He freed the skirt fastener, easing the material down her legs. Her body was uncovered. She tensed.

  “Don’t be shy. You are more beautiful than . . . than anything. You were made for loving,” he murmured huskily. “Made for my loving.”

  It pleased her that he found her attractive, but she wasn’t comfortable with all this shamelessness, all these confidences. The heat within her cooled. Kisses and caresses shared fully clothed were one thing, brazen behavior bereft of clothing was another. Yet she lacked the courage to leave him.

  He laced his fingers with hers, bringing them to his lips, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the differences in size, texture, and hue of their hands. His was so large and rough and tanned. So different from hers. So different from Miguel’s. Perhaps it was disrespectful to her husband’s memory, but the fingers holding hers were more fascinating.

  Reece settled beside her. “You don’t yearn for everything this night can give? For everything I shouldn’t he giving you?”

  Despite her modesty, Alejandra found herself strangely drawn into Reece’s ardent scrutiny. Their gazes locked. “I want you,” was his message.

  His fingers moved to a rounded breast, and he began to pluck the tip gently. The spell broken for her, replaced by her misgivings, she slapped at him. But her motions went unheeded.