She gasped as someone jostled her elbow. But it was only an old woman who smiled and murmured an apology.
"Dispenseme, senorita. Excuse me."
"My fault," Elena said with a strained smile.
She was half-way down an alley now, and the stalls were gone. The shoppers were gone, too. The graffiti-scarred walls, mottled in shadow, echoed her footsteps. A shiver of fear chilled the nape of her neck. Perhaps she ought to go back the way she'd come. Perhaps...
The alley narrowed ahead, partially blocked by a peddler's cart. A man leaned against it and Elena’s skirt brushed against him as she passed.
"Dispenseme," she said. But there was no answering voice, no equally polite apology. Instead, she felt a hand move quickly across her hip, the touch slowing on her buttocks. "Hey," she said, spinning around angrily, "what are you..."
The man who had been leaning against the cart had been silently joined by another, and their eyes were on her, moving across her breasts and her hips like snakes slithering across the grass. She flushed and turned away at their lewd laughter. The alley stretched on interminably, shadowy and narrow, its shuttered windows and closed doorways seeming like sightless eyes and sealed mouths that would remain frighteningly indifferent to all pleas for help. A muffled sound caught in her throat and her heart began to pound.
OK, she thought, moving on and quickening her pace, it was time to get out of here. More than "things" had changed in San Felipe. People had changed, too. Even the possibility of a stranger looking at a woman as those two had just looked at her would have been out of the question in the past. Santa Rosa was a small city in a small country, but it had been a good place to live. Its citizens had been poor, but everyone, especially women, had been treated with honor. You never had to worry about anyone trying to...
An arm snaked around her shoulders and pulled her into a loose embrace. Hot, beery breath floated into her face.
"You need a man, baby."
Elena's head snapped back and she pushed free of the encircling arm, which slipped to her waist and held her. A youth in filthy clothing stood beside her, a foolish grin on his pock-marked face.
"Let go of me," she said quietly.
His grin widened, revealing blackened teeth and swollen gums. "Hey, baby," he repeated in thickly accented English, "wanna...?"
Don't let him frighten you, she told herself, forcing her eyes to meet his. He's just trying to be macho.
"Let go of me," she said again, this time in rapid Spanish. "Take your hand off me at once!"
"Baby, baby, you know you need it," a second male voice whispered, and Elena's head swiveled as an arm wound around her shoulders.
And then, as she stared into the slack-jawed faces, one nodded almost imperceptibly to the other, and they began to drag her along between them. She dug her sandaled feet into the dirt street, but it was useless. She was being led further into the alley. And there was no one watching, no one looking, no one to see what became of her.
This was ridiculous, she thought, fighting back panic. Things like this just didn't happen, not in broad daylight. Not here.
"Listen," she said in a final appeal to their sense of decency, "you'd better let go of me before you get into trouble. You two..."
The boy on her left laughed. "You gonna love it, baby," he whispered, leaning towards her. Elena drew away from his rank breath and his kiss landed wetly on the corner of her mouth. She grimaced as a trickle of saliva threaded across her cheek.
"Stop it," she said, and she began to struggle in desperation. "Damn you, stop it!"
The boy to her right cupped his hand across her mouth and said something in a low, coarse whisper. He spoke in a dialect unfamiliar to her, but its meaning was clear. His companion laughed as Elena moaned softly against her captor's filthy hand.
"Si," he said, and his embrace tightened until only her toes were touching the dusty ground. They had turned down another alley now; the smell of urine and beer filled her nose and throat and made her gag.
"Pretty, pretty girl,” the boy crooned, his voice husky with urgency, and suddenly she was slammed back against a wall and both boys were standing in front of her, grinning drunkenly.
Their mothers would kill them if they knew what they were up to, Elena thought crazily, staring at the dirty faces of her assailants. Neither one looked old enough to shave. No, she told herself, it was impossible.
And then it didn't matter who they were or how young they seemed. Their hot breath was on her face and neck and their hands were at her breasts and buttocks, pulling at her clothing, grasping and hurting. Elena kicked out blindly and one of her attackers gave a muffled curse. An arm encircled her throat and she gasped for breath.
"No!" she cried, but her voice was only a whisper, and her assailants laughed.
"Puta," one of them said in her ear, his body pressing against hers.
Suddenly, she was free of his weight. She heard him cry out, heard the other boy's voice in answering echo, and her eyes opened wide.
The American, the man who had confronted her earlier, was holding her assailants by the scruff of their necks, shaking them as if they were sacks of dirty laundry. He tossed one of them aside and the boy scurried to his feet and raced away without a backward glance. The other—the one who had pressed his wet mouth to her face—slammed his fist into the man's face. Elena heard the crack of flesh against bone, saw the man's head snap back, and then the man moved with the speed of a leopard and the boy was on the ground, writhing in the mud, clutching his stomach while the man bent over him.
"Don't," she whispered, clutching at his arm. "Please—you'll kill him."
"The little bastard deserves killing," the man growled, but he straightened up and the boy scrambled to his feet and ran off, his arms wrapped around his middle. "Go on," the man yelled. "If I see you again, you're dead. Effing bastards," he muttered, turning towards Elena. "What hope is there for anybody if... Hey," he said urgently, "hey, don't pass out on me now!"
"I'm not going to do that," Elena said in a breathy whisper, but even as she spoke, she felt herself sagging towards him. His arms closed tightly around her.
"All right," he said softly, "take it easy. You're fine now. Come on, take a deep breath. That's it. And another."
He cupped the back of her head and brought her face to his chest. Elena closed her eyes and buried her nose in his shirt, drinking in the smell of man and heat and sweat as if it were nectar, hearing his heartbeat thud strong and steady beneath her ear, knowing somehow that she was safe within his embrace. She took one long, shuddering breath and then another.
"They didn't... you're OK, aren't you?"
Elena nodded. "Yes," she said finally, "yes, I'm fine. They didn't...they just frightened me. Although, if you hadn't come along..."
Suddenly, he thrust her from him, holding her at arm's length, staring angrily into her face. He had taken off his sunglasses, she noticed. His eyes—blue, and cold as ice—burned into hers.
"Yes," he said, "exactly. That's what I tried to tell you before, but you weren't having any part of it, were you Miss Esteban?"
"How... how do you know my name?"
His mouth twisted. "You told it to me," he said roughly. "You rubbed my nose in it, to be accurate. Don't you remember?"
"I thought you were... Where did you come from? Were you following me?"
His hands fell to his sides. "Don't flatter yourself. I just happened to come along in time to see our two little friends hustling you off for some fun and games."
A dark flush covered Elena's cheeks. "They were only boys," she said defensively. "I can't believe..."
"How much more proof do you want?" he asked sharply, his eyes sliding from her pale face to her breasts.
She glanced down at herself, the flush darkening as she realized that the top buttons of her dress had come undone. Her gaze met his again, and something she saw in the midnight-blue depths of his eyes made her uneasy. Quickly, she grasped the gaping neckline and pull
ed it together.
"Thank you for your help," she said. "Now, if you'd just step aside..."
His eyebrows rose. "Step aside?"
Elena nodded. "So I can get past you," she said. "My chauffeur is waiting for me at the bottom of the hill and..."
"And you're going to walk down there and meet him."
She nodded again. His tone was pleasant, but there was something in the sudden narrowing of his eyes that made her take a step back.
"Yes," she said, "that's right. Thank you again, Mr.…. Mr...."
He threw his hands in the air. "For Christ's sake," he said angrily, "here we go again! What's the matter with you, Miss Esteban? Haven't you learned a damned thing?" She flinched as he moved towards her. "Terrific," he snarled. "You're afraid of me, not the bastards who almost raped you! I'm only the man who saved your neck."
"No, that's not it," she said quickly. "You don't understand."
But how could he? she thought, looking into his face. The attempted rape had frightened her. But the pain of seeing what had happened to the place she'd always thought of as home was a wound she knew would never heal. The part of her that was American was angry—but the part that was San Felipian was busily denying the terrible truth even as it unfolded all around her.
The man was staring at her, lines of disbelief etched into his face. It was a handsome face, she thought suddenly, if you liked the hard as steel type. She certainly didn't—but he had been kind to her. More than kind. And he was entitled to some kind of an explanation.
"It's not that I'm ungrateful," she began, and suddenly tears welled in her eyes.
A shadow flickered across his face. "Oh, for God's sake," he said furiously, and then he grasped her shoulders and pulled her towards him. "Don't cry, dammit," he said gruffly. "It's all over now."
But there was no way she could stop the silent flow of tears that dampened his shirt. His hands moved softly on her back, their motion soothing and comforting, and finally Elena drew a ragged breath.
"I'm sorry," she said, moving back against his encircling arms and looking up at him. "I... I guess I'm more upset than I realized. You see, I came back to San Felipe a week ago, and nothing is the way it used to be. I can't seem to get used to all the changes."
He sighed deeply. "Welcome to the real world, Miss Esteban. You can't go home again, not really. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"
"Yes, but you see, I grew up here. And it was so different..." Her words drifted into silence as she looked at him. A thin beading of scarlet welled on his lip. "You're hurt," she said quickly.
He touched his tongue to the cut. "It's nothing. The jerk got lucky, that's all." A grin spread across his face. "And he'll remember me a lot longer than I'll remember him."
"Yes, but it's all my fault, Mr... Mr..."
His arms dropped to his sides. "Rogan," he said. "Blake Rogan. And you're damned right it's your fault."
Color washed her cheeks again. Her apology had been automatic; she hadn't expected his easy and whole-hearted agreement.
"If you'd listened to me the first time, if you'd let me find you a taxi, put you into it and send you home..."
Elena blinked. "Is that what you wanted to do?"
Rogan's eyes narrowed. "What did you think I wanted to do, Miss Esteban?"
She swallowed. "Well, I... I mean you... you said if I... if I wanted some excitement, you'd... you'd..."
Rogan swore softly. "I'll be damned! There I was, trying to keep you out of trouble, and you thought I was..." He shook his head. "Hell, you were quick enough to make excuses for those punks who jumped you."
Elena shook her head. She wanted to tell him it wasn't like that, that she knew her assailants would have hurt her if he hadn't come along, that only her own emotional memories of San Felipe made her defend them, but Rogan was moving towards her again, his eyes narrowed.
"Where have you been for the last few years? In a convent?"
"No," she said nervously, remembering her very proper boarding-school, "not exactly, but..." She took a final, stumbling step backward and her shoulders hit the wall. "Look, Mr. Rogan, I'm sorry if I misjudged you earlier. And I really am very grateful..."
Rogan smiled. "You didn't misjudge me," he said softly. "Not entirely." Elena watched, wide-eyed, as his hand reached towards her. His fingers touched her cheek, lingering against the soft sweep of her jaw. "You're a very beautiful woman, Miss Esteban. And there are times that can be dangerous as hell. Someone should have explained that to you."
Elena's breath quickened. His fingers were hard, the pads rough as they stroked her skin, but his touch was gentle. She felt his hand curving around her jaw.
"No one has to explain anything to me, Mr. Rogan. I understand. I'm not a fool. But I've always been safe here.”
He stroked her hair back from her face. "You're not anymore," he growled. "Don't you understand that yet?"
"Let go of me, please," she said carefully.
"You're not really a San Felipian, are you? You look American, you sound American…"
His fingers were threading into the dark silk of her hair. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. For some reason, her heart was thudding like a trip-hammer.
"What I am is none of your business. And I'd appreciate it if you'd let go of me."
Rogan leaned towards her. "Get the hell out of San Felipe, Miss Esteban. Go back to wherever it is you came from before it's too late."
"I can take care of myself, Mr. Rogan. This is my country. I don't need any advice from you."
She drew in her breath as his fingers caught tightly in her hair. "You damned well need it from somebody," he said fiercely. "And it might as well be me."
His free arm swept around her and suddenly his mouth covered hers in a hard kiss. Elena whimpered and slammed her hands against his chest, but Rogan only pulled her more closely against him until she could feel the full length of his body pressing against hers. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the kiss ended. Rogan's hands grasped her shoulders and he thrust her from him.
"Do you understand now?" he demanded, his eyes locked with hers. "You're a woman in a place that's going to bust wide open any day now. Anything can happen to you."
"No," Elena whispered, "no, it's not true."
But it was. She knew it; she had known it from the moment she'd returned home. The reality she'd been denying for days engulfed her. Tears filled her eyes again, and with sudden, ridiculous clarity she realized that she hadn't cried this much since her mother's death.
Rogan's eyes darkened. "Hell," he said gruffly, "don't do that. I didn't mean to make you cry."
"It's not you. Really. I’m all right.”
But she wasn’t. it wasn't all right. He watched as tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and then he took a step forward and his arms encircled her. Their eyes met; his head bent slowly towards hers.
Elena's heart raced as his mouth touched hers again. She started to struggle against him, but a slow warmth began spreading through her as she felt the firm pressure of his lips on hers. She sighed, her lashes falling against her cheeks, and Rogan made a sound in the back of his throat as he gathered her more closely against him. His kiss hardened, became more demanding, and her lips parted willingly beneath the gentle pressure. She felt the scalding touch of his tongue, tasted the sweetness of his mouth—and then, suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders and he was pushing her away from him.
Her eyes flew open. She stumbled back a step. Rogan stared at her for what seemed an eternity, and then he took a ragged breath.
"If I ever see you in the streets alone again," he said hoarsely, "you'll regret it." His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Do you understand?"
Elena was shaking. “I understand that you are--that you are--“
"Senorita?"
Elena spun around. "Juan," she said with relief. "How did you find me?"
Her chauffeur stood at the head of the alley, looking from her to Blake Rogan.
; "Are you all right, senorita? I waited at the flower stalls, but when you did not come, I decided to look for you myself."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, knowing how she must look, her dress torn, her mouth smeared with blood--Blake Rogan’s blood. She forced a smile to her face. "Really, Juan, I'm all right. Thanks to this--this gentleman…”
She turned quickly, but somehow it came as no great surprise to see the alley looming dark and empty beyond her.
Blake Rogan had vanished.
CHAPTER TWO
Sunset in Santa Rosa had always been Elena's favorite time of day. The hot red disc that was the sun seemed to balance precariously over the mountains that ringed the city, bleeding crimson flame on the rugged peaks while night gathered its forces. Then, with breathtaking suddenness, it would fall and allow everything to be cloaked in indigo velvet.
But on this, the night of her twenty-first birthday, not even the fierce beauty of the setting sun was enough to dispel her uneasiness. Tension in the city had grown. There were ugly rumors of danger on the streets and roads, and Elena's father had refused to let her leave the ranch since that day at the market, that day two weeks ago when Blake Rogan had kissed her...
Elena switched on the bedside lamp and undid the towel from her hair. She hadn't told her father about that part of it, of course. Juan had told him all he knew of the incident, that the American had saved her from rape, perhaps even from death, and there had been no reason for her to add anything more. Her father's only regret was that he hadn't been able to thank her savior personally. She wondered what he'd say if he knew that Rogan had forced his kiss upon her.
She crossed the room swiftly and opened the wardrobe door. Actually, she knew what he'd say. There was enough old-fashioned Spanish blood in Eduardo Esteban's veins so that he'd fly into a rage. In her father's world, men didn't take advantage of women. Obviously, in Blake Rogan's world, you took what you wanted when you wanted it. But, if her father chose to think of him as a hero, let him.
What harm was there in that? Besides, for some reason that she preferred not to explore, she wanted the knowledge of Rogan's kiss to be hers and hers alone.
Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set Page 49