Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set

by Sandra Marton

  “You have no idea what I thought!”

  “The jungle. The fire. Hearts and flowers. A romantic interlude between the princess and the peasant.”

  "I see," she said slowly, her eyes locked with his, "that's how it works. When it suits you, you tell me not to think. And when it doesn't, you tell me..."

  "What I’m telling you is not to make more of last night than it was.”

  There it was. The truth and, really, why should it come as a surprise?

  She’d been naïve but she wasn’t stupid. A night of lovemaking didn’t mean a lifetime of love.

  Blake wasn't a man for commitment.

  He'd take what he wanted from a woman, but he'd never belong to her, not unless she laid a trap he couldn't evade and tricked him into marriage...

  Oh, God! The realization was as dizzying as a ride on a roller coaster. The annulment.

  That's what this was all about. He was panicked. Annulments became difficult, perhaps impossible, if a marriage had been consummated. And divorce could be a lengthy, involved procedure if one party chose to make it so. It would take a lawyer an hour to define the technicalities, but it took only a minute to define Rogan's concerns.

  He was afraid he was trapped, and he was scurrying to get away, like a bug running from a rolled-up newspaper.

  Elena closed her eyes. He was just what she'd thought. An adventurer, an opportunist—the pain she'd felt a short while before changed to rage. It was a safer emotion to face, and she welcomed it. She wanted to slap his face, to scar him. And she would, she thought, watching him through narrowed eyes.

  But there was a better way to hurt a man like him.

  "Why would I make more of it than it was?” she said, her voice steady. “A night of just what you described for me. And for you, a bonus added to what my father paid you for your services.”

  He said something low and ugly; he moved quickly and caught her by the shoulders. She waited, listening to the heavy rasp of his breath, certain she'd pushed him too far.

  But just when she thought she'd cry out from the bite of his fingers on her flesh, his hands fell to his sides.

  "You really are your father's daughter, senorita," he growled.

  "That's right. I am. I'm an Esteban, and proud of it."

  He looked at her, an unreadable expression on his face. A muscle knotted in his jaw. Then, he swung away from her.

  "The highway's just below us. I scouted the mountain while you were asleep. We covered more ground than I realized yesterday."

  “And the border? Is it near?"

  "Probably less than an hour." Rogan moved away and kicked dirt on to the smoldering fire. "We'll be in Miami tonight."

  He turned and looked at her, his eyes cold and empty.

  "I can't think of anything I want more," she said.

  But it was a lie. There were lots of things she wanted more. Not to have met Blake Rogan, for one. Not to have been foolish enough to think she’d fallen in love with him, for another, because she hadn’t.

  Of course, she hadn’t.

  And if she was silently weeping as she followed him down the mountain, it was only with relief that their journey had come to an end.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Floridians hate to admit that Miami's weather is ever less than perfect.

  Most of the time, the days are warm and the nights pleasant. But once in a while, when summer grips the city, there are days so hot and humid that the air seems to have the consistency of a suffocating blanket.

  On such days, the white beaches are crowded but the streets are empty. And so are the shops.

  On a day of blazing August heat, the Fisher Art Gallery was as deserted as any of the stores surrounding it. The gallery was located in a shopping mall in Miami Beach, which is not a beach at all but an island community just across Biscayne Bay from the city of Miami on the mainland. Usually, tourists as well as locals were drawn into the elegant little gallery by its distinctive window displays. But on this hot August afternoon, with the temperature and the humidity both over ninety degrees Fahrenheit, the gallery hadn't had a single customer.

  Not a real one, Elena thought as the door swung open and yet another sweating tourist stumbled in.

  The man's camera swung from his neck as he shook his head in response to her polite offer of assistance.

  "Just looking," he gasped, while his wife drew in deep breaths of artificially chilled air.

  Elena nodded. "Of course," she said pleasantly. "Call me if you have any questions."

  Jeremy Fisher's eyebrows rose as she moved past him to the back of the shop. She shook her head and busied herself with a box of deKooning posters that had arrived that morning. After a few minutes, the bell above the door tinkled again as the tourists headed back into the inferno.

  Elena looked up.

  "I'm beginning to feel like the local Red Cross," she said with a smile. "Those poor souls looked as if they were going to collapse."

  "Well, the next case of heat prostration is going to have to find another hole to crawl into," her employer said. "Leave those posters until tomorrow, Elena. I'll set the alarm and we'll call it a day."

  Elena looked at the art deco clock above the door. "But it's hours till closing time, Jeremy."

  "The only thing we could sell today is ice-cream," he said, smiling at her. "Besides, there are better things to do in this heat."

  "Sure there are," she laughed. "You can tuck yourself into a tub full of ice or curl up in the refrigerator or..."

  "Or drive down to Plantation Key for dinner. Remember that little place on the water, the one where we had those terrific crabcakes? We can be there before you know it."

  "Sorry. I have a million things to do tonight."

  Her boss sighed. "Yeah, I know. You have to wash your hair. Or write a letter to your father. Or read a book. Or..."

  "Jeremy, please, don't make it sound like that. I..."

  "Do you know how many times we've gone out in the past four months?" he asked as he rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Three," he said, answering his own question, "and only because I badgered you." His fingers spread on her shoulders, gently kneading her knotted muscles. "I wish you'd tell me what's troubling you, Elena. You haven't been yourself since you returned from San Felipe."

  "Nothing's troubling me. I've told you that."

  Jeremy shook his head. "There are shadows beneath your eyes, you've lost weight..."

  Elena forced a smile. "That's it," she said, "spoil me with compliments."

  "Elena, dear..."

  "There are things on my mind, that's all. My father..."

  "Your father's fine. The revolution is over, things are back to normal."

  “Almost back to normal. There are still problems."

  "Elena." Jeremy's fingers pressed into her shoulders. "You'll never get on with your life until you're free of that man."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked sharply, pulling away from him.

  Jeremy watched her for a moment. "I only meant that he hasn't signed the annulment papers yet." His warm brown eyes searched her face. "That does bother you, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, of course," she said quickly, turning her back to him.

  "What do your father's lawyers say now?"

  Elena swung around to face him. "What is this? A quiz?" The words were hardly out of her mouth before she held her hand out to him. "Forgive me, please. I didn't mean to snap at you."

  "I only meant that perhaps there was something that stood in the way of the annulment."

  Color bloomed in her cheeks. "Don't be silly. Rogan and I were... our marriage was just a legal formality. I never... we never..."

  "Hey!" Jeremy's voice was soft. "All I meant was that maybe this guy was holding out for something. Maybe he wants more money before he signs."

  "Rogan got his money. My father..."

  "Maybe he wants more," her boss said gently. "After all, the guy's not exactly Mr. Clean. The man's a drifter."

&
nbsp; "Rogan's not a drifter," Elena said. "He travels a lot, yes, but..."

  "Elena, come on! What kind of man marries a woman for money?"

  "Yes, but he could have left me behind a dozen times and he didn't. I told you that, Jeremy. I..." She paused and then laughed shakily. "Look this is silly. He hasn't signed because the lawyers’ office hasn't located him. It's that simple. He told them he'd be in Fiji but he wasn't. And..."

  "He's a drifter, just as I said. Dammit, I still don't understand how your father could have entrusted you to a man like that."

  "I told you. There was no other way."

  “But a man like that..."

  "A man like that," Elena said sharply, mimicking his critical tone, "is the reason I didn't end up trapped in San Felipe." She stared at him in silence and then turned away. "Now, if you're all done with this interrogation, I'm going to get my bag and go home."

  Jeremy followed after her into the storeroom. "Why is it we always end up arguing about Rogan? Why do you defend him?"

  "Oh, for God's sake," she said, spinning around to face him, "I do not defend him. But you make these ridiculous accusations and..." Elena sighed. “Look, I'm sorry I bit your head off. You're right. The papers should have been signed and returned long ago. I'll call the law office as soon as I get home. There must be something they can do to speed things up."

  Jeremy smiled. "That's the ticket." His arms closed around her. "And then we can set our wedding date."

  Elena's eyebrows rose. "Jeremy," she said gently, "you’re very dear to me. But I haven't said I'd marry you."

  His smile widened. "A mere technicality, Miss Esteban; one I hoped you wouldn't notice."

  She laughed softly. "What am I going to do with you, hmm?"

  "Become my wife," he said quickly. "I'll make you happy, Elena. I promise."

  She closed her eyes as he brought her closer to him and kissed her. Marriage to Jeremy would be like his kisses, she thought as his lips pressed against hers. It would be pleasant, easy-going—and dull. It would be nothing like marriage to Blake. With Blake, each day would be an adventure. And each night, oh, each night...

  Elena put her hands against Jeremy's chest and stepped back. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  He nodded. "Try to get a good night's sleep. And remember..."

  "Call the lawyers," she said with a quick smile. "I know."

  The receptionist who took her call was polite, as always. She promised to bring it to the immediate attention of one of the senior partners, also as always. Elena sighed as she hung up the phone. How many times had she made the same call in the past months?

  She rose and kicked off her shoes. Her apartment was warm; perhaps it was crazy, but she preferred to turn off the air conditioning and throw open the windows, even on a day like this. Her windows overlooked the ocean, and she loved the smell and the sound of the sea as it beat against the shore.

  Quickly, she peeled off her dress and underthings and slipped into a long robe. Later, she'd shower and poke in the refrigerator for some dinner—a carton of yogurt or some fruit and cheese would do—but for now, all she wanted was to sit beside the window and stare at the aquamarine water.

  What was it Jeremy had said? That she'd never get on with her life until she was free of Blake Rogan. She put her head back and closed her eyes, letting her mind run free of the tight control she'd imposed upon it.

  Jeremy didn't know how right he was. Blake was in her thoughts all the time, even when she least expected him to be. She dreamed about him every night, but she'd expected that. It was all the other times she thought about him that were wearing her down. Like yesterday, when she'd seen the dorsal fins of a school of dolphins cutting through the water, or last week, when a shooting star had arced across the midnight sky, or even this morning, when she'd cut her finger opening the box of deKooning posters...

  When she was happy, she thought of Blake. And when she was sad, she thought of him, too. It was as if—as if she needed to share everything, the good and the bad, with him. And, God help her, it was getting worse, not better.

  If only he’d signed the damned annulment papers when he was supposed to. She knew he'd contacted her father's lawyers the day after they’d returned to Miami.

  But then he'd vanished.

  "What do you mean, you don't know where he is?" Elena had demanded. "Didn't he leave an address?"

  He had. A hotel on the Beach—one of the most luxurious and expensive ones, the lawyer had added with a curl of surprise in his unctuous voice. But he wasn't there anymore.

  "Well, what about a forwarding address?" Elena had asked.

  This time, the lawyer's eyebrows had curled to match his voice. "Fiji," he'd replied.

  "Just Fiji?"

  "Just Fiji. Believe me, Senorita Esteban, we're doing what we can. We'll find him."

  Elena sighed as she rose from the chair and padded across the room to the kitchen alcove. They hadn't found him, she thought as she poured herself a glass of iced lemonade. Fiji had led to Tahiti and Tahiti had led to Singapore and Singapore had led nowhere. Blake's whereabouts were still a mystery, which meant the papers were unsigned.

  She was still his wife.

  Elena sank down in the chair beside the window again, remembering the last time anyone had referred to her that way. It was on the flight from Mexico City to Miami. The flight attendant had called "Mrs. Rogan" each time she stopped by to flash her professional smile and ask if Elena was sure she hadn't changed her mind and decided she wanted something. But all Elena had wanted was what no one but Blake could give her, and so she kept flashing an equally polite smile and saying no, thank you very much, she didn't want anything to eat or drink or read, and all the time, Blake had sat beside her, silent as a stone, which was the way he'd been since they'd crossed the border where he’d warned her to smile and keep still.

  Elena had been sure they'd be stopped: they were on foot and they looked like tramps. But Blake had put his arm around her and greeted the guards with a cheerful "Buenos dias, muchachos." Their surly faces had remained impassive as he'd held out their travel documents, but when they had seen the flash of green currency tucked within, they had smiled and motioned them on.

  They had walked for a while, then caught a ride on the back of a hay wagon to the airport at Tuxtla Gutierrez, where they'd bought the last seats on a flight to Mexico City. And once they'd reached Mexico City, they were practically home.

  When they’d landed at Miami Airport, Elena had blinked in the sudden glare of lights. It was really over now, she’d thought, glancing at Blake as he walked beside her. They would never see each other again. Her eyes had moved over him slowly, as if to commit to memory the aggressive thrust of his jaw and the lithe movement of his body. Would he at least say goodbye? she’d wondered, hating him and loving him and telling herself that if she broke down and cried she'd never forgive herself.

  But he’d said nothing.

  He’d touched her arm—lightly, although she would always remember that the shock of his touch seemed to reverberate through her body—and walked her to the taxi line. The terminal was uncrowded at that hour of the night; a cab was waiting and he’d led her to it.

  This was the moment of their parting, she’d thought. This silent, awful moment would be all she’d have to remember of this man who had shown her a glimpse of paradise and then had broken her heart…

  And then, suddenly, Blake had grasped her shoulders.

  "Elena," he’d said, and then he’d muttered a savage oath and pulled her roughly into his arms, holding her so tightly that he almost stopped her breath. "Goodbye, Princess," he’d whispered, and then his mouth captured hers. Time had stopped while he kissed her with a desperate hunger that, at the end, changed to a tenderness that made her weep.

  When finally he’d let her go, she was trembling.

  "Blake," she’d whispered.

  But he was gone. And he had taken her heart and soul with him.

  Elena jumped as the telephone's
shrill cry pierced the silence.

  It was the lawyer, returning her call. She sighed and settled back into the chair, her legs tucked beneath her, readying herself for this week's report. Heaven only knew where they'd have traced Blake to this time. Not that it mattered; he was always one step ahead of any attempt to intercept him.

  The voice purring into her ear was filled with uncommon good cheer.

  "Good news, Miss Esteban. We located Mr. Rogan."

  Suddenly, it seemed difficult to breathe. "You.... you found him?"

  "Better still, he's returned the papers to us."

  Elena's heart stopped. "Signed?"

  "Signed, notarized—all legal and proper. He mailed them from some God-forsaken place in Africa. Apparently, they've been a couple of weeks in transit. Well, never mind. They've arrived, that's all that matters. I knew you'd be eager to see them, so I've taken the liberty of sending the papers to you by messenger." The deep voice exuded satisfaction. "It's all over, Miss Esteban."

  "All over,” she repeated softly.

  Hard to believe after all this time, isn't it? Yes, you're a free woman. To all intents and purposes, the marriage between you and Blake Rogan never took place. If you'd stop in tomorrow morning, say at around ten o'clock, we can..."

  The phone slipped from her hand. It was over. All over. She was free. Her hands began to shake and she looked at them blankly before clasping them together in her lap.

  Her eyes lifted to the window, to the waves licking against the white sand. Blake had signed the papers.

  She rose slowly and drew her robe around her. Her skin felt clammy and cool, and she wondered for a moment if the weather had changed. But she knew it hadn't; the chill that enveloped her had nothing to do with the temperature.

  She'd been expecting this day for weeks—and now it was here. The last tenuous link that bound her to Blake was broken.

  She was free.

  Free to start her life again, Jeremy would say. Free of Rogan, her father would say. Free of legal encumbrances, the attorney would say. And that was what she'd been waiting for, wasn't it? It was what she’d needed before she could exorcise Blake's ghost.