by Various
He rocked back on his haunches, breathing hard, his body screaming for release. He looked down at Allegra. Truly looked at her as his mind absorbed what he was poised to do.
His jaw tensed, his mind railing at his own stupidity in throwing caution to the wind.
“You are on the Pill,” he said, his voice breaking the sudden silence that pulsed in the room.
She frowned, her eyes still drowsy with desire. “No.”
“No,” he repeated, desire switching to annoyance. “You are using some other method of birth control then?”
“No, nothing,” she said.
¡Dios mio! This couldn’t be happening again. He couldn’t be this stupid to let this same woman entrap him in her spell.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because there was no need to take preventative measures when I wasn’t sexually active,” she said. “Because for six months, I was confined to a hospital.”
Again the lies! She’d enticed him up here, and turned the tables on him.
Sí, she knew he’d not take the risk of her becoming pregnant again. She knew he’d not be prepared to protect himself in the middle of the night!
He slid her a cold look, refusing to admire the flush that stole over her small, firm breasts, the heat of her that drew him closer. “Do you think me a fool?”
“I know you’re an arrogant, stubborn man who refuses to believe he failed to protect his wife,” she said, squarely hitting the nail on the head so hard he flinched. “You want to punish me with sex? Go on. Take me. I don’t care.”
Miguel spat a curse and pressed her down into the cushion, their faces inches apart, their breaths mingling in the charged air. “You’d better care, querida, for if I had not stopped, we could have created an innocent life again.”
He heard her breath catch. Felt her body stiffen in clear revulsion of that possibility.
He rolled off her and stormed toward the stairs, not looking back, having no more to say to her now. For what did a man say when he’d nearly fallen into the honey trap set by the woman he’d set out to ruin?
CHAPTER FIVE
A BABY? The possibility of her conceiving was so slim it was nearly impossible. It was the unattainable dream that would haunt her the rest of her life. What was it her surgeon had told her?
More surgery might—might—repair the damage done in the accident. But with the loss of an ovary, it was doubtful she’d ever get pregnant again.
No, she wasn’t worried they could create new life if they’d made love without protection. Her apprehension centered on something far more unsettling.
Miguel believed she’d carried on an affair with Amando Riveras. Nothing could be further from the truth!
With Amando’s help, she’d carried on work that Miguel had started and entrusted to his guard. She’d finally been a part of his world and felt a connection to her husband that went beyond sex.
She’d been about ready to surprise Miguel with the wonderful work she’d done with Amando’s help. So why hadn’t she told him?
She rubbed her forehead, trying to see through the clouds covering so much of her memory. Something had gone terribly wrong. Something that terrified her. Something that concerned Amando and her.
Miguel believed they’d been lovers. He believed the worst in her and wanted to punish her, and yet she ached to make love with him again. What did that say about her?
Allegra drew the woven blanket around her naked body and returned to the bedroom, her body humming with a vibrancy she hadn’t felt in months. She couldn’t believe being in Miguel’s arms again would make her feel so gloriously alive.
Or so sad.
She shut the door and leaned against it, her eyelids drifting closed on a moan borne of self-disgust.
She should have resisted him. She should have at least voiced a protest. But she’d done neither, preferring to believe that his affair with Tara was history.
She’d opened her arms to the man who’d broken her heart. Who’d cast her aside when she needed him the most. She’d lost her daughter, her memory and her husband.
How could she have set aside her own animosity and hurt to satisfy her lust? Satisfy?
Far from it. Kissing Miguel, caressing his magnificent body and having his hands touch her was merely a sip of a vintage wine one only dared to indulge in on rare occasions.
She wanted to get drunk on love again. She wanted what she’d lost.
But she couldn’t get it all back. She could give Miguel her heart and body, but she couldn’t even give him what he wanted—another child.
And he wanted children. She’d seen the longing in his eyes when the little girl ran into the room at El Trópico.
No, all she could have with him was sex.
They could postpone a divorce and explore the fiery passions that had ensnared them when they first met. It could last a week, a month, maybe a year.
But in time he’d want another child, and she couldn’t give him that.
Her fingers fisted so hard the nails scored her palms.
Cristobel had been the tie to bind them.
She had nothing to hold him now. Nothing but her love.
It hadn’t been enough before.
They’d had a wonderful sex life. But he’d shut her out of his world.
She couldn’t put herself through that torment. But she admitted she couldn’t just walk away from him, either.
A solid, steady pounding jarred Allegra from sleep. What in the world would anyone be building this time of morning?
She crawled from the bed and crossed to the window, momentarily confused by the surreal light. A dark band of clouds clung to the horizon, looking no more than a sooty smudge on a gorgeous seascape.
But she recognized it for what it was. A tropical storm was churning across the Caribbean, and instead of veering away from the Yucatán as had been predicted, it appeared to be heading for them.
The hammering made sense now. Preparations were being made for the worst at the beach house. Miguel must have seen to it early as he’d always done.
Like everyone else on the peninsula, they’d have to evacuate. She dressed quickly in tan slacks and a mint top. Packing was easily done, as she’d never unpacked upon arriving.
She hurried downstairs, certain Miguel would want to leave soon. The uncertainty of what would happen now kept her on edge. She couldn’t stay here, and after that nasty scene last night she wasn’t sure he’d want to continue with his revenge.
The sheets of wood over the windows rendered the sala as dark and oppressive as the charged atmosphere. They’d gone through this together in the early months of their affair.
He’d taken her home and his mother guessed what Allegra only suspected at that point. That she was two months pregnant.
His mother hadn’t hidden her displeasure over Allegra “trapping” a rich husband, even though she’d willingly signed a prenuptial agreement. The regal woman had never liked her, and had resented her living in her casa.
Allegra shook off that unpleasant memory as she entered the kitchen. Miguel stood with his back to her, hands braced on the counter and spine rigid. A weather forecaster spoke sonorously from a radio on the counter.
The tropical storm had changed course and intensity overnight. An orange alert had been issued for Ione, the feminine name attributed to the hurricane. Winds would be in excess of one hundred fifty miles per hour.
“When is it predicted to make landfall?” she asked, her voice oddly calm despite the danger mushrooming around her.
He straightened, his muscles tensing beneath his fine cotton shirt as if unaware of her approach. “Late today. The evacuation has begun. We will leave within the hour.”
“And go where?” she asked, though she feared she knew.
“Hacienda Primaro.”
The palatial Gutierrez stronghold since the time his forebears had conquered this land and the people. The place Allegra had fled six months ago with their daughter. But why?
/> All she recalled of that day were slivered scenes that flashed in her mind like an old movie reel. If her doctor was correct, returning to the casa could jar free her memory.
It had certainly worked with Miguel. For being in his arms and feeling his incredible passion confirmed one thing—she wasn’t ready to let him go from her life.
“Will you tell your mother why we are together again?” she asked, dreading their confrontation.
His features tensed, hard as the onyx buried deep in the Mexican caverns. “No. You are my wife. That is enough explanation.”
Though her memory of leaving the hacienda that day was sketchy, she’d never forgotten how coldly Quintilla had treated her after Cristobel was born.
Miguel crossed his arms, the muscles straining under his crisp white shirt. “She holds you responsible for Cristobel’s death.”
Like mother, like son?
The thought of living in a villa with Miguel’s mother left her nerves twitching.
“Perhaps I should stay in Merida—”
“No. You will come with me.”
Unease churned in her belly and danced along her nerves. For all her talk of finding closure, she dreaded returning to the casa.
She was terrified of visiting the cemetery. Yes, she knew she needed to cry over her baby’s grave, for that may be the key to unlocking more of her memory. But she was unprepared for the depth of emotions that may unleash.
She could only hope when it was over that she’d no longer hear her baby cry out in the middle of the night. Maybe after she went through this hell of grief, she could go on with her life.
“Do you think of her?” she asked.
To her surprise, a shadow of grief passed over his features. “Sí, but I don’t dwell on what I can’t change.”
No, he never had. Miguel made decisions and acted on them. He went after what he wanted in life—he conquered his opponents with rapier finesse and rid himself of problems just as easily.
Yet he hadn’t disposed of the wife he believed was unfaithful. The wife he blamed for his daughter’s death.
“Why didn’t you divorce me right after I left?” she asked.
“That would have been too easy for you.”
His meaning wasn’t lost on her. He’d wanted his pound of flesh—to make her suffer for something she hadn’t done.
She chafed her suddenly chilled arms, overwhelmed with thoughts of closure and grief and divorce.
“I’ll get your bags,” he said. “The sooner we leave, the quicker we’ll be out of harm’s way.”
She didn’t believe that for a second. Yes, by tonight she’d be back at the casa, removed from the hurricane’s fury. But safe?
Not there. Not knowing she’d never been welcomed into his family. Not returning as Miguel’s wife in all ways.
For if she lost her heart to her proud conquistador again, she’d be far from safe.
Miguel groused over the increase of vehicles on the autopista from Cancún to Merida, adding at least sixty minutes to the normal three-hour drive. He was accustomed to driving alone and in silence, but the quiet that roared between him and Allegra clawed gouges in his patience.
She had been brooding about something since they left. She’d picked at her fingers so intently it was a wonder she hadn’t drawn blood.
He’d nearly asked her what the hell was bothering her when they passed through the tollbooth at Caseta X-Can, but he suspected he knew. She was getting cold feet about returning to their home as his wife.
“It is not like you to be so quiet,” he said to Allegra when they waited to get through the Aduana checkpoint.
“I didn’t think you’d appreciate idle chatter,” she said.
He smiled, for their conversations in the early days of their relationship had been anything but redundant talk. Another thing he’d enjoyed about her—until they married and she expressed a desire to work.
“You used to have an interest in causes,” he said.
“I still do, though that has changed,” she said, seeming to perk up a bit. “I’m quite impressed with the work done through Médecins sans Frontiéres.”
“Doctors without borders. They have done much work among the Mayan,” he said, though he refrained from admitting his own participation.
Secrecy about that organization saved lives, and Allegra had lost what trust he’d had in her six months ago.
“So I’ve read. I’m quite interested in the mercy mission into Guatemala scheduled for February.” Her voice nearly bubbled with excitement.
“You are donating funds to them.”
“Actually I’ll donate my time and my back if they’ll have me,” she said, and seemed pleased by the chance to risk her life in the jungle.
“No!”
Silence exploded between them in a cloud so thick he could have struck a line in it. He likely bruised her feelings by putting his foot down so forcefully, but he couldn’t let her—
“What do you mean, no?” she asked.
“No is no. It doesn’t need an explanation.”
“You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do.”
“I have every right!” He got a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, finding it impossible to concentrate on the traffic snarl at the tollbooth when his English rose was considering something foolhardy. “I am your husband.”
She made a very unladylike snort of disagreement. “Now when it suits you,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “We will be divorced by the time the next mission begins.”
He swore under his breath at that truth and tossed a wad of bills at the toll keeper at Caseta Piste, anxious to vent his frustrations on the open road. But he dragged forth a smile when he recognized the boy in the tollbooth.
“How is your family, Roberto?” he asked.
“Very well,” the boy said. “Thank you for helping me get this job, Señor Gutierrez.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was everything,” the boy said. “Gracias!”
He nodded in answer and sped off toward Merida, but the pleasure he usually felt about paving the way for a Mayan to better himself was absent. He was not about to allow Allegra to trek off on a dangerous mercy mission.
His word held sway in those circles. He’d make sure her name wasn’t on the list of volunteers.
Sí, if she wanted to risk her life, she’d have to do so elsewhere.
His anger cooled with that decision made. But he wondered why he cared so much.
He zipped through the crossroad of the Merida Libre highway, anxious to be home. The route paralleled the carretera de costa in a meandering course and had at least one hundred topes near the villages to alert drivers to slow down. But it was the only free road and attracted those without pesos, or those with time to spare.
At one time it was his and Allegra’s favorite highway to take from the hacienda to the beach house. She’d been hungry to learn of his Mayan heritage, and he’d been proud to teach her.
On that last trip, she’d insisted they buy a tricicletas once she gave birth and take their baby on a tour of the old villages in the three-wheeled vehicles. She’d teased him that he should do all the pedaling!
He’d actually considered taking a break from his grueling workload. How easily she’d beguiled him!
“You are too quiet,” he said.
“I’m thinking.”
To him she appeared to be brooding.
“Do you remember where this road up ahead leads?” he asked, and then before she could voice a lie, he answered for her. “Izmal. I took you there for a horse drawn carriage ride. We saw the Mayan lights and ate—”
“I remember.” But again she failed to elaborate.
His fingers tightened on the leather steering wheel as he cut her a quick perusal. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. Her face was leached of color again.
“I had thought it was a romantic getaway,” he said, annoyed with himself for bringing it up and angry with her
for seeming uninterested.
“It was,” she said, staring at the lane that curved to merge into the Merida Libre. “I intended to take the Curoto that night.”
He inhaled sharply, realizing she meant six months ago.
“Why didn’t you?”
She shook her head. “I—I don’t know.”
¡Dios mio! Again with the convenient excuse of memory loss. Did grief and guilt needle her conscience? Did she feel the same pain and loss that tormented him?
She didn’t volunteer and he refused to ask. For though their child died because of her carelessness behind the wheel, he blamed himself in part for her death, too.
If he’d been home, Allegra wouldn’t have left him with their child. If he’d been a more attentive husband, she wouldn’t have sought pleasure in another man’s arms.
That cold fact nagged at Miguel as he whipped down the periferico that encircled Merida and headed south. Even before he reached the outskirts of the jungle, the sky had darkened to a threatening twilight and the winds increased to make the palms lining the beltway bow and sway.
Though the storm was moving in faster than expected, he found himself more aware of how Allegra’s breath trembled. She looked pale and small huddled on the seat beside him.
Whatever pique she’d felt toward him earlier had dissolved after they’d passed the accident site. He felt her intense grief as well as he felt his own, but even if he could think of words to comfort her, he didn’t trust his own voice.
So he drove on in tense silence and heaved a relieved sigh when he pulled up to the elaborate Moorish gates that closed off Hacienda Primaro from the world. Still, the only sound in the car was the whir of his window lowering and her quick breaths.
He jabbed in the code on the keypad and waited for the gates to swing open, his blood pulsing to a ruthless tempo. Once the gates rattled open in defiance of the wind, he shot up the winding lane toward the hacienda toward the garage artfully built to complement the historic hacienda.
Miguel jetted into his slot, killed the engine and leaped from the car.
“¡Hola!” A wiry young boy of ten burst into the garage. “It is good you are home, Señor Gutierrez. Señora was worried.”