Surrender by Moonlight

by Foxx, Rosalind

  Leonor still tingled from the passion he'd aroused in her, a passion that she had not even known existed or was possible. She tried to clear her brain of the cloud of confusion that still engulfed it and willed her limbs to stop quivering. Her voice was more tremulous than his as she whispered, "I've noticed that no matter what happens, it's always my fault! You started this!"

  "And you," he shot back, "seized the opportunity to experiment on me! Is this the first time you've actually tested your power to arouse a man? If so, I hope you are satisfied with the results."

  Leonor refused to rise to the bait he was offering, understanding suddenly that his flash of temper was a natural release of the emotion she had stirred in him. So, instead of answering angrily, she smiled and said sweetly, "Yes, I think it was a very satisfying test, don't you? You," she added, taking the wind out of his sails, "began this. Is it my fault if you got more than you expected?"

  He glowered at her, torn between amusement and fury. "If you ask me, I'd say it was more than time to find you a husband!"

  "Yes, but I didn't ask you. When I want a husband, I'll find him for myself, thank you. It is a great deal more amusing," she tacked on, unwisely, "to have several men clamoring for your attentions than to be firmly wedded to just one! One can scarcely practice on a husband! One has to live with those results!"

  Instantly he seized her shoulders and, before she could protest, pressed her down on the cool sand and towered over her. She could feel his heated body lying heavily over hers, warming her with his warmth. "Practice, is it? Practicing can be very dangerous, particularly if you pick the wrong man to try it on! What makes you think you won't get more than you bargained for!"

  He was crushing the breath out of her but, in spite of his words, Leonor wasn't afraid. "But I didn't pick the wrong man to try it on," she gasped, pushing at his chest. "Dimitri, you're squashing me!" He eased back a little and she continued. "You are far too concerned with protecting your scatterbrained, little minx of a cousin to have any really serious designs on me!"

  "And you would do well not to spend your time trying to provoke me! I could indeed teach you a lesson you'd never forget."

  She laughed. "But you won't. I don't know whether to be relieved about that or sorry, but you won't! Honor still means something to you and you will scold me and let me off with a warning." She smiled bewitchingly up at him, knowing full well she was tempting fate by provoking him to this point but she couldn't resist it. Something in her drove her on, to push and test him and make him, just once, see her as a woman, a desirable woman, instead of a little minx he had to protect.

  His face was taut with anger as he bent over her. "And for the first time in your life, you may have gambled once too often!"

  His mouth, hard and determined, came down on hers, demanding submission. For a confused moment, Leonor lay quietly in his hold, letting him kiss her so furiously. She fought that sweet warmth that spread through her and the almost overwhelming temptation to wrap her arms around his neck and answer the passion in his kiss with a matching one. She was shaken by the depth of feeling that he was rousing, a pitch of emotion that out did anything she had experienced in their previous embrace. She was being swept away on that tide of feeling, unable to fight, to protest, to do anything that would break the spell that held her in thrall. His lips slid down her throat and came to rest against the hollow at the base of her throat. He could feel the pulse beating there against his mouth and it seemed to inflame him.

  She fought the dense web of emotion that held her, forcing her mind to clear, to grapple with the onslaught of passion. "Dimitri," she whispered, pushing at his chest. "Stop!"

  He paid no attention to her plea. His fingers brushed her nape as he fumbled with the small button at the back of her dress. All she could see of him was his bent head and she could feel his tousled hair tickling her chin. She pushed harder.

  "I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "Please!"

  His hand stilled and slowly he raised his head. His face was pale and set. "You were r-right. I shouldn't have provoked you."

  He raised up on his elbow and looked down at her flushed face. "You wanted experience, isn't that correct? You wanted to practice—"

  "Stop!" The flush deepened and her voice trembled. "I-It was my fault and I'm sorry. I was teasing. I didn't think you would . . .would . . ."

  "I warned you that you were playing with fire. It would have been your own fault if you'd gotten burnt!"

  "Not at your hands," she said simply, meeting his gaze and not flinching away from it. "You would teach me not to flirt, yes, but you wouldn't—"

  His face was still grim. "The next time I will! Oh yes, my beautiful Leonor, this is the last warning you'll get from me! You confuse honor," he added fiercely, "with stupidity! I am no chivalrous fool. You can't taunt and provoke me past the point of forgiveness and then imply I'm so little a man that I will swallow it!"

  "I didn't!"

  "You did! I am more man than you can handle, Leonor," he said softly, "and you'd do well to remember that. Next time I get such a warm invitation, I won't hesitate to accept it and you won't be allowed to change your mind!"

  Prudently she bit back the angry retort she almost made to that threat. In the temper he was in, it could be the last straw and he would really carry out his threat. So, outwardly crushed but inwardly jubilant that she had shaken him out of his complacency with her, she meekly obeyed his stern command that she lie down and get what rest she could before dawn. As she leaned against the boulder, no longer cushioned by his arm and shoulder, she feigned sleep and went over the little scene in her mind. She knew she should be ashamed of herself but she was far too pleased with the results of her test to be so. Yet a doubt remained and one fact nagged at her. Had he really wanted her, as a woman, or was he teaching her the lesson he'd threatened? With any other man, she'd have been sure but with Dimitri . . . one couldn't be sure of anything!

  Chapter Eleven

  The small pueblo of Los Angeles had undergone a startling transformation, Dimitri thought, surveying the little plaza. It was La Noche de San Juan, St. John's Day, and the village was celebrating. There had been a magnificent parade with the padres arrayed in costly scarlet. The village band, composed of Indians and peasants, made a dreadful din, but added to the festive spirit. There were tapers and incense and flowers everywhere. Blossoms cascaded over balconies and decorated donkeys' and horses' bridles. Young girls carried fragrant bouquets and young men wore flowers behind their ears. This was the only summer festival in the Catholic Calendar and the community made the most of it. Now that the religious ceremony was over, brightly clad peasants mingled with the more sophisticated and elaborately clad landowners, all enjoying the music, the wine and the dancing in the village plaza.

  Dimitri had looked around for Leonor when he arrived but he hadn't yet seen her. It had been two days since the morning he and Andres had delivered her to Don Gilberto's door. Leonor had been quiet and distant on the ride back that morning and had said little to her mother, beyond assuring her that she was unhurt. Dona Juana had clasped her daughter to her gratefully and tried, in stumbling words, to thank Dimitri. Dimitri had accepted her tearful gratitude and managed to extricate himself.

  He wondered what she would say if she knew how close she came to welcoming back her daughter, stripped of her virtue, and at the hands of the man she considered her savior! He may have allowed Leonor to believe that he had only been frightening her, teaching her a lesson, but he could not hide the truth from himself. He had wanted her with a hunger he could not remember ever feeling for another woman and it was a depth of emotion that horrified and bewildered him. He had no romantic feelings for the little minx; he was fond of her, did indeed feel protective about her. So why had he come so close to taking her then and there? To demanding a surrender that he could not imagine he would ever want to ask of her? He had never in his life taken the flower of virginity from any woman. He had confined his attentions to women who knew very we
ll what they were about and could participate equally and give without regret. He had never, he concluded morosely, strolling down one side of the plaza, even wanted to bed a virgin before, so why now? How, in the name of all the Saints, had the chit managed to rouse him to such a fever of passion that he nearly lost his head and satisfied that inexplicable hunger? Certainly she was lovely; she was perfectly shaped, molded to fire a man's blood, yet he had known women who were more beautiful, more seductively endowed and he had never wanted one of them with the fervor that had possessed him in the canyon. Perhaps, he wryly told himself, he had been too long without a woman! That must be the reason, for he could think of no other.

  Today, from the look of the turnout in the plaza, there would be little trouble finding one who was hoping to discover a pleasing partner. Dimitri leaned against the corner of a stall that had been set up near the center of the plaza and looked carefully around. At length, his eyes alighted on a señorita on the opposite side of the plaza, a luscious beauty indeed. She was gowned in a swirling confection of black lace, which set off her pale skin and dark, bright eyes. A plump, middle-aged don, possibly her father, was beside her, talking to several other dons. Bored, she played with her fan and looked around and her gaze collided with his.

  He met her warm, inviting eyes and smiled and lifted his hat briefly in a greeting, all the while wondering who she was and why he hadn't met her before. She returned his gesture with a delightful, flirting motion of her fan that clearly invited him to come and greet her personally. His eyes still holding hers, reading with a cynical amusement the delighted awareness and invitation they held, he began to thread his way across the plaza. Amusement might not be too difficult to find, after all, he thought, sidestepping a group of laughing children. And this young senorita was, to his experienced eye, ripe for the kind of light intrigue he had just decided he needed!

  At the hacienda, Leonor dressed for the fiesta with mixed feelings. She tried to put behind her the memories of the kidnapping and the brothel in Monterey but she still shivered occasionally when she recalled it. The festival would cheer her depressed spirits but Dimitri Varanov would undoubtedly be there. And she wasn't sure she wanted to see him. Her euphoria had worn off, after being restored so coolly and promptly to the bosom of her family, and the doubts had increased. Now she was perfectly certain that he had never felt the real hunger she had experienced, the burning need that was new and strange and wonderful. He had been trying to impress on her the folly of provoking any man past the point of safety and it had meant no more to him than that. He was fond of her, she knew; fond with the type of affection that one felt for an innocent kitten in one's house, feeling the sense of protection one felt for that trusting little soul. Well, she wasn't any longer a trusting little soul! She had so nearly betrayed herself and her feelings and given her trust and affection to a man who didn't want it! He had come to California, not to stay, but to set things right on the estate. When he had done that, he would be gone, back to Russia, back to the kind of women who he desired and . . . Leonor swallowed the lump in her throat and turned fiercely on Paquita, who had been trying without success to get a decision from her mistress on what dress she wanted to wear. Leonor stared at the demure dress Paquita had laid out on the bed and rebelled. It was dainty and pale rose and perfectly suitable for an unmarried young lady to wear to the village fiesta. She would not wear it. If she must go and face Dimitri and his amusement, and she felt sure that he was amused over the episode in the canyon, she would at least make an effort to look like a grown up, and not some nice little girl.

  ''I won't wear that," she said, striding to the wardrobe and rifling through the press of dresses in it. "Here, this one."

  Paquita stared at it in horror. "Senorita—"

  "This one!" Leonor said firmly. "And fetch my new mantilla."

  Paquita saw the set line of Leonor's mouth and nodded. "Si, I will fetch it."

  Leonor, with Paquita's reluctant assistance, donned the dress. It was a dress that Leonor had coaxed the dressmaker to make without her mother's supervision. Paquita wondered what Dona Juana would say when she saw it . . . and worse, Don Gilberto. It was tier after tier of midnight blue lace, a fine, wispy lace, sprinkled with a dusting of brilliants that caught the light and shimmered. The snug, low cut bodice, far too revealing, Paquita thought dismally, hugged Leonor's firm, high breasts. The cut of the dress exposed far too much of her creamy skin. Little cap sleeves, set wide apart, merely framed her magnificent shoulders and drew attention to her swelling breasts. Paquita swallowed. She had not seen the dress since it was finished and she was quite sure that Don Gilberto would refuse to let Leonor wear it. The fitted waist displayed her small waistline and then the dress swirled into the deep tiers, spilling down to her trim ankles. Leonor surveyed herself with satisfaction and then moved to the dressing table.

  "Put my hair up, please, Paquita. Pile it high on top and use my new comb and mantilla."

  Obediently, Paquita arranged the shining tresses high on Leonor's head, an artful tumble of curls that gave her height when the tall comb was added, and then spilled down the back in silken ringlets. Tiny curls clung to her temples and nape. "I like it," Leonor said as she turned her head from side to side. "Now, the geraniums."

  "You do not need them, senorita. Your complexion is perfect. Please—" but Leonor rose, cast a scathing glance at her maid, and proceeded to tear off several blossoms from the geranium plants she grew on the windowsill. She crushed the flowers and smoothed them on her cheeks and studied the effect. The blush of color brought out her creamy skin and her face looked more mature. She gently touched some on her lips, deepening the natural rose, as Paquita protested in vain.

  "Senorita! Only . . . well, loose women wear paint!"

  Leonor snorted. "Only loose women wear so much paint that you can tell! There, doesn't that look natural?"

  "Yes, but . . . your mother, senorita, will notice and—"

  "No, she won't and neither will Don Gilberto! Stop fluttering, Paquita. Now, the mantilla."

  Helplessly the maid handed her the midnight blue lace mantilla that was woven with silver strands, and stood back as Leonor expertly arranged it over the comb and let it fall in soft folds around her shoulders. To Paquita's relief, she twitched it around until it covered much of that exposed bosom. If she left it thus, she might pass her stepfather's inspection after all!

  Feeling ready to do battle, Leonor sailed out of her room and down to the hall to join her mother. Her stepfather cast her no more than a casual glance, only noticing that she seemed to be in looks today. Her mother, occupied with the details of her own dress and the mantilla that kept sliding off her comb, paid little attention to her daughter's attire. Smiling to herself, Leonor joined her mother in the carriage, determined, if nothing else, to make one particular don notice, today at least, that she was not a child!

  Sometime later, she saw him coming across the plaza, his gaze on someone on the far side. A swift glance reassured her that her mother had drifted off to speak to friends and there was no sign of Don Gilberto. Leonor stood with two of her friends, daughters of local dons, and several finely turned out young men who were attempting to flirt with her. Ignoring the passionate compliments being poured in her ear by Sebastian Araujo, Leonor casually eased back the mantilla so that it fell around and behind her shoulders, exposing the beautiful bodice of the dress. Then she awaited his approach. But Dimitri didn't pause or glance at her. He continued his purposeful path across the plaza. Didn't he see her or . . . or did he intend not to see her? Leonor, her temper rising, waited until he was level with her group and then said as sweetly as she could, "Good afternoon, Don Dimitri."

  Startled, Dimitri looked around and saw her standing in a circle of young men. He paused, his gaze traveling from her composed face down the length of her dress and returning to that revealing bodice. His eyebrows shot up and he caught her eye. "Good afternoon, Leonor."

  "Enjoying the fiesta?"

  He
moved to join her group. "I hope to," he said. "After all, San Juan is the patron saint of lovers." He was very aware that the senorita from across the way was watching him. "You seem to be enjoying yourself," he added, glancing at the young gallants on either side of her.

  She indicated the two young men with a casual motion of her fan. "I believe you have not met my friends. Don Dimitri Varanov," she said formally, "Senor Sebastian Araujo and Senor Luis Martinez. I believe that you know their fathers."

  Dimitri bowed. The two handsome caballeros were well turned out in dark velvet jackets and flaring trousers that were split to the knee. Both garments were ornamented with embroidery and many silver buttons. The young men's hair was plaited in a well oiled queue and they wore a small gold ring in the lobe of one ear. Dimitri had not missed their dismay on his introduction and he couldn't help but be amused at it. They were reluctantly sharing her with each other but they were not pleased to have another man join the group, one who called her by her name so casually. "Did your mother attend?" he asked.

  "She is here somewhere," she said vaguely, fanning herself with her little lace fan. Dimitri's eyes moved from the flirtatious little fan to her mischievous eyes.