The Accidental Bridegroom

by Ann Major

  His gaze fixed on the huge diamond as she slid it off slowly, tugging painfully when it jammed at her knuckle. Carefully, she dropped it into a drawer in the nightstand.

  But she left the drawer open and made no promises.

  Rate exhaled a long breath of satisfaction. Slowly, he pulled her on top of him, studying her for a long moment. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed the corners of each eyelid as if she were very precious to him. “You are beautiful and adorable and lovable for yourself alone,” he murmured. “And someday soon, you will have enough confidence in yourself and the power of your beauty over me and in your sweetness to believe that I cared about you…and not your stepfather’s money.”

  But he had taken Armi’s money.

  “Maybe…someday,” she agreed in a tight, lost voice.

  Hesitantly, she ran her fingers through the thick dark hair of his chest, feeling the hard mass of muscle. With a groan, he pulled her closer against him, and, plunging inside her, lay back. She felt him encased in the sweet fluid velvet walls of her femininity, urging her to set their pace and find her own rhythm and satisfaction. And as she rocked back and forth on his massive bronzed body, with her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, with his large hands gently circling her waist, fierce waves of undulating pleasure began to course through her nerve endings, building into a dark raging storm of fiery sensation that crashed over them both, sweeping away their separate lonelinesses on that passionate tide and making them one.

  When it was over, he rolled on top of her and said he had to have her again. The second time he went slower, and she felt joined to him in an ecstasy of fevered excitement. With his plundering lips and hands, with his husky endearments, he crushed her into his body and made her feel loved, cherished, completely his.

  Only later did she wonder if his words and physical passion might not all be an illusion. If they might not be the results of whatever bizarre combination of herbs and natural drugs Pita had put into their champagne? Might Cathy’s own astounding feelings for him be just as unreal for the same reason?

  Cathy’s fear of the past and uncertainty about Pita’s spell mingled with her own insecurities, which stemmed from growing up feeling neglected and unloved. How could she believe in Rafe or in his love for her…or even in her own feelings for him, when she did not believe in herself? She reminded herself that he had come because of Sadie. Not because of her. His attitude had changed only after a lot of champagne.

  If he were plagued by similar doubts, he did not show it. When he fell asleep, his black head nestled between her breasts, his hard body still pressing against hers, fresh dangers of their precarious situation assaulted her.

  She considered the situation. She’d read enough about Rafe’s career to know he was a wanted man in Mexico. He had broken into her house and imprisoned Maurice. Armi would go insane if he found out. So would the Mexican police if Armi vengefully informed them. She was still engaged, and all her parents’ friends were already in Mexico, expecting to be guests at the grandest international wedding of the decade.

  And Rafe thought the solution was as simple as she and Sadie running away with him.

  Somehow, she had to free Maurice and get Rafe safely out of Mexico before Armi or the cops discovered him. Only when Rafe was safe would she be able to think about the rest. She had to find Jaime, her chauffeur, and tell him to get her car ready immediately.

  Careful not to awaken Rafe, she slid out from under him and propped his head up with a pillow. She got up slowly and dressed. Removing Maurice’s ring from the drawer, she studied it for a long moment before hesitantly pushing it back onto her finger.

  Then she searched Rafe’s clothes for the keys to the handcuffs and Maurice’s closet. Her shaking fingers closed around something cold that felt like a metal pipe. She almost screamed when she realized it was the barrel of a gun. Dear God. Rafe had known very well the enormous risk he had taken to come to her.

  Nervously, she dug deeper into Rafe’s trouser pocket until she found the heavy skeleton key that opened her closet and the tinier key to the handcuffs. Frantically, she replaced the 9mm automatic under the bed.

  Then she tiptoed fearfully out into the dark hall, feeling only slightly easier that the house was so empty and still. Swiftly, she made her way to Sadie’s room. There she found Sadie and Juanito sprawled out on the hand-woven Indian carpet in the middle of the tiled floor.

  Cathy smiled. Sadie always ran full-speed till she dropped. A stack of unlit beeswax candles lay spread out between the sleeping children. Cupped in the curve of Sadie’s outstretched arm was the gaudy fluorescent skull, Rafe’s picture and a basket half filled with wilted marigold petals.

  Cathy decided not to disturb the children just yet. Closing their door, she took the keys out of her pocket and hurried to Maurice’s room. But before she could touch the doorknob, the door opened.

  When her thick-featured stepfather stepped out of the shadows, looming before her in the doorway like a malevolent giant, Cathy’s breath slammed back into her throat. Usually, he was so loud; so different.

  The fixed way Armi stared at her, the glazed intensity of his lethal black eyes, his gray face, his very silence, unnerved her. Terrified her.

  Guiltily, she pushed at the tangle of fine, silky gold that fell across her face. Stumbling once more into the hall, she realized she’d forgotten to brush her hair. The minute she pulled her hand away, the unruly mass tumbled back into her eyes.

  Armi looked as if he had aged ten years in the brief few days since she’d last seen him. He was gaunt, almost haggard. The circles beneath his sunken eyes were blacker than his pupils. She wondered guiltily if she had put him in this hell.

  “Good morning, hijita.” Little Daughter. “I’ll take those keys,” he murmured ever so softly, and yet somehow so very dangerously.

  Automatically, she let the skeleton key fall into his unclenched palm. Then the smaller key. He tossed them to the uniformed officers behind him, snapping a finger toward Maurice’s closet. Then he propelled Cathy by the elbow down the hall toward the stairs.

  Dear God, what was he going to do? Her mind raced in terror as she thought of Rafe sleeping peacefully in her bed.

  “Papacito.” “Little Father,” she whispered, “you…you don’t look well.”

  “Neither do you. You look flushed. Like you’ve caught a fever. I was worried about you. We’ll talk about it downstairs over coffee,” he said in that soft unnerving voice that wasn’t his own.

  “But—”

  “I must insist,” he murmured tightly. His fingers bit into her arm as he led her down the stairs and through the huge kitchen door that scraped heavily across the floor. She wanted to tell him he was hurting her, but the look on his face stopped her.

  Her legs were trembling with the effort of walking, her footsteps muffled and hollow because of Pita’s scattered Indian rugs. In spite of the warm golden light slanting through the barred windows, the kitchen, usually her favorite room, seemed cold and implacable. Long shadows cast by these bars made a jail-like pattern across the polished, red-tiled floor. It was too early for the servants to be up, so she and Armi were alone in the vast expanse of red floors and gleaming stainless counters and copper pots.

  Cathy’s hand brushed a clump of red chilies hanging from the ceiling as she flipped on the lights. She felt lost in her bright, earthy kitchen, trapped there with her stepfather, who suddenly seemed a dangerous stranger as he kept staring at her fixedly, coldly.

  “Did Mother come, too?” Cathy asked nervously, near tears, stalling, as she poured water with unsteady hands into her coffeemaker.

  “Chris was too busy preparing for your wedding. If I had told her my reasons for this visit, I would have alarmed her. Perhaps needlessly. She’s worked so hard to make sure all the right people come. She understands how important this wedding is to you. To Sadie. To the whole family. As I’m sure you do, hijita.”

  “What do you mean, the whole family?” Cathy wh
ispered as she measured the coffee grounds with a tablespoon that rattled against the kettle, wondering desperately how she could warn Rafe.

  “Let us just say I would not like to make Maurice’s father unhappy at such a precarious time. Just after we have negotiated a rather…delicate partnership.” Armi’s olive-black eyes were filled with anger as he stared at Maurice’s engagement ring on her finger.

  “I—I didn’t realize my marriage was so important to you.”

  “Because you refuse to grow up. Because you chose to bury yourself alive here,” he said tightly, his words soft, yet striking hard and steady like a hammer hitting an anvil. “International high finance is a risky game at best. In these troubled economic times, one false move and a man can lose everything.”

  “I chose to raise my daughter myself. I wanted her to grow up in an environment where she would know she was loved and wanted. Where she wouldn’t have to be ashamed of not having a father.”

  “I should have killed that low-class bastard for what he did to you when I had the chance,” Armi said, not bothering to suppress the violence he felt toward Rafe.

  “No. What happened was my fault, too.”

  “When he took your honor, he took mine. There are only two ways for a man to pay for such a crime—marriage or death.”

  “That’s positively medieval.”

  “A lot of us…down here…feel that way about men who violate their women. Throughout our history, too many of our mothers and sisters and daughters have been violated. By medieval, if you mean that we haven’t learned how to cover up our feelings of betrayal with a civilized veneer, perhaps you’re right.”

  “I am an American. So is Rafe. You are supposed to be an international businessman, a cosmopolitan.”

  “But I was born a Mexican. When I married your mother, you became my stepdaughter, my responsibility.”

  “No. I am responsible for me. I wanted Rafe.”

  Armi stood up, furious. “You foolish girl, you and I have had many battles, no?” He spoke in a weary, fed-up tone that was somehow more frightening than if he had screamed.

  A potted plant crashed on the patio outside, and his attention shifted from her to the shattered pottery, spilled dirt and uprooted hibiscus blossoms on the perfectly swept terrace. She turned. Through her large barred windows, she saw that her beautiful flower gardens were crawling with uniformed federales.

  She whirled to face her stepfather. Across the red expanse of her kitchen, their eyes met.

  Hers were wide with terror.

  Armi’s were narrow with hatred and bitter triumph.

  “I know he spent the night here—with you. I told him six years ago what would happen if he ever touched you again.”

  “He came because he just found out about Sadie,” Cathy began desperately. “You have to let him go.” She sank to her knees. “I’m begging you.”

  “So he can come back again and pull another stunt like this? No, I cannot let him ruin me, hijita.” And in a softer tone, “Or allow him to destroy your chance at happiness with Maurice.”

  “H-happiness…” She swallowed a sob. “I—I’ll do anything you want…if only you’ll let Rafe go. But if you hurt him—I swear to you that I will never, never marry Maurice or anyone else you want me to.”

  Armi’s lips twisted. He drew a long breath. “You were a difficult child, hijita. You are an even more difficult woman.”

  “You think you own the world. You think you own my mother…and me, too.”

  “If you marry Maurice and make him happy…as planned, I will personally guarantee Steele’s safety back to Texas. Otherwise…”

  Armi hesitated, smiling as he looked past her to the federales and the shattered pot, smiling when he saw that she had gone pale as frightening possibilities took root in her frantic mind.

  “Steele is wanted for questioning in a wreck he had with a bus yesterday. There were damages. To the bus. To a rooster.”

  “A rooster? You are mad.”

  “He broke into your house—he assaulted Maurice. Then there is the little matter of Hernando Guillen.”

  “Guillen was a murderer and a drug lord.”

  “Guillen has many friends in high places who want revenge against the troublesome gringo who seized him illegally and hauled him back to Texas to die. Guillen’s friends are my friends. His brother is on his way to this village.”

  “You don’t even know Rafe had anything to do with Guillen’s abduction.”

  “I don’t care, either. Why do you defend him? Surely you haven’t forgotten that he extorted a small fortune from me as payment to stay away from you. He set himself up in business with my money. I bet I can persuade him into selling his rights to Sadie just as he sold his rights to you.”

  Cathy turned away, sick at heart, all her doubts about Rafe resurfacing. “He said he wants to marry me,” she attempted bravely.

  “Surely you don’t delude yourself that he’s ever been in love with you.” Armi’s black eyes were bright with hatred.

  Before she could reply, the door scraped across the tiled floor, and an ashen Maurice walked slowly toward her. His golden hair was rumpled. He needed a shave.

  Forcing a weak smile, he set a pair of handcuffs and a key on the table beside her.

  Other than looking untidy and exhausted, he appeared to be fine in spite of his night in the closet. A bit guiltily, he admitted he’d spent most of the time asleep. Not that Maurice didn’t proclaim rather theatrically he’d been outraged over the way Rafe had attacked him. Not that Maurice hadn’t been terrified with concern for Cathy. But the closet had been so cozily dark and warm, he hadn’t been able to stay awake despite his concern for her.

  “Darling, are you sure you’re all right?” A faint desperation lingered in Maurice’s cultured voice as he pulled her unwilling body into his arms.

  His touch felt alien after Rafe’s. She stiffened before she grew aware of Armi’s menacing presence. With an effort, she forced herself to relax.

  “The scoundrel won’t get away,” Maurice reassured her, tracing the delicate line of her cheekbone with a perfectly manicured, soft fingertip. “He won’t ever get another chance to scare either of us like that again.”

  Maurice’s hand slid to the small of her back. He curved a finger under her chin and lifted it. Before she could protest, he silenced her with a kiss, and gathering her closer, molded her to his lean aristocratic frame.

  His firm lips were not entirely unpleasant. Nor was the comforting warmth of his arms. She was truly fond of this gentle, sensitive man. But nothing about him turned her blood to fire. And she was too terrified for Rafe to be comforted.

  She was still in his arms when the kitchen door scraped the floor and two federales with rifles kicked Rafe into the kitchen.

  “Rafe,” she cried out. “Dear God, what have they done—”

  One of the cops jammed the butt of his rifle into the small of Rafe’s spine so hard, Rafe staggered, falling forward at her feet. His wide shoulders slumped in defeat. Cathy almost cried out when she saw that there was blood in his black hair, and the cut above his eyebrow was bleeding again.

  In mute horror, she sank down beside him. But when she worriedly reached out to caress his dark bruised face, he jerked away from her touch. For one long minute, he regarded her icily.

  The air rushed out of her body. She felt desolate. Rafe’s bitter disillusionment made it impossible for her to breathe.

  Slowly, Maurice lifted her limp body into his arms and crushed her to him tightly. “There’s no reason for you to feel the slightest pity for this villain. Or ever be afraid of him. I promise you, this will be the last you’ll ever have to see of him, my darling.”

  Something ugly blazed in Rafe’s eyes as he looked at them. Then his dark face went blank. In spite of Rafe’s obvious hatred for her, Cathy felt a strange despairing longing for him. It pulled her to him. She had a crazy wish to throw herself into his arms and beg him wildly to forgive her. But she just stood th
ere mute and helpless with her heart hammering in her throat.

  The police had beaten him so badly, his right eye was swollen shut. His nose looked bruised and lopsided.

  Blood trickled from his forehead and from a deeper gash at the corner of his mouth.

  She swallowed convulsively, tasting her own tears. “Rafe, I’m so sorry. I—” Since she knew what he thought, she couldn’t quite meet his piercing blue gaze.

  “Like hell.”

  “Rafe…” Her anguish pooled in her eyes.

  He smiled unpleasantly. Then his face hardened until it seemed carved from the coldest stone.

  “Damn you,” he hissed. “I should have known better than to trust you. I should have known you’d sic your stepfather on me again. This time you won’t be happy till I’m dead.”

  Nine

  Rafe felt every painful breath squeezed through his bruised lungs and ribs where the bastards had beaten him.

  What were they waiting for?

  Why didn’t they just kill him and get it over with?

  For two godforsaken hours, Rafe had been a prisoner in Cathy’s cramped living room, in this plump overstuffed chair with the cold weight of a Colt automatic pistol nudged between his shoulder blades. He could smell the guard’s unwashed body through the man’s greasy and stained khaki uniform; he could smell the nauseating garlic and tequila on his breath. He knew those smells because the guard was the same creep who’d laughed when he’d strip-searched him.

  Rafe hadn’t looked up from the floor for an hour, but he knew he was still surrounded on all sides by the bastards. His tanned hands were folded, knotted together limply between his knees. He was slumped forward, his mood morose as he studied the stiff blood stain on his shirt and the imperfections of the rectangular saltillo tile in front of his scuffed boots. He didn’t look up, because every time he did, all he saw was Cathy and Maurice huddled together on the couch opposite him. And the sight of them like that made him sick to his stomach.

  Not that Cathy looked particularly happy to be reunited with her aristocratic wimp. No—she was as pale as porcelain and even more terrified-looking than the lily-white Maurice. She kept twisting that ostentatious ring she’d put back on her finger round and round. And every time the thing flashed at him, Rafe felt tiny, vicious pinpricks of jealous pain. But even as he hated her, he could tell she hadn’t wanted things to go this far.