Secrets (19 page)

“Just what the hell are you doing outside of my door?”

“I…” She could not think of any reason that might seem plausible. Her cheeks flamed again. He regarded her steadily, careful now to look only at her face. He was grim.

Trying to speak was nearly hopeless. Her gaze kept slipping down his bare, damp torso and past his flat, hard abdomen. She had never seen a man in his underwear before. But this was not just any man, it was her husband, the man she loved. His shorts drew her eyes like a magnet draws metal. The linen fabric was opaque.

“Go back to your room,” Slade ordered.

“T-tonight is our wedding night.”

Slade's face was darkening with anger. “You think I don't know it?”

Dread filled her. “You're not going to invite me in?”

His gaze slid over her. “No. Go away. I'll see you at breakfast in the morning.”

She was shocked.

Despite his words, Slade did not turn his back on her. In fact, he did not move. His thighs were still braced hard apart. His diaphragm indicated that he was breathing somewhat unevenly and too quickly. His summer drawers seemed fuller, the linen billowing.

“I'm warning you,” he said.

Regina swallowed hard. Wives were obedient. She had just sworn to obey him. But if she was obedient now, she would be crushed. She could not understand why he was sending her away, but every womanly instinct she had told her that his words belied his feelings. Gripping the door, she swung it open and stepped inside.

His eyes were wide. “What the hell are you doing?” And he looked at her as if he could see right through her nightgown.

She was reminded that she wore nothing beneath it. Her body flamed. A strange wet heat gathered near her thighs, where she seemed to hurt. She hugged herself. “Tonight is our wedding night.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Get the hell out. Now.”

She could not believe what he had said. “W-what?”

“You heard me,” he said stiffly. His face was strained, flushed more deeply than hers. The sheen on his dark skin was brighter, too. “Out. Now.”

Regina did not think. If ever there was a time for action, that time was now, and she acted. Swiftly she moved to him, laying her palms on his damp, hard chest.

He tensed. He was incredulous.

She could barely get the words out. “W-we should b-be together tonight.”

He recovered, gripping her wrists hard enough to hurt her. “No.”

She did not feel the pain in her wrists. Her thighs brushed his. The blood inside her was churning wildly. Her body throbbed. She shook her head, unable to speak, and she leaned against him.

He shuddered when their loins met, heat against heat.

Regina gasped, shocked.

His jaw clenched. “Don't do this.” He did not push her away.

“Do what?” she asked. Her eyes were fluttering closed. Her hips had a will of their own, undulating against his male hardness. Her breasts swelled against his chest. Her nightgown clung to her, wet with his sweat and transparent.

He still didn't move, except for where his shaft pulsed against her. He was sweating more heavily now, and his breathing had become harsh. His grip tightened on her wrists and Regina whimpered, but not in pain. He rocked her body back an inch. “I don't believe this,” he said thickly. “I'm playing the saint and you're playing the fool.”

She opened her eyes. She had not expected to see such carnality in his gaze. Her heart seemed to stop; she had not expected to see such wicked promise. Then it beat even harder. She felt faint, weak-kneed. His gaze slid down her body, inspecting her raised nipples, the joining of her thighs. She was well aware that he could see through her nightclothes. She heard herself moan, a sound she could not restrain. Their bodies no longer touched, and she could not stand it. She strained against the grip he had imprisoned her with, strained for him.

“I give up,” he said, his eyes blazing, his tone dangerous. “I give up.”

His words, his tone, his expression, made her cry out.

Slade moved. He took her face in his hands. He began kissing her the way a man might kiss a woman if he loved her very much and hadn't seen her in a very long time.

With a sob, Regina threw her arms around him while he kissed her endlessly. It was nothing like the kiss they had shared in the buggy. It was not gentle, soft, or teasing. It was not even like the kiss they had shared at the beach. This kiss had no limits. It was bruising and terrifying; it was exhilarating. It was deep, openmouthed, and intimate. He tasted all of her that he could, plumbing her mouth, and she let him. He didn't touch her body, only her face. His hands never left her face. Regina had never been kissed like this in her entire life, and she was certain that she would never be kissed like this again. She lost all sense of time and place. She lost all sense of everything other than Slade. And when he finally dragged his mouth from hers, she instantly sagged to the floor.

Slade caught her before she actually hit the hard wood. “We're both gonna regret this,” he said, panting and letting her down gently while straddling her. Regina's breath caught. His eyes were so bright she felt the heat as if they contained real flames. He caught her face again in his hands and his tone became reverent. “Never,” he said harshly, “never have I seen someone so beautiful, someone so sexy. Not ever.”

Regina moaned.

He claimed her mouth again. He claimed her with the same undaunting force he had used before, but Regina did not mind, for his passion, clearly overwhelming him, overwhelmed her. His kisses were all that she had dreamed, and so much more.

Her hands slipped and slid over his wet shoulders, clutching at them. She thrashed beneath him. She desperately wanted him to lay his big, hard body down
on top of hers and complete the possession he had begun, but he did not. She desperately wanted to feel his maleness against her femininity, and she strained her hips toward his, but he refused to meet her.

He tore his mouth abruptly from hers. Close to weeping, Regina met his gaze, her nails digging into the skin of his arms. She felt swollen, close to bursting. She writhed helplessly. The sensation of the clinging wet silk, adhering to her every curve, added to her agony.

“Too fast,” he panted. He moved his hands over her breasts, as if familiarizing himself with them. Regina bucked beneath his fingers. He thumbed her nipples, his panting harsher and louder now, and Regina whimpered uncontrollably. His hands slid down her belly, low and lower still. Regina tensed, surprised but filled with anticipation, with need.

Slade's glance met hers again. He was dripping sweat and out of breath, kneeling over her, and his gaze was so intense it almost frightened her. His hands had stopped their quest just inches from her. Regina realized, in shock, that she was undulating her pelvis beneath his palms. Yet even in realizing what she was doing she could not stop her body from its reflexive dance.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, closing his eyes. A second later his hands were between her legs, molding her nightgown to the deep cleft he had discovered there. His thumbs opened and explored her as if the silk was just another layer of her skin. Regina was immediately wracked with waves of mind-shattering pleasure.

When the spasms died, she became aware of what he was doing. He had pulled her nightgown up to her waist. Now his bare palms and naked fingers slid over her. His breath touched her. New sensations flurried to life within her. His finger slid inside her, tentatively. His wild gaze jerked to hers as she clamped around him. Regina thought that she might die, very soon.

“So beautiful,” Slade said hoarsely, lowering his head.

Regina cried out when his tongue swept over her. She tried to tell him to stop, then immediately forgot about
her objections. If it was possible for a man to worship a woman, then that was what Slade was doing to her. She began to shake. His tongue circled her delicately, relentlessly. She sobbed and gave in to another round of endless, powerful pleasure.

Instantly he rose above her, pulling her into his arms. The sensations had not yet died when Regina felt his engorged phallus straining against her thigh. He had shed his drawers. He was raining desperate kisses all over her face and finally on her mouth.

“Oh, damn,” he gasped, meeting her gaze. “I already lost it, but it's still gonna be short, but sweet.”

Regina barely heard. She did not understand and did not care to. She knew only what she desperately wanted. She jerked her hips up to meet his palm, rubbing herself frantically against him.

“That's not what you want,” he told her, and she felt him poised to enter her, hard and wet. Shudders swept through him as he kissed her again, hard and deep. Suddenly his hands were anchoring her hips to the floor. “I'm sorry.”

A scant second later he was driving himself into her. He was large, impossibly large, but there was only a brief moment of pain and then she felt all of him, pulsing inside of her so tight and hot and deep. He froze, panting. He kissed her neck once. She could not stand it. She dug her nails into his shoulders, moving against him.

He laughed, exultant. He moved deeper. He withdrew. He slid into her the way a pistol slides into a well-oiled holster, smooth and quick. A blast of pleasure followed. While he pumped himself into her, deep, hard, and thick, she wept and cried out and contracted violently around him. This time the pleasure was so intense that she nearly blacked out. Then he shouted too, and moments later he lay heavily on top of her, clinging to her.

A minute might have ticked by, or an hour. He slid to the floor. “Damn,” he said grimly, sitting up. “Did I hurt you?”

Regina had been in a mindless limbo created by the intense physical release she had experienced three times. Slowly she opened her eyes to see him staring intently at her. The feverish excitement was still there in his eyes. Yet his expression was dark and worried. She smiled. She wondered if the bursting love she felt in her heart was there in her gaze and there on her lips. “No,” she whispered. She touched his mouth with her fingertip. “Oh, Slade,” she whispered. “It was so wonderful, you are so wonderful.”

He tensed.

“Slade,” she said again, sitting up. His eyes were wide, watchful. Regina gripped his shoulders, staring at his handsome, dark face, at his beautiful mouth. She stroked her finger over it again. She murmured his name again. She no longer cared if he guessed how she felt.

He caught her hand. His eyes blazed. “This is gonna be a long night,” he said.

S
lade paused at the door to look back at her. He knew that she slept like a rock under normal circumstances, so after last night he thought she wouldn't stir for many hours yet. He himself had not slept for a second. Despite the exhaustion.

Grimly he reached down for his duffel bag and slipped through the door. It hadn't taken him long to pack the few things he had brought home with him, and it had taken him even less time to make the decision now propelling him. He crossed the courtyard quickly. He wanted to leave without anyone seeing him. He preferred to leave like a coward.

And as he bypassed the house he tried not to think. It was exceedingly difficult. In the front courtyard he set the duffel bag down. There was one thing he had to do before he left.

With long strides, he began marching away from the house, not toward the stables, but north, toward the family cemetery.

As he walked, images from last night rushed through his mind. He and Regina, equally insatiable. He did not want to remember. Not now, not ever. He began to sweat.

The cemetery was just over the hill, ten minutes on
foot from the house. The family patriarch, Alejandro Delanza, was buried there—the man who had started it all when he had received the original land grant from the Mexican governor. Beside him was his first and only wife, Slade's grandmother, Delores. They had had a son before Rick who had died in infancy, and Jaime's grave was the oldest in the lot. Rick had one other brother buried there as well, the victim of a tragic stagecoach accident while in the prime of his life. Sebastian's wife had returned back east to her family and had subsequently remarried. Slade's grandparents had just the three boys, no girls, and Rick had kept up the family tradition. And as Alejandro's oldest son had preceded him into the grave, so too had James preceded Rick.

A whitewashed split-rail fence had been put up in recent years, cordoning off the area. As Slade approached, his eyes went instantly to his brother's grave. He entered through the gate, his steps slowing.

More images tumbled through his mind. Regina had been in every position he could think of, and there had been so many that the images were blurred and fragmented. He was thankful for that one small favor. His stomach roiled, not for the first time.

A marriage in name only. What a joke
.

He stopped in front of his brother's grave. Someone had put fresh flowers there the day before, white and orange roses cut from the bushes growing in the courtyard. Josephine, he thought. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

The headstone was white marble, and it was obscenely clean and new in comparison to the rest of the timeworn, wind-eroded stones in the cemetery. He stared at the inscription.
JAMES WARD DELANZA, A NOBLE, LOVING SON. 1873–1899
.

The words were blurring—or was it his vision? God, the inscription said nothing, yet it said everything. James had died so unfairly in the prime of young manhood. James had been noble, so goddamned noble, and he had been loving, not just a loving son, but a loving brother, a loving man.

While he, Slade, was a bastard and a traitor.

“James,” he suddenly cried aloud. “I never intended to consummate the marriage, I never did!”

But regret was useless. He had a secret. The secret was that he had spent the past ten years living the most honorable and noble life that he could—to prove to anyone who cared to see that his father's assessment of him was wrong. To prove to himself that Rick was wrong. Yet now his life up until this moment was irrelevant. Last night had exposed the real truth. Last night he had exposed himself. He was a fraud. He was not honorable, he had never been honorable, the past was a pretense. James was the one in the Delanza family with all the honor.

He, Slade, was a selfish bastard, as Rick had pointed out so often.
She
saw him as a noble hero. It was not even laughable. How naive she was.

God, how could he have made love to her like that? How could he have forgotten, even for a second, that this woman had been James's fiancée, that he had loved her?

“I'm sorry,” he cried. “James, I'm so sorry!” But even as he called out to his brother he was a traitor. For his head filled with its own challenging refrain.
But I love her too
.

He was aghast. It was not true. If he loved James, it could not be true. Last night he had used the woman, nothing more.

But it had not felt cheap. He had not felt cheated. Only now did he feel cheated
.

He gripped the headstone, forcing James to the forefront of his mind. He had come here to ask for forgiveness. He had come here to beg forgiveness. He had not come here to delve inside his heart, to betray James once again.

“James,” he cried, his face upturned. “I'm sorry!” He closed his eyes, listening to the morning's first birdsong. There was no answer from the grave. But had he really expected one? And how could there be one?

For his apology was not one hundred percent sincere. The stubborn rebel in him kept thinking that he had a
right, too. That she was now his wife, that James was dead—dead, dammit, and that he needed her just a little too.

But he was stronger than he had ever thought. He forced himself to stand tall. He would fight the part of him that continued to betray James, and he would win. He had to win. He could not live with himself if he didn't.

“I promise,” he managed harshly, hoping James could hear, “I promise…never again. It was a mistake. It won't happen ever again. She doesn't mean anything to me. I swear it.”

Slade waited. James did not materialize. There was no response, no answer, no forgiveness. There was not even a sign that James might be present, and that he might be forgiving. And it was stupid to be expecting him to appear, because James was dead. Stone-cold dead. Ghosts were for children, not men. Slade realized that there were tears on his cheeks.

He covered his face with his hands. Somehow he would get past this. James was dead, irrevocably dead, and there was not going to be any forgiveness from that quarter. Maybe, if he were lucky, one day he could forgive himself.

He quickly turned his back on the cold gleaming headstone. It was time to leave. Not just the graveyard, but Miramar, and her. He had proved how weak he was, there was no way in hell he could stay here with her now. If he had fallen once, he would do so again. There might even come a horrible time when he did not regret being with her. He didn't dare stay.

He walked more slowly back to the house and crested the hill. The sprawling adobe hacienda came into view. He faltered. Standing there by the gate and his duffel bag was his father.

Slade recovered. He assumed an inscrutable expression. He did not need this, not now. He hoped his eyes were not red. He continued on until he had reached the courtyard entrance.

“Where in hell are you going?” Rick demanded.
“What the hell is this?” He jabbed a finger at the bag.

“I'm leaving.”

“Because of her?”

Slade was enraged—because it was the truth. “My reasons are none of your damn business.”

“Why the hell not? I'm your father, aren't I?”

For a moment he did not speak. “You lost the right to call yourself my father a long time ago.”

Rick gritted, “Maybe you lost the right to call yourself my son, runnin' out on me the way you did!”

Slade was reminded of the night he had run away a decade ago. For a brief instant he had an inkling that his father had felt betrayed by that night, but then he knew it was his imagination—or a reversion to a child's wishful thinking. “Blame me, go ahead. You never do any wrong, do you?”

“I didn't say that.” Rick jabbed his finger at the bag again. “You runnin' out on me?”

“Yeah.”

“
You runnin' out on me again?
”

That night, ten years ago, Rick had let him go without any protest. But he had not been the heir then, just the pain-in-the-ass second son. His stomach clenched up, aching. A kind of dread-filled anticipation crept over him, unwelcome. It almost seemed as if Rick was upset. “If you want to look at it that way.”

“How the hell else am I supposed to look at it?”

Slade shrugged as if nonchalant.

“You're not taking her with you!”

Slade tried to laugh. “Believe me, old man, she's all yours.” It shouldn't hurt—he knew Rick, knew his old man couldn't care less about him—but it did. It hurt more than it had ever hurt before, undoubtedly because he'd let too many feelings out already this morning and his heart was still bleeding. “You've got it all now,” he said harshly. “That should make you happy. You've got Miramar and you've got your heiress. I'm through with her and I'm through with you.”

“You're a son of a bitch, you know that?” Rick said.

“I think you've said that once or twice before. And I know enough to take you literally. You know what? Leave my mother out of it.”

“Like hell I will,” Rick shouted. “She left me without thinking twice.
You are just like her
.”

Slade was equally furious. He wanted to explode, he wanted to inflict pain. Like a wounded animal, he lashed out. “We both had you in common, didn't we? You drove her away, didn't you? She didn't leave you, you drove her away!”

Rick went white.

Slade moved in for the kill. “But you don't have that power over me. Not anymore, not now. Once you drove me away. Now I'm leaving only because I want to.”

Rick recovered. His dark-blue eyes, so like Slade's, held the same rage, and the same anguish. “Good! Leave! You think I'm gonna fuss over it? You think I want you to stay? You think I need you?” He laughed harshly. “Like hell!”

Slade picked up his bag.

“You would only bring this place down over our heads with your damn-fool ideas,” Rick shouted as Slade walked away.

Slade didn't answer.

Rick screamed, “Besides, I got her now, damn you! I don't need you, boy, and I never will!”

Slade flinched, but kept walking. He couldn't remain impassive, not inside, where it counted. His heart was hurting as if someone was twisting a knife in there, hard. Yet his strides were steady.

When he was at the entrance, Rick said, his voice suddenly too high, “When are you comin' back?”

Slade didn't answer. The answer was that he was never coming back, another cruel twist of the blade. Leaving Miramar forever was just as hard as everything else.

“You always come back,” Rick called out, as if he understood what Slade's silence meant.

Slade didn't respond. And because it was the last time, he wanted to look back. But he didn't. And even
though his mind was made up, even though he was moving away from the house with lengthening strides, inside he was waiting, waiting for a protest, a last protest, any protest—only it didn't come.

He reached the barn. He tossed his duffel in a wagon. As he hitched a mare up in the traces, he wondered if the heavy pain in his chest was because of his father, his brother, Miramar, or the woman he had left sleeping in his room. The woman who was his wife, the woman he had dared to love, just for one night.

 

Regina had never been happier. She woke up smiling, bursting with pleasure, unable to think about anyone or anything other than Slade. Slade, her husband, Slade, her lover.

She should blush, but she was beyond blushing now; indeed, she thought, she would probably never blush again. She dressed quickly, wondering where he was, wondering what they would say to each other after having shared such a wild, reckless, decadent night. Her body felt a bit sore, but her heart was singing. This was love, and she had never experienced it before.

While she dressed she imagined the various scenes that might occur when they next met. He would smile at her from across the room as she approached, a real smile, a slow sexy smile, one that alluded to just how wicked the two of them could be.

Or he would cross the room with fast hard strides and pick her up and whirl her around, laughing. Then he would kiss her and tell her how much he loved her. He would tell her that he would love her forever, and that he was the happiest man on earth.

He hadn't said that last night. Last night he had not said much, except for how beautiful she was; he hadn't said that he loved her. Of course, Regina knew that he did love her, in the same way, and with the same fervor, that she loved him. He had proved it with his hands and mouth and body, and soon, very soon, he would prove it with words.

Today was the beginning of the rest of their lives.
Regina danced with excitement as she finished putting up her hair. They were husband and wife, and they were lovers, but they would become so much more. They would get to know one another. Become friends. Begin to trust each other. Soon there would be a child. And then another, and another. They would be a warm, loving family. Regina glowed. She imagined bringing Slade home to meet her family, and she trembled with anticipation. Her mother and her sister would be impressed with his power, his charisma, and his looks. And she knew that her brothers would respond to him instantly, too. Although they were from different worlds, they were of the same heroic mold that sets apart most men from an exceptional few. Her father would not be happy at first, because he had not had the chance to approve of Slade, but he would eventually see Slade for the man that he was, and when he gave his approval, they would become fast friends. Regina might have had doubts before, but not anymore.

She laughed, regarding her face in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled like yellow sapphires, her cheeks were rosy with joy. She looked like a woman in love, she realized; she looked like one of the happiest women in existence.

It was the middle of the day when Regina rushed from Slade's room. She headed directly for the den, hoping that he might be there, relaxing while he waited for her. But the den was empty. So too was the living room and the dining room. Disappointed, Regina paused, wondering where he might be. She heard Josephine using a cleaver in the kitchen. Quickly she crossed the threshold and poked her head in. Josephine turned, and when she saw Regina her expression sobered even more. Regina was startled by such a response. “Good afternoon. Have you seen Slade?”