The Hostage Bride (13 page)

That arrow had hit home. She actually saw him flinch faintly as it did do, but he recovered in an instant.

‘But you weren't in love with him, were you? Maria said that was the case. She knew it wasn't going to be a proper marriage—that you were only marrying Edward for his money. She said that if I could just stop you from going to the church she was sure that she could get to Edward, persuade him to listen to her—tell him about the baby.'

‘And then you'd all live happily ever after? The perfect solution!'

Felicity flung up her hands in a wild gesture that mirrored the turmoil inside her heart.

‘And I suppose it never occurred to you that you could come to me—talk to me about this? Did you even try—'

‘Of course I tried!' Rico snarled, eyes black with rejection of her accusation. ‘I tried for days before the wedding but I couldn't reach you. You were staying at Highson House, if you remember—safe in the bosom of Edward's family. Every phone call went unanswered, every letter was returned unread.'

‘Edward told me to act that way.'

For the first time Felicity's anger ebbed, leaving her feeling subdued and disturbingly vulnerable. It had never
crossed her mind that Edward might have had his own personal reasons for keeping her and Rico apart at the time.

‘He said it was safer because you…'

‘Because I…?' Rico prompted harshly when her voice failed under a rush a realisation of the dangerous direction in which she had been heading.

Edward had told her that Ricardo Valeron was another of her father's creditors. That Joe Hamilton owed him a small fortune—and that Rico was known to be totally ruthless in taking his revenge on anyone who tried to renege on their debts.

‘Just don't talk to him, don't listen to him, don't read any of his letters,' he had told her. ‘As soon as we're safely married I'll settle things with Valeron and your father will be safe.'

But she couldn't tell Rico that. Not now.

When she had come to Argentina with Rico there had always been the hope, faint and weak and hidden at the back of her mind, that one day, given time to win his trust, his friendship, she might have been able to tell him the truth. That she could have admitted what her father had done and beg for some chance to put it right—paying the huge debt off in very small amounts over a very long time.

But she couldn't risk revealing that to this man. Not to this Rico who clearly felt no warmth at all towards her. This man who had used her ruthlessly once and was probably capable of doing so once again if he found out that he had cause.

‘That I…?' Rico prompted again when she still hesitated. ‘Felicity…'

‘That you were a monster and a brute,' she flung at him in desperation as panic rushed in over her head, swamping her completely. ‘A “barely civilised savage” was the term he used, and I think the description's pretty accurate.'

She'd hit him where it hurt that time. Right in his fierce,
male pride. She saw his arrogant head go back, his eyes narrowing swiftly, his mouth thinning harshly.

‘A monster and a brute, hmm?'

He'd forgotten that she could be like this. Forgotten the way that she could look down that elegant nose at him, regarding him as if he was nothing more than a nasty piece of dirt she had picked up on her shoe. That lady of the manor act had rubbed him up the wrong way from the beginning and he could feel it doing so again now.

It didn't help that while she was looking at him that way, all he could think of was how beautiful she was. With her hair falling softly round her face, grey eyes fringed by long, curling lashes and the sensual fullness of her mouth touched by a rose pink gloss that made her look as if she had just been kissed, she had a vibrant appeal that tugged at every one of his senses. And the slim curves of her body were shaped and enhanced by the soft blue cotton of her dress, the scooped neckline exposing the fine lines of her neck and throat, the short sleeves revealing long, slim arms.

‘Barely civilised?'

Right now he certainly felt uncivilised. With her standing there, head thrown back, brilliant eyes flashing fury, that neat chin lifted defiantly, he had to fight hard with himself not to give in to his most basic, primitive instincts.

He didn't want to argue with her. What he wanted to do was to sweep her off her feet and carry her into the next room, lay her on the enormous leather settee, then come down beside her and kiss her, caress her, until they were both senseless with passion and incapable of thought.

The mood she was in, she wouldn't go willingly. She'd fight and scratch every inch of the way, and right now he felt that that could only be an advantage. After three days of just watching her move around his house, being so close to that glorious, sexy body and not being able to touch, after three days of frustration, waiting for her to come to
him and knowing that she was never going to, he felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting. It would only take the slightest provocation to push him from thought into action.

‘When I kidnapped you, did I harm you in any way? Did I hurt you or frighten you—or even threaten you with danger? In all the time we've been together here, in this house, have you ever felt at risk, ever believed you weren't safe?'

‘I…'

‘Well, have you?'

‘No,' Felicity admitted, unwilling to back down but knowing she couldn't lie about this. If the truth was told, even when she had felt naturally apprehensive about Rico at the start, looking back she knew that it had been the situation she was in and her own thoughts about it, not Rico's behaviour, that had made her feel that way.

‘No,' she repeated.

‘And have I ever laid a finger on you—except when you wanted it?'

‘No…'

Her gaze dropped to the floor, embarrassed colour washing her cheeks. She couldn't look into his face and recall the times he had laid considerably more than a finger on her and she hadn't objected in the slightest.

‘You kidnapped me,' she muttered ungraciously and heard his breath hiss in through his teeth in a sound of vicious impatience.

‘And I've already explained why. My sister's happiness—perhaps even her life was at stake.'

Pain slashed at Felicity's heart. She would give the world to have him care for her as he obviously cared about Maria. But all she had been was a pawn in the coldly calculated game he was playing.

And making love to her. Had that been calculated too?

‘Your sister! All you ever talk about is your sister! You
haven't even had the basic decency to apologise for kidnapping me.'

His laugh, hard, short, and totally mirthless, was the last thing she expected.

‘Apologise,' he echoed sardonically. ‘You want me to apologise for taking you away from a wedding you didn't want to go to—to a man you didn't even love?'

‘I…'

She wanted to find angry words to refute his mocking question but her mind was a complete blank

‘Or would you have preferred it if I had left you to marry Venables?'

And never met Rico?

‘No.'

‘Then I am certainly not going to apologise.'

How could he ever apologise for something that had brought this woman into his life? Even if these few days were all he was ever to have, he could never regret it, not for a second. She brightened his day by existing. She tormented him, infuriated him, drove him half out of his mind with frustration and desire, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

‘I am not in the least bit sorry.'

Felicity's head came up again in a rush, the blonde mane of hair tossed back sharply.

‘Oh, but I am!' she declared emphatically, lashing out blindly in her pain, wanting to hurt, as she had been hurt. ‘I'm so sorry I ever met you! I can't stand even being in the same room as you! If I'd had the choice—which you weren't even courteous enough to give me—then I would very definitely have chosen marriage to Edward. I just wish you'd left me with that.'

She couldn't have said anything more guaranteed to hit him like a blow in the face. Couldn't have found any other weapon that would shatter his grip on his temper, push him
over the edge of the cliff he had been struggling to keep away from.

‘I wish you'd kept out of my life and left me in peace!'

‘Right now, the feeling is entirely mutual!'

To his surprise, the bitterness he felt didn't show in his voice. Instead it was as cold and clipped and controlled, as if he were incapable of feeling a thing.

‘But I can make things easy for you.'

That had stopped her dead, stilling the flow of angrily provocative words. She just blinked at him, a faint frown creasing the space between then fine, fair brows.

‘I'm going out now—leaving you alone as you wanted. If I stay, I think we may both say things we'll regret.'

She already regretted them. Already wished them back. But it was far too late and to judge by the stony, coldly distant look that blanked off his beautiful brown eyes, she had more chance of getting through to a marble statue than she ever had of reaching him. All her anger disappeared in a rush, leaving only a bleak misery that clogged her throat, making it impossible to speak.

‘If you're wise you'll use the time to get your things together and pack. When I get back I'll make the arrangements for you to get to the airport and be on your way home tonight.'

But I don't want to go home!

The words burned in her head but she couldn't get them onto her tongue. And by the time she found her voice she would have been speaking to an empty room, the door slamming to behind him the only sign that Rico had ever been there at all.

‘I don't want to go home,' she said bleakly, knowing that there was no one to hear her. ‘I want to stay here with you.'

T
HE
storm broke immediately overhead before Rico had been gone for more than five minutes. When it did, Felicity was still standing in the huge hallway, unable to think of what to do.

She couldn't pack. She didn't want to go anywhere.

But she dreaded the prospect of Rico's return and his finding that she had ignored the order he had tossed at her as he walked out the door.

So she waited. And waited. And found herself growing more and more concerned with each minute that passed as the storm grew wilder, the rain lashing against the windows, the thunder roaring, and the lightning splitting the sky.

By the time an hour and a half had ticked by she was almost frantic with worry, her mind filled with appalling, terrifying images of Rico out somewhere in the tempest, soaked to the skin, perhaps even hurt, crushed by a branch brought down in the wind. Another half an hour with no sign of him drove her to her room to change her clothes, deciding that jeans and a white shirt would be much more practical than the light blue dress if she was forced to venture out into the downpour to find him.

She was just running back downstairs when the big main door swung open, slamming back against the wall, and Rico strode into the hall.

‘You're back!'

Stupid and inane as it was, it was all she could find to say. The relief and delight at seeing him safe again made
her heart leap into a frantic staccato rhythm, beating a wild song in her chest.

‘You're soaked through!'

Another stupid, obvious comment. The black hair was plastered flat against his finely shaped skull, a high colour whipped into his cheeks by the whirling rain. The saturated shirt and jeans clung to the hard, lithe lines of his chest and legs in a way that was positively indecent, drying her mouth with instant desire.

She wanted to rush to him and enfold him in her arms, hug him tight, but at the same time she wanted to simply stay where she was and just look at him, absorb the full physical impact of the impressive sight. But most of all she wanted to peel off those sodden clothes and use her own body to dry and warm the rain-drenched skin beneath.

‘Where have you been?'

Rico brushed a trickle of rain from his temple and raked a rough hand through the dripping strands of his hair.

‘I went for a ride,' he said roughly, ebony eyes clashing with her concerned grey ones, as she stood on the stairs, a couple of steps above him.

‘A ride? In this weather? Are you crazy? Something dreadful could have happened!'

‘The mare is perfectly all right,
querida
, though if I'd known you would be this concerned about a horse—'

‘I don't give a damn about the horse!' Felicity exploded and saw his dark brows lift in a sardonic assumption of surprise at her vehemence. ‘You know perfectly well that it's you I was worried about!'

Rico's fine mouth twisted cynically, warning of the reaction she expected. He didn't disappoint her.

‘I see. You wanted to make sure that I was back safe and sound in good time to get you to the airport,' he drawled with an intonation that set her teeth on edge.

‘I wanted no such thing! For one thing, I'm not going home!'

‘But you've changed into travelling clothes.'

‘I've changed into my jeans,' Felicity told him, coming down the stairs to stand right in front of him, so close that she could see the tiny raindrops that still sparkled on the jet black eyelashes, ‘because I thought I might have to go out in the storm and look for you.'

That threw him. Just for a second or two she had the intense satisfaction of seeing him look taken aback, seeing a flicker of some powerful emotion that she didn't recognise in the dark depths of his eyes. But before she had time to react, it had gone and the blank, obsidian gaze was back again.

‘That's very flattering,
gatita
. But as you can see, I'm a big boy now. I can take care of myself. I don't need a nanny.'

‘I'm not offering to be a nanny! Though, to be perfectly honest, you need someone to look after you!'

Exasperation and uncertainty blended in her voice. She was playing this blind, not knowing how Rico might react to anything she said, and it was frankly terrifying. If she had been walking a tightrope above a thundering waterfall she couldn't be more fearful.

‘Look at you, standing there soaked to the skin. You'd better get out of those clothes and into a hot shower…'

The rest of the sentence evaporated from her mind as she saw the way he was looking at her, the brilliant eyes half-closed, gleaming behind those impossibly long lashes. He didn't need to say a word to tell her what he was thinking and she had to fight against the urge to lick her suddenly dry lips, knowing only too well the interpretation he would put on the small gesture.

‘I don't suppose you'd care to join me?' he murmured softly and just for a second she was tempted.

But it was too soon. She wasn't quite ready.

‘I don't think that would be a very sensible move,' she managed sharply.

‘Coward.'

He didn't look back as he walked past her, didn't even glance round as he strode up the stairs.

Immediately she wished she'd had the courage to take him up on the implied challenge. Remembering how he had looked as he walked through the door, she felt the spiralling hunger that had invaded her senses then uncoiling once more deep in the pit of her stomach. From upstairs came the sound of a shower running in Rico's bathroom and before she quite knew what she was doing she had put on foot on the staircase and then another.

She was standing on the landing by the open door when he came out of the shower, his only clothing a towel fastened around his narrow waist. The contrast between the tanned skin on the lean, hard torso and the soft white cotton was almost shocking, making her lips part on a faint gasp.

He seemed totally unfazed by her appearance, black coffee eyes meeting hers head on, touched with a faint challenge. Then he simply ignored her, wandering into the room and collecting clean underwear, a white shirt, selecting black trousers from the wardrobe. He even dropped the towel and began pulling on clothes with a total lack of embarrassment.

But then, of course he had nothing to be embarrassed about. He must have known that his body was an enticement in itself. Firmly muscled, without an ounce of spare flesh on it anywhere, the broad, chest and long, long legs hazed with fine dark hair, it needed no clothes to enhance it. It was perfection in itself.

‘I'm quite prepared to provide a floor show if that's what turns you on.'

Rico's dry-toned comment broke into her thoughts, send
ing them skittering off the erotic path they had been following.

‘But I think there's something of a double standard at work here.'

‘A double standard?'

She looked to Rico like a small, wild, forest creature that had been enticed to his door with handfuls of food and now was hovering in the doorway, hesitating over the decision whether to come in further or run. With her big grey eyes wide and nervous, her slender body held tensely alert, it only needed one false move and she would turn and flee and he would never get her back again.

‘Yes,' he said, keeping his voice low, his tone even. ‘If I was to hang around your bedroom door like that, you'd soon scream harassment—label me a voyeur, a Peeping Tom.'

No, he'd hit the wrong note there. He could see the withdrawal in her eyes, the way she took a step backwards, mentally if not physically.

‘I—I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be,
gatita
…'

His voice gentled, soothing her nervousness as he stepped into his trousers and pulled them up, easing the zip fastened.

‘Like I said, it's fine by me. It just does beg the question—why?'

‘Why?'

She looked dazed and bewildered, as if she didn't understand the question. She really didn't know what she wanted, or she was afraid of saying why she was here. He was going to have to tread carefully, take things slowly.

He reached for his shirt, slid his arms into the sleeves.

‘Are you going to tell me why you're so insistent on not going home?

‘I—I thought we still had some unfinished business.'

Rico considered the phrase as he slowly buttoned the shirt, leaving the neck loose and unfastened.

‘What sort of unfinished business?' he asked, stamping his feet into supple black leather boots.

Now that he was dressed she found it easier to think clearly. Her thoughts could be dragged back from the wanton paths they had been pursuing, filled with images of those powerful arms around her, that bronze flesh against her own, the strong hands awakening her with burning caresses.

But the hungry ache still lingered, pulsing low down in her body and when he spoke her eyes fixed on his sensual mouth, imagining those lips on hers, the combination of hard strength and softness tantalising her senses.

‘Personal business.' Her voice cracked on the words and she had to clear her throat roughly before she could go on. ‘What I want…'

When had he come so close? She could have sworn that only seconds ago he had been at the other side of the room, but suddenly he was there, next to her, deep set eyes holding her own wary gaze with a mesmeric ease.

‘Tell me,' he encouraged softly when she hesitated. ‘Tell me what you want and if I can I'll provide it for you.'

Her lips were painfully dry and she licked them nervously, watching his dark gaze drop to follow the small movement with a disturbing intensity.

‘I want to know how it might have been. I want one night with you as it would have been if we had met some other way—if you hadn't kidnapped me. I want us to start again.'

Start again.
If only they could. If only it were truly possible to go back to the beginning and take a completely different path from the one they had followed. Would things have been so very different?

She had no idea. She only knew that she couldn't leave
before she had found out what it might have been like. Her first love for Scott had been snatched away from her before she had had time fully realise what it meant. The memory of some gentle kisses and caresses, a few snatched nights together, was all that she had left. But it was enough to know that, whatever she had felt for Scott, it had been nothing like this.

That had been an adolescent sort of love. A boy and girl thing. The way she felt for Rico was a fully developed, mature love. The love of a woman for a man. And even if that love was never going to be reciprocated, even if physical passion was all that Rico felt for her, for now, it was enough. It was not the sort of foundation on which to build a lifetime, but it would last through tonight. And for tonight it would be enough.

‘What do you want to do?' Rico asked, his tone and his expression giving nothing away.

‘What would you have done if we'd just met?' Felicity parried. ‘If you'd just brought me here—as a stranger—what would we be doing?'

At least he was taking the time to consider her suggestion and not dismissing it out of hand.

‘I would offer you dinner. And I would to prepare the best Argentine cuisine.'

‘Wh-what would we eat?'

‘My favourite—marinated lamb with roasted red pepper and peach relish served with tomato, aubergine, and basil salad…'

He was moving as he spoke, heading out of the bedroom and onto the long, wide landing. In the doorway he paused and held out his hand to her. As if in a dream, she put her own into it and let him lead her.

‘You would have to taste
empanadas
—our spicy meat pastries—served with
chimichurri
, which is a sauce of herbs and garlic in oil.'

He was taking her down the other corridor, away from the stairs, and automatically Felicity went with him, walking at his side, their steps matching exactly, the softly accented sound of his voice swirling round her like scented smoke, weaving a spell of delight.

‘We would drink the finest Malbec wine, and for dessert—what else but
dulce de leche
with melon and figs?'

‘My mouth is watering already.' Felicity knew a twist of disappointment as they reached a polished wood door at the end of the corridor and he pushed it wide open.

But Rico did not release her as she had anticipated; instead he gave the hand he held a gentle tug that whirled her in a half circle until she was standing face to face with him, grey eyes locking with deepest brown, their bodies lightly touching at breast and hips and thigh.

‘A-and when we'd eaten, then what would we do?'

She was trembling all over but not from fear. Her reaction came from the sharpest, most intensely heightened awareness of all that made up this man before her. The heat of his hand against hers, the controlled strength in the fingers curled around her own. The clean, fresh scent of his freshly washed skin enfolded her in its own embrace, and the jet-black hair was still crisp and damp from the shower.

‘Then…'

Rico's voice had dropped an octave or more, becoming a husky whisper that curled her toes inside her shoes.

‘Then,
mi belleza
, we would dance. And in Argentina there is only one dance.'

‘Of course,' she breathed. ‘The tango.'

Only that afternoon, in the Plaza Dorrego in Buenos Aires, she had watched the tango dancers arch and twist and sway in the open air. And in the Chacarita cemetery there had been the life-size bronze statue of Carlos Gardel, the most famous of all tango singers, in his tuxedo, with
his hair slicked back, and with bunches of red flowers at his feet, or stuck in the crook of his arm, by his ardent fans.

‘I'm afraid I'm not exactly dressed for dancing.'

Her smile was tremulous, her laughter a nervous bubble in her throat as she looked down at her shirt and jeans, her practical trainers.