The Hostage Bride (14 page)

‘Something that is easily remedied.'

Rico swung her round again, this time until she was facing into the room. On the opposite wall hung an oil painting of a woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, wearing a deep red, traditional Spanish flamenco dress.

‘Who is she?' she managed to ask, her heart thudding in response to the way that his arms held her, coming round her ribcage, and crossing over her breasts, his long-fingered hands resting lightly on her shoulders, only inches away from the spot where an urgent pulse throbbed at the base of her throat.

‘My grandmother.'

Of course. She could see the resemblance in the eyes, the high cheekbones.

‘She's beautiful—and so is the dress.'

‘I still have it.'

Gently he led her over to a carved wooden chest. When he flung back the lid the fragrant scent of sandalwood filled the air. Rico lifted out a rustling package, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, slid it on the bed and opened it delicately. The fine silk of the dress spilled out onto the white bed cover.

‘Rico…' It was a sigh of delight.

‘My grandmother was about your size.' He picked up the dress, held it up against her, nodding his dark head in satisfaction. ‘From the moment that I brought you here I have had a fantasy of seeing you in it.'

He stroked the back of one hand against her cheek then
slid it under her chin, lifting her face so that her eyes met the darkness of his.

‘Indulge me,
querida
,' he murmured softly. ‘Put it on.'

When he looked at her like that, spoke to her like that, she could deny him nothing. She nodded silently and he put the dress into her hands where she barely even noticed she was holding anything, the silk was so delicate and fine.

‘I'll be downstairs,' he said and bushed her cheek with his lips, leaving a burning trail of promise.

He was waiting for her at the foot of the great wooden staircase when she appeared, smiling a little nervously, yet with a glow of feminine pride about her. Her mirror had told her that she looked good, but Rico's eyes told her more than that. They watched her every step of the way down the stairs and the unmoving, dark-eyed gaze told her that she was beautiful without a single word having to be spoken.

But he found the words too, coming to her as she reached the last step and holding his hand out to her and clasping hers firmly as she came to stand level with him.

‘You are perfection,
querida
,' he told her in a voice husky with deep sincerity. ‘You have never looked more lovely, and if my grandmother could see you now she would be happy to have that dress worn by someone who enhances it the way you do.'

He had known that she would look stunning, but he hadn't been prepared for quite how spectacular her appearance was. The deep red of the dress looked amazing against the pale gold of her skin, the sleeveless design and low-cut vee neckline exposing delicate arms and just a hint of the sweetly feminine curves of her breasts.

Tightly-fitting to the waist, the dress then flared out into a full-length skirt, slit right up the centre with wide flounces one either side, exposing long slender legs, almost to the hip. She wore delicate black sandals with ridiculously high
heels that accentuated the length of her limbs even more, tilting her body forward so that he had to drag his hungry eyes away from the creamy cleavage so blatantly on display.

But he couldn't just stand and stare, however much he wanted to. She had asked for one night and if that was all he could give her he would make sure it was a night to remember. So he took her hand and led her, out of the hallway, through the long living room, and out on to the veranda where the wine bottle and glasses stood ready on the wooden table.

‘I don't have the food yet, but I do have wine. Can I pour you a glass?'

‘Please.'

It was only now that Felicity realised that the storm had stopped its crashing and growling. The lightning no longer flashed and there was an atmosphere of intense calm all around them. The rain washed grass looked fresh and deeply green, with tiny droplets of water still sparkling here and there like miniature diamonds and far away on the clear horizon the faint outline of the high Andes could just be seen.

Their hands touched faintly as he passed her the glass and it seemed as if hot shivers of electricity ran up her arm underneath her skin and suffused her whole body. She jumped faintly as if she had been burned then wished she hadn't as she saw his immediate withdrawal.

‘And the music?' she asked, anxious to repair the damage. ‘Did you find some tango music?'

‘Of course.'

He moved inside for a moment and she heard the faint click of a CD case opening and being placed into a machine. A few seconds later the first, delicate strains of sound drifted out on to the veranda.

It seemed as if the music went straight to her heart with
its plaintive surface layer of the
bandoneon
—the big, black concertina—and its heavier, sensual undercurrents of guitar and rhythm. She felt tears burn in her eyes and hastily bent her head to sip at some wine as she struggled with her feelings.

‘Would you like to dance?' Rico was suddenly there beside her, his footsteps light as a cat's, unheard even on the wooden floor.

‘I—I don't know how.'

‘Then I will teach you.'

Gently he took the wineglass from her unresisting hands and laid it on the table. Then he moved her so that she was standing in front of him, a few inches away, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

‘Your arms go here…'

He lifted her left hand and placed it low down on his right shoulder, almost at the top of his arm.

‘And here…'

He linked hard tanned fingers of his left hand with the paler, slender ones of her right and, looking down into her eyes, smiled suddenly, devastatingly.

‘The tango always had the reputation of being immoral and sinful. Until late in this century, no respectable woman would take part in such a dance because it was reputed to have started in the brothels…and one of the reasons for that is that a man can hold his partner like this…'

His free hand slid around her waist, drawing her close and holding her tight so that there was barely enough space to let a shaft of light in between their two bodies. The palm of his hand was in the small of her back where the low-cut back left her skin exposed, the light touch seeming to burn like a brand.

‘Now listen to the rhythm… Played by true
tangueros
, tango music is dark, dangerous. To dance to it you have to let it take over your body, enter your soul…'

Felicity heard his words only vaguely through the pounding in her head. It was a pulse that had nothing to do with the music that surrounded them, and everything to do with the man who held her, his lean hard body so very close to her own. She didn't so much follow the rhythm of the accordion and guitar as blindly match the sinuous slide and twist and turn of the long legs, the supple hips, the proud, straight back of her partner.

And she had no idea how she managed to dance when she was totally unaware of her feet. When all her being, all her soul was concentrated in her eyes as they locked with the ebony deep gaze just inches above her, burning, sensual, demanding, like the music.

They danced slowly at first, then picked up speed, stepping, turning, sliding, twisting, dipping, until her head was whirling and her body on fire. He spun her away from her, then back again with only a slight, arrogant twist to his wrist; he bent her backwards, leaning low from the waist with only the hard strength of his arm supporting her in the small of her back. He held her close, with his cheek resting against hers, his warm breath softly stirring the tendrils of her hair with a gentleness that tore at her already vulnerable heart.

And as the last bars of the music died away he caught her to him and his lips came down hard on hers, all the fire and beauty of the dance compressed into one searing, demanding kiss.

A kiss that she answered with all her heart. She lifted her head and opened her mouth to him in the same seconds that her arms went up around his neck, fingers clenching in the black silk of his hair as she held him close. Her hunger was a tango beat in her blood, running molten through her veins, melting away all thought but one.

‘Rico,' she muttered against his mouth, her voice husky with need. ‘You said I had to come to you of my own free
will. That I had to be the one to say I wanted you that I… Well, I'm saying it now. I want you, Rico. I want you more than I can say. I…'

But she didn't have to say any more because even before she had framed half her words Rico had reacted to the tone of them, the yearning hunger that made her voice crack in the middle. While she was still speaking he swung her off her feet and up into his arms, carrying her into the house, kicking doors open in his impatience.

Her carried her up the wide, wooden staircase, across the landing and along the corridor to his bedroom where he laid her gently on the bed then stood back slightly, bending to cup her face in both hands and stare down into her eyes, his burning gaze seeming to reach right into her soul.

‘I have waited so long for this,
querida
,' he muttered, his words thick and rough with a need that matched hers. ‘It may only have been days in time but each hour, each second since I first made love to you has seemed like an eternity to me. To watch you and want you and not be able to touch…'

He broke off, shaking his proud dark head in despair at his memories.

‘But now the waiting is over. For both of us. And I promise you—I promise you,
gatita
—that I will make this well worth waiting for.'

Her body was already aroused and hungry, her skin on fire for his touch. It was as if the dance they had shared had been the most provocative, the most erotic form of foreplay so that already the need was at its highest pitch, the pleasure so sharp it was close to pain.

But still he prolonged the waiting, taking his time to ease the clinging dress from her body, to dispense with the scraps of lace and satin that were her only covering underneath it. He kissed, caressed, sucked, licked every inch of her skin until she was writhing beneath his tormenting
hands, pressing herself against the hot demand of his lips. Her breathing was ragged and uneven, his name a litany of praise on her lips.

And she gave him back kiss for kiss, caress for caress. She tugged the buttons on his clothing free, a sigh of delight escaping her as she eased the white shirt from his shoulders and down his back. But then with the sleeves halfway down his back, the white material stretched tight, imprisoning him, she paused and smiled up into his passion-glazed eyes, her expression teasingly provocative.

‘My turn now…' she murmured and she twisted out from under him, pushing him down onto the soft sheets where the tanned skin glowed like burnished gold in contrast to the pristine whiteness surrounding him.

Felicity bent her head and set herself to reducing this proud, forceful man to the same state of agonised, quivering yearning, to arousing the same white-hot hunger that he had created in her. She traced the line of every taut muscle in his chest, with lingering kisses, smiling against his skin as she felt them bunch and clench under her mouth. She let her tongue encircle the tight bud of his male nipple, until it peaked against her mouth, his groan a sound of aching delight and pure surrender all rolled into one.

Leaving the shirt where it was, still restricting his movement, she slid lower down his long, hot body, taking the same, slow, deliberate time to unfasten his belt, ease, down the zip, smooth his clothes the length of his legs and onto the floor. And then, as he had done the first time they had made love, she kissed her way upwards again, hearing his breath catch thickly in his throat as her lips brushed the heated hardness of his potent desire for her.

‘Felicity…
gatita
…!'

She had suspected all along that the imprisonment of his shirt was not enough to hold him, but that he had simply been going along with her love play, content to submit
completely to her attentions. But it was clear that even his iron grip on his control was loosening and she was only allowed a few more seconds of freedom to torment him before with a hoarse cry of hunger he wrenched his arms free, ripping the shirt to pieces in a second, and reared up to capture her again.

She was flung down onto her back, her limbs imprisoned and crushed by the hard strength of his, one of his knees coming between her legs, a hard thigh nudging hers apart.

‘Now…' he muttered thickly, ebony eyes glittering wildly, a hot streak of colour burning high on the carved cheekbones. ‘Now I will show you what I really feel.'

She was already open to him. Already lifting her pelvis to meet the wild, fierce thrust of his body, welcoming him inside her with a sense of such glorious inevitability that she almost lost herself right there and then. But Rico wasn't prepared to let her rush to fulfilment and he stilled for a moment, gentled her with soft kisses and butterfly caresses. And only when her frantic breathing had slowed faintly, when her closed eyelids began to flutter open, did he move again.

And this time there was no going back. This time neither of them had a hope of imposing any sort of control over their actions. Their loving was wild and fast and hard and everything she needed. It was elemental and overpowering and it carried her along with the force of a raging floodtide, on and on and up and up until in one final peak of ecstasy she was catapulted into the stars and her whole being exploded within her.

She didn't know whether she slept for a time or whether she simply lost herself so completely that the time slid away without her realising it. She only knew that when a faint, hazy form of consciousness returned, she was lying curled up against Rico's long, muscular body, the warm,
heavy weight of his arm imprisoning her, her head on his shoulder, cheek resting against the heated satin of his skin.