Mercedes. Bringing home a bastard child would be uncharacteristic enough for the patrón . He dared not defer to her wishes and avoid his duty to provide a legitimate male heir. Anyway, the sparks between them this afternoon had been undeniable. The lady may have thought she wanted to sleep alone, but he knew women. And he knew damn well she was mistaken. If he had the time to woo her slowly he could convince her of the truth, but that was not an option.
Cursing the rotten timing, he slipped on his jacket and inspected the elegantly clad stranger in the mirror. Luce's suit of charcoal gray wool fit him with the grace only bestowed by custom tailoring on a man of superb proportions. A white silk shirt and snowy ruffled stock accented his sun-darkened face. He studied that face, feature by feature, as if discovering it for the first time.
My father's face. Hispanic, haughty and hawkish. Yet did it hold the indolent decadence that he detected in Don Anselmo's portrait, hanging in the sala ? He hoped not, although he had certainly never taken any pride in his mother's heritage. He had seen firsthand the stock from which she had sprung. Perhaps there was some distant ancestor on the Alvarado side who had character and integrity.
Sliding a sapphire signet ring on his finger, he grinned sardonically at the reflection in the mirror. Here he was wearing another man's clothes and jewelry, living under false pretenses in his house and planning to seduce his wife tonight—and he dared to think about integrity! He had done many things to survive over the years, things of which he was not proud. Perhaps rescuing Rosario would erase a few of the sins weighing on his soul, not the least of which would be his enjoyment of the beauteous Mercedes.
She was waiting for him in the dining room, dressed in a demure-looking little gown of sprigged muslin in various shades of rose and pale pink. “You look like a concoction of sugar candy,” he said, causing her to turn suddenly and face him. She clutched a glass of wine in both hands. “Of course, the neckline is rather...concealing, but the way you fill out the bodice almost makes up for that deficiency. Anyway, since I'll soon see what lies beneath the layers of clothing, it doesn't really matter, does it?”
“You delight in tormenting me with your crude sexual taunts, don't you, Lucero?” Her tone of voice indicated it was a rhetorical question. “I used to shiver and blush and stammer when you made remarks like that.”
He stalked closer. “Oh, I can still make you blush, as pinkly as your girlishly sweet dress. Did you choose it to make me feel I was robbing the cradle again—taking that insipid little virgin who bored me so four years ago?” Two could play at rhetorical questions, he indicated with a smile. “As you've already made quite clear to me, you aren't that fainting miss any longer.” His eyes swept to the glass in her hand. “For courage? Surely the patrona of Gran Sangre doesn't need it.” He took the heavy crystal glass and raised it to his lips, turning the rim to drink from the exact spot where her lips had touched. “You may not faint, but I promise to make you shiver...in satisfaction.”
His low, sibilant words sent a frisson of white heat coursing through her like a bolt of lightning. He was standing beside her now and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek as he bent down and pressed his mouth to the curve of her throat. Blessed Virgin! She had thought his words had scalded her. What did the fiery burn of those beautiful lips do?
She would not flinch away like the insipid little virgin he named her. But neither could she stand as unresponsively still as she wished to do. The strange, mesmerizing combination of his sexual hunger and his tenderness made her ache to melt against him.
He could feel her sway imperceptibly toward him.
Cursing the rotten timing, he slipped on his jacket and inspected the elegantly clad stranger in the mirror. Luce's suit of charcoal gray wool fit him with the grace only bestowed by custom tailoring on a man of superb proportions. A white silk shirt and snowy ruffled stock accented his sun-darkened face. He studied that face, feature by feature, as if discovering it for the first time.
My father's face. Hispanic, haughty and hawkish. Yet did it hold the indolent decadence that he detected in Don Anselmo's portrait, hanging in the sala ? He hoped not, although he had certainly never taken any pride in his mother's heritage. He had seen firsthand the stock from which she had sprung. Perhaps there was some distant ancestor on the Alvarado side who had character and integrity.
Sliding a sapphire signet ring on his finger, he grinned sardonically at the reflection in the mirror. Here he was wearing another man's clothes and jewelry, living under false pretenses in his house and planning to seduce his wife tonight—and he dared to think about integrity! He had done many things to survive over the years, things of which he was not proud. Perhaps rescuing Rosario would erase a few of the sins weighing on his soul, not the least of which would be his enjoyment of the beauteous Mercedes.
She was waiting for him in the dining room, dressed in a demure-looking little gown of sprigged muslin in various shades of rose and pale pink. “You look like a concoction of sugar candy,” he said, causing her to turn suddenly and face him. She clutched a glass of wine in both hands. “Of course, the neckline is rather...concealing, but the way you fill out the bodice almost makes up for that deficiency. Anyway, since I'll soon see what lies beneath the layers of clothing, it doesn't really matter, does it?”
“You delight in tormenting me with your crude sexual taunts, don't you, Lucero?” Her tone of voice indicated it was a rhetorical question. “I used to shiver and blush and stammer when you made remarks like that.”
He stalked closer. “Oh, I can still make you blush, as pinkly as your girlishly sweet dress. Did you choose it to make me feel I was robbing the cradle again—taking that insipid little virgin who bored me so four years ago?” Two could play at rhetorical questions, he indicated with a smile. “As you've already made quite clear to me, you aren't that fainting miss any longer.” His eyes swept to the glass in her hand. “For courage? Surely the patrona of Gran Sangre doesn't need it.” He took the heavy crystal glass and raised it to his lips, turning the rim to drink from the exact spot where her lips had touched. “You may not faint, but I promise to make you shiver...in satisfaction.”
His low, sibilant words sent a frisson of white heat coursing through her like a bolt of lightning. He was standing beside her now and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek as he bent down and pressed his mouth to the curve of her throat. Blessed Virgin! She had thought his words had scalded her. What did the fiery burn of those beautiful lips do?
She would not flinch away like the insipid little virgin he named her. But neither could she stand as unresponsively still as she wished to do. The strange, mesmerizing combination of his sexual hunger and his tenderness made her ache to melt against him.
He could feel her sway imperceptibly toward him.
Similar Books
