Hostage of Passion

Somehow one of his hands was resting lightly on her breast, his fingers softly curling, and her body took heat from the closeness of his, the wild race of hot blood through her veins making her insane with need for him as, his lips moving slowly, erotically against hers, he murmured, ‘Let me repair the tiny damage. Let me show you what passion means.’

CHAPTER TEN

‘IDON’T think—’

Sarah tried desperately hard not to melt right into him; her faltering words of attempted protest felt clumsy, thick in her throat, and he silenced her, his lips covering hers, murmuring, ‘Bueno. I don’t want you to think. Simply to feel. Give yourself up to sensation.’ His mouth moved over hers like hot velvet and her lips quivered helplessly for one fraught, indecisive moment before her long lashes drifted down as she closed her eyes, accepting the sweet release of inevitability.

A deep hunger grew and raged within her, an aching unquestionable need to belong to this man, body, soul and heart, an instinctive, primeval knowledge that this was right, that nothing beyond this unbearably sweet moment mattered. And the way he was touching her breasts, stroking them through the thin fabric of her borrowed dress, went beyond torment; she arched her body in frantic need and heard him whisper thickly in his own language, his body hardening as his kiss changed from sweet seduction to dark, driven passion.

He was utterly dominant, his lips, his tongue, his hard male body demanding submission now and she gave it willingly, lost to rational thought, winding her arms around his neck, instinctively inviting, lost in a welter of savage emotions as she wrapped her long legs around his, binding him closer. His hands shaped her body with a burning urgency that electrified her senses and made her cry out his name on a sigh of aching need.

And when his hand slipped beneath the ruckedup hem of her dress and touched her, slid lingeringly over the soft, satiny skin of her thigh, she gave a tiny gasp, moving her hips against his, shocked by the undreamt-of world of pleasure that was opening up for her.

‘Dios!’ For a moment his body went rigidly still and she could hear the heavy pumping of his heartbeats, and then he released her, twisting away, his slashing cheekbones stained with the hot flames of desire, as intense as the blistering Spanish sun as it rode the raw blue sky.

Sarah blinked bewildered eyes, crossing her arms over her tummy where an aching emptiness was rapidly taking the place of that melting loveliness, and her tiny mew of distress was instinctive, the sound torn from the depths of her being.

He gave her a quick, searching frown then took one of her hands in his, raising it to his lips, murmuring thickly, ‘No, no, querida. This is not rejection. Never think that. I burn for you; my whole body is on fire for you.’ He pressed slow kisses on the backs of her fingers, holding her captive with his hot black eyes. ‘If you only knew how hard I had to fight not to take what I want so desperately. You are beautiful, passionately generous, adorable, and I want you more than I can remember ever wanting any woman. But now is not right.’ He turned her hand, his lips moving lingeringly on her palm. ‘Though the time will come, and it will be perfect for us, this I promise you.’

She dragged in a breath as the madness receded, leaving her feeling almost stunned, then scrambled unsteadily to her feet. She didn’t doubt him. It would be perfect between them, shatteringly so.

But the chill wind of reason was coolin

g her blood, clearing her mind. She craved him, all of him, with everything in her. Quite suddenly, he was the centre of her existence. And if this was what love was, then it terrified her. It took away her sense of self, her identity, and wrapped it up with him so that there seemed no place to go, not without him, nowhere to be but by his side.

He had kissed her and she had been swept away in a whirlwind of insanity, the madness of falling in love, the crazy desire to cleave to him through the rest of her life. It was only his control that had enabled her to rescue hers. She saw it all with a clarity that hurt.

He would make love to her when the time was right. Reason and logic made that promise feel like a threat. And how would it be? When would the time, the place be right? Chilled champagne, the big soft bed, the dark velvet, exotically scented Spanish night? And then what? Boot her out again when he got bored, or when her father showed up, whichever came the sooner?

She wasn’t going to let herself compound the hurt that was already squeezing her heart until it bled. She had more sense than that.

‘I’ll make my own way back,’ she said coolly, not looking at him. ‘Carry on walking, if that’s what you want. I won’t get lost. We haven’t come far.’ Not come far! she thought on an aching shudder. She was a million miles away from the unawakened woman who had so blithely set out this morning, pretending to herself that she wanted this devil to be her friend.

But Francisco merely laughed, low and soft in his throat. ‘I have you with me now. I don’t let go. Will you remember that?’

He traced the outline of her full lips with a trailing finger and she closed her eyes, shuddering with sensation. Oh, God, she didn’t think she could bear it—loving him, wanting him, all so desperately! And his feathery touch was dark magic, a prelude to the mystery of human desire; her lips quivered helplessly, her bones shaking inside her. She didn’t know how she could fight it.

Then she heard his almost silent sigh, felt him move away, and opened her drugged eyes, her lids feeling incredibly heavy, to watch him retrieve her hat from where it had fallen in the short, springy grass.

‘There,’ he said, fitting it on her bright head. ‘You will walk with me while I think. Come!’

Just like that, she thought, watching him pluck the haversack from the ground and swing the strap over his shoulder. All that Spanish arrogance was well and truly back in place.

Despite everything, all her attempted commonsense strictures, it made her smile. Made her happy, almost carefree, as she hurried to catch up with his long, loping stride. If walking and thinking was all he now had in mind, she could cope with that. She would enjoy the sense of freedom, of seemingly limitless space. Enjoy it to the full, treasure it, because this was going to be all she would allow herself to have. It was something she could cope with without damaging herself irrevocably.

Somehow or other she was going to have to armour herself against him, control and tame the wild needs which he alone could awaken.

Talking herself into a sensible frame of mind, she was hardly aware of his continuing silence as they trekked along the rocky heights. His profile was harshly austere in the unforgiving rays of the sun and his thoughts had taken him away. He had probably forgotten she was with him.

But that didn’t matter. She would never feel alone while he was near. Briskly she slapped that counterproductive thought down and made herself take a guess at the distance they’d covered.

Miles.

And they would have to retrace their steps, and she would probably die of heat exhaustion and dehydration along the way. If she asked whether there was any coffee left in that flask, would he even bother to answer?

Working up a strong feeling of resentment was certainly helping to block out all those other deadend thoughts but when he plunged on to a path that led down a deep ravine and turned, holding both hands out to help her, she put her hands trustingly into his and knew that nothing on earth could armour her against what he made her feel. Her folly made her want to cry.

He swung her effortlessly down the steepest part of the track and she heaved a great sigh. She was no quitter; she was just going to have to try harder to block him out. She could do it, given time. Then he caught her to him, steering her out of the way of a group of prickly pears, pushing a strand of damp hair back from her hot forehead, telling her, ‘Not long now and then you can catch your breath. It is not my intention to exhaust you.’