“Well?”
He looked at her. Her head was tilted at a slight angle and she was watching him with catlike intensity.
He took a step toward her. “I see that you are a woman who likes to live dangerously. But I must warn you, señorita, that it would be reckless to push a man like me too far. You might not escape as easily as you did a few moments ago.”
Kyra’s heart kicked against her ribs. He was right. Not about the incident with Gold Teeth but about what was happening now. You didn’t tease a man like this; you didn’t dangle bait and wait to see if he’d snap it up. She remembered all too clearly the way he’d watched her that night, the sexual heat that had smoldered between them.
“Perhaps it is I who should have asked that question of you, señorita.”
She looked up. He had moved closer to her; they were standing barely a whisper apart. She swallowed, then cleared her throat.
“What—what question?”
“About dreams,” he said. His smile was sexy and dangerous. “Have you dreamed of me, señorita?”
Kyra stepped back. “Never,” she said, her chin lifted. “Unless I’m in the middle of a very bad one right now.”
Antonio’s nostrils flared. He reached out and clasped her by the shoulders.
“Do you feel the bite of my fingers? I promise you, what is happening is no dream.”
Yes. Yes, she could feel the bite of his fingers, feel the heat of his touch. She could see that his eyes were the color of sapphires, that there was a small, almost invisible scar angled across his jaw; she could smell his scent, equal parts sun and sea and raw male anger.
He looked down at her, his eyes dark, and then he drew her forward against his hard body.
“We are both here. In the flesh—isn’t that what you Americans say? And just so there’s no further confusion m your mind, I will prove it to you.”
And before Kyra could stop him, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her.
CHAPTER THREE
ANTONIO sat behind his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d tilted his leather-and-oak chair back on its legs and now he was scowling at the ceiling instead of at the door, which was what he’d been doing for the last five minutes or for however long it had taken him to count silently to a hundred in Spanish, in English, and finally even in the Indio dialect he’d spent most of his adult life trying to forget.
It hadn’t helped. His patience, never his strongest asset, he had to admit, was wearing thin. But then, why wouldn’t it? His scowl deepened as he leaned forward and let the front legs of his chair bang against the wideplanked teak floor.
How much time could a woman spend in the ladies’ room, for God’s sake?
Antonio rose to his feet, stalked to the window, and turned his scowl on the rain. Damn the weather, anyhow. He’d been away so long he’d almost forgotten the cloudbursts that were so common to the tropics. If only it had started to rain sooner. Maybe then none of this would have happened. Maybe his secretary wouldn’t have looked outside and seen a woman—a turista, she’d saidbeing harassed just outside the door.
“Shall I call the police?” Consuelo had asked.
Antonio had hesitated. Calling the police seemed like overkill. This wouldn’t be the first drunken sailor to make a pest of himself on the docks.
And so he’d sighed with resignation at the interruption, risen from his desk, and assured Consuelo that he would deal with the problem.
And so he had, he thought now, suppressing the faintest smile of satisfaction. It was a long time since he’d used his fists, but then, disarming a fool with a knife was not a skill one forgot.
His smile turned into a frown as he remembered how the smile of gratitude disappeared from the turista’s lips when she’d realized who it was that had saved her beautiful neck. Did she really think she was the only one who was appalled by this unbelievable coincidence? To find himself face-to-face with the woman again…
Not in a million years would he have imagined such a thing!
Antonio turned away from the window. One good thing, at least, had come of this encounter.
He knew with certainty that he would not be bothered by unwanted images of the American’s coldly beautiful face any longer.
Inconceivable as it seemed, her face had haunted him, but that was over now. He’d seen her again and the only emotion he’d felt had been disbelief. Better still, he’d given her a taste of her own medicine. He’d kissed her, had the satisfaction of knowing that he could make her tremble with desire for a man like him…
Who was he kidding? She hadn’t trembled. The kiss had only lasted for an instant but it had been long enough for him to feel her go rigid with shock in his arms.
And then the skies had opened up and Consuelo had stuck her nose where it didn’t belong yet a second time. She’d come dashing out into the street, shot him a look of fierce remonstration, and before he could stop her, she’d put her arm around the woman and rushed her inside.
Now here he was, cooling his heels, a captive in his own office, dammit, waiting for the American to deign to reappear so he could call her a taxi and send her back to wherever she’d come from, so he could get back to work and maybe, just maybe, tie up his business in Caracas so he could get out of here and be back on San Sebastian Island tonight.
He shot back his cuff, glared at his watch, then marched to the door and yanked it open.
“Consuelo,” he bellowed.
His secretary looked up from her desk, her expression impassive.
”Sí, señor?”
Antonio folded his arms over his chest. “Where is she?”
“She is still in the ladies’ room, señor.”
“Does she think I have the day to waste?”
“I am certain she will only be another few minutes. She asked for a comb and—”
“And you obliged? What for? Are you her maid?”
Consuelo’s tone grew cool. “The señorita has been through a most unfortunate experience, señor. I should think any decent human being would feel some compassion for her.”
Antonio opened his mouth, then closed it again. The rebuke was unsubtle, but then, lack of subtlety was one of his secretary’s assets. Consuelo was old enough to be his mother; she had been with him for ten years, and whenever he needed to be brought back to size—as, he supposed, he might on extremely rare occasions—she was the only one with the courage to do it.
“She has had a difficult time, Señor del Rey,” Consuelo added softly.
Antonio’s mouth hardened. “Perhaps she has also learned a lesson. The world and its inhabitants are not toys put here for her amusement.”
He turned and slammed the door behind him before Consuelo could respond. Then he walked to his desk and sat down behind it.
What god with a bad sense of humor had brought the woman to Venezuela and then deposited her outside this office on the one day in weeks—in weeks, dammit!—he had chosen to stop by?
It was insane.
“Insane,” Antonio muttered, slapping his palms against his desk.
How could he have had the misfortune of coming across her again? Hadn’t once been enough? His behavior that night in Denver had tormented him for days afterward. The knowledge that he’d wanted a woman like that—a woman who represented everything he most despised—as if he were some sexually starved adolescent…
His mouth twisted. The empty-headed blonde he’d been with that night had ended up a very happy woman.
“Oh, Antonio,” she’d kept saying in a little-girl voice that made his teeth rattle, but not even burying himself in her time and time again had been enough to erase the anger blazing inside him, the ugly knowledge that he’d made a fool of himself over a woman like the haughty American.
He, of all men, knew what women o
f her class were like. They were all the same, no matter what their nationality: overbred, self-centered, amoral seekers of pleasure who were contemptuous of anyone without blood as blue as theirs…
There was a tap at the door. Antonio looked up, his face set in grim lines.
“Come in,” he snapped.
The door swung open, and she stepped into the room.
She was pale; her face was shiny and devoid of makeup. Her rain-soaked hair was slicked back behind her ears, giving her a look that was, he knew, deceptively vulnerable. Her tussle with her would-be assailant had left her with a rip in her T-shirt, and her sandals—which he assumed were supposed to be white—were wet and gray from their dousing in the sudden cloudburst.
She looked like a half-drowned rat, Antonio thought with some satisfaction—except it wasn’t really true. Bedraggled or not, she held herself very straight and tall. And she was still beautiful, he thought suddenly, as beautiful as he had remembered.
Not that he gave a damn.
”Señor.”
Kyra cleared her throat. She’d done a lot of thinking in the past minutes, enough to decide that she just might have behaved less than politely. It was even possiblejust barely so—that she might have behaved rather badly…
But just look at him sitting there, not even pretending politeness.
No. That wasn’t the way to think. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to deliver the little speech she’d prepared.
Never mind his insolence. His flaws were his business, not hers. Never mind that he’d kissed her, either. The kiss had been nothing but a show of male contempt, primitive but effective. From his point of view, of course, not hers. There had been that one split second when she’d felt as if she were caught in a dizzying spiral, as if—as if…
Kyra straightened her shoulders. What was done was done. Besides, what could you expect from a man who wore his machismo like a badge of honor?
The bottom line was that, like it or not, he had rescued her from what had been a most unpleasant situation. She’d begun by owing him a thank-you; now, she owed him an apology, too. And even if she choked on the words, they had to be said.
Kyra cleared her throat and began again. ”Señor,” she said, “I, ah, I think…”