Читать книгу Spring Bride - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 6

SHE was not the sort of woman Antonio Rodrigo Cordoba del Rey found attractive or even likable, but that hadn’t kept him from watching her for the past hour.

Crazy, Antonio thought with a little frown. What was there to look at, when you came down to it?

She was tall and willowy—far too slender for his taste, though the high thrust of her breasts and the curve of her bottom beneath the little black silk dress she wore were, he had to admit, interesting.

It couldn’t have been her coloring, though it was striking. His preference was for blue-eyed blondes with skin the color of fresh cream. But this woman had skin the sun had buffed to a golden hue and eyes so gray they were almost silver. Her hair was short and dark auburn, and when she tilted her head, it framed her heart-shaped face with the color of autumn leaves.

There was even a way about her that set his teeth on edge. The tilt of her chin, the too-polite smile that was pasted to her lips…Antonio’s gaze narrowed. He knew the type. Underneath the soft gold skin and the hair that glowed with red and amber fire lived an ice princess, filled with scorn and cool hauteur.

She reminded him of those museum sculptures that had little signs on them warning an unworthy public that they could look but not touch.

…she reminded him of a time in his life he had thought he had forgotten.

Antonio scowled and turned his attention to the woman’s escort. It was obvious he thought himself one of the lucky ones who would eventually be permitted to touch. It was there for the world to see in the way he’d danced attendance on her, first throughout the nonsensical cocktail party that had preceded dinner and then through the meal itself, when she’d made no attempt at conversation and merely toyed with the chicken and mushrooms on her plate.

It was not good food, of course. What did the North Americans call such banquet fare? Rubber chicken, wasn’t that it? But good manners demanded one make a pretence at eating it. The woman had not bothered making a pretense of anything. She was bored with the charity event, bored with her table companions, bored with the man who’d brought her—and she didn’t give a damn who knew it.

Not that her attitude was a surprise. Women of her class were often like that, especially the ones who knew how beautiful and desirable they were. Here I am, their cool faces told the world, and aren’t you fortunate? Just don’t expect me to feel the same, or even to pretend that I do ..

“Antonio?”

He watched as the woman’s escort leaned toward her, said something, and smiled. It was a nervous smile; Antonio could see that even at this distance. Surely, she could see it, too, could sense that the man needed some little reassurance. A smile in return, or a word.

She offered, instead, a shrug of her bare, elegant shoulders and an almost imperceptible pout of that soft, cinnamon-colored mouth.

“Antonio? I’m talking to you.”

What a fool the man was! Why was he hovering beside her like a pet poodle waiting for a treat? Why didn’t he tell her to stop treating him like a dog, or get up and walk out?

There was a simple way to put a woman like her in her place. A man had to strip away that cold insolence and reduce a woman to what she really was, naked flesh and hot desire.

It was, Antonio thought with a cold smile, a lesson that brought them all to their knees.

That was what he would do with this one, if she were his.

His body tightened. He would take her in his arms, kiss that contemptuous mouth until it was swollen with desire. He would carry her out of here, take her to his private plane, and at twenty thousand feet, in the privacy of the darkened cabin, he’d strip away that black dress so that her breasts tumbled into his hands and take her over and over until she understood what it was to be a woman and not an unattainable symbol…

“Antonio! What on earth is the matter with you?”

A graceful, red-taloned hand landed on his arm. Antonio blinked, cleared his throat, and fought free of the images that had suddenly blazed to life in his brain.

“Susannah,” he said, and with some difficulty, smiled at the woman seated beside him. She was golden-haired; she was blue-eyed; she was all the things he liked to enjoy—and she was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind

He took a deep breath. Hell. Perhaps he had Only a crazy man would waste time conjuring up such foolish imaginings about an ice princess when he had a hotblooded woman at his side.

”Querida,” he said softly. He took her hand in his. “I am sorry. My thoughts were a million miles away”

The blonde smiled, but her eyes were hard. “Really? I didn’t think the brunette on the other side of the room was quite that far away.”

“What brunette?” Antonio said, smiling. “I was thinking about you.”

The blonde’s smile relaxed. “For a moment I thought that you’d forgotten all about me.”

“Could the tide forget the moon?” Antonio said smoothly. He moved closer to her. “I have done as I promised,” he murmured. “I represented my country at the opening of the Denver Dance Folklorico Festival. Would you think it unkind of me if I suggested we leave and go someplace more private?”

He saw the little tremor of anticipation shudder through Susannah’s body. She was ready for him, he knew. She had damned near been ready from the instant they’d met in Vegas—or was it Reno? For a moment, he couldn’t remember. His business took him everywhere and there were always women, beautiful women who were happy to become involved even when he made it clear—and he always did—that the liaison would never be permanent.

“You are too arrogant, Antonio,” a woman had told him once with something that approximated a laugh, “but then, what else could you be, with your looks and your money?”

It was probably true, Antonio thought as he rose to his feet, but there was no immodesty in admitting it. His looks were a fact of life, the only gift given him by the parents he had never known. As for his money—he had worked hard for what he had, and he owed no apologies to anyone. It was only those born to wealth, who thought it made them better than the rest of the world, who owed apologies. He had learned that a long time ago, from a woman with the face of an angel and the heart and morals of a puta.

Hell! What was wrong with him tonight? It was the woman, dammit, the one across the crowded room. There was nothing about her beauty that could possibly remind him of Jessamyn but everything else was the same: the look of boredom, the air of insolence.

All at once he knew she was looking at him.

The knowledge moved over his skin like a breath of flame, but he gave no hint of his awareness. Instead, he drew back Susannah’s chair, helped her to her feet, shook hands with the men at the table, kissed the hands of their ladies.

And then, only then, as if it were a little gift he had been savoring, he took Susannah’s elbow, turned around, and looked straight at her.

He felt as if he’d been hit in the belly with a sledgehammer. It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected to find her eyes on him; it was what followed. The sudden rush of heat in his blood. The desire that knotted his gut. The way everything else dimmed and faded until there was only him, and her, and the need to—to…

The woman’s mouth thinned with derision. She lifted her chin and turned away sharply, and suddenly Antonio felt as if he were standing here not in this expensive, custom-tailored tuxedo but in the T-shirt and work boots he’d worn for so many years.

“Antonio, you’re hurting me!”

He glanced down, surprised to find Susannah at his side, even more surprised to see the way his fingers were crushing her wrist. He loosened his grip instantly, offered a quick apology, and then he slipped his arm around her waist and led her through the room, not in a straight line but on a path designed to take him directly past the table where the woman with the silver eyes and hair the color of autumn leaves was seated.

When he reached her, he let go of Susannah, put his hand gently in the small of her back and steered her ahead of him. It was all very proper, but it gave him just the time he needed. He saw the astonishment on the redhead’s beautiful face as he looked down at her.

”Señorita,” he said politely. “Do you, by any chance, speak Spanish?”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide. After a moment, she nodded.

Antonio smiled, leaned down, and spoke in his native tongue in a whisper meant for her alone.

“Does it disgust you, to want a man like me?”

She gasped and jerked back, and he laughed softly.

“Perhaps it would make you feel better, señorita, to know that I would sooner take a vow of chastity than take a woman like you to my bed.”

He straightened to his full height, nodded politely to the others at the table. Then he strolled unhurriedly after Susannah, through the ballroom and straight out the door.

Kyra Landon felt as if someone had just tossed a bucket of ice water over her head.

The world was full of crazy people. At twenty-two, despite her father’s best efforts to keep her wrapped in cotton batting, even she knew that.

But she had never before come up against anyone as crazy as the man who’d just strutted past her

“Kyra?”

Her head snapped up. Ronald was staring at her, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in a knot. The other people at the table were staring, too. My God, she thought, and her color deepened, if any of them understood Spanish…

“What on earth did that man say to you?”

The arts commissioner’s wife leaned forward. “It had to have been something incredible,” she said eagerly. “Just look at the way you’re blushing!”

“Of course it was something incredible,” the ballet master’s boyfriend simpered. “A man that gorgeous wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t incredible. Isn’t that right, Miss Landon?”

Kyra cleared her throat. “Do—do any of you speak Spanish?” she said, crossing her fingers in her lap.

The ballet master sighed. “I studied it in high school, but I don’t remember a thing beyond te amo.”

Everyone laughed. Kyra felt her heart start beating again.

“Listen, if that guy insulted you…” Ronald’s narrow jaw trembled. “If he did, I’ll-I’ll…”

“No,” Kyra said quickly. She put her hand lightly on his arm. Ronald was an inch shorter than she was and probably five pounds lighter. The man who’d just pulled that act of unbelievably crude and rude machismo had looked to be the size of a tree; he could probably pick Ronald up with one hand tied behind him. “No,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips, “he, ah, he didn’t insult me at all.”

Ronald didn’t look convinced. “What’d he say, then?”

“Ah, he said…he said he hoped I’d tell whoever was in charge that, ah, that the new center is magnificent and, ah, that he was sorry he couldn’t stay for the ballet performance but that—that dinner was superb.”

Oh God, why didn’t I stop when I was ahead? Her audience had looked half-convinced until she’d added that bit about the meal. No one would believe that, not in a million years…

“Well,” the arts commissioner’s wife said with a little smile, “he would think that, I suppose. I mean, he’s Mexican. Anything cooked without all that hot stuff, the chilies and what-have-you, would be an improvement.”

“Spanish,” Kyra said. All the heads swiveled toward her again and she swallowed hard. “He wasn’t Mexican.”

“Did he tell you that?” Ronald said, his brows knotting together again.

“No, of course not. I just—well, it was the way he spoke. His Spanish wasn’t Mexican, it was Castilian. I studied it in school for five years. I mean, and…and…”

And I am making a complete ass of myself. But then, it was a minor miracle she was able to talk any sense at all, considering what had happened, considering that an absolute stranger who’d spent half the evening undressing her with his eyes had dared speak to her that way…

“…don’t you agree, Kyra?”

Kyra blinked. “Agree with what?” she said, looking at the ballet master’s lover.

“I was saying, a man that big could never be Mexican.” He batted his lashes. “He was at least six feet tall, and all those muscles…”

He was more than six feet, Kyra thought. At least sixone or six-two. And yes, he certainly had a lot of muscles. You could tell, even beneath that dinner jacket. She had never seen a man with broader shoulders or with a broader chest, for that matter, and yet when he’d stood up she’d seen that his waist was narrow, and his hips. And he had such long, long legs…

The truth was that he was the best-looking man she’d ever seen. His face wasn’t a pretty face, nor even conventionally handsome. The bones were too pronounced, the nose too aquiline for movie-star good looks. But it was a wonderful face just the same: eyes so blue they might have been bits of a summer sky, fringed with lashes the same midnight black as his hair; cheekbones that might have been sculpted out of clay; a wide, sensual mouth, a square chin.

She had noticed him at least an hour ago. Lots of women had; she’d seen the sly little glances shooting his way. But then, to her surprise, she’d suddenly felt his eyes on her during the cocktail party. She’d wanted to turn around, to see if she were imagining things, but she hadn’t. He was too blatantly masculine, too arrogant, a man who thought he owned the world and everything in it. You could see it in the way he held himself. The blond number with him was the sort who ate that stuff up but Kyra knew better.

Besides, it would have meant being rude to Ronald, who was trying his best to entertain her despite the fact that her thoughts were back home, with her father. Charles hadn’t been well for months and today he’d seemed worse than usual. But he’d still insisted that a Landon had to attend the Arts Center opening.

Kyra’s mouth narrowed. And when he insisted, to try to reason was to court disaster.

“…to find our seats?”

She looked up. Ronald was on his feet; he was trying to pull back her chair and she realized, after a moment, that everyone else was filing out of the ballroom.

“Oh.” She smiled broadly. “Sure. Sorry.”

She took the arm he offered and let him lead her into the auditorium. The houselights dimmed, the curtains opened, and a dozen men wearing skintight leotards came leaping onstage to the beat of a drum.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Ronald whispered.

Kyra tried not to wince as a gong began sounding mournfully in the orchestra pit. “Wonderful,” she said, and settled back in her seat.

She tried to pay attention to what was happening onstage, but her thoughts kept drifting to what had happened at dinner. If only she hadn’t looked at the man. She’d tried not to, even though she’d known he was looking at her. But finally she’d just had to peek and when she had…

God, when she had!

That look of raw desire in his deep blue eyes had done something strange to her heartbeat and suddenly she’d felt a need so primitive it had terrified her with its intensity She’d been even more terrified that it had shown on her face. He’d seen it. And he’d known exactly what it was. That was why he’d said that awful thing to her.

Kyra sprang to her feet. Ronald looked up, startled, and she shook her head, smiled as best she could, and mouthed that she was going outside, to the ladies’ room.

What was the matter with her? To think that a man like that should hold any appeal for her was ridiculous. If she ever took an interest in a man, it would certainly not be in one who went around parading his boorish masculinity.

And yet, when she felt a hand press lightly on her shoulder, when a deep, male voice said, “Miss Landon?” Kyra swung around, her pulse racing.

Had the Spaniard come back? Was he going to tell her he’d never wanted to make love to a woman as much as he wanted to make love to her? Would she have the courage to say—to admit…

But it wasn’t he. It was the manager of the new Arts Center.

“Miss Landon,” he said quietly, “there’s a phone call for you in my office. I—I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

Kyra’s mind went blank. She managed to nod, to smile politely and make her way past him. She knew, even before she reached the office and picked up the phone; she knew who was calling, and why.

It was the doctor, phoning to tell her that her father, Charles Landon, was dead.