Dark Ransom (6 page)

'You are trembling,' he whispered.

'Is it any wonder?' She tried one last plea. 'I beg you—let me go,

please...'

'Do you truly find me so repulsive?' His tone hardened. 'Then close

your eyes,
querida,
and think about the benefits instead. The thought

of my money should make you more... amenable, if nothing else.'

'I don't want your money.' Her head twisted in desperate negation. 'I

don't want anything.'

'Truly?' he jeered. 'What a paragon you must be. Then you can pay

me instead, Carlotta. A payment in kind, in return for my

hospitality.' His hand stroked her shoulder, then slid down to close

with terrifying intimacy on her breast. 'A debt it will give me infinite

joy to collect,' he added softly.

Charlie lay, rigid and unmoving, as he began to caress her.

The ordeal would soon be over, she tried to tell herself. He was

hotly, eagerly aroused, and he'd probably been leading a celibate life

in this wilderness for some time. She wouldn't have to endure this

lingering exploration of her body for too long.

But, as the long, suffering moments passed, she realised she was

being naively optimistic. For Riago da Santana was in no hurry at

all. His hands and mouth touched her as if every cell, every nerve-

ending in her quivering flesh was a unique and fascinating

experience for him.

He was, she realised, the breath catching in her throat, hell-bent on

forcing her to his own pitch of excitement. No doubt her reluctance,

her attempted rejection of him, had piqued his male arrogance, and

now he was determined to make her respond to him as he wanted.

But it would take far more than determination, Charlie thought, her

body jarring in shock as she felt his tongue lazily encircling her

nipple.

In fact, she hadn't really the slightest idea what it would take, but it

certainly wasn't the kind of practised caresses that Fay Preston had

undoubtedly enjoyed.

I'm not even a person to him, she thought, stiffening in hostility as

his long-fingered hand slid down to the curve of her hip, lingering

there, alerting her to the possibility of other, even more startling

intimacies. Just a substitute.

As he parted her thighs she had to sink her teeth into her lower lip,

her whole body tensing in outrage.

'You are not a very ardent lover.' Riago da Santana's voice held

amusement, and something else, less easy to analyse. He was

probably annoyed that his technique wasn't having the desired effect

for once.

'I made no promises,' she retorted flatly.

'No, that is true.' His hands framed her face, forcing her to meet his

direct gaze. 'But I made one to myself.'

So, she was right, she thought.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 'I'm sorry if it's dented your

macho pride to discover you're not instantly desirable to every

woman you meet.'

'I do not,' he said with faint irony, 'meet a great many.'

For a moment she was assailed by something like compassion. He'd

been anticipating a passionate reunion with Fay Preston, who

probably knew everything there was to know about pleasing a man.

And instead...

She stopped abruptly, right there. Life was full of disappointments,

and he had no right—no right at all—to jump to the insulting

conclusion that she was on offer in place of the absent Fay.

'In any case,
carinha
-' the mockery was back in full force '—you

should not have issued the invitation if you did not intend me to

accept.'

What invitation? she asked herself wildly. Her lips parted in angry

denial, but he silenced her once more with his mouth. The kiss was

deeper this time, his lips and tongue exploring her slowly and

languorously, as if he was savouring her in some intense and unique

way. Another quiver of mingled fear and excitement rippled through

her. She'd never known a kiss could be like this— never imagined

that a man's mouth could be so cool on hers, so gentle, and yet burn

her down to her very soul.

In spite of herself, she could feel a small coil of heated pleasure

beginning to unwind deep inside her body. The movement of his

mouth on hers, the play of his hands on her skin were too beguiling,

too insidious. She could feel the resistance, the anger ebbing out of

her, and, in its place—what? Something she could not recognise—or

had never before experienced. Sexual curiosity, perhaps, or

something deeper, and infinitely more dangerous. She didn't know,

and it scared her.

Riago lifted his head, and looked down at her.
'Querida,'
he

whispered, 'don't I please you— just a little?'

It was the last thing she'd expected to hear from him. He was the

arrogant ravager that she needed to hate, and now, instead...

'I—I don't know.' She almost croaked the words.

'Say my name.'

Her throat felt dry. She didn't want to say it. It was too personal—

too intimate. It brought him too close, not just physically, but

spiritually in some strange way, and she didn't want that. It would

be, in its way, a form of submission.

'Say my name,' he urged again huskily. 'And kiss me—just once,

carinha.''

She needed to say no, to reject him utterly and finally, but somehow

her mouth wouldn't frame the word. Instead, on a soft sigh, conjured

up from the depths of her being, she heard herself whisper, 'Riago,'

and her hands lifted to his shoulders to draw him down to her.

As her lips touched his she knew she was lost. Small rivers of fire

were suddenly running through her veins, and her pulses were going

crazy. Resentment, bitterness, even fear were being submerged by

darker, more potent forces that were impossible to resist—even if

she'd wanted to. It wasn't just a kiss—it was a fever, a delirium, a

madness.

Somewhere in the hot and swirling darkness that enveloped her she

was aware of his hands sliding under her hips, lifting her to the first

unequivocal thrust of his manhood.

There was a pain so sharp that the darkness was rent with jagged

lights, and she had to fight to subdue a small moan. One side of her

mind wanted to beg him to stop. But as she lay beneath him, numb

and speechless, she felt her body gradually coming to terms with

this new and shattering sensation.

If there had been any justice the pain should have killed the need

and brought her, with shame, back to her senses, but, as it receded,

Charlie found other, even stronger feelings taking its place. As he

began to move again imperatively, intensifying his first possession

of her, she arched to meet him, bringing a groan of satisfaction from

his throat.

Riago kissed her again, hungrily, the slide of his tongue against hers

mirroring the movement of his loins, slow now, and deep, and

infinitely controlled.

Too controlled, she thought, her body twisting, obeying an instinct

she hadn't known she possessed as her hands tightened on his

shoulders, absorbing the play of muscle beneath his sweat-

dampened skin. How could he be so patient... ?

Even as the question formed in her mind, the rhythm of his

possession changed suddenly— sharpened, quickened, as if he was

trying to reach some hidden core in her, some undiscovered

wellspring of feeling. The savage urgency of it caught her up, and

carried her down into some deep, dark chasm of the spirit where all

coherent thought spun away, and only sensation remained, a sweet

agony splintering her—tearing her apart.

She heard him groan huskily in turn, his body convulsing in spasm

after ecstatic spasm, then he slumped beside her, burying his face in

the pillow.

his arm thrown across her, keeping her pinned beside him.

For a while she remained still as her mind tried dazedly to come to

terms with what had been happening. But, as sanity returned, it

brought shame in its wake, and a frantic, horrified disbelief.

Oh, God, what had she done? she wailed silently. What had she

allowed him to do?

She tried to edge away from him, but the imprisoning arm tightened,

pulling her against him. He muttered something slurred and husky in

his own language, and a few minutes later his even breathing told

her that he was asleep.

She lay rigidly, hating his total relaxation ... the way his warm

breath fanned her shoulder. They could have been sleeping together

all their lives, she thought resentfully. The least he could have done

was allow her to crawl away somewhere—heal her aching body in

solitude.

But the pain he'd inflicted, though real, was the least of her worries.

Infinitely more disturbing was the reality of her own capitulation.

Why couldn't she have retreated from him—remained immune

throughout it all, as she'd intended?

She could never forgive herself for that—and yet she had to. It had

happened, but now it was over. What she had to do was carry on

with her real life, as if this had just been some nightmare, terrifying

at the time, but forgettable, she told herself, biting her lip.

Slowly and carefully she turned her head and stared at him—this

total stranger who had just known her more intimately than any

other human being. Who'd made her experience feelings and

emotions she'd never dreamed existed.

He was... attractive, she acknowledged with deep reluctance,

although that didn't excuse anything.

In fact, he was handsome with a strong, almost classic bone-

structure.

His hair was thick, and as dark and glossy as a raven's wing,

although it needed cutting, and his lashes were almost indecently

long. As he slept his mouth curved slightly, as if some dream or

recollection was making him smile.

Charlie shivered, then reached out a cautious hand and turned down

the lamp. She had seen, she told herself, more than enough. The last

thing she wanted was his image imprinted on some memory bank in

her mind forever.

The very last thing, she thought, surrendering her mind and body to

weary oblivion.

She was back in the boat, but they were making no headway against

the current, and the small craft was rocking wildly, crazily. Oh,

God, she thought, we're going to capsize. She seemed to be alone,

but somewhere a woman's voice was saying,
'Senhorita?'
A voice

she dimly recognised.

She opened bleary eyes to find Rosita standing over her, shaking her

shoulder vigorously.

For a moment Charlie stared at her, completely disorientated, then

the memory of the previous night's events rushed back to assail her

in all their appalling detail. After a cautious glance to ascertain that

she was alone in the bed she rolled over on to her stomach, burying

her face in the pillow with a faint groan.

'Senhorita e tarde.'
Rosita gently touched her shoulder again,

indicating that she'd placed a cup of coffee on the bedside chest.

Charlie didn't want any coffee. She required no more of Riago da

Santana's dearly bought hospitality, she thought, shuddering. Just

her clothes, and a boat-ride back to Mariasanta. Although, at the

moment, her most pressing need was for some warm water.

Her precious phrase book was nowhere to be seen, so she had to rely

on memory.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
'Faz favor—de me

preparar um banho?'
she managed awkwardly.

Rosita nodded, a stolid expression on her brown face as if she

sensed Charlie's embarrassment and was constrained by it too. She

produced the amethyst robe and held it out for her to put on.

'Nao.'
Charlie pointed to the foot of the bed. 'Leave it there—please.'

She lay staring into space while Rosita busied herself in the

bathroom. She felt desperately tired. Not surprisingly her night's rest

had been fitful, probably because she'd been terrified that Riago da

Santana might waken and demand more from her. But he hadn't—

and, thankfully, he'd also spared her the humiliation of finding him

beside her this morning.

In fact, she hadn't even heard him leave. And now, hopefully, she

could wash last night away from her. She hoped she could erase it

from her mind just as easily.

She looked at the robe with disfavour. She never wanted it

anywhere near her again. It was altogether too potent a reminder of

Fay Preston—whose place she'd been forced to take in the most