Desperado (32 page)

Inez and Ramon exchanged significant looks. Apparently, they'd been talking while he was at the phone. “Tell me,” he yelled, and Inez jumped.

“She's getting married.”

S
ometimes love is not enough . . .

H
elen was not at all surprised to hear a pounding on her door at midnight. Nor was she surprised to look through the security peephole and see Rafael Santiago standing on her doorstep.

But she was shocked when he stepped inside—an angry, pacing animal who looked as if he'd as soon tear her limb from limb as crush her in his embrace. She ducked the arms that reached out for her. And he did, indeed, growl.

“Rafe, what happened to you?” She wasn't talking about his hurtful absence from her life for three long months. His hair reached down to the shoulders of a rumpled, dark business suit. A months' old beard covered his face. He'd lost a lot of weight.

Despite all that, he looked wonderful to her. He was still Rafe. And she knew in that instant that growing to love Elliott was going to take a long, long time. Because
learning not to love Rafe was going to take a long, long time.

Quickly, she put the sofa between them, fearing her crumbling defenses. She had to be strong. Elliott had wanted to stay after Rafe's call, but she'd declined the offer. This was something she had to handle herself.

He just stared at her, alternately hungry and ferociously furious, and paced, taking in all the aspects of her new home. Touching objects. Watching her.

The room was dim and cozy from the single lit lamp. Too intimate a setting for what she had to say. She flicked on the Christmas tree and the blinking colored lights went into full action.

Rafe blinked as if disoriented. “For a second—” he swallowed hard—“for a second, the colored lights reminded me of Zeb's colored-bottle windows. When the sunlight came through. Like a stained-glass window.”

He remembers the time travel, too
.

Shaking his head as if to rid it of unwelcome thoughts, he turned his steady, questioning gaze on her. Hurt and longing lay naked in the depths of his burning eyes.

He's hurt? How dare he be hurt? I'm the one who was crushed here
. She had to pull herself together. Glancing down, picking nervously at the nubby fabric on her sofa, she asked, “Have you been ill, Rafe? I had heard you were in Mexico. I assumed you were vacationing. Especially after reading about your gold nugget.”

He made a snorting noise of disgust. “You assume too damn much.” He threw the words at her, like stones, then added with a tired sigh, “You always did.” He shot her a look of searing condemnation.

He's condemning me?
“Let's cut to the chase here, Rafe. It's midnight. I'm tired. You look like you could use a blood transfusion. I haven't heard from you for three months. Where the hell have you been?”

“Prison.”

She staggered under that unexpected answer, thankful for the support of the sofa.

“Why?”

“My brother, Ramon, screwed up, and landed us—” he waved a hand dismissively—“it doesn't matter why. You and I have more important things to discuss.” Suddenly, all the anger left his face and he held his arms out for her. “Come here, Helen. I missed you so much.”

A whimpering sound of distress escaped her lips before she pressed them firmly.

When he saw that she wasn't coming to him, an icy shield came over Rafe's vulnerable eyes, and he sank into a chair. “So, it's true. You really are going to marry Colonel Sanders.”

She didn't bother to correct the name. “Yes, Elliott and I are going to be married. On New Year's Eve.”

“Why?”

“Why? What kind of question is that?”

“Do you love him?”

She should have said yes, but the word lodged in her tight throat. “You have no right to interrogate me.”

“I have every right.”

Angry herself now, she went to the desk and pulled out two newspaper clippings. She threw them in his lap. “You lost the right with these.”

He studied the two articles. At the picture of his brother holding up the gold nugget, Rafe cursed under his breath, “Stupid idiot,” but at the picture of him with the woman, he just shook his head in confusion. “So?” he snapped.

“So? I'll tell you ‘so.' You couldn't wait to get back and get your precious gold, could you? No concern for me, or my safety, or all the . . . all the love you claimed to have for me.” Helen had to stop and inhale deeply. Her voice was unsteady with emotion. “And the other . . . Well, you two-timing bastard
. . . you couldn't wait to find another piece of tail, could you? That's all I was to you. A little diversion.”

“Are you done?” he seethed, standing and heading toward her with feral intent. “That woman you're calling a piece of tail is my sister Inez.”

She gasped. “It is?”

“Yeah, babe, it is. And Inez would strangle you for the insult. However, I get first dibs.”

He moved closer.

She eased herself around the sofa toward the hall, turning on a light behind her.

“You thought I wanted another woman, Prissy? How could you? I told you I would love you forever.”

She put the back of her hand to her mouth to muffle a cry.

He moved several steps closer.

She moved several steps backward.

“What about the gold? It's always money with you, Rafe. More important than anything. Even . . .”

“Even you? Is that what you think?”

She nodded. “Why didn't you call?” she asked weakly.

“I couldn't. Why didn't you wait for me?”

“Things changed.”

“What things?”

“Rafe, please, don't make this harder than it already is. I was hurt, at first, by your betrayal, but—”

“Betrayal? You thought I'd betrayed you?”

He'd backed her against the wall with an arm braced on either side of her head. His face was lowering toward hers. So close. She yearned to lean up into the impending kiss. She couldn't. Instead she moaned.

“I love it when you moan for me,” he said huskily, placing his lips a hairbreadth from hers. “Does the colonel make you moan, Prissy?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.” He breathed against her mouth and brushed his lips across hers. A whispery caress. Not really a kiss.
Hah!
He made a low hissing sound, and cupped her face with his hands, devouring her with his hard kisses.

Her determination shattered under the onslaught of the passion that always flared between them. Between each devouring kiss, he kept murmuring, “Helen.” One word, that's all.

Her rubbery legs gave way and Rafe chuckled against her neck, putting his arms around her waist and holding her against his aroused body. The whole time, he traced a path of searing kissing from her lips to her ears and neck and back again.

Helen surrendered to Rafe's raw sensuality. She couldn't help herself. Only Rafe could make her forget everything. Soon they would be engaging in sex on the hall floor, two steps away from her studio on the one side and the nursery on the other.

The nursery!

Alarm bells went off in Helen's dizzy brain and clanged a halting message to her overcharged senses.
The baby. I have to think about the baby
.

She tore her mouth out from under Rafe's kiss and shoved against his chest. “No!”

“No?” Rafe asked dully. He raked his fingers through his long hair with agitation. “Why?”

“Because . . . because we have to talk.” She stepped to the side, putting some distance between them.

He said something really vulgar about talking and moved closer, trailing a forefinger over lips that felt swollen from his kisses, and throbbing for more.

“Because I'm going to marry another man.” She swatted his finger away and edged farther along the wall, hitting a door jamb.

“No, you are not. You're already married to me.”

“Yes, I am, Rafe. And our marriage isn't legal.”

“You love me. It doesn't matter what you say. Your body just told me that.”

“It was just . . .” Her words died off as she saw his eyes fix on something over her shoulder. Too late, she realized that her studio was visible through the doorway, cast in shadows from the hallway light and a full moon shining through the many windows.

“You're painting again?” he asked with surprise, and, before she could stop him, he stepped into the room and switched on the overhead lights. A dozen paintings in various stages of completion stood on easels and stacked around the room. All of them depicted scenes of their travels together, most of them set in Angel Valley with the cabin in the background.

She groaned.

“They're good, Helen,” he said, smiling at her with pride as he examined each of them in detail.

She leaned against the wall, not sure how much more she could take.

Rafe chuckled when he saw her depiction of Ben and Bertha. He grew serious at the image of him and Zeb standing in the stream prospecting for gold, highlighted by the magnificent mountains. He cast her a sidelong glance of awareness when he came to one painting—him standing in the snow, wearing only trousers and suspenders, his arms raised joyously to the skies. “Can I have this one?” he requested softly.

“No!” she cried, too quickly. It was her favorite painting.

His one brow rose inquiringly.

“It's not done yet,” she prevaricated.

“Then this one?” He pointed to one of a man and woman standing before a primitive cabin. All of her paintings had a blurry, impressionistic character. The figures would be recognizable only to her and Rafe.

“All right.”

He tucked the painting under one arm and walked toward
her, taking her hand. “I'm beat, Helen. I haven't slept in two days. I came here directly from the airport. My mother's probably catatonic with worry. I'll come back tomorrow. We'll settle things then.” He was leading her toward the front door, an arm looped intimately over her shoulder, her head resting on his chest.

NO! She couldn't see him again. Another emotional encounter like this would devastate her. Might even hurt the baby
.

She halted near the doorway and faced him, resolved to end their relationship in the only way possible.

“Rafe, I'm pregnant.”

He jerked back as if she'd punched him in the stomach. His face whitened with horror. “A baby?”

She nodded.

“You and Elliott are having a baby?” he lashed out. “Oh, God, what a fool I've been. Here I thought this was all about love and caring, but, no, it all boils down to this obsession you have with kids.”

Helen reeled under Rafe's misconception. She hadn't meant to imply that the baby's father was Elliott. She'd been about to explain. “You bastard!”

“You bitch! How could you?”

“Me? Me?” she sputtered.

“You are always so almighty condescending about my greed for gold. Well, take a good look at yourself sometime. Oh, you had a great time pulling my strings, didn't you? Making me feel guilty because I didn't ooze fatherhood dreams. Damn it, how could you jump into another man's bed? So soon?” Rafe's mouth was tight and grim now, his eyes slicing her like blue daggers.

“You misunderstand—”

“Misunderstand? What did I misunderstand? Are you or are you not pregnant?”

“I am but—”

“Were you raped?”

“No, but—”

“Do you want this baby?”

“With all my heart.”

He lifted his hands in a hopeless gesture of defeat, then masked his expression with insolent pride. “Well, that's that, then. Thank God it's not mine, because I sure as hell don't want any brats. And certainly not yours.”

She flinched. “Rafe, let me explain—”

He extended a hand to stop her approach. “No. I shouldn't have come. It's over, like you wanted. We were doomed from the beginning.” Opening the door, he stumbled out, then turned and said in a soft whisper of regret, “Be happy, babe.”

A
week later, Helen sat miserable and distraught by the telephone. Rafe hadn't come back again, and he refused to accept her calls.

His angry words about not wanting children had hurt Helen the most. Because she knew they were true. They proved more than anything that her marriage to Elliott would be the best thing for her and the baby. Still, she had to tell Rafe the truth. But if she told him now, he'd feel obligated to marry her, and she loved him too much to ruin his life that way.

Christmas carols played on the radio. Her home was decorated brightly for the holidays. The season of cheer. Hah! She did nothing but cry. Something had to be done soon, or as Elliott and her father had warned, the baby's health would suffer.

The doorbell rang, and Helen jumped. She did that a lot lately. Not that she thought Rafe would return, but she subconsciously hoped.

She opened the door, and her eyes widened with astonishment. A Hispanic woman of about fifty with graying dark hair stood gazing up at her. She wore a Los Angeles Lakers sweatshirt, polyester slacks, and orthopedic shoes.

Rafe's mother.

Oh, God!

“Can I come in? I am Rafael's mother. My daughter Luisa is parking the car. She will be here shortly.”

Helen watched dumbly as Mrs. Santiago passed into the hallway, then entered the living room. Luisa soon came scurrying after her, making a swift introduction and apologizing for their arrival without calling first.

After bringing them some coffee and Christmas cookies on a tray that she set on the coffee table, and after fifteen minutes of uncomfortable small talk about the weather and her home, which Mrs. Santiago liked very much, Helen said to the younger woman, “You're LuLu, aren't you? Rafe said you have five children. Where are they now?”

“Out in the car,” Luisa said. “Mama's gonna take them to the mall this afternoon while I go to my classes at the community college. I'm studying to be a nurse's aide.”