Morgan's Rescue (8 page)

     
Hiding the pain his words caused, she tucked the gloves beneath the brown belt that circled her waist. "I expected that. I asked Hector if he was sure you knew I was going to be the other agent." Pilar forced herself to look up at him. "I knew you wouldn't like it."

     
"No."

     
She gave a slight, pained shrug. "Well, what's important is Morgan."

     
"Is that why you volunteered for this? Did you have an affair with him, too?"

     
Stunned, Pilar stared at him. "What?"

     
"You heard me."

     
Pain gripped her heart. "I—uh, no, I had no affair with Morgan."

     
"Given the circumstances," Culver continued, "the thought crossed my mind. I know why I'm here. The man saved my life, and I owe him. But I wonder just what the hell you owe him to get you to agree to take a mission with me."

     
Anger erased Pilar's hurt. She glared at him. "You haven't changed at all, Culver. Not at all! You are the same pigheaded person I knew eight years ago!" She tugged gently on the reins, turning Honey to head her toward the barn.

     
"Hold on," Culver rasped, reaching out and grabbing Pilar's upper arm. Though careful not to hurt her, he put enough pressure in his grip to bring her to a halt. Her head snapped up, her eyes going black with fury.

     
"Don't touch me!" Pilar cried, jerking out of his grasp.
Dios,
why did he have to touch her? She backed away, breathing raggedly, and raised her fingers to the place his massive hand had covered. "Don't
ever
touch me again, do you hear me?" she rattled, her voice off-key. Tears stung her eyes, and Pilar forced them back. She saw contriteness come into Culver's eyes, but it never reached his rugged features or the set slash of his mouth. "Don't do that again," she whispered brokenly. "Not ever…"

     
Culver stood, breathing hard, his hands curled into fists at his sides. "Stop acting like I hurt you, Pilar. I didn't, and you know it."

     
Pilar tried to focus her spinning senses. Culver's contact had been completely unexpected—the only thing that could make her drop the shield she hid behind. He didn't realize how evocative his touch was, or that it made her want to surrender to him—all over again. Instead, he was taking her response just the opposite—as
an
indication that she couldn't stand his touch out of hatred or disgust.

     
Her heart swelled with anguish at that knowledge, and Pilar drew herself up to her full height. She allowed her hand to drop from the arm Culver had touched, but she was unable to keep her voice from trembling as she said, "We have to work together. I accept that. What I don't accept is you thinking you own me. You don't. And don't you dare touch me again. My reasons for helping Morgan are my own. Truth never needs a defense, Culver, and I don't have to spill my heart to you any longer." Pilar saw her words hit him like bullets ripping into his flesh. The pain showed in his eyes, no matter how impassive his face remained.

     
What they had shared long ago, she was discovering, was still just as vibrant as ever. A miraculous thing had occurred after they'd made love that first time on a luxurious carpet of grass near that pond. From that moment on, Culver had not been able to veil his true feelings from her.

     
Now Pilar read the pain in his eyes and regretted her words. The last person she wanted to hurt was Culver. She'd already hurt him more than anyone in her life, and she could barely live with that knowledge even to this day. Pain was something she'd known a great deal about, and she'd promised herself to avoid causing it to others, yet the very person she loved most in the world was the one she'd hurt the most. Pilar ached for Culver, wanting to take back her words but knowing she didn't dare. If she didn't erect some kind of barrier now, she would be lost.

     
"Fine," Culver growled. "Let's get out of this sun and into the barn. We have a lot to discuss before I go to the hotel tonight."

     
Nodding jerkily, Pilar brought her mare along with her. So much remained unsaid, yet she could say nothing. It was obvious Culver hated her for what she'd done. If he could not forgive her for that, he would never forgive her for the far worse transgression she'd made. She'd been so young then—and a product of the culture that raised her, despite her Harvard education. But how could Culver
be
expected to understand that—to know the full extent of the pressures brought to bear on her then?

     
Looking back now from her more-mature perspective, Pilar could see that the decision she'd made eight years ago might have been wrong—and in making that decision, she might innocently have committed a transgression far worse than the one that had originally caused her to flee from Culver's bedside on that awful night.

     
C
ulver tried like hell to ignore the gentle sway of Pilar's hips as they made their way back to the barn's breezeway. He stood back and watched as she put the sweaty mare into cross ties and unsaddled her. Such anxiety showed in Pilar's dark, beautiful eyes. Still, he couldn't keep his gaze from dropping to her mouth—and couldn't prevent the heated memories of taking that soft, luscious mouth from rushing back to taunt him.

     
"Why didn't you wait and meet me at the hotel?" Pilar demanded breathlessly as they made their way to her office, a small house near the barn, after the horse had been put away. The sun was lower in the west now, the trees beginning to cast long shadows across the property. She pushed several errant strands of hair from her eyes.

     
Culver kept his gaze on her as she opened the door to the tiny white stucco house with its red tile roof. "I don't trust the Peruvian government. I flew in early, just in case."

     
Glancing up at him, unable to stop her inner trembling, Pilar moved quickly into the coolness of her sumptuous, yet homey office. Culver looked out of place in it—clumsily large compared to the delicate furniture the owners had installed for her. "Hector is someone you can trust," she said, hesitating at the kitchen entrance.

     
"I had my luggage sent on to the hotel," he said. "And I contacted Hector."

     
Her stomach wouldn't settle down. "I have things I must do."

     
Lowering himself to a Queen Anne couch, Culver shrugged. "Go ahead, then. I'll wait."

     
Pilar hesitated. His rugged features were unreadable as he surveyed his surroundings. She needed to
think,
but his presence made it nearly impossible. She got herself a glass of water from the apartment-size kitchen and took it into the bathroom with her. First, a cooling shower to wash away the grime of the
day's
riding. Then she'd be ready to head to her apartment in
Lima
.

     
Culver ordered his body to relax, with little success. He'd never dreamed he'd see Pilar again, and he knew he was still emotionally in shock. She hadn't changed at all—except to become more beautiful, more confident and more desirable, dammit. The college girl had grown into a stunning woman. Frowning, he thought of the anguish in Pilar's voice when he'd pulled her to a stop. And it had been anguish—real pain. My God, how much did she hate him, to flinch from his touch like that?

     
Wiping his mouth, Culver looked around Pilar's serenely elegant office. It was atypical for
Peru
, he supposed. The furniture wasn't the dark, ponderous Spanish style, and small plants lined the window, where sheer, pale green drapes had been drawn back to allow the north light to enter. The furniture was as graceful and diminutive as Pilar, the couch and two chairs leaving plenty of the floral, Victorian-design carpet visible. The walls also had been painted a pale green and were hung with prints of Amazonian orchids. He scowled.

     
On a bookshelf across the room, he saw several framed photos. Pushing himself up, Culver moved toward them. A large gold frame held the photo of a black-haired girl with light brown eyes, smiling for the camera. She wore a pale pink dress with lace at the collar, and a dark pink ribbon held her hair back. Culver sensed something oddly familiar about the child, who he guessed must be around seven or eight.
That smile.
Culver's fingers burned as he replaced the photograph on the shelf. It was Pilar's smile. A bitter taste filled his mouth.
Pilar's child.
She had married, obviously. Or had she?

     
A sickening feeling invaded Culver as he took in the next photo, where a tall, gray-haired man held the same child, Pilar next to them, smiling.
Happy.
Looking around, Culver wondered where this man was.
If, indeed, Pilar was married to him.
Divorces didn't go down well in
South America
. Women who tried to divorce their husbands could end up dead in the perverse macho traditions of the culture. Violence against South American women was a common, everyday occurrence. How had Pilar gotten away unscathed?

     
Then Culver laughed bitterly at himself. Pilar had gotten away from him, hadn't she? He'd been the one mortally wounded by their relationship, after all, not her. Setting the second photo back in place, Culver noted sounds coming from the hall then heard the shower running. A crazy urge to shed his clothes and join Pilar in that shower was nearly his undoing. Somehow, he had to get a tighter grip on his emotions. He would never have believed he still had this much feeling left for Pilar.

     
It had hurt so damn much when she'd cried out like that as he gripped her arm. She was the last person on the face of this earth he wanted to hurt—even now. Quirking his mouth as he wandered into the kitchen and got himself a drink of water, Culver decided he was crazy. Pilar had hurt him, not the reverse. He'd loved her, and she had wounded him—forever.

     
Returning to the living-room sofa with the glass of water in hand, Culver tried to be patient. Jet lag was pulling at him, and he was exhausted by the events of the past forty-eight hours. Suddenly the couch seemed so inviting that he put the glass aside and stretched out. Closing his eyes, he told himself that he was going to rest for only a moment.

     
Pilar dressed hurriedly in a dark blue cotton shirtdress—one of a few simple outfits she kept in the closet at her office. She belted it with white leather,
then
slipped into comfortable white sandals. Her briefcase was packed. Where they were going, she wouldn't be doing much paperwork. An hour had passed since Culver had blasted back into her lonely world, and her heart was still beating out of control, underscoring her surging emotions. Oh, why had he touched her? Memory of his roughened, caressing fingers moving across her body made her stop what she was doing and take a deep, unsteady breath.

     
Culver appeared older, more mature, naturally, but also harder. The look he'd given her, so cold and unfeeling, was one she'd never seen from him. Pilar knew she deserved it, and accepted it with a confirmation of her guilt. It would serve neither of them for him to know the full truth.
Ever.
Turning, she picked up her briefcase, shut off the light and walked down the hall toward the living room.

     
A sudden sound stopped her—and stirred a familiar chord deep within her.
Snoring.
It was Culver snoring! Her mouth curved tenderly for a moment. Whenever Culver slept on his back, he snored. How many times had he awakened her with his snoring? But with a nudge from her hand, he'd turn onto his side without waking and the snoring would stop. The memory was warm, filled with love. Pain flared on the heels of it. How many years had she slept alone? How many times had she awakened during the night and reached out for Culver's comforting presence, only to find him a figment of some dream?

     
Releasing a little sigh, Pilar told herself to get moving. She had much to do before they left
Lima
. As she stepped quietly into the living room, she saw Culver's long frame draped across the couch. He was asleep, his thick arms crossing his chest, one leg dangling over the end of the couch, the other sprawled out next to it. In sleep, he looked less harsh. Less threatening, Pilar realized. She knew she should wake him, but something begged her not to do it just yet.