Surrender, Baby Part 9

See what happens-if anything can happen between us."

Randy was shaken by the way her blood was rus.h.i.+ng and her mind was racing. She didn't want to hear what he was saying to her, and yet she didn't want him to stop. Give this thing a chance? G.o.d, how that idea frightened her. It was impossible.

"No, I can't take chances, Geoff," she told him. "I need something solid. I have something solid."

He tipped up her chin and stared at her hard. "Right, you've got a solid guy who hangs out at places called The Smell of Love?"

"Oh-and you don't hang out at places like that?"

"Sure I do, but I admit to it, Randy. I'm not pretending to be Mr. Clean. I'm not lying to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked him. "That Hugh is lying to me? About what?" She could hardly believe it. Geoff Dias was setting himself up as morally superior to her fiance? The man who rode bikes like a banshee and carried a flask in his hip pocket? Hugh was a fine man, a conscientious man who'd worked his whole life to get where he was.

"There are plenty of things your fiance could be lying about," Geoff pointed out. "Like what he was doing at that nightclub, why he met with Santeras."

She met his emerald gaze head on. "Are you asking me to believe that Hugh was doing something wrong, something illegal?"

"I'm not asking you to believe anything about Hugh. I'm telling you something about me. I've never lied to you, and I never will. Maybe you're not used to that in a man."

Randy had a moment of true confusion. His thumb was still stroking her face lightly, and the conviction in his voice pulled at her. It reached into her mind and made her want to question the things she'd taken for granted as true. He seemed to be saying he wanted a relations.h.i.+p with her. But maybe he was just playing with her head, her hopes, trying to convince her that he was a man who didn't lie, a man who would hold her simply because she needed holding. But why would he do all that? What was his motive? Surely he had one. All men did.

He bent to kiss her and she whispered something as his mouth neared hers. "Is the deal off, then? The night of s.e.x?"

"No, sweetness," he said, tasting her lips, sipping, sampling, tantalizing, "the deal isn't off. You're not going to leave Hugh for me. You're too frightened. And if I can't have anything else, then I want that night. I mean to have that night."

His lips continued to touch hers, light, s.e.xy, wickedly sweet. His hand went to the breast he'd covered, and she felt a shock wave of desire as his skin touched her bare flesh. He was right. Everything he said was true. She wasn't going to leave Hugh, she couldn't. It would kill her to give up her dreams.

But there was one thing Geoff Dias didn't know, must never know. She wanted that night of s.e.x with him. She wanted it badly.

Nine.

GEOFF, WEARING ONLY his tuxedo pants, stood alone in the darkness of his bedroom gazing out the open terrace doors. The low vibrant music of the grandfather clock echoed from the foyer, followed by four lonely chimes. The sound was haunting. Even the chaos of Carnaval, roiling up on sultry waves of heat, couldn't offset the sad beauty of the chimes.

They reminded him of her.

He'd been sketching her in his mind again, the gypsy bride in her lacy white wedding gown and her shattered dreams. It was the same image, always the same, her eyelashes quivering with tears, her features suffused with a young girl's pain, a young woman's stung pride.

Why did he always think of her that way? There were a million other images that could have obsessed him-their white-hot coupling on the bike, their abandoned s.e.x in the roadside motel he'd found. She'd been crazy enough to try everything that night, perhaps a little too desperate. At one point she'd thrown herself against the wall, facing away from him, begging him to take her that way. And then in the heat of it, before either of them were finished, she'd freed herself and knelt before him, bringing him to the most explosive climax he'd ever had.

His gut knotted up violently with the memory. Aware of the heat pooling in his groin, he went to the dresser and poured himself a splash of brandy from a crystal decanter. That session had sure as h.e.l.l left an impression on him. Why couldn't he draw it? Why did he keep re-creating a sad and beautiful child-woman, full of melancholy, shadowed with yearnings?

Why couldn't he get her out of his system?

He walked out onto the terrace, drink in hand, barely aware of the sweltering heat. There was an aching sensation between his ribs that intensified whenever he took a breath. It was a.s.sociated with her, he knew, and it would only get worse. She was slowly but surely driving him nuts. She could have been crushed in that mob scene, and the thought of losing her that way had churned up feelings. It had made him realize that he cared about her, maybe even enough to think about the consequences of hurting her.

He took a quick slug of the brandy and grimaced as it set fire to the roof of his mouth. If he were a better man, he'd find her Prince Charming for her and get out of her life. There was no way to get the satisfaction he wanted from her short of destroying her dream. If she wanted a loveless marriage to a b.u.t.toned-down desk jockey-permanence over pa.s.sion-that was her choice.

He glanced down at her balcony and saw that the doors to her room were open. Something tugged deep inside him, tempting him to think of it as an invitation. h.e.l.l, she'd invited him in the club, surrendering her mouth to him, her breast, then pulling back abruptly when they were interrupted. He wanted to believe that if they'd been somewhere else, with nothing to stop them, she would have surrendered it all.

He drained the rest of the brandy in his gla.s.s, fighting fire with fire, trying to put out the blaze in his gut. If he were a better man, he wouldn't even be thinking about such things. If he were a better man ...

Where had he gone? Randy crumpled the note she'd found on her pillow that morning and tossed it into the basin of a green marble birdbath that stood in the midst of the terrace garden. With a sigh of frustration, she picked up her dripping gla.s.s of iced tea and took a drink, ignoring the fruit salad that sat on the table next to her.

Geoff had already gone out when she'd awakened at eight A.M., and his terse message said he'd left to investigate a new lead. It gave no specifics, not even an estimate of the time he'd be back. She glanced at her watch, then chided herself because she'd checked it just moments before.

It was well past noon now, and she was becoming increasingly uneasy-not only about what he was doing, but about what they'd done the night before. She'd had wild dreams the entire night, all of them dominated by an emerald-eyed devil in a black mask. She'd awakened in turmoil, determined to talk to him about their "problem"-and found him gone.

Aware of the dull throb above her eye, which always signaled the beginning of a headache, she rose and walked to the railing. She'd called room service twice for aspirin, but no one had ever shown up. It seemed a miracle they'd brought lunch, considering the chaos that had taken hold of the city.

A cl.u.s.ter of vermilion b.u.t.terflies swooped overhead and doubled back, alighting on the crimson bougainvillea that grew along the railing. Randy was struck by the natural beauty of Rio as she gazed out at the seascape, at Sugarloaf Mountain and the white puff clouds drifting above. On impulse she decided to take a walk. The exercise would relax her. and she might find a pharmacy in one of the shops nearby where she could get some aspirin.

A short time later she was traversing a shady side street, picking her way through streamers, confetti, and the other paraphernalia of last night's celebration. In the near distance she could hear the roar of the official parades, where samba schools from all over Brazil were competing for the enormous prestige of taking first place in the dance compet.i.tion.

Making a mental note of her surroundings so she could find her way back, she took a street heading in the opposite direction from the parades. She wanted to avoid the crowds.

Most of the shops were closed, but she was hoping to come across a grocery or drugstore. She covered a few blocks, took another corner and heard the soft purr of a car engine. Glancing behind her, she noticed a sleek black limo as it gingerly negotiated the turn and crept into a parking spot.

The luxury car looked out of place among the modest shops and businesses. Randy glanced back again curiously, but she was unable to see anything through the tinted windows.

As she continued on down the street, a crazy quilt of multicolored shacks in the distance caught her eye. Cl.u.s.tered precariously on a hillside, they spilled down to the very edge of the business district. Her guidebook had warned that the shanty towns of Rio, called favelas, were dangerous. They were the poverty pockets of the city, where criminals and drug pushers hung out. They were also home to the poor and underprivileged.

Randy continued walking, drawn by a group of children who were sitting on a sidewalk in front of a shop window. They were watching a television set through the gla.s.s, and Randy's heart went out to them as she neared. Thin and ragged, they sat clutching their knees, completely absorbed by the old western movie.

Down the street on the opposite corner was an open-air stand of fruits and vegetables. Randy's first thought was to buy the children some food, but as she stepped into the street she became aware of a man loitering near a streetlamp by the stand. He leaned against the post, watching her and looking vaguely sinister, not unlike the dancer who'd performed at the club the night before.

Randy told herself to keep going. It was daylight and there were people around. She'd be safe enough. Her attention divided between the man and the produce, she approached the stand and picked out a variety of fresh fruits, avoiding the milk chocolate candy the owner was pointing out to her. She didn't want the children to gorge on sweets and become ill.

The shopkeeper's thick accent made his words unintelligible, but he seemed more than happy to take Randy's American money, and she was sure that she must have overpaid by the delighted smile on his face. She returned his smile as she took the bag. It pleased her to think that she was helping in some way.

But as she turned to leave, she immediately sensed the danger. Three men were now congregated at the streetlamp, and two more were crossing the street from the direction she'd come. Not only were they blocking her path, they were heading straight for her.

One of them called out something in Portuguese and the others laughed and jeered. Randy hesitated as all five began to move toward her, closing in. She knew it wouldn't do any good to scream. The streets were suddenly deserted. Even the old man who'd waited on her had disappeared.

Adrenaline burned through her hesitation. Raised in the streets herself, she'd learned some lessons in survival. She pulled an orange from the sack she carried and held it out as if offering it to the men blocking her path. "Catch!" she cried, tossing it to the nearest one.

She flung the bag of fruit at the other man and made a run for it.

The bluff gave her a few seconds' head start, and Randy dug in as she never had before. Raw fear propelled her forward. She heard the roar of a car's engine as she sprinted toward the end of the block. Suddenly the black limo peeled out of its parking s.p.a.ce, drowning Randy's screams in the screech of its tires. It came right at her, forcing her to leap out of the way as it careened past. Astonished, she watched the big car swerve to a shuddering stop, blocking the path of her pursuers.

The limo door flew open. "Get in!" someone shouted.

It was a man's voice, but Randy couldn't see him. Torn, she looked up and spotted her pursuers climbing over the hood of the car after her.

"Get in!" the voice commanded.

Randy scrambled into the car. Blinded by the dark interior, she felt someone lean over her and pull the door shut. She shuddered and fell against the seat as the limo wheeled around. The car jumped over the curb and shot down the road, scattering the men who'd chased her.

"Thank you," Randy said, trying to discern the face of her rescuer. Her relief lessened the apprehension she felt, despite the fact that from what she could see of him, he looked every inch a dangerous man. He might have been in his forties, though it was hard to tell. His face was unlined, and his eyes were as dark as the hair that swirled to his shoulders in unruly waves.

He was certainly dressed to kill, she noted. He wore black, everywhere. His s.h.i.+rt and slacks appeared to be silk, and though they were loosely constructed, they fit him as if they'd been tailored on his body. But more riveting than anything else about him was the white scar that bisected his tanned throat as if someone had literally tried to cut it.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked, his voice inflected with nuances that were more European than Latin.

"No, they didn't catch me, thanks to you."

"You're American?"

"Yes, from California." She told him her name and explained that she was buying fruit for the children, then waited for him to introduce himself.

Instead, he studied her with apparent curiosity. "A good samaritan?" he observed. "I wonder if your charitable attempt was worth it. It nearly got you killed."

"I don't think of myself as a good samaritan," she countered, wondering if she should be offended by his comment. It seemed more an observation than a criticism. "The children looked hungry."

"And you were only trying to help, of course."

"Yes, actually, I was."

"Another of life's lessons, perhaps?" he wondered aloud. "But what does this one mean? That we should leave others to their fate and not interfere? Perhaps the only destiny we can affect is our own?"

Randy was sure she'd never had a stranger conversation. Her rescuer talked in riddles. "In that case you shouldn't have saved me," she pointed out. "It feels good doing something for someone else, don't you think? I'm only sorry the fruit was wasted."

He smiled, something she suspected he didn't often do. "I will see the children get their fruit," he said. "I will interfere in their fate as well as yours-if that is your wish."

The remark was heavy with unspoken meanings. Studying him, Randy was struck by the high-arcing bones and dusky skin tones that dominated his features. The arrogance was there, set into the strong angles of his face, as was the male pride of bearing so reminiscent of Latin cultures. But along with it, there was something shadowed about the man who'd rescued her, something unspoken, like his remark.

Still, she found herself wanting to take his offer in the spirit of goodwill. "Yes, please," she said at last. "I'd appreciate it."

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

She gave him the name of the hotel, and when they arrived at their destination just moments later, Randy was vaguely disappointed that the adventure was over so quickly. As the chauffeur opened her door she realized she didn't even know her rescuer's name.

"Please," he said, holding out a card as she turned to him. "Take this. And come to my party tonight. It's a masquerade ball, a charity event for the children of the favelas."

"A charity event?" Randy read the card, which had only an address, no name. She glanced up at his mysterious smile.

"I'm an old hand at interfering in fate," he said.

Before she could ask him anything more, she felt the driver at her elbow, helping her out. His firm grip on her arm gave her no choice but to go.

Randy stood on the curb as the limo drove away, her head still buzzing from the odd encounter. "Do you know whose address this is?" she asked as the hotel doorman approached her. She handed him the card and saw by his startled expression that he did.

"Where did you get this?" he asked. "It's Carlos Santeras's jungle villa."

Randy didn't answer him. Her eyes riveted on the departing limo. "Carlos Santeras?"

The rest of the afternoon crawled by for Randy. Her excitement and frustration mounted as she waited for Geoff to return. She'd purchased a veiled and sequined harem outfit for the party in one of the hotel's shops, and now she was sitting on her bed in a short silk kimono, immersed in cosmetic rituals-curling her eyelashes, redoing her nails, and the like. She would need glamour to spare for Santeras's party tonight. The skimpy harem outfit would help, and she already had Greta Garbo eyebrows.

"Can anyone come to this slumber party?"

Randy glanced up, startled by the sight of Geoff Dias standing in the open doorway of her bedroom. The tuxedo and the black mask of the night before were long gone, distant memories. Now his golden hair was subdued by a black martial arts bandanna, and the shoulders that swelled from the straps of his military T-s.h.i.+rt were burned by the sun. He looked as if he'd been cruising the highways all day, a renegade biker, running on wind and adrenaline, searching for the ultimate high.

Struck by the way he could transform so totally, Randy flashed back to the soldier of fortune who'd stormed her office with his ripped fatigues and his silver flask filled with mystery elixir. Her heart moved strangely in her chest, just as it had then.

"Sorry, girls only," she said, turning her attention to the hot-pink toenail she'd started. Her hand was unsteady, and she had to concentrate fiercely to apply the remaining strokes. It didn't surprise her that she could respond to the mere sight of him. Considering what had happened between them, it would have been odd if she hadn't. She was disturbed because it was his wildness that had triggered the response.

"In that case the party's over," he said. "We've got to talk."

He strode to the bed and sat down, forcing a moan out of Randy as her hand went berserk. There was nail polish all over her foot! "Look there!" she snapped, shoving the brush back into the tiny bottle of polish and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the top shut. "Look what you've done. Where the h.e.l.l are your manners, Dias?"

"PMS again?"

His faint grin sent her off on another tangent. "We had an agreement," she reminded him hotly, daubing at her toe with a tissue. "Or did you forget that I'm supposed to be calling the shots? Where were you all day?" It felt good giving him h.e.l.l, she realized. She knew she was taking her frustrations out on him. But who better? He was the one who'd caused them.

"All I did was sit on the bed, Randy," he said softly. "If you want to b.i.t.c.h about something, b.i.t.c.h about this."

To her utter shock, he grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her down the bed toward him, ignoring her gasps as he pried open her legs and scooped her onto his lap.

All of the tension that had been building between them exploded as he buried his hand in her hair and kissed her soundly, his mouth hard and overpowering. Randy's scream got trapped in her throat. For an instant she was too stunned to react, and then she came to her senses with a burst. She twisted and shoved at him until he grasped her by the wrists and locked her hands behind her back.

The kiss turned hotly pa.s.sionate then, Randy writhing against him in a rush of primitive arousal. She moaned and swore at him through her clenched teeth, unable to do anything to stop him, outraged at the way he'd taken control. G.o.d, the sounds she was making, so breathy and urgent, as if she liked what he was doing when she didn't! She hated it.

"b.i.t.c.h about this," he murmured, nuzzling her throat and nipping the tender flesh beneath her chin.

The stinging sweetness of it drove Randy wild. She wrenched her hands free, arching up, swinging wildly, not even knowing what she was going to do. He caught her in midair, a body block as he threw her back down on the bed and loomed over her.

"All right," she cried, staring up at his flying golden hair and his blazing eyes, "do it! Go ahead, take me by force. You've probably always wanted to anyway."

He backed off for a second, breathing hard, then captured her wrists and pinned them above her head as if he'd accepted the challenge. In a heartbeat, woman, his expression said. Just one heartbeat. Randy didn't move, she didn't even breathe as he bent over her on all fours like a predatory animal. The sharp glare of his eyes penetrated her to the core.

A sound caught in her throat, more whimper than moan, and it was choked and trembly, rife with s.e.xual urgency.

A knowing smile darkened his features. "Maybe we should be talking about what you want, hmm, Randy?"

He sat back on his haunches, resting his hands on his thighs as he studied the quickness of her breathing and the heat that mottled her throat. "Seems like there must be an easier way to have a conversation with you, woman. That was all I had in mind when I came in here."

Conversation? Randy was absolutely humming with s.e.xual arousal. Her whole body was aquiver with it. "Then would you mind getting off me?" she suggested, wis.h.i.+ng she could make her voice sharper and less shaky. "I converse better when I'm not being pinned to a bed."

By the time he'd rolled off her and Randy had her kimono tied securely around her, she'd calmed down a little. At least her thighs weren't quivering anymore. "What did you want to talk about?" she asked Geoff.

He was standing alongside the bed, watching her, his eyes simmering with unslaked desire. Why hadn't he made love to her? she wondered. She wouldn't have stopped him. She couldn't have stopped him. She didn't seem to have an OFF switch where he was concerned. Fortunately, he did. He seemed bent on proving he could control even the most overpowering needs.