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Lazaro's Revenge
“Who are you, anyway? I don’t even know your name.”
“Lazaro Herrera.”
The name rolled off his tongue: fluid, complex, sensual. The r’s trilled, the z was accented, the vowels so rich and smoky they could have been aged whiskey. Lazaro Herrera.
It was a name that fit him, a name that echoed with strength and muscle and power.
“I think I’ll take that drink,” she whispered.
His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the glass. “Sip it. Slowly.”
His skin was warm, yet his touch scalded her. She nearly dropped the glass. “Why are you doing this?”
He shrugged, a vague shift of his massive shoulders. “I have reasons.”
“But what did I do? You don’t even know me.”
“This isn’t about you.”
“Then what is it about?” Her voice had risen.
“Revenge.”
by
Jane Porter
In Dante’s Debt #2298
Lazaro’s Revenge #2304
Coming soon from Harlequin Presents®.
Lucio’s story #2358
The Galváns are proud Argentinean aristocrats,
in need of husbands and wives….
Lazaro’s Revenge
Jane Porter
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
PROLOGUE
“I DON’T kidnap women,” Lazaro Herrera retorted grimly, his back to the plate-glass window overlooking Buenos Aires’s fashionable Avenida Sante Fe boulevard. “I might have a reputation for being ruthless, but that’s business, not personal.”
“Sometimes I’m not sure if it isn’t personal,” Dante Galván answered, almost as an aside.
Lazaro turned sharply to face the man who headed Galván Enterprises, and the only man Lazaro answered to. Dante might be chief executive officer but as president, Lazaro was the acting manager. “Even I have scruples, and I draw the line at kidnapping.”
“You’re misinterpreting me. I never said kidnap. Zoe is my wife’s younger sister. She’s just twenty-two. All I want to do is to protect her.”
Lazaro’s gaze narrowed speculatively. “Protect Daisy, you mean.” Dante didn’t say anything and Lazaro’s mouth twisted grimly. “Neither you nor Daisy like this American, Carter Scott—”
“For good reasons, mind you.”
“So what you’re really doing is shielding Daisy from unpleasant news.”
Dante didn’t immediately answer. His mouth pressed tight, his features pinched. Dark purple shadows formed crescents beneath his amber eyes. “Daisy can’t lose this baby. She can’t handle this right now, can’t handle more bad news, and I’ll be damned if I let her suffer through another miscarriage.”
Pain throbbed in Dante’s voice, pain and anger and helplessness. Lazaro knew about Daisy’s two previous miscarriages. The second one occurred last year, and fairly late in the pregnancy. Daisy had been devastated by the loss and Dante had taken six weeks off from work to be with Daisy as she convalesced at the estancia. It was then Lazaro had completely taken over management of the corporation.
Unfortunately, Dante didn’t know he was playing straight into Lazaro’s hands. Dante didn’t know that every move he made, every bit of power he relinquished, only strengthened Lazaro’s position, and weakened his own.
“I’m lucky to have you,” Dante said quietly. “If it weren’t for you, we’d all be in trouble.”
Lazaro tensed, his conscience pricked by Dante’s earnest gratitude. He hated the tug of contradictory emotions within him and turned to face the window where Buenos Aires’s skyline sparkled in the sunshine.
For the first time in a long time, he despised what he’d started here, with the Galváns.
He despised the secrets he kept buried in his heart, despised the thing that drove him to destroy Dante and the Galváns, but it was too late to change the course now.
Yet even as he stood at the window, weighted by memories of a dark past, he felt Dante’s worry for Daisy, felt Dante’s own burden, and longed to warn Dante to be careful. Don’t trust me. Don’t feel safe with me. Don’t let me close to your family.
But Lazaro didn’t speak. He stifled the guilt and sense of obligation, telling himself that Dante’s problems weren’t his problems. Dante’s pain wasn’t his pain. Dante’s loss wasn’t his loss.
Lazaro drew a deep breath, hardened his emotions, and reminded himself that this wasn’t a simple feud. It was revenge. More than revenge.
It was about one’s soul.
His mother’s.
Ice sheeting his heart, Lazaro turned from the city glittering with sunshine to face his secret arch rival. “What’s the plan?”
CHAPTER ONE
“BE quiet, do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.”
She’d been kidnapped—abducted in the middle of the day from Ezeiza International Airport in Buenos Aires in full view of airport security.
Zoe Collingsworth’s stomach plummeted as the helicopter tilted sideways and flew at a peculiar angle to the earth below.
She gripped her boxy seat tighter, fingers clenched so hard that the knuckles ached. He’d told her not to talk and she hadn’t, but she was very afraid. This couldn’t really be happening…this had to be a bad dream…
“We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”
She jerked at the sound of his voice. It was the first time he’d spoken in the two hours they’d been aboard the helicopter. She’d never heard a voice pitched so low and it rumbled through her like a slow-moving freight train.
“Where are you taking me?” she whispered, hands trembling.
He briefly glanced her way, his narrowed eyes barely resting on her. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her mouth went dry, fear sucking heat from her limbs. She touched her seat belt, checking the tension in the belt, as though the small firm strap across her lap could somehow protect her from whatever was to come next.
She wanted to say something fierce and defiant, wanted to be brave because that’s how Daisy handled problems. But Zoe wasn’t a warrior woman and she felt the worst kind of terror imaginable. She’d never even been out of Kentucky before, and now on her first trip anywhere she was…she was…
Kidnapped.
Her heart thudded so fast and hard she thought it might explode. She stared at her captor. He wasn’t looking at her, but staring out the window, his gaze fixed on the darkening landscape below. Twilight swathed all in shadows. “What do you want from me?”
Finally she had his attention. He stared at her in the fading light, long dark lashes concealing his eyes, his expression curiously hard. There was nothing remotely gentle in his grim features. “Let’s not do this now.”
His English was flawless and yet his tone cut razor-sharp. He’d been schooled in the States, she thought blankly, numb from head to toe. “Are you going to…hurt me?”
She heard the wobble in her voice, the break between words that revealed her fear and exhaustion. He heard it, too, and his firm mouth compressed, flatter, harder. “I don’t hurt women.”
“But you do kidnap them?” she choked, on the verge of hysteria, her imagination beginning to run away with her. She’d been up twenty-four hours without sleep and she was losing control.
“Only if I’m asked to,” he answered as the helicopter dipped. He glanced out the window and nodded with satisfaction. “We’re landing. Hold on.”
The helicopter touched down. While the pilot worked the controls, her abductor flung the door open and stepped out. “Come,” he said, extending a hand to her.
Zoe recoiled from his touch. “No.”
She couldn’t see his face in the darkness but felt his impatience. “It’s not a choice, Señorita Collingsworth. ¡Vamanos!”
Slowly, trembling with fear, she climbed from the helicopter. Her legs were numb and stiff, as if cardboard legs instead of tissue and bone.
The night felt warm, far warmer than she’d expected, and yet she convulsively pressed her thin traveling coat closer to her frame.
Lights shone ahead. Heart pounding, she gazed at the illuminated house and outbuildings. But beyond the immediate circle of light there was only darkness. A world of darkness. Where was she? What did he intend to do?
He moved behind her, reached into the helicopter and lifted out her suitcase and another small traveling bag. His, she thought with a shudder.
Bags out, he shut the helicopter door and immediately the helicopter lifted, rising straight from the ground into the dark starry night.
The whirring blades blew her hair into her eyes and Zoe stumbled backward, trying to escape the noise and rush of air, tripping over the suitcases behind her. She fell backward. Hands reached out to break her fall.
She felt the hard pressure of his body, felt his hands tighten on her as he placed her on her feet.
Immediately, she pulled away, and yet that split second of contact was more than she could bear. In that split second she’d felt his strength and heat penetrate her coat, penetrate her skin, penetrate all the way into her bones. He was hard and unyielding. Just that brief contact left her burned.
Bruised.
God help me, she silently prayed, get me home safe.
Hand shaking, she pushed a fistful of hair from her eyes. Her hair clip had fallen out, and the helicopter blades had blown the long heavy mass free. She felt blown to bits.
Physically. Emotionally.
“This way,” he said roughly, touching her elbow.
This second touch was worse than the first. Zoe jerked, muscles snapping, spring-loaded. The sudden stiffening of her body hurt.
Every time he touched her she shuddered. Every time he touched her she burned.
The noise of the helicopter began to fade. The warm night air wrapped around her. “What happens now?” she asked, drawing herself tall, bringing herself to her full five-ten height. It didn’t do much good. He was still far taller, larger. He had to be well over six foot three, maybe six-four. He was built strong, too, thickly muscled like an American football star, but in his black coat, black shirt, black trousers he could have been from the Mafia.
“We go inside. We’ll have dinner. You’ll go to your room for the night.”
He made it sound almost civilized. Which should have reassured her, but she wasn’t reassured, not by a long shot. She’d heard that some of the most violent men were also the most sophisticated. He could be toying with her before—
Stop it!
You have to stop thinking like this. You can’t let your imagination do this to you. You’ll just drive yourself crazy.
There were too many unknowns, too many terrifying possibilities. She had to stay calm, had to keep a cool head, as her father used to say. Her father had been a master of cool heads.
She swallowed the lump of panic filling her throat. “Okay. Dinner sounds good.” She’d take this step by step, moment by moment. She’d get through this. One way or another.
He picked up her suitcase and his bag and headed toward the house, leaving her to follow. But she couldn’t follow, not immediately. How could she just go in there, how could she walk into that house on her own accord?
Zoe stood where he’d left her, turned to face the cement pad, felt the night air surround her. The land was flat and open, with only a cluster of trees in the distance. Nothing loomed on the horizon. No mountains. No lights from a town. Just flat, empty space.
The pampas, she whispered to herself, remembering the postcards Daisy had sent her.
The Galván estancia was on the pampas, too. Perhaps she was close to Daisy, closer than either of them knew.
She turned back to face the house with the glow of yellow light. What to do now?
He was waiting for her at the door. She started toward him then stopped. She could feel his impatience and it frightened her. What would happen once she entered the house?
He waited another moment before shrugging and disappearing from view. After a long moment Zoe forced herself to continue.
Climbing the front steps, she arrived at the front door. The dark wood door remained open. The man reappeared.
He’d removed his coat and unbuttoned his dark shirt. A muscle in his jaw jumped as her eyes met his. His eyes were lighter than she’d thought, his eyebrows straight and very black, but it was his nose that dominated his face. His nose was bent, beaked in two places. There was a small scar at the bridge, and another scar at the edge of his square chin. His face looked as though it’d been smashed silly a half dozen times.
A street boxer. A thug.
Zoe’s throat constricted. She swallowed hard, terror making her limbs feel like thin splinters of glass.
“You’re coming in then?” he said.
Her throat worked and she dug her fists against her ribs to stop her shaking. It nearly killed her to force sound through her throat. “You don’t care if I stay outside?”
“You can do whatever you want now that you’re here.”
“I can?”
“There’s no phone line here, no outside communication at all. No visitors, no roads, no disturbances, no interruptions. You’re safe.”
Hot tears pricked her eyes and she ground her teeth together. “I’m safe?”
He reached out to touch the side of her neck, just below her jawbone, his fingers trailing across the soft skin left exposed by her turtleneck. “Perfectly safe.”
She quivered and jerked at the hot painful touch. “Is there no one else here?”
“Just an elderly servant, but she doesn’t speak English and won’t bother you.”
He lifted his finger from her neck and she felt as though he’d split her in two. The touch had been light and yet he’d lit a bomb inside her skin, heat exploding in her middle, fire racing through her veins. It was the most shocking touch and she wanted to cry out loud, overwhelmed by the intensity of her response.
“Come inside. You’re tired.”
“I’m afraid.”
His dark head tilted. “Of?”
His deep voice was pitched so low that it throbbed within her, a soft but distinct vibration that left her humming. She hated him, feared him, and yet he was strangely charismatic, too. Of everything that could happen, she wanted to answer, but she didn’t say it. Wouldn’t say it.
He must have read her thoughts because he smiled faintly. “Think of it as an adventure.” Then he moved aside, stepping back to allow her to pass.
An adventure? He must be mad.
Yet his peculiar dark-light eyes held hers, and he waited, neither speaking nor rushing her. He was going to let her choose. He was going to put the next move on her.
What should she do? Stay outside in the darkness, on the endless pampas, or go into the warm yellow glow of the house?
With her heart thudding, she stepped inside.
Lazaro spotted Zoe Collingsworth the moment she stepped from the jet-way at the airport earlier in the afternoon. Young, blond, beautiful, she was the epitome of Argentine beauty. His narrowed gaze had followed her movements as she rummaged in her leather handbag for dark sunglasses.
Her hand had shook as she’d propped the tortoiseshell glasses on her small, straight nose. She could have been a Hollywood starlet. Her sweater’s high funnel neck stopped just short of her chin, accenting her smooth, creamy jaw and the long tumble of golden hair.
Lazaro could see that the men in the airport waiting area were already projecting their fantasies onto her. They saw what they wanted to see, the full breasts beneath the thin black sweater and the very feminine hips in wool trousers the color of rich caramel. They were admiring her hair, too, wondering if the glorious color was natural.
It was natural. Her hair was like her sister Daisy’s, only more golden. In fact, the two of them looked remarkably similar.
Only two years after marrying Count Dante Galván, Daisy was already considered a great beauty in Argentina’s elite social circles, but Zoe had a different beauty than Daisy’s…a softer beauty.
Lazaro shut the door to the ranch house but didn’t bother locking it. No point in locks. There was nowhere for Zoe to go.
He watched her now as she took a step into the hall, her blue eyes wide, and apprehensive, the irises more lavender than sapphire. She scanned the interior, as if searching for a hidden door or a secret torture chamber.
“There’s nothing sinister here,” he said calmly. “No knives, guns, whips, chains. Just a simple ranch house.”
Her chin lifted, her full lips trembled, but she pressed them together. “Have you sent a ransom note already?”
“No.”
She blinked, long black lashes sweeping down, brushing the high elegant curve of her cheekbone before looking up again. She was so young. Nearly twelve years younger than he. A lifetime between them.
The age difference should have killed his attraction. It didn’t.
Ever since she’d stepped from the jet-way this afternoon, his gut had ached, his body throbbing. His response to her stunned him. It was such a primitive reaction, so fiercely and purely physical that he felt raw on the inside. Barely controlled.
The desire was there even now and his body tightened yet again, his black wool slacks growing snug, confining.
He felt hungry. Like a prehistoric creature brought back from the dead. Something about her made him crave her, made him feel ravenous. Ruthless.
He wanted to feel her, taste her, possess her. And in a distant part of his brain he knew he would. Someday.
When he’d crushed the Galváns.
When he’d had his revenge.
But this wasn’t the time. Right now she was exhausted and afraid, and she was a guest in his house.
“Let me take your coat,” he said, softening the edge to his voice, knowing he had a hard voice, and a brusque manner. He wasn’t known for his sensitivity, or civility.
He extended a hand for her coat but she took a frightened step back.
Zoe nearly screamed when his hand reached out. She couldn’t let him touch her again. She couldn’t let him anywhere near her, feeling trapped, helpless, far too vulnerable. Again she was reminded of his height, his size. There was something about him that exuded strength, not just in terms of muscle, but control…power.
She pressed her thin coat more tightly to her body. “I’d like to keep my coat.”
His heavy eyebrows lifted. “You’ll get it back.”
He was making fun of her. Heat banded across her cheekbones and she lifted her chin. “I’m cold.”
“Come closer to the fire then. It should warm you.”
He led her from the wide high-ceiling hall into a surprisingly spacious sitting room, the dark-beamed ceiling as rustic as the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. Yet the furnishings were luxurious, from the vibrant scarlet and gold rug covering the wood-planked floor to the deep plush sofas and chairs clustered in small groupings. The artwork on the walls were all massive canvases, oversize oil paintings in vivid brush-strokes—electric blue, blood red, hot yellow.
This was no simple ranch house.
Zoe moved past the wrought-iron and leather coffee table with its stacks of books toward the fire. Her legs felt brittle, her muscles taut.
With a fleeting glance at the bookcases behind her, she reached out to the stone hearth, trembling fingers spread wide to capture the fire’s heat.
Kidnapped, she repeated silently, she’d been kidnapped. It still hadn’t completely sunk in. Would it ever?
She remembered disembarking the plane, remembered filing out of the jet-way with the other passengers and entering the gate area to discover a waiting throng.
She remembered scanning the crowd, looking for Dante, or a driver. Dante had promised someone would be there to meet her. But she didn’t see Dante, or anyone holding a sign. There were mothers and young children, businessmen in suits on cell phones, elderly seniors in wheelchairs but no one for her.
Her eyes had suddenly watered as she felt a pang of loss. Normally something like this wouldn’t upset her, but it hadn’t been a normal month. Her father was getting so much worse. He seemed to have forgotten everything now and it was awful watching him fade before her eyes. He’d been a smart man, and a loving man, always generous with others.
Her eyes continued to well with tears and she dug in her shoulder bag for her sunglasses. She’d cried most of the flight, and the oversize black sunglasses had come in handy then, too. The truth was, she’d cried so much in the last month she should be out of tears, but somehow the tears just kept coming.
Sunglasses in place she felt better. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on the positives. She was here to see Daisy. Soon she’d be reunited with her sister. Things would be better once they were together.
It was at that very moment when he approached her, the man in the black coat and shirt, the unsmiling man with a piercing gaze and a strong beaked nose.
“Miss Collingsworth?” he’d said, his voice impossibly deep, so deep she’d blinked behind her sunglasses as she let his voice sink into her, tangible and real.
Zoe recalled that her travel guide said Argentine men—a blend of Latin passion and European sophistication—were lethally attractive and while she wouldn’t call this man classically handsome, he was arresting…no, intriguing, in a primitive sort of way.
“I’m Zoe,” she’d answered, her heart doing a strange double beat. She’d been up all night and was overly tired. She’d never traveled out of Kentucky before and had felt ambivalent emotions about the trip to Argentina. She wanted to see Daisy, yet she hated putting her father in a nursing home. True, he wouldn’t stay there long, just the two weeks she was in Argentina, but it had been awful driving him there, awful leaving him there.
“Do you have any bags?” the man asked.
“Just one,” she answered. “It’s a large case so I checked it through.”
His dark head inclined, his glossy blue-black hair cut short. “If you give me your tag, I’ll get it for you.”
His hand stretched toward her, his palm wide, fingers long, well-shaped. He fit his skin somehow. He looked comfortable with himself and she’d given him the tag. They went to baggage claim and he lifted the heavy case off the carousel as though it weighed nothing. A limousine was waiting for them outside baggage claim and they drove straight to the helicopter pad.
It wasn’t until they were in midair and she’d begun to ask questions about Daisy and her pregnancy, about the Galván estancia, about life on the pampas that he’d told her to stop talking.
Actually, what he’d said was, Be quiet, do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.
Zoe drew a deep breath and stared at the fire with its red and gold dancing flames.
She was shaking again, more violently now than earlier, and with each uneven breath she could smell the acrid scent of burning wood and smoke, yet the heat wasn’t enough. She couldn’t stop shivering. Couldn’t control her nerves.
She heard him walk behind her, heard the clink of glass, the slosh of liquid, another clink. He was pouring himself a drink. What kind of kidnapper embraced leather books, modern art and brandy decanters? What kind of man was he?
Zoe battled her fear. There had to be a good explanation. People didn’t just abduct other people without having a purpose, a plan.
