Lazaro's Revenge

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.

“Drink this.”

His cool hard voice sliced into her thoughts, drawing her gaze up, from the fire to his chiseled features, his expression inexplicably grim. “I don’t drink.”

“It’ll warm you.”

She glanced at the balloon-shaped brandy glass in his hand, quarter filled with amber liquid, and shrank from him. “I don’t like the taste.”

“I didn’t use to like it much when I was your age, either.” He continued to hold the glass out to her. “You’re shivering. It’ll help. Trust me.”

Trust him? He was the last man she’d ever trust. He’d taken her from Daisy, Dante, from the reunion she’d long anticipated. Her throat threatened to seal closed, her temper rising as her anger got the best of her.

She turned on him, arms bundled across her chest. “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 of 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.”

CHAPTER TWO

SHE stared at him aghast, the only sound in the house the crackle and pop of the fire.

Zoe shook so badly that brandy came sloshing up and over the rim of her glass. Her mouth felt parched. It tasted ridiculously like cotton. She swallowed roughly, trying to think of something—anything—to say.

Revenge. Revenge against…whom?

But she couldn’t ask because she knew she wasn’t prepared for the truth, wasn’t prepared to hear the words he’d say. She knew somehow that his answer would impact Daisy, it had to impact Daisy because Daisy had married here, into the Argentine aristocracy and Daisy had become part of this world, this culture, this other life.

Sick at heart, Zoe lifted the balloon-shaped glass to her lips and took a small sip. The brandy felt cool in her mouth then turned hot as she swallowed. The warmth hit her stomach and finally seeped into her limbs.

Lazaro Herrera was right about one thing. The liquor did help. It bolstered her courage. She wrapped her hands around the glass. “Does this have to do with the Galváns?”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“You want money?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

But his answer didn’t ring true, nor did his sarcasm. There was something else driving him and she needed to understand, needed to know so she could protect Daisy. “Does Dante know about this yet?”

“He should.”

She stared down into her brandy, trying to calm herself. She couldn’t help Daisy if she lost her head. “My sister, Dante’s wife, is pregnant.”

“I know.”

“Please don’t hurt Daisy.” Her voice had thickened. The words came out hoarse. She felt the back of her eyes sting, gritty tears welling. “She’s had several miscarriages and it’s been devastating for her. She can’t lose this baby.”

He stared at her, his silver-gray eyes shuttered. “I have no desire to hurt her.”

“But you will.” Zoe didn’t know how she knew, but she knew and it made her furious. Lazaro Herrera would destroy her family and never look back.

“Things happen in life—”

“No,” she burst out, gripping the glass tightly. “You’re doing this, you’re creating this.”

“It’s complicated, corazón. Life has never been easy.”

He was sidestepping the issue, turning the argument around, and it infuriated her. She took a step toward him, her slim body rigid with tension. Her family had been through so much in the past couple of years. They’d struggled and suffered and finally, just when Daisy found some happiness, this man threatened to take it away.

“Of course life is difficult. It’s full of pain and sorrow and loss, but it’s also full of joy and love—” she broke off, realizing she was dangerously close to tears, and swallowed hard. “Don’t hurt my sister. You can’t. I won’t let you.”

He wouldn’t acknowledge what she’d said. He ignored her fury. “You’re still shivering. You need a hot bath.”

“I don’t want a hot bath. I don’t want anything from you. Not now, not ever.”

His gaze swept her face. Her face felt hot in places. She knew her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glowed overbright.

“It doesn’t exactly work that way,” he said at last. “You are my guest here. This is my house. We will be together virtually night and day the next several weeks. I suggest you get used to my company. Quickly.”

He walked out.

Zoe stood there for several moments before her muscles twitched to life. Slowly she placed the half-full brandy glass on the coffee table before wiping her damp palms on the sides of her pale traveling coat.

She remembered when she boarded the flight yesterday evening how chic she’d thought she’d looked in the long thin cream coat and cream-colored cowboy boots. She and Daisy had grown up in boots. Just like they’d grown up in the saddle, working the farm. She might look fragile, but there was nothing fragile about her.

Just her feelings, maybe.

Zoe pushed up her coat sleeve and looked at her wristwatch. Almost seven-thirty. She’d arrived in Buenos Aires over six hours ago. Daisy must be frantic.

Forehead furrowing, Zoe looked about for a phone. He’d said there was no phone but she didn’t believe him. Everyone had phones these days. She’d look for a phone jack first. The phone jack would be a dead giveaway that he’d merely unplugged the phone and hidden it away. She’d find the phone and call for help first chance possible.

“Your bath is ready.”

Lazaro had returned and he stood in the doorway. He’d changed into dark slacks and a thick dark sweater. The dense weave of the sweater flattered his hard features, softening his long crooked nose and square chin.

He almost looked human.

Almost.

“I’m not going to take a bath. I’m not going to stay here.” She left the fire, walked swiftly from the living room to the hall, holding her breath as she moved past him.

She half expected him to stop her as she reached for the door but he didn’t move. He didn’t even bat an eyelash as she yanked the heavy door open.

“It’s a long walk to town,” he said mildly. “And very dark. There aren’t any streetlights on the pampas.”

She gripped the doorknob, hating him, hating his reasonable tone. “I’ve been in the country before.”

“Then you know how confusing it gets to walk without landmarks, without roads, without any sign of human life.”

“Your ranch can’t be that remote.”

His eyebrows merely lifted.

“I’m sure there’s something out there,” she insisted.

“Sheep. Cows. Deer—”

“Not very frightening.”

“Jaguars, pumas, cougars.”

Zoe swallowed hard. “You’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“All you’ve done is lie to me,” she flung back at him, turning to face him, hand still tight on the iron doorknob.

“I haven’t lied to you yet—”

“At the airport you asked me if I was Zoe Collingsworth—”

“And you said yes.” A humongous brown moth flit from the front porch light into the hall. Lazaro moved toward Zoe and gently but firmly closed the door. “I asked you for your baggage tag and you gave it to me. You came with me, Zoe. Happily. Willingly. Immediately.”

Tears of shock and shame filled her eyes. “You let me think you worked for Dante!”

“And I do.”

Zoe fell back, leaned against the closed door. She pressed her palms to the surface. “You what?”

“I work for your brother-in-law. I work for Dante Galván.”

She couldn’t have heard him right. Something had to be wrong with her head or her ears. “What can you possibly do for him?”

“Everything.”

Lazaro’s lips had twisted and his cynical smile filled her with fresh horror. She closed her eyes and pressed a fist between her eyebrows, pressing at the throbbing in her head. This was crazy. Worse than crazy. “Please explain what you mean by everything,” she choked, unable to look at him. “Are you some kind of Boy Friday?”

“Hardly. I’m the president of Galván Enterprises.”

Her head jerked up, eyes opening. “But Dante’s the president.”

“Dante is the chief executive officer. I run day-today operations.”

“Since when?”

“Since two years ago.”

“But—”

“Enough. I don’t want to discuss this anymore, not with you swaying on your feet. You’re tired, you need to bathe, eat, relax. Believe me, we’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

He turned away but she didn’t follow. “How much time?” she called after him.

He stopped walking, slowly faced her. “What?”

“You said we’d have plenty of time to talk later. I want to know how much time it is. How long do you intend to keep me here?”

“Depends. It could be a week, could be two, but if I were you, I’d plan on two.”

She opened her mouth to protest but he’d already turned the corner and disappeared down another hallway into a different part of the house.

Zoe followed much more slowly, passing through a darkened bedroom into a large luxurious bathroom. It was the most sumptuous bath she’d ever seen. The floor, walls, bath—even the shower stall itself—were covered in a gorgeous red marble. The sink and bathtub were made of gold, the tub was oversize, at least big enough for two people, and already filled with water.

Lazaro left her to undress, but Zoe couldn’t.

She sank to the edge of the tub, sat on the wide surround and stared at the steamy water. Pools of scented oil floated on the water surface. He’d put something in there, something that smelled rich, comforting.

She couldn’t reconcile anything he’d told her.

Minutes passed and still she didn’t move, couldn’t move.

A knock sounded on the outside of the bathroom door. She didn’t answer and the knob turned, the door slowly opened.

“Are you all right?” Lazaro’s voice came from the shadows outside the door.

What a question! Was she all right?

No, she wasn’t all right, she was anything but all right. Her father was dying. Her sister was on bedrest with a difficult pregnancy. She’d been proposed to by an old family friend who was more old than friend. All right? No, Zoe concluded silently, savagely, she was most definitely not all right.

Lazaro stepped inside the bath and looked at her. She hadn’t moved, he saw, and he gave his head a small imperceptible shake. He felt sympathy for her and it was the last emotion he wanted to feel.

Moving toward her, he crouched down in front of her. “You’re getting yourself all worked up. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Nothing bad will happen to Daisy, either. I promise.”

Her mouth quivered. Her eyes searched his, her lashes damp, matted. “How can I trust you?”

“I don’t know.” He fought the urge to touch her, fought the desire to reach out and cup her cheek. Her skin looked so soft, so tender. Like her heart, he thought, she was soft. She shouldn’t have ever been exposed to a man like him.

This was Dante’s doing.

In Dante’s determination to protect Daisy, he’d exposed Zoe, rendered her vulnerable.

Lazaro felt a tightness in his chest, anger and revulsion. He’d felt this same anger and revulsion nearly all his life. The dirty, barefoot street kid outside the store window looking in. To want something and be denied, not just once, but your entire life…

He, the outcast, the untouchable, had climbed the social ladder but he hadn’t forgotten and he hadn’t forgiven. If anything, the rage burned hotter, brighter, and he was more determined than ever to take what was rightfully his. To seize life—opportunity—and shake it by the throat.

Yet looking at young Zoe Collingsworth he realized all over again how ruthless he’d become, how hard and cruel.

He saw her hands balled in her lap. She was pressing her nails into her palms, the bare nails digging deep, breaking the skin.

“Give me your hand,” he said quietly.

She shook her head.

“Give me your hand,” he repeated.

He could see the fear in her eyes, as well as the uncertainty. She didn’t know what to expect, didn’t know what he wanted with her. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure, either. Sex, maybe. But there was something else, something he couldn’t define but powerful, intoxicating. He was drawn to her. Which would only worsen Dante’s situation.

He waited for her hand and slowly she slipped her palm onto his. His fingers wrapped around hers, his hand holding hers firmly, securely.

“You are safe with me, Zoe. My fight is not with you. Trust me on this.”

Every time he touched her, it happened, she thought wildly. Heat, energy, pleasure. His touch was unlike any touch she’d ever known. There was something in his skin, something warmer, stronger, more real.

Zoe stared at his hand, felt the heat and the ripple of delicious sensation surge through her, hand to heart, heart to belly, belly to legs.

Her heart slowed, her body felt liquid, bones melting, even as her senses became quivery and alert.

“Daisy’s everything to me,” she said, mesmerized by the back of his hand, with the burnished-gold skin and the wide strong bones of his wrist. “She practically raised me. She gave up college for me—”

Suddenly he leaned forward, his dark head blocking light and she knew he was going to kiss her. It was as though she’d known from the very first moment she’d met him that this would happen, that this kiss was destined to happen.

His mouth brushed hers. It was a fleeting kiss, a kiss so light her heart ached and tears pricked the backs of her eyes all over again. She could feel his breath against her cheek, smell the sweetness and subtle spice of his cologne. He was big and strong and dark, and yet he smelled of light, sunshine, like meadow grass and flowers after an early summer rain.

His lips barely grazed hers a second time. His mouth slid over her lips to the corner of her mouth. “I will try my best to protect your sister from this, too.”

It wasn’t the same promise he’d made her. She was afraid to ask, but she had to. “What about Dante?”

Lazaro stiffened. “What about Dante?”

His voice had hardened, the tone turning cold. He didn’t like Dante. “This is about Dante.”

“Yes.”

This was about Dante.

Zoe rushed from beneath his arm, fled to the far side of the red marble bathroom.

This was about Dante. He’d kidnapped her to hurt Dante. He’d done this to make Dante suffer.

But she adored Dante. He was the big brother she’d never had. He’d saved their farm, fallen in love with Daisy, had taken care of their father. Dante was the answer to the Collingsworths’s prayers.

She felt sick, and cold again, deeply cold, as though fear and pain had settled all the way into the marrow of her bones. Pointing to the door, Zoe ordered Lazaro out. “Go.”

He slowly stood, rising to his full height. In the dimmed light his cheekbones looked like angular slashes above his full mouth. His broken nose shadowed his blunt chin. “Someday you will understand.”

“I will never understand. Dante is a good man. He’s the most generous man I know.”

“You don’t know the full story.”

“Get out.” She turned her back on him, wrapped her arms across her chest.

He crossed to the door. “No matter what happens, I will keep my promise to you.”

In the bath Zoe soaped and scrubbed, feeling sullied after the trip, the abduction, the kiss. She didn’t understand how she could feel so many intensely conflicting emotions. She was afraid of Lazaro Herrera and yet intrigued.

Toweling off, Zoe knew she had to act to get word to Dante and Daisy, knew time was of the essence. She’d look for that phone as soon as she could.

Dry and wrapped in a robe, she faced the open closet in her adjoining bedroom. Someone had unpacked for her. She couldn’t imagine it was Lazaro.

Zoe didn’t like feeling naked in this strange house and dressed quickly, putting on comfortable jeans and a well-washed yellow sweatshirt. She’d just started to put on socks and sneakers when a knock sounded at the door.

Opening the door, Zoe discovered a tiny old woman, no taller than five feet, with gray-streaked hair and an extremely wrinkled olive-complexioned face. “Hello.”

“¡Vamanos!” The unsmiling old woman crossed her hands over her stomach. Her voice sounded sharp. “La cena.”

Definitely not a warm welcome. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Zoe answered slowly in English. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

“La cena. La comida.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

The older woman exhaled noisily, tossed up her hands. “¿Que dice?”

“I…I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“¿Que?”

“Señor Herrera. Ask Señor Herrera, sí?”

The elderly woman muttered something beneath her breath and stalked off. She made it halfway down the hall before turning around.

With short, curt gestures she motioned to her mouth, and opened and shut her mouth in an exaggerated chewing motion. “La comida. La cena. La cena.”

Understanding dawned. “La cena.” Food, dinner, Zoe finally got it. But that didn’t mean she was going to rush on out and eat. Who wanted to be invited to dinner like that?

Zoe shut her door and it slammed closed far harder than she intended. Wincing, she climbed on her bed, grabbed a pillow and buried her face in the pillow where she let out a muffled scream of frustration.

This was a nightmare.

She couldn’t stay here. Nothing made sense. Everything was off kilter, from the brandy to the marble bathroom to the kiss. She felt lost…confused.

Her door banged open less than two minutes after she’d slammed it shut.

“¡Por Dios! What happened?” Lazaro demanded from the doorway. “I’ve never seen Luz so upset.”

“Luz?”

“My housekeeper.” He braced his hands on his hips, indignation written all over his hard, dark features. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing.”

“Yet clearly you’ve offended her.”

Zoe mashed the pillow between her hands, squeezing the pillow into a ball. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“No. She said you spit in her face and slammed the door. I heard the door slam, too.”

Zoe flushed. “I didn’t spit. I wouldn’t spit. That’s rude.” She swallowed hard. “And I didn’t mean to slam the door. It closed harder than I expected.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, his mouth compressed. He seemed to be considering her, the situation, Luz’s version of events. “Que joda,” he ground out after a moment.

“What did you say?”

“I said, what a nuisance. You don’t want dinner, fine. Stay in your room. But I’m not going to send special trays to you. There is a dining room in this house, and a very nice antique table with matching chairs. If you want to go to bed hungry, that’s your choice. If you want to eat, you know where I—and the food—will be.”

He knew she wouldn’t join him for dinner and he didn’t have dinner held. It didn’t bother him eating alone in the elegant dining room, either. He almost always ate alone, and had ever since his mother died when he was seven.

He used to think it was poverty that killed her. The two of them were always hungry, and despite the fact that she worked every job she could secure, there never seemed to be enough money to get them off the streets.

Luz entered the dining room, reached for his plate, saw that he’d barely made a dent in his dinner. “Not hungry?” she asked sharply, her wrinkled brow doubly lined with concern.

Luz had befriended his mother before she died. Luz had been poorer than his mother, too, and yet she had fire, and a fierce spirit which made her fight back against those who would oppress her. She’d tried to teach his young mother, Sabana, to stand up to the aristocratic Galváns but his mother was terrified of the powerful Galván family.

“I’ll have coffee and something light later,” he said, leaning back so she could clear his place.

Luz held the plate in her hands. “Who is she, the girl?”

“A friend of a friend.”

Luz made a rough clucking sound. “The truth.”

“It’s half truth, and that’s enough for you to know.” Lazaro pushed away from the table. “Thank you for dinner.”

He walked out, headed for the living room and discovered the fire had burned low. Sitting down on the couch, he put his feet on the massive iron and wood coffee table and stared into the glowing embers.

He’d built this house for his mother. Of course she’d been gone nearly twenty-five years when he had the plans drawn and the house finished, but the attention to detail had been for her, in honor of her. He’d insisted on the best of everything. Crystal chandeliers, silk window hangings, marble bathrooms, French antiques.

She’d been a beautiful girl when Count Tino Galván took her against her will. Just seventeen. Not even out of high school.

But taking her innocence hadn’t been enough for Count Galván. After he’d hurt her, Tino Galván had Sabana sent away, exiled to a remote Patagonia village where she delivered her son alone. The Galváns had hoped the baby wouldn’t survive.

But Lazaro had.

Since his mother died, he lived for but one thing. Revenge. Revenge on those who hurt his mother, and revenge on those who’d shut their doors on him.

Zoe went to bed hungry and woke up ravenous at three in the morning. Between the time change and the growling of her stomach, she couldn’t fall back to sleep. Lying in bed awake, her thoughts quickly turned to Daisy. Daisy would be worried sick and Zoe knew she had to reach her sister as soon as possible and reassure her everything was fine.

She also needed to alert Dante to the danger Lazaro posed, without getting Daisy involved.

Throwing back the bedcovers, Zoe slid out from between the warm sheets and reached for her thin white cotton robe that matched the pink-sprigged nightgown.

It was a girlish set, something she’d had forever and yet refused to part with despite the cotton wearing thin and the rosebuds fading to peach and cream. The sleep set had been a gift from her dad years ago. Daisy got one like it, only hers had been blue.

Opening her bedroom door, she peered down the darkened hall. She wasn’t sure where to begin searching for a phone. She knew there had to be one somewhere, and not just a phone, but a fax, a modem, a cell phone. Lazaro Herrera had to communicate with the outside world somehow.

In the living room, Zoe crept on her hands and knees along the baseboards, searching for a hidden phone jack, running her fingers along the edge of plaster wall and wood base. She worked her way around the living room before moving to the bookcase where she inspected each shelf.

Nothing. At least not yet.

From living room to hall, hall to the cavernous kitchen, around the kitchen islands and huge rough-hewn pillars to the dining room.