Spring Bride

She’d planned her day carefully, using a guidebook and the brochures she’d picked up on ship. A cable-car ride up Mount Avila first for a breathtaking view of the Caribbean coastline, and then brunch at the Humboldt Hotel. After that, she would head down into the city and pack as much sight-seeing as she could into the remaining hours.

By midafternoon, Kyra was weary but happy. She had zigzagged Caracas on foot and by taxi; she’d seen almost everything on her list, from the beautiful gardens and fountains of La Casona to the cobbled streets and tiled roofs of the old city near the church of La Pastora. She’d even managed to spy a slow-moving sloth in the trees at Plaza Bolivar.

Now, as the sun began angling across the sky, she glanced at her watch. It was getting late, but she had at least an hour to browse the shops, and to see what she could add to her growing collection of souvenirs. Just thinking of them made her smile. Nothing she’d bought had been costly and most of the things were probably foolish but each had been fun to choose and would forever remind her of this trip in a way that expensive items from faceless hotel gift shops couldn’t.

That was something her father had not understood, Kyra thought as she headed for a stretch of shops the purser had recommended. She still remembered the look on his face when she’d handed him a tiny replica of Windsor Castle that played “God Save the Queen” when you moved a switch set into one of its turrets after her semester in England.

“How…how nice,” he’d said.

She’d almost explained that it wasn’t “nice” at all, that it was tacky and funny and that was why she’d bought it—but then she’d thought that if she had to explain all that, it wasn’t worth the effort and so she’d smiled and said yes, it was, and actually, she’d bought it for herself.

“Oh,” he’d said with obvious relief, and Kyra had taken back the little castle, handed him the very proper cashmere scarf she’d bought at Harrods, and listened while he praised her for her good taste.

Nobody was liable to praise her for showing good taste now, she thought, smiling as she made her purchases. An oversize straw bag in the shape of a donkey for Stella, a papier-mâché parrot for herself, an assortment of silly T-shirts for her brothers…the gifts were fun to buy and would be fun to give.

And that was what this trip was all about, she reminded herself as she came out of the souvenir shop. Fun…

Kyra sucked in her breath as a clock in a window across the street caught her eye. Was that really the right time? She shifted her packages to the crook ot her arm and checked her watch.

“Damn,” she muttered, and hurried to the curb.

“Taxi,” she called, lifting her hand—the hand that so invitingly dangled the strap of her pocketbook. ”Hola! Taxi!”

Later, she would remember seeing it happen in a terrible kind of slow motion. The approaching motorbike, the grubby hand reaching out, the fingers closing tightly around the strap…

But at that moment, all Kyra knew was that a motorbike came whizzing past, something tugged sharply at her hand, and before she had time to react, it was all over.

The thief, the motorbike and her pocketbook were gone.

For a second, she couldn’t believe it. She stood staring after the bike while the sounds of the street faded; all she could hear was the thump of her own heart, and then she felt her knees turn liquid.

How could such a thing have happened? This was the middle of the day, the sidewalks were jammed with people…people intent on their own business, as they’d have been in any city back home.

Big city, Caracas. Got to keep your wits about you…

Kyra spun toward a woman coming out of the souvenir shop.

”Señonta,” she said in an unsteady voice, ”por favor…”

The woman smiled helplessly. “Sorry,” she said without breaking stride, “I don’t speak Spanish.”

Kyra stared after her. Well, neither do I, she thought wildly.

Calm down, she told herself, just calm down. You do speak Spanish. You can find a taxi, ask the driver to take you to the nearest police station, and report this.

Or was it best to head for the ship? It would be sailing soon; would anyone realize she wasn’t on board? And even if they did, would they hold up all the Empress’s other passengers just for her?

Of course they would, Kyra told herself, but the sinking feeling in her stomach said otherwise.

“Oh God,” she whispered, and she flew back into the shop where she’d bought the shirts and the straw bag. It took time to convince the clerk that she absolutely had to take all those things back, precious time Kyra didn’t have to waste, but finally she was out on the street again. She hailed a passing taxi and crossed her fingers.

She had just enough money to get to the docks. All she could hope now was that she’d also have just enough time to get to the Empress before the ship departed.

But she didn’t. The dock where the Empress had been moored was empty. All that remained of her was a windtossed brochure bearing the ship’s logo and the words, See Exciting Caracas blazoned across it in shrieking crimson.

Kyra stood in the deserted street, staring out over the oily water, telling herself there was no reason to panic.

Why should she panic? she thought, swallowing a hysterical laugh. Just because she had no money, no passport, no credit cards? Because she hadn’t the foggiest notion where to find a police station or the American Embassy? Because, now that the Empress was gone, she could see just how deserted these grimy streets really were?

”Buenos días, señorita.”

Kyra spun around. A man was grinning at her, his two gold-capped front teeth flashing in the late-afternoon sun.

“You are ’merican, si?”

His gold teeth were impressive, but so were his tattoos. A snake sporting huge fangs writhed on one arm; a pierced heart dripped crimson blood down the other.

Kyra cleared her throat. “I—I…”

I, what? Why was she stammering? So he had gold teeth. So he had tattoos. So what? She was on her own now; she wasn’t in a place where she’d be rubbing shoulders with men in tuxedos. Gold teeth and tattoos, she thought firmly, did not mean he was a bad person!

And so she smiled politely. “Yes,” she said, “I am. Could you tell me where I can find the American Embassy?”

“Ah, but the embassy is closed at this hour, señorita.” Gold Teeth frowned. “Is there some difficulty?”

Kyra nodded. “I’ve been robbed.”

Gold Teeth gasped. “Robbed? By one of my countrymen?” He clucked in sympathy. “That is most unfortunate. You must report this to the policía at once.”

Kyra managed a slight smile. “I would, if I knew where to find the nearest station. I don’t suppose you’d know…”

He turned and pointed toward a dark alley. “Of course. It is right through there.”

Kyra peered over his shoulder. The alley wasn’t just dark, it was almost black She couldn’t see more than a couple of feet into it.

“Where?” she said. “I don’t see…”

“Ah, you must go to the end, señorita. And then there is a right turn, and a left, and another left…” Gold Teeth looked at her. “Come, señorita. I will take you there myself.”

Kyra looked at the alley, then at her would-be rescuer. Suddenly, old Mr. Schiller’s voice rang in her ears.

Got to keep your wits about you…it said.

She took a step back. “No,” she said politely, “thank you very much for offering, but—”

”Señorita.” Gold Teeth smiled slyly, shuffled closer, and breathed cheap whiskey into her face. “You have no money, yes? An’ no man to help you.”

“I’ll be fine, señor. I am grateful, but—”

His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.

“Be nice,” he said, “an’ I be nice, too. Otherwise—”

“Let me go,” Kyra demanded, twisting furiously against him.

Gold Teeth laughed as if she’d made a wonderful joke. “Sure. I let you go. But first—”

“I would suggest you take the lady’s advice, compadre.”

The voice came from behind her. It was male, deeply pitched, and though it was almost lazy in tone, there was no mistaking the authority in it.

Gold Teeth almost snarled with annoyance.

“This is not your business, man.”

“I have made it my business. Let go of the woman and I will permit you to leave here in peace.”

Gold Teeth threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I am shaking with fear.”

The stranger’s voice hardened. “For the last time, let her go.”

“Why?” Gold Teeth’s smile twisted into an obscene grin and he nodded his head slyly. “Now I unnerstand. You want her for yourself.” Kyra stumbled as he shoved her aside. “Come and get her, then,” he said, and suddenly there was a knife glinting in his hand.

The man shot past Kyra with the swiftness of a jungle cat. There was a blur of motion, a thud, a groan. The knife went flying and Gold Teeth fell to his knees, swayed there, then sprawled flat on his face.

Twice in one day, Kyra thought hysterically, twice in one hour something incredible had happened too fast for her to see!

Her rescuer bent, lifted Gold Teeth to his feet. He said something in Spanish Kyra couldn’t understand but Gold Teeth certainly did. Even though he was swaying unsteadily, he gulped, nodded, and took off.

Kyra dragged air deep into her lungs and took a step toward her rescuer, who was standing with his back to her and his hands on his hips, watching her assailant as he vanished into the alley.

My God, she thought with admiration, he wasn’t even breathing hard.

With a shaking hand, she took off her baseball cap and ran her fingers through her hair.

”Señor,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ”Señor, I am so grateful…”

”Señorita,” the man said sternly, “this man was a—a marrano…” He shook his head. “Do you speak any Spanish?”

Kyra went very still. No, she thought, no, it couldn’t be.

Her heart rose into her throat. She watched as her rescuer dusted off his hands and then turned toward her.

“He was, you would say, a pig. So you will understand when I tell you—”

Cristo!

Antonio Rodrigo Cordoba del Rey stared at the woman. No. No, it couldn’t be!

His sapphire eyes turned almost black with shock as he stared at her, at the face he had not managed to forget, despite the weeks that had gone by since he had first seen it.

He saw her throat work convulsively.

“No,” she whispered, “no! I don’t believe it”

Antonio rubbed his hands over his eyes but it didn’t help. When he looked again, she was still standing there in front of him, dressed in a skirt and sandals and a T-shirt instead of in a little slip of black silk, but there was no mistaking her identity.

This was the woman who had reduced him to such foolishness that night in Denver. He had thought of her a dozen times since then, never without his gut knotting with anger, always assuring himself that the only saving grace in the whole damned scenario was that he would never, ever, have to see her again…

Yet, here she was. Por Dios, how could such a thing have happened?

He took a step toward her, his fists knotted as he fought for self-control.

“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

The woman’s head snapped back as if he’d struck her.

“What am I doing here?” she said. Her voice was breathy, as if she’d been running. She moved closer, her head tilted up, her eyes locked on his. “What do you mean, what am I doing here?”

Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot believe this. What have I done that the gods should drop you into my lap a second time?”

Kyra stared at him. The arrogant, insolent, self-centered jerk…

“My sentiments precisely,” she sputtered. “Suffering through one encounter with you was enough for a lifetime. No woman should have to endure your presence twice!”

A dark flush crept across his face. “You should count yourself fortunate for this second test of your stamina, señorita. Had it not occurred, you would have found yourself involved in a much more interesting adventure with your charming friend!”

“That—that creature was not my friend!”

A chill smile curved over Antonio’s mouth. “You should choose more carefully when you decide to ‘play with the natives’.”

Kyra’s eyes turned from silver to smoke. “I do not have to stand here and listen to these insults!”

“You most certainly do not.”

“Fine.”

She spun away, but the memory of his disdainful little smile, even of the way he was standing, with his arms crossed over his chest, enraged her. All that smug male superiority…how dare he? She took a breath, turned, and faced him again.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are, without question, the most…the most insufferable human being imaginable?”

One midnight black eyebrow rose in lazy amusement.

“And to think that moments ago you were almost on your knees to me with gratitude,” he drawled.

Kyra’s color heightened. “You only wish!”

The smile faded from his lips. “My only wish is that I awaken in a few seconds and find out that you have once again been nothing but a bad dream!”

“Really?” Kyra purred. “Have I been in your dreams, señor?”

Antonio flushed. Dammit, why was he letting her draw him into this ridiculous battle of words? As it was, he had made a stupid slip. He had been dreaming of her ever since that night they’d first encountered each other; incredible, X-rated dreams that were ridiculous when you considered that he was not a man who needed to waste his sexual energies in fantasies and that this tart-tongued, mean-tempered American was the last woman he’d ever want in his bed.

“Well?”

He looked at her. Her head was tilted at a slight angle and she was watching him with catlike intensity.

He took a step toward her. “I see that you are a woman who likes to live dangerously. But I must warn you, señorita, that it would be reckless to push a man like me too far. You might not escape as easily as you did a few moments ago.”

Kyra’s heart kicked against her ribs. He was right. Not about the incident with Gold Teeth but about what was happening now. You didn’t tease a man like this; you didn’t dangle bait and wait to see if he’d snap it up. She remembered all too clearly the way he’d watched her that night, the sexual heat that had smoldered between them.

“Perhaps it is I who should have asked that question of you, señorita.”

She looked up. He had moved closer to her; they were standing barely a whisper apart. She swallowed, then cleared her throat.

“What—what question?”

“About dreams,” he said. His smile was sexy and dangerous. “Have you dreamed of me, señorita?”

Kyra stepped back. “Never,” she said, her chin lifted. “Unless I’m in the middle of a very bad one right now.”

Antonio’s nostrils flared. He reached out and clasped her by the shoulders.

“Do you feel the bite of my fingers? I promise you, what is happening is no dream.”

Yes. Yes, she could feel the bite of his fingers, feel the heat of his touch. She could see that his eyes were the color of sapphires, that there was a small, almost invisible scar angled across his jaw; she could smell his scent, equal parts sun and sea and raw male anger.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark, and then he drew her forward against his hard body.

“We are both here. In the flesh—isn’t that what you Americans say? And just so there’s no further confusion m your mind, I will prove it to you.”

And before Kyra could stop him, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her.

CHAPTER THREE

ANTONIO sat behind his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d tilted his leather-and-oak chair back on its legs and now he was scowling at the ceiling instead of at the door, which was what he’d been doing for the last five minutes or for however long it had taken him to count silently to a hundred in Spanish, in English, and finally even in the Indio dialect he’d spent most of his adult life trying to forget.

It hadn’t helped. His patience, never his strongest asset, he had to admit, was wearing thin. But then, why wouldn’t it? His scowl deepened as he leaned forward and let the front legs of his chair bang against the wideplanked teak floor.

How much time could a woman spend in the ladies’ room, for God’s sake?

Antonio rose to his feet, stalked to the window, and turned his scowl on the rain. Damn the weather, anyhow. He’d been away so long he’d almost forgotten the cloudbursts that were so common to the tropics. If only it had started to rain sooner. Maybe then none of this would have happened. Maybe his secretary wouldn’t have looked outside and seen a woman—a turista, she’d saidbeing harassed just outside the door.

“Shall I call the police?” Consuelo had asked.

Antonio had hesitated. Calling the police seemed like overkill. This wouldn’t be the first drunken sailor to make a pest of himself on the docks.

And so he’d sighed with resignation at the interruption, risen from his desk, and assured Consuelo that he would deal with the problem.

And so he had, he thought now, suppressing the faintest smile of satisfaction. It was a long time since he’d used his fists, but then, disarming a fool with a knife was not a skill one forgot.

His smile turned into a frown as he remembered how the smile of gratitude disappeared from the turista’s lips when she’d realized who it was that had saved her beautiful neck. Did she really think she was the only one who was appalled by this unbelievable coincidence? To find himself face-to-face with the woman again…

Not in a million years would he have imagined such a thing!

Antonio turned away from the window. One good thing, at least, had come of this encounter.

He knew with certainty that he would not be bothered by unwanted images of the American’s coldly beautiful face any longer.

Inconceivable as it seemed, her face had haunted him, but that was over now. He’d seen her again and the only emotion he’d felt had been disbelief. Better still, he’d given her a taste of her own medicine. He’d kissed her, had the satisfaction of knowing that he could make her tremble with desire for a man like him…

Who was he kidding? She hadn’t trembled. The kiss had only lasted for an instant but it had been long enough for him to feel her go rigid with shock in his arms.

And then the skies had opened up and Consuelo had stuck her nose where it didn’t belong yet a second time. She’d come dashing out into the street, shot him a look of fierce remonstration, and before he could stop her, she’d put her arm around the woman and rushed her inside.

Now here he was, cooling his heels, a captive in his own office, dammit, waiting for the American to deign to reappear so he could call her a taxi and send her back to wherever she’d come from, so he could get back to work and maybe, just maybe, tie up his business in Caracas so he could get out of here and be back on San Sebastian Island tonight.

He shot back his cuff, glared at his watch, then marched to the door and yanked it open.

“Consuelo,” he bellowed.

His secretary looked up from her desk, her expression impassive.

”Sí, señor?”

Antonio folded his arms over his chest. “Where is she?”

“She is still in the ladies’ room, señor.”

“Does she think I have the day to waste?”

“I am certain she will only be another few minutes. She asked for a comb and—”

“And you obliged? What for? Are you her maid?”

Consuelo’s tone grew cool. “The señorita has been through a most unfortunate experience, señor. I should think any decent human being would feel some compassion for her.”

Antonio opened his mouth, then closed it again. The rebuke was unsubtle, but then, lack of subtlety was one of his secretary’s assets. Consuelo was old enough to be his mother; she had been with him for ten years, and whenever he needed to be brought back to size—as, he supposed, he might on extremely rare occasions—she was the only one with the courage to do it.

“She has had a difficult time, Señor del Rey,” Consuelo added softly.

Antonio’s mouth hardened. “Perhaps she has also learned a lesson. The world and its inhabitants are not toys put here for her amusement.”

He turned and slammed the door behind him before Consuelo could respond. Then he walked to his desk and sat down behind it.

What god with a bad sense of humor had brought the woman to Venezuela and then deposited her outside this office on the one day in weeks—in weeks, dammit!—he had chosen to stop by?

It was insane.

“Insane,” Antonio muttered, slapping his palms against his desk.

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