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“Go?” She yawned, stretching her body across the bed, from her hands to her toes. “Go where?”
The sheet had fallen from her body, leaving her upper body bare. His back broke out in a hot sweat at the sight of those lusciously full breasts, the pink tips that he’d suckled just hours before, cupping them in his hands as he…Xerxes shuddered.
Forcefully, he made himself look away from her, before he forgot such minor details like promises and honor and jumped into bed with her for another twenty-four hours. Clenching his hands into fists, he forced himself not to touch her, to have some self-control. “Mexico.”
“Mexico?” She sounded bewildered. “Why? Do you have business there?”
He cleared his throat, unwilling to explain. “In a manner of speaking. Get dressed. My assistant is already packing your bikinis. And the rest of your wardrobe.”
“What wardrobe?” she demanded. “I only have bikinis thanks to you!”
“I might have sent away for more clothes.”
“When was that?”
“A few hours after we arrived.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her furious voice ended with a squeak that made him grin. He almost turned to look at her, then stopped himself just in time before he got another image of her sprawled naked across the bed. Christ, he only had so much willpower—he was only a man! He hurried toward the door. “The suitcase is still packed beneath the bed. We leave in ten minutes.”
But once again, his foolish hopes of finding Laetitia proved destined for failure. As soon as their jet arrived in Cabo San Lucas, he dropped Rose off without explanation at a luxury gated villa in the hills. He drove with bodyguards in an open Jeep, going north on a dirt road to the little desert village in Baja California.
At a shabby little casita, he knocked on the door. Xerxes heard a woman’s low moan inside, and adrenaline ripped through his body. Shouting Laetitia’s name, he kicked open the door.
He found a woman lying on a small bed, a brunette Laetitia’s size with bandages on her face. For a moment, he’d believed that after all these months, he’d finally found her.
Then he’d heard the language the woman was shouting. German? It turned out she was a wealthy businesswoman from Berlin who’d come to recover from her face-lift in privacy and seclusion. Xerxes had only convinced her not to call the police through substantial cash compensation.
Cash that would come out of his payment to Montez, Xerxes thought, gritting his teeth, for feeding his chief bodyguard such faulty information.
But in his heart Xerxes did not blame the investigator. He blamed only himself. He was the one who’d failed Laetitia, again and again over the past year. And she was still out there somewhere. Dying. Alone.
They drove back to Cabo San Lucas in silence. Entering the villa, Xerxes felt hollowed out. He walked through the heavily embellished oak door with his shoulders hunched. Wearily, he pushed open the door, and the hinges squealed like nails on a chalkboard, the harsh noise scraping his soul.
Then at that moment, he heard a miracle that soothed the pain in his heart. Rose’s sweet, clear voice.
“I’m so glad you’re home!”
Slowly, he looked up.
Rose stood in front of the wide sunlit veranda overlooking the Pacific, looking fresh and pretty in a new sleeveless pink dress, her blond hair tumbling down her shoulders. He exhaled. Everything good in the world seemed wrapped up in her.
She saw his bleak expression and her turquoise eyes widened. She didn’t ask any questions. She just held out her arms.
Without a word, he went to her. He nearly choked out a sob when he felt her soft arms go around him, but he held it inside. A man didn’t cry. He’d learned that long ago. But there were other things a man could do.
He led her through the villa, with its soaring ceiling and colonial-style architecture. He turned on the shower, and the hot steam filled the room. Without a word, he turned to Rose and slowly unbuttoned her dress.
She did not resist. She stood before him, watching him with her heart on her expressive face. He pulled off her clothes, dropping her dress, her bra, her panties to the clay tile floor. He pulled off his own clothes. Taking her hand, he pulled her into the enormous shower.
The hot water burned him, washing off the dust and grime and sorrow. He looked down at Rose. Her petite, curvaceous body was naked, her lustrous skin pink with the heat of the steam. Tilting her head back with his hands, he washed her hair.
She submitted without a word, without complaint, without demands. Her silent sympathy healed his wounded soul as nothing else ever had. As nothing could.
Turning her around, he held her against the glass wall of the shower and lowered his mouth to hers in a hard, demanding kiss. When she returned his embrace, he did not wait. He lifted her legs around his waist. Without warning or permission, he took her as his own, thrusting inside her, holding her against the shower wall. He exploded as steam and hot water poured over them both.
Afterward, he took her to the bed and made love to her again, this tim
e with tenderness, bringing her to gasping fulfillment that made her weep tears of joy. Who was this woman? He thought as he held her to his chest. Who was this woman who could offer him her sympathy, her body, her heart—without making any demands of her own?
