Sweet Devil Read online

Silence settled into the room as he tried a few more maneuvers with his arm. Maneuvers that caused every muscle to dance.

  “You may sleep on the bed,” she said finally.

  He paused, fists still raised, brows cocked up.

  “But there will be no sex,” she demanded and, flipping up the coverlet, sidled onto her side of the mattress. “Or I will be forced to kill you.”

  Chapter 15

  Shep woke slowly. The first thing he noticed was the lack of pain an ease of motion. The second was the scent…an intriguing meld of mint and contentment. The third made him forget the other two entirely. It was the titillating feel of a woman’s hand upon his hip.

  He lay still, thoughts coalescing leisurely. As a Ranger—and a bachelor with a devout appreciation for women—he had awakened in hundreds of strange places. Some horrible, some interesting, some marvelous. He wouldn’t trade any of them for this one tantalizing moment.

  Carlotta Padilla-Osorio lay behind him, warm and soft, curled against his backside like a sleepy kitten. Of course, he very much doubted she was aware of their intimate positions. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the situation…and wonder how she planned to kill him if he made an unsolicited advance.

  He lay still, pondering that question until her hand moved, just a twitch of slim fingers at first, then a slow, sensuous slide forward. Tingling feelings scattered under her palm, ramping up his libido even before her fingers slipped softly down his belly toward his…

  He caught her wrist in a reluctant but steady grip. “Question for ya, darlin’,” he rumbled.

  He sensed her awakening, felt her stiffen, heard her soft inhale of surprise.

  “Ya still plannin’ to commit homicide in the event’a sex?”

  She snatched her hand away. His body moaned in response, making him wonder if perhaps one time with her might be worth a little thing like death.

  Shifting away slightly so as not to frighten her—after all, he was one hell of a man—he rolled over and steeled himself against the onslaught of her appeal. Well…those parts of his body that weren’t already hardened, steeled.

  In sleepy disarray, she was as shatteringly beautiful as he’d feared. Maybe more so. Her eyes, slanted in drowsy repose, hid a hundred sultry secrets, while her hair, that tousled, wild mane, looked as if it had been crafted by some mischievous deity. The God of Sex perhaps. Or the God of Temptation. But maybe they were one and the same.

  “Mornin’.” His voice sounded rusty and unused, hers atypically squeaky.

  “I’m…I just… I did not…” She cleared her throat, found her usual husky tone and continued. “Good morning.”

  He couldn’t stop the grin. “Ya sleep okay?”

  “Sí. Yes. It was good.”

  He nodded. “Me, too. That’s some impressive salve ya got.”

  She failed to meet his gaze.

  “Or maybe it’s the company.”

  “I should get—“ she began, but he placed a hand on her waist, stilled her. “Just a second, honey. Don’t go rushin’ off. We gotta plan.”

  “Plan?”

  Her disorientation thrilled him. He couldn’t help it. This woman, this intriguing paradox, sometimes so boldly confident, sometimes so cautiously shy, was flustered—by him. “Plan. Our day.” He eyed her askance. “Unless this whole shebang was just a complicated ruse to get me into bed.”

  She jerked back a few regrettable inches, eyes wide as duck eggs. “It was not!”

  “Your sister really is missin’, then?”

  A trace of outrage mixed with the embarrassment on her morning glory face. “Still you think I would lie of such a thing?”

  He didn’t know anymore. And that was scary enough, but far more frightening was the fact that he wasn’t entirely sure he cared.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  He watched her mesmerizing eyes, wary as a doe’s, crafty as a vixen’s. “I ain’t sure,” he admitted, though he told himself now was not the time for such rash honesty. This was the time to lie his ass off and maybe, if he were really lucky, get laid and manage a stay of execution. But sharing the truth was too seductive, almost more so than the enthralling feel of satin beneath his fingertips.

  “I think Santiago has a hold on ya,” he said quietly.

  “What does this mean? This hold?”

  Sadness swamped him as memories spilled in. Self-pity maybe. Abandonment. Like a kid who’d lost his best friend. And how damned sappy was that? “I thought, back in Colombia…I figured maybe you and me mighta had somethin’.”

  “Something what?” Her voice was still soft, but now it revealed a smidgeon of defensiveness. But was it mixed with a breath of hope? A whisper of regret?

  He wasn’t a clingy man. Just the opposite. He had no idea how to be loyal to another human being. Except his fellow Rangers. And his crotchety grandfather. His sainted mother. And Durrand, of course. But that dumbass needed a caregiver like a baby needed a blanky. “Somethin’ special,” he admitted reluctantly. “Between you and me.”

  “Why you think this?” She stared at him, transfixed, slim fingers frozen on the bed-sheet she’d tugged against her chest. “Never did I gave you reason to believe such things.”

  Perhaps it would have been wise to agree, to play along, but there was something about her that begged for honesty. That demanded it. “Didn’t you?” he asked.

  “No!” she said, but she could no longer hold his gaze.

  “So ya didn’t feel nothin’?” He let his hand stray a little, dragging his left ring finger up her bare arm to her elbow. She shivered at his touch.

  “I but felt what I would for any man who had been injured by my countrymen.”

  “Ragin’ desire?”

  “No!” She jerked her gaze back to his, blushing furiously.

  Despite the tornadic feelings that roiled in the pit of his stomach, he couldn’t help but smile. “Undeniable lust?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You tease,” she accused.

  Maybe. But maybe not entirely. Certainly, he’d hoped she’d felt something for him. Something besides the kind of maternal nonsense she seemed to be implying. “What’s Santiago to ya?”

  “I have told you before.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “He was a friend of my papa’s.”

  “Alright,” he said and waited for more.

  “The señor has been nothing but kind to me. To us,” she insisted, but her gaze had dropped away.

  “Not all’a us,” he reminded her.

  She was silent for a moment. “I am sorry you suffered at his hands. But he thought you to be the runner of the drugs.”

  Perhaps she believed her own words. But perhaps not…not entirely anyway.

  “Regardless what you think, Señor Tevio despises what the sale of the coca has done to our homeland.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Sí!” she said, but he wondered if she protested too loudly. She was no fool, of that he was certain, but what would she do to remain safe? To keep her sister safe? To keep Sofia fed and healthy and educated. That was the question that burned like an open flame.

  “I know what it’s like to be desperate,” he said.

  She snapped her gaze back to his. “What is it you mean by this?”

  “Desperate enough to sell your soul to the Devil.”

  “How you dare!” she snarled and raised her hand. He caught it without thinking, held it gently in his grip and eased his thumb, slow as sunrise, over the pad of her palm and along the delicate curve of her fingers.

  Her plump lips parted. Her eyes, those glorious windows to paradise, widened.

  “Did you—“ He knew he shouldn’t ask again, but the thought of her with Santiago still burned his mind. “Are ya sure ya didn’t allow him…privileges?” he asked and, drawing her hand close, kissed her fingertips.

  She shivered, weakened. It was slight, delicate as an orchid, but he felt it and reveled in the knowledge. “Please,”
he said and, releasing her hand, trailed the pads of his fingernails along her forearm to her elbow. Her lips parted slightly, showing pearlescent teeth. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Sí.” The single word was almost inaudible. “There were privileges.”

  Chapter 16

  Shep felt the truth of her words in his gut and wanted to curse, to strike out, to vomit. Instead, he remained as he was. “Did he force you?”

  “Force me!” She reared away. “No. He was…” She cleared her throat. “Always he was the gentle man.”

  “Always.” Honest to God, it would have been easier to hear that Santiago had been the monster Shep knew him to be, but he swallowed the implications of her words, let the truth roll over him. Let her talk. “When did it start?”

  “Short time after Papa’s death.”

  Good God! “How old were you?”

  “Little older than Sofia is now.”

  So young! Okay. True. He’d lost his virginity at the age of fifteen, but not to some old bastard who should die a hard death by a slow hand.

  “Just…” Her lips twitched. “Small things at the start. A potted esperanza. A basket of chirimayas. But the gifts, they became more expensive. And I took them even after…even after I knew of his wishes.”

  Shep steeled himself. “To sleep with ya.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. “To marry me.”

  He actually felt the blood drain from his face, but he calmed himself with an effort, inhaled slowly. “He wants to marry you?”

  “I told him no. I cannot. But he…” She shook her head, closed her eyes. “Long I have been ashamed.”

  Santiago was the one who should be ashamed. Who should be horse whipped. Hell! The bastard should be shot. “When was the last time?”

  She swallowed, winced. “Just the week past.”

  Oh God, he thought but kept his hand soft against her arm.

  “He brought a silken shawl, and I did not refuse it.”

  Seconds ticked away in silence, bearing a dozen questions. “Wait,” he said, cautious now, in case his foolish hopes were just that. “What’re we talkin’ ‘bout?”

  “The privileges!” she hissed. “All the gifts. I should not have accepted them. I know he yet hopes. Even though I told him no. I will not marry him, he yet hopes. And why should I not wish to marry such a —“

  “We’re talkin’ ‘bout gifts?” he rasped. “Flowers?” He snorted a laugh. “Fruit?”

  “There are other things.” She sounded oddly offended now. Strangely insulted. “Clothing. Shoes. This!” she said and gripped the large emerald that hung between her tantalizing breasts.

  It seemed weirdly sacrilegious that she wore another man’s jewel against the warm magic of her skin, but he shook his head, drove away the foolish thoughts. “Yer sayin’ ya took the things he bought ya.”

  “Sí.”

  He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “But ya didn’t sleep with him?”

  Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed. “Already I have told you that I did not.”

  “You just took some stuff he bought.”

  “It is not merely stuff. Do you not see? He has not given up the hope. This stuff he would give to the one he loves. To the one he would marry.”

  “But ya told him ya won’t.”

  “Sí. Yet he does not believe. He is the wealthy man. The powerful man. The good—“

  “Don’t say it,” he warned.

  She raised her chin. “To me, he has been good,” she said. “So why should I not wish to marry him?”

  Shep tried to relax, to understand the guilt infused in her tone. “You tell me.”

  Her eyes were soft now, her gaze warm on his face as she lifted her hand, slow as a languid dream to his chest. Flesh to flesh, his skin burned beneath her fingertips. “Is it wrong of me to wish for more?”

  “More?” he asked and held his breath, though he knew it was foolish.

  “I did not expect to find this.”

  Her touch enflamed him, but he remained still, caught in the depths of her devastating eyes. “What’re we talkin’ ‘bout here, Lotta?”

  “Kindness. From an Americano. From a man. With a face such as yours.”

  He wasn’t sure what to do with her words. With his feelings. So he went with his default. Humor. “This ol’ thing?”

  She exhaled a soft laugh. “It is a beautiful face,” she said and swept her fingertips, light as a whisper, down his cheek. “A delectable, battle-scarred, breath-stopping face. But this you know. This everyone knows.” She paused, watched him. And the world stopped. “It is the rest that others might miss.”

  “Yeah, the rest’a me is pretty damn hot, too.”

  “You make the joke,” she said and didn’t drop her gaze. “But I think you know of what I speak.”

  Honest to God, he didn’t have a clue.

  “It is the good in you that others may not see.”

  “Listen…” he said. “Let’s not get carried away here. Just ‘cause I’m helpin’ ya find your sister, don’t make me no saint. I mean…” He took her hand in his again. “Look at your own face. Ya ain’t exactly fish bait.”

  “So if I were homely, you would not make the offer.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just a guy.”

  She pulled from his grip, touched the scar on his biceps. It seemed to pulse against her palm. “This dog…she must have been muy attractive.”

  He grinned. “Eyes like an angel, remember? And a really great hair-coat.”

  “I think I have never before met a man such as you, Linus Shepherd.”

  He winced. “Listen, honey, nobody calls me Linus.”

  She raised her brows. “How is it they call you?”

  “Shep. Shepherd. Hey you.”

  She shook her head. “This Shep, it is something one would call a hound, no?”

  “I’ve heard worse.”

  “What of those who care for you?”

  Her fingers remained against his arm, burning a hole to his heart. He was having trouble thinking, and for a moment, speech was more than he could manage. But he shrugged, going for casual. His mother had called him Saddle Tramp, but he wasn’t pathetic enough to mention her or the fact that he yet carried a scrap of ribbon she’d worn in her sable hair.

  “What of your parents?” she asked as if she’d read his mind.

  He opened his mouth to lie, but she shushed him.

  “The truth,” she insisted.

  He exhaled, glanced toward the door. “They’ve been gone a long time.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hey, we’d better get goin’ if we’re gonna—“ he began and shifted to ease off the bed, but she tightened her grip.

  “Tell me.”

  He drew a hard breath. “I never met my old man. Guess he turned tail before I was born.”

  “You guess?”

  “Mama never talked about him much,” he said and thought back to her softness, her gentleness. “Never heard a bad word about him. Just said he was a good guy. A great man. And I was gonna be…” He paused, resisted clearing his throat. “Gonna be just as great.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Cancer,” he said and couldn’t quite manage to say more. God, he was a weenie.

  “I am sorry.”

  He would’ve liked to say it didn’t matter anymore. So long ago. So far away. But it would matter until the day he died. Until the end of forever. Nobody, no matter who they were, fully recovered from the loss of a good woman.

  “What did she call you?”

  “Besides the handsomest kid ever born?” He tried for a joke. It sounded weak, pathetic, maybe because it was so close to the truth.

  “Sí.” Her smile was heartbreakingly tender. “Besides that.”

  “Tramp. She called me Saddle Tramp.” He told himself to stop, but memories were bubbling up, roiling in. “I was always on a pony. Ropin’ everythin’. Tree limbs, chickens, Grandpa’s cows when I thought I could get away with
it.”

  “He did not want you roping?”

  “They were dairy cows. Said their milk would turn to butter before we could get it in a can if I didn’t quit rilin’ ‘em up. Said he’d tan my hide if it happened again.”

  “And your mother? She would let this happen?”

  “She was…” It was ridiculously difficult to finish the sentence. “She was…already gone by then.”

  “Oh.” The word was soft as a sigh, as kind as a prayer. “I am sorry.”

  He shook his head, trying to find that hard-ass side of himself he was sure he’d possessed just minutes before. “It’s no—“ he began, but she stopped him.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Do not act as if your heart is not yet broken.”

  “Listen, Lotta…she was a good gal. A great mama, but I’m a grown-ass man who—“

  “Still misses her with every breath.”

  He wanted to refute such a ridiculous sentiment, but he couldn’t.

  “You spoke to her.”

  “What?”

  “While you were in Señor Tevio’s clinic. In my care, you spoke to her in your…how you say, delirio?”

  Damn! Seriously? He’d talked to his mommy while unconscious? That was maybe the most pitiful thing he’d ever heard, but he went for the laugh again. “Yeah? She talk back?”

  Carlotta didn’t smile. Didn’t answer.

  “Or—“ he began, but she interrupted.

  “She would be proud of you.”

  His stomach heaved as if he’d been punched, and for a second, he couldn’t manage a simple denial, but finally, he shook his head. “You don’t know me, Lotta. What I’ve done. What I—“ he began, but she put a finger on his lips, stopping his words.

  “I know what you are.”

  He wouldn’t ask for clarifications. Wouldn’t beg for compliments. For assurance that his mother would be unashamed of the person he had become, but she spoke nevertheless.

  “A good man. A fine man,” she said and, leaning forward ever so slightly, kissed him.

  Fire struck his lips. Like a match on dry tinder, sending him reeling. Against his will, against his better judgment, he moved in.

  Her breath brushed his face. Her breasts touched his chest. Her caring bruised his heart.