Jacintha Point Page 8

  His hand shot out to grasp her wrist as she swept by him. 'You must know that I will do all in my power to help your father. Do you doubt that I will keep my word?'

  Seeing a way out of her immediate difficulty, Laurel tugged her arm from his grip and went to the dressing table. To his reflection in the mirror, she said: 'I could believe it more easily if you guaranteed that our marriage would not be consummated until my father is free.'

  From the quick rearing back of his head she knew that the proposal was a useless one.

  'It could be weeks, months, before that happens. You think I am made of stone, to lie beside the wife I want and not be able to touch her?' His jaw hardened. 'No, mi esposa, that is not possible for me—or for you,' he stressed, and Laurel blinked, knowing he was justified

  in saying those words on the strength of her display a few minutes ago.

  How could she have been so foolish as to respond so uninhibitedly to the touch of his mouth on an area designed by nature to be sensitive to a man's erotic stimulation? And that was all it had been, she told herself fiercely, a natural reaction of a normal woman to an attractive man—but how could she convince Diego of that? Her mouth tightened fractionally as she turned to face him.

  'That's a problem that doesn't arise if we're not sharing the same bed,' she stated flatly, her composure faltering when his eyes narrowed to glittering slits and his hand possessed her wrist in a cruel grip. When he spoke, it was with the softness of a forced calm.

  'Make no mistake, Laurel. Before this night is over you will belong to me as a wife belongs to her husband, willingly or not.' The hurtful grasp loosened and he let her hand fall as he turned to the door. 'I will wait for you to join me in the sala.'

  A slow anger began to burn inside Laurel as she watched his lithe figure disappear through the door, which he closed confidently behind him. What kind of man would want a woman who so obviously didn't want him? Maybe he was the kind who got his kicks from overcoming any and all resistance to his lovemaking.

  If so, she decided determinedly, undoing the belt of her robe and letting it slide from her shoulders to the floor, he was due for a disappointment this time. She would be as inert day under his hands, offering no resistance but giving him no encouragement either.

  Taking her under circumstances like that would be an affront to his Latin sense of machismo.

  The decision made, Laurel felt lighter in spirit than she had since the solemn wedding service that morning as she made her way to the small sala.

  Diego, standing with his back to her at the windows where the darkness of night pressed against the panes, saw her reflection there and turned, his breath drawing in audibly as his gaze went over the virginal white of her dress, the one he had chosen for her to wear for their wedding supper. The line was long and figure-defining, exposing the rounded tops of her breasts. and as Diego's hot gaze lingered there she wished passionately that she had not automatically succumbed to the habit of wearing whichever dress she was assigned to model. Savagely she wished, as he came quickly to lift her hand and press his lips to her palm, that she had worn her oldest jeans and sweat-shirt.

  'You need no jewels to add to your beauty, cariña,' he murmured, the smooth olive line of his jaw hardening when she snatched her hand away.

  Immediately she regretted the impulsive action, berating herself inwardly for destroying her plan of campaign right at the start.

  'May I have something to drink?' she asked, seating herself in a corner of one of the deep cushioned sofas, and Diego crossed to a trolley set with an array of bottles. Without asking her preference, he poured a Martini and handed it to her silently before turning back to replenish the drink he had been holding when she came into the room.

  There was a faintly mocking air in his solemnly spoken toast: 'To our long and happy marriage, my

  beautiful bride.' Ignoring her refusal to join him in the toast, he tossed off the measure of whisky he had poured and refilled his glass before sitting in the armchair he had occupied that afternoon. Laurel was relieved to see that this was evidently a drink he intended to nurture, for he laid it carelessly on the small side table by his chair.

  'I assure you, querida,' he said drily, indicating her untouched drink with a casual hand, 'that I have not laced your Martini with some drug designed to overcome your maidenly sensitivities. I have never found it necessary to coerce a woman by those means.'

  Was there a slight complacency in his veiled expression? Laurel didn't wonder that the women in his life had been many, and she could well imagine that the sexuality exuding from his every pore, not to mention his undoubted wealth and position, was sufficient to make them come running at the flick of his long, sensitive fingers. If he hadn't forced her into this marriage, she might have found him irresistible to all that was female in her nature. As it was....

  She lifted the Martini and gulped it convulsively, almost choking on its strength. Diego had said that he had used no drugs, but strong liquor was equally effective as a releaser of inhibitions. And for that reason, she must be on her guard with the amount of drink she drank that evening.

  'How—how soon will these people you've contacted be able to get things going on my father's case?' she asked jerkily. His frown was immediate.

  'I have not yet approached them on that subject,' he said coolly.

  'Not—?' Laurel stared at him aghast. 'But you promised....'

  His dark head nodded in a complacent way that irritated her beyond measure. 'I promised to speak to them about your father, but my wedding day was hardly the appropriate time. In a week or two—'

  'A week or two!' she repeated explosively. 'You expect my father to—to vegetate in your lousy jail while you take your own sweet time about getting him released?'

  'Your father will be well taken care of,' Diego returned urbanely, picking up his glass and gazing at its contents speculatively. 'At this moment he is probably sipping on a good wine and enjoying a well cooked meal.' He gave her a sidelong glance. 'He will have all his comforts—including pleasurable company if he so desires it.'

  Laurel stared at him blankly, then an awkward flush spread upward over her cheeks. 'How dare you suggest that my father would—would-----'

  `He is a man like any other,' Diego stated unequivocally, looking up when a tap sounded at the door and Juanita entered, her manner flustered.

  In Spanish, she apologised for the lateness of the meal, but Diego waved her agitation aside. 'It is of no matter, Juanita. The Senora has not yet finished her drink.'

  `Gracias, senor. The meal awaits your pleasure.' Diego rose lightly to his feet as the door closed behind the housekeeper, his gaze bent significantly on

  Laurel's half-filled glass.

  'If you will finish your drink, querida, we will go to the dining room. Juanita has spent many hours preparing our wedding dinner, and I would not want her to be disappointed by our tardiness.'

  'Heaven forbid that Juanita should be upset in any

  way,' Laurel retorted acidly, swallowing the remainder of the Martini before getting up and stepping quickly to the door. How ironic that Diego should display such consideration for his servants, yet none at all as far as her own wishes were concerned! His hand on her arm halted her precipitate flight from the sala.

  'Please, Laurel,' he said quietly, yet she felt the hidden steel in his touch, 'do not in any way let Juanita think our marriage is not one of mutual love. She has waited many years for this day, and

  'Bully for Juanita,' Laurel returned rudely, shaking free of his grasp. 'Maybe she should be the one forced to share your bed and board! ' Her haughty onward march was brought to a sudden halt in the centre of the polished tile hall, her memory blank as to where the dining room lay.

  Tight-lipped, Diego came to take her arm and lead her to the far side beyond the sitting room, where a white door opened to an informal dining room, small in comparison with the grandness of its Mexico City counterpart. Buffets and shelves of hand-polished rosewood lined th
ree of the walls, the fourth being given over to wide windows which must overlook the cliffs and sea during the day.

  The rectangular table had been laid for two in intimate proximity at one end of the polished wood, and the flickering light of candles was reflected on its surface.

  What a waste, Laurel pondered, accepting Diego's help in seating her. The setting, from the candles to the floating bracts of poinsettias in a delicately curved glass bowl, breathed of a romance most girls only dreamed of. The man who took his place at the head of the table to her left was also the materialisation of a

  dream. The proud arrogance of his Spanish facial features was offset by the white of his dinner jacket, the deceptive smoothness of well-knit shoulders, the tapering waist and narrow hips of his ancestry were emphatically attractive. Why, then, when he must be the epitome of male desirability to so many women, did he have to pick on her for a forced marriage?

  Juanita entered beaming with the first course, a thick puree of black beans seasoned with aromatic herbs and sprinkled with cheese. Laurel enjoyed the soup's tangy flavour, but scarcely tasted the tiny game hens stuffed with a seasoned wild rice mixture that followed. Diego's every glance, every gesture in her direction, spoke eloquently of his intentions when they were alone later in the matrimonial chamber. Carelessly, she imbibed more of the fine imported French wine than she had intended to.

  Just as she lifted her spoon to sample the tastefully arranged dish of fresh fruits from papaya to delicate green grapes, Diego suddenly queried:

  'How long were you engaged to this man in Los Angeles?'

  'Brent?' Laurel stared at him. It was the first time he had broached the subject of her engagement without first having noted a certain preoccupation in her green eyes.

  Lifting his glass and drinking deeply of the mellowed wine, he said drily: 'How many others have you promised yourself to, mi esposa?'

  'Only Brent,' she returned steadily, her spoon held in abeyance. 'He was the first man I met after leaving the convent—or I should say the first man who had ever taken an interest in me as a woman. The other girls used to talk about their boy-friends, the ones they

  met on vacation. But I—I spent all the holidays with Dad on the boat. I didn't need anyone else.'

  Diego refilled her glass in one smooth motion. 'Until this Brent came into your life.'

  'Yes. He was all that my friends at school had raved about in their boy-friends.' Sensing the jealous tensing of his muscles, she pressed on relentlessly: 'In fact, more so. He's exceptionally good-looking, charming, and popular. Quite a few of the girls I knew envied me when he asked me to marry him.'

  Her words ended on a choked note, but strangely it wasn't the thought of now being married to a man far removed from Brent's perfection as a partner. Memory rushed back to overwhelm her, the memory of just why she had accepted Brent's proposal.

  They had come back early from a weekend spent at his parents' home in the San Fernando Valley, a weekend when Brent had increased his pressure on her to marry him. Laurel knew that his parents liked her, would be happy with the idea, but still she had held back. Part of her hesitation had been due to the unfulfilled dream of becoming a companion of the sea to her father, partly because of her indecision about a lifelong commitment to Brent. He had all the attributes her friends had described as essential, but his lovemaking had always left her vaguely dissatisfied. She had longed for him to just once forget that she had been educated in the chaste confines of a convent, to lose his head and make love to her as passionately as Diego—

  What had made up her mind on that Sunday afternoon was the sight of her father's brawny arms wrapped round a buxom brunette, kissing her openly on the deck of Dainty before releasing her to disembark

  and walk along the wooden pier to where Laurel and Brent were approaching. Impulsively, Laurel had turned to Brent and suggested they go to the marina restaurant for coffee.

  She hadn't wanted to meet the woman who had probably spent the weekend with her father. Her mind was a maelstrom of disordered thoughts as she waited for Brent to bring the strongly brewed coffee from the serving counter. Had she been selfish in her dreams of being the only woman in Dan Trent's life? His liaisons with other women would be difficult, if not impossible, with a permanent live-aboard daughter on Dainty.

  If Brent was surprised by her sudden decision to accept his proposal he hid it well with his usual stoically accepting air. Brilliant academically, with him personal relationships were something that worked out or they didn't. In the same way that he had accepted her change of mind, he had been content to wait for physical fulfilment until their marriage when he was established.

  Now, looking at Diego's warm eyes and sensually triggered body, Laurel knew that he would never have accepted such an arrangement ... or that he would accept anything less than full consummation on his marriage night.

  `Now one of the women who envied you your fortune,' he said harshly, reverting to their conversation, 'will be made delirious with joy at having your Cast-off lukewarm lover.'

  Laurel drew a sharp breath and dropped her eyes to the colourful fruit plate before her. The thought of Brent with some other, girl hadn't entered her mind until now, when Diego had savagely inserted it there.

  She put down her spoon and rose abruptly from the table.

  'I'm tired, I want to go to be—to my room,' she amended hastily, almost bumping into Juanita who was at that moment crossing the room with a set coffee tray.

  Diego was at her back immediately, his voice smooth as he told the startled housekeeper: 'The Señora is weary after the long day, Juanita. We will not require coffee.'

  The dark face broke into a knowing smile. 'Si, señor. Buenas noches,' she called to their retreating backs. 'I wish you much happiness this night.'

  Laurel's fast pace went unchecked at these last words. Wherever else Diego Cesar Ramirez found his happiness this night, it wouldn't be with her!

  Determinedly, she tried to close the bedroom door in his face; equally determined, he pushed it open without effort and clicked it shut with his heel.

  Crossing to the elaborate dressing table, Laurel drew off her silver earrings and tossed them to its surface. 'There must be many bedrooms you can choose from in a house this size,' she bit off sharply.

  'There are many,' he agreed quietly, his eyes sombre, 'but I have chosen to share this one with my wife.'

  'I'm not your wife,' she snapped; kicking off her sandals and immediately regretting it when she turned to face him and found herself at a height disadvantage.

  An olive hand reached out and lifted her ring hand. Reflecting accusingly up at her furious gaze was the deeply glowing emerald with its surrounding sparkle of diamonds, the duller gleam of gold from the wedding band he had placed on her finger that morning.

  Snatching her hand away, she said fiercely: 'It's a

  farce, and you know it. How can you expect me to be affectionate towards a man I hardly know, let alone !-love?'

  Fire leaped in his eyes as he stepped closer so that their bodies almost touched. 'A good husband teaches his wife to love him in the ways that please him, querida,' he murmured caressingly, his hands half lifting to touch her before falling back to his sides when she spun on her heel away from him.

  'You sound like something out of a Victorian melodrama, señor,' she threw over her shoulder. 'I may have been brought up in a convent, but I've lived all my life in a country where women have chosen independence from your kind of male chauvinism! '

  'So! You prefer the lukewarm blood of the man I have rescued you from? We shall see, chiquita, we shall see.' Diego, a white line running from nose to mouth, went to the outer door and turned there to add menacingly: 'Be ready to receive me in ten minutes. I will wait no longer.'

  Laurel stared at the door after he had gone, her brain dully registering that there must be another bedroom in the master suite if he had gone there to change. That thought was sufficient to propel her on suddenly flying feet to the big do
uble doors. If she could lock him out, he would not risk the noise of forcible entry with Juanita no doubt still in the house clearing away their supper things.

  A half sob caught in her throat when she felt for a key and found nothing but the gaping hole where one should be. Dropping to one knee, she peered through the massive keyhole and found no obstruction to her view of the outer hall. For a moment she leaned her forehead against the cool white wood of the door, then,

  her lips tightening resolutely, got to her feet and walked to the closet, unzipping her dress as she went, sure of only one thing when she reached for her silk dressing gown. Diego might possess her that night, but he would be taking her without enjoyment.

  Unmindful of Diego's time stipulation, Laurel closed the bathroom door behind her and went about the ordinary tasks of cleaning her face of make-up and brushing her teeth. Without the cosmetic film her skin looted translucent, clear yet with an overlay of honey gold bestowed on her by the hot Mexican sun. In the direct lighting surrounding the sink area, her hair, falling to her shoulders, held a silken silver band round her head where it caught the light.

  Her eyes, enormous in the beautiful bone structure of her face, reflected the deadened state of her senses. This night, her wedding night, was one she had looked forward to from girlhood with varying emotions. Most of her dreams, the romantic ones, had conjured up a faceless young husband, one who loved her so much that she would bestow her favours upon him benignly, in return expecting and receiving his undying adoration.

  In her convent-induced innocence, she had not even considered in any depth the nature of the favours she would bestow. Her faceless lover would have all the gallantry of a Sir Galahad, the sensitivity of the romantic poets whose works she had devoured, the manliness of the knights who jousted for their lady's favour.