Daphne Clair - Salzano's Captive Bride

Why be afraid of a man she’d happily allowed to take her to an unknown destination in a foreign city to have sex when they’d only met a couple of hours before? And why deny she’d sent that letter? Any logical reason eluded him.

Unless the story had been a lie. His fists clenched and he stopped pacing to stare moodily at the harbour, now calming into a tranquil satin expanse at odds with his chaotic thoughts. If this whole thing was a fabrication, he’d wasted his time making a long, time-consuming journey at great inconvenience to himself, his business and his family.

And the woman he’d done it for deserved no respect and no consideration.

Her apartment was old and the rooms cramped, her furnishings simple, but he’d seen no sign of true poverty. He wondered if New Zealanders knew the meaning of the word.

No one was dressed in rags, and although occasional buskers performed, and a few street sellers displayed cheap jewellery or carvings, no whining beggars or persistent thin-faced children had accosted him.

Again he consulted his watch, seemingly for the hundredth time in the last hour, then left his room and took the elevator to the main entrance, where the doorman hailed him a taxi.

A couple of minutes before eight Amber’s doorbell rang in the same imperious way it had the previous night.

All day her nerves had been strung to screaming point.

She loved her job as a researcher for a film and TV production company and usually gave it her all, but today her mind had kept straying to an exotic-looking, disturbing and driven male who would be on her doorstep again that night. During a team meeting she’d realised she hadn’t heard a word for the past five or ten minutes, and the end of her ballpoint pen showed teeth marks where she’d been absently chewing on it.

And Azzie had been totally immovable about joining her tonight, leaving Amber to deal with the formidable Venezuelan on her own.

At the sound of the doorbell, she finished tying the white-and-green wraparound skirt that she’d teamed with a sleeveless white lawn top fastened with tiny pearl buttons. She slipped her feet into wedge-heeled casual shoes that gave her a few extra inches, and hastily pinned her hair into a knot while walking to the door.

The man who stood there was as striking as she remembered, but now he wore dark trousers, a cream shirt open at the collar, and a light, flecked cream jacket. The barely contained fury of last night had abated. He looked rigidly contained and rather chilly when she stepped back and said, “Come in, señor .”

His black brows lifted a fraction as he stepped into the hallway. “So formal,” he said, “after having my baby?”

Amber bit her lip. “We…we can’t talk here.” She gestured towards the living room and he nodded, then placed a hand lightly on her waist, guiding her into the room ahead of him. A startling quiver of sexual awareness made her move quickly away from him to one of the armchairs, but she remained standing. Trying to match his self-possession, she offered, “Can I get you a coffee or something?”

“I did not come here for coffee. Please sit down.”

Not expressing her resentment at being told to sit down in her own living room, she perched on the edge of one of the armchairs and waited while he took the opposite one.

Figuring that getting in first was the best plan of attack, Amber broke into speech. “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing, but that letter was a mistake. I—”

“So you admit writing it?”

“It should never have been sent,” she said, choosing her words as if picking her way through a minefield. “I’m sorry if it misled you.”

His lips tightened, and for a moment she thought she saw disappointment in his eyes. “Misled me?” he said, and now she could see nothing in the dark depths but condemnation.

Her fingers clasped tightly together against a childish urge to cross them behind her back, she said, “The letter didn’t say the baby was yours. Did it?” she added, trying to sound authoritative.

“The implication—” he started to say before she hurried on.

“I’m sorry if it wasn’t clear, but it was written in haste and…and a silly panic. You had said in Caracas—” she paused to ensure she was quoting exactly “—‘If you have any problem, contact me.’” Despite herself she felt her cheeks growing hot. Would he recall exactly how he had couched the offer?

A flash of incredulity crossed his controlled features.

Amber ploughed ahead. “The letter was just a stupid impulse. It wasn’t necessary for you to come all this way. That was quite—” disastrous “—unexpected. So you can go home and forget about it. I’m sorry,” she repeated under his hostile stare.

He stood up so suddenly she jumped, and stiffened her spine to stop herself shrinking from him.

Even though he didn’t come nearer, his stance and the renewed anger in his blazing eyes, the stern line of his mouth, made her heart do a somersault. “Go?” he said. “Just so?” He snapped his fingers and again Amber flinched.

“I know you’ve come a long way,” she said placatingly, “and I’m really sor—”

“Do not tell me again that you are sorry! ” he snarled. “You claimed to have given birth to a baby boy nine months after we…met in Caracas. What was I supposed to think? And what did you think? That I’m the kind of man who would pay off the mother of my child and then wash my hands of them both?”

Amber swallowed hard. “I don’t know what kind of man you are,” she admitted. “Except that you’re…” wealthy, aristocratic, and apparently some kind of power in his own country. Besides having a temper.

“That I have money?” he finished for her scornfully. “And you thought you could milk me of some of that money without giving anything in return. Was that why this letter promised never to bother me again?”

“It wasn’t like that!”

He surged forward, gripping the arms of her chair, and now she instinctively drew back. “If there ever was such a child,” he said, not loudly but in an implacable voice that sent a shiver down her spine, “where is he?”

Unable to meet his accusing eyes, she stared down at her entwined hands. “As I said last night, I’ve never had a baby.” Despite doing what she’d been convinced was the right thing, she had a ghastly sense of wrongness.

“You wrote that you had debts you were unable to pay, that you were on the point of losing your home. It seemed my son was being thrown onto the street.”

“Um,” she muttered. “It wasn’t as bad as that, exactly. Things are improving now.”

“How? You found some other poor fool to fall for your tricks?” He lifted one hand from the chair arm, only to grasp her chin and make her look up at him.

“No!” she said. “Nothing of the sort.”

His eyes, filled with accusation, were inches away. “The problem with liars,” he said, “is that one never knows when they are telling the truth.”

She forced herself to look straight into those dark eyes. “I did not have your baby. And I’m not lying.” I’m not , she assured herself. “You saw last night there’s no baby here.”

He scrutinised her for what seemed like minutes. Then abruptly he released her chin and straightened, stepping back but still watching her with patent mistrust. “Are you a gambler?” he asked.

“What?” She didn’t understand the switch of subject.

“Was that why you needed money?”

She shook her head. “It isn’t important now.”

“You have put me to a great deal of trouble and some expense. I think I have a right to ask why.”

“I’m sor—” He lifted a warning hand and she stopped the apology leaving her tongue. She said instead, “If you want your airfare reimbursed…” It seemed only fair to offer.

The twist of his lips was hardly a smile, although he seemed to derive some kind of sardonic amusement from her reply. He made a dismissive gesture. “That is not necessary, even if it is possible.”

She had been rash to suggest it. He’d probably travelled first class, and after paying off the student loan that had got her through university with degrees in history and media studies, and finally being able to afford her own place instead of grungy shared digs, her savings were on the lean side of modest. As for Azzie—no use even thinking about it.

Growing bolder, she stood up, still finding him much too close. Her knees were watery. “Thank you. I think you’d better go now. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

“You mean there is nothing more you wish to tell me.”

Amber shrugged. What else could she say without arousing further suspicion? And she needed him to leave. Marco Salzano’s presence was unnerving in more than one way. While his scorn and disbelief were intimidating, he was a powerfully attractive man, and her female hormones ran riot every time he came near. She was beginning to have a new understanding of what had taken place in Venezuela.

Marco turned and took a couple of steps away from her. She inwardly sighed in relief, but then he stopped and faced her again. His gaze sharpened and he tilted his head. “Why,” he said slowly, “have I a…a sense that you are hiding something? Perhaps something I should know?”

Her mouth dried and she said in a near-whisper, “There is no reason to involve you in my troubles.”

As if on impulse he plunged a hand into an inside pocket of his jacket, took out a leather wallet and pulled a bundle of notes from it.

They were New Zealand notes. Reddish, hundred-dollar ones. Amounting to more money than Amber had ever seen anyone handle so casually.

“Take it,” he said, holding the cash out to her, his expression unreadable. “Let us say for remembrance of a pleasurable encounter.”

Amber recoiled. “I can’t take your money!”

A gleam of surprised speculation lit his eyes and she knew she’d made a mistake. “But that is exactly why I am here,” he said softly, “is it not?”

“I told you, everything’s all right now.” She fervently hoped so. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her mouth set in stubborn refusal.

He studied her as if she were a puzzle he had trouble figuring out, even while he tucked the notes back into the wallet and returned it to his pocket. Unnerved by the scrutiny, Amber lifted a hand to brush back a wayward strand of hair that was tickling the corner of her mouth.

His eyes tracked the movement, and when she made to lower her hand he suddenly covered the space between them in a stride, catching her forearm near the elbow so that it remained raised while he inspected the inside of her upper arm. Following his gaze, she saw a thumb-shaped bruise marring the tender skin.

Her cheeks warmed and she tried to pull away, but he retained his firm though careful hold. She saw him take a breath, and his mouth compressed. She guessed he was keeping back some vivid language.

In a low voice she’d not heard from him before, he said, “Is that my mark?” He was still looking at the bruise, as if unwilling to meet her eyes. The moment lengthened unbearably. She could smell again that subtle leather-and-grass aroma, mingled with a combination of male skin scent and freshly laundered clothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

Totally unexpectedly the dark head bent and she felt his lips touch the blue mark.

She almost choked on an indrawn breath, biting her lip fiercely to stop an involuntary sound escaping from her throat, where her heart seemed to have lodged.