Janette Kenny - Proud Revenge, Passionate Wedlock

Miguel had taken less than two steps into the beach house before the provocative scent that was uniquely Allegra’s teased his senses. His angry gaze scanned the sala and found her sitting on the sofa, head bowed.

This time seeing her wasn’t a trick of his imagination. This time the fragrance and the woman were real.

This time retribution was in his grasp.

Though he’d known she was finally coming back, his heart gave a sharp, painful kick that was at odds with his fury. She’d broken through his defenses and made him care. She’d won his trust and his heart and then made him regret it—in the worst possible way…

For as long as Janette Kennycan remember, plots and characters have taken up residence in her head. Her parents, both voracious readers, read her the classics when she was a child. That gave birth to a deep love for literature, and allowed her to travel to exotic locales—those found between the covers of books. Janette’s artist mother encouraged her yen to write. As an adolescent she began creating cartoons featuring her dad as the hero, with plots that focused on the misadventures on their family farm, and she stuffed them in the nightly newspaper for him to find. To her frustration, her sketches paled in comparison with her captions.

Her first real writing began with fan fiction, taking favourite TV shows and writing episodes and endings she loved—happily ever after, of course. In her junior year of high school she told her literature teacher she intended to write for a living one day. His advice? Pursue the dream, but don’t quit the day-job.

Though she dabbled with articles, she didn’t fully embrace her dream to write novels until years later, when she was a busy cosmetologist making a name for herself in her own salon. That was when she decided to write the type of stories she’d been reading—romances.

Once the writing bug bit, an incurable passion consumed her to create stories and people them. Still, it was seven more years and that many novels before she saw her first historical romance published. Now that she’s also writing contemporary romances for Mills & Boon, she finally knows that a full-time career in writing is closer to reality.

Janette shares her home and her free time with a chowshepherd mix pup she rescued from the pound, who aspires to be a lap dog. She invites you to visit her website at www.jankenny.com. She loves to hear from readers—e-mail her at janette@jankenny.com

BY

MILLS & BOON ®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ALLEGRA got a white-knuckled grip on the knob and forced her hand to open the door on the past she’d dreaded visiting again. Until one month ago, she’d remembered nothing of the previous five months.

Much of it was still shrouded in shadow. But the memories that were clear nearly killed her.

Her precious baby was dead. The husband she’d loved beyond words hadn’t inquired about her health since the accident.

It was as if she’d died that day. God knows she’d wished she had after she’d realized she was to blame for the accident.

“Miguel doesn’t deserve you,” her uncle had told her more times than she could recall. “Divorce him.”

The thought of dissolving her marriage sickened her, but she couldn’t move forward with her life if she was bound in an estranged marriage. No, she needed closure.

She had to come to grips with her daughter’s death. She had to sever all ties to the life that had held such promise in Cancún. And she had to do it here where it had begun.

Allegra drew in a shaky breath and stepped into the beach house where her love with Miguel had begun. She’d steeled herself to be greeted with an onslaught of cherished and troubled memories, but she was totally unprepared to cope with this soft whispering sense that she’d just come home after a long, arduous journey.

The rightness of being here played over and over in her mind as she stood on the threshold a moment and tried to slow her racing heart. It was useless, for her nerves were tied in tight apprehensive knots.

Run, her mind screamed. Run back to England and the promise of a safe, quiet life there. Run away from the tempting vibrancy that made her feel alive for the first time in months.

Determined to face the past head-on, she walked into the sala as she had countless times before. The spun-gold sunlight that streamed through the bank of windows to dance over the pasta tiles seemed far too welcoming for a place that should still be deep in mourning.

She’d notified the housekeeper of her return, and that kind woman must have hurried to tidy the place. She’d even left the windows open to air the house out.

It looked as if Allegra had stepped out for a day of shopping and had just returned. If only that were true—

“Señora, where would you like me to place your luggage?” her driver asked her.

“In the upstairs bedroom facing the sea, please.”

Allegra was unwilling to step foot in the master bedroom this soon. Besides sleep had been a stranger to her of late. And the memories made in that room were better left undisturbed.

As if she could ever forget Miguel.

The driver toted her bags upstairs and was back in a heartbeat, hand extended. Allegra paid him for the fare from the airport, plus a generous tip.

“Gracias, señora,” he said, smiling broadly in a gracious manner she’d once taken for granted.

She’d taken so much for granted. What was it they said? You never appreciated what you had until it was gone?

The heavy ache of loss washed over her like the incoming tide, threatening to erode her moorings. The doctor’s warning that she wasn’t strong enough to go through with this rocked her shaky confidence.

She hated the uncertainty. Hated the black void still there in her memory.

Allegra swallowed the impulsive request that the departing driver return her to the airport. She closed and locked the door, then pressed her forehead against the cool wood until her breathing steadied. Leaving would solve nothing.

Closure. She had to shut the door on the past and walk away a new woman.

She had to find peace of mind. She could think of no better place than her beach house.

Allegra turned toward the shady palapa where she’d relished taking her afternoon tea and drank in the tranquil sights that she’d fallen in love with when she came here two years ago. Gentle steps led down to the expanse of white sand that would be warm underfoot.

If she closed her eyes she could see herself the day she moved into this house. She’d hurried into her bikini and dashed down to the private beach. The water was warm and clear, and the gentle breeze was a sensuous massage on her skin.

England had been a world away, and she’d promised herself she’d partake of every delight the Yucatán had to offer while she made the biggest decision of her life—should she marry the very proper English doctor that she’d dated for over one year?

She liked him. She loved him in a way. But she wasn’t sure of making that final commitment.

That was when Miguel had risen out of the surf like a pagan god, his bronzed body long and lean, his smile slow and sensuous, his eyes promising her pleasures she’d barely tasted.

She shook her head and smiled at that memory. She’d been sure Miguel was a beach bum. How wrong she’d been.

Even after all that had gone wrong, she remembered well how he’d wrap his arms and legs around her, holding her so close after they made love that she believed they were one. She’d been helplessly naive. Hopelessly in love.

She’d known whatever happened here, she’d never be able to marry her doctor.

Then too soon the hot Latin lover who’d swept her off her feet on the beach and caught her up in his privileged world suddenly became too busy building an empire to spend more than stolen moments with his wife and newborn child.

She’d made excuses for him that he needed time away from a fussy infant and frazzled wife. She’d waited for her lover, her husband, her hero.

But he never came.

The sun slanted just so through the windows to catch the gilded edge of a lone picture frame on the far étagère. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move.

She crossed to the étagère on legs that trembled. Her hands shook as she reached for the picture, her grip too tight, her heart beating too fast. Her precious baby, her Cristobel.

She’d never wanted anything as much as she’d wanted this beautiful child conceived in love. A gift from God, Miguel had said, and she’d agreed.

Her trembling finger traced the plump cheek of the life she and Miguel created when their love was new and unencumbered. How could she have been so careless with this child?

She gathered the picture to her heart and squeezed her eyes shut, but her daughter’s smile filled her mind’s eye and her gurgling laugh replaced the quiet that crashed in the room like an angry sea. One racking sob escaped her, then another.

Her fault, her conscience needled her as she crossed to the sofa with the photo digging into her flesh and tears blinding her to cruel reality. Her fault.

Miguel took less than two steps into the beach house before the provocative scent that was uniquely Allegra’s teased his senses. His angry gaze scanned the sala and found her sitting on the sofa, head bowed.

This time seeing her wasn’t a trick of his imagination. This time the fragrance and the woman were real.

This time retribution was in his grasp.

Though he’d known she was finally coming back, his heart gave a sharp, painful kick that was at odds with his fury. It had been that way from the moment he’d first met her, standing like an ethereal angel at the edge of the sea, her skin white as cream and just as soft.

She’d broken through his defenses and took command of his waking and sleeping thoughts. For the first time in his life he’d nearly lost control of his emotions but that was never to be. Instead he had shown his feelings by keeping her safe—hiring a personal guard to protect her from danger when he wasn’t there to protect her himself.

He stepped back from the sensual vortex that sucked him closer and closer to her. And just when he’d feared he’d judged her wrong, she’d proved she was a scheming vixen.

His fingers dug into the thirsty towel he’d draped around his neck as he crossed the cool tile floor to her. The sand he tracked in crunched underfoot, but she didn’t seem to notice.

She slept soundly, as if she didn’t have a care or was exhausted. He suspected the latter when he drew near.

The fading light played over her porcelain features and frail form. His brows slammed together and unease bubbled in his gut, for she was far too pale and far too thin—her simple blouse and slacks hung on her.

The worry she spurred in him infuriated him, for she deserved his fiery wrath, not his concern. He had every reason to hate her. He did hate her!

He despised that she could slumber when sleep had been a stranger to him for six long months.

Yet looking at her roused those tender emotions as well as the memories that never died. He’d seen her a thousand times in his dreams: laughing, flirtatious, sensuous. He’d seen her happy, angry and sad.

But he’d never seen her like this.