Jane Porter - Lazaro's Revenge

“Lazaro Herrera.”

The name rolled off his tongue: fluid, complex, sensual. The r’s trilled, the z was accented, the vowels so rich and smoky they could have been aged whiskey. Lazaro Herrera.

It was a name that fit him, a name that echoed with strength and muscle and power.

“I think I’ll take that drink,” she whispered.

His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the glass. “Sip it. Slowly.”

His skin was warm, yet his touch scalded her. She nearly dropped the glass. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged, a vague shift of his massive shoulders. “I have reasons.”

“But what did I do? You don’t even know me.”

“This isn’t about you.”

“Then what is it about?” Her voice had risen.

“Revenge.”

by

Jane Porter

In Dante’s Debt #2298

Lazaro’s Revenge #2304

Coming soon from Harlequin Presents ®.

Lucio’s story #2358

The Galváns are proud Argentinean aristocrats,

in need of husbands and wives….

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

“I DON’T kidnap women,” Lazaro Herrera retorted grimly, his back to the plate-glass window overlooking Buenos Aires’s fashionable Avenida Sante Fe boulevard. “I might have a reputation for being ruthless, but that’s business, not personal.”

“Sometimes I’m not sure if it isn’t personal,” Dante Galván answered, almost as an aside.

Lazaro turned sharply to face the man who headed Galván Enterprises, and the only man Lazaro answered to. Dante might be chief executive officer but as president, Lazaro was the acting manager. “Even I have scruples, and I draw the line at kidnapping.”

“You’re misinterpreting me. I never said kidnap. Zoe is my wife’s younger sister. She’s just twenty-two. All I want to do is to protect her.”

Lazaro’s gaze narrowed speculatively. “Protect Daisy, you mean.” Dante didn’t say anything and Lazaro’s mouth twisted grimly. “Neither you nor Daisy like this American, Carter Scott—”

“For good reasons, mind you.”

“So what you’re really doing is shielding Daisy from unpleasant news.”

Dante didn’t immediately answer. His mouth pressed tight, his features pinched. Dark purple shadows formed crescents beneath his amber eyes. “Daisy can’t lose this baby. She can’t handle this right now, can’t handle more bad news, and I’ll be damned if I let her suffer through another miscarriage.”

Pain throbbed in Dante’s voice, pain and anger and helplessness. Lazaro knew about Daisy’s two previous miscarriages. The second one occurred last year, and fairly late in the pregnancy. Daisy had been devastated by the loss and Dante had taken six weeks off from work to be with Daisy as she convalesced at the estancia. It was then Lazaro had completely taken over management of the corporation.

Unfortunately, Dante didn’t know he was playing straight into Lazaro’s hands. Dante didn’t know that every move he made, every bit of power he relinquished, only strengthened Lazaro’s position, and weakened his own.

“I’m lucky to have you,” Dante said quietly. “If it weren’t for you, we’d all be in trouble.”

Lazaro tensed, his conscience pricked by Dante’s earnest gratitude. He hated the tug of contradictory emotions within him and turned to face the window where Buenos Aires’s skyline sparkled in the sunshine.

For the first time in a long time, he despised what he’d started here, with the Galváns.

He despised the secrets he kept buried in his heart, despised the thing that drove him to destroy Dante and the Galváns, but it was too late to change the course now.

Yet even as he stood at the window, weighted by memories of a dark past, he felt Dante’s worry for Daisy, felt Dante’s own burden, and longed to warn Dante to be careful. Don’t trust me. Don’t feel safe with me. Don’t let me close to your family.

But Lazaro didn’t speak. He stifled the guilt and sense of obligation, telling himself that Dante’s problems weren’t his problems. Dante’s pain wasn’t his pain. Dante’s loss wasn’t his loss.

Lazaro drew a deep breath, hardened his emotions, and reminded himself that this wasn’t a simple feud. It was revenge. More than revenge.

It was about one’s soul.

His mother’s.

Ice sheeting his heart, Lazaro turned from the city glittering with sunshine to face his secret arch rival. “What’s the plan?”

“BE quiet, do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.”

She’d been kidnapped—abducted in the middle of the day from Ezeiza International Airport in Buenos Aires in full view of airport security.

Zoe Collingsworth’s stomach plummeted as the helicopter tilted sideways and flew at a peculiar angle to the earth below.

She gripped her boxy seat tighter, fingers clenched so hard that the knuckles ached. He’d told her not to talk and she hadn’t, but she was very afraid. This couldn’t really be happening…this had to be a bad dream…

“We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”

She jerked at the sound of his voice. It was the first time he’d spoken in the two hours they’d been aboard the helicopter. She’d never heard a voice pitched so low and it rumbled through her like a slow-moving freight train.

“Where are you taking me?” she whispered, hands trembling.

He briefly glanced her way, his narrowed eyes barely resting on her. “It doesn’t matter.”

Her mouth went dry, fear sucking heat from her limbs. She touched her seat belt, checking the tension in the belt, as though the small firm strap across her lap could somehow protect her from whatever was to come next.

She wanted to say something fierce and defiant, wanted to be brave because that’s how Daisy handled problems. But Zoe wasn’t a warrior woman and she felt the worst kind of terror imaginable. She’d never even been out of Kentucky before, and now on her first trip anywhere she was…she was…

Kidnapped.

Her heart thudded so fast and hard she thought it might explode. She stared at her captor. He wasn’t looking at her, but staring out the window, his gaze fixed on the darkening landscape below. Twilight swathed all in shadows. “What do you want from me?”

Finally she had his attention. He stared at her in the fading light, long dark lashes concealing his eyes, his expression curiously hard. There was nothing remotely gentle in his grim features. “Let’s not do this now.”

His English was flawless and yet his tone cut razor-sharp. He’d been schooled in the States, she thought blankly, numb from head to toe. “Are you going to…hurt me?”

She heard the wobble in her voice, the break between words that revealed her fear and exhaustion. He heard it, too, and his firm mouth compressed, flatter, harder. “I don’t hurt women.”

“But you do kidnap them?” she choked, on the verge of hysteria, her imagination beginning to run away with her. She’d been up twenty-four hours without sleep and she was losing control.

“Only if I’m asked to,” he answered as the helicopter dipped. He glanced out the window and nodded with satisfaction. “We’re landing. Hold on.”

The helicopter touched down. While the pilot worked the controls, her abductor flung the door open and stepped out. “Come,” he said, extending a hand to her.

Zoe recoiled from his touch. “No.”

She couldn’t see his face in the darkness but felt his impatience. “It’s not a choice, Señorita Collingsworth. ¡Vamanos!”

Slowly, trembling with fear, she climbed from the helicopter. Her legs were numb and stiff, as if cardboard legs instead of tissue and bone.

The night felt warm, far warmer than she’d expected, and yet she convulsively pressed her thin traveling coat closer to her frame.

Lights shone ahead. Heart pounding, she gazed at the illuminated house and outbuildings. But beyond the immediate circle of light there was only darkness. A world of darkness. Where was she? What did he intend to do?

He moved behind her, reached into the helicopter and lifted out her suitcase and another small traveling bag. His, she thought with a shudder.

Bags out, he shut the helicopter door and immediately the helicopter lifted, rising straight from the ground into the dark starry night.

The whirring blades blew her hair into her eyes and Zoe stumbled backward, trying to escape the noise and rush of air, tripping over the suitcases behind her. She fell backward. Hands reached out to break her fall.

She felt the hard pressure of his body, felt his hands tighten on her as he placed her on her feet.

Immediately, she pulled away, and yet that split second of contact was more than she could bear. In that split second she’d felt his strength and heat penetrate her coat, penetrate her skin, penetrate all the way into her bones. He was hard and unyielding. Just that brief contact left her burned.

Bruised.

God help me, she silently prayed, get me home safe.

Hand shaking, she pushed a fistful of hair from her eyes. Her hair clip had fallen out, and the helicopter blades had blown the long heavy mass free. She felt blown to bits.

Physically. Emotionally.

“This way,” he said roughly, touching her elbow.

This second touch was worse than the first. Zoe jerked, muscles snapping, spring-loaded. The sudden stiffening of her body hurt.

Every time he touched her she shuddered. Every time he touched her she burned.

The noise of the helicopter began to fade. The warm night air wrapped around her. “What happens now?” she asked, drawing herself tall, bringing herself to her full five-ten height. It didn’t do much good. He was still far taller, larger. He had to be well over six foot three, maybe six-four. He was built strong, too, thickly muscled like an American football star, but in his black coat, black shirt, black trousers he could have been from the Mafia.

“We go inside. We’ll have dinner. You’ll go to your room for the night.”

He made it sound almost civilized. Which should have reassured her, but she wasn’t reassured, not by a long shot. She’d heard that some of the most violent men were also the most sophisticated. He could be toying with her before—

Stop it!

You have to stop thinking like this. You can’t let your imagination do this to you. You’ll just drive yourself crazy.

There were too many unknowns, too many terrifying possibilities. She had to stay calm, had to keep a cool head, as her father used to say. Her father had been a master of cool heads.

She swallowed the lump of panic filling her throat. “Okay. Dinner sounds good.” She’d take this step by step, moment by moment. She’d get through this. One way or another.

He picked up her suitcase and his bag and headed toward the house, leaving her to follow. But she couldn’t follow, not immediately. How could she just go in there, how could she walk into that house on her own accord?