Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [61]
The other two boys immediately backed away from the car, but the boy who’d confronted her argued for a moment with Rico. Rachel-Ann’s Spanish was rusty, but it would have taken a fool not to realize they were talking about her. And that Rico was warning him away from her in cool, implacable tones.
Finally the boy shrugged, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture before reaching for her car door. And then he stood there, the perfect gentleman, holding the door for her as she quickly scrambled inside, closing it behind her with a mocking little bow before stepping away.
Her hands were shaking as she shoved the key into the ignition, and at first try it wouldn’t start. She almost burst into tears. If worse came to worst she would stay locked inside her car until they all went away or she died of starvation, which, considering the breakfast she’d just wolfed down, would be quite a while. The food should have made her sick, especially given the shock that had followed it, but for some reason it had settled nicely into the pit of her stomach, warming her.
The car roared to life, a sudden blessing, and she pulled into traffic, narrowly missing an oncoming truck.
It was far too easy to find her way out of the neighborhood, onto Sepulveda. It would be simple to find her way back. She turned the radio on, loud, only to switch it off immediately when Ricky Martin started singing in Spanish. She didn’t want to think about Spanish and sex, and with Ricky Martin the two were inextricably entwined.
She was overreacting, she told herself, as she drove through the morning traffic back toward Sunset. There was no way she could even begin to remember everyone she’d slept with. It probably wasn’t the first time she’d ended up back in bed with someone she’d tried earlier. She’d never been one to learn from her mistakes.
Except that Richard…Rico…hadn’t been a mistake. He’d been young and strong and passionate and deeply devoted to her, and she’d loved him. For a while, at least.
Hell, she couldn’t even remember what had broken them up. They’d had to sneak around, of course. Consuelo and Jaime had been completely disapproving. They’d loved her, but they’d wanted a good, Catholic virgin for their only child. Rachel-Ann had been nominally Catholic, but she’d lost both her virgin and good status a long time ago.
Grandmère wouldn’t have noticed, and Jilly was childishly thrilled to be an accomplice to Rachel-Ann’s midnight rendezvous. Had she just lost interest, gone on to someone new and broken his heart? What had happened?
With a sudden chill it came back to her. Something she hadn’t wanted to remember, and her stomach twisted for a moment, rebelling against both the memory and the huevos rancheros.
It had been Jackson, of course. She had no idea how he found out, when even the people living at La Casa, Jaime and Consuelo and Grandmère, hadn’t the faintest idea. She used to think he hired people to spy on her. She knew Jilly wouldn’t have betrayed her, and Dean was away at military school and hadn’t the faintest idea what kind of trouble his sister was getting into.
But Jackson had found out, and his icy rage had been horrifying. He’d summoned her to his office—he wouldn’t come to La Casa, claiming the place depressed him. He’d been very calm, very detached as he’d detailed the times she’d met with Rico, the things they’d done. He’d rattled off the particulars in his cool, clipped voice, and she’d sat there, mortified at the words he used. She was being taken away from La Casa—from then on she would live with him in his town house. She wouldn’t see or talk to her sister or brother, she wouldn’t go anywhere without her father guarding her.
She’d run away once, hitchhiking to La Casa late one night. The gates had been locked, but she’d always known where she could scale the walls, and she’d gotten in without trouble. Only to find that Consuelo and Jaime had been fired months before, without warning. That they’d disappeared, with their son.