Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [83]
Back in the main room, she put the sofa bed back together again. And then she took Consuelo’s afghan, wrapped it around her, and curled up on the cushions, closing her eyes against the bright streetlights beyond the window.
When she awoke the night was still and silent, and she wasn’t alone. Only the streetlights lit the apartment, but Rico lay stretched out on the floor, his head against the sofa, near hers.
He looked exhausted. For the first time she had a chance to look at him, really look. She was astonished she hadn’t recognized him before. He still had the beautiful cheekbones, the sensuous mouth, the strong jaw. But he’d lost some of that youthful arrogance. Consuelo and Jaime’s young son had been beautiful, proud, sleek and sexual, in love with her and in love with life. Nothing was beyond him back then.
Now he looked like someone who’d lived. There were lines around his eyes, around his beautiful mouth. There was even a trace of gray in his dark hair. And he was more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen.
She didn’t want to wake him—he looked bone weary. Besides, she was content just to lie there and watch him while he slept. Staring at the smooth planes of his face gave her a sense of safety she hadn’t felt in years. Maybe never. She didn’t want to think about what had sent her running out of La Casa hours ago. Didn’t want to think about Jackson, about the voices, about anything. She simply wanted to lie here and watch Rico sleep.
Almost on cue his eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head to look at her. Without a word she put her hand on his face, she put her lips on his mouth, and a moment later she lay on the floor beneath him.
He made love to her in silence, with such tenderness it made her want to weep. On the floor he took her like a virgin bride, with gentle hands and mouth, with strength and heat and fierce desire always in control, and when he slid inside her she came, for the first time in years, a sweet, tight orgasm that made her cry. He kissed her when he climaxed, kissed her tear-streaked face and her mouth, with his body and his soul. And then he held her as she wept, curled up on the floor with his body wrapped tight around her.
Sometime during the night they opened up the sofa and got into bed, under the covers. They made love again, and this time she felt freer, more open, ready to take him again and again, hungry for him. When she woke in the morning he was wrapped around her, his thumb stroking the scars on her wrist.
“So much pain, chica,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said. Because it was only the truth.
“Are you all right? You can see why I didn’t kiss you the other night. I knew this would happen, and I didn’t know if it would only hurt you more.”
She rolled over on her back, looking up at him. “You never hurt me, Rico,” she said.
His smile was wry. “Now that’s not true. I was an arrogant asshole, sure of myself and the world. Teenage boys are oblivious to the trouble they cause.”
She smiled at him. “Well, then, let’s say you hurt me less than most.”
“What brought you back here to me, Rachel-Ann?”
“You put your key on my key chain.”
“Yes, but I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Should I leave?” She started to roll away from him, teasing, and he uttered a mock growl.
“I want you to tell me what made you run. What happened?”
She turned her face away from him. “Nothing. Nothing different. My father came for dinner last night. You never met him, so you wouldn’t know how frightening he can be.”
“Yes, I did. The day we left La Casa.”
She opened her eyes. “He sent you away?”
“Who else? Your grandmother had a fit, of course. It’s hard to replace good help like Jaime and Consuelo on a moment’s notice, but she agreed that you needed to be protected from my mongrel influence. He didn’t like the idea of a Hispanic son-in-law.”
She was silent for a moment. “We never talked about marriage,” she