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'dhurried 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 Yucatàn 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.
She embodied the image of a fragile waif who had washed up
on the shore. Far too delicate to wage a battle with him.
And this reunion would be a battle, for he'd not capitulate
to her desires. No. He'd vowed to make her regret her
callous disregard of their daughter, and her marriage vows.
He leaned close to shake her awake then froze when he saw
the picture frame clutched to her chest. jDios mio!
She dared to cradle Cristobel's picture to her heart?
He lurched back and scrubbed a shaky hand over his face,
torn between ripping the framed picture from her or taking
her in his arms. Did the memories that tormented him do so
to her as well? Was she needled with regret?
The streaks of mascara on her pale cheeks confirmed she'd
shed recent tears. He had that satisfaction of knowing she'd
been touched with grief.
But her remorse came far too late.
She'd brought about the destruction of their marriage and
their family the day she cast her vows aside. She'd proved
to him that he'd been right to hold a part of himself from her.
For instead of remaining in Cancún to share their grief and
see to their daughter's burial, she'd flitted off to England
with her lover. She'd forgotten her husband and the baby
lying cold in her grave.
But he hadn't forgotten her perfidy.
He jerked the towel from around his neck with a snap and
flung it on a nearby chair. Bits of sand peppered the room
in a glittering shower of white.
The woman before him stirred, a jerky movement of one coming
awake with the knowledge something wasn't quite right. Every
nerve in his body snapped and sizzled the second she clearly
realized he was standing over her.
Their gazes clashed like angry froth on the shoals.
His blazed with the anger and torment that burned in his
soul. Hers opened wide and glinted with apprehension.
He allowed a grim smile. "Buenos noches, querida.
How good of you to return home at last."
She blinked and sat up quickly, clearly snapping out of her
wary spell. "How good of you to be here to greet me." Her
lips thinned as she raked his near naked form with a cool,
appraising look. "For a change."
It was a clean hit he didn't deserve. Sí, he'd
spent weeks away from her before their daughter's birth, but
he'd needed to put distance between them at a time when her
body was lush and tempting him to toss his reservations
aside. It was then he had realized the hold she had over his
emotions. He knew from past experience that with love came a
fear of loss sharp and cold.
So he delved into business. He wasn't about to enlighten his
unfaithful wife about his dealings. No, he'd learned that
lesson the hard way years ago.
He was a Gutierrez. Like generations before him, he kept his
business apart from his family life. It was the only way and
she would learn to live with it.
Except she hadn't learned. She'd sought affection in the
arms of another man.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"There is a tropical storm brewing," he said. "I came to
make preparations."
"And swim?"
"Sí. The waters are calmer before the storm." Like
this reunion with her promised to be?
She looked around the sala, the framed photo still
clutched tight to her chest. Her brow was creased in
confusion or irritation—he didn't care which, for her
feelings meant nothing to him.
"You've come here often," she said.
"It is convenient to spend the night here when I'm detained
in the city on business." In truth, he came here to reflect
on all he'd had in his grasp, and all he'd lost.
"As I recall, you spent more time away from the casa than
you did in residence."
He gave a lazy shrug when he felt anything but nonchalant,
for the peevish tone that crept into her voice was a barb in
his skin—it sounded as if she blamed him for what had happened.
"Why did you come back?" he said.
"Closure."
He waved a negligent hand as if bored. "Meaning?"
She drew in a shaky breath that was at odds with her prim
outward show. "I want to visit Cristobel's grave." She gave
the room a longing glance. "I wish to sell this house." Her
eyes locked with his. "I want a divorce."
He'd expected this, yet the cool order in which she'd
delivered her wants chafed him. "Did you go back to your
doctor?"
"Of course not."
He believed her. She'd moved past that man. Past him as
well. "Our daughter is laid to rest amid her ancestors."
Her throat worked. "I expected she would be, but you can't
stop me from visiting my child's grave."
He could if he wished. It would take no more than a simple
request, and Allegra Vandohrn would find herself deported to
England.
"I will take you there," he said.
She tensed up at that. "I don't require your company."
"You will have it, regardless."
He waited for her to argue the point. She simply heaved a
sigh and gave a shaky nod, but his English rose soon proved
she had thorns. "How often have you availed yourself of my
house?"
"Whenever I wished to," he said, intrigued by her ire.
"Your arrogance amazes me," she said, the soprano pitch in
her contralto voice stopping him. "You could have stayed at
a hotel. You could have driven back to your hacienda."
"I chose not to." He kept his expression blank when his
insides rampaged with fury, but he welcomed the anger over
the other emotions that threatened to blindside him. "I
prefer to avoid the crowds at the hotels. As you know, the
drive can be treacherous when one is weary or reckless."