The Spaniard's Passion

“Do you know what it was like, realizing I’d lost you forever?” He ground his teeth together as he stared straight out the windshield, night falling all around them. But the strain showed in his face, reflected by the dashboard lights, and the greenish dashboard light heightened the paleness of his scar. “I knew you’d never have an affair, either. Good sweet Sophie Johnson would be true to her husband. And you were, weren’t you?”

His leather coat had fallen open and his black cashmere sweater was v-necked, a fairly deep v-neck that showed tanned skin and hard muscles. Lon’s chest was wide, deep, the thick muscles wrapping his rib cage in sinewy bands.

She blinked back stinging tears. “Of course I was loyal.”

“Of course.” He smiled but there was no warmth, no mercy in his eyes. “You’re loyal to everyone—but me.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks and she felt hot and prickly all over. “We were young, Lon. I was young.”

“Not that young.”

“And it was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough for me to forget.”

“Lon.”

“Don’t think it’s over, Sophie.” His deep voice held her, trancelike, and she found herself looking up at him. His eyes should have been black, but they were the lightest, clearest blue. “It’s not even close to being over. You’re not even twenty-eight. I’m thirty-two. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

By the time they arrived at Melrose Court, Sophie felt dizzy, her stomach churning so hard she was certain she’d soon be ill. Lon shot her a hard look after parking. “Did you eat anything today?”

“I’m fine.” But stepping from the car she was anything but fine. Her legs nearly buckled under her and tears of rage filled her eyes.

Ignoring her protest, Lon swept her up the stairs. “She’s feeling a little faint,” he informed a startled Countess Wilkins, his arm still wrapped around Sophie’s waist. “Could you get a glass of water?”

The Countess disappeared and Lon stared down in her face. “You’re looking a little pale, Sophie.”

Only Lon would be so ruthless. Only Lon would want to punish her. Yes, she’d liked him all those years ago. And maybe yes, she’d loved him, but he wanted more than her love. He’d wanted everything. All of her. He was like a vortex and he scared the hell out of her.

“I’m not ready to date again,” she whispered, conscious that Louisa would return any moment.

“No?”

“No.”

“So it’s not true about you and…what’s his name? Rich, good-looking man. Dark hair, rather like mine, dark eyes—”

“Federico,” she interrupted with a soft strangled sound.

“Federico,” Lon said slowly, thoughtfully drawing the name out. “Sounds foreign.”

Sophie shivered, and her dark blue gaze, dropped. “Aren’t we all?”

Any other time Alonso would have smiled. It was true. Just as Lon and Sophie had met as teenagers in Latin America, most people in their sphere had lived all over the world. Diplomats, engineers, miners, bankers, foreign investors. But Lon couldn’t smile, not when they were discussing Federico Alvare.

Miguel Valdez was one of Latin America’s biggest druglords and Federico Alvare served as his right-hand man. A former MI6 agent, Lon knew Federico personally, and Federico would drag Sophie to hell if he could.

“It’s all right if you have a new boyfriend,” he continued conversationally, trying to ignore the fire burning through his middle. Sophie and another man? Possibly. Maybe. Barely. Sophie and Federico Alvare? Never. And it was this rumor that had brought him back to England. His contacts said Lady Wilkins was in trouble, that she was associating with one of the world’s most dangerous criminals. He hadn’t believed it until now. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be dating. It’s been two years.”

“I’ve no interest in dating again, and he’s not a boyfriend. He’s just a…friend.” Sophie couldn’t even meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on a point on the floor. “Federico used to work with Clive.”

She was either painfully innocent or damn brazen. Right now Lon couldn’t figure out which. “I had no idea.”

Sophie’s lower lip quivered and she pressed her lips together, pressing down. Her small pale face suddenly looked tight and a damp tendril slipped from the twist of dark hair pinned up at the back. “No, you wouldn’t know. After Clive and I married, you wouldn’t have anything to do with us.”

He watched, fascinated, as the long tendril clung to the side of her neck. Lucky tendril. Lucky neck. Now he had to protect that pretty neck before something tragic happened. “It was a two way street, Sophie.”

“Clive tried,” she gritted, her blue eyes fierce. She was wearing a cream sweater dress and the top two buttons had popped open giving him a glimpse of an ivory bra strap.

“Not very hard.”

“You never returned his calls. You’ve no idea how much it hurt him, how much it hurt both of us.”

Lon was perfectly happy letting Sophie talk. He was too interested in the open buttons of her sweater dress, the hint of creamy breast, the long pale column of her throat, her very sweet mouth…

Sophie’s lips, even without lipstick, were full and pink and right now all he wanted to do was drink the angry words from her mouth, draw the air from her lungs, fold her into him.

His body hardened just looking at her. He physically craved Sophie. His mind wanted her mind. His skin wanted her skin. His body wanted to be lost in hers.

“You could have called me,” he said even as the Countess returned with the glass of water.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,” Louisa Wilkins said, giving Alonso a brief embrace. “It’s been years. Two years. Since Clive’s funeral, I believe.”

Lon heard Sophie’s swift inhale and felt her stiffen. “I think you’re right,” he answered, anxious to move on to less sensitive topics. “But you look wonderful, Louisa, not a day older.”

The Countess practically beamed. She’d missed male company, too. “Thank you, Alonso. Very kind of you to say. And you are staying for dinner, aren’t you?”

Sophie’s blue eyes looked panicked. “I think he’s busy, Louisa.”

“Not that busy,” Lon corrected. “I’d love to stay.”

The Countess folded her hands over her stomach. “I’ll have Cook add another place to the table.” She turned to Sophie. “And Sophie, show Alonso the whiskey. If I remember, he likes a good drink before dinner.”

In the library Sophie watched Lon pour himself a neat shot. “It seems she’s developed a soft spot for you.”

Alonso capped the crystal whiskey decanter. “It’s the holiday season. She’s feeling nostalgic.” He sipped from his crystal tumbler. “I imagine Christmas is quite difficult for her.”

Sophie said nothing. She just took a seat on the slip-covered sofa and curled her legs beneath her.

“It must be difficult for you living alone with the Countess here,” he said far more calmly than he felt. On the inside he was growing angry. Irritated. He didn’t like losing his temper.

Other officers had kidded him that when pushed, he had an almost superhuman strength, and it was true, he could lift twice his body weight. Easily. Once in training camp he’d clean and jerked 600 kilos and others had just gaped. He’d told them it ran in his family, that his dad was a miner from Scotland, but it was only part of the truth.

His stepfather was Scottish, and a miner. His biological father was an Argentine aristocrat who killed himself by driving a hundred miles an hour into a tree. Drunk, of course.

It was Lon’s Argentine blood that got him in trouble.

Sophie shifted miserably. “Louisa’s been very good to me.”