The Horseman

“Isn’t that sweet? You’ll be next, Ceci darling!” An elderly Moreland relative flashed her an arch smile.

There were shouts of delight, exaggerated groans of disappointment. Stuart, who had been cheering the loudest threw his arms around her and kissed her mouth. “That settles it, Ceci. We are next!”

Cecile kept her eyes fixed steadily on the beautiful waving bride on the balcony.

She knew exactly who was behind her, it wasn’t her mind that told her. It was her body. She could feel him, feel his aura the warmth off his skin, the unique male scent of him that she inhaled into her nostrils. Jubilant at her side, Stuart got into a long, laughing exchange with another guest about where the bouquet had actually landed before being catapulted over Cecile’s shoulder. “All’s well that ends well!” he cried, and swooped to kiss Cecile again, reveling in the knowledge he was a much-envied man.

She ought to turn around. She had to turn around. She managed to do so, her eyes locking on his. The graceful little remark she made sounded quite natural and perfectly composed. It was important she did not let him see how much he affected her. Of course he did know.

She could weep for her own susceptibility. Especially now when she had given up thinking any man could evoke such a response. How could such things happen so fast? Nothing seemed real. Nothing was as it had been before. It was as simple and as momentous as that.

WITH THE BRIDE AND GROOM GONE, the party kicked up several more notches. Moet flowed like the water from a great fountain. Inside the house, the older guests settled into comfortable armchairs and sofas, relishing the opportunity for a good long chat away from the boisterous young ones. Youth was so wearing. Outside the music from the band was so compulsively toe tapping it had couples everywhere up and dancing: on the brightly lit terrace and in the grounds where the trees had been decked with thousands and thousands of fairy lights, around the huge pool area where they risked getting splashed. There was a lot of hilarity, a lot of flirting, abandoned kisses in the scented darkness, holding hands. Everyone clung to the magic of the day, the marvelous haze of pleasure. No one wanted it to end.

CHAPTER THREE

CECILE KNEW the moment he would come to her, though her head was turned away. She had, she realized, been waiting for him, as though she waited for him every night of her life. She had even deliberately engineered the moment she would be alone, by sending Stuart off for a cold drink she didn’t want. She could see Stuart in the distance being detained by a group of their friends, which included a slightly tipsy Sasha who was holding on to his arm as if she didn’t intend to let him get away. Her grandfather, who was enjoying himself enormously, was a good distance away from her, as well, his handsome silver head thrown back as he laughed at something one of his cronies said.

So finally, they were alone.

She hoped he couldn’t see she was trembling. She moved back into the protective shadows, realizing every defense she had consciously or unconsciously raised over the years to protect herself lay demolished.

“A pretty spectacle?” He indicated the nighttime scene with a turn of his hand. It was a dazzling kaleidoscope of brightly colored dresses, many of them full-length and sweeping the grass. The illuminated gardens were extravagant in their beauty, their intoxicating fragrance unleashed by the warm air. The great shade trees stood like beacons of light, covered all over with tiny white bulbs that pulsed like stars.

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” she agreed quietly, thinking the man beside her added his own element of splendor. “Everything has gone so well. Granddad waved his magic wand and it all happened.”

“The Man with the Midas Touch!”

Something in the way he said it, a barely perceptible nuance, wasn’t quite right. She turned her head toward him. “So you’ve heard that already?”

He gave her a slight smile. “I couldn’t tell you how many times.”

“I’m very proud of my grandfather,” she said, startled he had thrown her onto the defensive when, really, he had said nothing out of place.

“And he adores you.” Was there the barest trace of mockery in that fascinating voice? She had the idea there was.

“That’s fine by me. I adore him.”

“I saw that very plainly. Would you care to dance?” he asked, not taking his eyes off her face. “I would have asked you earlier, but your fiancé has never left your side.”

Until you sent him away!

She recognized that uncompromising little voice, resisted the accusation though her stomach gave a lurch. How could she say to him she was afraid to dance with him? It was a very strange sensation having a man’s aura wrap her like a flowing cloak.

“I’m a little out of breath from the last dance,” she said in a low voice, mortified there was a throb in it.

His eyes dropped for a mere moment to the rise and fall of her breasts. “Come, Ms. Moreland. I regard that as an excuse.”

“It is an excuse.” What was the point of saying otherwise? The silent communication between them was as keen as a blade’s edge.

“You ought not refuse me,” he told her ever so gently. “I’m a visitor to your shores. I think I can say I have your grandfather’s approval. But most especially because I was the one who caused the bridal bouquet to fall right into your arms.”

“I realize that, Señor Montalvan.” She couldn’t laugh or smile.

“Please…Raul, I insist. Señor Montalvan is much too formal. I freely admit I maneuvered the bouquet because I was intrigued you weren’t making the slightest effort to catch it. Why is that?” He held out his hand. “Come, you can’t plead fatigue. You look like you could dance right through the night.”

She was so acutely conscious of him she almost wished she were wearing gloves. Once again skin on skin proved so electric it was as though one or the other had thrown a switch. She had never experienced anything like it in her life. There had to be some scientific explanation. Did he feel it? She was certain he did. She felt once again the rough calluses. Why wouldn’t he have them, a cattleman and an experienced polo player? They moved out of the shadows and he pulled her near, very quiet about it, yet she had the strangest sensation her body was unfurling like a flower. Where was Stuart now? Stuart, her safety net?

She had to say something, anything. This entire sizzling scenario couldn’t be happening to her, but it was. “The party doesn’t appear to be winding down.” She was grateful her voice wasn’t shaking like her hands. Dancing was a source of innocent pleasure and relaxation. It could also be a potent form of lovemaking with a certain person.

“Even the children are still running around.” There was a note of amusement in his tone. “I wouldn’t dare guide you anywhere near the pool. It’s fun watching them splash, but I couldn’t bear to see your lovely gown marked. Not many could wear a gown the color of crystal rain unless they were beautiful and had eyes like the diamonds you wear at your throat.”

Her heart skipped many dangerous beats. “A charming compliment, but the color of my eyes is genetic. Both Daniel and I inherited our gray eyes from our grandfather.”

“Gray doesn’t say it,” he said, studying her face so intently he might have been trying to discover her whole history.

She had half hoped closer contact might lessen some of his mystique, anything so she could regain her balance, but the excitement was fierce.

They were moving in a dream, their steps melding and matching as though their bodies were no surprise to the other. Indeed she fit so perfectly into his arms she wondered if those strong arms would leave an imprint on her. It was so wonderful, so exciting, so scary, she grasped as she had never done before how attraction could overpower. And with such violent attraction came the potential to destroy lives and ruin reputations.

The band segued into a haunting romantic ballad that struck a chord deep inside her. The blood coursing through her body was full of sparkles, hot sparkles from all the electricity that raced up and down her spine. She felt a dull heavy ache in the pit of her stomach as though she was about to start her period, which she wasn’t. She knew what it was: powerful sexual desire that acted like an erotic charge. It brought on a physical change in her, like deep contractions in the womb. She, who had been brought up to be a fluent conversationalist as befitting a cultured young woman, could say nothing. Excitement was growing inside her at a tremendous rate. She couldn’t shut it off. She was in thrall, so much less of herself, much, much, more of him.

Once his cheek touched her temple as he whirled her away from another couple, also intent on each other. She felt the faint rasp of his beard on her soft skin. He was a beautiful dancer. She might have known that from the way he moved. Did they have golden pumas in Argentina? she wondered. She was taken by the image. He was beautiful as a man can be beautiful, with an undeniably exotic air, but she couldn’t see his Spanish heritage. His eyes were more a velvety brown than black. His hair so thick, and well-groomed, was a warm caramel softened by those sun-kissed streaks. If she hadn’t known he was Argentinian and heard for herself that fascinating hint of accent, she wouldn’t have known exactly where to place him. If Daniel had introduced an adventurous friend back from wandering the world, she would have accepted it readily. Suddenly there were many questions she wanted to ask him.

Not a good idea, Cecile! Her warning voice struggled to get through again. He’ll only be here for a short time. Then he goes back to where he belongs. Much wiser to keep your distance.

Too late to tell her that now. She had moved into a new, potentially dangerous dimension.

Her grandfather had taken a strong liking to him—she knew her grandfather well—which meant lots of invitations would be issued to the visitor. Her own time in Darwin was short. When her vacation with her grandfather was over, she would have to return home to Melbourne to her work. For the past four years she had achieved her ambition, practicing as a child psychologist in a large private hospital that had excellent accreditation. It was work that was important to her, a career choice perhaps influenced by her own struggle in childhood. At any rate she had another life.

But how to shut him out?

Look on it as a brief encounter, the voice in her head instructed.

One could live a lifetime in an hour.

“So quiet?” he murmured. She had removed her lovely headdress, revealing a waterfall of raven hair that flowed straight and glossy down her back to her shoulder blades. From a central parting, the sides were secured behind her ears by two glittering leaf-shaped diamond clasps. It was a classic style that greatly appealed to him.

“I’m not usually.” She allowed herself one roving glance across his face. His mouth was beautifully cut, firm but sensual. She wanted to reach out and touch it very gently with her finger, trace its outline. “You understand,” she murmured, “weddings are very moving occasions.”

“This one in particular,” he agreed, drawing her, unprotesting, closer.

Thousands of twinkling lights from the trees poured over them. There was a cry from a night bird somewhere close by. Two perfectly pitched notes, in a descending cadence.

It was repeated.

God! She could hardly bear it! Her heart was thudding so hard it had to be moving the bodice of her gown.

The ache in her stomach wasn’t fading—it was growing. It tormented her she could feel this hungry for sex. It was no romantic longing and so relatively harmless. She wished for sex with a perfect stranger. The very thought threatened her ordered life and disassociated her from her engagement. She could have been one of her own patients: an adolescent whose hormones raged out of control.