feet.
‘You insane idiot, do you have a death wish?’
Maggie was spared from responding to this savage question because at that moment the village en masse swept over them like a blanket of goodwill and concern.
Maggie was carried away on a wave of hugs, kisses and tears, taken quite literally to the heart of the village.
She was declared a heroine bilingually. It was all very emotional and Maggie, both embarrassed and overwhelmed by the attention, went very quiet.
She lost count of the number of times she said she was fine. It was Rafael who finally rescued her from the love and adulation, saying firmly that she needed rest, could they not all see that she was about to collapse?
She repressed her natural inclination to deny she was that pathetic and allowed herself to be escorted back to his car. It seemed to Maggie from his manner that Rafael’s intervention was motivated more by irritation than concern for her well-being.
He had received his share of gratitude too and with every thank-you his mood seemed to have got darker.
Was she paranoid or was she the focus of his annoyance?
Maybe he was actually hurt but was too macho to admit it. She had got the definite impression when they were falling that he was trying to shield her using his body and his arms, which had circled her like a steel barrier to cushion the impact.
And despite his assurances to the contrary the cuts on his dark face did suggest he hadn’t escaped as lightly as she had. His dark hair was tousled and his shirt was ripped almost off his back, revealing a very distracting expanse of brown chest, well-developed shoulders and flat, muscle-ridged belly, not to mention a hand-sewn label that explained in part his irritation: his shirt was no more off the peg than his body was.
Maybe he blamed her for everything, including the ripped shirt. She thought about the angry kiss—hard not to—her eyes half closing as she remembered the texture of his firm lips, the warmth of his breath…the brief explosion of mind-numbing passion.
It was lucky, really, that everyone had assumed her numbed state was caused by the trauma of the accident. She wanted them to carry on believing this version. For Rafael to even suspect that a kiss that had barely registered on his radar had turned her the next best thing to catatonic would have been too mortifying.
She lifted a hand to her mouth and tilted her head back to catch a glimpse of his beautiful sculpted mouth, and immediately stumbled on the rocky ground where the cars, including Rafael’s, had been parked.
Several pairs of arms reached to catch her but Rafael’s were there first. Ignoring her weak protest, he swung her up into his arms, barely breaking stride.
Reaching his car, he deposited her in the front seat.
‘That was quite unnecessary,’ she said frostily.
‘You are welcome.’ He inclined his dark head, his grey eyes mocking her.
Maggie managed a stiff smile as one of the women placed a blanket over her knees. The man standing beside the woman waited until she had tugged it snugly around Maggie before he leaned into the car and clasped one of Maggie’s hands between both of his and said something in Spanish.
Maggie gave a helpless smile and the old man looked to Rafael.
‘The little boy you went back for was Alfredo’s grandson. He says to tell you that you are an angel sent from God.’
Maggie gave an embarrassed little shrug, then turning her hand to grasp the teak-coloured gnarled fingers that lay on top of hers, she squeezed and smiled saying huskily, ‘I’m glad nobody was hurt.’ She glanced at Rafael, bit her lip and, struggling to control the husky throb of emotion in her voice, said, ‘Tell him what I said, please.’
Rafael’s eyes lingered on her face, moving up in a sweep from the graceful line of her slender neck, the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips and her wide-spaced liquid dark eyes. Alfredo’s description seemed apt—she did look like an angel, a sad, sexy angel.
This was a situation where seeing both sides of the argument was not useful. Maggie Ward might have many excellent qualities beyond a kissable mouth and a sinfully sexy body, but he didn’t want to know about them. It confused the issue.
She was a danger to the happiness of two people he cared about. Focus on that, he told himself, and forget about her mouth and her courage. Think of her as a problem to be solved and maybe a pleasurable interlude.
And why not? Why was he beating himself up because he found her attractive? He knew the attraction was reciprocated. He was in danger of letting her innocent aura make him lose sight of the facts. He had not kidnapped her, drugged her or sworn eternal love; she had come of her own free will.
Maggie Ward knew that his intentions were strictly dishonourable and she had come along anyway. She was a young woman who wanted to add the spice of a one-night stand to her trip, so why should he feel as though he was taking advantage?
He had been staring at her so long that it crossed Maggie’s mind that for some inexplicable reason he might be about to refuse her request.
‘Please?’
Responding to the prompt and ignoring the questioning look in her eyes, Rafael translated.
Maggie watched the elderly man’s lined face crease into a wide smile as he listened to Rafael. He turned his attention back to Maggie, said fervently, ‘Angel.’ And pressed something into her hand before bowing out of the car to join the other villagers who had gathered to say goodbye.
‘Watch the door.’
Maggie responded to the abrupt instruction and pulled the blanket closer as Rafael slammed the passenger door with what seemed to her like unnecessary force. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he agreed with the other man’s version of her actions. Now she was sure it wasn’t her imagination—his attitude towards her since the accident had been terse and unfriendly to a degree that could not be due to a spoiled designer shirt.
Any inclination to flirt with her had presumably vanished along with her make-up and hairgrips. He was obviously a man who could not see past dirty faces.
Or maybe his taste didn’t run to angels?
She had no idea why she felt so let down. It wasn’t as if she had been thinking of him as deep and meaningful when she looked at him, though a bit of dust on his face had not lessened his magnetism, she admitted, sliding a covert peek at his dark face.
But then it was hard to think of anything that would.
Slightly embarrassed, she waved back to the crowd that had gathered as the car drew away. As they vanished from view she opened her hand.
‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t take this.’ The gold medallion resting in her palm was obviously old; the carving was delicate. ‘It must be valuable.’ She held it out towards Rafael.
‘It’s a Saint Christopher.’
‘I know. Take me back. I must return it.’
Rafael did not respond to her urgent request. ‘You can’t do that—it would
