long ago, when she was seventeen. She’d loved him then and every day since, despite his antagonism, his mockery, his taunting.
She knew he hated her. He’d made it obvious. It didn’t seem to make any difference, though. She couldn’t get him out of her mind, any more than she could permit any other man to touch her.
She’d made a play for Grange, the leader of Machado’s insurgent troops. But that had been an act of desperation, and mainly due to antianxiety drugs that she’d taken after the tragic deaths of her father and her little sister, Matilda. Her life had been shattered.
Rourke had come running, the minute he heard about it. He’d handled the funeral arrangements, organized the service, done everything for her while she walked around numb and brokenhearted. He’d put her to bed, holding her while she sobbed out her heart. He’d called a doctor, her doctor, Ruy Carvajal, and had him sedate her when the crying didn’t stop.
She thought of Ruy and a question he’d asked her before she came here. She’d invited him to come, too, just on the chance that Rourke might show up. He’d had to go to Argentina, to treat a longtime patient who was also a friend. But he’d asked her to consider marrying him; a marriage of friends, nothing more. He knew how she felt about Rourke, that she couldn’t permit another man to touch her. It wouldn’t matter, he assured her, because he’d been badly wounded in a firefight on a mission with the World Health Organization. Because of the wounds, he could no longer father a child. He was, he added solemnly, no longer a man, either. He was unable to be intimate with a woman. This had led to many suspicions among his people, who revered a man’s ability to beget children above all other attributes.
He would be happy to put an end to the gossip. He could give Clarisse a good life. If she was certain, he added, that Rourke would never want her.
She told him that she’d consider it, and she had. Rourke didn’t want her. She couldn’t want anyone else. She was twenty-five, and Ruy was kind to her. Why not? It would give her some stability. She would have a friend, someone of her own.
It sounded like a good idea. She thought she might do it. It might sound like an empty life to some people. But to Clarisse, whose life had been an endless series of tragedies, the prospect of a peaceful life was enticing. She didn’t need sex. After all, she’d never had it. How could she miss something she’d never experienced?
She mourned Rourke, but that would end one day, she thought. She gave her reflection a grim smile. Sure it would. When she died. She turned and went to put on her gown for the gala evening.
Clarisse walked into the building where the awards were being held, and several pair of male eyes went immediately to her slender, beautiful figure in the clinging white dress she wore. Her blond hair curled toward her face like feathers, emphasizing her exquisite bone structure, her perfect skin and teeth, her wide blue eyes. She was a beauty. In the gown, she looked like some Grecian goddess come down to earth to taunt mortals.
She didn’t even notice the attention she was getting. Her eyes were on the podium where the general would speak. There was an orchestra. It was playing soft, easy-listening sort of music while people gathered in small groups to converse. Most of the conversation was in Spanish here, not Portuguese, because Spanish was Barrera’s official language.
She smiled sadly at the little cliques. To Clarisse, who was always alone, it seemed like just one more gathering where she’d stand by herself while men tried to entice her. Sometimes she hated the way she looked. She didn’t want male attention.
She paused by a table where drinks were being served when her arm was taken by a tall man she recognized as one of General Machado’s advisers. He smiled at her. “We were hoping that you would come, Miss Carrington,” he said in softly accented English. “We have the other honorees backstage. The awards ceremony will be first, followed by dancing and drinking and utter pandemonium.” He chuckled.
She smiled up at him. “The pandemonium sounds nice. They shouldn’t have done this for me,” she added. “I didn’t really do anything except get shot and captured.”
He turned and smiled down at her. “You did a great deal more than that. All of us who live here are grateful to you and the others, for giving us back our country.”
“Are Peg and Winslow here?” she asked hopefully.
“Alas, no,” he replied solemnly. “Her father had to have surgery, just a minor thing, but they were both uncomfortable with the idea of not going to sit with him.”
“That’s like Peg,” she said softly, and smiled. “She’s such a sweet person.”
“She thinks quite highly of you, as well, as does her husband. And El General, of course,” he added with a chuckle.
“Where is the general?” she wondered.
He nodded his head toward where a tall, distinguished Latin man in a dinner jacket towered over a tall brunette in a striking blue gown.
“It’s Maddie!” she exclaimed. “She treated Eduardo Boas, who was shot before I was kidnapped.”
“Yes. She and the general are, I believe, getting married soon,” he whispered, laughing at her delighted smile. “But you must not mention this. I am not supposed to know.”
She smiled up at him. “I know absolutely nothing. I swear,” she added facetiously.
“Not true, Tat. You’re plenty smart enough,” came a deep, husky voice from behind her.
Her blood froze. Her heart started doing the tango. She didn’t want to turn around. She hadn’t dreamed that he’d show up.
“Señor Rourke will escort you to where the others are gathered backstage,” he said, nodding and bowing. Then he deserted her.
“Aren’t you going to turn around, Tat?” he asked very softly.
She took a deep breath and faced him. He looked different. She couldn’t understand why at first. Then she realized it was because his hair was short. He’d cut his hair. She wondered why. It had been in that long ponytail for years.
“Hello, Stanton,” she said quietly. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
He looked down at her intently, his one eye narrowed and piercing as he drank in the sight of her, the memory of her in his arms making his heart race. There were no more barriers. He could have her. He could hold her and kiss her. He could make love to her...
He shook himself mentally. He had to go slow. “I was at a loose end,” he said carelessly.
“I see.” She was uneasy. She kept looking around, as if she wanted to be rescued. In fact, she did.
He looked around, too. “Did you come alone?” he asked suddenly, and there was a bite in his voice.
She swallowed. “I’d asked Ruy to come with me, but he had to fly to Argentina to treat an old friend.”
“Ruy... Carvajal, your doctor friend.”
“That’s right.”
He
