sent away for more clothes.”
“When was that?”
“A few hours after we arrived.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her furious voice ended with a squeak that made him grin. He almost turned to look at her, then stopped himself just in time before he got another image of her sprawled naked across the bed. Christ, he only had so much willpower—he was only a man! He hurried toward the door. “The suitcase is still packed beneath the bed. We leave in ten minutes.”
But once again, his foolish hopes of finding Laetitia proved destined for failure. As soon as their jet arrived in Cabo San Lucas, he dropped Rose off without explanation at a luxury gated villa in the hills. He drove with bodyguards in an open Jeep, going north on a dirt road to the little desert village in Baja California.
At a shabby little casita, he knocked on the door. Xerxes heard a woman’s low moan inside, and adrenaline ripped through his body. Shouting Laetitia’s name, he kicked open the door.
He found a woman lying on a small bed, a brunette Laetitia’s size with bandages on her face. For a moment, he’d believed that after all these months, he’d finally found her.
Then he’d heard the language the woman was shouting. German? It turned out she was a wealthy businesswoman from Berlin who’d come to recover from her face-lift in privacy and seclusion. Xerxes had only convinced her not to call the police through substantial cash compensation.
Cash that would come out of his payment to Montez, Xerxes thought, gritting his teeth, for feeding his chief bodyguard such faulty information.
But in his heart Xerxes did not blame the investigator. He blamed only himself. He was the one who’d failed Laetitia, again and again over the past year. And she was still out there somewhere. Dying. Alone.
They drove back to Cabo San Lucas in silence. Entering the villa, Xerxes felt hollowed out. He walked through the heavily embellished oak door with his shoulders hunched. Wearily, he pushed open the door, and the hinges squealed like nails on a chalkboard, the harsh noise scraping his soul.
Then at that moment, he heard a miracle that soothed the pain in his heart. Rose’s sweet, clear voice.
“I’m so glad you’re home!”
Slowly, he looked up.
Rose stood in front of the wide sunlit veranda overlooking the Pacific, looking fresh and pretty in a new sleeveless pink dress, her blond hair tumbling down her shoulders. He exhaled. Everything good in the world seemed wrapped up in her.
She saw his bleak expression and her turquoise eyes widened. She didn’t ask any questions. She just held out her arms.
Without a word, he went to her. He nearly choked out a sob when he felt her soft arms go around him, but he held it inside. A man didn’t cry. He’d learned that long ago. But there were other things a man could do.
He led her through the villa, with its soaring ceiling and colonial-style architecture. He turned on the shower, and the hot steam filled the room. Without a word, he turned to Rose and slowly unbuttoned her dress.
She did not resist. She stood before him, watching him with her heart on her expressive face. He pulled off her clothes, dropping her dress, her bra, her panties to the clay tile floor. He pulled off his own clothes. Taking her hand, he pulled her into the enormous shower.
The hot water burned him, washing off the dust and grime and sorrow. He looked down at Rose. Her petite, curvaceous body was naked, her lustrous skin pink with the heat of the steam. Tilting her head back with his hands, he washed her hair.
She submitted without a word, without complaint, without demands. Her silent sympathy healed his wounded soul as nothing else ever had. As nothing could.
Turning her around, he held her against the glass wall of the shower and lowered his mouth to hers in a hard, demanding kiss. When she returned his embrace, he did not wait. He lifted her legs around his waist. Without warning or permission, he took her as his own, thrusting inside her, holding her against the shower wall. He exploded as steam and hot water poured over them both.
Afterward, he took her to the bed and made love to her again, this time with tenderness, bringing her to gasping fulfillment that made her weep tears of joy. Who was this woman? He thought as he held her to his chest. Who was this woman who could offer him her sympathy, her body, her heart—without making any demands of her own?
He should have known it wouldn’t last.
Later that night, as they were served dinner by the rented villa’s housekeeper, Rose suddenly looked up at him in the candlelight. The two of them were sitting together at the end of a long table, in front of the wall of windows with a view of the moonlit Pacific and the Gulf of Cortez. He could see an old fishing boat with hanging lights, and in the distance was an enormous cruise ship. Mariachi music from the resort town below drifted up the hillside through the open windows.
Rose took a bracing gulp of a lime margarita, then leaned forward over the table. The candlelight cast shadows on her face, giving her the beautiful, concerned expression of a Renaissance Madonna as she asked quietly, “Why have we been traveling so much? Has Lars called the police? Has he been chasing us?”
Xerxes snorted. “Växborg would never call the police. That would just reveal his own crimes. He’s still in Las Vegas, settling the divorce.”
“Then why?” She pressed her lips together. “It must be your business making such demands,” she said softly. She shook her head. “It must exhaust you.”
He wanted to explain to her that it wasn’t his business, just his failure to find Laetitia that kept them constantly on the move; but the words choked in his throat. He couldn’t bear Rose’s sympathy now, on top of everything else. If she tried to smile and tell him consolingly that he was still a good man and no doubt trying his best, or that it wasn’t his fault, he would smash the wall with his fist.
When he did not reply, she looked down at her plate. She took another bite of her enchiladas de mariscos. Waving her fork, she tilted her head at him, her eyes gleaming.
“I know you’re rich and powerful and all,” she teased, clearly trying to elevate the mood, “but what exactly do you do, anyway?”
Xerxes served himself more of the enchiladas and fish tacos that the villa’s cook had prepared. “I buy distressed companies. I sell the divisions that are profitable. I discard the parts that are not.”
Her face closed down. “Oh.”
He blinked at her. “You don’t approve?”
She shook her head.
“Why?” he asked curiously.
She shrugged.
“Tell me.”
She sighed. “Look, I know I don’t have any right to criticize. You’re a millionaire with a private jet and I’m a waitress with fifty dollars in my bank account. But I’ve been working my way through college, studying entrepreneurial business management at San Francisco State…” She hesitated, biting her lip, as if she expected him to mock her.
He leaned forward in his
