The Spaniard's Passion. Jane Porter
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slow, mocking smile set her heart racing and her limbs felt like lead. Oh, he was still dangerous. He still turned her inside out, made her feel shaky and jittery. “Sorry. Not interested.” She should have never gotten into his car, should never have agreed to this. “Living-in is less exciting than fairy tales would lead us to believe.”
“The disillusioned princess.”
“Hardly a princess.”
“No, just an impoverished lady forced to sell her house, her car, and now her wedding ring.”
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. He could hurt her in ways no one else could. “They’re just things,” she whispered.
“And what are things when you’re surrounded by warmth and tenderness and love?”
She almost hated him right now. He was so cold, so cynical. He had to know she was living alone with the Countess, Clive’s mother. He knew the Countess, too. He knew she wasn’t warm, and he had to know Sophie was virtually trapped at Melrose Court with no personal space, or freedom, anymore.
But she didn’t say that, didn’t say a word. If he wanted to be cruel, fine, let him. He’d be gone soon. He’d drop her at Melrose Court and drive off into the night and she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“I would have paid you twice as much for your ring, Sophie.” Lon’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity. The emerald alone was worth twenty thousand pounds. The setting was another ten to fifteen.”
She shrugged. Don’t think about it, she told herself. You didn’t know, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to get more. “I’m happy with what he paid me.”
“As long as you’re happy,” he answered, running a hand across his brow, rubbing tiredly.
His hair was long, longer than he’d ever worn it ten years earlier, and the back nearly touched his shoulders. He was too big for the black Porsche. His shoulders filled the car. His hands on the steering wheel were large, his skin burnished from hours in the sun.
But he wasn’t just big. He was strong. Immensely powerful. She knew Lon had worked in the mines personally, years before he’d ever bought his share. He hadn’t been afraid of the explosives, the tight quarters, the perils of collapsing tunnels and elevator shafts.
What an odd pair they were. Lon, afraid of nothing, and Sophie, afraid of everything.
“How long did the honeymoon last, Sophie?”
She startled, shocked by his nerve. “That’s none of your business.”
His smile was cool. “I want to know. Tell me. How long did it take before you knew you’d made a mistake?”
Her mouth went dry. She struggled to swallow. “Take that back!”
“Not a chance.”
“You have no right—”
“I loved you.” Lon’s voice dropped, his jaw tightening with anger. “Clive never loved you. He just didn’t want me to have you.”
“No.”
“Yes. And you, silly girl, were so damn afraid of your feelings, you ran straight into his arms.”
Her head swam, Lon’s words nearly making her ill. She reached for the door handle as if she could escape.
But there was no escape. Lon had found her. Lon still wanted her. And deep inside she knew this time Lon would never let her go.
“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