Jane Porter - Lazaro's Revenge

It wasn’t until they were in midair and she’d begun to ask questions about Daisy and her pregnancy, about the Galván estancia, about life on the pampas that he’d told her to stop talking.

Actually, what he’d said was, Be quiet, do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.

Zoe drew a deep breath and stared at the fire with its red and gold dancing flames.

She was shaking again, more violently now than earlier, and with each uneven breath she could smell the acrid scent of burning wood and smoke, yet the heat wasn’t enough. She couldn’t stop shivering. Couldn’t control her nerves.

She heard him walk behind her, heard the clink of glass, the slosh of liquid, another clink. He was pouring himself a drink. What kind of kidnapper embraced leather books, modern art and brandy decanters? What kind of man was he?

Zoe battled her fear. There had to be a good explanation. People didn’t just abduct other people without having a purpose, a plan.

“Drink this.”

His cool hard voice sliced into her thoughts, drawing her gaze up, from the fire to his chiseled features, his expression inexplicably grim. “I don’t drink.”

“It’ll warm you.”

She glanced at the balloon-shaped brandy glass in his hand, quarter filled with amber liquid, and shrank from him. “I don’t like the taste.”

“I didn’t use to like it much when I was your age, either.” He continued to hold the glass out to her. “You’re shivering. It’ll help. Trust me.”

Trust him? He was the last man she’d ever trust. He’d taken her from Daisy, Dante, from the reunion she’d long anticipated. Her throat threatened to seal closed, her temper rising as her anger got the best of her.

She turned on him, arms bundled across her chest. “Who are you, anyway? I don’t even know your name.”

“Lazaro Herrera.”

The name rolled off his tongue, fluid, complex, sensual. The r’s trilled, the z was accented, the vowels so rich and smoky they could have been aged whiskey.

Lazaro Herrera.

It was a name that fit him, a name that echoed of strength and muscle and power. “I think I’ll take that drink,” she whispered.

His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the glass. “Sip it. Slowly.”

His skin was warm yet his touch scalded her. She nearly dropped the glass. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged, a vague shift of his massive shoulders. “I have reasons.”

“But what did I do? You don’t even know me.”

“This isn’t about you.”

“Then what is it about?” Her voice had risen.

“Revenge.”

SHE stared at him aghast, the only sound in the house the crackle and pop of the fire.

Zoe shook so badly that brandy came sloshing up and over the rim of her glass. Her mouth felt parched. It tasted ridiculously like cotton. She swallowed roughly, trying to think of something—anything—to say.

Revenge. Revenge against…whom?

But she couldn’t ask because she knew she wasn’t prepared for the truth, wasn’t prepared to hear the words he’d say. She knew somehow that his answer would impact Daisy, it had to impact Daisy because Daisy had married here, into the Argentine aristocracy and Daisy had become part of this world, this culture, this other life.

Sick at heart, Zoe lifted the balloon-shaped glass to her lips and took a small sip. The brandy felt cool in her mouth then turned hot as she swallowed. The warmth hit her stomach and finally seeped into her limbs.

Lazaro Herrera was right about one thing. The liquor did help. It bolstered her courage. She wrapped her hands around the glass. “Does this have to do with the Galváns?”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“You want money?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

But his answer didn’t ring true, nor did his sarcasm. There was something else driving him and she needed to understand, needed to know so she could protect Daisy. “Does Dante know about this yet?”

“He should.”

She stared down into her brandy, trying to calm herself. She couldn’t help Daisy if she lost her head. “My sister, Dante’s wife, is pregnant.”

“I know.”

“Please don’t hurt Daisy.” Her voice had thickened. The words came out hoarse. She felt the back of her eyes sting, gritty tears welling. “She’s had several miscarriages and it’s been devastating for her. She can’t lose this baby.”

He stared at her, his silver-gray eyes shuttered. “I have no desire to hurt her.”

“But you will.” Zoe didn’t know how she knew, but she knew and it made her furious. Lazaro Herrera would destroy her family and never look back.

“Things happen in life—”

“No,” she burst out, gripping the glass tightly. “You’re doing this, you’re creating this.”

“It’s complicated, corazón. Life has never been easy.”

He was sidestepping the issue, turning the argument around, and it infuriated her. She took a step toward him, her slim body rigid with tension. Her family had been through so much in the past couple of years. They’d struggled and suffered and finally, just when Daisy found some happiness, this man threatened to take it away.

“Of course life is difficult. It’s full of pain and sorrow and loss, but it’s also full of joy and love—” she broke off, realizing she was dangerously close to tears, and swallowed hard. “Don’t hurt my sister. You can’t. I won’t let you.”

He wouldn’t acknowledge what she’d said. He ignored her fury. “You’re still shivering. You need a hot bath.”

“I don’t want a hot bath. I don’t want anything from you. Not now, not ever.”

His gaze swept her face. Her face felt hot in places. She knew her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glowed overbright.

“It doesn’t exactly work that way,” he said at last. “You are my guest here. This is my house. We will be together virtually night and day the next several weeks. I suggest you get used to my company. Quickly.”

He walked out.

Zoe stood there for several moments before her muscles twitched to life. Slowly she placed the half-full brandy glass on the coffee table before wiping her damp palms on the sides of her pale traveling coat.

She remembered when she boarded the flight yesterday evening how chic she’d thought she’d looked in the long thin cream coat and cream-colored cowboy boots. She and Daisy had grown up in boots. Just like they’d grown up in the saddle, working the farm. She might look fragile, but there was nothing fragile about her.

Just her feelings, maybe.

Zoe pushed up her coat sleeve and looked at her wristwatch. Almost seven-thirty. She’d arrived in Buenos Aires over six hours ago. Daisy must be frantic.

Forehead furrowing, Zoe looked about for a phone. He’d said there was no phone but she didn’t believe him. Everyone had phones these days. She’d look for a phone jack first. The phone jack would be a dead giveaway that he’d merely unplugged the phone and hidden it away. She’d find the phone and call for help first chance possible.

“Your bath is ready.”

Lazaro had returned and he stood in the doorway. He’d changed into dark slacks and a thick dark sweater. The dense weave of the sweater flattered his hard features, softening his long crooked nose and square chin.

He almost looked human.

Almost.

“I’m not going to take a bath. I’m not going to stay here.” She left the fire, walked swiftly from the living room to the hall, holding her breath as she moved past him.

She half expected him to stop her as she reached for the door but he didn’t move. He didn’t even bat an eyelash as she yanked the heavy door open.

“It’s a long walk to town,” he said mildly. “And very dark. There aren’t any streetlights on the pampas.”