Texas Woman

Chapter 10

“YOU’RE CRAZY IF YOU THINK I’M GOING TO agree to bind myself more closely to you,” Sloan said.

“I was not asking for your permission.”

Cruz spurred his horse into a trot, and Sloan quickly kneed her mount to catch up to him.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

“We made a bargain. Tonio has been avenged. It is time you kept the promise you made to me four years ago.”

“There’s no need to say vows before a priest,” Sloan argued.

“I want no question in your mind that we are truly man and wife-that we belong to one another body and soul.”

Sloan was desperate to avoid saying marriage vows before a priest, because once Cruz married her in a church, he would never let her out of their bargain. “What if Alejandro isn’t dead?”

“He is.”

“What about Three Oaks?”

“What about it? Our agreement never depended on your inheriting Three Oaks. Even if it did, have you had word that Rip has changed his mind?”

Sloan was silent. Over the past four years, she had denied to herself that she was Cruz’s wife. He was forcing her to remove the blinders she had worn and accept the fact she was the wife of a Spanish hacendado.

She wasn’t sure which distressed her more, the fear of dealing with Cruz woman to man or the fear that she would be ceding him control of her life. At last she said, “I don’t understand why you want me for your wife.”

“It is enough that I do.”

She met his eyes and saw they blazed hot with desire. But was desire enough on which to base a marriage? She was afraid he would make her feel… things… she didn’t want to feel ever again.

There was always, lingering at the back of her mind, the thought that he was Tonio’s brother. She had given herself fully, freely to Tonio. She doubted she could ever do so with another man.

Cruz pulled his horse to a stop next to Sloan and reached over with his free hand to gently brush back an errant strand of sable hair from her face. “Do not look so troubled, Cebellina. You have been mine for four years. The words of the priest will only bless our union.”

“Cruz, this marriage was a bad idea. It was conceived in desperation and born in haste. I… I’ve changed my mind. I want an annulment.”

“No.”

“No? Just like that? No?”

“Just like that. No.”

“Can’t you see this isn’t going to work? I can’t be what you want in a wife.”

“You are exactly what I want. I admire your courage, your strength of will, your intelligence.” He paused and grinned. “And, of course, your beauty.”

“I’m a terrible mother,” she said.

“No, Cebellina, you are not. You gave up your child because of a great hurt. Your heart is full of love for-”

“I don’t love you!”

His eyes met hers and he said simply, “But I love you.”

Cruz would have said more except Betsy began wriggling in his arms. “Easy, niña.”

Betsy reached out for Sloan, speaking with her eyes and her hands rather than her voice.

Sloan angled her horse closer to Cruz’s and opened her arms for the little girl. Betsy launched herself from Cruz’s lap, and Sloan caught her in mid-air, pulling her close. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Rest now.” Betsy quickly settled in Sloan’s lap.

“If she gets too heavy for you, I will take her again,” Cruz said. “A child looks good in your arms, Cebellina. I look forward to seeing you growing round with a child of ours.”

“I don’t know whether I want more children.”

Cruz said nothing, but Sloan watched his hands tighten on the reins until his knuckles were white. She hadn’t even come to terms with the possibility of lying beneath him as his wife, let alone bearing his child.

“Could we discuss this marriage business?” Sloan asked.

“What did you have in mind?”

“We could forget about the priest and-”

“I won’t compromise on that,” Cruz said flatly. “If you want to suggest ways we can be happier married to one another, then I am willing to listen.”

“Very well,” Sloan said. “To start with, I’m used to doing as I please.”

“Your days are yours to fill,” Cruz said. “The nights belong to me.”

Sloan felt her cheeks pinken. She cleared her throat and said, “And exactly how am I to fill my days? All I know is cotton. Dolorosa caters to cattle.”

“That is entirely up to you. There are many things that must be done on a ranch the size of Dolorosa. Of course, you will have the house-”

“Your mother takes care of the house,” Sloan interrupted.

“You can spend time with your son.”

“At Three Oaks I was responsible for managing an entire plantation. While the needs of one small boy must surely be great, they can’t begin to compare with what I’m used to doing.”

“Then you can spend some time with me learning to run Dolorosa.”

Cruz was surprised at the words he had spoken. Yet he was not sorry he had said them. His friends would have found the idea of including their wives in their ranching business repugnant.

Yet because of the way Sloan had been raised, she would be able to understand and share both his worries and his triumphs in a way no ordinary woman could.

Sloan was appalled at how enticing she found Cruz’s suggestion. To spend the days with him, to share his burdens and his successes… It almost sounded too good to be true.

Yet even if it were, she had ties to Three Oaks that couldn’t be so easily dismissed. Would she feel the same sense of satisfaction from watching Dolorosa grow and prosper?

“I admit your idea sounds good,” Sloan conceded. “And I’m willing to give it a try. But I have another suggestion.”

“I am listening.”

“I will be your wife.” Sloan licked her lips nervously and continued, “But I want your promise that after, say, six months or so, if it doesn’t look like it’s working out, I can leave.”

Cruz was silent for so long Sloan wondered if he had heard what she’d said. Then she noticed the furrows on his brow and the rigidity of his body. He had heard, all right. He just didn’t like what he’d heard.

Cruz knew that Sloan fully expected to be unhappy at Dolorosa. In essense, she was offering him six months of marriage in exchange for the favor he had done for her four years ago. He could refuse. After all, it was not part of the bargain they had made.

But he was willing to gamble that her feelings for him, and for her son, ran deeper than she thought. He was willing to gamble that in six months she would not want to leave.

“I will agree to your suggestion,” Cruz said, “with one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That you will give yourself to me as openly and honestly as you gave yourself to my brother.”

Sloan gasped. “I can’t! I won’t take the risk-”

“The risk of what? That you might fall in love again?” Cruz challenged. “I want the same chance my brother had. If you will not give it to me, I will have to take what I can get. And that means marriage on my terms.”

Sloan was upset and didn’t try to hide it. “You’re asking me to do something I swore I would never do again. I can’t promise you I’ll be totally open and honest with you because I’m not sure I can be. You can’t wipe the slate clean, Cruz. You can’t be first. I can’t give my innocence twice!”

“Then promise to give me what you can, Cebellina. That will have to be enough.”

Sloan was silent for a long time. At last she said, “All right. I’ll give you what I can.”

He had already gotten more from her than she knew. He pulled his horse to a stop. “In six months, the choice is yours-to go or to stay. You have my word on it.”

He held out his hand to her, and Sloan solemnly shook it. Then he turned her hand palm upward and kissed it. An arrow of pleasure darted up her arm.

“You don’t play fair,” she said.

He smiled roguishly. “I play to win.”

As they rode onward, Sloan realized she no longer felt trapped. Of course, the relief she felt hinged entirely on Cruz’s word that he would only hold her to the new bargain.

The strange thing was, she believed him. She frowned. Despite her protestations that she could trust no man, it seemed she had trusted Cruz. And so far he had not betrayed that trust.

She looked sideways at him from under lowered lashes. That would bear thinking about.

Cruz took her to the primarily Spanish-speaking Texas town of Gonzales, northeast of San Antonio along the Guadalupe River, where one of the few priests to be found in the Republic, Father Vicente Delgado, was known to be.

They found the priest in a one-room adobe house at the far edge of town, giving last rites to an old Mexican woman who had her loved ones gathered round her. When Father Delgado at last made the sign of the cross, someone whispered in his ear, and he looked beyond the crowd to the tall man at the rear. Slowly, he made his way toward Cruz.

“We have come to seek your services, Padre,” Cruz said.

“Let us go where we can talk in comfort,” Father Delgado replied.

He led Sloan and Cruz, who was once again carrying Betsy, down the dusty street to a small adobe structure and gestured them inside. The house had two rooms, one in front and one in back, separated by a striped blanket that had been hung between the two. It reminded Sloan of the house where her sister Bay lived.

It was almost dusk, and Father Delgado lit a candle on the table in the front room. He pointed to a narrow cot to one side. “You may lay the child down there if you like,” he said to Cruz.

Cruz started to set Betsy down, but she grasped his neck and wouldn’t let go. “I will hold her,” he said with a rueful smile.

“Then sit here.” Father Delgado gestured Sloan and Cruz to a bench on one side of the simple wooden table, then sat down on the opposite bench.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

“We want you to marry us,” Cruz said.

“Certainly. I will arrange to read the banns-”

“Tonight.”

“But, señor, I cannot-”

Cruz handed a small pouch full of coins to the priest. “Surely, Father, it is possible to get a dispensation in special circumstances.”

Father Delgado looked from Cruz to Sloan to the child in Cruz’s arms and asked, “Are there special circumstances?”

“Only that we wish to be together as man and wife,” Cruz admitted solemnly. “Will you marry us?”

The priest weighed the small rawhide bag in his hand. The people of his church needed money, but that was not the only, or even the most important, reason he decided to grant the hacendado’s wishes. He knew from the look in the man’s eyes that he would not wait the weeks until the banns had been read before he sought out the woman. Perhaps he could do them both a service, and serve God as well, if he removed the reason to sin from their paths.

“Yes, I will marry you, my children.”

Father Delgado watched the faces of the two young souls before him and saw that his announcement had brought neither of them great joy. The hacendado looked grimly satisfied. The woman looked grimly resigned. They both looked grimly determined.

Father Delgado sighed inwardly. He was tempted to withdraw his offer to marry them, but one look at the hacendado convinced him that trouble lay that way. He sighed aloud. He would join them in the eyes of God, and pray to the Good Lord to guide them to earthly happiness.

“Do you have a place to stay in Gonzales?” the priest asked.

“We will find something,” Cruz said.

“May I offer my humble dwelling for your comfort?”

“We would not want to intrude-”

“It is no intrusion,” Father Delgado assured Cruz. “I promised to sit with the family of Señora Santiago for a while, so you are welcome to use my home to refresh yourselves before the wedding. And I will be perfectly comfortable on the small cot I keep at the mission. I will have no need of my bed here tonight.”

“Then, yes, we would be glad to stay,” Cruz said.

“Are you hungry?” the priest asked.

Cruz looked to Sloan, who admitted, “A little.”

“I’m hungry,” Betsy volunteered loudly.

Sloan smiled and reached over to embrace the little girl, which meant putting her arms around Cruz as well. She felt the muscles of his arms bunch under his wool shirt, and she turned her face up to find his eyes hooded with need.

She forced her gaze back to Betsy’s face. “We’ll have to get you something to eat,” she murmured to the child.

Sloan’s thoughts weren’t on food, however, but on hunger of a different sort altogether.

The sound of Father Delgado clearing his throat brought Sloan upright. She shook her head slightly as though to clear it.

“I am afraid the fare I have is simple, but it is nourishing,” Father Delgado said. “You will find pinto beans cooking out back on the fire and corn tortillas and a bit of cabrito in the cupboard over there.” He gestured across the table.

“Cabrito?” Sloan whispered to Cruz.

“Roasted goat,” Cruz whispered back.

Sloan just had time to straighten the wrinkle of disgust on her nose before the priest turned back and said, “Eat, take time to prepare yourselves, and meet me in the church when it comes full dark.”

Shortly after the priest left, a young Mexican girl arrived with some clothing for Sloan.

“Father Delgado’s wedding gift to you,” the girl said.

Sloan could not imagine how or where the priest had so quickly obtained the garments, but she was grateful she would not have to be married wearing pants and boots.

She went into the back bedroom and, with Betsy’s help, dressed herself for her wedding. She first put on the white embroidered camisa, with its lace trim along the square neck and the short, gathered sleeves. Then she added the matching white cotton skirt with its colorful embroidered border of tiny pink roses and trailing green vines along the bottom hem. A set of ivory combs held her hair back from her face, which was then framed by a delicate white lace mantilla. Simple leather sandals adorned her feet.

Since the night was cool, Father Delgado had also provided a triangular shawl with the same beautiful pattern of pink roses and vines embroidered on it. The long fringe on the shawl felt silky against her arms when she wrapped herself in it.

Sloan stayed as long as she could in the bedroom, but the hour until dark passed with all the speed and raging turmoil of a prairie fire. At last she stepped past the striped curtain into the front room to greet Cruz.

“Isn’t she bee-you-ti-ful?” Betsy said from her hiding place behind Sloan’s skirt.

“Very beautiful,” Cruz agreed with a smile. Sloan’s eyes were the warmest brown he had ever seen, her lips soft and berry-red. The simple peasant wedding blouse framed her smooth shoulders, leaving her throat bare and exposing the racing pulse beneath her ear. The skirt emphasized her narrow waist and womanly hips and exposed her slim ankles. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to smooth the blouse off her shoulders and skim the skirt down her supple legs. He forced himself to patience. Soon she would be his wife in fact as well as name and he could do with her as he wished.

He brought his hand out from behind his back and handed Sloan a small bouquet of wildflowers. “I thought you might like to carry these.”

As their fingers touched, a bolt of desire streaked through Sloan. She quickly accepted the flowers and brought them up to her face to hide her growing blush of pleasure. She inhaled the pungent sweetness, meeting Cruz’s gaze over the top of the bouquet.

His eyes were hooded with desire, his nostrils flared, as if to catch the scent of the wild blossoms-or the scent of her.

Betsy broke the thread of tension growing between them when she demanded, “Is it time to go yet?”

Cruz reached out and lifted the little girl into his arms. “Sí, niña.” He turned to Sloan and asked, “Shall we go?”

“I suppose so,” she replied, unable to keep the nervousness from her voice.

Now that the moment of truth was upon her, Sloan realized the enormity of the step she was about to take. When she entered the candlelit Spanish adobe mission with Cruz at her side, her heart was in her throat. She had been baptized Catholic at her mother’s insistence, then raised Protestant by Rip after her mother’s death.

She knew little of the Latin ritual that was to come, only that its very strangeness lent it potency in her mind. She followed Cruz’s lead, dipping into the font of holy water after him, crossing herself when he did, even bending her knee in a mirror of his genuflection.

They walked slowly down the aisle of the church to the altar, where an imposing wooden cross bearing the carved figure of an agonizingly crucified Jesus drew her eye. As he had promised, Father Delgado was waiting for them.

Attempts to seat Betsy elsewhere were met with quite vocal resistance, and so the three of them, Cruz, Sloan, and Betsy, knelt on the velvet padded bench before the altar.

Sloan folded her hands with the flowers between them and rested them along the wooden rail, then bowed her head as the priest began to drone his Latin refrain.

She dipped her nose into the flowers to counter the overwhelming odor of incense that reminded her of the painful confrontation she’d had with Doña Lucia at Tonio’s bier.

She heard Cruz murmuring a response in Latin, but let her eyes drift to the flickering candles along either side of the altar.

The candles mesmerized her, sending her back to a night long ago, when she and Cricket and Bay were children. There had been a bad thunderstorm, and Cricket and Bay had come racing to her room to huddle under the covers with her until the worst of it had passed. She had lit a candle and with that single bit of illumination they had waited out the storm together. They had talked of their dreams for the future.

“I’m going to spend my whole life doing exactly what I want,” Cricket had said.

“What’s that?” Sloan asked.

“Having fun!” Cricket replied with a laugh.

“I’m going to meet a handsome man who’ll carry me away on his magnificent black stallion,” Bay said, her violet eyes dreamy.

“Who would want a tall, skinny thing like you?” Cricket teased.

“The man I love will simply die for a woman with violet eyes and flaming red hair,” Bay said with great dignity. “The rest of me won’t matter.”

Cricket broke into hysterical guffaws, and Sloan smiled.

“It’s your turn, Sloan,” Bay said.

“I’m going to make Three Oaks the biggest and best cotton plantation there ever was.”

“That’s not a dream, Sloan,” Cricket objected. “A dream is supposed to be what you would do if you could have anything you want. Tell us something that doesn’t have to do with Three Oaks.”

Sloan had remained silent for a moment and then said, “I would be married in a beautiful white gown in a church where every planter from up and down the Brazos had gathered to watch and admire me.”

“What does your husband look like?” Cricket asked.

“Let’s see. He has blue eyes-”

“-filled with love for you,” Bay interrupted, violet eyes still dreamy.

“How did you know?” Sloan said with a grin. “And a mouth so kissable I’ll be tempted to-”

When Cruz touched her hand, Sloan jumped, torn abruptly from her daze. She looked up and found a well of wanting in his deep blue eyes. His lips were full and inviting. She slowly leaned toward him and then caught herself.

The dreams of a child were only that, she told herself firmly. Dreams. This was a very different reality.

Cruz gestured with his head toward the priest, and she looked up into the benevolent bearded face that was all of the elderly man that showed, shrouded as he was in his robes. The priest spoke to her in Latin, but the words meant nothing. She turned back to Cruz, her eyes questioning.

“You must make your vows now,” he said. “Father Delgado is asking if you will consent to take me as your husband.”

For a moment it was all Sloan could do not to rise and flee the church. She gripped her hands more tightly together around the bouquet of vivid wildflowers and asked, “What do I have to say?”

“He will tell you the words. Repeat them after him.”

And so, in a language she didn’t understand, Sloan repeated the words that bound her to Cruz, body and soul.

After he stopped speaking, Father Delgado made the sign of the cross and Cruz leaned over to brush his lips against Sloan’s.

“Are we done yet?” Betsy asked.

“We are done,” Father Delgado said with a smile. “And I must say you were a very good girl through it all.”

“Sloan promised she would give me some buñuelos if I was good,” Betsy said.

“It’s almost bedtime for you,” Sloan said.

“I’m not tired,” Betsy chirruped. “I want to eat my buñuelos now. I can go to bed anytime.”

Cruz laughed ruefully. Bed was exactly where he wanted to be right now, and not because he was tired, either. Betsy’s presence complicated matters. But in Texas one learned to adapt.

Father Delgado walked back to his adobe house with them to join in a celebratory cup of wine and to make sure Betsy got her buñuelos. The priest seemed totally unaware of Cruz’s impatience to bid him farewell. Having found a new ear, the priest readily told several of his favorite stories.

The evening passed quickly and eventually Sloan laid Betsy down in the big bed in the back room to sleep.

She and Cruz visited a little longer with Father Delgado before a yawn from Sloan caused the priest to say, “You are tired, señorita-no, no. Now it is Señora Guerrero. Forgive me. I was selfishly enjoying the conversation without any thought for-”

“I was enjoying it too, Father, but it has been a long day.” Sloan rose from the hard bench at the table and surreptitiously rubbed her bottom to bring some feeling back into it. She caught Cruz’s amused gaze.

They shared a secret smile before Cruz turned to Father Delgado and said, “I am ready to ask that favor of which we spoke earlier.”

“Certainly, my son. I will watch the child for you. Do not worry about her. Not at all. I will have everything well in hand.”

“Gracias, Padre.” Cruz slipped his arm around Sloan’s waist and headed her toward the door without giving her a chance to object.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sloan hissed as they reached the darkness beyond the doorway. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

“There is already someone in your bed.”

“So I’ll join her.”

“On our wedding night?” Cruz asked, his brows raised.

“It’s just one night.”

“A very special night, Cebellina. One night above all others.”

“I don’t see what makes it so special.”

“This.”

Sloan felt Cruz’s hand curve possessively around her waist, drawing her to a halt, while his fingertips tipped her chin up for the briefest brush of his lips against hers.

“And this.”

His lips came down again, this time with fierce possession, branding her as his own. Sloan didn’t know what to do with her hands. She had the urge to touch him, yet his only contact with her was the hand at her waist and the urgent press of his lips against hers. He turned his head, and his mouth left hers to caress her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose, and then her lips again.

Cruz heard the moan in his wife’s throat and slanted his mouth onto hers, his tongue teasing her lips apart. Her mouth was warm and sweet… and willing. But no more than that.

It wasn’t enough.

He wanted her to feel the same wild, insatiable need he felt. When the time came that they joined their bodies at last as man and wife, he wanted her to desire him as she had never desired another man… as she had never desired his brother.

Sloan felt a sense of desolation as Cruz eased his mouth away. She shivered as he traced her damp lower lip with his thumb.

“Come with me, Cebellina.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where we can be alone.”

He reached his hand out to her, and she took it. He led her to the edge of town and beyond, to a grassy valley. It was clear this was where he had come for the wildflowers, for they abounded here, their faces folded to the moonlight.

She realized now that he had planned to bring her here all along, for he quickly retrieved a rolled-up blanket that had been tucked in the hollow of a gnarled live oak and spread it across the dewy ground. He took her hand and helped her sit down on the square of striped wool, and then he joined her.

They faced one another, filling their senses with each other.

“You are even more beautiful in the moonlight.” Cruz gently cupped her face with his hand.

Sloan leaned into his palm, wanting his gentleness. It was a light touch, the touch of a man dealing with innocence rather than experience. For that, Sloan thanked him from the bottom of her heart.

“Four years is a long time,” she murmured. “A lifetime.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said, his voice warm and a little husky.

“Father Delgado-”

“Father Delgado does not expect us back before dawn.”

She smiled, and he let his fingers trace the line of her curving lips. His branding touch made Sloan ache with need. With every caress, every kiss, he claimed her for his own. She learned the texture of his lips-hard and then so, so soft-and savored the flavor of his mouth-tobacco and wine and something distinctly Cruz.

She was hardly aware that Cruz had coaxed her down so she was lying beneath him. His hand found her collarbone and traced it, then slipped down to the swell of her breast above her camisa. He untied the bow that held the gathered blouse and loosened the cloth. She could see it surprised him to find she was wearing nothing underneath.

He eased the cloth down and away, exposing her to his gaze. “What a wonder you are, querida.” When he captured her naked breast with his hand, Sloan froze.

He stayed exactly as he was, waiting for her to accept his claim. “Te adoro, Cebellina,” he murmured in her ear.

It felt too good. How could it feel so good? She had thought Tonio had given her all the pleasure a woman could feel. He had said so, had he not?

But it was as nothing compared to what she felt now. Sloan bit her lower lip to stifle her cry of dismay. She almost could not bear the comparison, because it made her realize what a very gullible young woman she had been.

She sought out Cruz’s hand on her breast and traced the heavy knuckles, the slender fingers, all of them making up a hand that possessed incredible strength but touched her with tenderness.

Why was she fighting this? She wanted him to touch her. He was her husband. It was his right to touch her in any way he pleased. And that he chose to please her, well, she would be a fool indeed not to recognize the difference between what Tonio had given her and what Cruz was offering.

She ignored her pounding heart and pressed gently on the back of Cruz’s hand, hoping he would realize she liked what he was doing and wished him to continue.

She felt her body tensing with anticipation as his fingers began to move slowly, gently finding the rosy tip of her breast and teasing it until she groaned deep in her throat from the pleasure. She writhed upward under him, wanting his mouth on her breast, wondering how it would feel, but too shy to ask for it.

As if sensing her need, he lowered his head to possess her.

His tongue came searching first, barely touching her nipple. She hissed out a breath of air. He teased her, licking, then withdrawing, until at last she grasped his hair in both hands and wouldn’t let him go.

When she heard him chuckle, she stiffened.

He immediately lifted his head to look at her. “What is wrong, Cebellina?”

“Are you laughing at me?” she whispered. “At my… at my need…”

“It is joy I am feeling, Cebellina, that is all,” he said urgently.

She stared into his hooded eyes, silvery-blue in the moonlight and saw no sign of the ridicule she had feared was the source of his laughter. She found only wonder and delight… and desire.

“I… I want to touch you,” she said. “Will you take off your shirt?”

He sat up and slipped off the plain wool shirt he had worn to their wedding. She stared at his chest, liking the whorls of thick black hair that covered his bronzed skin. She reached out without thinking and threaded her fingers into the wiry mass.

“It’s so soft!” she exclaimed. “I’d forgotten how-”

He stiffened against her hand and she realized her mistake. She had reminded them both that this was not her first time with a man. Cruz was second. His brother had come first.

She awkwardly withdrew her hand.

Cruz was the one who reached out again. He took her hand and placed it back on his chest. His voice was commanding. “Touch me, querida. Feel that I am different. Feel that I am not my brother.”

She looked up into his sapphire eyes and found a gleam of savage possession. He demanded her acquiescence, and she discovered she had no choice except to obey him. Her lips followed where her hands led.

“Your skin is so warm. And salty,” she murmured. She brushed her cheek against his chest, liking the feel of his rough hair and the hard muscle beneath it. She heard the pounding of his heart, racing at least as fast as her own.

Her hands roved over his sinewy shoulders, down his strong, heavily veined forearms. Then she placed them on his chest and ran them tauntingly through the whorls of crisp black hair, following the triangle down his stomach to its apex at the line of his trousers.

“Take them off,” she ordered, her voice teasing.

“Take off your skirt,” he replied.

She looked up into his face only to find all playfulness gone. His lambent gaze held hers as he slowly stripped off her skirt and pantalets. A moment later he had bared his powerful body. From beneath lowered lashes, Sloan surveyed his broad chest, his narrow waist, his lean flanks, and that other masculine part of him that demanded attention.

“You are so…” Sloan didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help comparing him to Tonio.

Tonio had been a boy. Cruz was a man.

“Come, Cebellina. It is time we became man and wife.”

He played her body like a harp, finding the sweetest notes, plucking the strings, fanning them, then plucking them again. Holding her, stroking there, strumming high and low, he orchestrated their love song, until the music had caught them both in a crescendo of excitement.

With every touch, he branded her as his own, demanding that she be his, and his alone.

Their sweat-damp bodies clung, and Sloan shivered as Cruz moved over her, pressing her down on the blanket, raising her hands over her head and capturing her wrists with one hand. He quickly spread her thighs with his knee and lowered himself onto her. She felt the press of his engorged shaft seeking entrance, and panicked.

“Cruz, no! I-”

With a single thrust he was inside her. She was slick and wet, and it was impossible to deny that she had wanted him, that she had been more than ready for him.

“It is done. You are mine.”

The look on his face was fiercely possessive as he tilted her hips and seated himself deeper inside her, laying claim to her. He stroked slowly, drawing out the pleasure.

Sloan felt herself rising higher and higher, driven by the frenzied music of love.

Cruz’s body clamored for satisfaction; he denied it. She must know she belonged only to him; she must accept his possession. His mouth found Sloan’s and he mimed the action of his hips.

He heard the grating, almost animal cries of satisfaction that ground from Sloan’s throat as she arched upward. He felt her body squeezing tight around him, strains of sweet satisfaction rolling over her, and spilled his seed inside her with a cry of exultation.

Cruz lay atop Sloan, their chests moving in tandem as they labored to bring enough air to ease breathlessness.

“That was… incredible,” Sloan said.

“Querida, mi amor, mi vida,” he whispered in her ear. “Te quiero.”

Sloan didn’t know what to say in response to his fervent declaration of love. He must know she couldn’t say the words in return. Because she didn’t love him. Sloan shivered, suddenly aware of the cool night air.

Cruz slipped off her and pulled the blanket around them both. He turned her into his arms, his breath moist against her temple. “Do not worry, Cebellina. The feelings will come.”

“And if they don’t?”

Cruz settled her head on his shoulder, his arm firmly surrounding her, as they gazed up at the moon and stars together. He kissed her temple, and then her mouth. “Let us leave tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow. Tonight is ours to enjoy.”