The Secret Mistress

Passion Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN Copyright

“What do you want from me, Luis?”

“What I had before.”

Shontelle’s mind fragmented under the force of his apparent desire to repeat the passion they’d shared. Some tattered shreds of reason shrieked that he was only playing with her.

“What do you mean?” she cried.

“I mean to seize the day, Shontelle. Or, to put it more graphically...the night. I want one more taste of you.”

Shock waves slammed through her. One more taste.... Only one....

“Not such a difficult deal, is it?” Luis taunted. “Just a matter of giving me what you gave of yourself two years ago...in your desire to get what you wanted of me.”

“I didn’t get what I wanted then,” she protested, her voice thin and shaky under the appalling weight of devastated hopes.

A savage fury flared into his eyes. “Was I not all you wanted of a Latin lover?” His mouth curled with cruel intent. “Well, let me try not to disappoint you tonight.”

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The Secret Mistress

Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Lew Pulbrook, whose INCA TOURS of South America inspired this book and provided all of the background material in it. Many, many thanks to Lew and Kristy for sharing their knowledge and experience, while showing me and all “The Amigos” a fantastic and fascinating part of the world.

CHAPTER ONE

LUIS ANGEL MARTINEZ was feeling good as he rode the elevator up to his hotel suite. He’d completed the business he’d come to La Paz to do, he’d dined well, the current crisis in the city provided him with the perfect excuse for missing his own engagement party, and his mother—widely regarded as the wealthiest and most powerful woman in Argentina—couldn’t do one damned thing about it.

He couldn’t help smiling.

The two young women who were sharing the elevator—their accents and clothes marking them as tourists from the U.S.A.—turned interested, hopefully inviting eyes on him. Luis instantly killed the smile. Black scorn blazed from his dark eyes, shrivelling their speculation, and his whole body stiffened in proud rejection of whatever fantasies they nursed.

He despised the foreign women who tripped around, looking for sexual adventure, and he most particularly hated being viewed as a possible Latin lover. He might look the part, having the dark olive skin and black hair of his Spanish heritage, with the added attraction of a taller, more powerful physique than the average South American male, but he sure as hell would never get drawn into playing the part. He’d been burnt once. Once was more than enough for him.

The elevator halted. He glared balefully at the back of the two blonde heads as the women made their exit. Not that their fairness compared in any way to the silky sun and moon mixture of Shontelle’s hair, but the minds under the hair probably held the same attitude towards sampling one of the natives for the pleasure of a new carnal experience.

Not me, ladies, he savagely beamed at them before the doors shut and the elevator resumed its upward climb. His mother was right on one score. Best to tie himself to a woman of his own race, own culture, own background. No nasty surprises with that kind of matchmaking. All smooth sailing. Especially with Elvira Rosa Martinez at the helm, steering everything as she saw fit.

Except she hadn’t counted on this little squall blowing up in Bolivia, causing him to miss the engagement party she had planned behind his back.

Unavoidable circumstances.

The absolutely perfect excuse.

The thought restored Luis’ good humour. He was smiling again as the elevator opened onto his floor and he headed for his private suite. No one could validly question his staying right here. It was literally impossible for him to get out of La Paz without running into trouble.

After yesterday’s violent march of the farmers through the streets, Bolivia was boiling up to yet another change of government. The airport was closed. A curfew had been imposed. The military had taken over the city.

Safely and comfortably ensconced in the Plaza Hotel, Luis was not in the least perturbed by these events. Bolivia was Bolivia, renowned for having more changes of government than any other country, five in one day in recent history. The volatile political situation would eventually blow over and life would go on as usual.

He entered his well-appointed suite, closed the door on all the outside problems, and moved to the mini-bar, deciding one or two more celebratory drinks were in order.

Of course, a second engagement party would be arranged, although he’d insist on doing it himself—his way—next time. This minor reprieve was only a postponement of the inevitable. He was thirty-six years old, time for him to marry, time for him to start a family. It was also time for his mother to step right out of his affairs.

She’d undoubtedly be stewing with frustration over this further delay to a public announcement of her most cherished ambition—the tying of the Martinez fortune to that of the Gallardo family. Do her good, Luis thought with intense satisfaction. She was far too fond of pushing.

She’d picked Claudia Gallardo out for him very shortly after his brother’s death. Luis had scoffed at the idea—a schoolgirl! She’d be groomed to suit him, to grace their social position, to uphold all the traditional virtues of a wife, his mother had argued. I’ll choose my own wife, he’d tossed back at her at the time, but he really didn’t care anymore, not since Shontelle—that green-eyed witch—had chewed him up and spat him out.

He took ice and a lime from the refrigerator, lined up the bottle of Caipirinha, and wished he could blot the memory of Shontelle Wright right out of existence. Because of her...after her...he’d wanted more than just a suitable wife. He’d wanted to feel...

But maybe he didn’t have any passion left in him, so what did it matter if his marriage bed wasn’t as warm as he’d like it? Stupid to keep holding out for something he might never experience again. He would make the commitment to Claudia soon enough. She was willing. He was willing. Together they’d beget another line of heirs and heiresses. Surely he’d feel something for his children.

Nevertheless, it was one thing resigning himself to the destiny mapped out for him, another to be relentlessly pressed into it. Although he’d finally put his rebellious years behind him and shouldered the responsibilities that would have been his older brother’s, had Eduardo lived, Luis did not want his mother thinking she could rule his life. He was glad—yes, glad—he couldn’t fly back to Buenos Aires to keep her timetable, however reasonable it was.

Claudia would undoubtedly wait submissively.

She did everything... submissively.

Luis grimaced. Sometimes he suspected it was an act, deliberately put on to give him the sense of being on top. Respected. Honoured. King of his kingdom. But, so what? At least he knew where he was with Claudia.

He dropped the wedges of lime into his glass, mashed sugar into them, added the ice and drowned the lot with Caipirinha. Sweet and sour—like life, he thought. The telephone rang as he stirred the drink. Carrying the glass with him, he moved to pick up the nearest receiver, cynically wondering if his mother had found a danger-free way out of La Paz for him.

“Luis Martinez,” he rolled out carelessly.

“Luis, it’s Alan Wright. Please...don’t hang up. It’s taken me hours to track you down and I desperately need your help.”

The quick, taut plea stilled what would normally have been an automatic reaction. Luis had no wish to see, hear, or have any contact with the man whose sister had taken him for no more than a lump of tasty Latin meat. The heat of deeply lacerated pride instantly burned through him.

“What kind of help?” he snapped, angry with himself for even hesitating over cutting off his former friend.

“Luis, I have a tour group caught here in La Paz. We were due to fly to Buenos Aires yesterday. God knows when the airport will be reopened. They’re frightened, panicky, and some are suffering from altitude sickness. I need a bus to get them out. I’ll drive it. I thought you might be able to provide it.”

A bus.

It conjured up old memories—a much younger, wilder Alan, driving a beaten-up bus through the Amazon jungle to the mining operation where Luis had been sent for safekeeping, away from the troubles in Argentina. Alan had worked there for six months, more or less swapping his mechanical skills for the spare parts he needed to get his bus roadworthy enough to set up his own tour business.

An Australian, in love with South America—nothing was going to stop Alan Wright from selling it to tourists back home. Camping trips to start with, he’d decided. Then gradually he’d build up to the bigger money stuff. Luis had admired his initiative and determination, liked his cheerful good nature, and enjoyed his company. For nine years they’d maintained an infrequent but always congenial contact with each other. If Alan hadn’t introduced his sister...

“Is Shontelle with you?”

The question slipped out, unconsidered and loaded with a long, pent-up hostility that hissed down the line.

No denial. Nothing but a fraught silence that emphatically underlined the division of their interests.

“Is she?” Luis demanded harshly, uncaring of what the other man thought, knowing he had the power to ruthlessly cut their connection without any comeback.

“Goddammit, Luis! I’ll pay you for the bus. Can’t you just deal with me?” Alan exploded, tension and urgency ripping through every word.

She was with him.

More than pride started burning through Luis Angel Martinez. Every cell of his body was hit by an electric charge. Adrenalin shot through his bloodstream. Even the sense of his sexuality leapt into powerful prominence...sharply revitalised, wanting, needing, craving the satisfaction of wringing something more from the woman who’d dismissed all they’d shared as a brief bout of lust, come to the end of its run.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“At the Europa Hotel,” came the quick, hopeful answer. “As luck would have it, just around the corner from the Plaza.”

“Very convenient!” Luis smiled. It was a smile that would have chilled the heart of anyone who saw it. “What’s the size of your tour group, Alan?”

“Thirty-two, including me.”

“I can get you a suitable bus...”

“Great!” A gush of relief.

“...And have it at your hotel, ready to go in the morning...”

“I knew if anyone could do it, you could.” Warm gratitude.

“...On one condition.”

Silence. On edge again. “What is it?” Wary.

Luis didn’t give a damn about Alan’s feelings. His friendship had probably been as self-serving as his sister’s association with him. After all, for a foreign tour operator, Luis Angel Martinez was a contact worth having in South America. He could open doors.

And shut them.

“Shontelle will have to come to my suite at the Plaza to negotiate the deal with me,” he stated blandly. “The sooner the better, for your purposes.”

“You can’t be serious!” Alan burst out. “There’s a curfew on. Army tanks are trundling around the streets and trigger-happy soldiers are everywhere. A woman alone, breaking curfew...it’s too dangerous, Luis.”

So was driving a bus out of here, Luis thought. The farmers were in revolt. They’d be blockading all the roads from La Paz. Alan was obviously prepared to take risks to get his people out, probably counting on his skill as a good talker with a dab hand at appropriate bribery. Which he could use tonight, as well, if need be. His plea on Shontelle’s behalf left Luis totally unmoved.

“You can escort her from hotel to hotel, if you like. The distance is very short and the road that links us is a cul-de-sac, hardly the place for a tank or soldiers on guard duty,” he pointed out.

“I can’t leave the group. Shontelle can’t, either. The women need her to...”

“There is a side entrance to the Plaza from the steps leading up to Prado 16 de Julio. I’ll have a man posted at the door to let her in. Let’s say...half an hour from now?”

Luis set the receiver down with firm decisiveness. He smiled again as he jiggled the ice in his drink. A responsibility to others often led to paths one wouldn’t take, given an absolutely free choice. Because he was his mother’s son, he would end up married to Claudia Gallardo. Because Shontelle was Alan Wright’s sister, she would end up in this suite tonight.

With him.

And he would take a great deal of pleasure in stripping her of more than her clothes!

CHAPTER TWO

SHONTELLE saw her brother’s jaw clench. He literally gnashed his teeth as he slammed the telephone receiver down. The violent action caused her heart to leap out of the frozen stasis that had held it for the duration of the call. The resulting pump of blood kicked reason into her mind, clearing it of the dark cloud of memories.

“What did he want?” she asked. It was obvious from the conversation that Luis had at least considered procuring the bus. It was certainly possible for him to do so. The Martinez family had fingers in many pies right across the continent; agriculture, mining, cement works, oil and gas, transport...

“Forget it!” Alan’s hand sliced the air with negative vehemence. “I’ll try something else.”

There was nothing else. Shontelle shook her head over the mess of notes on the table. They’d already been down every other avenue. The usual help Alan could tap into was not forthcoming.

She watched him steam around the sitting room of the suite they were sharing, a big man chopping up the space around her, making it feel claustrophobic with the sense of failure. Getting accommodation in The Europa, a relatively new five-star hotel, had been a coup for this tour. Now it seemed like a prison. Everyone in the tour group had lost their pleasure in its luxury, anxieties building with being trapped here. More bad news could make soothing fears and frayed tempers a very difficult, if not impossible exercise.

Alan always fought against imparting bad news to his tour groups, especially when there was no good news to make it more palatable. Normally he was a very cool operator, highly skilled at lateral thinking whenever a crisis arose, as it frequently did in South America. The ability to be flexible was paramount to bringing off a successful tour and Alan was always prepared to come up with an alternative schedule. But this time he’d found himself blocked at every turn.

He was the kind of man who hated being thwarted.

Or found wanting in any way.

So was Luis Angel Martinez, Shontelle remembered.

The two men were very alike in that respect. Kindred spirits. They’d been friends...the type of friendship where time and distance and social standing had no relevance. They might not meet for long intervals but such separations hadn’t made any difference, not over the nine years before...

Guilt wormed through Shontelle.

She had ruined it. For both of them. Blindly, wantonly, foolishly. Alan had warned her it wouldn’t work between her and Luis. Couldn’t. But she had refused to listen, refused to see...until Elvira Rosa Martinez had so very forcefully opened her ears and eyes. Then she’d been too wrapped up in her pride to realise how her exit from Luis’ life might have a bitter fallout on his friendship with her brother.

Not that Alan had told her of the consequences of her decisions. She had overheard Vicki, his wife, dryly informing an office associate they were no longer welcome on Martinez territory. The popular day trip from Buenos Aires to the ranch run by Luis’ younger brother, Patricio, had been struck from the tour.

When she’d tackled Vicki about it, the forthcoming explanation had been devastating. “Shontelle, did you really expect Luis Martinez to keep up the connection? You and Alan are not only of the same family, you even look alike.”

It was true. Alan was ten years older than her but the family likeness was unmistakable. The bone structure of their faces was the same; wide brow, high cheekbones, straight nose, clearcut chin. Alan’s top lip was thinner than hers and his eyes were not a clear green—more hazel in colour. The streaky blonde hair of his youth had darkened over the years but the variation in shade was still there. Either one of them was a physical reminder of the other, and that reminder would not be welcome to Luis Angel Martinez.

In her pride, Shontelle knew she had wounded his. It hadn’t seemed to matter at the time. But it did. She had the strong conviction it especially mattered now.

“You were talking to Luis about me,” she said, drawing Alan’s attention.

He flashed her a pained look. “He asked about you,” he answered dismissively.

“No. It was more than that.” She frowned, trying to recall what she’d heard. The call had ended abruptly, just after Alan had said it was too dangerous for a woman to be out during curfew. “Tell me what he wanted, Alan.”

“I said, forget it!” he snapped impatiently.

“I want to know. I have a right to know,” she argued. “I’m just as responsible for this tour group as you are.”

He paused in his pacing but aggression still pumped from him. His eyes glittered with a fury of frustration. “I will not have my little sister grovel to Luis Martinez for anyone!” he bit out.

More pride.

It was heart-thumpingly obvious that Luis had turned the deal for the bus into something personal. Very personal. Which again was her fault. Shontelle took a deep breath to calm a host of skittish nerves. She couldn’t let this pass. It wasn’t fair to Alan. Besides which, the tour group was depending on them to rescue them from the situation.

“I’m not little,” she pointed out determinedly. “I’m twenty-six years old and I can take care of myself.”

Alan rolled his eyes. “Sure you can! Like you did two years ago when you talked me into leaving you with Luis.”

“I’m over that. I can deal with him,” she insisted hotly.

Too much personal knowledge sliced back at her. “You didn’t want to come back to South America. You wouldn’t be on this trip but for Vicki getting glandular fever. And you were as nervy as hell while we were in Buenos Aires.”

Her cheeks burned. “I came to assist you. That’s my job.” She pushed her chair back from the table which was littered with the evidence of failed attempts at solutions. Resolution drove her to her feet. “I’ll go and talk to him.”

“No, you won’t!”

“Luis Martinez was your last resort, Alan. Two years ago he would have got you the bus, no problem. I caused the problem and I’ll deal with it.”

He argued.

Shontelle stood firm.

Nothing was going to stop her; not the curfew, not the danger—which she considered very limited with the Plaza Hotel being virtually next door—not any of Alan’s big-brotherly concerns. She’d lived with guilt and shame too long. She’d spent two years being eaten up by memories she couldn’t change or bury. Luis Martinez wanted a face-to-face meeting with her. Then let it be. Let it be.

Maybe something good would come out of it

The bus, if nothing else.

She owed Alan that.

CHAPTER THREE

GOOD intentions were all very fine when made from a safe distance. Shontelle stared at the door which led into the suite occupied by Luis Angel Martinez and her heart quailed. A suite contained a bed...

She wasn’t over him. She doubted she ever would be. Luis Angel... She’d even been besotted with his name. Dark angel, she thought now, barely suppressing a shiver. It took all her willpower to raise her hand and knock on the door.

In the next few stomach-knotting moments, Shontelle tried to steel herself against revealing the vulnerability she felt. This meeting would only be a matter of pride to the man she had to face. He undoubtedly wanted to rub in that she was the loser, not him.

Somehow she had to let that wash over her, do a bit of grovelling if need be. Remember the bus, she fiercely told herself. She had to get the bus.

At least Luis couldn’t mistake the fact she was dressed for business. Her dark red T-shirt was printed with the Amigos Tours logo and her khaki trousers with pockets running down both legs were plainly practical, as were her sturdy shoes. This was strictly a business visit.

The door opened.

And there he was, hot flesh and blood, simmering in front of her. His thick, wavy black hair was brushed away from the beautifully sculpted features of his face, as always, framing them with a kind of dark, savage splendour. His skin gleamed with almost a magnetic vitality. His deeply set eyes, lushly outlined by their double rows of lashes, projected more power than any one man should ever have.

Shontelle stood rooted to the floor, speechless, breathless, mindless, her good intentions instantly zapped out of existence. Her scalp tingled. Every millimetre of her skin tingled. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into flesh. Her toes scrunched up in her walking boots. Her heart swelled, throbbed, its heavy beat of yearning echoing through every pulse point.

She wanted him.

She still wanted him.

“Welcome back to my part of the world.”

His voice jolted her back to the chilling reality of why she was here. She’d loved his voice—its deep, rich, flowing tones—but there was no caress in it now, nothing warmly intimate. No welcome in his smile, either. The full-lipped sensual mouth that had once seduced her with such passion, was curled into a sardonic taunt, and the dark blaze of his eyes held a scorching intensity that shrivelled any hope of reviving good feelings. Or even a workable understanding.

He stepped aside to make room for her to enter, derisively waving her into his domain. For one nervejangling instant, the highly civilised Plaza suite blurred in Shontelle’s mind and the Amazon jungle leapt into it—its overwhelming sense of the primitive pressing in on her, vampire bats biting for blood, big black tarantulas hiding in trees, ready to pounce on their prey...

“Scared?” Luis mocked, his eyes raking her with contempt.

It goaded her forward. “No. Should I be?” she tossed at him as she passed by, determined on holding a brave front.

He closed the door behind her.

The metallic click felt ominous.

“Spurned Latin lovers are notoriously volatile,” he remarked, still in a mocking tone.

“A lot of water under the bridge since then, Luis,” she answered, shrugging off the implied threat and walking on through the sitting room of the suite, aiming for the big picture window on the other side of it.