Renegade With A Badge. Claire King
was stunned, not just by the soft admonition, but by the tenderness of the kiss. Did criminals kiss like this, with such soft intent? With such sweet breath, and small sounds of pleasure? Surely not. Criminals had foul breath that tasted of tequila, and they groped at innocent women, violently. They didn’t seduce with soft, sucking little kisses and careful, stroking hands and eyes closed so tightly.
Olivia’s eyes closed, too. So she could think, she told herself. So she could use her excellent, well-educated and analytical brain to get herself out of this preposterous situation. Out of this preposterous town, where men proposed marriage in front of hundreds of other people and bandits kissed like angels.
Oh, pull yourself together, she told herself, keeping her lips vised together despite the fact that the smuggler was now licking at them. Licking!
She felt her body flood in arousal, and was mortified. Such a physical reaction from such a cerebral woman. It was a bizarre case of chemical response, she knew. People in peril often reacted against character. She’d read studies in which women in very dangerous situations had formed relationships they wouldn’t normally consider…wow, was he nibbling her lower lip? Oh. Oh, dear.
Okay, okay, she didn’t have to be governed by a simple chemical reaction. So he knew how to kiss. He knew how to kiss…her. And so no one had ever kissed…her quite like this before. She was a scientist, for God’s sake. She could overcome plain old ordinary knee-jerk response, couldn’t she?
The smallest moan escaped her when the smuggler gave up on her mouth and moved to her neck.
Couldn’t she?
The doorknob turned at her back, and only then did she realize she was jammed against it. Her hands went flat against the bandit’s chest, and she shoved as hard as she could.
Rafe staggered back, staring at her. Her mouth glistened from his kiss, and her eyes, in the darkness, glittered wildly. She was as turned on as he was, he realized, stunned. He’d meant to teach her a little lesson—and this was how she reacted? Crazy woman. He was reaching for her again, desperately, when he heard the small sound.
She swiped at her mouth, as Rafe stood, paralyzed, in front of her. For the first time in his life, he had no idea where to turn. His first instinct was to grab the woman and make a run for it. He knew the instant the thought came into his head, it was insane. He had to get out, and fast. But he could not leave her. Not with Cervantes.
“Olivia?”
It was Ernesto. Olivia put her hand over the doorknob at her back, and realized she had inadvertently pressed the button on the knob with her hip, locking him out of his own room.
“Yes?” she said, her voice ringing hollow and terrified in her own ears. Why was the bandit just standing there, watching her? She wanted to scream at him to go, but she knew Ernesto would hear.
“Olivia, open the door,” Ernesto said sharply.
“Yes, all right, Ernesto,” she said, but did not move. Her eyes were locked on those of the man who had just kissed her, whom she’d very nearly kissed right back. A drug smuggler, the worst kind of man. Mortification tightened her chest, and she struggled to breathe.
“It’s dark in here,” she called through the door, stalling for time. “I’m sorry, I can’t find the light.”
“It’s next to the door,” Ernesto said impatiently. He banged on the heavy door with his fist, making Olivia jump. “Why have you locked the door?”
“Go,” she breathed. And in an instant, the dim outline of the man faded from her sight.
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, popped them open again. She’d not even heard him move, had no idea where he was.
She fumbled with the door as long as she plausibly could, and finally got it open, allowing the light from the hallway to spill into the room. She resisted looking over her shoulder to make sure the smuggler was not standing behind her.
Ernesto frowned at her. “Why are you in my room?” he asked. “And in the dark, with the door locked?” He surveyed the large room carefully from the doorway, then moved past Olivia and stalked across the tile to the thick Aubusson carpet that lay beneath the huge, dark canopy bed. “Olivia?”
Olivia snapped her attention back to him. She, too, had been scanning the room. The bandit couldn’t have simply disappeared; he had to be in the room somewhere.
“I’m sorry, Ernesto,” Olivia said. “I came up to use the powder room and I stepped in here by mistake. I didn’t even know where I was until I turned on the light. What a beautiful room.”
Her breathing was steadier now, and she folded her hands in front of her demurely, hoping Ernesto would not notice that her breasts were full, her nipples peaked against the peasant blouse, her cheeks flushed. It shamed her, her irrational reaction to the smuggler, who represented everything in the world she condemned—but she would deal with that later. In the convent she fully intended to join the instant she got home.
“It is a beautiful room,” Ernesto conceded, his eyes narrowing. He walked over to her. “Your hair is mussed. And your cheeks are pink.”
“I…I was dancing earlier,” Olivia replied with a laugh. “And I have had too much of your excellent champagne, I’m afraid.”
He scrutinized her for a minute, then, seemingly satisfied with her excuse, smiled. “Have you been enjoying yourself?” he asked softly, taking a strand of her loosened hair between his smooth fingers.
“Very much,” Olivia said brightly.
“And you like my house?”
“It’s everything a house should be, Ernesto,” she said sincerely. “You have exquisite taste.”
His face relaxed even further at the compliment. “I’m flattered, though I must admit I have decorators. I have never had a wife to advise me in matters of the home,” he said easily.
Olivia felt that prickly sensation at the back of her neck again. For heaven’s sake, now what?
Oh, Lord. How could she have forgotten? Not an hour ago, this handsome, intelligent, well-mannered and propertied man had stood in front of two hundred of his closest friends and announced he wanted to marry her.
Funny how the kiss of a bandit could make you forget the important things in life.
“Ernesto, let’s go back downstairs,” Olivia said, tugging on the sleeve of his beautiful suit. This one might just be Armani, she thought as her fingers slid over the fine fabric.
Ernesto stood his ground. “No, Olivia, not just yet,” he said, his voice husky. “I like your hair after dancing. After we are married, we will dance every night before bed. It makes you look like a wanton,” he finished with a small smile.
Which is just what I am, Olivia thought grimly. Only not with Mr. Right, here. With Mr. Utterly Wrong.
“Ernesto, we must talk about your proposal,” Olivia began.
“We will, querida.” Ernesto took her hand from his arm and drew her gently toward him. He took her chin in his hand. “I know there are many questions in your head, about your work and your duties here. But these questions will have to wait. Now, we have time only for this.” He dipped his head, grazed her jawline with his lips.
He smelled of expensive cologne and expensive champagne. Olivia fought back a repulsed shudder, and wondered why the perfect man made her want to run in the opposite direction, while the last man on earth she should want could seduce her with nothing more than his voice in the darkness.
“You look so beautiful tonight, in your Mexican peasant clothes,” Ernesto murmured. “Have I told you that?”
“Ernesto, your guests—” she protested weakly.
“We will attend to them in a moment, Olivia.” He banded one strong arm across her back and drew her against