The Spaniard's Passion

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She flinched at his scathing tone. “Whenever I’ve asked for anything, it was for Clive.” Two years after their wedding, Clive had been overseas when war broke out in the small Third World country, and the government in power, under siege, closed the small airport, trapping Clive in the middle of the turmoil.

“But you did ask me to help.”

So Lon was right again. Pop the champagne. A celebration was in order. Long live King Lon. He never screwed up…well, not after messing up the first twenty years of his life.

“I wasn’t going to lose Clive.” She lifted her chin, stared Lon down, heart burning, rage consuming her. Clive had managed to call her a day after the airport closed, and while he talked all she could hear was the rata-tat-tat of gunfire in the background. He’d called to tell her goodbye, but Sophie had refused to accept defeat, refused to think her marriage would end so ingloriously.

She’d tracked down Alonso, and even though it’d been years since they’d last spoken, he agreed to do what he could.

Sophie had never asked what that meant. But she’d known that he would rescue Clive. She knew with his courage, his international business, and his many connections, he could do what most people couldn’t. And he had. He’d plucked not just Clive—but forty-some other European and Australian nationals—from the middle of the violent coup and brought them home again.

“But that wasn’t the only time,” Lon said softly. “When have I ever told you no, Sophie?”

Her eyes closed in admission and defeat. Twenty-four months ago Lon stepped in again when Clive died in Brazil.

Lon had taken care of everything from getting Clive’s body returned to England to squashing the rumors circulating after Clive’s death. Unidentified sources claimed that Lord Clive Wilkins had been involved in something shady in South America, and Lon had nipped that gossip in the bud.

Laughter echoed once more from the ballroom. Sophie turned her head slightly, listening to the sounds of the party. She should be there. She should go. But she didn’t move. It was as if Alonso held her captive, an invisible chain tethering her to him.

But she hated the chain. Feared it, even. He would control her, hold her, bind her to him forever if she gave him the chance. And as seductive as it sounded, she couldn’t do it, couldn’t give in to it.

Sophie looked at him. She might as well have reached out and touched him. Hot, painful sensation shot through her, a ricochet of love and lust. He was still so big. His tuxedo did little to diminish his height or hide his brawny strength. Gladiator, Clive had once whispered to her, mocking Alonso’s size and strength. Spartacus, she added, giggling, feeling safe with Clive, so secure.

The room crackled with tension. Lon could be a savage. She knew the lengths he would go to—knew that when Clive was in danger only Lon would have the heart and guts to get him out. And she felt the wild, savage streak now. Heard it in the implacable edge in his voice. Saw it in the hard glint in his eyes.