Golden Paradise (Vincente 1) Page 21

  Valentina did not bother to deny his accusations or correct his assumption that she was accustomed to being with men. Soon Marquis would discover she knew nothing about pleasing a man; he would find out he was her first and only lover. She feared when he learned the truth he might be disappointed in her, or perhaps he would even be angry.

  Marquis moved away, and Valentina reached out for him to discover he was removing his clothing. It seemed like an eternity until he took her in his arms and gathered her tightly against his hot, naked body. Valentina felt a heat that almost choked her as his male hardness pressed against her thigh. His hands ran up and down her spine, circling, caressing, pulling her closer to paradise.

  Valentina's heart was beating so fast she thought it would burst. Even if he did no more than hold her like this, it would be enough for her to live on forever. Raising her head, her lips brushed against his cheek; reaching higher, she touched his lips with her tongue. Shyly at first, wanting to give him pleasure as he had given it to her, Valentina allowed her tongue to slide across his lower lip, then slip into his hot, moist mouth.

  Marquis groaned. His head pounded and his body cried out at the sensuous feelings that rushed through every pore of his body. His hand glided down to move between her thighs. Gently he pried her legs apart and his finger slipped into the wet, velvet softness.

  At first Valentina gasped in surprise. When his finger began moving in and out, she bit her lip to keep from crying out in pleasure. Marquis had awakened a part of her body that had never been aroused. She squirmed, trying to find relief from the feeling that was building up deep inside. Her responsive movements triggered a fevered awareness in Marquis. He could not wait—he had to take her now. Never had a woman reached inside of him and demanded so many emotions of him.

  Rolling Valentina to her back, Marquis positioned himself above her and drove deeply into the core of her body. Valentina felt a sharp, stinging pain, as if she were being ripped apart. Pressing her lips against his shoulder, she tried not to cry out in pain. As she felt Marquis's uttered oath, the pain began to abate.

  Marquis fought his way back from a raging plane of euphoria to stark reality. "My God, Jordanna, you have never been with a man before me!" he said harshly. "Why did you not tell me? What have I done?"

  She reached up and drew his head down to hers. He had filled the inside of her, and her flesh was a quivering mass. She needed him to soothe the ache that burned and twisted in her stomach. "I saved myself for just the right man," she said breathlessly, remembering just in time to speak with a French accent.

  Still Marquis paused. His manhood throbbed and ached from the feel of the wet silkiness in which it was embedded. "It is not my practice to deflower virgins, Jordanna. You should have told me you were untouched."

  "We both wanted this, Marquis. Do not feel guilty on my account." Valentina listened to the words she boldly spoke. It was as if she were two people—one the dancer, Jordanna, who would give Marquis all he wanted, and the other the confused and muddled Valentina. It was Jordanna who spoke now. "Do you not want me, Marquis?"

  He needed no more encouragement. In the soft, warm world of darkness, on a bed of cool satin, Marquis introduced the dancer Jordanna to the pleasures that a man can give a woman and, in so doing, took Valentina to heights she had never dreamed possible. No matter what happened after tonight, Valentina knew her heart would always belong to Marquis Vincente.

  Marquis instructed her on each movement. His tongue aroused and teased the nipples on her breasts. Valentina, so willing to please, so excited by each new feeling he awoke in her, gave herself over to Marquis's tutelage eagerly. She was now a complete woman, reaching plateaus of glorious new sensation, floating on a tide of passion. Her skin was sensitive to his every touch, her mouth ready for his heated kisses.

  When the storm of their passion had subsided, Valentina sighed contentedly and curled up in Marquis's arms. He hugged her tightly, knowing she had given more than any woman had ever given him. Always before when he had made love to a woman, he had wanted to leave immediately afterward. With Jordanna, he still wanted to touch her, to caress her, to hold her close to him. There was something different this time, and he did not want to analyze his feelings. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he could find the answer, but he did not want to try.

  Jordanna's lips brushed his cheek and she spoke softly. "Did I please you, Marquis? Were you disappointed with me?”

  He smiled at her completely feminine question. "Never have I been more pleased." He shifted her weight so her head was resting against his chest. "However, I should be angry at you for not telling me you had never been with a man."

  "You are not angry at me, are you?"

  "No." He chuckled. "How can I be angry with you when you have given me more than a mortal man should expect from his lady love."

  She was silent for a moment before she asked in a soft voice, "Are you saying that you love me?"

  His hesitation, was obvious. "Jordanna, love is an emotion I have had little experience with. I admire your talent; you excite me. Tonight you gave me the greatest pleasure I have ever experienced with a woman . . . but love . . . no, I do not love you or any other woman."

  "Do you love the woman you are to marry?"

  When she felt Marquis stiffen, Valentina realized she had committed a blunder—the unpardonable sin.

  "Jordanna, the one subject that you and I will never discuss is my betrothed. You are new at being a mistress so you could not know that you have committed an error."

  Valentina felt her heart break at his cruel words. He had just reminded her that she had lost her right to speak as a decent woman. Already he thought of her as his mistress. She thought of the woman who had been sitting with Marquis in the audience the first night he had seen her dance. Last night, at the hotel, Marquis had been with the same woman. At those times Valentina had thought herself better than that woman, but now she was in the same class as Marquis's mistress. So deep was her hurt that Valentina wanted to cry out in pain.

  Moving away from Marquis, Valentina rose up on her elbow. "No, I am not your mistress, Marquis—nor will I ever be. I can assure you I will never bring up your betrothed again because I don't ever intend to see you again. What happened tonight will never be repeated."

  He only laughed and pulled her back against him. "Oh, yes, it will happen again, my sweet dancer. You are only angry with me because I scolded you. You will get over it."

  "In other words, I should know my place and keep to it?" she asked heatedly.

  "I would not have put it so harshly, but yes, something like that."

  Valentina wanted to strike out at him, to hurt him as he had wounded her, but already his hands were working magic on her naked body. His lips brushed against her breasts, and she groaned in surrender. His soft, amused chuckle was lost against the loud pounding of her heart.

  This time Marquis made love to her lingeringly. He was gentle with her, and he seduced her mind as well as her body. Valentina knew she was lost when her body trembled beneath his masterful hands. She felt him move inside her, filling her heart with the joy and beauty of the joining of body and soul. Marquis was the perfect lover— he was her other half. With him, she found total fulfillment.

  Even at the moment of her ultimate surrender, Valentina realized she could never be Marquis's mistress. This night must be all they would ever have together. Her pride would not allow her to lose control again.

  His hands curved around her waist and he raised her up, kissing her long and leisurely. After Valentina could catch her breath, she spoke in an uneven voice. "I want you to leave now, Marquis."

  He kissed her and chuckled. "All right, I will leave for now, but I'll be back."

  Valentina felt him move off the bed and she could hear him pulling on his clothing. "This won't happen again, Marquis," she said, feeling she had to make him understand that she was not his to command. "I do not ever want you to come backstage to see me again."

&n
bsp; His laughter was warm as he moved across the room and opened the door. "Do not think you can keep me away now that I have felt the joys of your body, Jordanna. You would miss me and you know it."

  She heard the door close softly and buried her face in the satin covers to stifle the deep, wrenching sobs that were building within her. Her body felt strangely alive and different. Marquis had awakened her passions—he had made her a woman—but he did not own her mind. She would fight against him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  Marquis Vincente was arrogant in his belief that he could control her. She would prove him wrong!

  17

  As if moving through a dream, Valentina managed to get through the next few weeks. She had condemned herself over and over for weakening and having allowed Marquis to make love to her. How could she have been such a fool? She remembered with shame the words he had spoken when he had taken it for granted that she would become his mistress. She also remembered how defensive he had become when she had mentioned Isabel. Even though Valentina would never consent to becoming his mistress, in Marquis's mind he had already marked her as such. He believed himself better than she—to him she was no more than a strumpet.

  Valentina found some relief when she was working, for only then could she escape Salamar's probing glances. Valentina tried to elude Salamar's eyes, fearing the all-knowing Salamar would be able to read the guilt on her face.

  Valentina remembered periods when she had been a child and had been upset about something. Salamar had always told her then that time was the great healer of spirit and soul. Now Valentina wished that time would pass quickly so that she could put her shame and guilt behind her.

  She feared in her heart that if Marquis came to her again she might weaken and allow him to make love to her. She had to avoid being alone with him at all cost. He had not come to her since she had demanded that he leave her alone. Perhaps, she mused, after his conquest he had lost interest in her. She told herself that she was glad he stayed away. And yet, every time she heard a knock on her dressing room door, her heart would thunder within her, and she would rush to open it, hoping it would be Marquis. It never was.

  Valentina moved through the ensuing days and weeks with a watchful eye toward the sea. Each afternoon she would go to the docks and inquire if there had been any word about the Southern Cross.

  In the sad course of events, Evonne Barrett's fever returned and she lay weakly on the bed, wasting away before Valentina's eyes. Valentina and Salamar huddled near Evonne's bed, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. Again Doctor Cline pressed Valentina to find out some news of her father's whereabouts.

  The one thing that Valentina no longer had to worry about was money. She could pay for any comfort her mother required. She had been able to pay off all the debts her father had incurred and had been able as well to put money in the bank.

  Lately, the only time Valentina was truly happy was when she was on stage, losing herself in her dance, giving all of herself to her audience. Time passed slowly and each day marked renewed heartache for her.

  Valentina knew she should be glad that Marquis had taken her seriously when she had told him to stay away from her, but she was not. She longed for the sight of his face, for the touch of his hand, for the sound of his voice.

  Tyree had told her that Marquis had returned to Paraiso del Norte to prepare for his forthcoming wedding. Valentina sorely felt the helplessness of her situation. Perhaps it would be best if she never saw Marquis again, she tried to tell herself. She had enough problems in her life without the kind of trouble he represented.

  It was the nights that were the hardest for her to get through. Sometimes Valentina would lie on her bed and stare into the dark, remembering the touch of Marquis's hand on her body. Sometimes she would dream they were together and wake up with an emptiness that ached like an open wound. She did not know where the future would take her and, tired and weary of heart, she sometimes did not know where she would get the strength to make it through the coming weeks. She, her mother, and Salamar were living in a strange kind of limbo, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting.

  Marquis dismounted and walked up the steps of the Estradas' house. At his grandfather's insistence, he had decided to pay a call on Isabel. As he glanced around the Estrada ranch, Marquis's lips curled in disgust at the neglect he saw. The barn door was falling down and the corral was in disrepair. The garden was overgrown with weeds and the house was in great need of paint. He had never had a particular like for any of the Estradas. Senor Estrada was lazy and undependable, while his wife was a simpering gossip. To Marquis's way of thinking, the only one of any worth was Eleanor.

  In response to Marquis's knock, an Indian maid opened the door. Smiling in welcome, she spoke to him in Spanish. "If you have come to see Senor Estrada, he is away from home at this time."

  Marquis sighed heavily. "I have not come to see him, but to pay my respects to Senorita Isabel. Will you inform her that I am here?"

  The maid cast him a troubled look. She had seen Isabel walk in the direction of the barn, but she did not know if it would be proper to send Senor Vincente to the senorita. Looking into smiling dark eyes, she made up her mind. It would do no harm for the lovers to have some time alone, she thought.

  "You will find Senorita Isabel in the barn, senor. I am sure she will be happy to see you."

  Marquis nodded his head and, turning, he moved down the steps. His mind was not on Isabel as he walked in the direction of the barn; he was remembering the touch of silken skin beneath his fingertips. He was thinking of the pleasure Jordanna had given him. No woman had ignited so bright a flame in his body—it had been an all-consuming fire that had threatened to burn down his defenses, to make him forget his honor and obligations. Marquis had purposely stayed away from Jordanna, fearing he would be drawn so deeply under her spell that he would never be able to face his obligations— to face Isabel, whom he must wed.

  Marquis had also thought of Valentina Barrett. She and the dancer had come into his life at a time when he had needed them both. Each of them, in her own way, had left a lasting impression on his heart. His memories of them would help to sustain him through the years of a loveless marriage.

  As he approached the barn, he saw that the door was open and he stepped inside. It was a bright, sunny day, and Marquis had to wait a moment until his eyes adjusted to the darkened interior. Hearing a girlish giggle, he decided not to call out, but instead walked toward the back stall where the sound had come from.

  His eyes swept past the railing to the pile of hay where Senor Estrada's gran vaquero, Petra, lay astride a woman, pounding away at her. Marquis intended to leave quietly, thinking he was interrupting Petra and one of the Estradas' housemaids. Turning away, Marquis's eyes fell on the face of the woman, and he was shocked to find it was Isabel. Her gown was pushed up to her waist, and the man was thrusting back and forth between her legs. Isabel's eyes were glazed with passion, and she made little purring noises deep inside her throat.

  Marquis's jaws clamped tightly together at the sickening sight that met his eyes. Stepping back into the shadows, he decided not to interrupt them. Let Isabel hang herself by her own deeds, he thought angrily. Suddenly Marquis's scowl turned to a smile; this little incident would free him from any obligation he felt toward Isabel. Almost lightheartedly he leaned against a post and waited for his betrothed to have her fill of the gran vaquero.

  "Oh, yes, Petra," Isabel purred. "Each time you take me is better than the last. Faster, faster—go deep," she cried out in a breathless voice.

  The man said something in reply, but Marquis did not hear him. His lips curled in contempt and disgust. It was most fortunate that he had come here today. Otherwise he might never have known about Isabel's faithlessness. He would have been trapped in a marriage with no escape.

  Marquis did not have very long to wait before the man walked out of the stall, fastening his trousers. When he saw Marquis, he stopped dead in his tracks, his fac
e draining of all color. He could see his death written on the wall. No one crossed Marquis Vincente and lived to tell about it. He edged himself along the stall. No woman was worth his death, especially not the whore, Isabel Estrada.

  "It is not what you think, Senor Vincente." The man licked his dry lips, tasting the acid tang of fear. "I did not seek out Senorita Isabel. She came to me."

  "Petra, are you talking to me?" Isabel called. She came out of the stall and the smile died on her lips. "Marquis, what . . . who . . . ?"

  Petra backed closer to the door, all the while keeping his eyes on Marquis. When he reached the door, he lost no time in disappearing beyond it.

  Marquis turned calm eyes on Isabel. "I believe we can safely say your father's gran vaquero will not stop until he is at least a hundred miles from here." Not even raising his voice, Marquis sounded deadly calm. "Pity you will lose your lover, Isabel."

  By now Isabel had found her voice. "Marquis, surely you do not think I gave myself to Petra. He is nothing but a hired hand. I would never—"

  Marquis held up his hand. "Spare me the lies, Isabel. I saw the two of you."

  She pushed a lock of black hair out of her face and held out her hand in a pleading gesture. "Marquis, it is not what you think—he raped me!"

  Marquis's laughter was so sinister that it sent waves of prickling chills through Isabel's body. "Poor Petra," Marquis stated dryly. "More than likely, you raped him. I heard what you said about each time he had you, Isabel; today was not the first time he has rolled you in the hay."

  Isabel raised her head, giving Marquis a haughty look, while her eyes took on a calculating light. "All right, I admit Petra has been my lover. He is not the first and he will not be the last. Do not expect me to beg on my knees for your forgiveness. I am sure you have had your whores—why is it all right for a man to take a lover and not a woman?"