Chapter 24

 

It took a moment for the enormity of his suggestion to sink in. Dumbly Sabrina regarded him, and then she stammered incredulously, "M... m... mistress? You want me for your mistress?"

"I want you," he stated baldly. "I always have. I offered you marriage once, but it wasn't enough, at least not enough when I was the only thing that came with it." He smiled wryly. "So this time I'm not so foolish, although I suppose my fortune is far larger than it was then. However, I'm no longer in the market to buy a bride. A mistress, now that's another thing...."

How she kept from clawing his eyes out, Sabrina never knew. Perhaps it was the promise of retaliation in his eyes, or it could have been the instinctive knowledge that he wanted her to react that way, that he was only looking for an excuse to take her into his arms. And if he touched her, if he kissed her... Sabrina closed her eyes in angry despair—if he kissed her, there wouldn't be any decision to make.

Turning her head away, fighting against the need to be in his arms, she said huskily, "I need time to think."

It wasn't what she meant to say. She meant to throw his insulting offer back in his arrogant face, but somehow the words came out all wrong.

"As you wish," Brett said with apparent indifference. He pushed away and walked toward his bedchamber but then stopped and glanced back at where she stood frozen by the double doors. "I think you should be aware," he said softly, "that I'm an impatient man, a very impatient man—after all, I've waited six years for this moment, and I don't intend to wait much longer. And sweetheart, something else for you to consider—I've been very kind to you these past weeks, I've actually surprised myself, but don't make the mistake of thinking that if you turn me down, I'll continue to be so benevolent." His mouth tightened. "Believe me, I won't—I'll enjoy acting the wicked guardian."

He would, Sabrina thought miserably as she ran down the hallway toward the sanctuary of her rooms. He was capable of making her life such a hell that his insulting, degrading proposal would seem like heaven. Reaching her own rooms, she threw herself on the bed, tears of hurt and shame trickling down her cheeks. Ah, dear God, she felt as if her heart would break. And how much easier, how much simpler her decision would be, if she didn't love him so....

A muffled gasp of angry shame came from her. She couldn't love him. Surely he had killed any feeling but hatred within her? A derisive smile curved her mouth. No, unfortunately, she did still love him, and she wasn't going to pretend otherwise, no matter how humiliating the admission. It was love that had driven her to seize the first excuse to see him, love that had been behind her need to come to New Orleans; otherwise, she would have tossed his letter aside and set about breaking the will from the comfort and security of Nacogdoches. And it had been love that had delayed her these past weeks, that had stopped her from immediately seeing a lawyer and beginning to fight Alejandro's will.

Her tears drying, Sabrina turned over on her back, staring up at the white canopy overhead. All right, so she was foolish enough to still love him. That didn't mean that she had to allow him to manipulate her, to dominate her and turn her into a fawning, adoring slave. She might love him, but he wasn't ever going to know it. He didn't deserve her love—he didn't deserve any woman's love. What he deserved was to be hanged, or drawn and quartered, or boiled in oil, or... For several pleasurable moments she considered all the lovely ways in which she would like to torture him, but eventually she stopped, realizing that while it made her feel a little better, it wasn't solving her problem.

And she did have a problem. Oh, it seemed so simple on the surface. She loved him, she wanted him, wanted him desperately with every fiber of her being, and he wanted her—for six months. A soft groan of despair broke from her. If she accepted his infamous proposal, she would have six months of ecstasy, six months in which to try to make him love her.... But if she failed, if at the end of six months he terminated their relationship as coolly as he seemed prepared to enter it, she would have nothing but memories, memories that would turn bitter and ugly and leave the pain of shame and degradation forever within her.

Sabrina took a deep breath and sat up, a bleak expression on her exquisite face. Dare she risk it? Dare she say yes and hope that... A harsh laugh escaped her. Hope for what? That he would suddenly change? That he would fall so madly in love with her, that miraculously he would become a different man? An honorable, faithful man who would want to marry her?

And if she didn't accept his proposal, what then? He had made it clear that the pleasantness of the past few weeks would cease. What could he do to her? she wondered uneasily. Lock her in an attic with bread and water? She could bear that, but she suspected that Brett's idea of a wicked guardian would take a more original form. A more painful, humiliating form. A form that could conceivably bring her to his bed without the guarantee that he would release his control of her body and fortune.

Dios! What was she to do? There had to be a solution. Some other way out of this coil. Feeling as if she were suffocating, Sabrina sprang up and, grabbing her reticule, started out the door of her rooms. She got five steps down the hall before she became aware of Ollie lounging near the staircase. His expression was determined but unhappy, and Sabrina's steps slowed.

They gazed at one another, then Ollie's eyes dropped from the suspicion in hers. Pulling nervously on his ear, he said uncomfortably, "I don't like it any better than you do, miss. But the guvnor says I wasn't to let you out of my sight." Ollie cleared his throat. "Says you should be aware that trying to run away from him is one of the options that ain't open to you."

"I see," she said calmly enough, despite the rage that burst through her. Smiling grimly she asked, "Are you very good at spying on people, at creeping around behind their backs?"

Ollie flushed. "Yes, miss, I am," he answered. "I'm not so good in the forest, as you should know, but there ain't no way you could get out of New Orleans without me or the guvnor knowing it. And miss, you should know that the guvnor is very good at tracking in the forest, so don't think if you escape from me that you can escape from him!"

Sabrina swallowed and nodded. Dejectedly she turned away, walking slowly back toward her rooms. What was the use of leaving the house? Ollie's presence would be a constant reminder that she was no longer really free.

Inside her rooms, she wandered around, her fingers idly brushing first one object then another, her steps as aimless as her unhappy thoughts. What did it matter, she wondered tiredly, if she accepted Brett's proposal or not? He held all the cards, even one he didn't know about, her love for him. Whether she agreed or not, sooner or later, he would gain his way.

Facing that fact squarely, Sabrina realized that there really was only one choice left to her. Escape appeared out of the question. Even if she could evade Ollie, how would she live? Where would she go? Not home, that would be the first place Brett would look for her. Besides, how would she get there? She didn't doubt that he had taken precautions against her saddling up and riding madly for Nacogdoches.

So, she thought dryly, if she was to find herself in his bed one way or another, she had better strike the best bargain. And the best bargain he had offered was to release her at the end of six months. Her features hard, she stared out at the balcony. At least, she told herself bitterly, she had a little time. She didn't have to give him the satisfaction of an immediate capitulation. And just maybe, just maybe, in the short time that she had, some other solution would come to her....

Somehow she expected Brett to act differently after their conversation of that morning, but to her confusion, he continued to behave as if nothing important had passed between them. That evening when he greeted her in the blue salon before dinner, his manner was the same as it always had been—mocking, slightly derisive, and unfortunately, totally fascinating.

Francisca recovered somewhat from her indisposition and was up to joining them for dinner, for which Sabrina was inordinately thankful. She didn't think she could have gotten through the meal if her aunt hadn't been present, and even more importantly, Francisca's conversation with Brett covered any silence on Sabrina's part.

It was unusual for Brett to join them for dinner, and Francisca couldn't help commenting on it. "Well, señor," she sneered, "this is an honor to have you with us this evening."

Brett smiled. "I'm so happy that you are aware of it," he replied dryly, a gleam of mocking amusement in his eyes.

Francisca's mouth thinned, but determined not to be roused, she said, "You have been gone for several days and seem to be very busy of late. Does it have anything to do with my niece's affairs?"

Taking a sip of his wine, Brett answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact, it does."

Francisca waited for him to continue, but when it appeared that no more information was forthcoming, she demanded, "Explain, if you will." Brett looked at her, and she muttered, "Please."

"Since you asked so politely," he murmured, "I have been seeing that Fox's Lair, my plantation some miles south of here, is made ready for our removal there."

"Removal?" Sabrina repeated sharply.

Brett glanced at her. "Yes. Surely you know that it is the custom to retire to one's plantation for the summer months? The city is only agreeable for the winter time. But before we can leave, there are necessary alterations to be made to the house"—he flashed a charming smile to Francisca—"before it is suitable for such delightful visitors."

Francisca was not the least charmed. "I do not think that this is a good idea! We have no intention of leaving New Orleans! "

But before she could continue further, Brett said coolly, "It really doesn't matter what you think, señora By the first of June, Sabrina and I will be living at Fox's Lair—if you wish to accompany your niece, do so. If you don't"—his voice grew silky—"I'm certain you can find other accommodations here in the city."

Sabrina watched with appalled fascination as Francisca's hand tightened around the knife she was holding, and for one terrible second Sabrina feared that her aunt would not be able to resist the impulse to bury it in Brett's chest.

Eyes narrowed, Brett waited, his body poised for action, but then, as if regaining control of herself, Francisca smiled sickly. "You must forgive me, señor," she muttered. "I am not used to having my wishes held in such little regard."

Brett made some polite reply and then went on to talk of Fox's Lair as if nothing unpleasant had ever occurred. The awkward moment was past, but Sabrina wasn't surprised when Francisca refused the strawberry glace for dessert and excused herself early. Left alone with Brett, Sabrina started to rise, saying hastily, "I'll leave you to finish your meal in peace."

"Sit down, Sabrina," Brett commanded. "I don't intend to attack you, so don't run from me like a frightened doe."

Indignantly Sabrina gasped, "I am not frightened! I just thought—"

"You just thought you'd better go soothe your aunt?" he asked with a sardonic lift of his brow.

"Well, you were rather rude to her," she said defensively.

"No more than she was to me," he stated wearily. Looking at her, he demanded, "Do you really think I like being so impolite? And do you really think I am not aware of her resentment and bitterness? That I don't see the black looks she sends my way, or know that she'd really have liked to use that knife on me?" He snorted. "Your aunt hates the very sight of me, and she is the last person I would want standing near me if I were at the edge of a cliff."

A rueful smile curving her lips, Sabrina murmured, "It is very hard for her, Brett."

Brett made a wry face. "It probably is—and if she would try meeting me with just a little politeness of her own, I could rise to the occasion and return it."

The chill that had been around her heart melting just a little, Sabrina asked softly, "Are we really removing to your plantation by the first of June?"

He toyed with his wine glass a second. Then his eyes met hers and he said quietly, "Yes, we really are. I think you'll enjoy it there. Château Saint-André where Morgan lives is not too far away, so you will have your opportunity to meet his beloved Leonie."

Sabrina nodded, bewildered and amazed that they were having this perfectly civilized conversation. Brett was smiling faintly, a hint of warm laughter lurking in the depths of his jade-green eyes, and she felt her heart swell with love. It was times like this, and there had been far too few of them, that she treasured most. His cynical, sarcastic manner was gone. He was talking to her as he used to in Nacogdoches, beguiling her as he had then, the careless charm washing effortlessly over her, and she almost felt that there was hope for the future. That somehow, someway, the future would be good for them.

They talked enjoyably for some time, Brett explaining the changes he was making in Fox's Lair, making Sabrina smile at his enthusiasm for the place. But then, all too soon, as if he remembered the situation between them, his face changed, and he said in that sardonic tone of his, "Well, my dear, I believe that I have bored you long enough with my tales of the trials of a poor planter."

His mood shift was too quick for Sabrina, and still basking in the warmth of his charm, a teasing smile on her lips, she waved her arm around, indicating the room, and murmured, "Surely not poor?"

Brett stiffened, and with dismay Sabrina knew that this friendly interlude was over. He had withdrawn from her, and the cold, infuriating creature she so disliked was once more in command.

His eyes icy, he drawled, "No, certainly not poor!" His face grim, he added, "But then, I never was poor—something you should have discovered before you so summarily threw my marriage proposal back in my face."

Furious that he had given so much away, Brett stood up. "If you will excuse me, I will leave you now."

Open-mouthed, Sabrina stared as he stalked across the room and disappeared through the doorway. Frowning, her thoughts in turmoil, she, too, rose and left the dining room.

Sleep did not come easily to Sabrina this night. There was too much to think about, too many confusing, contradictory things to reflect upon.

This morning she hadn't taken in much of what he had said beyond the statement of wanting her for a mistress, but now, lying wide-eyed in the darkness of her room, she reviewed that unsettling confrontation. There had been the distinct implication, now that she thought of it, that six years ago she had found him wanting, or rather, that she had found his fortune wanting. She frowned. But that was impossible! She had loved him, and his money or lack of it had never entered into her emotions. But then, why was there always that jeering note in his voice whenever he mentioned money, especially her money? What had he called it once—her much-prized fortune? And now, tonight, again the implication that she might not have terminated their betrothal if she had known the true state of his financial affairs.

Her frown deepening, she sat up in bed, knees against her chest. Oh, it was ridiculous! He can't have thought that she was after his fortune? A guilty flush covered her face as slyly the question crept through her brain—why not? You thought he was after yours. She wiggled uncomfortably, shame crawling within her. But I had good reason. she protested weakly. Good reason? her mind jeered. What good reason could make you believe such a thing of the man you professed to love? But Sabrina knew the answer to that question even if she wished she didn't. Carlos and Constanza. And that ended her argument with herself. It was true that Brett had never given any indication that her fortune held any particular allure for him, but even if she could have brushed away Carlos's comments about Brett being a fortune hunter as jealous barbs, there was no possible way she could refute Constanza's far more damaging confession that terrible afternoon in the gazebo. She was conscious of a spurt of outrage at the callous way Brett had abandoned Constanza to her fate. But then, sighing, Sabrina lay back. What good did it do to torture herself this way? That query was unanswerable, but there was an even more puzzling and disturbing question to ponder—if Brett had been after her fortune as Carlos and Constanza claimed, and she had no reason not to believe them, then why did he appear to be laboring under the misapprehension that she had only been interested in his fortune?

There was no answer to that question either, and she fell into troubled sleep, but even her dreams gave her little comfort. All through the remainder of the night, she was doomed to dream the same dream over and over again: her heart so full of love it felt it would burst from her breast, she ran joyously toward Brett where he stood by the lake, his arms outstretched to catch her near. His face was warm and welcoming, love clearly shining out of those jade-green eyes as she approached. But then, without warning, a heavy fog came between them and she was enveloped by a smothering sense of foreboding. That terrible feeling of suffocating foreboding increased when out of nowhere Carlos and Constanza appeared and clutched her wrists, stopping her progress as she fought to reach Brett. She cried out, but no sound permeated the thick mist, and she struggled futilely to free herself. Through the ghostly vapors, she could barely see Brett's tall figure, but she knew the instant his face changed, knew when it became hard and contemptuous, knew when his arms fell listlessly to his sides. Frantically she increased her efforts to escape, but it was fruitless. Tears sliding unheeded down her cheeks, she watched helplessly as Brett disappeared into the concealing mists.

Not unnaturally, she woke tired and depressed, barely able to force herself out of bed. The dream was still vivid, and she was unhappily conscious of a feeling of resentment against Carlos and Constanza—if only they hadn't interfered. But she pushed that thought aside. Their interference didn't change anything—Brett hadn't loved her.

Brett, too, woke tired and depressed—a most unusual state for him. The fatigue he could put down to the hard work he had been cramming into every spare moment of the past few days, seeing that Fox's Lair was made ready for Sabrina's arrival. But the depression troubled him—surely after yesterday's confrontation with Sabrina he should be elated... shouldn't he? After all, he had her precisely where he wanted, didn't he?

If all of that was true, why did he have this nagging feeling of dissatisfaction, this depressing feeling that something was missing, this annoying sensation that his quest for vengeance wasn't giving him the pleasure he had thought it would? He should have woken this morning full of eager anticipation—Sabrina might not give him the answer he wanted immediately, but there was no doubt in his mind that before long, she would humble that arrogant pride of hers and consent to his unscrupulous proposal.

His face twisted. Was that the root of his depression and dissatisfaction, the knowledge that he was acting dishonorably and unscrupulously?

With a sort of baffled rage, he glared at the elegant furnishings of his bedroom. Having dreamed of this moment, having planned to put her in this position, he wasn't having second thoughts... wasn't allowing his resolve to weaken? Or was he?

No, he decided. He wasn't having second thoughts—Alejandro had been a damned romantic fool to have added that codicil to his will. And if the man he had chosen to act as his daughter's guardian took advantage of the powers given him, it was Alejandro's own fault.

Moodily Brett got out of bed and splashed some water in his face from the pitcher that sat on the marble-topped washstand near his bed. Honor, he argued, had nothing to do with the situation. She deserved to suffer at his hands—hadn't she made him suffer? Hadn't she hurt him more deeply, more painfully, than anyone ever had in his entire life? Heartlessly and cruelly tossed him aside simply because his fortune hadn't been large enough to satisfy her greed? Wasn't it only justice that he gain a certain amount of satisfaction from the handful of aces that Alejandro had so foolishly dealt him?

Ruthlessly he told himself that the answer to all of those questions was a resounding yes! That decision didn't help his state of mind and didn't lighten his black mood. He suspected that some of his heaviness of spirit had to do with the affection and respect that he had borne Alejandro—it went against the grain to betray a man's trust... even a dead man's.

Alejandro's death had hit Brett hard, almost as hard as losing his own father would have. And to learn that Alejandro had been murdered had filled him with such a vengeful fury that he had not been able to contain it. As Ollie had speculated, he had gone to Nacogdoches late last summer, intent upon finding Alejandro's killer. But by the time he had arrived in the small Spanish outpost, whatever trail had existed was cold. Disguised by a thick beard, a slouch-brim hat, and rough clothing, he had spent several weeks quietly, unobtrusively asking questions, sifting through what little information was available, savagely determined that just one tiny clue would emerge. In the end, however, he had known his quest was hopeless, and so, with a bleak heart, he had ridden away from Nacogdoches... but not before giving in to the impulse that had been eating at him since he had first crossed the Sabine River—perhaps since he had ridden away so furiously that summer of 1800. It had been folly, sheer madness, to ride by the lake, to stop and look at the gazebo where he had made love to Sabrina that moonlit night so long ago. And when, through the open arches of the gazebo, he had seen her rising before him, a knife-sharp sense of pleasure had cut through him. Only for a second, only for a moment, his guard had been down, before he had throttled the powerful emotions that had sung through him. Not ready to see her again, unwilling to trust his own reactions, especially in this evocative place, he had reined his horse aside and stoically ridden for New Orleans, envisioning the sweet revenge he would take upon her.

So now, why, when everything was working out precisely as he had planned, did the idea of victory leave him so dissatisfied and depressed? His desire to possess her was unabated—too many nights of late, he had slept restlessly, his body aching to know the ecstasy of hers, and he had only to conjure up her image in his mind for physical proof of his desire to be instantly noticeable. The need for revenge was just as strong and powerful as ever, or rather, the desire to teach her a lesson was just as strong, but he had the unsettling conviction that forcing her to become his mistress wasn't necessarily going to teach her the lesson that he wanted her to learn—nor was it going to ease the incessant pain that had been with him since she had so summarily terminated their betrothal nearly six years ago....

His face tightened, one hand closing into a fist, the knuckles gleaming whitely. He would just learn to live with the pain, just as he had in the past, and in the meantime... In the meantime, he would have her in his bed, and his body would have relief, if not his heart.

Dressing swiftly, he left his rooms minutes later and was on his way to the stables when Ollie, an envelope in his hand, stopped his progress. With resignation, Brett noticed that the envelope had been opened, and dryly he asked, "Am I ever to receive any missive that you don't peruse first?"

Ollie grinned. "Now, guvnor, you know you can't teach an old dog new tricks! And I've been opening your letters for so long now that I don't think I could ever stop." Brett snorted and quickly made himself cognizant of the facts of the letter. It was from Morgan. It read,

Dear Brett,

When I returned home, coincidentally there was a letter from Jason waiting for me. He and his family, are planning to come to New Orleans in late July, early August, and so, instead of writing to him, if it meets with your approval, I suggest we simply wait until he arrives and then I shall arrange a meeting for the three of us, perhaps here at the Chateâu—that way, Sabrina and Catherine can visit with Leonie while we gentlemen discuss matters to our satisfaction. Agreed?

Morgan.

Glancing at Ollie, Brett said, "Write a reply for me, telling him that I am agreeable to whatever he arranges, and have one of the servants deliver it to the Château Saint André, please. Oh, and while I think of it—before I leave, I'll write a letter to my father, and I'd like you to have a servant carry it to him personally." He smiled. "Otherwise, Hugh might not get it for weeks."

Ollie nodded and started to turn away, but Brett's voice halted him. "I'm leaving you in charge of everything," Brett said, "while I'm at Fox's Lair—I've already told Andrew and the other servants that they are to look to you for their orders. I should be gone about a week to ten days this time. I'll write you, giving you a more definite return date later, but when I get back, I'd like the household ready for removal to Fox's Lair."

* * *

Sabrina took the news of Brett's absence rather well, almost with relief. There was time yet before she had to make her fateful decision, and she could only hope that in the pitifully short time allotted to her, some other resolution to her dilemma would present itself.

But even with the uncertainty of the future hanging over her head, despite her anger and resentment at the path he was forcing her to follow, she found that she missed Brett's presence dreadfully. The atmosphere within the house seemed so dull, so boring, so listless, without him, and to her horror she found herself counting the days until he would return.

Much to Francisca's delight, Carlos arrived one sunny afternoon after Brett had been gone for about five days. Sabrina viewed his arrival with decidedly mixed emotions, and she discovered that she wasn't as elated to see him as she could have been. His presence was only going to complicate matters further. Her uneasiness grew when Francisca insisted that he stay the night with them and arrogantly ordered that a suite of rooms be prepared for him. The initial greetings and current news had already been exchanged, and the three of them were seated in the tree-shaded courtyard, seeking relief from the humid warmth of the day, when Francisca made her wishes known. At her aunt's brazen disregard of Brett's views on the subject, Sabrina stiffened and said, "Tia, I don't think that would be such a good idea. Señor Dangermond—"

Haughtily Francisca interrupted. "What do I care what he thinks! He is not here; we are! Besides," she added smugly, "now that Carlos is here, things will be changed."

Her expression suspiciously meek, Sabrina asked, "Oh? How is that?" And she glanced at Carlos, who was sprawled comfortably in a cane-backed chair.

Carlos regarded her thoughtfully, aware that her greeting had not been as welcoming as it could have been. And he was very much aware that while she was willing to visit politely with him and offer refreshments, she didn't want him staying here. Slyly he drawled, "Is there some reason why I shouldn't abide in the same house as my mother and dear cousin? Especially since your money probably bought it."

"We don't know that!" Sabrina flashed back. Her color heightened, she said more calmly, "And until we do, this is his home." Looking Carlos in the eye, she finished with, "Señor Dangermond has expressed the wish that you not stay here with us. It is unfortunate that he feels that way, but I think it is best if you find another place to stay during your visit here in the city."

Francisca was outraged. Sending her niece a glance of scathing dislike, she spat, "And just who do you think you are to make such a decision? I am your aunt, and you will obey me! I say that my son stays here with us where he belongs! How dare you side with that gringo!"

Carlos watched Sabrina's set face, wondering what she was thinking. It was obvious that these few months apart, while he had been gone to Mexico City, had damaged his relationship with her. She was friendly, but he sensed a barrier between them. The gringo? A jealous glitter in his black eyes, he searched her features for a clue.

Carlos had never given up hope that one day he would marry Sabrina and gain the two things that had always eluded him—the woman and the del Torres fortune. Doggedly he had pursued both, confident that one day he would win Sabrina. Alejandro's will had nearly been the death of his dreams, but during the long ride back from Mexico City, he had decided that he would make one last effort—it was foolhardy to hold his hand much longer. Bitterly he had acknowledged that after this length of time, Sabrina wasn't ever going to love him as a husband, and so he had cold-bloodedly begun to plan a way in which to force her hand in marriage. There was only one way, he had finally conceded to himself—to make her pregnant.

A slightly cruel smile had crossed his dark face. It would give him great pleasure to get her with child. It wouldn't matter that she would hate him; shame alone would force her to marry him. And once married, from the security of Mexico City, he was certain he could break Alejandro's will. After all, their common relatives in Mexico were rich and powerful, and Carlos never doubted that they would join in the battle to wrest control of Alejandro's fortune from an outsider.

He'd plotted it all out—even the place where he would keep Sabrina prisoner until she was pregnant and learned who was her master. He hadn't been best pleased when he arrived at Nacogdoches and discovered that he had left things almost until too late. But then, Constanza had warned him that might happen....

For a second his eyes narrowed. Who would have thought that Constanza Morales would be in Mexico City? Or that they would meet? His mouth thinned. Or that she would be contentedly married to a wealthy Spanish grandee? A tall, handsome man who reminded him infuriatingly of Brett Dangermond. Even now he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that the glowing, comfortably plump woman at the side of the visiting aristocrat at his Tia Ysabel's grand house in Mexico City was indeed Constanza Morales. Only she was now Constanza Ferrera, happily married and the doting mother of two young children—two fine sons, ages three and four. He had been thunderstruck. Not only to meet her there in Mexico, but to find her so changed, so greatly changed. Gone was the scheming, unhappy woman who would have done anything to gain her way. Marriage and security had softened her, molded her into a creature he hardly recognized.

When, at last, he had contrived a moment alone with her, when he would have re-established their intimacy, she had gently but firmly rebuffed him. Her liquid dark eyes full of pity, she had said, "You haven't changed at all, Carlos, mi amigo." Her voice husky, she had added, "But I have—and those days of careless, selfish passion are behind me. I am shamed when I remember them." Love evident with every word she spoke, she had continued, "I am married to a good man, the kind of man I dreamed of but never expected to find. God has blessed me abundantly these past years since we parted—with my husband and my sweet babies. There isn't an hour that goes by when I don't send up a silent prayer of thankfulness for all the wonderful things that have happened to me since I met Jorge." Her eyes shadowed, she had finished with, "I don't deserve any of it... especially since I gained all I have at the expense of innocent people—a pair of young lovers who were separated because of me."

To Carlos's utter amazement, she had been sincere. It had been patently obvious, from the expression in her eyes when she spoke of her husband and children to the way she honestly pitied him! Angrily he had snarled, "It is all good and well when one has everything one ever desired to sit in judgment on others. There was a time when you didn't feel this way—when you used every means at your disposal to get what you wanted."

Constanza had looked away. Her voice thick with remorse she had whispered, "All of what you say is true, and if I could undo it, I would." Tears swimming in the large dark eyes, she had said painfully, "I have often thought of writing to Sabrina and explaining my part in what we did—"

"No!" Carlos had shouted, fear shooting through him. It was imperative that Sabrina continue to trust him. Whatever plans he made for the future were pivotal upon that one fact.

Constanza had stared at him, and hastily he had improvised, "It doesn't matter anymore what we did—she never really loved the gringo. She told me so." He had forced a pleased smile on his mouth. "When I return, I have hopes of marrying her. Of late she has given me certain indications..."

Thoughtfully Constanza had regarded him, and he had been aware that she was trying to decide if he was telling the truth. She must have decided that he was telling the truth, because a tense second later, she had murmured, "Then you should not tarry here too long—your Sabrina might escape you."

How prophetic Constanza's words had been. He shot Sabrina a calculating look. His task was going to be much harder now—it was apparent that her opinion of the guardianship had altered since she had arrived in the city. He noticed that there had been no outward signs of resentment against the gringo, and it was also obvious that she was a little aloof from his mother and himself. Then there was the problem of finding a place to keep her, once he had kidnapped her.... Mentally Carlos shrugged. He would think of something. He always did.