Mexican Fire by Martha Hix Page A

plantation. Her freedom.
    Maybe her life!
    For that to happen, however, Reece would have to betray her. Running a hand through his hair, he frowned. Never had he caused a woman to suffer and didn’t want to now. It might be best to send word: the deal was off.
    He stopped pacing in the bedchamber. Of course he could tell her no. A flat-out no, leaving no room for speculation or for possible trouble with Antonio. He shook his head. Despite the mystery of her, despite the deviousness of Alejandra, he wanted to be with her, and a “No thank you, ma’am” would send her out of his life. After all these weeks of yearning for the sultry Widow Sierra, he would go to any lengths to solve those mysteries . . . to melt her defenses . . . to conquer her deviousness . . . to meld her spirit with his.
    He would, come hell or high water, make her his woman for the duration of his stay in Mexico.
    Despite the mellow warmth of November in southern Mexico, gooseflesh rose on Reece’s arms. A pleasant feeling at the moment. Lost in reverie, he imagined . . . he responded. Sweat popped on his brow, and his breeches tightened across his groin.
    Mentally, he parted the mosquito netting on the huge, soft bed. He saw himself carrying Alejandra there, then undressing her . . . all slow and easy . . . to stoke the fires of her passion. Lips to lips, body to body, flesh to flesh, they would—
    A growl rolled from his throat before he admonished himself. “You’ve got to stop thinking like this, dammit. You can’t give Antonio Santa Anna’s spy the upper hand.”
    An object on the bureau drew Reece’s attention. A gilt-edged miniature. With shaking hand, he picked it up. Seven years ago and under duress, Garth Colby sat for a New Orleans artist, not knowing this portrait would be impetus to keep Reece searching . . .
    â€œI miss you, Brother,” he whispered raggedly.
    Three years Reece’s senior, Garth was the first son of the New Orleans-born Karine LaTouche and her first husband, an Anglo in predominantly Creole Louisiana. Left a widow when the boy was an infant, she married another Anglo, Josiah Montgomery, and they settled in St. Louis, where Reece was born. Where Karine died ten years later. Josiah reared the boys, never showing any favoritism. And Reece never thought of Garth as a half sibling. They were brothers, period.
    â€œÂ¿Por qué haces eso, señor?”
    Reece opened a bureau drawer and placed the painting inside before turning to his faithful manservant. “Nothing about you, Pepe,” he said in Spanish. “I was talking to myself.”
    Beaming like a row of piano keys, Pepe nodded. “I talk to myself, too. I am a most entertaining companion to myself.”
    Reece laughed. “I find you quite amusing as well.”
    â€œThat is good. For you will find mirth in the dinner I burned.”
    â€œNow, Pepe,” he said with mock sternness, “why is my dinner ruined?”
    â€œAfter I bribed the driver to stay out of my way, I spied on you and the beautiful señora. You have a fine eye for the ladies, Señor. Rosario . . . ah, she is muy bonita, but now I understand why you moon like a cow over the green-eyed chiquita.” Pepe put a hand over his heart. “She is like the flowers growing up the vines, the honey from the bees . . .”
    Reece rolled his eyes. The theater was missing a good one in Señor Zecatl of Coatlpoala. “You were wicked to eavesdrop, my friend. Plain wicked.”
    â€œI couldn’t understand a word—I was feasting my eyes.”
    â€œSpeaking of feast, I’ll send you back to your village if you don’t cook a good meal.”
    Pepe swaggered to a chair to make himself comfortable. “You will not send me away. I am a passable cook . . . mostly . . . and no one else would stay to work for such a hard taskmaster.”
    â€œUh-huh. Right.”
    Reece’s dry comment was ignored.