Forbidden to His Touch Read online

  Staring at Rafael now, at the harsh slash of brow, the thick, black hair as shiny as a crow’s wing and the glittering eyes demanding that she obey, she felt a familiar pang of despair. Of anguish no one but he could ease. The thought of leaving him, of living a life without him, made her want to weep. To scream. To beat her frustrations out against his granite chest until he drew her close and kissed her into silence. Knowing that he wouldn’t touch her no matter what she did, that he’d allow other women to share his bed while denying her, made a bleak, impotent anger well up from deep within. “Papa still believes I’m a child,” she said, lifting her chin. “As do you. But you’re wrong. I’ve made my decision. I’m leaving.”

  “And what happens when you get hurt?”

  “I won’t. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myse—”

  “No, you’re not,” he snapped. “You’re a fool if you think you know the first thing about the world, about all the things that could happen if I’m not there to—”

  He cut himself off.

  But Sophia heard the panic tainting the edges of his words, panic that infused her with the faintest sliver of hope.

  It was a hope she knew better than to entertain, but she felt it nonetheless. Her pulse kicked and a twist of nervousness knotted in her belly. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Knowing how his rejection would flay her, but compelled to risk it regardless, she swallowed hard and forced her fears aside. “Raf …” Nerves paralyzed her throat for a moment, but she forged ahead despite the danger. “If you don’t want me to leave, then convince me to stay.”

  His black gaze sharpened. “How?”

  Several tense seconds ticked by while she gathered her faltering courage. “Tell me …” The urge to drop her gaze, to withdraw before he could hurt her, sent a torrent of second thoughts through her head. But this could prove to be her last chance. Her only chance to reverse the path she’d embarked upon. So she summoned her strength and began anew. “Tell me there’s a future for us, and I’ll stay.”

  The color leached from his dark face while his sharp inhale rent the air like the lash of a whip.

  Despair mingled with her hope while she held her breath and waited for his response.

  “Soph … you know I care for—”

  “No,” she interrupted, a note of desperation entering her voice while white-hot pain lanced her chest. “I don’t want you to care for me like some annoying little child. Like some pathetic obligation to the man who took you in.” She pressed her hands against her abdomen, the need to feel his skin against hers so strong it made her throat contract painfully. “I want you to love me. Me. As a woman. Just once, I want to believe that—”

  “No,” he groaned, retreating a step.

  She followed, hating that she’d stooped to begging, but in too deep to stop now. “Why?” She reached for him, for the thick brown forearm beneath his rolled, white sleeve. The warmth of his flesh scorched her fingers and she felt his muscles contract to hard, ropy knots beneath her touch. “Why do you always fight me on this? When you and I both know there’s something between us, something you refuse to—”

  “There’s nothing between us.” He flung her hand aside, his broad shoulders bracing and his chest moving with his labored breathing. “Nothing.”

  “You’re wrong.” Her heart quailed as she stepped into his space yet again. “You’re just too stubborn and afraid to admit it.”

  “I’m not.” He glared at her, the beat of his pulse visible in the side of his neck.

  “I love you,” she confessed miserably as she lifted tentative fingers to splay against his sternum and the rapid thrum of his heart. “I’ve loved you from the moment Papa brought you here and if you’d let me, I’d show you how much. I’d give you anything you want, take everything you wanted to give—”

  “Don’t.” A strong grip against her shoulders pressed her away from him. Heat seeped from the fingers that dug into her flesh and then he snatched his hands back, as if he couldn’t bear the contact any longer. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, I do,” she insisted, stepping close yet again and wrapping her arms around his wide torso. Desperately, she pressed herself against him, the aching need to touch him overriding her fear of his rejection. Tears burned the back of her nose, blurring her eyes and hitching hard in her lungs as she choked out, “I’ve let you push me away for four years, and I can’t do it anymore. That’s the only reason I’m leaving, the only reason I can’t stay. I can’t pretend I feel nothing when it’s eating me up inside and you won’t even—”

  “Pare de falar,” he growled, his hands like manacles of iron as he gripped her face between his palms and pressed her back.

  “No,” she cried as her hands lost their grip upon his ribs and then rose to curve tightly around his rock-hard triceps. “I won’t be quiet just because you don’t want to hear the truth. I can’t pretend anymore when all it does is make me ache inside. I won’t. I’ve spent half my life wanting you to notice me and this is my last—”

  He silenced her the only way he could, by covering her lips with his own and catching her protest with his mouth. She gasped and went utterly still, absorbing the shock of his warm mouth against hers. A firestorm of sensations winnowed through her: the heat of his breath against her cheek, the cradle of his palms against the sides of her head, the slamming heartbeat she could feel in every cell of her body. For a breathless moment, they remained frozen, too electrified to move. But then heat and longing and desire sparked into flame and they both became lost in a torrent of hungry need.

  Like starved beasts who’ve been too long denied, they fed upon each other, a flurry of hands and kisses and frantic, exploring touches. She arched against him, craving him, wanting everything, and he pulled her to her toes with a low, primal growl.

  She felt the wide possession of his hand against her spine, drawing her up tight against his groin, and she shivered, her senses starved for his powerful weight atop her, his hands exploring, his stretch of burnished skin hot and naked upon her own. His tongue slid along the seam of her mouth and she opened to him, meeting the silk of his wet heat with her own. A tremor caught his limbs and he shook between her palms, his head bent low over her tipped face. She could taste his savage hunger, the brutal need for completion. And she wanted to give it. She wanted. Oh.

  Thoughts fled as his mouth devoured hers with rough, drugging strokes. Weakness and longing and pleasure flooded her veins as she whimpered and moved even closer. She clutched at his head, her fingers caught in the cool silk of his hair as she angled her mouth beneath his and pressed her aching breasts up against his chest.

  Low against her belly, she felt the tight force of his groin against hers, the banked hint of rhythm as he fed upon her mouth. Wanting him, wanting more, she reached trembling fingers between their fused hips to cup the rigid length of his arousal.

  He jerked against her palm, and an agonized groan caught low in his throat as he ripped his mouth free. His hand caught hers, and for one scorching moment, he imprisoned it against his burning flesh while his neck arched and he gasped for breath. She felt the throbbing evidence of his desire, the taut, burning heat against her palm, and whispered, “Make love to me, Raf…. Please. I can’t bear it any longer.” She twisted her free hand in his shirt and stretched to taste the scented wedge of skin at his throat. “Take me … please. I want this. I want you. I—”

  A curse rent the air as Raf shoved her away, pushing her onto her heels and ripping his hands from her shoulders. His chest moved unevenly as he grappled for breath, his nostrils flaring and his muscles taut as he backed away from her.

  She stepped toward him, one hand outstretched. “Raf—”

  “Don’t touch me,” he spat with such venom that she flinched.

  Silence, broken only by the furious agitation of their breaths, beat the air between them as he glared at her.

  Rafael spoke first, his words thick with fury and loathing. “We can’t ever do that aga
in,” he stormed, and she couldn’t tell if he targeted the edict at himself or at her.

  Emboldened by his kiss, by the proof of his desire for her, she spoke softly. “Because of what Papa might think?”

  “Because of what you might think,” he boomed. “I refuse to mislead you.”

  Stiffening as if he’d slapped her, her chest tightened painfully. “Mislead me?” she breathed despite the sting of his rejection. “I’m not misled. What you feel about me is undeniably clear. I felt the evidence of it against my hand.”

  His eyes flashed while his mouth twisted in disgust. “It’s clear what my body feels. Don’t confuse a physical response with an emotional one.”

  The harsh words and the twist of pain that accompanied them lent a sharp, incensed edge to her voice. “Why? Because you’re incapable of feeling anything beyond your loyalty to my father?”

  “No. Because you refuse to admit the truth,” he answered stonily. “You only see what you want to see and hear what you wish to hear. I’d respond the same way to any woman reckless enough to rub herself up against me.”

  A stunned gasp iced her chest, his claim flaying her with its brutality. “You’re lying,” she accused. “I know you feel something for me, separate and above what you’d feel for some random female who happened to rub against you.”

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Don’t delude yourself. I feel for you the same way I’d feel for any daughter of Turino’s. No more. No less.”

  Ten years of loving him, of watching him as he navigated his way through the strange world that contrasted so sharply with the one he’d known, told her he lied. Nothing he said would convince her otherwise. But she’d wasted enough time trying to get him to admit the truth. And at least his rejection, as agonizing as it was, solidified her decision to leave. “Thank you, then, for clarifying things for me,” she said, her taut, indignant tone somehow moving past the knot of pain in her throat. She’d nurse her wounds and weep in private. Later. “I’d hate to leave with my childish misconceptions intact.”

  He scowled, his anger darkening his expression. “Don’t be so dramatic,” he said. “There’s no need to run away to London just because—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me I’m being dramatic,” she said in a tight voice. “You know what will keep me here. If you aren’t willing to give it to me, we have nothing else to discuss.”

  “Then I’ll leave,” he offered. “This is your home, not mine. You stay and I’ll go. You’ll never have to see me again.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she cried, her tears so close to the surface she could taste their salt at the back of her throat. “My home, this place, it is you. And if you don’t want me, I can’t stay. Whether you’re here or not is immaterial.”

  “But your father’s here,” he reminded her in a grim, unyielding tone. “Your life is here. It’ll crucify him to have you gone.”

  “Then stay and help him cope with the loss. You’re the one crippled by obligation, not I.” She returned to her suitcase and flung the rest of her belongings inside. After she’d yanked the zipper closed, she stood with her back to him and forced her breathing to calm. Somehow, she managed to control the trembling of her hands.

  When the air became charged, weighted with unspoken emotion and her decimated hopes, she closed her eyes and held her breath until the door opened and then quietly clicked closed.

  Bracing her arms against her suitcase, she blinked to dispel the terrible, torturous memory of his hands on her, his mouth branding hers. She could still feel the hard shape of his arousal against her palm, still smell the scent of his skin. Her flesh tingled, the band of muscles along her stomach refused to relax, and her rejected love lodged like a fist in the center of her chest.

  A sob caught in her throat and she choked it back, swallowing convulsively while she clutched the sides of her suitcase with white-tipped fingers. Several torturous minutes later, after she’d battled the urge to curl up on the floor and never rise again, she inhaled, relaxed her hands and straightened to collect her travel documents and purse.

  At least you know now.

  Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she swiped a knuckle under her eyes to dispel any lingering hint of tears, pulled her suitcase from the bed and then left to claim a life that contained no trace, however small, of Rafael Chaves.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT TOOK a tragedy to bring it about, but seven years later, Sophia finally returned home.

  Her dear friend and colleague Alexander Bennett had accompanied her on the long trip from London, offering his quiet support while they spent countless hours in crowded airplanes and packed airports. Now, they finally stood in the Sacramento airport terminal at the baggage claim, awaiting the arrival of their luggage.

  Sophia felt Alexander’s warm regard against her profile before he asked, “Are you okay?”

  “No,” she confessed. “I feel guilty and wretched and sad and mad and everything in between. I hate this and I’m angry at my father for dying before we had a chance to make things right.”

  He reached for her shoulder and offered a supportive squeeze. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Knowing that her dreams of an eventual reconciliation with her father were now impossible, she bit her lip and blinked away the fresh sting of tears. “No.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over this, Soph. You did everything you could to make amends. He was the one who refused to meet you halfway.”

  “I know.” She did. Seven years of refused phone calls, returned letters and blocked emails had taught her that she’d never get what she wanted. Her father was incapable of forgiveness. Of love. She should have accepted it. Moved on. But she hadn’t. She’d kept beating herself against the implacable wall of his rejection, kept nursing the twist of guilt that never strayed far from her gut. “That’s the problem. And now it’s too late. I’ll never know if he’d have eventually forgiven me.”

  “Yes. But at least you’ll have some closure, right?” His sympathetic gaze searched hers. “You’ll be able to move on.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she told him.

  “I am.” His warm smile eased the tightness in her chest. A bit. “And if I’m not, we’ll go to the local pub and toast our orphaned status together.”

  “I’m planning on that regardless,” she said. “By three p.m., I’ll be drunk on Turino wine, courtesy of my father. He’d be so proud,” she finished on a bitter note.

  His soft blue eyes searched hers. “Are you sure you don’t want to just stay with me until the funeral tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “I need to go home, even if it’s just to say my final goodbyes. I’ve been avoiding it for far too long.”

  “And if they send you away?”

  “I’m family. Estranged or not, they can cope with my presence for one night.”

  “You know I’ll be here if they don’t, right?”

  “Yes.” She mustered a wan smile and reached to squeeze his wrist. “Thank you. I don’t know how I’d have made it through the past few days without you.”

  “No thanks necessary.” His gaze intensified and his fingers closed over her hand, squeezing tight. “You know I’d do anything to help you, Sophia.”

  Biting her lip, she dropped her gaze and gingerly withdrew her hand from beneath his. “I know.”

  Full night had already settled over the Turino vineyards by the time Sophia arrived. Alone. Though the prospect of returning to the home she’d left so long ago struck panic into her heart, she knew she had to face her past, no matter how awkward and painful it might prove to be. Now, with Papa gone, she had to say her final goodbyes before she left California forever.

  Inhaling deeply, she took a moment to gather her courage and survey the Turinos’ ancestral property. Twilight cast the east field, laden with ripe blues and purples in preparation for harvest, in scented silence. The vineyard had grown in size and scope, and the shadowed evidence of new outbuildings, new equipment and Ra
fael’s impact on Papa’s vision was unmistakable. Seeing the touch of his influence made her pulse throb uncomfortably beneath the surface of her skin and her nerves skitter along her veins. Whatever would she say to him when she saw him again? What would he say to her?

  She wasn’t foolish enough to think she could escape to London without seeing him again. Without talking to him. And the prospect of facing him after all this time made her stomach clench with worry and apprehension.

  Which made no sense, considering the fact that she was over him and had been for years.

  Seven years, in fact.

  Rafael hated her. She’d stopped deluding herself about his feelings toward her a long, long time ago. Whether he would welcome her or not couldn’t matter. She had a right to attend her father’s funeral, no matter who disapproved. For twenty-four hours, she was here. And whoever didn’t like her unexpected appearance would just have to deal with it.

  Even so, it didn’t make it any easier to knock on the tall dark door that separated the woman she now was from the girl she’d once been.

  For several long, tense moments, Sophia wondered if anyone was home. But then the front door was pulled open and a trapezoid of yellow light spilled out onto the tiled terrace. Dolores, the aging housekeeper of Sophia’s youth, looked the same as always, her thick gray braid draped over one rounded shoulder and her robe cinched high over an ample waist. Her mouth dropped open while her reddened hands flew to her bowed cheeks. “Sophia?” she asked as she rushed out to draw Sophia into a tight, warm hug. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

  “You know why,” Sophia said, returning her former housekeeper’s unexpected embrace while tears rose to blur her vision. Blinking fiercely, Sophia withdrew enough to stare into Dolores’s lined face. “I heard about Papa.”

  “Oh, Sophia,” Dolores said as her big brown eyes shimmered with a bright sheen of tears. “It’s just awful. Terrible. His passing was so unexpected.”