Desperado by Sandra Hill

Author:Sandra Hill [Hill, Sandra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Historical, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 0505521822
Publisher: Love Spell
Published: 2002-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

“Just pretend we’re making love.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said in a suffocated whisper.

“The lambada…It’s like making love without penetration. Relax and let your body speak for you.”

Making love without penetration? Oh, my!

They were swaying from side to side, slowly. Hmmm. She’d never had much time for dancing, but this was really kind of nice. Sway and turn. Sway and turn.

“I think I’ve got the hang of it,” she said.

“Good. Now for some real lambada.”

“What? Ooomph. Stop that.”

He bent her over backward so that her upper body was flung over his arm and her breasts were arched up in a provocative pose. She had no choice but to clutch his upper arms or risk falling to the floor.

The crowd went wild with cheers of encouragement.

“Arriba!” the Mexican guitarist yelled out, as he had earlier, following it with the yipping noise.

“What…are…you…doing?” she asked Rafe in a strangled voice.

“Dipping. Geez, Louise! Haven’t you ever dipped before, Helen?” The jerk was laughing at her.

“Undip me. Right now,” she demanded.

He grinned and yanked her upright without missing a beat of the dance rhythm. Once they straightened and were back in the traditional slow-dance posture again, she protested, “Rafe, let’s just get out of here. It’s obvious that I’m no good at dancing.”

“I don’t hear anyone complaining.”

In fact, the prospectors were stamping their feet and clapping, enjoying the spectacle immensely. And the Mexican musician kept repeating that stupid “Arriba!” yell. Helen felt like she’d fallen into a bad movie script.

“Besides, we can’t leave yet,” Rafe told her hurriedly, in between two more deep dips. “I met Henry and his cousin outside. They agreed to get our stuff from the hotel and bring the horses. They’ll signal with two whistles out back when they’re ready.”

“Oh, Lord!”

Still in the normal slow-dance position, Rafe boldly placed both palms on Helen’s buttocks and was guiding her backward and forward against him, teaching her the “dirtier” movements of the dance.

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Get your hands off my bottom, you brute.”

“I told you it was dirty.” His mouth lifted with humor. “C’mon, Helen, loosen up. Close your eyes. Pretend it’s just you and me. Put your body into it.”

Before she had a chance to react, he flung her away from him, holding onto one hand, then twirled her under his arm for six rotations, all in cadence to the music. John Travolta couldn’t have done it better. She emerged dizzily from her spin to find herself clasped in such a tight embrace she’d probably have groove marks on her stomach from the zipper of his fly.

Belly to belly, he rotated their hips, as one, in an erotic circle. Even their breathing came in unison now. It really was like making love.

And Helen began to forget the cheering miners, and the coins and gold nuggets being thrown to the stage, even the nineteenth-century setting. There was only Rafe and her and the music. And the forbidden dance.

A savage sexual energy flared between them as they learned the rhythm of each other’s bodies.

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