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  A BARGAIN OF DESIRE

  From the patio, Alejandra gazed over the Gulf waters. “Señor Montgomery, I want you to spy on Santa Anna,” she said, and turned to face him. “Can we count on you?”

  He stepped in front of her. “I accept . . . on one condition.”

  Too fast, thought Alejandra. He agreed too fast, as far as she was concerned. It was just as she’d been warned—Reece Montgomery could be bought.

  “Don’t you want to know the condition?” he asked.

  “I offered you money. What more could you want?”

  “You,” he said.

  Shocked, she stared up at his intense face. “I’m not part of the bargain.”

  Dipping his head, Reece moved his lips to touch the corner of her mouth, then he traced a trail of kisses to the creamy skin of her neck. Alejandra shuddered with desire as the edge of his mustache brushed against her aroused flesh.

  “Yes, you are, my sweet Alejandra,” he murmured. “You are.”

  MARTHA HIX

  MEXICAN FIRE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A BARGAIN OF DESIRE

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  For my father,

  Mortimer W. Coke, M.D.

  (1899-1958)

  Special thanks to Evita and our trusty Mexican

  Jeeps . . . Jay and Carlito . . .

  for their patience as I searched for

  la pierna de Santa Anna;

  and of course muchas gracias for the hospitality

  goes to Maria del Carmen Hernandez and

  her favorite Jalapeño, Johnny Cash.

  Chapter One

  Vera Cruz, in the State of Veracruz, Mexico,

  November 1838

  It might have been a typical morning in the port city.

  As it had for two centuries, the islet fortress of San Juan de Ulúa overlooked the bay’s black sands and the city’s high walls. Sea gulls cawed and dipped. Inside the town gates, and only a block from the pier, meat and fowl hung in market stalls while odors—shellfish, tortillas, chiles, citrus, mildew—permeated the tropical air.

  Even the mood seemed commonplace. The evocative strains of marimba music beat through el mercado. Vendors pestered shoppers. Children shouted and played; lovers strolled around the palm and almond trees; a wife harangued her husband when his wandering eyes strayed to a beautiful señorita. A sultry breeze, warm as the nearby Gulf of Mexico’s waters, ruffled the black mantilla covering an especially beautiful young woman’s dark hair as she alighted from her carriage and headed toward Café Plantain to meet with her Federalist friend Erasmo de Guzman.

  She was Alejandra Toussaint Sierra, mistress of one of the region’s largest coffee plantations, Campos de Palmas. Rarely did her lips ease into one of her once ready smiles. Her hazel eyes no longer sparkled. It was broadly whispered her seriousness resulted from a foreign education. That was partially true. For the last three of her twenty-two years she had lived with sorrow having nothing to do with passing from a wild child into a solemn woman. Her sadness today wasn’t out of the ordinary.

  Thus, taken at face value, this might have been a typical Monday morning. But it was not. The French had blockaded Vera Cruz’s harbor.

  A foghorn blared. No doubt it belonged to the menacers. Alejandra grimaced. Admiral Charles Baudin and his men should have been the widow Sierra’s allies, her father being a patriotic Gaul even though he had lived in nearby Jalapa for many years. But she held no such allegiance to los franceses. Alejandra believed in Mexico. Mexico forever.

  “Señorita?”

  A ragged Indian girl of about five stepped in front of her and held out a grubby hand. Huge pleading eyes looked up.

  Accustomed to such a situation, Alejandra sighed in sympathy and dug into her pocket. “For you, my sweet,” she said in Totonac, placing the silver coin in that palm. “Go with God.”

  “Thank you, fair lady.” The girl took off in the harbor’s direction, the coin clutched as if it were a talisman.

  No more than a quarter block away, in a less crowded section of the marketplace, the beggar girl stumbled and fell to the patterned marble walkway. A nearby vendor of bananas, exotic birds, and crucifixes fashioned from seashells turned a blind eye.

  Alejandra started toward the child.

  At that same moment a tall and dashing man rushed to offer aid. Rocking back on his booted heels, he lifted her shoulders from the pavement. Alejandra stopped several paces from the pair, but she couldn’t turn her eyes from the touching sight.

  She heard the man’s words of comfort, uttered with deep resonance. Obviously he wasn’t fluent in the Indian’s language. Just as obviously he wasn’t Español. His features were neither fine as a Spaniard’s nor coarse as an Indian’s, and a mixture of the two he wasn’t.

  Since he did not look at Alejandra, she couldn’t distinguish the color of his eyes, but he gave the impression of being Nordic: above average height; features etched to rugged and manly perfection; hair the color of freshly scythed flax.

  Somewhat out of the ordinary described his clothes. A Panama hat tilted cavalierly above his tanned and mustachioed face, a blousy-sleeved white shirt open at the neck to reveal a hirsute chest, gray linen trousers hugging narrow hips, plus boots of black suede—thigh high above silver spurs. Alejandra detected the outline of a knife in the right boot.

  And they were big boots. Even though she had traveled extensively through Europe and the United States, and had seen many towering men in both places, she was struck by the size of his feet and hands. Mexico was a land where men prided themselves on small bones; it was a sign of breeding. But Alejandra found this foreigner’s big bones intriguing.

  A breeze ruffled his sleeves, pressing the material against well-developed muscles. To gaze upon the lines of a man shouldn’t have been this interesting to a widow respectful of her husband’s memory. It shouldn’t be, especially since she had never been prone to ogling men.

  There was no accounting for Alejandra Sierra’s continued interest.

  Except the st
ranger—he appeared to be around thirty—gave the impression of mystery and danger mixed with compassion. Was that why she was intrigued? Probably. Who wouldn’t be curious about a man certain in his actions, commanding in his presence, and tender in his ministrations?

  He smoothed the little girl’s brow and asked in broken Totonac, “Can you walk now?”

  She shook her head, perched on his knee, then nestled against his broad chest.

  “May I carry you to your mother?”

  She closed her eyes before snuggling deeper.

  No way was the child giving up that safe haven. And it certainly appeared to be comforting. A bizarre feeling tugged at Alejandra. For the first time since her husband’s death—and possibly a good while before that—she yearned for physical comfort. And ached to be held against a man’s chest. What was she thinking? Such thoughts were not proper!

  She flushed, lifted her lace fan, and retreated a step to the side. Cooling her face, she made mental amends. Despite a far different appearance, this man reminded her of Miguel Sierra. Her departed husband, predictable as rain in springtime, had been a compassionate soul, deserving to love and be loved. In her world of Latin tempers—and she had her own—Miguel’s calm, soothing ways had been refreshing.

  Poor Miguelito, she thought. Miguel, who loved children and sunsets and fandangos. And Alejandra. He died childless on his twenty-fifth birthday. In March of 1836. He had not died in the arms of his devoted wife. Don Colonel Miguel Sierra y de Leon fell in battle. In the Tejas village of San Antonio de Béjar. At a mission turned fortress called the Alamo.

  A tear formed. As clearly as if he were standing beside her, Alejandra could hear Erasmo de Guzman say, “Stop torturing yourself.”

  It wasn’t easy, jacking up her chin and sniffing back that tear, but Alejandra did, and felt better for her efforts. Erasmo, friend to both Alejandra and the late Miguel, had been right in his advice. She must quit crying over her husband. All the tears in the world wouldn’t bring him back.

  Calm again, she wondered about this kind stranger, who was telling the little girl some story about trapping muskrats as a lad. Who was he? Surely not a pirate, though his clothing outside of the spurs befitted one. Perhaps he was an American? There were many on these shores, Vera Cruz being a cosmopolitan seaport.

  Uneasiness tugged at Alejandra. He might be Norman French. After all, Normans were of Nordic extraction. Could it be that he was one of Admiral Baudin’s men come ashore to spy on the Mexicans? Surely not, she reasoned. Even the French wouldn’t be so bold. In bright daylight anyway.

  And he didn’t strike Alejandra as an enemy.

  “Señorita, you want camarones?” A dirty-faced boy shoved a pungent, cloth-covered basket toward her face. “The boiled shrimp is excellent today.”

  “No thank—” Alejandra glanced at the beggar girl. She wasn’t as plump as a youngster ought to be. Taking another step backward, Alejandra whispered to the shrimp monger, “I’ll take a dozen. Give them to the child.”

  He flourished his serape, kneeling on the blanket to bundle the huge, pink crustaceans. He grinned at Alejandra as he took her money, then sauntered to hand the parcel over.

  The girl looked at her benefactress. “Thank you, generous lady.”

  Her rescuer started to glance at the source of that appreciation, but tiny fingers pressing against his cheek stopped him. “Thank you, nice gentleman.” There was a funny look on her face. “Your cheek isn’t smooth like my people’s. It’s all . . . like sand, or something. It tickles my fingers. But it is a nice feeling.”

  Barely aware of her actions, Alejandra edged closer to the two of them. The man was laughing at the comment. “Little one,” he said and patted the thin shoulder, “you’ll break many hearts one day.”

  She beamed and lowered her chin in sudden shyness. “I will go now.” Paper-wrapped camarones clutched in one hand, her coin in the other, she departed.

  Finally the man turned his gaze to the now smiling Alejandra. He levered to stand. Something lit the eyes that were blue as a Nordic fjord. Something akin to recognition. Such an expression from a stranger was unsettling, especially when a grin as sensuous and evocative as the marimba pulled the left side of his face, lifting his mustache, as he said simply, “Doña Alejandra.”

  Her smile vanished. How did he know her name and title? Never before had she seen this blond man. Never. Nonplussed and perhaps frightened at this disadvantage, she stepped back. In these perilous times, one couldn’t be too cautious.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” There wasn’t a trace of an accent to his Spanish beyond a slower cadence and a deeper timbre than was usually detected hereabouts. “Doña Alejandra, may I introduce myself?”

  Not a syllable passed her lips. She must not dally here chatting with this mysterious, socially forward person—who just might be French!—when other matters required her attention.

  Alejandra whipped around and hurried in the direction of Café Plantain. Over her shoulder she heard the stranger say, “You disappoint me.”

  Recalling his kindness to the beggar girl, Alejandra almost turned around. Almost. It took reminding herself that ladies did not engage with those not of their acquaintance, especially in times like these, to keep her feet moving. Besides, she was late for her appointment.

  Last evening she received a note from her friend and confidant, Erasmo de Guzman, urging that she meet him at the coffee shop located catercorner to Vera Cruz’s plaza, and that was where she needed to be. Now.

  Yet she couldn’t help wondering . . . How did the stranger know her? Could she have forgotten a previous meeting? Surely not. If they had met, she would have recognized him. A man so handsome and considerate would be unforgettable.

  You’re making too much of it. Her family, the Toussaints, were well-known residents of Veracruz state; the Sierras, all of whom were now dead, had been even more prominent. It wasn’t unusual for Alejandra to be recognized. But by a foreigner?

  You disappoint me. She didn’t wish to mull the source of why the man’s statement bothered her. Nearing Café Plantain now, she decided not to give it one more thought.

  Chapter Two

  A couple of minutes after turning from the flaxen-haired stranger, Alejandra Sierra entered Café Plantain. Here, Veracruzanos enjoyed the finest locally grown coffees amidst the hubbub of coffee brokers conducting business.

  Because of her long period of mourning, this was her first visit since word of Miguel’s death had reached her two years ago. She noted the café’s familiar whitewashed and stark walls, the mosaic tiles covering the floors, the din of voices, and the clanging of dishes. The aroma of coffee wafted throughout to cajole customers to cup after cup of the delicious brew.

  Several men took time from their refreshments to offer Alejandra greetings and condolences. No one looked askance at her. Frequenting establishments alone was frowned at in some parts of the world, but not here. Especially not at her. Coffee was the mainstay of Campos de Palmas. Of course with the French blockade, business wasn’t good, but she refused to think about that now.

  An errant recollection did rush to mind.

  You disappoint me.

  It was as if the mysterious man were in the main salon of the Plantain, speaking to her with that resonant tone of his. Resonant and filled with . . . with what? True disappointment, she decided. She much preferred the easy tone he had used with the Totonac girl.

  The child’s words haunted her, too. Your cheek is not smooth like my people’s . . . It tickles my fingers. . . But it is a nice feeling.

  What did it feel like to touch his cheek?

  Making her way to a room reserved for private meetings, Alejandra scolded herself for such thoughts. Of course she had loved her husband, but dwelling on intimacies was not only unladylike, it was also uncharacteristic of her.

  She entered the room and closed its door behind her. Two men rose from the table. She had expected simply to see the young mestizo coffee broker. With his burly bui
ld and coarse features, Erasmo de Guzman couldn’t have been termed handsome, not like that golden-haired pirate, but Erasmo’s expressions and the way he carried himself showed intelligence and confidence.

  It was no wonder Alejandra’s sister had once found him attractive. Very attractive.

  Not wishing to dwell on that recollection, Alejandra noted Erasmo wasn’t looking her in the eye. Why not? Trying to figure out an answer, she observed the room’s other male occupant. He was old, bent, and small.

  This was definitely a day for strangers.

  And whatever her friend and his companion wanted, she doubted it had anything to do with friendship or the business of coffee beans. Which had her uneasy for some reason.

  “What do you want of me?” she asked quietly, sans the preamble or the social chatter of a typical Veracruzana.

  The old man raised an arthritic hand to cup his ear before turning to Erasmo. “What did she say?”

  “ ’Rasmo, who is this gentleman?”

  “Don Valentin Sandoval of Merida.”

  Merida. Capital of the Yucatan peninsula. Center of opposition to the present government. Don Valentin Sandoval. Sandoval—of course! Alejandra was surprised at not recognizing the name immediately, since Erasmo had mentioned it on several occasions. The Yucatecan grandee, a distinguished arch Federalist, was an outspoken critic of the Centralist government.

  But what did the consumptive don and Erasmo want from her? Don’t be loca, she scolded herself. This meeting must have something to do with the subject near and dear to Erasmo’s heart. A cause he had instilled in Alejandra. Promoting a Federalist government.

  For years Mexico had been divided into two camps, Centralist and Federalist. The former was in power, granting favors to those in the upper classes. Her faction, on the other hand, believed in liberty, equality, and fraternity for all. As well, they embraced the doctrine of states rights over a Centralist regime where all authority was vested in a few corrupt men in the capital. They took no regard of practicality and didn’t understand—or care!—that what worked for Veracruz state wouldn’t necessarily be right for Chihuahua or the Pacific Northwest or the Yucatan. And vice versa.