Love Captive

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  

"Just Who Do You Think You Are?" Anne Demanded.


Carlos's black eyes glared furiously into hers. "You've just told me who I am," he said, his breath coming hard and fast. "Your captor. Your enemy."


The next moment, Carlos stepped even closer, pulled Anne against him; and his mouth came down on hers, more demanding than ever before. Carlos's arms went around her and he held her pressed tight against him, his mouth capturing hers, possessing hers. Anne found herself almost unable to breathe. Her heart beat so fast it frightened her. She wanted to cry out, to break free, but she couldn't. Instead, she found herself responding to him, to the dizzying passion of his kiss.

JACQUELINE HOPE, a Californian by birth, has been a housewife and a writer ever since her marriage in 1959. "Love and writing seem to go together for me," says the author, who has published numerous contemporary romances and is currently involved in writing soap operas and historicals as well.

Dear Reader,

Silhouette Romances is an exciting new publishing series, dedicated to bringing you the very best in contemporary romantic fiction from the very finest writers. Our stories and our heroines will give you all you want from romantic fiction.

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Copyright © 1982 by Jacqueline Hope

Map by Tony Ferrara

First printing 1982

ISBN 0 340 32690 5

As Anne McCullough glanced around the dimly lit, crowded nightclub, she noticed the tall, dark-haired man who stood toward the rear of the bar. At first glance she thought him the most attractive man she'd ever seen, with an aristocratic face so handsome it took her breath away. She wondered momentarily, excitedly, if he could be the man her brother Michael had sent her here to meet. The next moment she dismissed this possibility as wishful thinking. Still—in this small room swarming with dark-eyed, dark-skinned Arabs, only half a dozen men looked European.

Narrowing her eyes, Anne stared even more intently across at the man. Michael had sent her here to meet a man named Carlos Philip Alvarado-Castellon who, according to Michael, came from a wealthy Spanish family that had blood or marital ties to every royal house of Europe; Carlos himself would one day be a duke. The tall, slender man upon whom she gazed so intently was not only incredibly handsome, there was also something so self-assured about the way he stood, with such an arrogant tilt to his head, she could easily believe that through his veins coursed the blood of kings.

As Anne thought this, she felt her pulse pound hard with excitement. The next moment, laughing at herself, she forced her eyes to move away. Only in the movies did people look as they were supposed to look. In real life, appearances were almost always deceptive. The tall, arrogant stranger with the elegant air was probably the son of a cab driver and a hardworking seamstress. Carlos Philip Alvarado-Castellon, heir to a dukedom, would most likely turn out to be a hefty, swarthy-complexioned man who looked like a small-town butcher. Smiling at the thought, Anne swung her eyes back around to enjoy the sight of the attractive man standing by the bar.

Her attention focused across the room, she was unaware that she was receiving a number of interested looks herself. The light-brown hair shot with gold, and pale blue eyes which had always seemed so ordinary back home were attracting fascinated stares here in this land of dark-eyed, dark-haired beauties. More than one interested male had caught sight of the slim, fair girl in the navy-blue traveling suit who sat all alone at the corner table. Anne, who had chosen the suit for the efficient, businesslike air it lent her, was totally oblivious to the fact that it also emphasized the feminine curves of her figure and brought out the blonde highlights in her hair. Absentmindedly sweeping the golden curtain away from her face, Anne smiled to herself.

It still seemed impossible to her that she was here, in a crowded little nightclub in a rundown section of the city of Tangier, Morocco. Two days before she'd been safely home in Baltimore, Maryland, secure in her dull little rut. Then Michael had phoned, pleading with her to drop everything to fly to Morocco to help him. He had written and phoned her before about his hectic romance with Dorrie—Dolores Camilla Marie Matilda Alvarado-Castellon. They'd met in Venice, Italy, when both were there as tourists, had found each other enormously interesting and attractive, and Dorrie had repeatedly sneaked away from the aunt who was acting as her chaperone to spend time with Michael. When the aunt caught on, she had angrily dragged Dorrie home to Spain, to her father's castle in Palencia. Dorrie's passport had been destroyed, she had been stripped of all funds, and kept under virtual house arrest. For several weeks a frantic Michael hadn't heard from her, then she'd written him to meet her in Salamanca; she was going to run away and meet him there. Once they'd been reunited in Salamanca, they'd fled south to Algeciras, and there had hired a local fisherman to take them across the narrow straits to Tangier, Morocco, with Dorrie's brother Carlos in furious pursuit.

Now they were holed up somewhere here in Tangier—even Anne didn't know where—hoping to get a passport for Dorrie so that they could fly home to the United States to be married. Carlos had left word all over the city that he wished to meet with Michael to discuss the situation, and Michael had agreed to meet him here. But then, at the last minute, instead of keeping the rendezvous himself, Michael had asked Anne to go in his stead. She had long been planning a vacation from her rather routine banking job in Baltimore and this seemed the perfect excuse to get away. She had time off coming to her, and money saved up in the bank. So—as impossible as it all seemed—here she was.

As Anne continued to eye the man standing across the room, she saw the bartender lean across the bar to speak to him. The man glanced around to look at her, his handsome face impassive. He offered the bartender a slight solemn bow, then began walking toward her, making his way easily through the crowd to where she sat.

He came to a stop on the far side of her tiny table. "Excuse me, miss," he addressed her in clear, unaccented but curiously uninflected English, "I am told you are the one I have come here to meet. I am Carlos Philip Maximilian Alvarado-Castellon, at your service. May I sit down?"

"Why, of course, please do," Anne said quickly, the words tumbling out. Excitement made her head spin. As Carlos drew out the chair and seated himself across the small table from her, she tried hard to calm herself, in particular to kill off the silly grin of pleasure she could feel spreading across her face. To be thrown into the company of such an incredibly handsome, elegant, self-assured man—

"So—how are you enjoying your stay in Morocco?" Carlos addressed her. His black eyes, under slashing dark brows, gazed steadily across at her. Anne felt her breath catch again. Close up, Carlos was even more handsome than she had thought him before. He had an arrogant, refined face, with an aquiline nose, a surprisingly sensuous mouth.

Thick, straight black hair and flashing black eyes marked him as a true son of Spain. If this was what royalty looked like, no wonder the common man had bowed down, for so many centuries, to pay homage to the aristocracy!

"Well, I—I really haven't had much chance even to get my bearings yet," Anne responded, still feeling breathless. A quick, joyful smile spread irresistibly across her mouth. "I arrived only a few hours ago, at four this afternoon."