Never Say I Want You

by Pennza, Amy

  Juan stared as if he didn’t know what to say. After a moment, he rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You should have told me.”

  “About Rafe or my job?” Ha. Knowing Juan, he took issue with both things.

  “The job, Catalina. You should have told me the truth. About all of it.”

  She shrugged. “Would it have mattered? You still have your list. Just because I’m done working doesn’t mean you lose leverage over me. You can still ruin those men.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Anger rolled into her mind like a brush fire. “That’s not what you said in your office.”

  “That was different. Things were different.”

  “How so?”

  His eyes darkened. “After what just passed between us, you can ask that?”

  Whoa. She spoke slowly and carefully so he wouldn’t miss a word. “You did not just suggest you’re willing to grant me a favor because I slept with you.”

  He scowled. “Of course not.”

  “Good, because that would be very stupid of you.”

  “But things have changed between us.” The scowl fled, and now there was something intense and passionate in his gaze.

  Panic stirred like snakes in her belly. Nothing had changed. Not really. “Juan…”

  He tugged the laptop from her grip and set it on a nearby table. Then he took her hands in his. “We can go home. I’m not stupid, Catalina, contrary to what you might think. I know it’s going to take a lot of work.”

  Her mouth went dry. “What will?”

  He squeezed her hands. “Our marriage may have started out arranged, but it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

  Yes, it did. It absolutely did. And she needed to tell him that. Like now.

  Except the words stuck in her throat.

  He rushed on, oblivious to her inner torment. “The past is the past, bonita. So let’s leave it there.” He gave her another squeeze. “We can start over. Today. We’ll get off this yacht and move forward, together.”

  The beautiful words were like a knife in her heart. When she spoke, her voice was hard and ugly. “Sometimes it’s not so easy to forget the past, Juan.”

  He fell silent, a frown clouding his handsome features. “I don’t…” He shook his head, and her heart broke a little more at the stricken look on his face. Juan Salvatierra wasn’t often vulnerable, but he’d made himself that way.

  For her.

  “I thought what we did together meant something,” he said.

  She shoved away every bit of her emotion, locking it all down so she could say the next four words without giving herself away. “It was just sex.”

  It seemed like a bomb should have gone off. Or maybe a deep, somber boom should have echoed across the deck.

  Something, anything, to signal the final, cutting end to the twisted threads that had bound their lives together for so many years. An eraser scrubbing out their past and running over any hope of a future.

  But the deck was quiet, the only sound the faint clap of waves slapping against the yacht.

  Juan stared, his expression blank. Like the eraser had scrubbed him out, too.

  A faint buzz broke the silence…then grew louder.

  Catalina looked over Juan’s shoulder. A boat appeared on the horizon, and she sucked in a breath. “Rafe.”

  Juan dropped her hands and jerked around. He strode to the end of the bow and braced his hands on the railing.

  Her heart pounded. This is it. Rafe was coming, and he was going to murder them. She hugged her arms around her stomach. Her knees loosened. She looked around for the nearest chair. Passing out was not an option right now. The last thing she wanted to be when sicarios showed up was unconscious, wearing nothing but a sarong.

  Juan turned and shouted back to her. “It’s the Coast Guard.”

  She froze. “What?”

  But he’d already faced the water again.

  She hurried to his side and squinted at the approaching boat. It loomed larger as it sped toward the yacht, its hull sporting a broad orange stripe. Relief washed through her like a warm river. She gripped the railing. “We’re safe.”

  Juan looked at her, his face inscrutable. “You should put on some clothes.” He turned and walked toward the bridge, leaving her alone at the railing.

  It’s better this way. Better that she was alone. Better that they were apart. Better for him, even if he could never know why.

  She looked back toward the water and the advancing rescuers. Yes, it was better all around.

  So why did it feel so utterly bad?

  18

  At least the room had a view.

  And he didn’t mean the beach.

  Juan settled back in his patio chair and glanced through the balcony’s open slider into the hotel room. From his vantage point, he could just make out Catalina’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. She’d cracked the door after her shower and now stood applying makeup in front of a small vanity mirror attached to the wall.

  Let it never be said the Coast Guard didn’t earn its budget. Not only had they rescued him and Catalina from the yacht, but they also put them up in a hotel in South Padre Island.

  Of course not before the officer in charge of the island’s Coast Guard station sat them both down for an hour-long interview about Lopez and Rafe.

  The officer had been particularly interested in learning what Juan knew about Venezuela’s most elusive drug lord.

  Unfortunately, Juan had just as many questions—maybe more. The officer hadn’t been able to tell them anything about Lopez. As far as the American authorities were concerned, he’d dropped off the map. After La Mariposa failed to return to the villa, the housekeeper alerted the authorities. It hadn’t taken the police long to connect the dots between Juan and the Salvatierra crime family. Federal agents had moved quickly, searching Lopez’s home and even Juan’s plane.

  He glanced at his phone on the glass-topped table, the black screen reflecting the setting sun. Yeah, Packey hadn’t been a happy camper when Juan talked to him after he and Catalina left the Coast Guard station. Being on the receiving end of a how-do-you-do by FBI agents toting semiautomatic rifles tended to do that to a person.

  There was another problem, too. After the interview, Juan’s first order of business had been calling Emily back at the office. Some of his clients couldn’t go half a day without panicking over some inconsequential matter in their case. Juan wanted to check in, as well as have Emily beef up the security around his apartment.

  But Emily wasn’t answering. Sure, it was Saturday, but as his wing man—er, woman—she was used to fielding calls over the weekend.

  He drummed his fingers on the table. The woman at the hotel’s front desk had cheerfully informed him there was an airport about forty miles away. Assuming he could convince Packey to unclench his asshole, he could have a plane there in a couple hours. Maybe getting Catalina back in a familiar setting would help.

  Then again, maybe that would just remind her how they came to be together in the first place.

  “It was just sex.” Catalina’s voice bounced through his head—stabbing at his brain like a javelin. When she said it on the deck, her eyes had been cold. Emotionless.

  In other words, nothing like the woman he knew and loved.

  Loved. Of course he loved her. He’d never stopped.

  And despite her assertion that what passed between them was nothing more than an exchange of bodily fluids, he knew she loved him, too.

  So why was she still set on running from him? Didn’t it always come back to that with them? She ran, and he wondered why.

  This time, though, he’d certainly given her a reason.

  Shit. He rubbed his forehead, wishing he had a drink. This marriage was definitely one of his dumber ideas. It sounded good at the time—knock out Rafe’s operation and force Catalina to clean up her act, all with a few vows and a certificate from the county.

  But she’d been doing that all on her own. And, hel
l, she hadn’t even been a real escort in the first place. And even if she had, what right did he have to judge her or demand she change? He’d told himself it was to protect her, and that was true. But it was only part of the truth.

  The reality was he’d been angry. Angry and hurt and confused. Like a wounded animal, he’d lashed out, driven to punish the woman who hurt him.

  Guilt, cold and reptilian, slithered through him. No wonder she claimed nothing had changed between them. From her perspective, nothing had. He’d hounded and harassed her over her “lifestyle” for eight years. Then he threatened and blackmailed her into marriage.

  Why the hell should she trust him now? Why explain her reasons for ending their engagement and running away? He had no right to demand her respect or affection. Those things could only be earned.

  He watched her through the slider. Dios, she was beautiful. She did one of those mysterious, feminine moves—leaning into the mirror and pursing her lips while she smeared some kind of gloss over her mouth.

  His cock tightened. Even now, smothered in remorse, he couldn’t suppress the memory of her tight sex gripping him, her gorgeous eyes holding his as she rode him. He might spend the rest of his life trying to earn her forgiveness.

  But it was goddamn worth it.

  Suddenly, she straightened, her eyes finding his in the mirror. She froze for a second, and heat washed up his neck. God, he’d been sitting on the balcony, ogling her like a lecher.

  Way to put her at ease.

  He rose and stepped into the room, confronted anew by the beige walls and floral bedspread. It was like someone set out to build a monument to the most generic, uninspired decor possible. Like most places on the island, the hotel catered to a certain type of traveler—spring breakers and families looking for a beach getaway on a budget.

  Catalina flipped off the makeup mirror and left the bathroom, stopping just outside the door. A light, feminine perfume hit his nose. Her dark-blue maxi dress matched her eyes, the clingy material molding to her curves. A spaghetti strap slipped down her shoulder, and she tugged it back into place.

  His heart stuttered. “I like the dress.”

  She bent her head and plucked at the skirt. “Yeah, well, you paid for it.” She wore her hair parted down the center, soft waves falling down either side of her head. Few women could pull off the severe style. On her?

  Fucking gorgeous.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. It was either that or close the distance between them, take her into his arms, and kiss the hell out of her.

  Which could get him slapped. Or worse.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome to it.” At her confused look, he added, “My money. Whatever I have. What’s mine is yours.”

  Her jaw set. She didn’t like that sort of talk, clearly. But he was done pretending their marriage was an arrangement.

  Still, pissing her off would be counterproductive. He had his work cut out for him just persuading her to return to San Antonio with him.

  Her stomach growled, and she slapped a hand over her midsection.

  He grinned. “Hungry?”

  “They say being on the water can make you starved.” Her cheeks reddened.

  Ah. She was remembering all the things they’d done on that water. Welcome to the club. Because he might spend the next decade or so replaying those scenes in his head. He gestured toward a plastic folder on the desk. “There’s a room service menu, but I’m willing to bet it sucks. We can check out the restaurant downstairs. It’s next to the beach.”

  She nodded. “I prefer the restaurant.”

  In other words, she preferred a public place rather than eating alone with him. So she wasn’t going to make this easy. He expected nothing less.

  Didn’t she know he enjoyed a challenge? If that was her opening salvo, then game freaking on.

  He went to the balcony, grabbed his phone, and slipped it into his pocket. Stepping back into the room, he gestured toward the door.

  “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

  19

  The restaurant wasn’t anything to write home about, but at least it offered a decent view of the beach. The sand was just steps away, with a high tide that tossed white foam on the shore. An ocean breeze played with the white tablecloths and set the flames in the candleholders dancing. A few stars twinkled in the purple-streaked sky. Underfoot, the stone patio was still warm from the sun.

  It was a charming enough setting. Romantic, even.

  Too bad romance was the last thing Catalina wanted to see on the menu.

  She sipped her water, her attention on a group of elderly ladies giggling and taking selfies while a mariachi band serenaded them.

  “Want something a little stronger?”

  She looked at Juan, who gestured to her glass. “Ah, no. Thank you.” After their little “Beluga vodka and cunnilingus party” on the yacht, she was staying sober, thank you very much.

  He tossed back the rest of his own drink, the rolled cuffs of his shirt showing off tanned forearms sprinkled with black hairs. The dying sun painted him in loving colors, highlighting the strong planes of his face in gold and red.

  Yes, she needed all her inhibitions around him.

  A waitress approached their table and gave Catalina a polite smile. “Hi, I’m Melissa. I’ll be taking care of you.” She looked at Juan, and her mouth hung open for a second. Then she seemed to catch herself and lowered her head, obviously flustered as she dug in her black apron.

  Oh, girl. Tell me about it.

  Melissa produced a pencil and an order pad. “Did you, um.” She glanced at Juan. “Did we, ah…decide what we want?”

  Catalina took pity on her. “I’ll have the chicken pasta.”

  Juan waited until Melissa scribbled it down, then said, “The steak. Medium rare.” He pointed to his drink. “And another old fashioned, please.”

  She bit her lip and nodded as she wrote. The breeze pulled at her hair—a dark red that sparkled in the sun. A becoming pink blush stained her cheeks, emphasizing her unique coloring and bringing out the dusting of freckles over her nose.

  She was pretty.

  Juan gave her about as much attention as a gnat buzzing around his food. Instead, he rested his forearms on the arms of his chair, his gaze on Catalina.

  A little shiver crept down her spine. It was like a predator had her in its sights. She could run, but she could be certain he would chase her.

  “I’ll put these right in,” Melissa said, gathering their menus. She tossed Juan another assessing look before turning on her heel and heading toward the kitchen.

  Catalina waited until she was out of earshot. “I think she liked you.”

  Juan frowned. “What?” Genuine confusion crossed his face. He hadn’t even noticed the waitress.

  “Nothing.”

  A beat passed, then he said, “I’d like to spend the night and then fly back to San Antonio in the morning.”

  She drank her water, buying some time before she replied. The implication, of course, was that he expected her to accompany him.

  He went on. “If all goes well, Packey should have us home by noon. I’ll need to go into the office right away. Emily isn’t answering her phone.”

  “Does she normally work on Saturdays?”

  “No, but it’s unlike her to go off the grid like this. Especially when she knew how important the Lopez meeting was. I expected her to check in to see how it went.” He glanced at his phone on the table, like it might light up at any minute.

  Catalina hadn’t thought of that. With Lopez skipping town—or whatever he was doing—Juan’s political aspirations were most likely on hold. Unless he had other potential donors she didn’t know about, he could kiss the attorney general job goodbye. For someone as ambitious as Juan, it had to be an unwelcome blow.

  She licked her lips. “I hope it all works out. Truly. With your campaign, and everything.”

  He stayed quiet, just staring at her. Between them, the candle on their ta
ble flickered and hissed as the wind picked up. Just when the silence stretched thin enough to be awkward, he said, “You make it sound like you won’t be around to see it firsthand.”

  That’s exactly what she meant, and he knew it. God, she didn’t want to do this with him. Not tonight. Not after the yacht. She looked at the water, which was black now that the sun had set. Stupid, stupid to sleep with him. Because now she had to really hurt him if she had any hope of pushing him away.

  “Catalina.” His tone was low but demanding, always calling her back.

  She faced him. “You’re right. I won’t be there. I’m not going back with you.”

  His posture stayed casual. No one looking at him would think he was angry. But the anger was there, simmering in his eyes. “Rafe is still out there—”

  “Then let him come find me.”

  Ever the lawyer, Juan shifted tactics. “You can’t just walk away, Catalina.” He jerked his head toward the sea. “Not after what happened out there.”

  The mariachi band moved to a nearby table, the happy, boisterous music at odds with the tension building as Juan stared Catalina down, daring her with his eyes to say she didn’t want him.

  “I told you,” she said, raising her voice over the guitars. “It was just sex.”

  He flashed a tight, humorless smile. “You think I don’t know a lie when I hear one?”

  “It’s the truth.” Okay, so it was a weak response, but she couldn’t freaking think with guitars surrounding her head.

  Juan didn’t seem bothered by the sound. He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “You want to know what I think? I think you’re afraid.”

  Her heart pounded. She tossed her head. Brazen it out. It always worked before. “Oh, really. Of what?”

  “Yourself. Us.” Flames reflected in his eyes as he leaned closer, his arms on the table, his thick Rolex throwing out even more light. “You’re afraid of loving me. Something spooked you eight years ago, and you’ve been running ever since.”