by Mindy Neff
He seemed to fall in with her thoughts. “Perhaps I should take the cushions on the porch?”
“No. That wouldn’t be—”
“I do not require palatial accommodations if that is what you are thinking. Many of my nights are spent on the deck of my yacht, under the stars. The glider will feel like a luxurious featherbed compared to the unyielding teak.”
“That’s not it.” She hedged. “You’d end up being locked out. What if you had to, um, get up to go to the bathroom, or something?”
Antonio watched her nervousness. Yes, she would lock the interior door, because she was afraid. And rightly so. The more he thought about it, the more he decided he should sleep on the porch. To stand guard.
A damsel in distress would bring out his protective instincts every time. Usually he could fix the problem with money. In this case, or a least at the moment, he couldn’t.
“Perhaps you could give me the key. That way, if I require entrance, I will not wake you.”
“I don’t know... You’re a guest.”
“An uninvited one. I will not abuse your hospitality by putting you out of your bed.” He didn’t think now was a good time to tell her he’d like to be in that bed with her. “The porch will be fine, querida.”
She nodded. “I’ll leave the key out, then.”
He watched her walk to the bungalow, transfixed by the graceful sway of her body, by the way the moonlight glowed off her wheat-colored hair. The humid, salt air had turned it into a mass of springy curls that brushed her shoulders and back. His own fingers had contributed to the disarray.
He rubbed a hand over his chest, feeling a strange ache just beneath his breastbone. He licked his lips, tasting her there. The citrus scent of her perfume lingered in his senses; even the soft ocean breeze swirling around him couldn’t erase the smell of her, the feel of her.
¡Dios! He didn’t like to admit it, but that kiss had scared the hell out of him. He’d courted many woman, shared deep intimacies with some—though not nearly as many as the media would have the world think—but he’d never experienced a reaction quite like this one.
Raking his hair back from his face, he kept his gaze on the house, saw her go inside, then slip back out, obviously putting the key on the wicker table for him. He saw her hesitate, searching the darkness for him.
The interior lights created a halo backdrop behind her, and his heart gave a funny lurch, surprising him. He was used to the rush of adrenaline as he pushed an Indy car to its limits or soared through the sky piloting his own jet.
What he felt looking at Chelsa Lawrence, kissing her, was something else entirely.
She’d tasted just like his destiny.
And that shook him up.
He wasn’t a man who wandered aimlessly through life, searching for what he wanted to be when he grew up. Antonio knew exactly what his destiny was—to enjoy the freedom of being a rolling stone, to experience life to its fullest, to never settle in one place long enough for the possibility of boredom to set in, for the walls to crowd in and smother him.
His life was dedicated to the pursuit of having fun.
The lights in the bungalow winked off, and Antonio let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
It was utterly foolish to think that a kiss could taste like destiny. Obviously he was not yet recovered from the bump on the head.
And furthermore, he lectured himself, Chelsa Lawrence was not a woman a man could toy with. As much as she insisted she could stand on her own, she had commitment stamped all over her. In bold letters.
And if there was one thing Antonio was allergic to, it was commitment.
So why, then, was his heart pulsing like a high-performance piston in an engine revved past the red line?
Chapter 5
Chelsa could tell by the slant of the sun shining through the bedroom window that she’d overslept. Tossing back the sheet, she jumped out of bed, taking a moment to overcome the vertigo of the swift move, then stumbled into the bathroom across the hall to wash her face.
She’d already crossed the threshold before the voices registered in her foggy brain.
Those excited voices, and the sight before her, brought her suddenly, shockingly awake.
Antonio stood at the pedestal sink, razor poised in hand. White lather covered his cheeks, contrasting with his golden skin and dark hair. His only concession to modesty was the ivory towel wrapped around his waist.
Good night, this man was lethal.
The part of her brain that managed to function noted that Emily and Sophie were perched on the toilet, watching the masculine ritual with avid glee. Surely that wasn’t appropriate...
“Good morning, querida.”
Stunned, unable to find her voice, she dragged her gaze from his impressive chest and bare legs. Feeling like a total coward, she avoided looking directly at his face, and instead glanced fully at her daughters....
And at the scrawny black and white cat Sophie was hugging.
“Where did you get that cat?”
“He got scared in the storm. We finded him when we went to get seashells and Antonio’s toothpicks.”
Toothpicks? Oh, the wreckage of the boat, she realized. Then the words sank in. “You went outside without my permission?” She knew her voice had risen, but she couldn’t help it.
Sophie’s arms tightened around the cat and it yowled.
Antonio paused, razor poised to swipe another furrow down his lean cheek, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “They were with me.”
Trust me. His eyes said it; not his mouth. She felt like a ninny.
“Can we keep him, Momma?” Emily asked, reaching over Sophie’s shoulder to pet the animal.
“I don’t know, hon. He’s probably someone’s pet.”
“Nuh-uh!” Sophie said. “He was lost and scared and he gots nobody but us.”
Chelsa caught herself looking at Antonio for help. Dear Lord, she’d never done that before. She’d had sole responsibility for her daughters, been the only decision maker since Emily was born. So why had she slipped into that beseeching role?
Before she could correct the error, Antonio had wiped away the remaining shaving cream and turned to face her.
“We can call the information center in town and place an inquiry.”
It was a good suggestion. Chelsa just wished he’d kept his back turned while he made it. Facing her as he was, her imagination took off in a major flight of erotic fancy at the sight of the gap in the towel. The terry cloth was only held up by an overlapping of material. One false move and they’d all get an interesting peep show.
And while she would secretly enjoy the show, her wide-awake brain decided this was not an appropriate setting for the girls.
“That’s a good idea,” she said, silently cursing the huskiness of her voice, grinding her teeth when she saw the devilish quirk of his brow. Darn him, he knew exactly what his presence was doing to her. “I’ll check the phone lines. If they’re working, I’ll call. In the meantime...” She looked at Emily and Sophie, hoping she did so with aplomb. That peek of thigh beneath his towel was giving her fits. She cleared her throat. “In the meantime, you girls go on into the kitchen. I’ll be right in to start breakfast.”
Sophie hopped down off the toilet and lost her hold on the cat. It took off in a blur of black and white. Squealing, shoving for position, bickering over who got to go first and the fastest, the girls raced past, hot on its trail, nearly knocking Chelsa over in their rush.
“Here, now. No running in the house!”
Both girls skidded comically to a halt.
“But the kitty’s runnin’,” Sophie pointed out, her wide blue eyes full of innocence.
“Well, then, it’ll have to learn the rules, won’t it?”
“We better go tell him,” Emily whispered, urging her little sister into a fast tiptoe that was merely a more controlled style of running.
Biting her cheeks to contain her grin, Chelsa shook her head
and watched them go. One minute they were ready to brawl, and the next they were so sweet to one another it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
The smell of shaving cream permeated her senses. When she turned, her shoulder butted into Antonio’s chest. Evidently, he, too, had been watching the escapade.
And he was standing entirely too close.
Realization flashed like a blinding neon sign, knocking her shaky control right off its axis. Neither one of them was wearing enough clothes for Chelsa’s peace of mind.
Wrapped up in what he was wearing—or not wearing, rather—she’d neglected to think about her own state of undress. The T-shirt emblazoned with kissing frogs and hearts was modest enough...for parading in front of her daughters. Certainly not for wearing in the company of a virile stranger.
Flustered, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Whose razor were you using?”
“Yours, I assume. Alas, I neglected to grab my travel bag when the Diablo Plata was making a beeline for the reef.”
“I thought that shaving cream smelled familiar.” What an inane thing to say. Good night, he was close. Her heart was knocking against her ribs so loud she wondered if he could hear it.
“Will your little girls question my masculinity again, do you think?”
She tugged at the hem of her nightshirt, and bit her lip, fighting the smile. “I—I don’t believe that was ever in question.”
His head dipped closer.
Chelsa slapped a palm against his chest, holding him off. “That’s quite an appetite you have there, Prince.”
“You do not know the half of it.” His smooth Latin accent lowered his voice, turned it intimate. “And ridiculous as it may seem, I am finding that I am quite envious of those two frogs on your nightclothes.”
Chelsa’s gaze whipped down. Sure enough, each stencil covered her breasts, hugging them, caressing them, creating images of...
Get a grip! She whirled and practically ran out of the bathroom. “Get dressed. We’ll be in the kitchen.” Hopefully food would satisfy both their appetites.
She seriously doubted it.
By doggies, why had her body chosen now of all times to betray her? This behavior wouldn’t do at all!
* * *
When Antonio got to the kitchen, Chelsa was frying bacon. She’d donned another of her feminine dresses that skimmed her ankles, and her flyaway hair had been subdued into a ponytail. With its natural curl, it still looked tousled and sexy. He’d always been partial to smooth, sleek hair. Wavy tresses the color of ripe wheat were starting to top his list of erotic sights.
“Did you check the phones?”
She jumped, splattering bacon grease on the floor. “I wish you’d make a little more noise,” she complained.
He grinned, pleased that he got to her. Stepping up behind her, he tore off a sheet from the paper towel rack and bent to wipe up the grease. “Moving quietly is an art I acquired as a boy. It was great fun to slip around the hallways of the palace and catch the royal subjects unaware.” Straightening, he tossed the towel into the trash and reached past her to rinse his hands. “So, are the phones up and running?”
“I haven’t checked.” She glanced at the girls who were showering so much attention on that pitiful cat, it was a wonder it had any fur left. “I thought I’d wait until after breakfast.”
“No hurry.” He ambled over to the table, grinning as Emily shoved a bowl of milk under the cat’s nose. “Perhaps he is no longer thirsty,” he said, and could have sworn the cat gave him a grateful look.
“But he’s skinny,” Emily protested.
“Yes, but he’ll want to start slow with his eating. Otherwise he might get sick right here in the dining hall. That would be an embarrassing breach of manners for any man.”
“How come you call him a man?” Sophie asked.
Antonio discreetly lifted the cat’s tail. “Because he is of the male gender, and I would not want to offend by calling him a mere boy.”
“See,” Emily said, aiming a look at her sister. “I told you, you couldn’t name him after you. Besides, Sophie’s a dumb name for a kitty.”
“Well, he can’t be the Emily baby, either,” Sophie argued.
“Girls,” Chelsa interrupted. “The kitty might already have a name.”
“Nuh-uh!”
She placed the bacon on a rack to drain and whipped eggs. “He might have a family who’s looking for him,” she said gently.
“But he’s stayin’ wif us,” Sophie pointed out, folding her pudgy hands in front of her. “He gots to have a name.”
“Why don’t we just address him as Kitty for now?” Antonio suggested. “He’ll more than likely recognize that title and respond.”
Emily patted the cat. “But he’s a boy.”
Antonio reached down and covered the cat’s ears, pretending horror. “Shh. A man, if you please.”
Both little girls went into gales of giggles and looked at him with utter adoration. It gave him a punch right in the solar plexus.
“How do you say Mr. Kitty in Spanish?” Emily asked.
“Señor Gatito.”
Emily mimicked his accent fairly well. Sophie had a little more trouble getting her tongue around the syllables. A whispered discussion ensued, and Emily coached Sophie in pronunciation. From the hugs and kisses and fur ruffling, it looked as if the cat now had a name in spite of their mother’s warning.
“Breakfast,” Chelsa announced, just as the phone pealed.
The platter of eggs slipped from her hands and landed in a heap on the floor.
The cat pounced, the girls scrambled after it, shrieking admonishments, and Chelsa still stood frozen in place, staring at the telephone as though it was a loaded gun aimed directly at her heart.
Despite the chaos, Antonio’s main concern was the delicate woman who’d become so pale and motionless. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he lifted the receiver, listened, then replaced the instrument.
Stepping over to Chelsa, he gently cupped her cheek. “It was the repair company, giving a courtesy call to let us know the lines are working.”
Her blue eyes appeared dazed.
“Chelsa?” Softly, carefully, he pressed his lips to her forehead. ¡Dios! He hated to see the terror that paralyzed her.
She blinked. “I’ve made a mess.”
“Señor Gatito and I will take care of it. Sit.”
She glanced at the scattered remains of breakfast. “No, I’ll need to fix more eggs.”
“Sit, querida.”
She shook her head, apology in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just startled for a minute. I’m fine now.”
Short of forcing her, there was nothing he could do, and that annoyed him. He was used to getting his way.
Locating the broom and dust pan, he nudged the cat out of the way and swept up the soggy eggs. Thankfully the platter had been plastic, so there was no glass to contend with. As he dealt with the floor, Chelsa cracked more eggs into the skillet. When her hands shook, he refrained from commenting.
It wasn’t right, he thought. She was a woman alone, with the responsibility of raising two sweet little girls. She should not have to fear the phone every time it rang.
And what exactly was it that she feared? Oh, he knew about the threat, but he wasn’t certain what nightmare scenarios she might be building in that creative mind of hers.
With the floor sponged clean, he moved beside her. “Is there a call in particular you are dreading?” he asked quietly.
She’d gotten herself back under control, he noticed. Her hands were quick and efficient as she scraped the spatula over the coated surface of the skillet. “Mitch said he’d call if there was news of Rick’s release.”
He knew it was important to be prepared, but he wished she could be spared the knowing. “In the meantime, we are operating under the assumption that he is still in prison?”
“Yes.” She scooped fluffy eggs into a clean bowl and he took it from her. She smiled a bit sheepishl
y. “Don’t trust me not to drop the second batch of breakfast?”
He returned the grin. “We would not want Señor Gatito to overindulge.”
The worry crept back into her eyes. She laid a hand on his arm before he could move to the table. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to let the girls name the cat. If the owner’s found, they’ll have to give him up. Naming him makes it more personal, and it’ll be harder on them.”
Left unspoken were the other relationships they’d given up. Their father’s topping the list.
“I do not think we can prevent them from doing so. If an owner is located, we will simply replace this stray with a new one. One that they may keep unconditionally.” He raised a brow in question. “Provided that is acceptable to you, of course.”
“I don’t mind them having a pet. It’s just that...well, the timing isn’t great.”
Because they were essentially on the run. Fleeing with the girls was one thing. Adding an animal to the mix was another. “I will make you a deal. If at any time you are unable to keep the cat, you may call on me and I will stand in as a pet-sitter.”
Chelsa muffled a chuckle at that particular image. “I’m sorry, I can’t quite picture stray cats at the palace.” Then again, she would never have pictured a prince mopping up her kitchen floor, either.
“Well, there are none to date. However, last I heard, Princess Briana had dragged home a mutt of questionable lineage. From accounts by extremely reliable sources, I understand it is creating all manner of chaos.”
“You say that with such glee.” Together they set the food on the table.
“Ah, yes.” He grinned and held her chair out as though he were a gallant escort treating her at a five-star restaurant. “Anything that shakes up the palacio is of great interest to me.”
“You’re bad.” She sat down and tried to control her reaction when his hand brushed her shoulder. Kisses on the forehead, a skimming of fingertips here and there. The man was a toucher by nature. She wondered if every woman reacted as strongly as she did—or if under-exercised hormones were to blame.
“Girls, put the cat down and eat. No—” she held up a hand to silence the protests that automatically brewed. “Señor Gatito dined at the first seating. I’m sure he’s full now.” Good night, she was starting to sound like Antonio. The tiny kitchen could hardly be compared to fine dining accommodations. And darn it all, she’d automatically called that scrawny cat by its adopted name.