Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance
Page 12
He’s on his back, one arm bent underneath his head as he looks at me. For once, there’s no teasing or challenging look in his gaze. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”
I just nod as he closes his eyes. It doesn’t take long for his body to relax into sleep. I feel a smile touch my lips as I look at him. His face is so amazingly beautiful as he sleeps, especially with those dark lashes now settled against his cheeks. Even his nose is too adorable, with a tiny dented point at the end, almost matching the one in his chin. He’s like the male version of Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be awakened with a kiss. My eyes travel across his well-sculpted body, landing once again at the crotch of his jeans, thinking of another way he could be woken up.
This time I don’t feel so guilty having such thoughts. When death is on the line, morality becomes less of a priority.
I hold onto his broken bottle and head out to the other room.
Even though what little I have on was only first donned a few hours ago, it feels funky already. When he wakes up, I’m the first to get a shower, I don’t care what he says.
Or we could take one together.
I shiver with pleasure at the thought, letting it ripple through my body without hesitation.
After figuring out how to use the coffee machine and getting a cup going, I raid the minibar for food. I’m thrilled to find that there are also mini packs of pain relief pills. I guess the hotel knows its guests too well. I rip open one and swallow two pills down with some water. My stomach lurches at the idea of eating any of the food, no doubt another lingering side effect of that sangria. Those tapas aren’t sitting too well right now. Thankfully, the coffee seems to go down easily enough.
In retrospect, I needed that sleep more than I thought. I feel well-rested enough to think more clearly now.
It’s obvious that Enrique’s past misdeeds have finally caught up with him. And now we’re stuck on this island with that danger surrounding us.
Damn him.
I look out of the window. The sun is low in the sky now. By the time Enrique’s hour of sleep is up, it will be twilight. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but now it seems foreboding. At least in the light of day, we can see them coming. I grip the neck of the broken bottle tighter, ready to fight to the death if need be.
I’d rather not think about being taken alive.
The fear keeps me awake and alert, such that I give Enrique much longer than an hour. It’s fully dark now, but I hear him stirring in the other room and rise from the sofa to go and greet him.
“Get a good sleep in?” I say with a smirk as I turn on the lights to the bedroom.
He squints at the sudden brightness, turning to look at the clock. “You didn’t wake me?”
“I’m nicer than you are,” I retort.
“Muchas gracias,” he says as he slowly rises and scoots off the bed.
“De nada,” I reply, earning me a look of mild surprise.
“How much Spanish do you actually know?”
“Bastante,” I reply, keeping it deliberately vague by telling him I know enough.
He smirks and tilts his head as if conceding the point.
“Since I was so nice, I get first dibs on a shower,” I insist.
His eyes wander down my body as though the same fleeting thought about showering together is crossing his mind.
“Alone.” I raise one eyebrow in warning.
Enrique laughs and shakes his head. “I think I’ve corrupted you enough for one day. Besides, someone has to keep watch. We certainly wouldn’t want the bad guys sneaking in and catching us in a compromising position.”
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, this time without a hint of pleasure in it.
“Go and take your shower, Diabla. Wash the sins of the day away,” he says with a smirk. “I’ll just have to wait out here using my imagination. Or I could just pull out my phone if that doesn’t work.”
I twist my lips in anger and flip him the middle finger before spinning on my heels and heading toward the bathroom.
I slam the door shut on him laughing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Enrique
Leira certainly takes long enough in the shower. Just when I’m beginning to worry that maybe she’s drowned in there, she comes out wearing one of the hotel bathrobes with her hair up in a towel.
“Are you sure it was just a shower you took in there?”
She silently flips me her middle finger again by way of answering. I suppose she’s still a bit sore. I laugh and head into the bathroom to take a shower of my own.
“Qué mierda!” I hiss when I finally enter.
It’s a mess. My shirt, her bra, and underwear hang from the shower rod. Wet towels lie in piles on the floor, completely used. There’s exactly one clean washcloth left hanging. I’m sure that was deliberate, just to annoy me. Fog still steams the mirror. All of the available toiletries have been used to the last drop.
I strut back out to the sitting area where Leira now lounges on the couch.
“You were supposed to take a shower, not treat yourself to a fucking spa day!” I growl.
She just stares at me, eyes wide with innocence, then shrugs, not even attempting to apologize.
“You do realize I’m the one paying for this room that you are so willingly taking advantage of?”
“Willingly?” she hiccups an incredulous laugh.
“You have my permission to go,” I say, waving toward the door.
“And that photo?”
“I should publish it just to punish you.”
She shoots up from the couch and snarls at me. “You would be the kind of asshole to do something like that, just because I took too long a shower.”
“Too long a shower? It looks like a disaster area in there!”
“Excuse me if I have needs. My clothes were filthy. This hair requires an entire regimen to keep manageable. And yes, as you so blithely put it, I did want to wash the sins of the day away. Thanks for the suggestion. Now you know what it’s like to feel dirty. Enjoy your shower.”
“Oh…don’t act like you didn’t enjoy every moment of it,” I say, coming in closer, so I’m right in her face.
She inhales as though offended, just before her eyes turn in to slits. “And don’t you act like you did something special. I’m sure it’s easy enough to get a big head when you know you’re the only one who’s done it to that woman.”
I pause, my mouth curling into a grin. “Am I the first?”
“W-what?” Her thick eyelashes flutter in bewilderment.
I reach out and whisk the towel wrapped around her head away. She yelps in surprise, then moans in protest when my hand sinks into those damp curls that probably used at least half of the towels in there.
“The first man to use his lips on yours.”
Her eyes dart back and forth in confusion, trying to figure that one out before she realizes which lips I’m talking about. Her face darkens a shade or two when it hits her.
“Let go of me.”
“Answer the question.”
“No.”
“No, as in I’m not the first? Or no, as in, you’re not going to answer.”
“No, as in no!”
I simply hold her in place, enjoying the way she defies me. Pretty soon, she’ll start getting physical. I can already feel my self getting hard at the thought.
“Está bien,” I say in a low, seductive voice. “We both know there’s one first you can’t deny. I look forward to you not just giving it to me, but begging me to take it…Sister.”
The slap comes swift and hard. I wouldn’t expect anything less from diabla mía.
I laugh and let go of her hair.
“The day I ever let you anywhere near me again is the day I—”
I place one finger against her lips. “Shhh…what happened to your vow of silence?” I scold in a mocking voice.
She slaps my hand away.
“I’ll show you just how loud I can be.”
> I grin. “I look forward to that.”
Her mouth tightens when she realizes how I’ve interpreted that.
“Don’t you have a shower to take?” she spits.
“Yes,” I say, still with the grin plastered on my face. “I’m feeling especially dirty.”
I leave her, having had the very satisfying last word, all while her mind and mouth still work on some smart comeback.
* * *
Any satisfaction I got earlier was quickly diminished by having only a washcloth and a used, wet bar of soap to clean with.
The only thing to dry off with is the second robe hanging on the back of the door. I sigh and use it to pat away most of the dampness before throwing it on. I wince as I glimpse myself in the mirror, noting that I look like some overly-pampered billionaire. The very kind I’m used to robbing.
I throw open the door and walk out to the sitting room where Leira is once again lounging on the couch. “Next time we shower together. I’m realizing I have to keep a closer eye on you than I thought.”
“En sus sueños,” she retorts.
“She’s fluent in the local language after all,” I say with a smirk. “But you’re too late. You’ve already made a guest appearance in my dreams, Diabla.”
Leira just rolls her eyes and continues watching TV.
“We’re stuck here for the night, and I’m feeling particularly ravenous,” I say, feeling my stomach begin to growl.
“I hope that’s not a euphemism,” she says, eyeing me with suspicion. “I meant what I said about letting you anywhere near me again.”
“Considering what I’ve managed to get you to succumb to in less than a day, I like my chances,” I reply with a smirk. “But I was thinking more along the lines of room service.”
She glares at me but sits up, looking as hungry as I feel.
“We’ll call a truce for now. I’ll order up more towels and toiletries while we’re at it. In the morning, I get the first shower.”
“Fair enough,” she replies with a smirk. “I’m sure come morning, I’ll be just as clean as I am now.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Leira
Room service has been ordered, and replacement towels and toiletries have been supplied.
Enrique and I are sitting at the table near the window to enjoy our dinner, both of us still in bathrobes. He’s ordered steak, and I’ve ordered a hamburger, mostly to have at least a familiar taste of home.
He leans over to pour me a glass from the bottle of red wine he also ordered.
“No thanks, that sangria already got me into trouble. Besides, I’m still feeling the headache from it.”
“All the more reason,” he says, continuing to pour. “Para quitar la resaca mas alcohol. I believe you would call it ‘hair of the dog’ in America. Trust me, this will help.”
“I don’t think that’s a literal translation. To get rid of…resaca, is that the word for hangover in Spanish? To get rid of the hangover, more alcohol? The English version doesn’t even make sense.”
“Don’t ask me to explain the ways of your country. I left when I was five.”
“So…you were born in America,” I say, feeling a smirk come to my lips.
His eyes meet mine as he sets the bottle back down. He lifts his glass of wine toward me. “Muy bien. You managed to get something out of me. Yes, I was born in America.”
“But…leaving at five? Either you had really good retention or language classes in Spain are superior to ours. You have an accent, but you have the lingo down perfectly.”
“In my profession, it pays to be fluent in several languages, with English being the most likely suspect. A proper education, too many American movies, and most importantly, a driving motivation helped the process along. But enough about me, let’s talk about you.”
“That wasn’t even subtle.” I laugh before taking a bite of my hamburger. Thankfully the earlier queasiness from whatever hangover I had is long gone. The headache persists, though, so I try a sip of the wine.
Enrique considers me as he cuts into his steak. “Risk versus reward.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask after swallowing.
“I mean that if I tell you about myself, I reveal more secrets that I find necessary to continue to keep hidden from you. However, you telling me more about yourself, for example, family life with the Montoyas, gives nothing away that I probably couldn’t now easily discover via a Google search.”
“Firstly, I fail to see the reward part of all of that. Secondly, how do you know I don’t have more to hide about my personal life?”
“As for the reward, I prefer conversation with my meal. Something tells me you are itching to talk as well. I’m thinking that silent act built up a lot of unreleased hot air.”
I narrow my eyes at him, which makes him laugh.
“As for having something left to hide, I know for a fact that you’re holding something back. But it isn’t about your family. So tell me, what was your childhood like?”
How the hell has he figured so much out? Specifically, that I do have something left to hide, and no, it isn’t about my family.
“I’m very good at reading people,” he says with a smirk before popping a piece of steak into his mouth.
I just sip my wine, eyeing him with suspicion over the rim. For some reason, his smirk only broadens. When he swallows, he actually chuckles.
“For example,” he says, picking up his glass of wine. “Every time you take a sip of wine, I know you’re hiding something. It’s a good thing we aren’t playing poker.”
I bring the glass down to the table, enough to cause it to swish around.
Enrique laughs and takes a sip of his wine. I busy myself with my hamburger to keep from saying anything. Maybe that silent act was for the best. Who knows what’s likely to come out of my mouth tonight.
His expression transforms into one of thoughtful consideration. “How about I sweeten the deal?”
I’m chewing, so I just skeptically raise one eyebrow.
“I’m pretty good at figuring things out. You tell me about your family, and I bet I can guess what’s going on there. Specifically, I can probably find out who your father’s enemy is and why he’s doing what he’s doing.”
That’s enough to slow my chewing until it comes to a stop, the mush of hamburger and bun sitting in my mouth like a tasteless blob.
I’ve spent far too much time trying to wrap my head around my family’s tragic legacy. Conjecture and supposition have filled in most of the blanks, but have also left me frustrated without any confirmation from my father.
Enrique is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them. At the very least, it would be a second head going to work on fitting the pieces together. He might even know of a way to put an end to it all.
I’ve told him this much already, what harm could it do to tell him everything else?
Everything except the one I made a vow to my father about.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Enrique
I feel my anticipation build when Leira agrees to tell me about her family. I don’t know why, since it has absolutely no bearing on my circumstances. Then again, there’s still a sliver of a chance that the people in my apartment and on my boat are after her.
She sets her half-eaten hamburger down and takes a deep breath.
“Like I said, my father is in importing and exporting.” She gives me a hard look, daring me to challenge that.
I simply wave my fork without comment, encouraging her to continue.
“He started in Mexico, working at a hotel as a night clerk. He gradually worked his way up to manager, and when he had enough money, he bought a grocery store.” She shrugs. “From there, it’s the usual of growing and expanding, one store, then another, and another. He finally sold it all and moved to California, specifically Los Angeles, and started a small importing-exporting business that eventually grew into shipping.”
“And your mother? What about her?” Maybe there will be some insight here.
“She was born in the People’s Republic of the Congo,” Leira announces, as though it’s a fascinating factoid, which it is. “Adopted by Catholics who were doing missionary work there at the time. She was left at an orphanage, so I don’t know her background beyond that.”
Leira pauses for a moment as though to reflect on that. “It’s strange, having no history. My father was an orphan. So was my mom, in a way. I’ve always had this weird, slightly unsettled feeling like I never belonged in any particular world because of it, especially in America, where everyone is so obsessed with tracing their family trees.”
That’s definitely something I can relate to.
She gives me a slightly embarrassed smile. “I mean, Grandma and Grandpa are great. If they weren’t so religious, they would be your typical white hippie leftovers.”
Yet another telling clue.
“How in the world did your parents ever meet?” I ask, genuinely curious. My steak is only half-eaten, but this background of hers is suddenly more savory fare.
She smiles and rolls her eyes. “Mom was working with a Catholic charity. Dad was at some gala being thrown by the organization.” Leira smiles almost bashfully. “He thought she looked like a goddess. But it was her integrity that attracted him. ‘Never underestimate the influence of a good woman,’ he always says.”
“Was that after he had made his money in shipping?” I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible.
Leira sees right through it, glaring at me as she picks up her wine glass. “You can just stop with that right now. If anything, my mother proves it. Yes, I was only a baby when she was killed, but based on everything I’ve learned from my grandparents to my sisters to anyone who knew her, she would have never been involved with a man who was part of the illegal drug industry. Never.”