Santiago's Convenient Fiancée

by Annie O'Neil

  Santiago gave the detective a clap on the arm and grabbed the request for help like the lifeline it was. This was the last place he wanted to revisit the sins of his past.

  “Good to see you.” It was a lie that would fly.

  “You, too, Santi.” The detective turned back to the crash site then stopped. “You know we got them, right? Still locked away, as far as I know.”

  He didn’t need to ask who.

  “Good.” He nodded curtly, unable to open that particular door.

  “Valentino! Get yer bony Heliconian ass in gear!”

  “Yup!” He kicked up his long-legged stride into a jog. “On my way.”

  * * *

  “You okay?” Santi threw Saoirse a cold soda.

  “Yeah, why?” She cracked open the can and took a long drink then wiped off her bubbly orange mustache with the satisfied bravura of a six-year-old.

  “It’s normal to be tired and emotional after ten hours at an accident scene. Especially one like that.” He leaned against the sink, taking up his usual pose across the breakfast island from her. Putting a literal barrier between them helped check his body’s constant impulse to touch her. A little.

  “Ha! As if. It felt...” Saoirse fished around for the perfect word. “I obviously would’ve preferred no one got hurt, but the way we worked today? It felt empowering.” She emphasized the final word with real feeling, before giving him a sly smile. “Besides, us Irish never get tired and emotional. We’re all about the stiff upper lip.”

  Saoirse tried to crush her soda can the way Santi always did...palm on top...and yelped when her effort failed spectacularly.

  “C’mon. Hand it over.” Santi gave a fake sigh of exasperation, all the while making a give-it-here gesture with his hand. When she failed to give it up, he smashed the can, basketballed it into the recycling then took her hand in his, feeling at once at peace and complete.

  “Ouch! Don’t poke it so hard.” She yanked it out of his hand.

  “So much for your stiff upper lip.” He snickered, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and curled her fingers gently around it. “I thought that was for the British, anyway, and y’all were the whimsical, emotive types.”

  She gave him a heavy-lidded look, as if weary of his overtly North American understanding of things.

  “I’m not above stealing another country’s trait if it suits me,” she intoned with a sage nod, stealing a slurp of his own, unfinished soda. “And since when do you say ‘y’all’?”

  “Since forever. I save it for special occasions.”

  “This is special?”

  “Absolutely.”

  When their eyes connected, Santi knew instantly he hadn’t been hallucinating the electric charges passing between the two of them ever since they’d kissed.

  “You’re not talking about words anymore, are you?” Saoirse’s voice was barely a whisper.

  A counter’s width was suddenly too great a distance from her. Before he could think better of it—think of anything at all—Santi rounded the breakfast bar and had her in his arms, his mouth seeking answers to the questions that had been all but eating him alive since he’d moved in with her.

  The heat and passion with which she met his fierce kisses were all the answer he needed. He scooped her up from her go-to perch on the kitchen stool and carried her into her bedroom—a room he had been strictly forbidden to enter. He wasn’t hearing a hint of a protest now...just a mumbled half thought about minding her hand.

  “Don’t you worry, querida. I will never hurt you.”

  Saoirse stiffened in his arms, pushing him back to arm’s length. “How can you say that? How can you make a promise like that?”

  His gaze traveled from her pure blue eyes to her cheeks, flushed with the day’s sun and the moment’s emotion...her mouth. Her heaven-sent mouth that never needed an ounce of lipstick or gloss to make it shine the deep red it was now.

  Because I love you.

  Those were the words he ached to say. The risk he felt he couldn’t take.

  “I made a promise.”

  “To keep me legal, not to offer a life of wedded bliss.” Saoirse’s eyes were glued to his as if searching his very soul for any sign he would disappoint her. It was then he knew, without question, how much he loved her.

  This moment—giving herself freely to another man—was a hurdle she’d not yet crossed after her idiot of an ex had betrayed her.

  He swore softly under his breath. Santi couldn’t even imagine—didn’t want to imagine—the sort of man who would do that to a woman. More particularly the wiggly woman he was just barely managing to hold in his arms.

  “Are you having some sort of internal battle?” She pressed her hands against his chest and fully extricated herself from his arms. “I can’t do this, Santi. Not if you don’t—”

  She stopped in midflow, her lips still parted as if she were on the brink of making the same confession he wanted to. Opening her heart to the possibility of love.

  Just as quickly she regrouped, grabbed his shirt and tugged him to her as if her very life depended on it.

  When their lips met and bodies collided, Santi was virtually consumed by desire. He wanted each moment to be special for her. Cherished. Meaningful.

  He forced himself to take things slowly...lovingly.

  He might not be able to say the words that mattered most just yet. Por Dios! He felt them to his very marrow. Through the dappled light of the afternoon sun, their bodies moved in a synchronicity he only would have believed possible with a soul mate. Was this what true love was? Knowing, anticipating, finding just the right spot to stroke and caress her to elicit pleasure-filled moans? When they were physically as one, he could no longer hold back, whispering again and again as their bodies reached an unparalleled release in unison, “Te adoro. Te adoro.”

  * * *

  “There’s absolutely nothing in here we can eat and I’m starving,” Saorise wailed.

  Having...relations...with Santi had ramped up her rumbling stomach to earthquake level.

  Santi gave her booty a little bump, his thigh still deliciously bare of clothing, before draping his arm along the length of the refrigerator door.

  For the love of St. Patrick and all his blessed leprechauns. Santiago Valentino floated her boat. If she’d had an entire armada he would float that, too. Having sex with him sounded just crude compared to what they’d just shared. If her heart wasn’t the beat-up bruised thing it was, she could almost, without laughing, call what had just happened between the two of them making love. A turn of phrase she’d thought, until now, best confined to soap operas.

  “How about a ketchup and mayonnaise sandwich?” Santi smiled up at her, the glow of the refrigerator highlighting the outline of his lips. Lips now... Oh, there it was, the tooth along the lip thing that never failed to... Yup, there went her tummy, doing a giddy, swirly flip.

  The uncharacteristic explosion of undiluted happiness was, officially now, a medical term in her book. The giddy, swirly flip. Who knew a man could come with a new vocabulary attached to him! She swallowed down her I’m-so-happy giggles and forced herself to focus.

  “Mayonnaise and ketchup, you say? Well, normally I would agree that ’twould be a grand combination but we don’t have any bread.”

  “Don’t you ever go shopping?”

  “I’m not one to cast aspersions, but I do recall a certain someone moving in a week ago and all but eating me out of house and home.”

  “Liar. There wasn’t any food here to eat when I moved in! I’ll tell you what I’m hungry for.” Santi popped the refrigerator door shut with his foot and tugged Saoirse’s fresh-from-the-shower body up against his. She drew swirls along the expanse of his chest with her index finger as she feigned considering whether or not to christen the kitchen whil
e they were at it. They’d only done it twice. Once in the bedroom, a second time in the shower...third time even luckier?

  “Have you ever had a Helibana?”

  “What? Those sandwiches on the specials board down at Mad Ron’s?” She shook her head, just an itsy-bitsy disappointed that he hadn’t been hungry to ravish her. As if on cue, he dropped his lips to hers and drew from her a deeply fortifying kiss, their bodies connecting with erotic intent.

  Okay...that would do. For now.

  “Helibanas,” Santi said with a sigh when they finally managed to break away from one another. “My brothers and I used to eat them by the dozen.”

  “I’ve seen two of your brothers.” Saoirse laughed softly at Santi’s faraway gaze. Food, it seemed, was his gateway to memory lane. “If your little brother is anything like the other two, I believe it. Do Valentinos only come in tall or extra tall?”

  He didn’t answer and she watched as his eyes flicked up to the clock. Eight o’clock on Sunday night. She could practically see his mind zipping through a reel of decision making, his lips opening to begin a sentence, reconsider, then open again to start another. It had been a long day and as much as she’d like to jump back into bed, the man needed to be fed and watered.

  “Santi, shall I put you out of your misery and drive down to Mad Ron’s and get you one of your cherished sandwiches?”

  His grin widened. “Let’s both go. One definitely won’t be enough.”

  He gave her cheek a noisy kiss and virtually bounded back to the bedroom, where their clothes had been dispensed with in ridiculously hasty fashion. Funny, she thought as she rounded the breakfast bar to follow him. This was the first time she’d wandered around her home—here or in Ireland—absolutely starkers and felt...beautiful. Her gaze shifted along to the bedroom door where she could hear jeans being tugged on and a song being half sung, half hummed. Was humming in Spanish even a thing?

  She looked down at her body, the body she’d grown to despise over the last year, and gave it a grin. She felt good. She felt happy. About all of this. Nothing she wanted to put a name to. Not when it made her feel so click-her-heels-together gleeful. Maybe she’d hit the perfect combo. Great job, great city, gorgeous...whatever he was. Fake-fiancé with benefits?

  This time around? No labels. Everything had been all but prescribed in her old life—and now? Santiago was single-handedly doing more than any vitamin or visit to the spa with a girlfriend could. For her heart, for her soul, for the giddy, swirly loop-the-loops her stomach had never done before...

  What was it Santi always said?

  Córcholis!

  Goodness gracious, indeed. The man was all the medicine she needed. So...she scribbled a mental prescription to herself: No analyzing, no getting too, too close... What they had was perfect. Like it or not, it was go-with-the-flow-o’clock. Or—she grinned when Santi strode out of the bedroom, throwing her a sundress as he did—in tonight’s case, it was Mad Ron’s o’clock.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I’M SURPRISED YOU don’t have shares in this place, Santi.”

  “We probably do.”

  “We?” Saoirse kept her tone light, but Santi could tell she knew the answer before she asked it. Even he noticed he was mentioning his brothers more frequently. His tone was less defensive each time, as though Saoirse was his safe harbor for all the complicated issues he was trying to unravel. He stole a piece of fried plantain and confirmed what she already knew. “Me and my brothers. We practically used to live here.”

  “And why not? There’s everything a growing boy needs. Helibanas and endless refills of iced tea.” Saoirse snickered, all the while squeezing lime juice onto her ever-diminishing pile of fried plantains. “You won’t have worried about scurvy anyhow.”

  “Yes.” Santi nodded gravely. “That’s why we came here. To ward off scurvy.”

  “Stop it!” Saoirse giggled, slapping away Santi’s hand as he tried, for the umpteenth time, to tug the pickles out of her toasted sandwich.

  “They’re the best part!” he protested, as if it was his earthly right to possess all her dill pickles.

  “Precisely,” she retorted, extracting a sliver of pickle from amid the melty goo of cheese, pork and onion and popping it into her mouth. “Which is why I want to eat it.”

  “You’d think you were pregnant the way you’re relishing that thing.”

  The instant he’d said it he wished the moment away.

  Up until he’d opened his big mouth, Saoirse had actually been glowing with something better than happiness—contentment. And the fact that he’d had even the tiniest bit to do with that had put a satisfied smile on his lips, too.

  “Don’t. Just...” He tried to wave away his words. “Don’t listen to a thing that comes out of my mouth. Unless, of course, it’s wise and quotable.”

  She gave him a dubious sidelong glance then took another big munch of pickle. “And what was it that made you think I ever bothered listening to a word you said, sensible or otherwise?”

  And there it was—the smile that lit up his world—back on show in his favorite corner of his favorite cantina in the best city in the world. If only...

  The hole in his life that had yet to be filled yawned wider.

  It was time.

  He needed to set things straight with his brothers. He’d spent weeks dithering, if he was being really honest, and waiting for the best moment if he wasn’t. With so much that was coming good in his life, he needed to stop stalling.

  He waved a hand at the waitress, signaling their need for another round. Maybe just a bit more stalling...fortifying himself would be essential.

  “Not for me,” Saoirse protested, plopping her hands on her belly as if to prove her point. “Two was more than enough. Anymore and everyone will think I look preg—”

  She stopped in midflow, a film of tears clouding her tropical blue eyes before she could look away and scrub them clean. She pulled her fists away from her eyes and glared. “See what you’ve done? Now I’ve got pregnancy on my mind.” It was impossible not to notice the quiver in her normally steady voice.

  “Hey,” he said softly, pressing a hand atop hers and stroking the back of his other hand along her cheek. “Believe me, Murph. Your belly is just perfect.” And it was. Everything about her was exactly right. Beautiful. “And just think!” He scrambled for a bright side. “No stretch marks. Ever!”

  If you couldn’t dig deep enough to heal the wound, crack a joke. It was how he’d survived. Saoirse deserved more, but it was what he had on offer. A fake marriage. Bad jokes. Unzipping his heart and showing her what he really felt? Not there yet. Not by a long shot.

  She pursed her lips at him and grabbed her iced tea, giving the oversize glass a sharp jiggle before she put her beautifully pouty lips around the straw.

  Mio Dios, she could rule an army of thousands if she dared.

  He wove his fingers together, inverted and stretched them, his bare ring finger standing out among the weave of digits. He’d promised to make an honest woman of Saoirse. As if she needed validating. Or more honesty.

  She was more painfully honest than most. Painful only in that she confronted the truth head on. Boldly. Courageously. Life had treated her cruelly and she had come back fighting. She was an inspiration to him. And endlessly cheeky, he realized when he caught her loading her straw with ice water and flicking it at him.

  “What’s that for?”

  “The false optimism! Besides, if you had it your way and I kept eating these sandwiches by the bushel load?” She blew out her cheeks then deflated them with a pop. “You’d have a lot more on your hands than you ever bargained for.”

  “Chamaquita, in my culture a few more pounds on that skinny little frame of yours would be nothing to worry about. If I took you home to my mother...”

 
Now it was his turn to look away. What a pair they were!

  Yes, it had been a long day. Even longer for Saoirse, who’d risen at dawn to do her rounds on the racetrack, but what was all this getting-misty-eyed business? He’d long ago committed his tear ducts to an unbreakable pact. They didn’t work. Ever. And in exchange? He would do little to nothing to fight it. So why were they playing up now? Little doubt it had something to do with the woman slipping her hand onto his thigh and giving his leg a gentle squeeze.

  “Why don’t you go?” The compassion in Saoirse’s voice almost tipped the balance.

  “Qué?”

  “To your brothers. It’s written all over your face. And they’re the closest link you have to your mother, so...short of us hunting down someone who can do a séance...”

  His eyes widened.

  “One Helibana with extra sauce.” He barely heard the waitress as she slipped the sandwich onto the table, his hunger vanishing simultaneously.

  “We’ll have that to go, please.” Saoirse smiled gently up at the waitress then stopped her with a quick “Ah!” before she left. “Would it be all right to make that about eight sandwiches to go?”

  “Eight?” The waitress’s disbelief was nearly as deep-seated as Santi’s.

  “No. You’re right. Make that a dozen.” Saoirse pointed generically toward the door then leaned in conspiratorially, “Valentino stocktaking night.”

  The waitress nodded, smiling with a hit of recognition, then swished away.

  “Well, look who’s all proud of herself for hitting the nail on the head,” Santi said to cover the surge of emotion filling up his chest like a lead balloon.

  “Santi? Do you think I was born yesterday or something?”

  “No, but I—”

  “I saw your face when you were talking to that copper before.”

  “The detective?”

  “The badge-wearing guy, yeah. You looked like you’d seen a ghost and then you got all intense and broody for the next couple of hours. Not to mention the fact you’ve only mentioned stocktaking night about four hundred thousand times in the ambulance.”