Slightly Imperfect

by Tomlinson, Dar

  "I have a big heart and the most attuned mind in Galveston County. I want her and her entourage. I'll fight for her."

  "Fine." Luke pitched forward in his chair with finality. "I see your attuned mind is made up. But it may be difficult to fight an adversary you can't see."

  Astute, considering he'd never even told Luke about Coby.

  * * *

  Victoria heard footsteps outside the bathroom door before she caught Zac's reflection in the vanity mirror. She gathered her robe, pulling it up onto her shoulders and together at her breasts. Quickly, but too late. His dark gaze lingered on what he had observed. Even across the room his eyes ignited. She waited to be angry at his intrusion, but the emotion didn't materialize.

  For the first time in two weeks, she had sat in on the Spanish lesson, silent, noncommittal. When Zac went up to see Marcus to bed she had retired as well.

  As he watched now, she dipped her fingers in a jar on the marble vanity, splotched her cheekbones, chin and forehead. She spread the white globs, portraying indifference as her heart pounded. "I thought you'd gone."

  "You and I didn't say goodnight." He turned his back for a moment, one shoulder braced against the doorframe, looking back into the bedroom he had passed through. "The sacred room," he said quietly. "So Tommy built all this for you and him."

  "Yes."

  "Probably the most beautiful room I've ever seen." He faced her reflection again.

  She smiled into the mirror. She blended white cream into foundation, blush and eye shadow, working her fingers in circles to produce a myriad of color. She tried ignoring his interested gaze, the tenderness in his smile.

  "Is that the secret?" Dislodging himself from the door, he came toward her and balanced one haunch on the counter, one foot on the floor. Abruptly the room grew close, small. He picked up the jar of cleanser, sniffed it, held it. "Is this what makes you so beautiful?"

  "Beauty comes off with a tissue." She reached for one, wiping her forehead gently.

  He smiled his disagreement, returning the jar to the counter.

  "Thank you for seeing Marcus to bed. Sometimes—" She fell quiet, her own smile a little contrite. "It's nice, every now and then, to be just me. You may not understand." She wiped, discarded the tissue, took another, ran it across her eyelids tenderly.

  "I understand." He rose, walked to the open closet door. "You still have his clothes." His tone tangled in incredulity, derision and defeat.

  She stared at his reflected form. He stood with his back to her, one shoulder against the door again, arms folded on his chest. Dark head cocked, he gazed into the cavern of clothing. His posture honed the feeling of helplessness she experienced when she sometimes took down a shirt of Tommy's, or a sweater, and slept with it clutched to her breasts.

  Lately she hadn't welcomed Tommy's ghost so much.

  Zac went into the closet, saying over his shoulder, "Nice. I wonder if I could fill these?"

  She discarded the soiled tissue and waited, heart racing, her eyes on the door until he reappeared.

  He held a delicate white silk shirt in his hands, carried a pair of soft, leather loafers. He stood in the opening, staring at her pointedly, prompting her to speak.

  "You have wonderful clothes. You wouldn't want Tommy's."

  "Besides... " His tone made her steady herself, as though for a blow. "He's been dead long enough for his clothes to be out of style. Right, Victoria?"

  She forced a smile as she drew her long braid over her shoulder, removing the black velvet ribbon at the end. Her fingers worked the elastic that held the braid intact.

  "I want his woman, not his clothes."

  Her hand froze.

  "Can I do that?" The abrupt way he discarded the shirt, the shoes, depreciated their significance. He moved to stand behind her, his hands easing the braid from her grasp.

  The way her body quickened at his touch astounded her. She secured the silk robe where it wrapped her breasts, pulling the belt tighter. Their eyes locked as he unleashed the intricacies of the braid.

  "I've wanted to do this since Portofino." His smile negated the sensual message in his eyes. He ran his fingers into the mass, separating the twisted, ropy strands, fingertips caressing her scalp and temples.

  Her eyes closed for a moment, heavily.

  "What do you call the color of your hair?" he whispered hoarsely. "Winter flax? Wheat? Honey?"

  Desire leaped in her, denying dormancy, vying for freedom.

  His hands on either side of her face urged her backward against him, her head against his chest. His erection pressing the small of her back echoed her own response.

  "Zac, the children—"

  "Lizbett is with them."

  Her eyes closed again, shutting out the reflected, unmasked intention in his. He drew her half around on the stool, knelt before her, easing the silky robe away from her throat, past her shoulders.

  Her hand shot up, gripping the lapels of the robe. "Don't."

  Catching her free hand, he cupped a breast. The hard quickening of her nipple, beneath the fragile fabric, rode the rushing wake between her thighs when he lowered his mouth to the hollow of her shoulder. Her back arched reflexively. She hated the muted groan that screamed in the silence. He kissed the hollow of her throat, raised his head and met her eyes as his hands invaded her grasp, parting the robe, easing it down her arms. Exposing her. She shook her head, eyes imploring, but her chest heaved, her breathing a betrayal.

  Satisfaction settled on his dark face. She had never seen a more sated smile.

  "You're so beautiful, Victoria. I knew you would be."

  He drew the fingertips of both hands away from her throat, across her shoulders, back toward the hollow of her throat and then down, out, circling the contour of her breasts. He eased his fingertips beneath the flesh folding onto her ribcage before cupping her breasts.

  In the mirror she watched him lower his dark head, press his face against her, take her into his warm, gentle mouth. Her reflected hands pulled him in, even as her mind denied the erotic surge that jolted her.

  "I don't want this to happen," she breathed, head bent, lips against his course, jet hair.

  His laughter was gentle, sweet. "Yes you do." He brought his hands to either side of her face, covered her mouth with his at last. His lips were full and hot. Probing. Assuring and urging her to open to him. "I love you," he vowed into the cavern of her mouth, into her being. "I love you and all you are. I want you." He stood, pulled her up with him. The robe fell about her waist.

  She moved her head, her mouth away. "No," she said gently. Her palm on his chin stayed him. When she pushed his hand away from her body she ran cold, deprived, wanting what she denied herself. "No, Zac. Please, no."

  "Why?" He sobered. "Tell me why. Make me believe it."

  "I'll lose you."

  "You'll never lose me. You're my life. I'm going to be your life. Nothing can change that."

  "I don't want to love you." She met his eyes, felt her throat fill, broaden. When she strained back he released her. She quickly worked her arms into the robe. "I don't want to have sex—to make love with you. I know what will happen."

  "Then tell me," he urged. "If I know, too, I can stop it."

  "Tommy was—"

  "Tomas Cordera is dead. But if he was half the man you remember him as—if he knew me, and how much I love you—he'd be glad for us. He'd look the other way."

  She flinched with the vision.

  "That's real love, Victoria. Being willing to give it up when it's over. I'm ready to do that. I'm alive, and I'm hungry for you. Tommy isn't. You're alive, and Carron isn't. Think about it."

  "Everything will change. Sex—intimacy—changes people. We'll start to make demands and—"

  "Make all you want."

  A current of relief and regret shot through her when he pulled the gaping robe together, tucked, retied it.

  He caressed the sides of her throat. "I'll comply with the demands I can, and explain away th
e rest. I'll try not to demand anything of you. Just be faithful to me—and trust me, novia."

  "We'll hurt each other. We won't mean to or want to—sometimes we will want to. It will happen." She thought of Tommy's possessiveness, his attempts to control her when all he had wanted was to love her. In the ensuing complications, that hadn't been possible. She thought of Christian's vague rejection—all those years ago when she had needed him so badly—driving her in her weakness back to Tommy. She thought of Coby. "We're friends, Zac. So much truth has passed between us. We have so much in common. Why should we tamper with that?"

  Her eyes widened when he urged her face up, touched her lips with his, gently at first. Then he moved his mouth on hers, slowly, lazily stimulating her. He flicked his tongue against her teeth, gaining instant admission.

  Her jolting response answered her own questions.

  "Defense rests." He smiled, releasing her and stepping away. "You think about us, Victoria. Think how it could be." Promise smoldered in his eyes. "Think how it's going to be, because it is. And remember this. I'm not going to die and leave you." Quick, unconscious rebuttal must have registered in her eyes, for he assured her, "I'm not afraid of Coby. I can handle that. And I'll never move across the world and leave you, the way Christian did. God hasn't created a race of heathens needy enough to make me put them before you. I want to make love to you as much as I've ever wanted anything in my life."

  His resignation migrated past reasoning and into her soul.

  "But even more, I want to love you. You and Marcus and Ari and Alex. For the rest of my life. Every time you open your eyes or look around, or close your eyes to fall asleep, I'll be there for you, and someday there will be no ghosts for either of us. All the hurts will be nothing but dim memories God allows us to keep just so we'll know how lucky we are." He tilted forward, touched his lips to her forehead. "You think about that, Victoria."

  "Zac."

  He swiveled to face her, centered in the doorway, dark brows lifted, eyes questioning.

  "Are you angry?" Anger had deprived her before. Denied and manipulated her through men who professed to love her. Realization of how the consequences of this man's anger could reach beyond her to Marcus grieved her.

  "Angry because you don't know you love me? Because you're afraid to love me? I'm not angry. No, novia." His eyes searched her face. "When I'm angry you'll know it. You won't have to tiptoe around wondering. I won't withhold sex to punish you. I won't play games. I'll tell you, and I'll tell you why. That's the kind of relationship we'll have. So you think about that, too." He waited as quiet closed in, settled on them. "We'll make love when you want to. You let me know."

  * * *

  When he walked into Bay Shore the phone was ringing. He thought she had shown remarkable restraint by not calling him on the truck phone.

  "When, Victoria? Where?"

  She laughed softly. "I'm sorry that I—"

  "Don't be. I understand."

  "I'll come over there. Now."

  His skin prickled, lower parts leaping wildly. The ocean roared in his ears. "No." He must be crazy. "I'll come by tomorrow night after class." He'd be crazy by then, all right.

  "The children will be here."

  "They always will be, novia. They're a fact of life."

  He understood her hesitation, and he knew it didn't have all that much to do with Ari, Alex and Marcus. Making love was going to be just as hard for him, here in his and Carron's bed, but Tomas Cordera's overpowering influence had to be banished first.

  "I love you." He waited, giving her ample time to reciprocate before he said, "I'll see you tomorrow night."

  "Good night, Zac."

  "Good night, Victoria. I love you."

  "I'll think about that," she promised.

  * * *

  Victoria stood in the foyer of Chandler House, keys in her hand. She stole one last kiss from the twins before Monica, her father's wife of two years, led them up the winding staircase.

  "Victoria, could you come into the study before you go?"

  Her heart weighted by Pierce's tone, she watched the twins go. "Of course."

  The familiar straight-backed chair, one she had never occupied to hear good news in all the years she had lived in Chandler House, beckoned her. Pierce perched on the edge of his leather club chair. She recognized the ragged and curled edges of the photo he took from his pocket.

  "Who is this man?"

  "Zac Abriendo." She accepted the photo.

  Lizbett had taken the snapshot of Zac and Ariana the day they had gone to brunch, along with an entire roll. Ari had latched onto this one, carried it in her little pink plastic purse, talked to it, slept with it.

  "Where did you get this?" She dropped it into her bag.

  "Ariana left it when she was here last. Who is he?" He rephrased his inquiry. "What's his relationship to Ariana? And to you?"

  "He's a friend."

  "Are you sleeping with him?"

  "I plan to." Pierce's mouth tightened as she consulted her watch. "When I leave here tonight."

  "I'm trying to understand all this, Victoria."

  His voice held sincerity, she decided. She credited him with not having called her earlier, when Ariana had left the photograph.

  "If you're going to sleep indiscriminately why can't you stay with your own people?"

  "If I had stayed with my own people I wouldn't have Marcus."

  "Precisely."

  "Zac is a wonderful man." "He's Mexican."

  "That's where any similarity between Zac and Tommy ends." The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed inordinately loud. "I'm a grown woman. I'm making my own way in the world, and my own decisions." The clock's ticking, the only sound to break the elongated stony silence, equaled a time bomb in her soul. "Is this conversation going somewhere?"

  "Five years is a long time. I'm making moves—putting out feelers—toward seeking the senatorial seat again."

  "You won't need me. You have Monica this time."

  "I need you to stay away from this Mexican man. It will only stir up old rumors. The media will pick up on the similarity of Tomas Cordera immediately. They'll ride it—and you—to death. And ride me into obscurity."

  "If the media is fair they'll give Zac credit for who he is, not who he resembles." As she had begun to do. "His family is hundred-year-old Ramona stock. He's a decent person."

  "I told you five years ago if you would recognize my relationship with Tomas Cordera the Hispanic vote would be yours," she reminded. "History truly does repeat, Pierce. If you're wise you won't compromise yourself this time."

  Pierce's face colored; his steel-gray gaze held hers. "What does Abriendo do?"

  "He was a shrimp fisherman. He inherited some money. He fishes for pleasure now, more or less. He's continuing his education. He's very... astute." She had almost said ambitious.

  "What does he do, Victoria? As a contribution to commerce."

  She held a breath, released it quietly before plunging in. "He works with Gerald Fitzpatrick somehow. They're rebuilding the old Fischer's Landing district, turning it to low- income housing."

  His countenance stormed, eyes narrowing. She wasn't sure which she heard, disgust or defeat in his voice. "You'll go to any length to punish me for Tomas Cordera, even if it means taking up with the enemy camp."

  "I want to form my own opinion about that—the enemy camp. I always took your opinion, Pierce. Before. I owe Zac an open mind where Gerald Fitzpatrick is concerned."

  "Your last word? No consideration for my needs?"

  "Marcus needs a male influence in his life. The twins too. Zac is the finest I could hope for."

  "What was wrong with the twins' father?"

  "He didn't love Marcus."

  His brow corrugated. "I distinctly know that's untrue. I had a lengthy conversation with Christian when he was here in May."

  "Christian didn't love Marcus the way I wanted him to."

  "No man will ever be able to do that. You'r
e obsessed where that child is concerned."

  "Zac will."

  His mouth twisted. "I have advice for you, Victoria. I hope you'll listen, regardless of how you view my motives."

  She made a listening face, brows arched slightly.

  "If you put so much worship into that boy—"

  "Marcus. Marcus Cordera. My son. Your grandson."

  "He will grow up someday and break your heart." His tone was acerbic. "The voice of experience speaks."

  "I would do it anyway. It's unconditional love. The kind a parent is supposed to give."

  He flinched.

  "The kind you seem to have for Coby."

  Pierce stood, crossed the Aubusson carpet to an armoire in the end of the richly paneled room. Scotch splashed from a carved crystal decanter into an equally fine old-fashioned glass. Dropping one ice cube from a silver bucket into the amber liquid, he sipped several times, his back to her, before asking, "When in God's name are you going to call that doctor and tell him to let Cailen come home?"

  "When I believe it's safe."

  "I have to have him out of there before I can officially begin—"

  "Do you think it's safe, Pierce? Do you think Coby is well—that he won't do it again if things—if I don't please him? Suppose I'm the one he decides to eliminate this time? I have children now. Responsibility."

  "You were responsible then."

  She braced.

  "Responsible, for what your cousin did. You led him on." He threw back the scotch without a sign of burning. "Come to grips with that, and we'll have no problems. No problems, if you don't make the same mistake again."

  "A mistake like Zac, you mean."

  "I want Cailen out of that hospital. Do you want me to beg?"

  "No." She rose, looked at her watch pointedly, causing him to frown. "I want you to care. Care about me and what's best for my children." She shouldered her bag. "By the way... thank you for converting Coby's and my old rooms for the twins. But there's a discrepancy, I believe."

  "Point it out," he said quickly. "I'll have it corrected immediately."

  "I have three children. There are only two suites."