by Lea Santos
Madeira managed to tear her appreciative gaze from Gracie’s luscious ass, albeit reluctantly. “I think you look great.”
Grace whipped her hair back and turned, the waves settling around her shoulders in sexy, natural disarray. She looked like she’d just climbed out of bed, and Madeira found she couldn’t breathe for wishing that bed had been her own.
“Yeah. I look great if you’re into froofy chicks. Which, come to think of it, you probably are,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
Madeira’s English was perfect after six years in the States, but she wasn’t familiar with this word froofy. However, if Gracie represented froofy chicks, Madeira could very easily find herself “into” them. “What does this mean, froofy?”
“You know, high maintenance. Totally femme in that unappealing…almost straight way?” Grace glanced toward the ceiling for a better explanation. “It’s the whole big hair, fake nails, waxed body, plastic boobs, spray-tan look. Come on, now.” One of her brows peaked. “Someone like you has got to be familiar with the concept of a high-maintenance woman.”
There Grace went, pigeon-holing Madeira again. She’d be more amused if Grace weren’t so on target. Well, after a few mishaps, Madeira had avoided the particular trap of straight women, but she would admit to liking her women on the feminine side of the spectrum. But, still…Gracie’s assessment made Madeira sound so shallow. She’d be the first to admit she enjoyed the company of women—plural—but she’d always thought of herself as fun-loving, freewheeling. Not shallow. If she projected that image, she’d have to work on it. “I know the type,” Madeira said, keeping it light.
Gracie nodded, as if she’d never doubted her instincts. “Yet another confirmation of our intrinsic incompatibility.”
“How so?”
“Because froofy is not me. I prefer simple. Wash-and-wear hair, nails that are ready for football in the park.” Grace shook her head, then gave a self-derisive laugh. “Uh, yeah. What am I saying? You don’t care about my grooming habits. I swear I’m not usually such a flake. I’m a teacher, for God’s sake. Well, a brand-new one. But—” She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. “Stop babbling, Grace, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered to herself. Her lids fluttered open. “I’m sorry. It’s just nerves.”
Madeira grinned. Had she ever met a woman who was so naturally adorable and breezily insulting at the same time? She gave in to the urge and brushed the back of her fingers down Grace’s neck. “I don’t think you’re a flake and you aren’t froofy, either.”
Grace grimaced and turned toward the mirror, putting final touches on her “freshly fucked” hair with her fingers. “Well, thanks. Much to my sister’s chagrin.”
Madeira stood behind her, thumbs hooked in her front pockets, and spoke to Gracie’s reflection in the mirror. “I understand. Sometimes my sister, Torien, expects me to be someone I’m not, too.”
“Respectable, you mean?” Those warm-brandy, woman-killer eyes studied Madeira warily, but a hint of mischief spiced her expression.
Madeira laughed, short and surprised, at how unabashedly Gracie cut through her bullshit. Except that her admission about Toro hadn’t been bullshit—Gracie just didn’t realize it. “That reminds me of the first words you ever said to me. Do you remember?”
Grace gave a little shake of her head and turned to meet Madeira’s gaze.
“You opened your eyes and said, ‘You aren’t Ms. Right.’”
Grace snickered, then smiled behind her fist. “Well, I was probably looking for my bear at the time, but”—one side of her kissable mouth quivered up—“if the teaching thing doesn’t pan out, maybe I’ll become a psychic.”
Madeira laid a palm over her heart and moaned. “Shit, Gracie. You hit where it hurts. Am I that bad?”
“I never said you were bad, Madeira. Of course you aren’t. You’re just…a player.” She hiked one slender shoulder and let it drop, as though that said it all. “Simple as that. Am I right?”
Madeira said nothing for a moment, then lowered her voice to a dangerous rumble. “You know, fierita, you can’t believe everything you read in the papers. I’m really an okay woman.”
“I don’t doubt that at all. I remember how you treated me the day of the accident.” Gracie bestowed a sweet smile that could crush Madeira’s walls if she let it. “It’s a simple truth. You’re an okay woman who tends to dabble with all the ladies, that’s all.”
How could Madeira feel so amused and defensive and insulted simultaneously? “Not…all of them.”
“Clearly not. I’m proof of that. But enough of them.”
Madeira opened her mouth to protest, but Gracie held up a hand. “Look you don’t have to explain. It’s none of my business and really, what does it matter what I think of your lifestyle? It’s not as if I’m ever going to be a part of it.”
Her lifestyle? “I guess it doesn’t.” But to Madeira’s dismay and surprise, it did. It mattered, she realized, because some foolish part of her wanted Grace Obregon to see her in a whole different light, to see through her in a way no one else ever had. Madeira wanted to be the kind of woman who would make Gracie feel as if she wasn’t settling…which made no goddamn sense at all.
None. Zero.
And yet, and yet, and yet…Madeira yearned to be worthy of Gracie.
Fact.
So…absurd.
Gracie angled her head toward the door. “Let’s get this over with and go back to our separate corners of the world, hmm?”
“Sure.” Gracie’s casual comment stung. Damnit. Something about this woman made Madeira wish their corners of the world weren’t quite so separate. What an idiot. She had no idea what evil well these unfamiliar feelings were bubbling up from. A sense of challenge? Because Gracie didn’t have the least iota of interest in her and no compulsion for hiding that fact?
No clue.
But as she traipsed toward the conference room by Gracie’s side, Madeira said a silent prayer of thanks that she was immune to that crazy little thing called love. If she wasn’t, she’d be in big trouble with Gracie.
Chapter Five
Él que evita la tentación, evita el pecado.
Whoever avoids temptation avoids the sin.
Ho-ly shit.
Grace was in big trouble.
Bigger than big. Huge trouble.
She’d learned a few interesting facts about Madeira Pacias while locked in the bathroom with her, not the least of which was, Madeira was exactly her type—the type she’d sworn off back when she decided to trade bar towels for books in pursuit of her teaching degree: charming, sexy, flirty, and completely unreliable. Madeira was like a well-worn carnival roller coaster—exhilarating…on the condition you survived the dangerous ride.
One of the first steps Grace had taken toward changing the reckless direction of her life was vowing to avoid involvement with women who would break her heart if given the chance.
Women exactly like Madeira.
Too bad Madeira had the Mack Daddy, charm-your-pants-off—literally—thing rockin’ full strength, and too bad Grace’s weak ass was as susceptible to it as a preschooler was to chicken pox and eating paste. Madeira could be her undoing if Grace let her. Which I won’t. The smartest thing she could do right now would be to bolt, far and fast, from the unrelenting temptation of this perfect, imperfect woman.
Alas, life wasn’t so easy. She couldn’t run. At least not now. First she had to sit here cuddled up to danger personified, vamp it up for the media and pretend they were destined for some sort of lesbian happily ever after. Grace—the reformed, and Madeira—the unreformable. As IF. Fake or not, the whole situation felt so promising and real it made Grace want to puke.
In response to something one of the reporters asked, Madeira slung one of those toned arms around Grace’s shoulder, one finger absentmindedly playing with her collarbone as she answered. The motion felt so casually possessive, so comfortable. Nipples tight, throat dry, Grace’s insides bubbled with pulsin
g, hot, blinding desire. She squirmed, striving for comfort she knew she wouldn’t find from merely shifting position.
Inside, a part of her remained very still, trying to channel her abuela into the room to ask whether this whole fiasco was some kind of sign, but DoDo failed to appear. Not that it surprised her. DoDo always encouraged them to figure out their own problems. Maybe Madeira wasn’t a sign in Grace’s life so much as a test. She’d done a lot of soul-searching over the past few years, and if she knew anything about herself, she knew her weaknesses. Just like a recovering gambling addict took pains to avoid Las Vegas, Grace knew with utter certainty that she needed to keep her distance from Madeira. Maybe Madeira’s appearance in her life was a test to see if she could hang tough in the face of—
Jesus Christ, Madeira was hot.
Grace had spent inordinate amounts of energy during the first few minutes of the press conference making sure an inch or so of space separated their bodies, but then she realized two things. One, they had a finite amount of time to convince these reporters they were into each other, and two, this charade would likely be her first and last opportunity to drape herself over Madeira and have a logical excuse for it.
Ah, the Fates were cruel bitches.
Cruel bitches and hard to fight. Despite her better judgment, Grace clung to Madeira like a woman in lust, smiling and doing coupley things like picking imaginary lint off Madeira’s clothes—a sure sign of ownership in the secret world of women. The only thing she didn’t do, absolutely could not do, was look at Madeira. Way too close for comfort. It would be just her luck to have one of the photographers snap a news photo of her batting her baby browns at Madeira, all adoring and pathetic. Playacting was one thing, but pictures generally didn’t lie. Madeira would take one look at the photo and peg her as another in the long line of starstruck groupies. Thanks, but no thanks.
What am I doing here?
In a motion that belied her inner turmoil, Grace nestled closer to Madeira’s firm, warm body, her stomach contracting with lust when she felt Madeira’s toned lats flex against her.
God. This wasn’t her.
Not anymore.
She didn’t want to play games.
The desperate need to cut her losses and bail from this situation swamped her. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, tucking her chin as nausea slammed into her, full force.
“You okay?” Madeira had leaned in to ask the question, her hot breath tickling Grace’s ear as she spoke. Tingles shot through Grace, the pulse that had been drumming low in her body increasing in both tempo and intensity. All her various physiological signs indicated that no, she was decidedly not okay. Far from it.
“I’m fine,” she lied, out of the corner of her mouth so the reporters couldn’t hear. “You think we’re convincing them?”
Madeira’s hot gaze swept over Grace, settling a little too long on her mouth. “Damn, fierita, I hope so. The way you’re molded to my body, we’re almost convincing me,” she drawled.
“Yeah, well.” Grace managed to remain cool and arch a brow. “You do recall this is all for show, don’t you?”
Madeira grinned. “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”
“Enjoy while you can, darlin’. Tomorrow’s articles are going to seriously cramp your social life, and you won’t be enjoying it nearly as much then. Mark my words.”
“I’m not worried.” She leaned in and lowered her voice to a lusty rumble. “The women I date don’t usually care if I’m taken or not.”
“Gee, just what every woman wants to hear.”
“I thought you didn’t care?”
“I…I don’t.” Grace scoffed, jealous in spite of how illogical that was. “Watch out, or you’re going to make it impossible for me to even fake the rest of this.”
“Ah, my tough-talking Gracie. It’s okay to admit you want me, baby,” she said playfully.
Grace scowled, forcefully ignoring how her insides spasmed every time Madeira called her “Gracie.” God, if Madeira only knew what that nickname meant. Grace would have to tell her eventually, so she didn’t blurt it in front of the wrong person and completely fuck her life. “I’m going to kill you when this is over,” Grace said, feeling lusty rather than lethal.
Laughing, Madeira patted Grace’s leg, then turned toward the throng. Madeira pointedly left her hand there, Grace noted.
“We’d like to finish up as soon as possible, folks. Gracie and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Ugh. Cocky woman.
Harold’s eyes crinkled with mirth as he looked from Madeira to Grace, then he turned toward the bay of scribblers. “Okay, last question. Lay ’em out there if you got ’em, folks. Let’s cut these kids a break.”
The crowd began to holler for attention, raising their hands, notebooks, pens—whatever was handy.
“Mullaney,” Harold barked. Most of the journalists settled back, murmuring their disappointment, but the young female reporter Harold had chosen to ask the final question perked up.
Grace watched with bemused interest as the petite, private-school blonde shifted position until one hipbone jutted forward like an “Open for Business” sign. Her eyelids dropped to bedroom mast and she flashed Madeira a full 300-watt, come-and-get-me smile. The entire series of subtle yet pointed motions reminded Grace of a preening cat begging to be stroked, and a twinge of annoyance struck her.
Okay, more than a twinge. She wanted to kick Mullaney’s ass.
Another thing she’d always hated about dating a charmer was never feeling one hundred percent secure that the woman wouldn’t leave for the first hot little Barbie doll who crooked her plastic finger. Not that Grace was actually dating Madeira. But as far as this rat-whore Mullaney was concerned, Grace and Madeira were in love, and that still didn’t stop Mullaney from laying on the “fuck me” vibes good and thick. A ribbon of outrage twisted through Grace. Did women have no shame when it came to Madeira?
What do you care? her mind rasped.
It’s the principle of the matter, the other part of her mind snapped back, possessiveness gripping her in its ugly green claws. The angel on her shoulder advised her to blow it off. The devil on the other side whispered, “What good is a charade if you don’t play it to the hilt, sister?”
The devil won.
Shocker.
Grace flashed a dream on, Barbie smirk at Mullaney and snuggled closer to Madeira, who peered down with amusement that quickly transformed to smoldering recognition. Grace watched the reporter blink several times before her bravado cracked, her pale neck growing blotchy with embarrassment. Victory, Grace realized, could be so very sweet.
“Meow,” Madeira whispered, awe in her tone.
“Be quiet. She was totally being a slut, right in front of my face. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, trust me. I understand only too well, babe.” Madeira casually slipped her hand under the hem of Grace’s sweater, her warm palm against the small of Grace’s back.
“Anyway,” began the reporter, tucking her hair behind her ear with the pen she held, “can we have a look at the…uh…the bear that brought you two back together? Maybe a little background on this”—she consulted her notes—“Ms. Right?”
Uh-oh. Grace stiffened, but Madeira gave her back a reassuring caress as if to say she had it under control.
Grace should’ve known better than to trust her.
“Actually,” Madeira began, feigning some sort of modesty Grace knew Madeira didn’t truly feel, “this is my mistake. When Harold told me Gracie wanted her Ms. Right, I didn’t think I had to bring anything other than, well, yours truly.” She managed a truly sheepish, yet still sexy shrug. “I’m sure you all understand my error.”
Grace’s jaw dropped as the crowd roared approval and scrawled notes. Granted, the innuendo-laden answer perfectly suited their purposes, but right at that moment Grace wanted to freaking punch Madeira. Jesus, she acted as if she were a gift-wrapped package from Tiffany’s over which Grace should fawn and we
ep in gratitude. Worse, these reporters were eating it up.
Damnit.
Grace had been holding her own in this media feeding frenzy until now. The last thing she wanted was for the entire Denver population to fall in love with Ms. F-ing Sound Byte, scratch their heads and wonder, “What does Madeira Pacias see in Grace, of all people?”
Goddamnit.
This was one of those moments that would keep her awake at night thinking about all the quippy things she should’ve said. At the moment, true to form, words escaped her. Her jaw tightened. It shouldn’t matter. Truly. But deep down at the seat of her ego, it did. Grace couldn’t stand feeling like Madeira’s pity date, yet she couldn’t seem to cultivate the same level of swagger to effect some sort of damage control.
Closing her eyes, Grace pictured the headlines and stories that would hit the papers tomorrow. It took every bit of her self-control to stifle a mortified groan. What would her students think? Or worse, their parents? Her colleagues?
Unable to formulate a better plan to bring this fiasco to an end, she reached over and pinched Madeira’s leg. Madeira jumped, but quickly slid her palm over Grace’s hand, to prevent her from inflicting further pain, no doubt. Instead, Madeira only succeeded in pressing Grace’s palm flat against her toned thigh, and Grace’s inner vixen emerged. She did the only thing she could think of to shake Madeira’s unshakable cool. Slowly, she slid her palm higher, higher, until she reached the sensitive top of Madeira’s thigh.
Then she squeezed.
Madeira went very still. She slowly turned, and the look on her face imprisoned Grace as effectively as silk ties and four solid bedposts.
Now, why did she have to conjure that image?
She swallowed loudly and tried to extract her hand from the depths of Dangerville, but Madeira held it there firmly and addressed the crowd.
“I think that’s it for us,” she said, sounding and looking amazingly calm, considering the feral look Grace had seen in her eyes moments earlier.