Her earlier assessment that the house was too small vanished quickly. If she chose her furnishings with meticulous care, there was no doubt her home would be an exquisite showplace.
She turned back to Samuel and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I love the house. I know I’m going to enjoy decorating it.”
Smiling at her childlike enthusiasm, Samuel pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll put some money into an account for you to run the house.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Why not?”
“My father’s solicitor transferred money from a bank in Havana to one in West Palm Beach for me.”
He stiffened, his expression a mask of stone. “When were you going to tell me this?”
“M.J.’s quick temper flared. “I didn’t have to tell you at all, Samuel.”
He struggled to rein in his temper. “Are we going to begin our life together keeping secrets?”
“No,” she spat out. “My aunt convinced Papa to set up an account in my name so that I can retain a modicum of independence to come and go by my leave.”
“Married women don’t come and go by their leave, M.J.! No more than I will come and go by my leave now that I’ m married.”
“I’m not going to go off and not let you know. I plan to use the money to buy whatever it is I want for the house.”
“I can afford to take care of you!” Samuel shouted, his voice rising with his increasing frustration.
M.J. stared at her husband as if he had taken leave of his senses. “Don’t take that tone with me, Samuel. I’m not accusing you of not being able to take care of me.” Her hand came up and she trailed a fingertip over his cheekbone and down to his strong chin. “We’ve been married for ten days, and already we’re fighting about something so inconsequential as money.”
His fingers curled around her wrist like manacles. “Money may be inconsequential to you because you never had to concern yourself with it. It was very different for me. My grandfather was a sharecropper who literally worked himself to death to save enough money to buy his own land. I worked in the fields before going to school, missed classes during cotton-picking season, and then I had to bust my ass to catch up with my schoolwork so I could be promoted to the next grade with the other kids. I’ve done things I didn’t want to do so that I’d be able to take care of my wife and my children.”
M.J. heard the passion in his voice—passion and fear. Her heart turned over in compassion. “Sammy, mi amor, mi corazon,” she crooned. “Whatever I have is yours. Don’t ever forget that.”
Samuel gathered her to his chest, a smile slicing through the lines of tension ringing his mouth. “And whatever I have is yours, baby. Do you think you can remember that?”
Lifting her chin, M.J. gave him a dazzling dimpled smile. “I don’t know. I think I’ll need some extra instruction.”
“How?”
Going on tiptoe, she brushed a light kiss across his mouth. “Like this.”
His hands moved down her body and cupped her hips. “Like this?”
M.J. couldn’t stop the moan escaping her parted lips. “Yes.”
“And this?” Samuel nuzzled the side of her neck as he pushed his groin against her hips.
“Yes, Sammy,” she whispered, opening her mouth to his probing tongue. Anchoring her arms under his shoulders, M.J. writhed as the familiar sensations rippling through her belly settled between her legs. “Yes, yes, yes,” she repeated over and over as he swung her up in his arms and returned to the bedroom.
It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the afternoon, that she hadn’t unpacked any of her clothes, that she had yet to examine the other rooms in the house, or that she hadn’t eaten anything in twelve hours. The only thing that mattered was that the man in whose arms she lay was going to remind her why she’d been born female.
Samuel pulled back the coverlet before placing M.J. on the bed. His gaze held hers as he undressed, leaving his clothes on the floor, then undressed her. His eyes moved with an agonizing slowness over her tanned face and body. He still was unable to believe she was his.
He lay down and eased her over his body. He’d found that she liked being on top, and he preferred her on top because it prolonged his pleasure until the last possible moment.
M.J. buried her face between her husband’s neck and shoulder, smiling. “Que tu quieres?”
Samuel closed his eyes and smiled. That he understood. Whenever she straddled him she always asked what he wanted. “Anything, baby.”
She kissed him, her lips trailing from his mouth to his chin, his breastbone, and down his flat belly. The tip of her tongue tasted the moisture clinging to the tight curls in the inverted triangle of coarse hair between his thighs.
Samuel felt her hot breath near his penis, and he sat up and caught her hair. “No!” His protest bounced off the walls; his erection went down as if he’d been doused with ice-cold water.
Her head jerked up, and M.J. stared at him as if she’d seen a ghost. “What’s the matter?”
“Don’t do that.”
She sat back on her heels, totally bewildered by Samuel’s behavior. “Why?”
He didn’t drop his glare. Didn’t she know? She was his wife, not a whore. He only permitted whores to take him into their mouths. “I don’t like it,” he lied smoothly.
“But you do it to me.” Samuel had brought her to orgasm the first time he made love to her with his mouth. A flicker of apprehension coursed through M.J. as she tried understanding the complex man she’d married.
Samuel’s thunderous expression softened as he reached for his wife. “I do it because bringing you pleasure makes me happy.” He kissed her passionately as he reversed positions. His erection had returned. “Let me love you, baby.”
Nodding, M.J. closed her eyes, opening her arms and her legs, moaning softly when Samuel’s hardness filled her. Her hands caressed the length of his back, the firm flesh over his buttocks, her body arching to meet his powerful thrusts, her breasts tingling against the hair on his chest.
It was flesh against flesh, man against woman, husband and wife. Ecstasy swept over them like the waves crashing over the Malecon, and they shared a pleasure so pure and explosive that for several seconds they had actually become one.
Chapter 11
Our life is composed of love, and not to love is to cease to live.
—George Sand
The shrill ring of the telephone shattered Samuel’s concentration.
Capping a fountain pen, he picked up the receiver. The operator’s nasal voice came through the earpiece.
“I have a call from a Mr. Kirkland for Samuel Cole.”
“Put the call through.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Kirkland,” the operator instructed the caller on the other end of the line.
“Samuel?”
“Yes, Everett.”
“I’ve been calling you once a week over the past month, but no one answered.”
Samuel leaned back on his chair. “I’ve been out of the country,” he said quietly, explaining his absence, because he’d instructed his housekeeper never to answer his telephone. “I take it you’re settled in,” he continued.
“Yes,” Everett confirmed.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Winter Park.”
“Do you think you can spare some time and come down to West Palm Beach?”
“All I have is time,” Everett admitted. “When do you want to meet?”
“What are you doing next weekend?” He was anxious to reunite with the accountant.
He would’ve had Everett come sooner, but he and M.J. were invited to their first soiree as a married couple by one of their neighbors. One or two of the women had caught a glimpse of M.J., and there was no doubt she’d aroused a great deal of curiosity.
“Nothing.”
“Good. I’d like you to come down Friday and stay over until Monday.”
“Where do you live?”
Sa
muel gave Everett his address before he ended the call. Minutes after he’d hung up he thought about M.J. It would be the first time they’d have a houseguest.
It had taken four weeks for her to turn the house into a home. He had spent all of his free time driving her to furniture warehouses where she selected pieces for the kitchen, living, dining rooms. Furnishings for one of the guest bedrooms were scheduled for delivery later that afternoon. Walking out of his study, Samuel found M.J. in the kitchen.
“Where’s Bessie?”
M.J. glanced up from her task of peeling green bananas. She’d been overjoyed once she found a store that carried tropical produce. “I sent her home.”
Samuel forced himself not to scowl. “Why?”
“She wasn’t feeling well.”
“What’s wrong with her now?”
M.J. heard the sarcasm in her husband’s voice. They’d been married a month and a half, and with each passing day she’d found herself more and more in love with him.
But she’d also discovered he was solitary, spending long hours in his study writing letters, reading reports, or making and receiving telephone calls; but on the other hand, whenever she sought him out he’d put aside whatever it was he was doing to drive her to the market or the antique shops she favored.
“Why would you ask me that, Sammy?”
This time he did frown. “Because Bessie gets sick an average of once every two weeks. And always on a Friday.”
“She told me she was having a problem with her monthly.”
Samuel sat down across from M.J., shaking his head. “I thought women have their monthlies once, not twice a month.”
Heat flared in M.J.’s face. Although married, she felt uncomfortable discussing the function of a woman’s body with Samuel. It had taken her hours before she garnered the nerve to tell him that with her show of menstrual blood she wasn’t pregnant.
“You can’t expect me to challenge her, Sammy.”
His frown deepened. “What I expect is for you to make certain she does what I pay her to do. This is your house, M.J., and you’re responsible for everything that goes on here. If she isn’t doing her job, then I want you to either chastise her or fire her. The decision is yours.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“When?”
“When she comes again on Tuesday.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Yes, you may, Sammy.”
“Start looking for her replacement. When you talk to some of the other women tomorrow night you can inquire about who they use to clean their homes.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I’ll think about it.”
There was no way M.J. was going to let those women know that she wasn’t able to run an efficient household. She’d noticed several peering through their curtains or whispering to one another whenever she ventured outdoors to check on the progress of the garden that was under construction at the back of the house.
The gardener had planted orange, lime and lemon trees, and put in flowering shrubs of frangipani. A retractable awning shaded an area with a table with seating for four. She’d wanted to erect a gazebo, but changed her mind; it would’ve made the garden area appear too crowded.
Leaning over, Samuel kissed the side of her neck. “Don’t think too much, darling.”
She smiled up at him. “I won’t, darling.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Camarones al ajillo. Garlic shrimp,” she translated before he could ask.
“It sounds good.” He kissed her again.
“It is,” M.J. said confidently, watching Samuel as he walked out of the kitchen.
Pleasing her husband in the kitchen and bedroom was something she was able to do with little or no effort. But whenever they didn’t share a bed or a meal she found Samuel standoffish. On more than one occasion she came into the house to find him sitting in his study in the dark, and even when she turned on a lamp he did not move or acknowledge her presence. If she hadn’t loved him as much as she did she would’ve fled the house, Samuel and Florida, because there was something about her husband that frightened her.
She felt a presence and looked around. The object of her musings had silently returned to the kitchen. Placing a hand over her chest, M.J. let out an audible sigh. Her heart was pounding an erratic rhythm.
“Don’t do that!”
Samuel stared mutely at his wife. “What?” he asked after an uncomfortable silence.
“Spy on me.”
“What makes you think I’m spying on you? What do you have to hide?”
“Nothing. I look up and you’re there.”
He smiled and nodded. “Okay. Next time I’ll make some noise before coming up on you. I forgot to tell you that we’re having a houseguest next weekend.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Sammy, no!”
“I forgot to tell you, baby.”
M.J. glared at him. “We can’t have guests now. The house isn’t ready.”
Samuel walked over to the table, eased the knife from M.J.’s hand and pulled her gently to her feet. “Don’t worry about the house. It looks beautiful, darling. Besides, our guest is not coming to judge our home.”
“Why is he coming?” A slight frown wrinkled her smooth forehead. “Is the guest a he?”
“Yes. Everett Kirkland and I have business to discuss.”
“Does he have a wife?”
Samuel shook his head. He doubted whether Everett would’ve married since their last encounter. “I don’t believe he does.”
Placing her hands on her husband’s chest, M.J. rolled her eyes at him. “I suppose I should thank you for giving me a week’s notice.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry too much. I’ll help you out. Now all you have to do is get that triflin’ Bessie to do her job.”
“What is this triflin’?”
Throwing back his head, Samuel laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. He’d forgotten that English, and in particular Southern vernacular, wasn’t M.J.’s first language.
“It’s the same as lazy or good-for-nothing.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?” Her vexation was evident.
“Because it’s easier to say triflin’.”
“You shouldn’t tease me.”
He pressed the pad of his thumb to her mouth, parting her lips. “I don’t mind if you tease me.”
“What if I tell you that I ordered a piano?”
“You’re teasing, aren’t you?”
Dimples deepened with her beguiling smile. “No, my husband. I’m not teasing. It will be delivered today along with the other furniture.”
Samuel threw up his hands, scowling. “I don’t believe you.”
“What can’t you believe? I told you I wanted the piano.”
“And I told you this house isn’t large enough for a piano.”
M.J. poked him in the middle of his chest with her forefinger. “Then get me a larger house.”
“No! This house isn’t a year old.”
“It’s too small for the things I want to buy.”
A slow, rising rage knotted Samuel’s stomach muscles. She’d deceived him. M.J. had spent the past month humming and singing as she had him arrange and rearrange pieces of furniture until he was fearful of entering any of the rooms without turning on a light.
“I asked you if you liked this place, and you said you loved it.” He was hard-pressed not to yell at her. “You didn’t have to lie to me.”
M.J. stared at the protruding veins in her husband’s neck. “I didn’t lie to you,” she retorted angrily. “I do love this house, but it’s much smaller than what I’m used to.”
“I’m sorry, madam, if I didn’t grow up in a mansion.”
“Don’t be condescending, Samuel.”
“I’m not being condescending. I’m only saying what is the truth. If you opened the front door you could see clear through to the back door. It was what we call a shotgun house. I’ve worked my ass off to get where I
am today because I want better for my family and for my children.” He leaned closer, close enough for his moist breath to whisper over his wife’s face, his frown deepening. “We are going to live here, in this house, until we outgrow it.”
Samuel’s words were as bitter and acrid as gall. Tears filled M.J.’s eyes but didn’t fall. They shimmered like polished jet as she continued to stare up at the man she loved beyond reason, a man to whom she’d committed her future, and a man whom she’d trusted to protect her in a country where she felt like and was an alien.
She wanted to curse him—in English and in Spanish—and say all of the coarse, ribald words she’d learned from the girls at the convent. But she decided not to challenge Samuel, not today, and not when she couldn’t seduce him. M.J. had learned quickly that if she used her body she could get most of what she wanted from him.
“Okay, Samuel,” she said in a tone swollen with resignation. “I will send the piano back.”
Regret assailed Samuel when he saw his wife’s tears and heard her declaration of defeat. He’d become Charles Cole, bullying and berating those he’d sworn to love and protect. He extended his arms, but she moved beyond his reach. Her rejection twisted like a knife in his heart.
“Baby. Please…don’t.”
She shook her head. “Don’t touch me, Samuel. Not now.”
Eyes wide, Samuel angled his head. Didn’t she know? Did she not know how much he loved her, how much he wanted to please her? Taking two long strides, he caught her around the waist and pulled her to his chest.
“It’s all right, my darling. You can have your piano.”
Eyelids fluttering, M.J. stared up at him. “Really?”
He kissed the end of her nose. At that moment M.J. appeared more like a little girl than a woman. “Yes, baby. Really.”
Throwing her arms around his neck, she pulled his head down and kissed him. “Thank you. Mil gracias, mi amor, mi corazon. I will never defy you again,” she murmured, placing featherlight kisses over his parted lips. “If you say no, then it will be no.”
Cupping her hips, fingers splaying over the firm mounds under a lightweight, flower-sprigged dress, Samuel pulled her even closer. He stared down at the dark brown pools that reminded him of the tiny cups of Cuban coffee he’d grown so fond of.
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