by Sarah Monzon
With great difficulty, she pulled the dress over her head and into place. She hoped Señora Cruz had servants to help her with the yards of material, for it was kin to wrestling a bear, getting into the gown. The fabric hung from her frame, the lack of petticoats apparent in the limp skirt. She craned her neck to peer at her back. Servants would be needed to fasten the gown as well. She reached around, contorting her body to try and reach to secure the dress. Impossible on her own. Her eyes flicked to the man across the room, and she chewed her lip.
“Are you clothed?” His deep voice vibrated the air.
“Sí…except…umm…”
“Except?” He turned and stopped short at her still-exposed back. “I see.” In three strides he stood behind her.
It took all her strength not to dart when the heat of his hands warmed her skin. A finger traced the ridge of her bindings. “These dirty things are no longer needed. Discard them.”
They were needed if she wanted to keep the necklace safe and concealed. “This dress requires certain undergarments of which I do not possess.” Namely a corset, although she could probably still fit in the gown without one. She shuffled her feet, discomfort making it impossible to remain still. Never before had she used the word “undergarments” in a conversation with a man.
Captain Montoya cleared his throat and tugged on the dress. She planted her feet against the pull of the fabric, her body warming from the combination of the man’s close proximity, mortifying embarrassment, and anxiety over what would be her fate.
With one last tug, the captain stepped back. “There. Too much trouble, if you ask me.”
Her, women in general, or the gown itself? Isabella turned, the sway of the fabric about her ankles strangely foreign. Odd, for she would have thought the opposite to be true. That the return of feminine attire would bring a comfort. If nothing else, however, she was thankful the yards of material hid her trembling legs.
Memories flashed in her mind faster than the matador’s cape. Her mother’s horror-filled eyes, Hernando’s cackling laughter in response. The eagerness of the men in the crowd at the town floggings. The quartermaster’s sneer and echoing threats.
Fear fueled the bellies of men until they devoured their victims.
All men? Doubt niggled her mind. Tío was a good man. And the captain? She’d seen his kindness to Luis. But Hernando had seemed a gentleman at first as well.
What should she do? What should she say?
Pushing down trepidation, she schooled her features into a mask she’d worn whenever in her stepfather’s presence. She’d allow a curtain to fall over her eyes so no one could see her thoughts, her feelings. Power would remain hers.
She lifted her chin and met the captain’s eyes in an unwavering stare. Her muscles bunched to flee, but she refused them the movement.
Captain Montoya stood firm in front of her. “Why are you aboard my ship?”
Tightness bunched in her chest. “I needed the passage to the New World.”
The dark eyes in front of her narrowed, threatened. “Speak the truth and all of the truth, señorita, for I know that is not the whole of the story. If passage was all you had sought, there are many other vessels you could have simply hired, and not have put forth such great effort in this ruse.”
She swallowed hard, his intense stare causing her nonchalant mask to slip. “I had neither the funds to pay for said passage nor the time to wait to procure another vessel.”
He took a step forward. “I only ask once more, señorita, for my patience is growing thin. The whole story, now, if you please.”
Isabella rocked back on her heel to put as much distance between them without making it obvious. Her eyes darted to the exit. If she made a dash for it, he would be upon her before she could pull the door open. Besides, where would she run? There was no escape.
Truth? So be it. There seemed no other recourse for her now.
Chapter Twenty
Florida, Present Day
Fun was the last thing Summer was having. Her stomach clenched. It was wound up in more knots than the yarn she’d used the year her mom had tried to teach her to crochet. No amount of tugging had unraveled that monstrosity. In fact, the more she’d pulled, the tighter it had gotten.
Why had she agreed to spend the holiday with Trent and his family? It’s not like they were dating—she couldn’t be in a relationship with him. He was a man-child and only thought of women as his playthings. She’d never let herself become some toy for his amusement and then cast aside when he got bored.
It was his eyes. The pleading look in them that had swayed her when common sense had said to keep her distance.
Either way she was committed now.
The soles of her gladiator sandals pushed down on the accelerator. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Picnics were fun, right? At least there’d be good food. And it wasn’t like she’d be alone with Trent. His whole family was supposed to be there. What were the chances he’d flirt and try to charm her while his parents watched? A groan vibrated in the back of her throat. They were probably pretty high.
No more time to analyze. She pulled into a short driveway and parked her car behind a Porsche. A low whistle blew past her lips. Someone had some money. She opened her car door and moved toward the house, but her eyes stayed on the clean lines of the little roadster. The muscles in her neck pulled taut until she was forced to turn her head and look where she was going. Trent and another man approached in long strides, both their faces stretched in wide grins.
The man with dark hair clapped Trent on the shoulder. “Look at that, little brother. I’ve already managed to turn her head.”
Heat didn’t creep up to her cheeks—it sprinted. These two were brothers? Both were good looking—another flush to her skin—but they were as different as night and day. Well, at least the color of their hair and eyes. Obviously they both had that charming flirtatious thing going on.
Trent laughed and met her eyes with a wink. That knot in her stomach? Dissolved in a second. Much more and she’d melt into a puddle of goo right there on the hot concrete driveway.
Way to shore up your defenses there, Summer.
“Sorry to break it to you, Adam, but you didn’t turn her head. Your car did. You”—he poked his brother’s collar bone—“couldn’t make a mosquito do a double take.”
Summer grinned.
Trent’s brother—he’d called him Adam, right?—play-stumbled backward and clutched his hand to his heart. “You wound me.” He fastened his chocolate eyes on her. “Come on, Summer. What d’ya say? Is my brother here right? Am I so unattractive that not even the most annoying of insects would want to take another look at me?”
She opened her mouth, but Trent cut her off. “It’s okay. You can tell him the truth. Rip it like a Band-Aid. Say, ‘Adam, you’re nowhere near as handsome as your brother Trent.’”
That was true. Adam was handsome all right, but his perfectly gelled hair and designer slacks didn’t make her pulse race…not the way Trent did with his wild and carefree attitude. Even when she tried to slow it down. Of course, she’d already accidentally admitted she found him hunkier than a Norse god. No need to go inflating his ego again.
She cocked her hip and placed a hand on it, then tapped her chin with the index finger of her other hand and scrunched up her lips. “I think…” Pause for effect. “If I had to choose…” Another pause. She dropped her hands and clasped them in front of her, trying to hide her smile behind a look of innocence. “I’ll take the Porsche.”
“What?”
“Aww. Come on!”
Manly protests rent the air, and Summer covered her mouth as giggles escaped through her fingers.
“All right you two, enough tomfoolery.” A woman in her midfifties with a short bob haircut stepped down the drive. The fabric of her coral-colored capris made a soft swooshing sound as she walked. “Go make sure your father didn’t burn all his eyebrows off when he lit the grill.”
“Sure thing, Mom.”
Both men turned and walked around the side of the house toward the back.
“I’m Anita Carrington.” She extended her hand, and the skin around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. The woman exuded warmth and friendliness. “Welcome to our home. We’re simply thrilled you could join us.”
Summer slipped her hand into Anita’s and gave a little squeeze. “Thank you for having me.”
“Our pleasure, dear. Now, why don’t we go around back, and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Anita followed the same path her sons had taken moments ago, and Summer trailed her. A small green lizard darted in front of her, then scurried up one of the oak trees shading the Carrington property. When they rounded the back corner of the house, Summer instinctively groped for her camera hanging around her neck. Only it wasn’t there. She’d left it at home, thinking the family wouldn’t want a stranger taking pictures of them. Too bad, because the scene before her was picture perfect.
Patriotic red, white, and blue bunting covered the deck railing. A giant red bow topped each of the gathered swags. Bulb lights zigzagged overhead, just waiting for the sun to go down to be turned on. Dear ol’ dad stood behind a smoking grill, a Kiss the Cook apron hanging from his neck and a metal spatula waving from his hand. A teenaged girl stepped through the French doors, carrying a large glass bowl of cubed watermelon, followed by Trent and Adam, hands also full with trays of food.
Anita pulled Summer along in her wake until they stopped beside the grill. “George, I want you to meet Summer. Summer, this is my husband, George.”
George looked up from the sizzling meat and speared Summer with a broad smile. She no longer need wonder where Trent got his dancing blue eyes from. “Trent’s girl, right?”
Uh-oh. How was she supposed to answer that? She looked to where Trent was setting down a plate of hamburger trimmings. He raised his head and winked again. Is that what he’d told his family? That she was his girl?
She forced a smile to her lips. “We’re just friends.”
George poked around the food on the grill. “Looks like these burgers are ready. I hope you’re hungry, Summer.”
“Famished.”
Burgers deposited on a nearby platter, everyone gathered around the picnic table on the other side of the deck. Trent stepped over the bench and sat beside her.
Summer eyed the food in front of her, but no one moved to put any of it on their plates. No way would she reach first.
George cleared his throat from a folding chair at the head of the table. “Should we say grace?” He extended his hands palms up to Anita on his right and Trent on his left.
Surreptitiously, Summer looked around. Heads bowed and hands clasped around the table. She’d never prayed before in her life. Didn’t know the right protocol. Good thing she could just follow everyone else’s example.
She placed one hand in Amber’s, Trent’s little sister. The smooth palm similar in size and shape to her own. Trent covered her other hand. His fingertips started in the middle of her palm and spread out, separating and then intertwining with her fingers. Strength radiated from his grip, and she found herself hoping he would remain as steady as his hold was on her at that moment.
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for the gathering of family on this day of Independence. For the sacrifice of men and women who make it possible for this country to remain the land of the free. Especially for Michael, who is out fighting as we speak. Keep him safe. May we remember the ultimate sacrifice of your Son, who died on the cross so that all may be liberated from the chains of sin and call you our heavenly Father. Bless the food on our table and the people around it. Amen.”
A soft echo of “amen” and Amber released her hand. Trent hung on a moment longer and gave a gentle squeeze until she looked at him. He gave her a crooked grin, and she returned his smile despite herself. Activity buzzed around them as the Carrington family piled food on their plates, but she was pulled into Trent’s gaze until Amber bumped her shoulder, reaching for the bowl in front of her.
“Excuse me, but can you pass the potato salad, please?” Amber grinned.
Heat burned her cheeks. She extricated her hand from Trent’s and smoothed down the front of her sundress before lifting the bowl and passing it down the table. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Could she hide under the table now? Trent’s whole family must think she was like every other ditz that had gone weak in the knees over his golden looks and flattering speeches.
“So, Trent tells us that you are a photographer.” This from Anita across the table.
Summer swallowed. “That’s right. I specialize in marine photography.”
“That sounds fascinating. I’ve never been diving myself. Too scared. What if there was a shark in the water with me?” Anita shuddered. “No, thank you. These boys made me sit through enough Shark Week episodes to have a healthy dose of respect for the creatures.”
Images of the great white with his mouth open and coming at her flashed through her mind. Her muscles stiffened. If she never encountered another shark in her career, it would be too soon.
“I suppose I am missing out on other amazing things though.” Anita shook her head. “The coral reefs must be absolutely beautiful.”
Summer picked up her burger with both hands. “They really are. More color than you could imagine, and teeming with life.” She bit into the sandwich, and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Goodness. This might be the best burger she’d had in her life.
“Reminds you of our heavenly Father’s love, no doubt.” George’s deep voice addressed her. “The intricacies of His creation never cease to amaze me.”
Burger lodged in her throat, and she reached for her glass of lemonade. Creation? A heavenly Father’s love? What were they talking about?
Trent shifted his weight beside her. “So, Dad, the deck turned out pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”
George looked at his son, pride evident in his expression. “You did a great job, Trent. Thank you for helping us out.”
Summer looked around, and her eyes widened before she fastened them on Trent. “You built this?”
“Which means we should hurry and eat before the whole thing comes crashing down.” Adam shoveled three forkfuls of baked beans in his mouth in quick succession.
“Has anyone heard from Michael lately?” Amber’s question darkened the mood around the table.
Summer’s gaze flicked from family member to family member. Concern etched each face. Who was Michael?
Trent leaned toward her. “Michael is my little brother. He’s a navy pilot out on deployment.”
“Some top-secret mission,” Adam said. “I don’t think he’ll be able to contact us until the mission is over.”
“But we can pray.” George met the eyes of his family, infusing strength in one look.
Except for Trent. He stared at his plate, his jaw clenched. What was the story there?
Anita took a deep breath and used the table to push herself to her feet. “Everyone finished? I’ll clear away the food and get the apple pie from the kitchen.”
Summer stood as well. “Here, let me help.” She scooped up the half-empty bowl of potato salad into the crook of one arm and lifted the baked beans bowl with the other hand. Brown juice pooled at the bottom and sloshed as she walked into the house.
“The food was delicious, Anita. Thank you for letting me join your family.”
The woman smiled. “You’re more than welcome.”
“Is there anything I can do to help clean up?”
Anita peered at the dishes now littering the counter. “How about I put the leftovers in some containers? Then you can rinse out the dishes so none of the food sticks too badly.”
“Sounds good.”
Summer turned on the water and let it run through her fingers, waiting for it to warm. She stared out the large picture window that hung above the kitchen sink. Amber sat on a homemade swing beneath a giant oak. The cords of the rope suspending the wooden seat seemed a bit frayed from t
ime and weather. George stepped up behind Amber, and she leaned back and grinned into her dad’s face.
A pang of loss pierced Summer’s heart. Strange. One would first have to possess something in order to feel its loss. She’d never had a loving relationship with her father. Never had a father.
George pushed Amber on the swing, and Summer felt an unwanted sting at the back of her eyes. The sweet picture before her should make her smile, not fall into a hole of hurt and self-pity.
She became aware of Anita’s presence behind her, and she mashed her eyes closed, willing the unshed tears back into her sockets and not down her cheeks.
“Daddy’s girl, that one. Always has been.”
Summer didn’t trust her voice, so she merely nodded. She grabbed the closest dish on the counter and swirled it under the water.
A warm hand encased her shoulder. “Are you okay, dear?” Worry laced Anita’s words.
“Fine,” she squeaked.
“Fine doesn’t make one’s eyes leak.” The pad of Anita’s finger brushed away a stray tear.
Summer cast a quick glance at Anita’s face. The soft lines around the woman’s eyes and her open expression spoke of genuine concern. Should she try to explain? It would be nice to talk to someone about it. She bit her lip, unsure.
“Did my son do something to hurt you?” Steel edged her voice.
Summer turned swiftly then. “Oh no, nothing like that. It’s just…” She looked back out the window at Amber and George. “I was having a little pity party, is all.”
Anita followed her gaze. “Not a good relationship with your own father?”
A half shrug lifted Summer’s shoulders. “I don’t know my father. Never met him.” She hung her head. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Oh, honey.” Anita pressed Summer’s head to her shoulder and caressed her hair.