“Tight quarters,” he murmured.
Molly didn’t answer. Focus, she commanded herself. Concentrate. Pretend it’s Carson sitting next to you.
That worked. She felt calmer. Steadier. And more than a little guilty on account of it. But at least within moments she had the plane skimming across the water and lifting up into the soft-hued morning sky.
Beside her, Joaquin moved at last and sucked in his breath as he watched the island fall away behind them. “It’s the most beautiful place on earth,” he said softly.
She looked at him, surprised at the sentiment that so echoed her own. “It is, isn’t it?”
To Molly there was nothing more gorgeous than the panorama of sky and sea and islands she enjoyed every time she took off from Pelican Cay. The last time she’d flown Carson back to Nassau, he’d spent the entire trip engrossed in paperwork. Of course he’d seen the view a hundred times or more, but so had Molly—and she could never get enough of it.
Now her gaze met Joaquin’s, and she felt a quickening awareness when he smiled back at her.
Wrong man! Wrong man! Her brain cells screamed.
He was. Of course he was. She knew that. Determinedly she turned away and concentrated on flying the plane.
When they landed, a local launch picked them up from the sea plane and took them to the dock where Sophy always arranged for a van to meet them.
While every trip was slightly different, in general she would give them a quick historical tour of the island, then take them to a museum, then to lunch with an artist, and afterward to a gallery or two to meet local artists and artisans. The tour always ended at the straw market where Molly would meet them, and together they would head back to the plane.
This gave Molly the whole day free. Sometimes she spent it on the beach. Sometimes she brought a book and read. Sometimes she had a list of errands from Hugh that kept her busy, and she never minded that. But she was glad she didn’t have any today. It would give her time to go to the beach for a while, then stop by a couple of the shops near the straw market and pick up a colorful dress.
But when the van reached the center of town and Sophy asked, as she always did, if Molly wanted to come along with them, she didn’t say anything about her plans. She just said no thanks, she was going to be busy.
“She’s coming with me,” Joaquin said. And leaving Sophy with her mouth in an O of astonishment, he opened the door and climbed out, hauling Molly along with him.
“What are you—”
But he just steered her onto the pavement. “We’ll see you at the straw market at four,” he said to Sophy and waved as they disappeared into traffic. Then he turned to Molly and rubbed his hands together. “All right, then. Lesson two.”
“Not funny,” Molly said. “I can’t believe you did that! What’s Sophy going to think?”
“That you’re giving me flying lessons?” He grinned.
She ground her teeth at him.
“Or—” he shrugged “—maybe that I want to spend time with you?”
“God forbid!” Molly snorted in disbelief. “If she believes that, I’ve got some swamp land to sell her. Besides, she knows I’m engaged to Carson.”
“Then she won’t think a thing of it.” He grabbed her hand. “Come along. We have work to do.”
“Work? What work?” Molly demanded as he hauled her along the crowded pavement. “I have plans today!”
“Oh, yes? What plans?”
She felt suddenly awkward about telling him, about having him laugh at the thought of her going shopping. “Just…plans,” she muttered.
“Well, perhaps we can fit them in,” he said. “But first, our lesson.” He was scanning the shops along the street as if he were looking for something in particular.
“What’s the lesson?” Molly demanded. “Where are we going?”
“There.” He smiled as he spotted what he was looking for. “And we are going to make the most of you.”
And taking her by the arm, he whisked her straight into a posh styling salon just off Bay Street. “We’ll start with a haircut.”
“I just got my hair cut!”
He looked down his nose at her. “By who? Hugh?”
Molly colored fiercely at the accuracy of his guess. “As a matter of fact, yes.” She lifted her chin and dared him to make something of it.
He did. “As a hairstylist, Hugh’s a great pilot.”
“He cut hair in the Air Force.” And he only ever trimmed the ends of hers. It was all she would allow.
“In the Air Force? Now there’s a recommendation,” Joaquin said drily. “I’m talking about a real haircut. If you’re going to seduce this reluctant fiancé of yours,” Joaquin persisted, “Little Orphan Annie has got to go.” He gave her a gentle push further into the high-ceilinged room.
Molly glowered and muttered under her breath as she stood there, contemplating the acres of chrome and glass, the wall of gleaming mirrors and the kaleidoscope of rainbow colors splashed across the ceiling. It was so high that the palm trees artfully situated here and there didn’t even have to bend their heads.
“Not exactly Hugh’s front porch and the kitchen shears,” she mumbled.
“Amen to that.”
“Look, I appreciate the idea, but I just don’t think…” she began but her voice died away as a tall elegant black woman approached, beaming. Her elaborately beaded corn rows clinked and clicked as she swayed toward them.
“Ah, good morning. How can I help you?” the woman asked in a beautifully melodious Bahamian accent.
“The lady wants a haircut,” Joaquin said firmly. “And a style. Something that will bring out her best features.”
Molly gave the woman full credit for not laughing. Also for not screaming for immediate emergency help. Instead she murmured, “Mmm, yes. Let me see.” And keeping a carefully intent expression on her face, she glided around Molly, studying her from every vantage point.
Molly felt like a cow at the county fair. And not a prizewinning one, either. She wanted to kill Joaquin, but didn’t want to get blood on the highly polished granite. Still if looks could kill bloodlessly, he’d have been lifeless on the floor.
Finally the circumnavigation ended and the woman stopped in front of her, studied her face as intently as she’d studied everything else, then reached out a beautifully manicured hand to tip Molly’s chin up slightly. Then she nodded. And smiled.
“Yes,” she said with considerable satisfaction. “I can do that.”
She nodded confidently at Joaquin. Then she turned her gaze on Molly, her dark eyes smiling. “You are beautiful. Melisande will show the world it is so.”
“I doubt it,” Molly said frankly.
Melisande’s brows lifted, perfect arcs of disbelief. “You doubt? Come. I will show you.”
And before she knew it, Molly found herself seated in one of the styling chairs, her shoulders draped with a pristine white towel. In the mirror she could see Joaquin standing there watching, grinning.
Then she was spun around and tipped back so her head hung over the sink and a spray of water, temperature controlled no doubt, cascaded over her skull.
Strong but gentle hands worked up a lather. Washed. Rinsed. Then repeated the process. It was heavenly. And Molly was, after the first few moments, powerless to resist.
She floated on the sensations. Only when Melisande finished and wrapped her hair in a towel and tipped her upright again did Molly come back to reality and realize that the whole time Joaquin had been standing there watching her.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
SEDUCTION WAS NOT unlike soccer.
It was fun. It was exhilarating. And played at the highest level with a worthy opponent, it was unpredictable. The outcome was always tantalizing—and always uncertain.
Since he’d come to Pelican Cay, his nightly flirtations had been so predictable that Joaquin had found them almost boring. Like playing against amateurs, flirting with women who were predisposed to fall
into bed with him was a pleasant diversion, but hardly a challenge. It passed the time. But it never engaged his interest except on a physical level—and then only briefly.
The outcome, of course, was never in question.
It was totally different dealing with Molly McGillivray.
Molly was a challenge and a half. She was as stubborn as her brothers, as tough as old boots and as unaware of her own appeal as an innocent child. There was no artifice, no affectation about her. She had asked him to teach her how to seduce—but if last night’s encounter was anything to go by, she had nothing to learn. She was a natural.
He’d been demanding that she “pay attention” to him, expecting merely that she would meet his gaze so that he could teach her a little about flirtatious eye contact, about the casual inadvertent touch—and she had paid far closer attention than that.
She had gone right for his heart. She had focused on the one thing that mattered, had asked him with complete sincerity about the one thing that no one had dared ask him about. And there had been such gentle concern in her question that he’d felt compelled to answer her.
She’d off-balanced him, caught him unawares. And so he’d talked. And talked. Made a fool of himself, he’d thought after, annoyed at how much of himself he’d revealed—and at how little he knew about her.
He’d known Molly McGillivray for years. But now he could see that he didn’t really know her at all.
She had been one surprise after another—starting with the eyeful he’d got when she’d come downstairs in that towel and ending with the not-in-the-least-diminished desire to find out what was under that towel. He’d gone back to the Moonstone wondering what her lips would taste like, how her body would feel pressed against his, what it would be like to make love to her.
And then, of course, there was the knowledge that he wasn’t going to find out.
She had a fiancé. That was the point of the whole “lessons” business, wasn’t it? Bringing the reluctant Carson Sawyer up to snuff.
Yes. It was.
And yet—
Joaquin jammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, balancing, considering. And he didn’t think the outcome should be that predictable.
Maybe it was the competitor in him, but it seemed to him that if Carson Sawyer really loved Molly, if he was worthy of her love, he would do more than simply notice her, more than lie back and agree to be seduced by her.
He would fight for her.
He would move heaven and earth for her.
He would— Dear God.
His thoughts stopped dead as the stylist stepped aside and right there in the mirror Joaquin found himself staring at the most stunningly beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.
Molly’s riot of coppery curls was gone. In its place was a short sleek shiny cap of auburn hair. It was almost boyish—and in being so, revealed that the woman who wore it was not boyish at all. No boy could possibly have that slender neck, those delicate features, that gamine look and those curving lips.
What the stylist, Melisande, had done with a pair of scissors on Molly McGillivray’s hair was the sort of thing Leonardo da Vinci had done with a chisel and slab of granite. She’d found the beauty in Molly and released it. She’d cut off a mound of wild curling hair and turned Little Orphan Annie into a delicate, fine-boned, absolutely stunning woman.
Joaquin’s breath caught in his chest. He stared, poleaxed.
And so did Molly. First at her own reflection, then at him. Their eyes met in the mirror and locked.
She looked stunned and, he thought, almost frightened. As if she didn’t know how to handle the woman she was discovering inside her skin.
He’d be only too happy to show her. The thought made him smile, made him breathe again. He smiled at her and felt a stab of desire when she gave him a nervous, tentative smile in return.
Then Melisande broke the moment as she set down the scissors and turned Molly’s chair, breaking their gaze. Ruffling her fingers through Molly’s hair, she played with the short locks, tousling them, regarding her handiwork critically. Then she stepped back and nodded her satisfaction.
“So,” she said to Molly with a smile, “now do you believe me?”
And Molly ran her tongue over her lips, then nodded jerkily. “It’s, um, pretty amazing,” she allowed.
Melisande laughed. “I know you like.” She was satisfied with that. Then she turned to him. “And you? What do you think? It suits her, yes?”
“Oh, yes.” His voice was husky with desire, and he knew Melisande understood the reason even if Molly was totally unaware.
Melisande laughed softly, pleased. Then back to business, she reached down and picked up one of Molly’s hands. “Next we must do something about these.”
Instantly Molly snatched her hand back and shook her head. “No! It’s pointless. I work—”
But before he could stop himself, Joaquin cut in, “Yes.”
Molly’s eyes darted to the mirror to meet his. “They’re not your hands!”
He didn’t care. For once he wanted them as soft as the tender flesh of her arm that he’d felt under his fingers last night. He didn’t stop to think about why. “Not my hands,” he agreed loftily. “But I am the teacher.”
“Carson won’t notice—”
“I will,” Joaquin said. He already had. And for reasons he refused to consider more closely he wanted her hands as soft as the rest of her.
Molly glared. He met her gaze implacably. Melisande looked from one to the other.
Joaquin folded his arms across his chest. “It is for your own good,” he told Molly.
She looked mutinous. Her fingers balled into fists. But then, slowly, she released them, splayed them, looked down at them and sighed.
“All right,” she said at last and stuck out her hands to Melisande. “Do with me what you will.”
AS SHE GOT HER HANDS manicured—and how insane was that for a mechanic, for goodness’ sake?—Molly kept sneaking glances in the mirror, startled every time she glimpsed the redheaded woman in the manicurist’s chair who met her gaze.
She’d been horrified when Melisande had begun chopping off her hair. For years Molly thought her mop of curls was the only way people could tell she was a girl. The short boyish haircut the stylist had given her should have made her look as tomboyish as she was.
Instead it made her look almost delicate. Delicate? Molly nearly snorted. But then she recalled that it had certainly made Joaquin do a double-take. When he’d met her gaze in the mirror, he’d looked almost stunned.
No more stunned than she was. She glanced in the mirror again, intrigued by this stranger looking back at her with a hint of a secret smile on her face. It was like finding out she had secrets even she didn’t know she had.
So, the haircut was terrific. She had to give Joaquin credit for that.
But the manicure? It was insane. It was a complete waste of time. And money. It probably wouldn’t even work. Certainly the manicurist had gulped when she’d taken a look at Molly’s callused, oil-stained hands. But then she’d smiled gamely, as if she’d been asked to climb the manicurist’s Everest—and set to work.
Now as the woman smoothed the sweet-smelling lotion into her hands, Molly felt ticklish and just a little vulnerable. And surprisingly pleased. All her nerve ends tingled and she sighed with pleasure. Her resistance waned.
She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.
“Enjoy,” the manicurist murmured.
And oddly, Molly did. She imagined what it would be like to have hands like this all the time—hands so sensitive that they would revel in stroking the roughness of a whiskered jaw and the silky softness of thick black hair.
Brown hair, she corrected herself, eyes snapping open. Carson had brown hair!
It was the man prowling out in the waiting area whose hair was as black as night. It was that man’s hair she had touched in last night’s dream. Instinctively her fin
gers clenched.
“No!” The manicurist flattened them again. “Relax,” she said softly, massaging Molly’s fingers. “Just relax now and close your eyes.”
But Molly wasn’t about to do that. She sat rigid, eyes wide open for the rest of the manicure, afraid to daydream again.
“Let’s see,” Joaquin said when she came back to the waiting area. He held out his hands imperiously. When she didn’t immediately respond, he reached for her hands and took them possessively in his own.
“It’s no big deal,” Molly muttered even as he admired them, ran his thumbs over them, making her shiver with awareness. “I don’t know why I bothered,” she grumbled, wishing he’d let go. “They’ll be horrible in twelve hours time.”
“But now they are exquisite,” he said, and he lifted one and pressed his lips against it.
“Joaquin!” She jerked her hand to get away. But he held it fast, rubbed his lips against it, all the while watching her for a reaction. “Stop that!”
He lifted his lips long enough to smile devilishly at her. “No.” And damned if he didn’t kiss the other one as well.
Molly felt her insides tighten. She held herself stiff and resisting. Then a strand of black hair brushed against the back of her hand and she jumped.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.” She yanked her hands out of his and twisted them together behind her back, ignoring the tsking sound of the manicurist who clearly disapproved. “I just—I just think it was a waste,” Molly muttered.
“No,” he disagreed. “It is good. They are soft. Just like the rest of you.”
“As if you’d know.” She glared at him, embarrassed.
“I would like to know,” he said softly making her blood run hot.
“Stop it!”
He smiled guilelessly. “You asked for it.”
“Yes, but not…not…” Not to feel like this! Not to be so aware of him. Not to still be able to feel the tingle of the touch of his lips against the backs of her hands even when his lips were nowhere near them.
Lessons from a Latin Lover Page 6