But this!
This was what she wanted.
But not all she wanted.
The tiny part that remembered Carson, remembered something else, too. It remembered that love was more than a few moments’ physical passion. It remembered that she wanted a future as much as she wanted the present.
And she would never have a future with Joaquin.
He didn’t want what she wanted. Oh, maybe now he did. They both wanted that!
But not tomorrow. Not next year. Not in ten.
He was the wrong man. And that was that.
She turned her head, broke the contact. His lips followed, teased, touched. “Molly?”
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she whispered, “I can’t.”
Still his lips caressed her cheek, followed the line of her jaw, came back to her mouth to coax.
But she pressed her lips together and shook her head.
He pulled back then, and stared down at her, his face hard in the moonlit shadows. “It feels like yes.”
“But you said yourself it was a mistake,” she reminded him, and was glad her voice didn’t break and that he couldn’t see her tears.
“Then,” he said.
“And now.” She smiled sadly. “Nothing’s changed.”
HE ARRIVED at Fiona’s house just past seven, bleary-eyed, unshaven and with a hangover that pounded like half a dozen steel drums in his head.
Fiona, with Duncan in her arms, blinked sleepily at the sight of him.
“Well, you’re up early,” she said vaguely disconcerted. “Or late. Your parents thought you’d be here last night. When you didn’t show up, your mother was afraid you were avoiding them. Worried you’d taken offence at her bringing you a potential bride.”
“I don’t need her bringing me brides.” But that was the least of his problems this morning.
Fiona yawned until her jaw cracked. “Whatever you say. Lachlan thought she was quite sweet when they came to the hospital to see him. Much too nice for you, in fact, is what he said.”
“I’m sure he’s right.” There was an edge to his voice. He couldn’t help it.
“Well, you’re in a cheery mood,” Fiona said. “You might want to lighten up before the parents get up.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“Do that. Quietly. Come on in. No one’s even awake yet.”
“I’ll wait. If you want, I’ll make breakfast.”
Anything to justify getting out of Molly’s place before she woke up. He had barely slept at all. A very cold middle-of-the-night shower had done little to dampen his ardor, and afterward the thoughts tumbling through his head had made his brain feel like Swiss cheese. He’d finally dozed off for an hour or so. But the crowing of Miss Saffron’s rooster ended that.
Just as well. He didn’t want a morning-after argument when the night before had been nothing he wanted to remember.
He’d left the house that evening because he couldn’t have stayed there another minute without going downstairs and trying to pick up where they’d left off.
She’d said no more kissing, and he’d figured he could respect that. But lying there thinking about her and Carson Sawyer had him wanting to chew the furniture. So he’d left. He’d gone for a walk. A long one. He’d run into Charlotte who had offered to keep him company, but he’d declined. He wouldn’t be good company tonight, he’d told her.
It was the same reason he didn’t go see his parents even though he was sure they were expecting him.
There were other reasons he didn’t go see them, too. He didn’t want to spend time with Marianela. He was sure she was a very nice girl, but he wasn’t interested in a very nice girl. He was only interested in one girl—and she wasn’t interested in him.
But she’d sure as hell kissed him as if she were!
How could she possibly still be considering marrying Carson Sawyer when they could start a forest fire at the touch of their mouths?
The question had had no answer. Or none he’d wanted to hear. But it had kept echoing in his head all evening, so he had done his best to drown it out.
He’d started at the Sand Dollar, and hit the Grouper and the Dive Shack and the Starfish Serenade and a couple of bars that were such holes in the wall that they didn’t even have names. He hadn’t bothered with beer. He’d gone straight to the hard stuff. It had taken the edge off.
And it had given him the false sense that he would be able to control things with Molly the way he could control a ball. He needed to make her see that there was something between them—something far stronger than whatever existed between her and Carson. And so he had gone to her room.
It had started all right. Gentle. Easy. Deft. He had things moving. Slowly at first, sure. But slow was fine. Slow could even be good. Very good. And then the pace had picked up, the movement quickening. Still going well. And then—
And then—his head began pounding harder than before—and then she shut him down. Kept him out.
No crying, no yelling, no fighting. Just quiet rejection. Not since his teenage years had he felt so desperate, so needy, so wild.
And so lost and alone.
He couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t stay by himself and face it. And sure as hell couldn’t be there when she got up, to get the morning-after politeness she would use to soften the rejection of the night before.
It was preferable to listen to his father ramble on about the future of the family business and his mother about the future of the family name, than to face what really mattered.
“Make breakfast?” Fiona blinked happily at him now. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
She went off to change and feed Duncan, and Joaquin gulped down a couple of aspirin and, trying hard not to be sick, got out eggs and bacon and cheese and peppers and started to work.
To say his parents were delighted to get up and find him there was an understatement.
His father beamed at the sight of him and began telling him all about the merger he was putting together with his friend in New York. His friend had three sons, he told Joaquin, two of whom were deeply involved in the business.
“Like you,” he said cheerfully. “Have you had a chance to read over the material I sent you?”
“I’m working on it,” Joaquin said, trying to sound as enthused as the old man.
He didn’t have to talk at all when he was dealing with his mother. She did all the talking for both of them.
She came downstairs, spotted him and ran to fling her arms around him. “Ah, you’re here! Excellent. I was worried. I thought you were afraid of Marianela.”
“I’m not afraid of Marianela,” Joaquin said in a steely voice.
Ana beamed. “Of course you are not. I was worrying needlessly. You recognize quality when you see it. You always did.” She patted his arm. “I was never worried about you with all those—those groupies. I knew you wouldn’t get involved. I knew you would wait for the right woman. Did I tell you Marianela has a master’s degree in finance? So helpful in the business world.”
Joaquin sipped a cup of coffee and blessed the effects of aspirin and tried not to wince as he nodded his head.
His mother went on. And on. Marianela was a wonderful cook. And she loved children. She wanted at least six.
He wondered if she had any idea how much time it took to care for one. After his morning with Duncan he was something of an authority. He didn’t say so.
She played the piano and the harp, his mother told him. She did counted cross-stitch and glass-blowing and half a dozen other very admirable things.
Is she good in bed? Joaquin was tempted to ask, just to see the look on his mother’s face.
Of course he didn’t.
He didn’t care. He had no intention of taking Marianela to bed. And he was surprised to find that he was now beyond the age where he needed to shock his mother.
He knew she meant well.
And so he smiled and nodded and when she finally ran down
and looked at him hopefully, as if he might pull a ring out of his pocket and offer it on the spot, he only said mildly, “Don’t get your hopes up, Mama.”
She smiled gamely. “You are here, my son. It’s a start.”
And she did her best to make it a good one, matchmaking her heart out over the breakfast Joaquin had made, telling Marianela what a wonderful cook he was, and telling Joaquin that Marianela had done a Cordon Bleu course, which meant that they would certainly be well matched.
It was embarrassing. But objecting would have made things worse. So he suffered in silence, and Marianela smiled shyly whenever she looked his way. She spoke to his parents and to Fiona, but she seemed to have nothing much to say to him.
After breakfast his mother suggested that he take Marianela down and show her the beach.
He said, “I’ve got a better idea. None of you has seen the island. Why don’t I borrow Hugh’s Jeep and give you a tour.”
It wasn’t what his mother had in mind because it didn’t throw him and Marianela together alone. But apparently she understood that forcing the issue was not going to get her what she wanted. So she agreed.
Fiona took Duncan and went with Hugh in the helicopter to pick up Lachlan who’d been released from the hospital in Nassau. “We’ll be back this afternoon,” she told him. “And we can all have dinner together.”
Anything that would keep him busy sounded good to him.
He spent the morning giving his folks and Esperanza and Marianela the grand tour, taking them from the Mirabelle at one end of the island to the Moonstone at the other. He showed them the beach and the tide pools and where the ship wrecked off the point in 1844 and the damage done by the hurricane in the sixties and the remains of the three-hundred-year-old cannon.
Then he took them into town the long way around so he didn’t drive past the cricket and soccer field and Fly Guy. “You’ve been there,” he explained. He drove them down past the city dump and the electric plant instead.
“They’re really very interesting,” he said gravely. “It’s always nice to know about the infrastructure of the community.”
And if his mother looked at him oddly, he pretended not to notice. His father, noting his use of the word infrastructure, looked pleased.
He parked on the quay and took them on a walking tour of Pelican Town. They went into Miss Saffron’s Straw Shoppe, now run by two of her granddaughters, where they got broad-brimmed sun hats for protection before the day got too warm. Then they stopped at the Pineapple Shoppe. For All Your Fruit and Veg Requirement, said the sign in the window—where he picked up fresh pineapples and mangoes for Fiona for tonight’s dinner. They walked past the Winn Pixie Grocery, the school, the gaol and the church that was Protestant at nine o’clock on Sundays and Catholic at eleven.
At the top of the hill he turned and led them down Conch Street and avoided passing Molly’s in case she was still at home. Instead he took the long way around to Carin’s Cottage even though it gave his mother more time to tell him what a clever seamstress Marianela was. The monologue stopped, though, the minute they stepped through the door of Carin’s Cottage.
Ana was enchanted with the paintings, sculptures and toys that Carin sold. She only wanted to look and exclaim. So did Marianela and her mother. Joaquin left them to it, and he and his father went outside to sit in the shade.
Carin herself had commandeered her daughter, Lacey, and Marcus and Trevor, two of the boys from the soccer team, to hang paintings for the outdoor art show all up and down Conch Street that was opening this evening.
“Hey, Joaquin,” one of the boys called. “Practice still at two?”
He’d forgotten all about the soccer games. “I don’t know.”
“Practice?” his father frowned. “You are playing soccer?”
“Coaching,” Joaquin corrected. “For the moment. Just filling in for Lachlan,” he said. “It’s his team. Not mine.”
“You gotta come,” Trevor insisted. He turned to Martin. “Lachlan’s a good coach, but he’s a goalkeeper. He knows defense. Joaquin knows how to help us score.”
“I did what you showed me yesterday,” Marcus’s eyes were alight. “I practiced all morning. It works.” He sounded almost surprised.
“Of course it works,” Joaquin rolled his eyes.
His father’s brows lifted. “Joaquin is a good teacher?”
“The best!” Marcus said eagerly. “And you should see him play.”
“He has seen me.” Once or twice. “This is my father,” Joaquin told them.
Both looked at Martin with wide-eyed respect. “Can you play, too?” Marcus asked.
“Did you teach him?” Trevor wanted to know.
Martin shook his head. “I am a businessman.”
“That’s too bad.” Trevor was all sympathy. “But at least you got to watch him play. You can come watch us today.”
“He’s on vacation,” Joaquin said quickly.
But his father interrupted. “I would like to see you practice.” He turned to Joaquin. “I would like to see you teach.”
Joaquin rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “Mama might have other plans.”
“Then Mama can do them on her own,” Martin said simply. “We will be there,” he told the boys.
“Fantastic! See you there!” And they ran off to finish helping Lacey with the paintings.
Joaquin turned back to his father. “You don’t have to come.”
Martin just looked at him. “I want to.”
Joaquin couldn’t imagine why, unless it was to point out his failings. But there was no discussing it further as the women came out of Carin’s Cottage just then. They were all laden down with carrier bags full of purchases.
“Carin has invited us all to lunch with her and her handsome husband,” Ana said.
“At the Bakery.” Carin followed them out and smiled at Joaquin. “If you have time,” she added. “Marianela is a fabric artist, and we’ve found lots to talk about.”
“I thought she was a finance major,” Joaquin said to his mother.
His mother huffed a little. “I told you, she has many talents.”
And the fact was, for the first time since she’d arrived, Marianela seemed actually interested and animated, rather than merely smiling and dutiful.
“That would be great,” Joaquin told Carin. “We’ll meet you there.”
It was working out almost better than he could hope. The day was filling with distractions, and no one was talking about Molly. The fact that she seemed to be hovering at the back of his every thought was annoying, but he was coping. He didn’t know what to do about the unexpected announcement by his father that he would come along to soccer practice. But he hoped the old man would become so interested in conversing with Carin and Nathan that he would forget all about soccer practice.
But after lunch when he got up to go, his father came, too.
Practice was already going on by the time they got there. And naturally the first person Joaquin saw as he came over the rise was Molly. Her red hair glinted in the sunlight as she darted in and out, moving the ball down field, then taking a shot at the goal.
Fiona’s nephew, Tommy, who was goalkeeping lunged to stop it, but it sailed past his fingertips into the goal.
“Goooooalllll!” Molly and her half-dozen “teammates” cheered and danced. And then she looked up, saw him coming. Her smile faded. All animation vanished.
“Nice goal.” He did his best to sound hearty, but the words felt stiff and awkward. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes.
Molly didn’t meet his eyes, either. “I thought you might be busy,” she said stiffly, “with your parents here and all.”
“I said I’d coach the games,” he told her just as stiffly.
Her smile was wooden. “Fine. I’ll leave you to it. Nice to see you again, Mr. Santiago,” she said to his father. And still without looking at Joaquin, she hurried away.
Joaquin watched her go. Wanted to go after her. Wanted
to grab her and stop her. Wanted—
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“¿Qué tienes?” His father looked at him closely. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Everything’s fine, Papa.” He shut his eyes for a moment, gathered his wits. Then, “Vámonos,” he called to the boys and clapped his hands. “Let’s go. Shirts and skins.” He divided them into two teams. “Come on!”
Half the boys stripped off their shirts. He whistled the start, and Marcus kicked the ball into play. They ran, they dribbled, they passed, they kicked. He watched, shouted directions, encouragement, always aware of his father standing on the sidelines. As impatient as Martin had always been with any sort of game, he couldn’t imagine why his father had come. But before he could give it much thought, Marcus’s footwork caught his attention and he ran onto the field.
“Wait. Stop, Marcus. Like this.” And the instincts and experiences of a lifetime took over. The adrenaline kicked in.
He forgot all about his father. He almost forgot about Molly. Not quite. Even as involved as he was, he noticed that she had not gone into the shop, but was standing by the doorway, watching him.
Somewhere inside him the teenager who wanted the girl to notice him woke up and took charge.
“Here,” he directed Marcus. “Try this. You defend,” he instructed one of the bigger boys as he dropped the ball, tapped it with his instep, then stutter-stepped and darted quickly around him, then passed the ball to Marcus. “Now, you.”
Marcus tried. He was slow. He got faster. Surer. More confident.
And Joaquin played with them, challenging them, exhorting them, encouraging them, aware only of the movement of the game and, in the shadow of the shop, Molly still watching them.
Trevor passed him the ball as he ran. The sun beat on his back, but the breeze cooled the sweat that ran in rivulets down his chest as he dodged first one defender, then faked out another, ran around him and slapped the ball across his body, past Tommy’s outstretched arms, right into the far corner of the net.
“Goal!” the boys yelled. “Goal!”
He’d scored plenty of goals in his life in bigger matches, in stadiums with thousands upon thousands of people. This was a pick-up practice game with a bunch of kids. But at that moment it was the sweetest goal he had ever scored.
Lessons from a Latin Lover Page 13