Lessons from a Latin Lover

by Anne McAllister

  He didn’t have to tell anyone he was coming in Hugh’s place. He looked as if he fit right in. There were easily a couple of hundred people there when he arrived. All elegant. All formal. It looked more like a black tie reception on Paradise Island than a party on Pelican Cay. He could see why Molly would have felt daunted before. But he didn’t doubt she’d be fine now. She had always had the gumption. She’d just needed the tools—or clothes—and the confidence to work with them.

  Now she had them. And tonight she would show Carson she could manage very well in his world. Joaquin just wished he felt more of a sense of triumph and less one of hollow aching loss.

  He ran into Nathan and Carin almost as soon as he got off the launch. They were delighted to see him, and if they were surprised they didn’t say so.

  “Come have a drink with us,” Nathan said. “Have you seen this place? It’s amazing.”

  Indeed it was. The house was a cross between something in a James Bond film and a rich beachcomber’s fantasy. It was hard to say where it, with all its glass and native stone and cypress ended and the beach and foliage began. There was a swimming pool landscaped to look like a natural water hole. And paths led down from the house and terrace through low pines to small secluded decks where you could stand beneath the trees and overlook the gardens, the beach, the sea. A string quartet played dance music on the terrace. A few couples were dancing. And he looked, on his way to the bar with Nathan and Carin, to see if Molly was among them. She wasn’t.

  There were small groups of people everywhere Joaquin looked, but he didn’t see Molly or Carson. Nathan handed him a beer and began telling him about a photo shoot a fashion photographer friend of his had done using Wilson’s as the setting. Carin added details, and in another frame of mind, Joaquin would have found it entertaining.

  But he was looking for Molly.

  More people arrived. Some came up from walking on the beach. Others disappeared in that direction. A buffet was being served in the rooms above the terrace. He studied the people up there, trying—and failing—to pick out Molly.

  “Getting hungry?” Nathan asked him.

  He dragged his attention back to Nathan and Carin. “Not especially. But please go. I think I’ll just go for a walk on the beach.”

  Nathan and Carin headed for the buffet. Joaquin circled the terrace, checking out all the people trying to be sure he hadn’t missed her. He spotted David Grantham and a sultry-looking female who once would have been Joaquin’s style. But tonight he barely even noticed her. Lachlan’s assistant, Suzette, was dancing with a tall blond man he didn’t know. She smiled in Joaquin’s direction, and he returned it, but moved on.

  Where the hell was she? How could she be convincing Carson that she could handle these sorts of occasions if she wasn’t even here?

  Unless it didn’t matter. Unless they’d decided to skip it. Unless one look at Molly in her lace-up green-crayon wrapper and Carson had decided it would be more fun undressing the crayon and had taken her back to the Moonstone to do just that.

  Joaquin’s stomach clenched.

  He turned around and bumped into Nathan’s brother Dominic who was dancing with his wife, Sierra.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Joaquin apologized, stepping back.

  “No problem,” Dominic said easily. “Are you cutting in?”

  “No!” Joaquin replied quickly, then realized that might be offensive to Sierra. “I mean, I’d like to dance with you, but—”

  “Don’t worry.” Sierra patted his arm. “I don’t expect you to. I’m only making Dominic dance with me as a penance for bringing work with him on our holiday.” She grinned at her husband.

  Dominic scowled. “You know I don’t want to do it.”

  Sierra kissed his cheek. “I know.” She was stunning in a hairstyle that seemed to be shot through with iridescent purple and burgundy and red. It was both memorable and flattering. But in Joaquin’s estimation, it didn’t hold a candle to the simplicity of Molly’s natural red.

  Speaking of which, was that her? he wondered as he caught sight of something red on the other side of the pool just past Sierra’s left ear.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said quickly, “I’ve seen someone I need to speak to.”

  He strode away, around the pool. But whatever—or whomever—he had seen, was gone. And there were so many places they could be in a place like this. The island was small, but the paths that snaked this way and that through the trees provided lots of little private secluded areas where a couple could go to be alone.

  Joaquin wandered down one of them, looking here and there, and when he had his head turned once, almost stumbled into a couple in the throes of a passionate clinch.

  For an instant he thought it was Molly and Carson. But the woman’s hair was brown, not red, and she was nowhere near as lovely as Molly.

  “Sorry,” he muttered and, relieved, carried on up the path the way he’d come. He went back to the bar and got another beer, then wandered to the edge of the terrace and stood with the bottle dangling from his fingers while he stared across the trees to the sea and, in the distance, to the lights of Pelican Cay.

  He might as well go back there. Molly wasn’t here. And he didn’t know what he’d have done if she had been. Had he planned to cheer at her social success or applaud her seduction of Carson?

  It had been stupid to come. Pointless.

  He took one last long pull on his beer and turned to go. And that was when he saw them.

  They were almost directly below where he was standing, the two of them sitting on a bench in one of those secluded areas just off a path down to the beach. Joaquin’s fingers tightened on the neck of the bottle as he eased closer to the edge of the terrace.

  They were not kissing. They were touching. He could see Carson holding Molly’s hands in his. Their heads were together. Their mouths barely inches apart. Their conversation was intent. And they had eyes only for each other.

  Obviously the evening was a success.

  He tried to find triumph. Henry Higgins had nothing on him.

  He only felt sick.

  He should have turned away. Should at least have shut his eyes and given them the privacy they’d sought when they’d chosen that secluded haven for their conversation.

  But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He could only stare—and feel the pain.

  It was what she wanted. Carson was the man she loved. He had known it from the beginning, hadn’t he? Of course he had. But in the beginning it hadn’t mattered because then he hadn’t loved her.

  And now he did.

  It was that simple. And that hopeless.

  The realization cut deep.

  And then as Joaquin, oblivious to the music and conversation going on behind him, looked down on them, they stood up, her hand still in his. And then she loosed one hand and lifted it to Carson’s cheek, stroking it lovingly. She smiled.

  And then Carson’s head bent and they kissed.

  It was gentle. Tender. Exquisitely slow.

  Exactly the way he’d taught her. And with every second that passed Joaquin felt the knife slide deeper inside him.

  And then, finally, the kiss ended. Once more they smiled at each other.

  Then, to Joaquin’s astonishment, Carson walked away.

  He turned and headed rapidly up the path. But Molly stayed where she was.

  Perplexed, Joaquin watched as Carson reached the terrace, then crossed it and headed purposefully into the house. Moments later he came back out with a slender platinum blonde Joaquin recognized as Dena Wilson. They headed for the dock, but once they got beyond the trees, they disappeared from view.

  Frowning, Joaquin turned back to look for Molly.

  She hadn’t moved. She stood quietly, staring into the distance. And then she started down the path toward the beach alone.

  Unthinking, Joaquin went after her. By the time he got to the sand, she had her shoes in her hand and was ankle deep in the water, wearing her beautiful crayon dress.r />
  And as he kicked off his own shoes, a Boston Whaler heading toward Pelican Cay came into view. In it were a dark-haired man and a woman with long platinum hair. Molly lifted her head and watched them go.

  He came up behind her. “Molly?”

  She whirled around. Her face was wet with tears.

  “What happened?” he demanded. “What did he do to you?”

  She swallowed and lifted her chin, but she didn’t wipe away the tears. “He didn’t do anything! We just…talked.”

  “Talked?”

  “People do sometimes,” she said sharply. “They don’t just grab and take what they want.”

  His jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue with her. “What happened?” he persisted quietly.

  “We broke up.” She laughed a little sadly. “Not that we had much breaking up to do. We weren’t exactly hot and heavy, but we—” her voice wavered “—we loved each other for a long time. We still do. We just aren’t…a couple.” She cleared her throat and went on firmly, “He’s in love with Dena. He thinks.”

  “He thinks?” Joaquin didn’t know whether to be outraged or to cheer.

  “He didn’t want to be. He was engaged to me.”

  “And now he’s dumped you and left with her?”

  “He didn’t dump me!”

  “Of course he didn’t,” he said, though what the hell else you would call it, he didn’t know.

  “It isn’t going to be easy for them. Her father isn’t keen. He wants her to marry someone else. And Dena is used to doing what her father says.”

  Who the hell cared about Dena?

  “What about you?” Joaquin demanded. “He was supposed to marry you!”

  “I don’t want to marry a man who doesn’t love me! Not the way he ought to, at least. And…and anyway—” she hesitated “—I understand.”

  He supposed she did. He knew she wouldn’t hold Carson to his commitment even though she loved him, because that’s the sort of woman Molly was. She cared about everyone else before she cared about herself.

  He reached down and took her hand. Her fingers jerked, then trembled. But she didn’t pull them out of his grasp. They felt cold and dry, and he wanted to warm them. In the distance Carson’s Boston Whaler had almost reached the harbor at Pelican Cay.

  “Come on,” Joaquin said.

  They walked clear around the island. They didn’t speak. They just walked. Every now and then he heard her draw a shaky breath. A sideways glance told him that fresh tears still glistened on her cheeks. They passed other couples but made no acknowledgment.

  When they came to the dock, she drew her hand out of his, looked up at him and managed a faint smile. “Thank you.”

  He grunted, unable to trust his voice.

  “I appreciate it,” she went on. “I’m sure you’d have had a far better time if you hadn’t stumbled across me. Anyway, go back and enjoy the party. I’m going to go home now.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I do.” It was like a vow. One he’d never expected to say. But saying it, he knew it was true. There was nothing he had ever done in his life that he needed to do more than he needed to be with Molly now.

  She was shivering as the launch started back across the water, so he took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. She smiled her thanks, but she didn’t speak. They made the whole journey in silence. They walked back up the hill through Pelican Town to her place in silence, as well. There were plenty of people on the street, lots of whom they knew. Molly smiled and nodded at them, but she didn’t stop.

  Not until she was in her house with the door shut. And then she looked at him and said tremulously, “Thank you again. I seem to keep thanking you and thanking you. But now you’ve done enough.”

  Silently he reached out and took hold of the lapels of his coat, still resting on her shoulders and drew her closer. “No, I haven’t,” he whispered.

  He only meant to erase her memory of Carson’s kiss. He only meant to give her something else to think about tonight, the taste of someone else’s mouth on hers to blot out the man she’d lost.

  Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’d always meant to go further. Always intended to do more.

  God knew he’d been wanting to do more for days. He had been dying not to have to think about reining in his passion, dying to kiss her with all the need and desire and intensity he really felt.

  And why not? She didn’t belong to anyone else now. Except, of course, in her heart. In her heart, he knew, she was still Carson Sawyer’s.

  But for now—for tonight—Joaquin was determined to make her forget it.

  The kiss went on, got hungrier, more desperate. Not just on his part, but on hers, as well. He could feel her heart beating faster, could feel the raggedness of her pulse, the tremor in her body pressed against his.

  He wanted them upstairs before they went further. And he broke off the kiss. She looked at him, stunned.

  “You don’t—” she began.

  He didn’t know if she meant it to be a question or not. He only knew the answer.

  “I do,” he said gruffly and he swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs. “I do,” he said again, smiling at the words, getting the hang of them.

  “Joaquin!” She wriggled, startled. “What are you—”

  He silenced her with his lips and didn’t release them until they were in her bedroom when he let her slide down so that she stood on her feet again. Then he turned her around, plucked his suit coat off her shoulders, tossed it aside and, with trembling fingers, tried to undo the knot at the nape of her neck. He’d tied it tightly to give Carson a bit of a challenge. Now he couldn’t undo it himself.

  “Damn it!” He bent his head and bit it in half with his teeth, and unlaced the rest with unbridled urgency. Then he turned her around again so she faced him and slowly he uncovered her beauty.

  Molly, not to be outdone, went to work on the buttons of his shirt. Her fingers seemed much more agile than his. She had his buttons undone in seconds and was slipping his shirt from his shoulders, then running her hands over his chest. Her touch on his heated flesh made him tremble. He backed her toward the bed.

  At the foot of it, she stopped and with a little shimmy slid right out of the crayon wrapper dress and stood before him in two scraps of lace. Were they the results of their shopping expedition? he wondered. Or had down-to-earth, sensible Molly always worn sexy underwear?

  No time to think about it now. Only time to bear her back onto the bed and peel it off her. He shed his own trousers and shorts along the way, then lay alongside her, stroking the soft silk of her skin, no longer cold and dry, but warm and vibrant and alive.

  It was interesting, he thought, when he could actually form a coherent thought, that Molly, who needed lessons in all the other stuff, didn’t need lessons here.

  She was not afraid. She was eager. She wasn’t passive. She dared. She touched him as he touched her, giving as good as she got. And when he slipped between her legs and touched her intimately, she touched him back, caressed him, made him suck in his breath as she drew him down, wrapped him in her warmth and brought him home.

  He couldn’t think any more then. He could only feel. Only move. Only shatter as he felt her shatter beneath him. Only love.

  He slumped, spent, against her and listened to their hearts galloping in unison. He buried his face against her neck and smelled the soft sea breeze and citrus that was so much a part of Molly. He clutched her close and didn’t want to let her go.

  He wanted to say, There. See? It can be good for us. I can make it good. You can fall in love again. Didn’t I make you forget? Didn’t I?

  He felt something wet against his cheek and lifted his head and knew the answer before he even asked it because he saw her tears.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SHE NEEDED A LESSON, Molly thought, in handling the morning after.

  What did you do when a man made love t
o you for all the wrong reasons? What did you say when there was nothing suitable to say?

  Nothing he would want to hear, at any rate.

  Like protestations of undying love. He certainly wouldn’t want to hear those, even though they were true.

  Because the fact was, though Molly knew she loved Joaquin, she also knew he didn’t love her. He had taken her to bed last night not because he loved her, but because he’d felt sorry for her.

  He had seen her crying and concluded that she was distraught, when nothing could be further from the truth.

  She had cried, yes. But not because she and Carson had ended an engagement that, in many respects, had never really begun. She was crying for the hopes and dreams that would never come to pass because the man she really loved didn’t love her.

  And how on earth could she tell him that?

  She couldn’t. She hadn’t.

  In fact, she had been every bit as pathetic as he’d believed her to be. She had welcomed his lovemaking, had relished every touch, had memorized them all to take out and remember for the rest of her days. And she hadn’t even settled for making love with him once.

  When she’d dozed off, snug in his embrace, she’d awakened to feel him quietly and carefully easing away. And she hadn’t let him go. She had clung to him, run her hands over him, touched him.

  One night, she’d told herself. Just one night. That was all she would ask for. Please God, one night of love wasn’t too much.

  And so he had stayed.

  He had loved her again. This time his lovemaking had been less desperate. He had taken his time, moved more slowly, caressed more gently, but with no less passion, no less skill. He drew the experience out, as if to savor it. And Molly had certainly savored it, as well.

  But now he was up and in the bathroom shaving. It was past eight and she knew he had to be at the soccer field before nine. She’d awakened when she missed his nearness, when she felt the mattress shift when he pulled away. It had taken all her willpower not to reach for him, to pull him back to love her again.

  But her night of escape was over. The morning sun streamed through the window, welcoming her to the clear cold light of day.