“Hey, baby.” His warm lips claimed Tamara’s in a brief but powerfully sensual kiss that promised more to come later. “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured, smiling into her eyes. “I got held up.”
“I figured as much,” Tamara said, her anxiety momentarily forgotten in the face of his breathtaking virility. She stroked his smooth-shaven jaw, savoring the subtle, woodsy spice of cologne that wafted from his skin. “You clean up very nice, Dr. Aguilar.”
“I was just thinking the same thing about you.” His gaze ran the length of her, taking in her freshly relaxed hair, black sheath dress and strappy stiletto heels. His blue eyes glittered with unadulterated male appreciation. “You look absolutely stunning, cariño.”
“Thank you,” she said, her insides tingling with pleasure. “You know I had to represent.”
“And you most certainly do.” He smiled, affectionately touching her face before turning to greet her mother. “Hey, Ms. St. John,” he said warmly, wrapping her in a bear hug. “How are you?”
“I’m doing just fine, Victor. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
“You, too.” He drew back, giving her an admiring once-over before shaking his head. “I definitely see where your daughter gets her good looks from.”
Tamara watched, with a mixture of incredulity and amusement, as her mother blushed and tittered like a schoolgirl. “Oh, hush. You’re just being a charmer.”
“Maybe,” Victor drawled with a wink, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a very beautiful woman, Ms. St. John.”
Vonda laughed, her blush deepening as she shook her head sympathetically at Tamara. “No wonder he’s got you wrapped around his finger.”
“He does not,” Tamara protested.
Victor and her mother traded conspiratorial grins.
The lighthearted moment was interrupted by the arrival of Victor’s parents.
If Tamara thought she and her mother looked alike, they had nothing on Victor and his father, who were the spitting image of each other. Luis Aguilar was tall and broad-shouldered, with piercing blue eyes and thick, wavy hair that had turned mostly gray, giving him a sexy, distinguished appeal.
After Victor had exchanged affectionate greetings with his parents, he began the introductions. If Luis and Marcela were shocked to discover that their son’s new girlfriend was African-American, they gave no indication as they smiled politely and shook Vonda’s hand.
“And this is Tamara,” Victor said, drawing her possessively to his side.
Tamara swallowed hard. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Aguilar,” she said pleasantly, shaking their hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Hello, Tamara,” they responded with smiles that seemed forced. And Tamara didn’t miss the way Marcela’s shrewd, assessing gaze raked over her before the edges of her mouth tightened with disapproval.
At that moment the maître d’ materialized to escort them to a table tucked into a private corner of the elegant restaurant. After everyone had reviewed the leather-bound menus and ordered their entrées, Marcela’s dark gaze settled on Tamara with an unerring directness that made her feel like prey caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle scope. As if sensing her discomfiture, Victor reached under the table and gently took her hand, threading his strong fingers through hers.
“So, Tamara,” his mother began conversationally, “our Victor tells us that you are also an intern at the hospital.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good for you.” The woman paused. “We were surprised to learn that you have been there the whole time. Victor has never mentioned you before. He’s talked about Ravi, the one whose parents are from India. And we’ve heard about Isabelle, the one who’s going to be a pediatrician. But you, Tamara? Not a word about you.”
“Oh, that’s not surprising,” Tamara drawled, exchanging wry glances with Victor.
“No?” Marcela looked askance at Vonda, who sat on the other side of her daughter. “Had you ever heard anything about Victor?”
“Yes.” Vonda’s mouth twitched. “But nothing that can be repeated in polite company.”
Victor and Tamara laughed.
But Marcela was not amused. She frowned at Tamara. “Does that mean you and Victor didn’t get along?”
“I’m afraid so,” Tamara said with sham solemnity.
The woman’s lips thinned with displeasure, as if she were offended by the notion of anyone having the audacity to differ with her son.
“So what changed?” Luis asked curiously, speaking for the first time since the waiter had taken their orders and departed. “How did the two of you go from being enemies to introducing each other to your families?”
Victor and Tamara gazed at each other. “Let’s just say we came to our senses and realized that we have more in common than not,” Victor murmured.
Tamara smiled, squeezing his hand beneath the table.
Vonda discreetly steered the conversation in a new direction, asking Luis and Marcela about their respective jobs. Luis worked for Virginia’s commuter rail system, while Marcela divided her time between answering phones in a county clerk’s office and catering for parties and weddings on the weekends. The Aguilars were decent, hardworking people who’d scraped for every penny to provide for their children—just as Vonda had done for Tamara as a single mother.
As their parents talked, Tamara and Victor enjoyed their own private conversation—one that didn’t necessarily require words. With her hand resting on Victor’s hard thigh, Tamara could feel the flex and play of sinewy muscle every time he shifted in the chair. She found herself wishing that they were the only two at the table. If they’d been alone, she would have run her hand up his leg until she reached the thick bulge at his groin and stroked him until his erection strained against the zipper of his trousers.
As she unconsciously began kneading his thigh, the smoldering heat in Victor’s eyes let her know that he, too, wished they could be alone.
They were so absorbed in each other that they didn’t notice that the waiter had returned with their meals until Vonda pointedly cleared her throat and said humorously, “If the two of you want to eat at your own table—”
Grinning abashedly, Tamara and Victor pried their eyes away from each other to meet the waiter’s amused gaze. He set their plates down with a flourish and topped off their wine, then asked whether they needed anything else before he glided away.
Draping a linen napkin across her lap, Tamara glanced around the table at everyone’s entrées. “Everything looks delicious,” she enthused.
“Yes, indeed,” Vonda agreed.
Luis and Marcela said nothing, dubiously eyeing their plates.
Tamara shot a nervous glance at Victor. Dining at the upscale French restaurant had been his idea, though he’d admitted that his parents rarely ventured beyond the spectrum of traditional Spanish cuisine they were accustomed to. They need to start getting used to stepping out of their comfort zone, he had insisted—a sentiment he’d also applied to his parents’ need to accept his relationship with Tamara.
But judging by the way the couple was frowning at their food, Tamara wasn’t very optimistic that she would fare much better in winning them over.
“Mmm,” Victor murmured, sampling his boeuf en croûte. “That’s good.”
“It looks good,” Tamara agreed.
“Here, try some.”
He fed her a forkful of the succulent beef dish, staring at her mouth as she chewed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his mother watching them with unconcealed displeasure.
“Well?” Victor prompted softly.
“Delicious,” Tamara murmured.
“Told you.” Slowly he licked the fork and drew it into his mouth, as if he were savoring her taste. Heat pooled between Tamara’s legs at the blatantly sensual gesture. When she glanced self-consciously at Marcela, the woman’s eyes were narrowed to dangerous slits.
“How’s yours?” Victor asked, drawing Tamara’s gaze back to his face.<
br />
“My…?”
“Duck confit.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t tasted it yet. Feeling discombobulated, she forked up a bite of the tender, flavorful meat. “Delicious.”
“Are you going to offer me any?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she muttered under her breath.
Victor chuckled quietly, seemingly unconcerned by his mother’s death glare. Or so Tamara thought, until he met Marcela’s eyes across the table and murmured something in Spanish. Though Tamara couldn’t understand the words, she didn’t need a translator to discern the understated menace in his deep voice.
Whatever he said brought an embarrassed flush to his mother’s face. With obvious reluctance she lowered her gaze to her meal and began eating.
Tamara was grateful for the reprieve, though she suspected it wouldn’t last very long.
She was right.
Ten minutes later, Marcela had her back in her crosshairs. “So tell me,” she said, rudely interrupting Tamara’s side conversation with her mother, “why do you want to be a surgeon?”
Before Tamara could respond, Victor drolly interjected, “For the same reason I do, Mama. She’s a sadist who enjoys cutting people open and holding their hearts in the palm of her hand.”
Vonda choked out a laugh. Even Luis ducked his head to hide a small smile.
But Marcela looked nauseated. She glanced down at her food with such distaste, Tamara would have sworn the plate was crawling with slimy worms and snails. Thank God the woman hadn’t ordered escargot from the menu.
“To answer your question, Mrs. Aguilar,” Tamara said evenly, slapping Victor’s thigh under the table, “I want to be a surgeon because I enjoy treating patients and making them well again.”
“That’s good.” Marcela offered a thin smile. “I assume you don’t want to get married or have any children, then.”
Tamara gave her a startled look. “Why do you say that?”
The woman sighed. “Well, as you know, doctors have very demanding jobs. They work such long hours, and they’re always on call—”
“Not always.”
“Often enough.” When Tamara didn’t argue, Marcela continued smugly, “With such a busy schedule, when would you have time to tend to the needs of your husband and children?”
“I’ll teach them to tend to their own needs,” Tamara quipped lightly.
It was the wrong thing to say, she instantly realized, watching as Marcela traded an I-told-you-so glance with her husband, who’d remained conspicuously silent throughout the tense exchange.
“I was just joking, Mrs. Aguilar,” Tamara hastened to explain. “What I meant to say is that I would find a way to balance the demands of my career with taking care of my family.”
Marcela clucked her tongue. “You make that sound easy.”
“Mama,” Victor said, a low warning.
“No, let me respond.” Tamara held his mother’s disapproving gaze. “I’m not trying to make anything sound easy, Mrs. Aguilar. Believe me, I know it won’t be easy. But I certainly wouldn’t be the first female doctor faced with the challenge of balancing work and family. Countless numbers of women face this reality every day, and somehow they manage to survive.”
Marcela sniffed disdainfully. “Surviving isn’t the same as succeeding.”
Tamara bristled, eyes narrowing. “I can’t help but wonder, Mrs. Aguilar, whether you have the same concerns about your son becoming a doctor,” she challenged. “Do you worry about him neglecting his wife and children?”
“Of course not.”
“Really? And why not?”
Marcela frowned. “He’s a man—”
“Didn’t see that coming,” Tamara muttered sarcastically.
Marcela ignored the barb. “Men are supposed to work hard to provide for their families. God made it that way.”
“So what you’re saying is that it’s perfectly acceptable for men to be workaholics who neglect their families. But when women do the same thing, they’re failures?”
Marcela smiled condescendingly. “I don’t expect you to understand my viewpoint, Tamara. You come from a different generation, and your family background is not the same as mine.”
“Meaning?”
“You were raised by a single mother—”
“—who worked damn hard to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly,” Vonda interjected sharply.
“Of course you did.” Marcela gave her a knowing look. “But you didn’t have a choice, did you? There was no one else to do it.”
Vonda’s nostrils flared. After glancing at Tamara, she reached for her glass and took a long sip of wine, no doubt to calm her nerves.
“Mama,” Victor challenged tersely, “how can you sit there and suggest that a woman’s place is in the home when you’ve always worked at least two jobs to help support our family?”
“Not always, mijo,” she countered. “Back in Colombia, my only job was to look after our home and take care of you and your brothers. It was only when we came to America that our circumstances changed, and I had no choice but to find outside work. But I don’t expect you to remember that. You were too young.” She gave him a gentle, maternal smile. “It’s important for you to marry someone who will be around for you and your children. Someone who can manage the affairs of your household while you’re at work.”
“So that someone can’t be a fellow doctor, right?” Tamara said sardonically.
“It would be a mistake.” Marcela calmly met her gaze. “Unless you want your children to feel like orphans.”
When Victor grimaced, Tamara thought he was reacting to his mother’s statement—until she realized that her nails were digging into his thigh.
She sent him an apologetic glance as she relaxed her grip, appalled that she’d allowed his mother to get her so worked up. The woman was downright infuriating.
Marcela sighed, shaking her head at Tamara. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, looking so far into the future when you haven’t even gotten through your internship yet. I’ve seen firsthand how much hard work and sacrifice goes into completing the program. Victor tells us that some interns even end up quitting.”
“Tamara won’t be one of them,” Vonda spoke up confidently. “She’s always been at the top of her class, and she’s never quit anything she started.”
“That may be so,” Marcela said casually, “but the program is very demanding. No one could blame Tamara for giving in to the pressure. Isn’t that what happened to the other intern, the one who was caught stealing drugs from the hospital’s pharmacy?”
“Mama,” Victor growled warningly as Tamara’s hackles went up.
She glared across the table at Marcela. “If you’re referring to Terrence Matthews,” she said tightly, “we’re learning that he may have had a drug problem long before he arrived at Hopewell. If you’re suggesting that I might be tempted to turn to drugs as a coping mechanism—and I won’t speculate on your reasons for even making the comparison—you can just put your mind at ease. Because I have every intention of completing my residency and going on to become a successful cardiothoracic surgeon. But thanks for your concern.”
Marcela frowned at her. “I wasn’t trying to suggest that you would go down the same path as Terrence Matthews—”
“Of course you weren’t,” Tamara coolly interrupted. “After all, you have no way of knowing that Terrence just happens to be black. Oh, but wait. You do know, seeing as how his photo has been splashed all over the news for weeks.”
Marcela sputtered with indignation. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I never said a word about Terrence Matthews being black. You brought up his race, not me!”
“So I did,” Tamara conceded, striving for patience. “Terrence and I are—were—among a handful of African-American interns at the hospital. So maybe I’m a little sensitive. But with all due respect, Mrs. Aguilar, I have a hard time believing you would have mentioned Terrence’s drug problem in relat
ion to me if I were Isabelle Morales.”
Marcela’s face reddened, and she pursed her lips so tightly they disappeared. She and Tamara glared at each other across the table, oblivious to everyone else.
“I see nothing wrong with pointing out how difficult the residency program can be—”
“I’m well aware of the challenges, thank you very much.”
But Marcela wasn’t finished. “If Terrence Matthews couldn’t handle the pressure, and he came from a wealthy two-parent home—”
“Mama!” Victor barked.
But the damage had already been done.
Tamara looked at her mother, whose face was taut with suppressed anger. She’d been unjustly insulted, but she was holding her tongue for her daughter’s sake.
With as much composure as she could manage, Tamara deliberately wiped her mouth with her napkin, dropped it onto the table and stood.
“I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Aguilar,” she said evenly, looking at each of them in turn, “but my mother always taught me not to lie. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Aguilar, my mother taught me a great deal about the importance of respect ing others and behaving with class—lessons you obviously would have benefited from. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Carajo!” Victor swore viciously under his breath. “Tamara, wait—”
But she and her mother were already striding away from the table without a backward glance.
WHERE R U???
Tamara glanced at the latest text message from Victor, scowled and tossed her cell phone down on her mother’s bed, where she’d been reclining for the past hour.
Emerging from the master bathroom with a satin scarf wrapped around her head and her face scrubbed clean of makeup, Vonda asked wryly, “Another message from Victor?”
Tamara nodded shortly, still fuming over the way the evening had ended. After she and her mother had stormed off, Victor had caught up to them, apologizing profusely for his mother’s behavior and imploring them to return to the table. Tamara had adamantly refused, and when the valet brought her mother’s car around, she’d climbed behind the wheel and sped off before Victor could stop her. She’d ranted and raved all the way to her mother’s single-story rambler in Fort Washington, flying across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and racing down the beltway until Vonda—gripping the door handle for dear life—begged her to slow down.
Romancing the M.D. Page 11