Romancing the M.D.

by Maureen Smith

  Victor grinned at her. “You were kind of a suck-up at the beginning.”

  “I was not!”

  “Were, too.”

  “Was not.”

  “Okay.”

  They stared at each other, then burst out laughing.

  “That was one of the shortest arguments we’ve ever had!” Tamara exclaimed.

  “I know.” Victor grinned. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  Sobering after several moments, Victor murmured, “I could get very used to this.”

  Tamara held his gaze. “I think I already have.”

  Victor’s heart knocked against his rib cage.

  Straightening slowly from the cabinet, he walked over to her. As she stared up at him, he framed her face between his hands and slanted his mouth over hers. Her lips parted at once, her silky tongue stealing out to slide against the seam of his lips. He groaned softly at the sensation, arousal tightening in his groin until it was an acute, throbbing ache.

  He held her head as he ate at her mouth, licking and devouring her like he’d never get enough of her. And he didn’t think he ever would. How could he when she tasted so hot and sweet, her mouth flavored with a unique nectar that was custom made to drive him out of his mind?

  The blanket fell away from her body, then her arms were encircling his neck as he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the center island. Her breath hitched as he settled his hips between her legs, rocking against her in a carnal, unmistakable rhythm. She moaned as her hands roamed over him, moving up and down his back, over his ass, drawing him closer until he could feel the wet, tantalizing heat of her sex against his abdomen.

  Breaking the kiss, Tamara grasped his pajama bottoms and shoved them down his hips. When his heavy shaft sprang free, she curled her warm fingers around him, erotically stroking up and down until a trickle of precum seeped out of him. She swiped her thumb over the silky moisture and licked herself clean, moaning as if she’d just sampled the most scrumptious delicacy.

  “Tamara,” Victor groaned hoarsely. “Te necesito.”

  “I need you, too,” she whispered.

  Unable to wait another second—relieved that he didn’t have to—Victor stepped out of his pants, then quickly pushed her legs apart and stood between them.

  Their eyes locked as he thrust deep and hard, penetrating her as far as he could possibly go. Tamara mewled, a sound of wanton pleasure that fueled his voracious hunger. She tightened her thighs around his hips and planted her hands on the counter to anchor herself as he began plunging inside her with a heavy, pounding rhythm.

  “Victor,” she moaned, closing her eyes and licking her lips. “Ohh…baby…”

  He lowered his head, his mouth latching on to the ripeness of a plump, chocolate-tipped breast. She cried out, throwing back her head as he fed on first one, then the other luscious mound.

  As her hips undulated against him, he grasped her round butt cheeks and lifted her off the counter, pumping into her until she arched backward with a breathless cry. As her body convulsed with spasms, he kept thrusting, pounding her juicy insides until he couldn’t take any more. His head went back, eyes squeezing shut as he came with a force that wrenched an exultant shout from his throat.

  He didn’t know how long they remained locked together, Tamara’s slick thighs wrapped around him, neither willing to end the intimate embrace.

  As their breathing gradually returned to normal, Victor gently set her down on the countertop and trailed a line of kisses from her forehead to her softly parted lips.

  “Te adoro,” he whispered huskily, the words of love pouring out of him. “No puedo vivir sin ti. Quiero estar contigo para siempre.” He kissed her closed eyelids. “Te amo.”

  Her lashes lifted as she opened her eyes to meet his fiercely tender gaze. “Te amo,” she repeated with soft wonder. “Did you just say…?”

  Victor nodded vigorously. “I love you, Tamara. I love you so damn much.”

  Tears swam into her eyes. “I love you, too, baby.”

  His heart turned over. “¿Te casarás conmigo?”

  She eyed him almost frantically. “English, Victor. English.”

  “Sorry. I got carried away.” He smiled. “Will you marry me?”

  “What?” she whispered, staring at him in shock.

  “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So will you be my wife?”

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed, shaking her head at him. “You can’t do this to me.”

  “Do what to you?”

  “You can’t propose to me, Victor. Not now. It’s too soon. Everything’s happening too fast.”

  This wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. “So is that a no?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean—” Flustered, she cupped a trembling hand to her mouth and stared at him with wide, conflicted eyes.

  “Listen,” Victor said gently, “I’m not trying to rush you into anything you’re not ready for. Maybe it was too soon for me to propose. But I love you, Tamara, and my feelings aren’t going to change.”

  “I love you, too, Victor. And I’ve known that for a while. But I’m scared,” she admitted tearfully. “And with everything that’s happening with your mother, it just feels like there’s a dark cloud hanging over our relationship.”

  As tears streamed down her face, Victor tenderly wiped them away with his thumb. “Don’t cry, cariño,” he murmured soothingly. “I understand your fears and reservations, and I’m not going to pressure you into giving me an answer tonight. But you need to know that I’m not going anywhere. If the whole world turns against us tomorrow, you’ll still have my love. Do you believe me?”

  She hesitated, then nodded slowly.

  “Good.” He kissed her softly on the mouth, then swept her into his arms and strode from the kitchen with such focused determination, Tamara asked teasingly, “Where’s the fire?”

  He slanted her a wolfish grin. “The night is still young, and we’ve got several more areas to christen.”

  She groaned playfully. “I knew I should have stayed asleep.”

  “Too late now, sweetheart. Too late now.”

  Chapter 17

  Three days later, Tamara was awakened from a deep slumber by the peal of the doorbell. Groaning in protest, she rolled over in the large, rumpled bed and squinted at the alarm clock. It was just after 1:00 p.m. She’d worked a double shift yesterday and had been hoping to catch up on her rest while Victor was gone, since the man’s voracious sexual appetite was impervious to such pesky things as sleep deprivation.

  He’d left that morning to sit in on a lobectomy for an eighty-year-old patient with stage three lung cancer. Victor had bonded with the Vietnam veteran, listening to the old man’s war stories and memorizing the names and ages of his ten grandchildren. Last night in bed, he and Tamara had stayed up late discussing Tobias Clemmons’s deteriorating condition and grim prognosis. Although they’d both tried to remain opti mistic throughout the conversation, Tamara knew there was a very strong chance that Mr. Clemmons would not survive the surgery.

  Before Victor left for the hospital that morning, Tamara had taken his hands between hers and prayed quietly with him, asking that God’s will be done. When Victor lifted his head and met her gaze, his eyes had been bright with unshed tears. If there’d been any doubt in Tamara’s mind that she loved him, that moment would have sealed the deal for her.

  Although she was on call that day, she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t get paged. She wanted to prepare a special, romantic dinner for Victor to help bolster his spirits in case the surgery didn’t go well.

  The doorbell rang again, pulling her out of her reverie.

  Filling her lungs with the clean, masculine scent that clung to Victor’s pillow, Tamara dragged herself out of bed, tugged on her pajama bottoms and padded from the sun-drenched room.

  When she opened the front door, she was stunned to find Marcela Aguilar standing there with an armful of groceries
. As if she hadn’t been punishing Tamara and Victor with her silence for the past two weeks. As if she wasn’t responsible for casting a pall over their relationship.

  Recovering her composure, Tamara said coldly, “Victor’s not here.”

  “I know,” Marcela said quietly. “I came to see you.”

  Surprised, Tamara stared at her.

  “May I come in?”

  Tamara hesitated for a long moment, then nodded and opened the door wider.

  As Marcela entered the condo, she swept an appreciative glance around. “My sons were right. Your home is very lovely.”

  “Thank you,” Tamara murmured.

  Since she and Victor had been unable to get time off from work, he’d enlisted his younger brothers to help with the move. Thanks to the hard work of Alejandro, Christian, Fernando and Roberto, Tamara hadn’t needed to lift a finger. To show their appreciation, she and Victor had treated the boys to dinner and got them tickets to a Washington Redskins game. Tamara had hit it off so well with the four rowdy siblings that she looked forward to getting to know them better.

  Their mother, on the other hand, was a different story.

  “Let me help you with those bags,” Tamara offered, taking the load from Marcela and heading toward the kitchen.

  Marcela followed her. “What a beautiful kitchen,” she exclaimed, admiring the ultramodern finishes and stainless steel appliances. She walked over to the gleaming refrigerator and pulled both doors open, peering inside. “This isn’t quite as big as the one Victor bought for me last year.”

  Setting the grocery bags down on the center island, Tamara eyed the refrigerator, which was considerably larger than any she’d ever owned. “He must have bought you a Sub-Zero.”

  “Yes.” Marcela smiled. “It’s very roomy. I can fit everything in there.”

  “Which is no small feat,” Tamara said wryly, “considering how large your family is.”

  Marcela’s smile widened. “Exactly.”

  It was the first friendly exchange they’d ever had.

  Nervously tucking her hair behind one ear, Tamara nodded toward the brown paper bags on the counter. “It was kind of you to bring us groceries, Mrs. Aguilar, but we really don’t need anything.”

  “Oh, those aren’t groceries. They’re ingredients for Bandeja Paisa.”

  “Bandeja Paisa?”

  “Sí. It’s a traditional Colombian meal served with grilled steak, fried pork, chorizo sausage, red beans and white rice, and topped with avocado and fried bananas.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Tamara said. “Fattening, but delicious.”

  “It’s one of Victor’s favorite dishes, so I thought I would teach you how to make it.” Marcela hesitated uncertainly. “If you’d like.”

  Recognizing that she’d just been extended an olive branch, Tamara smiled softly. “I’d like that very much.”

  Marcela’s smile was tinged with relief. “Good.”

  “Can I offer you something to drink, Mrs. Aguilar? Some coffee or tea? Maybe a glass of wine, if it’s not too early for you?”

  The woman hesitated. “Wine would be nice.”

  “Do you prefer a red or a white?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She smiled at Tamara. “I’ll let you choose.”

  “All right.” Tamara walked to the butler’s pantry and removed a pinot noir from the wine rack. As she uncorked the bottle and retrieved glasses, Marcela sat down on one of the bar stools at the center island and folded her hands on the countertop as she watched Tamara.

  Her silent scrutiny made Tamara feel self-conscious. Even after she returned to the island and handed Marcela her drink, the woman continued observing her.

  Shifting uncomfortably from one bare foot to the other, Tamara asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Marcela smiled softly. “I didn’t mean to stare at you. You’re a very beautiful girl, Tamara. I can see why my son couldn’t resist you.”

  “Um…” Tamara didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. Was the woman suggesting that Tamara had used her looks to ensnare Victor? Was she saying that her son’s interest was purely physical in nature?

  Marcela chuckled, correctly interpreting her thoughts. “Don’t worry, mija. It was a compliment.”

  “Oh.” Tamara bit her lip. “In that case, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Marcela took a sip of her wine. “Mmm. That’s good.”

  “Think so? Victor says it’s too sweet.”

  “Victor’s like his father. He prefers beer over wine.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” Tamara lowered herself onto a stool across from her guest and gave her a small, lazy grin. “What was he like as a child?”

  Marcela sighed. “Victor was very playful and mischievous. A prankster.”

  Tamara’s grin turned wry. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Ah, but he could also be very intense. Curious.” A nostalgic smile curved Marcela’s mouth. “If he came across a dead animal in the street—a bird, a frog, a cat—he’d want to know exactly how and why it had died.” She laughed, laying a hand over her heart. “He once brought home a dead rattlesnake. Ran right into the kitchen yelling excitedly, ‘Mira, mira, Mama!’ When I turned around and saw that big snake in his hands, I nearly had a heart attack!”

  Tamara laughed. “I can imagine.”

  Marcela grinned. “He wanted to cut it open and study its intestines. I screamed at him, telling him if he didn’t get that thing out of my house, I’d ship him off to an orphanage. And do you know what that boy said? He looked up at me with those innocent blue eyes and asked me if the orphanage would allow him to keep a pet snake.”

  The two women shared a long, gusty laugh.

  Sobering several moments later, Marcela took another sip of her wine, then carefully set down the glass and pinned Tamara with an unflinchingly direct gaze. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you at dinner that night.”

  Tamara was silent, caught off guard by the apology.

  “I’m ashamed of my behavior,” Marcela continued grimly, “although it took me a while to realize that I should be.”

  Tamara met her gaze. “Why do you have a problem with your son dating a black woman?”

  Marcela sighed heavily. “I’ve always told myself that there’s nothing wrong with wanting my children to stick with their own kind. That’s how most people are in any culture. I work with a Chinese woman whose children are only allowed to marry other Chinese people. Another coworker of mine won’t hear of her daughter marrying anyone but a black man, preferably one who graduated from an HC…HB—”

  “HBCU,” Tamara supplied. “Historically black colleges and universities.”

  “Yes. That’s her preference. So you see, I never thought there was anything wrong with me having requirements for my own sons, because that’s just the way it was.” Marcela paused, choosing her next words carefully. “I didn’t grow up around many Afro-Colombians. My father didn’t…well, he didn’t trust them. He thought they were dishonest and lazy. So my siblings and I weren’t allowed to associate with the few that we knew.”

  “I see,” Tamara said coolly.

  Marcela stared into the twinkling ruby contents of her glass. “I didn’t realize how much I held some of my father’s racist views about black people until I met you, Tamara. You called me out that night. And even though it was, as they say, a bitter pill to swallow, I’m glad you did. I needed to look in the mirror and examine myself. And when I did, I wasn’t very pleased with what I saw.”

  Tamara said nothing. She knew how difficult it was for such a proud woman to admit that she was wrong, so she respected Marcela’s honesty and courage.

  “Victor’s brothers told me they’ve never seen him so happy,” Marcela said quietly, meeting Tamara’s gaze. “Alejandro said when you and Victor look at each other, it’s like you’re in your own private world. And I saw that with my own two eyes that night.”

  Tamara held her gaze. “I lo
ve Victor very much, Mrs. Aguilar.”

  “I know.” Reaching across the counter, Marcela gently took her hand. “You make my son happy, Tamara. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you absolutely perfect for him.”

  Tamara’s throat tightened with emotion. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Marcela smiled softly. “Thank you.”

  Victor was exhausted when he returned home later that afternoon—exhausted and demoralized. Despite everyone’s best efforts, Tobias Clemmons had died on the operating table after suffering a collapsed lung during surgery. Though the old man wasn’t the first patient Victor had lost, and he wouldn’t be the last, Victor doubted he’d ever get used to telling family members that they’d never see their loved one alive again.

  When he entered the condo, the first thing he noticed was the appetizing aroma of Bandeja Paisa, his favorite Colombian meal. At first he thought he was only imagining it. After the emotionally trying day he’d had, he could be craving some comfort food bad enough to conjure it out of thin air.

  But no, Victor realized as he advanced into the apartment. The hot, spicy scent filling his nostrils was all too real, as were the sounds of feminine laughter wafting from the kitchen.

  Intrigued, Victor dropped his helmet and duffel bag on the floor and followed his nose—and ears—across the room.

  He froze in the kitchen doorway, unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

  Tamara and his mother were busy making tortillas, or at least Marcela was. Tamara’s hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail, the short, curly bits in the front forming a halo around her face. Her hands—those slender, beautiful hands that were learning to handle a scalpel with remarkable precision—were adorably clumsy as she patted the dough, trying valiantly to make her tortilla look like Marcela’s. But when it came out more triangular than round, she threw back her head and laughed—that sweet, rollicking sound that always made Victor feel like he’d been visited by a naughty angel. His mother was laughing, too, clearly charmed by Tamara’s infectious good humor.

  When Tamara glanced over and saw Victor standing in the doorway, she beamed with such pleasure his chest ached. God, how he loved her.