“You think all surfers are hot? Or just the one currently in your presence?” he asked, trying to distract her from buying out the entire district. Trying to distract himself for the part he was playing in Esme’s downfall.
Esme offered him an exaggerated eye roll. “So that inflated ego of yours doesn’t grow even larger, we’ll say all surfers.”
“Just how many of us have you known?”
She grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Actually, now that he’d started this conversation he did want to know, but he had no business actually demanding those answers. He hadn’t exactly been celibate over the past few years. Better to get this conversation back on solid ground. Stick to business, Saint, and get her out of these shops.
“We have five moving trucks already set to arrive Monday morning.”
“And four of them are dedicated to the new sofas, chairs, and lounges. Besides, six is an even number.” He clenched his jaw at her flippant tone, but she kept talking. “Just because you don’t see how all of this will fit together—yet—doesn’t mean it won’t. Oohh, look at that sink.”
He had to admit it was beautiful. The sink looked like it should hang in a museum, though, not be used by careless guests. Maldito, he could see the sinks—there were five in all—in the villa, being used for years by guests who would become friends.
No. He stopped that train of thought. He wasn’t staying in Vallarta, he wasn’t running Casa Constance for the rest of his life. If he got rid of the house on the hill, if there was nothing left for Eduardo to covet, maybe his mother would finally be free. For certain Esme would be free.
And maybe, because of their new friends-with-benefits policy, she would come with him for a while before moving on with her life.
*
The second her feet touched solid ground, Esme collapsed to her knees and sucked in breath after breath of humid air. Fingers digging into the earth, she swore she would never again defy nature just because Santiago Cruz dared her to.
“Fun, wasn’t it?” Santiago asked, kneeling behind her because their jumpsuits were still buckled together. She could imagine the look of excitement on his face. Hadn’t she seen something similar twice this morning? Excitement. Confidence. An internal knowledge that nothing you did could go wrong.
It wasn’t a feeling Esme was familiar with, especially after plummeting more than one thousand feet to the ground. Now, as the afternoon sun beat down on her back and the stiff breeze caught in the corners of the parachute, she wished she had never agreed to this deal.
“That,” she panted, pointing her hand toward the sky, “is not my idea of a good time.” She sucked in a long breath and tried to stand. Her wobbly legs protested so she sank back down.
Santiago unclipped their harnesses as one of the jump school’s workers began gathering the parachute fluttering in the wind. “Pure adrenaline, Esmerelda, it’s what you’ve been missing from your life.”
If pure adrenaline, as he put it, kept that awful frown off his face, she might risk her life again. He’d been annoyed from the moment they left the taco stand on the beach until they ordered the last tile sink from the talavera. Frowning, sending out Keep Away signals that confused the sales people. Esme couldn’t figure him out. He obviously wanted the villa to succeed, he wanted to win, so why wasn’t he more interested in the small details that would ensure the villa remained out of Eduardo’s hands?
Her legs finally jelled and she knew she could stand without toppling over. “I don’t consider jumping out of a perfectly good airplane at fifteen-hundred feet, holding my breath for five minutes, and clamping my mouth shut so the two million insects we passed as we plummeted to the ground wouldn’t get into my throat a good time.”
“We weren’t flying more than two minutes.”
“We weren’t flying at all. Plummeting, Santiago, we were plummeting to the earth,” she said, pointing at his chest. Although, now that the terror was gone, she felt something more. . . energetic. Esme glanced at the sky where the plane circled as it readied for landing. If he asked would she go again?
Sighing, Esme admitted that she probably would. Not just because he asked her to but because for a couple of seconds as they floated down she felt the pure exultation Santiago was still talking about. And now she was poking his very fine chest trying to convince herself she didn’t like something she liked just because Santiago kept her off balance. She didn’t like being off balance and that alone should keep her annoyance level up. Only it didn’t.
Darn it, why couldn’t she just stay annoyed with him? They could have been shopping this entire time, buying things the villa needed. Instead she’d risked her life—okay, they had risked their lives together—because he kept insisting she needed to experience the attractions they’d soon be selling. As far as Esme was concerned, she’d gotten in touch with enough adrenaline just sleeping with Santiago.
Not that they’d done much sleeping. And that thought pushed her adrenaline level up another notch. Her breath caught as she gazed at his beyond-excited expression. Who needed to jump out of a plane? She was becoming an adrenaline junkie just standing next to her Saint.
Only he wasn’t her Saint, she needed to remember that.
“You aren’t mad. You loved every second of that jump. Well, after the high-pitched screaming ended you loved it.”
Did she? Now that she could breathe again the weird, heart-pounding feeling seemed to intensify. No, she wasn’t afraid, but what? The adrenaline wouldn’t let her mind rest for more than a second before it was off and running in another direction. All Esme knew was that at this moment she wasn’t afraid and she wasn’t angry. She was. . . happy?
He waved a hand at her, shucked the jumpsuit, and began unbuttoning hers. “Wait until you see what I have planned for this afternoon.”
“As long as a bubble bath is included, I’m in.” Esme squinted up at the sun and then glanced at her wrist, which was watch-less for the first time in she didn’t know how long. As part of Santiago’s deal—which he’d informed her at noon would still be enforced, lovemaking or no—she hadn’t been allowed to wear a wristwatch. And he’d confiscated the timepiece necklace she tried to stash under her tee before they left the villa. Didn’t matter. Two hour deal or not, one death-defying feat per day was her limit and she told him so.
“But you want to learn to surf.” He gathered her to him, pulling her back against his chest and waving his hands toward the horizon as if he could bring the ocean straight to them. “Imagine the two of us in warm, rolling water. Lying on surfboards, feeling the waves caressing our skin.” Esme barely held back a sigh, the picture he painted was so perfect. Only surfing didn’t involve just lying on surfboards.
“And then being pushed around by the waves and shoved into the sand. I don’t think I’m ready for that, Saint.”
“You’re ready.” He took her hand and led her to the Porsche. Opening the door, he leaned in, scorching Esme’s mouth with a hard kiss. His lips tasted fresh; no hint of the wine they’d had with lunch remained. He nipped at her lower lip as she sighed and melted against him. “You’re ready for anything now, and since tomorrow we’ll be busy decorating the villa with the truckloads of checheres you bought after lunch, indulge me. Let’s squeeze as much into the day as we can.”
“The trucks aren’t filled with junk, they’re filled with the villa’s future. What I’d like to squeeze in is a long, hot bubble bath in Constance’s Jacuzzi. You’re welcome to join me,” she said, sinking into the soft leather seat and leaning her head back. An image of the far-away earth popped into her mind before Esme could relax. No, she was definitely not ready for any kind of surfing adventure, not now.
“If you come surfing with me, we can make it a bath for two later. With the terrace doors open to the sea air, a few candles and the breeze blowing across our hot bodies.” He did it again. Esme’s body went on full alert, her nipples pebbling and a wave of moist heat slipping from her core at his words. “But
for the next hour, you are going to have your first surfing lesson. And later this week, after the guests are gone, I’ll take you diving. Maybe even rock climbing.”
“I thought my daily vacations were supposed to be relaxing?” She twisted her mouth to the side, as if contemplating his request. She couldn’t let him know, not just yet, that she was ready to ask “how high” every time he said “jump.”
“Don’t worry, there will be plenty of relaxing after our excursions. Think of relaxation as a reward for fearlessness.” He winked at her, making her blush and shake her head at the same time. This Santiago was so familiar to her. So like the boy she grew up with and the young man she fell in love with in Napa. A thin wave of panic increased her heart rate and clenched her neck muscles. Love. Santiago.
God, she was falling for him. Again.
*
They didn’t surf. The water on the bay was too calm for more than swimming. So Esme packed a picnic, Santiago gathered blankets, and now here they were, beneath the stars finishing the last of the tomatoes and cheese.
Esme leaned back on her elbows. “Have you noticed that the stars always seem brighter here?”
Santiago wrenched his gaze from her upturned face, leaned back on his elbows and contemplated the summer sky. Once the sun had disappeared into the Pacific, the night had cooled nicely. Now a light breeze drifted over them. He crossed his ankles as the North Star twinkled from the handle of the Big Dipper. The Summer Triangle, where points from the constellations Cygnus, Lyra, and Aquila seem to form the shape, appeared. He’d seen it from both sides of the Pacific, but never brighter than it was here.
Or was that just the effect of the woman beside him? In either case, he didn’t answer. Esme would know if he lied and if he didn’t. . . Well, being honest would only make her believe he was more invested in their deal than he was. More than enough reason to nip this all in the bud and go back to the way things were before: she loathed him, he kept his distance. She turned her head, smiling.
“Do you remember the night you showed me the Milky Way through the Triangle? You said it could only be seen by special people and that, at first, it would just look like dust or smoke, but the longer you looked the more you could see into another world?”
“I remember,” he said. “You’d just come to live with Con after your parents died. You looked so sad, staring up at the sky as if you needed to see something up there.”
Their fingers were only inches apart. It was a simple thing to take her hand in his and instead of walking away, of hurting Esme, he took it. Caressed her palm with his thumb.
“And you gave me something to look for,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I blamed them, you know, for a long time. My dad for indulging my mom’s manic phases. My mom for taking everything away.”
“Mental illness isn’t an easy thing to deal with when you’re a kid.” Or an adult, he thought, but didn’t say it. Magdalena’s illness was possibly the best kept secret in Puerto Vallarta, although Esme knew more than most thanks to the connection between Constance and his mother.
“Is that why you haven’t returned any of Magdalena’s calls?” Esme asked. Santiago swallowed hard. “She’s called every day since I’ve been back and you deleted every message on the landline or ignored her calls to your cell. You haven’t visited either, have you?” He could only shake his head. “Agoraphobia isn’t bipolar disorder, but it’s still debilitating. You should call. Go over to the peninsula.”
She was getting too close, too personal. He had to stop this before it went too far. Before she saw too much. “Playing psychoanalyst now, Esmerelda?”
“Snapping at me won’t make me go away. Just like ignoring Magdalena won’t make her stop calling. Eventually I just blamed myself because I wasn’t enough for either of them to choose me.”
Before he could react to her psychoanalyzing him, she was doing the same to herself. He couldn’t argue, couldn’t stop her. “Esme, it wasn’t that—”
She held up a hand. “I know. Constance made sure I had the best therapist in Vallarta and then California. I know my parents’ accident wasn’t my fault, but it still felt that way. Meanwhile, Eduardo used Magdalena to keep you on a leash. Is still using her, I’m guessing. Of course you thought Magdalena’s collapse was your fault. You were barely a teenager and I saw how Eduardo hounded you.” She switched back to her story before he could reply. “I was just starting to really get my balance when Napa happened. I think that’s why I tried to blame you for so long. I don’t blame you, Saint. I never really blamed you. It was just easier to be mad at you for leaving than to examine my heart.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you Es, I just couldn’t stay.” Santiago was sweating. He didn’t want this conversation, not now, possibly not ever. He didn’t need psychoanalysis. He knew what Esme didn’t: Magdalena’s collapse was his fault. Completely.
“I know. And I know you can’t stay after these next six months are over.” She turned, kneeling beside him. “But I need you to know that when you go, I’ll be okay. You can’t break me, Santiago, so stop telling yourself that you have to handle me with kid gloves.”
He tried to lighten the mood. “You think skydiving is handling you with kid gloves?”
She nodded, moonlight creating a bobbing, brown halo around her face. “I think you’re using every trick in your book to keep me at arm’s length like your starlets and surf bunnies.” She kissed his chin, laid her hands gently against his chest, and pushed him down onto the sand. The band around his heart tightened. She was too close to the truth. “The thing is, I already am. I know this ends as soon as Constance returns.” The kisses continued along his jaw. “The biggest adrenaline rush I’ve had since coming home was sleeping with you on the terrace.” Finally, her sweet lips reached his, teasing him with their softness. “I was terrified when we jumped out of that plane this afternoon, but you were there and that made it okay. So, adrenaline junkie, I’m ready for my next fix. Will you stop holding back and give it to me?”
“Esme, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“We’ve been over this. Twice now. I’m a big girl, Santiago Cruz, and I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
“Are you sure about that?” His voice was raw and he hated it. Hated knowing she was getting to him. Hated that now she knew it, too.
“Positive.”
The cool night wrapped around them like a blanket, but didn’t cool the heat between their bodies. Santiago knew he should take Esme inside, should get away from her as quickly as possible because she didn’t know. She might say she was ready for a no strings relationship, but she was fooling herself. She was no more ready for a fling than she was ready for a tsunami to take the entire Vallartan coast. He knew all of this and yet he couldn’t turn away.
Santiago pulled her onto his chest and sank back into the sand, devouring her mouth with his. Within seconds her clothes were scattered around them and his quickly followed. He fit her body snugly beneath his, watching her closely as he merged their bodies into one pulsating mass of need.
She sighed against his mouth as he thrust into her.
He nipped the corners of her mouth, her throat, her shoulders, wanting to take her as high as possible.
“Santiago.” His name, whispered against his skin, seemed to flutter along his spine and he knew he was a fool.
Powerless to stop the pain that would come to Esmerelda because of him.
He rested his forehead gently against hers as her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him more deeply inside her. Pushing them both over the edge until they were flying side by side toward the Summer Triangle.
Into an abyss as murky as each of their childhoods. A place that might destroy them both.
Chapter Nine
For two days Santiago and Esme existed in a quiet world inhabited by only the two of them. Once the crews finished painting late Monday morning the constant clanging and banging stopped, encasing the villa in stillness. By Monday evening all of
the new furnishings had arrived and been placed in the appropriate rooms, as decided by Esmerelda, who stood at the door as movers carried in box after box, chewing on her thumbnail as if placement were of the utmost priority.
Santiago stayed out of the decision making, trying valiantly to keep his distance. From Esme, from the villa. And losing ground with every second because the harder Esme worked the more he wanted to work beside her. Make decisions with her. Get involved.
In everything.
Which was definitely not on his Puerto Vallartan agenda. So behind the front desk he stayed, ignoring the impulse to share ideas. Focusing instead on the progress the bank manager was making in paying down the villa’s debts from the influx of cash from Santiago’s accounts. That, of course, took about ten minutes of both Monday and Tuesday morning, which left him an interminable amount of time to just watch Esme.
As he was doing at just this minute.
She stepped back from the mahogany mantle, cocked her head to one side, hands on her hips as she studied the yellow and green glass sculpture. Just as she’d said, the colors popped against the stark white walls. She’d been right about his color scheme, too. The white furniture and white walls needed every small chechere purchased in Viejo Vallarta to keep the rooms from feeling stark and neglected. Not chechere, he reminded himself, chachkies. Little pieces of Esmerelda that would endear her to the guests.
A clang from upstairs reminded him the last pieces—the tiled sinks from the talavera—were being installed this afternoon, just in time for their guests to arrive tomorrow morning. He could see the room completed: the light film of dust removed from the floors, the place smelling slightly of lemon cleaning solution, orchids and roses in the small vases scattered about the place.
In three short days Esmerelda had created a paradise that Santiago was having trouble considering leaving.
“We should sell them,” he said, his voice loud in the newly furnished room.
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