Chapter Eleven
London kissed the older man’s weathered cheek, noting the similarities in the way he and Mateu held their shoulders and the caramel color of their eyes. But where Mateu was hearty and strong, his father’s posture was bent by hard labor.
Nicolau Espasa, Mateu’s namesake, straightened as much as his spine would let him, pride beaming from his sun-crinkled face. “It is oasis. Yes? Everything.”
So he hadn’t lied to her about his name, at least. He truly went by Mateu. That part, at least, had been real.
She took in every word, every view, determined to remember such beauty. The romanticism, the loyalty, of such a business tugged at her heart in a way that surprised her. Keeping her distance from Mateu when every moment was making her feel closer to him was a challenge. But she’d always been a hard worker.
Mateu put his arm around his father. He said in Catalan, then translated for her, “We need to get you off the ladder once and for all before you fall off.” She was beginning to see that he thought of others first, without having to be asked or reminded.
Nicolau scowled. “I will stop working the day I die.”
Mateu shook his head as his dad walked back to where a few of his cousins were pruning.
“He’s very dedicated,” she said.
Her heart broke for the body that wasn’t up to supporting such a strong will.
“To his own detriment, if he isn’t careful. He didn’t grow up with money; his childhood was filled with backbreaking work and few meals. He and my mother built this orchard working just as hard. But he still refuses to slow down, he still refuses to expand out of the family. I have to stay in Barcelona.”
He took her hand, and she peeked at him from the corners of her eyes. The lines by his mouth deepened as did the furrow in his brow. She wanted to soothe him until the worry disappeared. Instead, she tightened her grip in his.
“What do you mean you have to stay; is there any reason you’d leave?” Something else was going on, and she couldn’t help the feeling it had to do with the game he was playing. “What do you do, for real?”
He fell in step beside her, seeming to consider her question. Did he want to tell her the truth? Would it matter?
She tapped her chin. How sad that she was looking for loopholes to make this whole charade acceptable.
“I told you. I oversee the orchard’s supply contracts.” He grabbed her tapping finger. “You always do that when you’re overthinking things.”
She snatched her hand back, then waved it. “Don’t try to change the subject. I know you work with the orchard. But that isn’t everything.”
His soft chuckle tightened the muscles at the back of her neck. “What else do you want to know? You can’t be interested in what I do day to day.” The soft velvet of his accent made everything he said sound interesting. She’d listen to him if all he did was recite the damn periodic table.
“Why wouldn’t I be interested?” She slowed her steps.
He gathered her close. “Because you’re on vacation. Because you’re on a citrus orchard in Barcelona and you want me to talk about supply contracts and order fulfillment?”
The look in his eye always drew her to him. Those damn caramel temptations were of the devil himself. She planted a kiss squarely on his mouth but pulled back before his own lips could engage. “You’re right. I am here.”
His lips pressed into a thin line as he led her toward a beautiful arbor cleverly covered by lemon trees. The arbor was white and, with the rich green of leaves and the fresh pop of yellow from the lemons, it was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen.
He picked a lemon from the entrance, then held it close to his nose and breathed it in. Holding it just under her nose, he said, “Take a deep breath through your nose and mouth at the same time. It’s like taking in a little bit of heaven.”
Not only could she smell the fresh citrus zing of the fruit, she could taste it, and it left her mouth watering. He held her gaze as she did so, and the intensity she found there made her swallow. The measure of love he had for his family, for their home, was a truly beautiful thing. The way he embraced his mother, the light in his eyes when Felip came running to him, and the concern for his father moved something in her that could no longer be denied.
Nothing between them was real. She was a means to an end that she didn’t quite understand, but the sad truth, the undeniable and dangerous fact, was that her feelings had become all too real. She had only four days left and, while she’d been so preoccupied with Mateu, she’d totally failed to have her no-strings-attached little tryst. There was nothing easy or detached about her time with him. All her emotions had somehow gotten tangled up between the game and lies and reality.
He held the lemon out for her. She wrapped her fingers around it, but as she tried to take it, he tightened his grip. The sudden tug had her stepping forward. He moved into her space, at the same time using the momentum to reel them farther into the lemon-dotted arbor.
She placed a hand to his chest. “We shouldn’t do this.” Spending time with the CEO of the hotel she was reviewing was not exactly conducive to an unbiased and fair review. But she’d always been good at compartmentalizing. Most of the services she’d been sampling had been on her own for that specific reason. Regardless of finding herself drawn to this man, his hotel had been performing exceptionally well.
“I know.” But he didn’t let her go.
She didn’t push him away, either. There was something about being at the orchard, around his family, that opened her heart in a way she couldn’t deny. She wanted to comfort him, to protect him from himself.
Wrapping his arms around her, he bent his head and kissed her so thoroughly she worried she’d never feel satisfied by any other lips ever again. The lemon trees blocked the direct heat of the summer sun, leaving them in the cool breeze of the shade with just a hint of salt from the seas. Off in the distance, birds chirped and indecipherable conversation carried on in Catalan.
There would never be a moment quite as perfect as this one. Almost like their first kiss all over again. But this time she felt like she knew who she was kissing a little bit better. And somehow, even with the cold, bare truth, she was left feeling even lighter and more connected.
Diving her fingers through his thick hair, she gave a little tug to gain some ground and kissed him back with everything she was feeling. The heat of his lips, the slick glide of his tongue and rough feel of a day’s growth dragging against her skin set off a need so great, a want so strong, she questioned if she’d ever truly wanted someone before.
“I want…” she whispered against his mouth.
“What? Tell me.”
She flattened her palm against the hard contour of his chest, marveling at the strength of him. “I…”
“Tiet Mateu, Senyoreta London!” Felip came charging through the tunnel flying his airplane like a seasoned pilot.
With a hand to her brow, London stepped back from Mateu, refusing to meet the frustrated look in his eyes. The kiss was such a mistake. What was wrong with her?
She was frustrated, too, but much of hers had to do with her ridiculous feelings—the fact they would bring her nothing but pain. She knew better. History was taught to help prevent people from making the same mistakes. And her mother’s experience, her own experiences in the dating pool, the game she and Mateu were playing, all shouted the same warning very loud and very clear. But most of all, if she fell any harder, how would she ever leave him?
Mateu squatted next to his nephew and rumpled his hair.
London’s heart turned over at the sight.
And she was afraid.
He held her gaze over his nephew’s head. What she saw there stole her breath. It was raw, physical need, and it was directed at her.
Felip broke away from his uncle and came barreling at London. “Come. Play with me.”
She couldn’t help but laugh as she followed closely behind him. The boy was so eager and friendly. Any of the shyness he’d shown earlier had completely vanished. His dark mop of hair bounced as he ran, and each time he checked for her over his shoulder, he tossed her a gaping grin.
Mateu joined them just outside the arbor tunnel near a beautiful water feature of three small ponds that somehow seemed to flow into one another like an M.C. Escher print.
Felip plopped down just outside of one next to a small rivulet of runoff water. He patted the ground next to him, inviting her to sit. As much as she loved her navy shorts, there was no way she could refuse. Not that smile.
“Felip, no. She doesn’t want to get all muddy.”
London dug her hands into the mud and pulled out a chunk, just as the little boy had done. “Don’t you mind the big ole meanie. He doesn’t know anything about mud pies.”
Felip nodded. “Papa calls him fancy.”
She didn’t even try to hide the laugh that came flying out of her mouth.
Mateu rolled his eyes and settled his large, designer-clad body next to London on a dry patch of grass. “Your papa doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s the fanciest one around with his slick Italian loafers, and he knows it.”
She and Felip worked their creations, breaking the quiet only with little oohs and aahs of appreciation. The mud was a mixture of dirt and clay and held its shape fairly well. Using her nail, she carved scalloped edges along the perimeter of her pie, eyeing it from each angle to get her markings just right.
“I want that, too,” Felip demanded.
She bent close and showed him how to do it with his nail.
Brushing a hair from her face, she glanced back at Mateu to find him holding his cell up to take a picture. “Say cheese.”
Felip leaned close, putting one mud-caked hand on London’s shoulder for support, and she didn’t blink an eye. The orchard, this little boy, the sweet appreciation in Mateu’s eyes. She couldn’t remember a better day or a more beautiful adventure. Or more love.
“Cheeeeeeese,” they said in unison.
Felip settled in to finish his pie, and London smiled at Mateu. “Thank you.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “For getting you dirty?” He chuckled, helping them up from the ground while preserving their masterpieces.
“For sharing this place with me. It’s magical.”
Felip took off running again, which was apparently the only speed he knew.
Mateu called after him. “Go straight to Àvia for a washup.”
“Àvia?” London asked.
“It means grandmother. I’m trying to speak as much English as I can with you here. I can’t stand being around a group of people speaking a language I don’t understand. But sometimes the Catalan sneaks through.” He shrugged in apology.
It was extremely considerate, and again she wished she knew, really knew, who Mateu Espasa was. Because the version he’d been showing her was more than amazing. “You are thoughtful, but it’s my fault for not knowing another language.”
He shook his head. “You’re a guest in my home. It is our responsibility to make you feel welcome all the time.”
Agueda held the door for them as they went inside. “Oh!”
London smiled at the lovely woman. “No, please. It is no problem.” She looked to Mateu. “Tell her the mud doesn’t bother me in the least. I’m having so much fun, and Felip is a doll.”
Catalan rolled from his tongue, and she got lost in the beauty of it as he translated to his mother. Agueda looked from her son to London and back. Her smile lit her whole face, and her eyes seemed luminescent.
Agueda studied them for a moment longer, then ushered them back to the kitchen. Along the way, London took in the old-world mirrors and the small windows that lined the wall just below the high ceiling. When she caught a glimpse of herself, she gasped and slapped a hand to her cheek.
It was covered in mud.
She nudged Mateu. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice was low and serious, and she believed him.
Agueda handed her son a damp towel, and he lifted it to rub the mud from her cheek. At first she pulled back. “I can do it.”
“My mother would be disappointed. It is my fault it got there; it is my responsibility to see it gone.” He spoke as he rubbed the offending dirt from her cheek.
“Do you always fix your messes?”
He tilted his head, looking at her with a curious expression. “I always try.”
She believed that, too.
“Don’t you think we should?” he added.
“Of course, but so many don’t or they wait too long.”
He gave a slow nod, then opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was got lost in the rush of family members coming in to eat.
“Come. Our arrival has postponed the midday meal. It’s time to eat.” He helped her from the stool. Her fingers fluttered to the place he’d wiped clean, the phantom sensation of his attentions still lingering there.
Hands were washed, large platters of food were laid out in a rainbow of offerings. Mateu, his parents, Antoni, Felip, Margarida, and a handful of cousins whose names she couldn’t remember took their places around the large oval table that looked as though it had once been the base of a very old tree.
She ran her fingers along the grains. “Everything is beautiful here.”
“I agree, but so much of it is new to you. It makes it seem more beautiful, more grand than it really is.”
Was he warning her about himself? Was she feeling things only because he was new, unknown, and had an accent that melted over her like butter? A part of her wished she knew nothing of his plans, then she could just enjoy his company without constantly assessing his actions. Her stomach growled, demanding her attention, and she settled into her seat. It was what it was. Time to enjoy it.
The meal was a savory, spicy, delicious array of tapas prepared by Agueda and Margarida. London had never enjoyed such an array of flavors in one sitting, and she couldn’t wait to do it again. The family argued over hiring new workers and the importance of staying true and pure to their Catalan heritage. Mateu translated. They joked and teased and praised one another with a sincerity London rarely saw—even amongst families she considered close.
The food warmed her body, the Cava warmed her head, and the sight of Mateu so totally engrossed in the family around him warmed her heart.
She yawned discreetly behind her linen.
His mother called to him and spoke in Catalan. Mateu responded, but she shook her head and pointed back to London.
“What, what is it?” she asked.
“She wants me to let you rest and take you on a tour. The orchards and the house. They’re going over to my sister’s property to help her with an order. She has developed an amazing lemon tea that is becoming more and more in demand, but she’s also seven months pregnant. Then they want to meet back for Horchata and pastry. Horchata—that’s a drink.”
London straightened and put her hand out toward Agueda. “Oh no. I want to help with the dishes. Everything was so delicious. Please.”
“No, no,” she replied with a firm shake of her head and a kind smile that lit her eyes.
Mateu assisted her from her chair and waited for her to stand. “Don’t spoil this for me. You’re getting me out of helping at Marta’s. Her favorite thing to do is boss me around like a tyrant.”
London could only shake her head at the thought of anyone telling Mateu what to do, much less his sister.
Taking her hand, he led her outside to walk along the rows of trees. “Tomorrow I have a whole day planned, massages and facials. Huntington Place has a state-of-the-art rejuvenation center on site.”
She shook her head. “Sounds lovely, but tomorrow we’re going to the beach. The nude beach.” She grinned, though her hands broke out in a sweat at the thought. She refused to back out, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t nervous as hell. It probably wasn’t the best idea to go there with him.
He frowned. “Let’s do the beach another time. You don’t want to miss a day of being pampered, do you?” The look he gave her questioned her sanity.
But she stood her ground. “We can try to fit your idea in another time. I’ve crossed only a few items off my agenda, and the week is almost over. Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed.” She turned in front of him and walked backward.
The scoff that escaped his mouth was both offended and amused. “I was not raised to be ashamed of my body, not like so many Americans are.”
She slid her gaze over him from head to toe in a teasing presentation of overt female appreciation. “I should thank your mother, then.”
“I’ll thank her for you when they get back.”
“Don’t you dare.” She grabbed his arm and gave it a playful shake.
Looking up at the blue sky, he said, “But tomorrow it’s supposed to rain.”
“There is not one drop of rain in the forecast. I already checked.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you fighting this so hard?” She waited to see if he’d tell her, if he’d finally admit to his game.
But he just shook his head. “No, of course. Whatever you want.”
They rested on two hammocks strung between mandarin trees in the garden. There was a special pace in Spain. No one seemed to rush.
She smiled to herself as Mateu snapped pictures with his cell. He always seemed to be capturing little moments. Maybe he was afraid he’d forget which were real and which were not.
She closed her eyes for a second and listened to the slight breeze rustling the leaves and the sweet song of the day birds. Images of his smile, the way he squatted down when he spoke with Felip, and the warmth with which he embraced his mother clicked through her mind like her grandfather’s old View-Master she’d played with as a little girl. She blinked a few times, trying to reconcile the man she’d witnessed today to the reality of who he really was.
Mateu stretched out a hand to assist her from the hammock. “Come, there’s more to see.” They enjoyed the quiet hum sung by nature as they weaved in and out along the sun-dappled grounds. She took it all in, but with every second that passed, she became more and more aware of the heat of his palm and the earthy scent of him.
She wanted more. She shouldn’t, she’d probably regret it, but in that moment, she was afraid she’d regret it more if she went home without showing him how she felt.
Mischief brightened his eyes, and he pulled her toward the house and up the back stairs that led to the second floor.
“What are you up to?” She tugged on his hand.
“Well, I’m sure you wanted to see the house, and your wish is my command.” He winked.
“Oh please, that’s only when you don’t have a wish of your own. Otherwise, you just argue.” She laughed as she followed him up a narrow spiraling staircase. Once they stepped on the wide tiled hall of the upper level, Mateu spun her around, then walked her backward until she met the solid wood of a door. A fissure of excitement shot up her spine at the look in his eyes.
“Here we are.”
The intricate carvings of the door pressed into her back. “Show me.”
His jaw clenched. “London.” His voice was strained, as if he fought for a different word but lost. Sliding his hand beside her hip, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Why you?” He cupped her cheeks between his hands, holding her gaze as if demanding an answer. “I’ve told myself to stay away. You’re leaving. But here I am.”
“Yes. Here we are.” She wanted to be with him, to be connected to him in a way the memory would stay with her long past returning home to the States. Against her better judgment, she’d fallen head over heels for a Catalan, and all the game strategy in the world couldn’t save her.
Losing herself in the heat of his gaze, she traced his brows. She deserved this moment of passion. Regardless of his intentions, she wanted the pleasure her body had ached for since meeting him. A salve for her heart. Regardless of whether it was real or not.
With a groan, he wrapped both arms around her, lifting her from the ground, then carried her to the large wood-framed bed along a wall with tall, arched windows. White sheers hung to the floor, filling the room in a soft glow.
He tasted of tapas and Cava. His lips demanded answers, and she did without hesitation, greedily brushing against his with slick precision. He lowered her to the bed and followed, as if he was right where he belonged. “I have waited more patiently to feel you like this than anything I’ve ever waited for before. You’ve cursed me with every curve of your body.”
The delicious weight of him was everything her imagination promised, and she focused on the give and take of his body so she wouldn’t forget. “I’ve cursed you?” She chuckled, but his face was serious.
“I dream about you. Wonder if you dream of me. I think of you when we aren’t together though I’ve known you less than a week.” He kissed her, a gentle caress of the lips, a light tug of his teeth.
She wanted him. But not here, in his home where she was a guest. “Take me to the hotel.”
He leaned back to look at her.
“I want you, but not here,” she said. “Not after your parents have welcomed me into their home.”
“They wouldn’t care.”
“But I do. Take me back.”
With a look of determination, he led her down the stairs and through the house to the town car. The trip felt like an eternity and, no less than a thousand times, she went over all the reasons they shouldn’t be together. But the way he held her hand, the nervous, vulnerable need emanating from him mirrored her own in such a way, she couldn’t say no. Not to him, but even more not to herself. She wanted this.
As they slid from the car, the driver handed him a bag.
He passed it to her. “I almost forgot.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“It isn’t for you, it’s for me,” he replied with a devilish grin.
Taking the bag, she questioned her sanity. He couldn’t possibly feel anything real for her, but she did for him, so she was taking what he offered with her eyes open.
She’d worry about what it would cost her later.