CHAPTER 10
CARLOS
Five Years Ago
June 25
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
Señora Carla showed up at El estudio del pintor this afternoon. She’d seen Julian at the beach with his friends and he told her where to find my gallery. She said she wanted to see my work, but I think she was lonely.
“Your work is so different,” Carla said with fascination. She wore white cropped pants and a pink blouse, tailored and expensive-looking. Several bracelets dropped from her sleeves, landing on her wrist bone when she lowered her arm. Diamonds glittered as she moved.
“Different from what?” I asked, rolling my sleeves as I approached her.
She lifted an angular shoulder. “From what I expected. They’re bright and dynamic.”
I glanced at the painting she admired, a surfer riding a colossal wave. I’d taken an impressionistic approach, using palette knives. The canvas was a study in blue, the surfer a weightless body as though he were flying down the wave’s glassy surface. Which was the feeling surfers described when they caught the ultimate wave, and what I set out to achieve in my painting. That feeling of floating on air.
She moved to the next painting, another rider skimming the crest of a smaller wave ahead of the fold, his body a silhouette against the setting sun. “The unity of your scenes and hues . . . the approach you take . . . your perspective . . . the overall tone . . . they convey . . .” She tapped a curved finger against her chin and looked askance at me. “I’m trying to find the right words.”
I rested my hands on my hips. “Try this. How do the paintings make you feel?”
“Make me feel?” Lips, tinted the color of the pink lemonade Julian loved to drink, parted. She swiveled her neck back to the painting. She was quiet for a moment. “It makes me wish I’d joined my sons when they surfed.”
I glanced down at the glazed concrete floor, hiding my smile at the image of Carla on a surfboard. I cleared my throat behind a fist, my brows rising. “You want to surf?”
She looked appalled. “Goodness, no.” Her shoulders rose and fell on a resigned breath. She plucked a promotional postcard from the holder beside the painting. “I had no interest watching them. It’s not as though they’d do anything productive with it.”
Like compete at master-level tournaments. I bit into my lower lip, trying not to pick apart Carla in the way she analyzed my paintings. Every interest and activity of Julian’s fascinated me, and it would be the same with Marcus as he grew older.
She flipped the card over, read the painting’s description, then tucked it back into its slot. “You have a bold and fresh style. Your brushwork is very skilled.”
“You sound like an art critic.” And critical of her sons, which might explain why she vacationed alone. She said she’d once had three sons. She hadn’t said they’d died.
She smoothed a hand over cool silver hair and patted the flyaway pieces into place. Tied at the nape, her hair fell in a straight line parallel to her rigid spine. Carla’s posture and refined features spoke volumes. As cliché as it sounded, she came from money.
“I’m not a critic. I try not to be.”
My eyes narrowed slightly as a thought occurred to me. Assuming she did come from money, her youth would have been filled with dance recitals and music lessons. Art lessons. I looked at her fine-boned hands. “You’re an artist.”
She laughed as though my statement were ludicrous. She slowly shook her head. “Not for a long time. Not since before—” She stalled and walked away.
“I bet you used to paint.”
“In another life.” Her hand fluttered over a driftwood carving of a fishing boat. She lifted her face to look over at me. “I haven’t painted since I was younger than you.”
“Why did you stop?”
She shrugged a delicate shoulder.
An idea formed and I grinned broadly. I clapped my hands, the noise a loud echo in the gallery. She startled. I thrust a finger in her direction. “You have to paint again. Right now.”
Her mouth fell open, her expression almost comical.
“It’s never too late to learn to paint. Or, in your case, start again.”
Her hand plucked the top button on her blouse. “But . . . but . . . I don’t paint.”
“You used to. Why not start again? You’re on vacation.”
The corners of her mouth angled down. She clasped her hands at her chest, fingers interlaced. She was nervous, maybe a little scared. What had made her give up her art?
The need to ease her discomfort had me closing the distance between us in two long strides. I grabbed her hands. Her fingers felt as if she’d been outside far north of here in cool, brittle air. I gave her hands a reaffirming squeeze. “I have a studio upstairs where I teach classes. Pia!” I called over my shoulder. Carla tensed and I gave her a quick smile.
Pia, my receptionist, peeked over the worn pages of her romance novel. Dios! I wish she’d hide the cover from our clients. “Watch the shop,” I told her. “I’m teaching Señora Carla how to paint again.”
“Sí, Carlos.” She grinned at Carla before her face disappeared behind the book.
Carla pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval.
I bent my arm and pulled her hand through, then gestured toward the door. The studio’s entrance was up a flight of stairs outside. “This way.”
Her step faltered when we reached the courtyard. She glanced up the spiral metal staircase. “I’m not so sure about this . . .”
I raised a finger. “One painting, then I won’t bother you again.”
Pia popped her head out the door. “Don’t forget about your three o’clock appointment,” she reminded me in Spanish.
I glanced at my watch. Two fifteen. “Let’s see what we can manage in forty-five minutes.”
She hesitated, then dipped her chin with a determined nod. “I’ll give you forty-five minutes.”
I grinned and led her upstairs before she changed her mind.
To my surprise, Señora Carla decided to stay when I excused myself for my appointment. I’d demonstrated some brushwork techniques, a crisscross stroke to create depth, layering light colors over dark for an uneven coverage effect, and stacking thin layers of translucent colors that mimic the look of glass. She picked up the techniques like a gifted athlete who’d taken several seasons off to recoup from an injury. And she wanted to paint flowers. I borrowed the bouquet Pia’s boyfriend delivered to the gallery the day before for their one-year dating anniversary. With an exaggerated wink, I promised I’d return the vase before the flowers died.
“Things disappear around you, Carlos,” Pia grumbled, waving her book with the soft-porn cover at me. “You’re a squirrel. You take things and hide them in that beach house of yours. What’re you doing? Storing for winter? Preparing for the apocalypse?”
Yeah. Mine.
“I only take home newspapers and books, and that’s after you read them.”
She hugged the romance novel. “You can’t have this one.”
My eyes went wide. “No worries there, Pia.” I closed the door behind me and hurried upstairs, taking two at a time. Once I’d arranged a scene for Carla to paint, I returned downstairs to meet a buyer who’d commissioned an acrylic for his restaurant. When we finished I returned to Carla. Engrossed in her painting, she startled. I rested a hand on her shoulder and frowned. She was trembling. I peered down at her. “Is anything wrong?”
She gestured at the canvas with elegant fingers. “It’s been too long. It’s horrible.”
Was she joking? An amateur admirer wouldn’t know the difference. Her color-mixing ability was genius. “It’s an excellent start,” I said as though advising a student and not wanting to discourage her. In truth, I was beyond impressed. She had skill.
Her hand arced over the palette of mixed oils. We’d started with a medium she was familiar with as opposed to acrylics. She breathed deeply. “I forgot how much I love this smell.”
I laughed. Only a serious artist appreciated the pungent, chemical odor of pigment. I patted her shoulder. “You’ve missed this.” I glanced down, almost missing her nod. “Good, because there’s something we must do.” I went to the storage closet.
“What must we do?” A note of panic lifted her voice.
I spun around and held up a finger. “Uno momento.” Then I flashed a big smile. Her eyes widened. I could only imagine what went through her mind. She probably thought I was crazy. Though in my defense, I did get a little zealous when a new student showed passion and promise.
I shook out a handled paper bag and loaded it with beginner brushes, three blank canvases, and a starter oil set and returned to her. She looked nervously at the bag. “We, Señora Carla, are going to make sure you keep on painting. Take these back to the house.”
“No . . . no, no, no.” She waved a finger. “This was a one-time trial. I can’t . . .” She looked from me to the bag in my hand.
“You can, and I insist you continue. You’re brilliant. Leave your painting here until it dries.” I motioned at the wet canvas. “Come back next week and I’ll give you another lesson. And you”—I jabbed a finger at the palette board, and the corner of my mouth twitched—“can give me a lesson in pigment mixing.”
She dipped her chin and smiled. It quickly disappeared, replaced by a frown.
“The second-floor loft at your house has excellent natural light and the windows in that room are huge,” I suggested.
“They are.”
“Perfect spot to set up a studio for the summer.”
She plucked the button on her shirt’s collar and looked away.
“Carla,” I whispered, then took a gamble, “there’s no one here telling you not to paint.”
The studio door flew open and in walked Natalya. Carla scooted away, putting some distance between herself and the supplies I insisted she take home.
Natalya smiled at me, the room suddenly feeling warmer and more alive with her arrival. My pulse quickened and my mouth went dry. I’d left that morning before she woke, first for a long run before the day got too hot and unbearable, and then here to the gallery. She looked stunning. Tawny waves danced wildly around her face. Skin flushed from the heat outside. She wore a muted sundress that hugged all the curves I longed to paint. I longed to do other things, too.
She closed the door behind her and gripped the strap of her messenger bag that crossed her chest. “Pia said you were up here.”
“And you found us.” I held out my arm. “Come here and meet my neighbor for the summer.”
Natalya walked over to my side. I rested my hand on her lower back and looked down at her. A bit of black clung to her lashes and a touch of gloss glazed her lips. I cleared my throat and looked away. “Nat, this is Señora Carla.”
Natalya extended her hand. “Buenos días. Nice to meet you.”
Carla briefly clasped her fingertips. Her gaze shifted from Natalya to me and back.
“And this is Natalya Hayes,” I introduced. “She’s my—”
“Is she your girlfriend?” Her voice came out shrill.
Natalya and I exchanged a look. “No,” we said simultaneously. What made her think that?
Probably me. I grimaced. My expression when Natalya walked in told her everything. Grrreat.
I raked fingers through my hair. “She’s family. My sons’ aunt,” I clarified.
Carla’s gaze jumped between us again. “Oh . . . oh.” I could almost see her mind figuring the connection between the bunching of her brows then widening of eyes. She knew my wife had passed. She smiled, her expression apologetic as she reached for her purse. “I should go.” She glanced anxiously at the door.
Looping my fingers through the handles, I offered her the bag of art supplies. “Don’t forget this.”
She glared at me.
“Is this yours?” Natalya moved around us, closer to the easel with Carla’s canvas. “It’s very good.”
Carla kneaded her purse. “Thank you.” She eyed the bag. I shook the contents. “Very well.” She snatched the bag. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Hayes. Thank you . . . Carlos.” She hesitated over my name, then turned to leave.
I picked up a paintbrush and rolled it between my hands. “I’ll pencil you in for the same day and time next week.” She stopped at the door and I pointed the brush at the bag. “There’s a store on Avenida Oaxaca that has premium art supplies. Just in case.” She scowled. I held up my hands and shrugged. She opened the door and left.
I turned back to Natalya and smiled, close-lipped, brows high.
“She’s interesting,” Natalya said.
“That she is,” I agreed. “She’s incredible, though.” I pointed at the painting with the brush. Natalya tugged it from my hand.
“You’re going to poke out someone’s eye.”
“She hasn’t painted for a long time and it took some coaxing to get her up here.” I started cleaning up the supplies Carla used. “How’d it go with Mari?”
She gathered her hair and twisted the mass into a makeshift ponytail, letting it fall over one shoulder. She fanned her face with her hand. It always took Natalya several days to get used to our dry heat.
“The meeting went well. How late can the Silvas watch the boys?”
All night. The thought skidded into my head like a mountain bike careening downhill. My face heated. “Let me check with them. They owe me.” I sent a message.
“And you owe me a beer.”
I looked up from the screen. “Gale agreed with Mari’s terms?”
“Nope.” She looked sheepish.
I tucked the phone into my back pocket. “You haven’t told him yet.”
She shook her head. “But I did bring Pia a stack of new books.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Thriller novels. As in no skin on the covers.”
“I owe you more than a beer.”
“Mari’s designs are radical,” Natalya was telling me as we walked to Alfonso’s, a bar up the street from the gallery. “She showed me five drawings. I texted them to Dad during the meeting and we picked three. Here, let me show you.”
We stopped at a corner. Tourists crowded the street closed off to cars, heading home from the beach or out for the evening. I moved behind Natalya, looking over her shoulder at the screen. A rowdy group passed, bumping into us. I wrapped an arm around her waist to keep us balanced. She didn’t tense or move away and I glanced at her curiously. Her attention focused on her phone.
“Here we go.” She showed me the first sketch, a mosaic of sunburst designs in yellow and orange.
I cupped her hand and tilted the screen so there wasn’t a glare. She leaned back against my chest, and without thinking twice, I ducked my head into the crook of her shoulder. She smelled like the beach and something exotic. I inhaled deeper. Tangerines. Damn, that’s sexy.
She jerked slightly away and twisted her neck to look up at me. “Did you just smell me?”
Heat flamed my face. Thank God I had the permanent-tan thing going so she couldn’t see how my cheeks burned.
“Omigod. Do I stink?” She sniffed her armpit and I laughed. She fanned her shirt. “I forget how hot and dry it is here.”
“You smell fine, Nat.” More than fine. I squeezed her hip. “Show me the others.”
She flipped to the next image, a floral-and-ocean-wave montage done in black and white, and the third, an undersea scene of fish and octopi. “This is my favorite.”
“Hmm, show me the first one again.”
She scrolled back a couple of photos.
“That’s mine.”
She twisted in my arm to look at me again. Her expression softened. “You love the sun.”
I nodded and a wisp of melancholy threaded through me, weaving around my heart. The world slowed around us, fading away until all that existed was me, Natalya, my conversation with Imelda, and the looming what if at the center of my life. When would the switch flip in my head? “Every sunset is one more day I had with my sons. Every sunrise is—”
“One more day where you remember the previous day,” Natalya finished for me.
I let my arm fall from her waist.
She turned fully and rested a palm on the side of my face, her fingers curving into my hair and around my neck. I felt a slight pressure as though she tried to pull my face to hers. Her lips parted and I’d never wanted to kiss her as badly as I did in that moment. But her thumb skimmed my cheek and her expression turned to one of concern. “You’ve been thinking about the fugue.”
“I’m never not thinking about it.” I’m reminded every day when I sit down to write. It’s the reason I write.
She frowned. “Then what is it? Did Thomas call you?”
“Not me. Imelda.” I grasped her fingers and tugged her arm. “I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s go. I’m thirsty.”
Packed and sweltering, I steered us to the bar. Music thundered from the speakers—a flamenco duo strumming their magic on guitars. Smoke from the grill outside clung to the ceiling, carrying the scent of Alfonso’s famous beer-battered fish tacos. My friends Rafael Galindo and Miguel Díaz were parked at the bar. I knew them from the gym. We mountain-biked every few weekends, and when I could get away from the kids, I met them for beers.
I clapped Miguel on the shoulder.
“Hey, Carlos, my friend.” He gave me a fist-bump then saw Natalya beside me. “Mí bella novia americana.” He hugged her.
“There are two things you got right. I’m American and I’m beautiful.”
“You break my heart.” Miguel bumped his fist on his chest. “Since you won’t be my girlfriend, how about showing me how you do the good stuff on the waves.”
“In your dreams.” She kissed his cheek. “Surfer girls never reveal their tricks.”
I shook Rafael’s hand. We exchanged a few words until I excused us and ordered two margaritas on the rocks. We took them to the patio, and Natalya commandeered a table as the occupants vacated. I cheered my glass.
“A toast to Mari and your company’s new line of custom-designed longboards. Here’s to your success.”
Natalya sipped her drink. “Mmm, that’s good.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth. “I have no doubt they will be well received, and I’ll figure a way for Dad to accept Mari’s terms. But let’s talk about you.” She pushed her drink aside and leaned forward, hands clasped and forearms on the table. “What’s going on with Thomas and Imelda? I thought he stopped calling you.”
“He did.” I glanced around the crowded patio. “Look, I can’t talk about it now.”
Her brows bunched. “Because it’s too loud or because you’re not ready?”
“Too public.” I took a hefty drink. Ice tumbled against my teeth. I set the near-empty glass down a little too hard and motioned for the waitress, ordering us another round. I moved my chair closer and leaned toward her ear so she could hear me. “Do you remember last December when I asked you to adopt my sons?”
She snorted a laugh. “You were pretty drunk.” I continued to peer at her and she stared back at me. “You weren’t serious?”
“Have you given it any thought?” We hadn’t broached the subject since. We avoided it like the shower incident.
“Of course not. Why would I adopt them when you’re perfectly capable of raising them yourself?”
I tapped my head. “A man with no past, remember?”
“It’s been over two years, Carlos, and you’re still you.”
“I have to take precautions.”
“You’d take your sons away from yourself? God, that barely makes any sense.” She combed fingers through her hair, holding the copper sheet off her face. “Do you still think you’re as much of an asshole as your brothers?”
“Yes.” How could I not be? I got myself into this situation, abandoned in another country. Then there was that story Aimee told me. I was appalled at my own behavior toward her. Who the hell does that?
Natalya let go of her hair and traced the rim of her glass. She didn’t look at me. “I know you and Raquel didn’t have much time together, but she couldn’t have picked a better man for her sons.”
“Is that all I am to you? Your nephews’ father?” I pushed my back into the chair, my mood souring to complement my drink. “A brother-in-law?”
Natalya blinked, stunned by my tone and the way I’d twisted the conversation. I hadn’t meant to ask that, not here, and especially not that way. But . . . there it was, out there, hovering between us like grill smoke. I waited for her to take in the now-obvious fact I had feelings for her or fan it aside as you would when smoke burns your eyes. My heart beat furiously.
Rouge tinted her freckled skin, starting at her cheeks and all the way down to the swell of her breasts. My mouth went dry and I lifted my gaze. She narrowed hers, her cheeks flexing from clamping her jaw. Great. Now she’s pissed. I shouldn’t have said anything. She scooted back her chair and rose just as the waitress returned with our drinks.
My face tilted up. “Where are you going?”
Natalya slipped the bag over her head and shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”
“But you said—”
“Dammit, Carlos. You and James are the same guy.” She stomped away.
I swore, tossing down bills and tossing back the margarita, and went after her. She’d thundered up two blocks by the time I caught up. I grabbed her upper arm and swung her around. “Why did you walk out on me?”
She wrenched her arm free and glared. “Don’t you dare give up your sons. And don’t you dare give up on yourself. Think how angry you’ll be when you find out you gave them away.”
“How do I know I’ll even want kids?”
“Exactly. You don’t. I’m appalled you’re even considering it.”
“What makes you think this is easy?” I asked, steel in my voice. “I’m thinking of their safety. I’ll bet you, as James, I take them to California, right into the heart of that family that left me here.” I point at my side where the bullet trail that looks like a pale tire mark across my hip hides under my shirt. “My oldest brother tried to kill me. Do you want your nephews raised around people like that?”
“Don’t put it back on me. Don’t make me feel guilty about my opinion.”
I opened my mouth to object. It wasn’t my intent to pile on the guilt. I wanted only for her to understand my point of view. But she stopped me with a cutting glare. I held up my hands and retreated a step.
She cupped her hands along her temples, exasperated. “This is so confusing.” She sighed, defeated, and let her arms fall against her sides. She studied a crack in the concrete. “About your other question.”
“What question?”
“You are a lot more than a brother-in-law to me.”
Oh. That question. “Look, Nat, I didn’t mean—”
She met my gaze and the longing I saw in her knocked me over like a surfer, wiped out while riding down the wave face.
“Nat . . .”
“I’m in love with you. I always have been. And I feel horrible that I took advantage of you.”
What? I stared, just slightly taken aback. My mind worked in a million directions until I came up with the only thing that made sense. “That time in the shower? Why would you think that?” It had been one of the most amazing ten minutes I’d had in the last few years.
“Come on, Carlos. Are you really that dense?”
“Apparently so. Enlighten me.”
She opened her mouth but snapped it shut. Her nostrils flared and she swung around, hair fanning over her shoulders. She walked away.
Now what? I tossed up my hands. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the house.”
“But my Jeep’s that way.” I pointed toward the gallery.
“I’m taking a cab,” she yelled over her shoulder.
I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, dumbstruck. What the hell had just happened?
I picked up Julian and Marcus from the Silvas’ and drove home to a dark and empty house. Natalya didn’t answer when I tapped on her door. I cracked it open. A dull blue glow from the patio light outside revealed a room as empty as the house. Worried, I texted Natalya. She’d been angry, but not enough for her to stay out for the night. Maybe she decided to get a hotel room. That thought left me unsettled because I wanted to see her. We had to discuss Julian and Marcus. We had to talk about me. And we needed to address that huge revelation she dropped on the street like a couch falling off a moving pickup truck. She was not going to drive away from that.
When she didn’t immediately reply, I called. From the corner of the room, I heard the phone vibrate. It was still inside her bag. She’d probably dropped her stuff and went for a walk.
It was late so I tucked the boys in bed and went to my room to change into shorts and a shirt; then I’d go looking for Natalya. She enjoyed evening walks and would most likely be strolling the beach. Or she could be running like a machine and kicking herself about what she told me.
I scooped hands through my hair. Dios! She was in love with me. Had been all this time.
And she’d never said anything.
Why not?
Curtains billowed outward from the windows, catching my attention. The slider to the balcony was open. I walked outside and found Natalya wrapped in a throw, lying on a lounge chair. The air had cooled. She stared off toward the ocean. Water lapped the shore, the sound out of sync with my erratically beating heart. Aside from Raquel, Natalya meant more to me than anyone I’d met in the past few years. She was my only friend, the one person I trusted. She was self-assured, compassionate, and as independent as she was beautiful, I adored everything about her.
I loved her.
But for reasons I couldn’t figure out, she felt guilty about the one time she’d shared herself with me. She thought she’d taken advantage of me. She thought she’d seduced me.
Riiiight. I snorted.
I wiped damp palms on the back of my jeans and eased into the neighboring lounger, facing her. A lone tear leaked down her cheek. I brushed my thumb across the smooth plane of her face and she grasped my wrist, placing a kiss in the center of my palm. She let go and I made a fist.
Her chest rose with a deep inhale. “I have siblings in different countries, thanks to my globe-trotting, can’t-keep-his-dick-in-his-pants father. I love my brother in South Africa and sister in Australia, but Raquel was my favorite. We were the closest.”
“She felt the same about you.”
Natalya tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “Julian’s birth father was an asshole. Best thing he did was give up his rights so you could adopt him. I wanted to hate you when we met.” She gave me an apologetic look. “Raquel fell so hard and so fast for you. I thought she’d gotten herself knocked up by another jerk. It was too quick and you were . . .”
“Damaged.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “How could you think that?”
“I was pretty messed up.”
Her mouth curved downward. “Yes, but it was obvious you loved her as much as she loved you. That’s why I hated myself for being attracted to you. During those weeks after Raquel died, I fell in love with you, and then I practically forced myself on you. What kind of sister does that?” She shook her head in disgust and I wanted to fold her in my arms, kiss away the guilt.
“Nat,” I said. She wiped her tears. “Nat, look at me.” She did and her beautiful green eyes glittered in the moonlight. “You didn’t force me to have sex with you.”
“I went into your shower knowing you were hurting. I took advantage of that pain.”
“We were both hurting. We both wanted to soothe that ache. I loved Raquel, and I’ll treasure the short time we had together. But something happened between us in that shower. Something I don’t think we can ignore any longer.” I didn’t think we should ignore it.
Her breath caught.
“I feel the same, Nat. I love you,” I whispered, tugging the edge of the throw blanket. I wanted her in my lap where I could kiss her freckle-patterned skin and bury my face in the crook of her shoulder, breathe her in. I wanted to bury everything that could take me away from her and my sons, and just be me.
Without taking her eyes off me, she stood. The blanket slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
Holy shit.
“You’re naked.” Nerves, excitement, anticipation, every emotion that had my heart pounding and head buzzing, shot south.
A low, watery laugh escaped from her. She pushed my shoulders back into the chair and straddled me. I grasped her hips. The sensible side of me wanted to talk about this. Was she sure? How would this change our relationship? But the side of me that had been burning for two years was fed up with being ignored.
I skimmed my hands up her sides, curved my fingers around her nape, and kissed her. And damn, was she a good kisser. Her lips were exquisite and her scent intoxicating. God, I loved her scent.
My mouth moved over hers as she frantically unbuttoned my shirt. Then her hands were on my fly and that sensible side grasped her wrists. She dipped her chin and peered down at me. A flash of embarrassment brightened her eyes. A touch of vulnerability trembled her lip. I wanted to kiss it all away.
“I don’t have protection,” I managed to say, my voice sandpaper rough. It had been almost two years for me. There’d been no one since her and those ten glorious minutes in the shower.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “We don’t need it.”
She was on the pill.
Air rushed from my lungs.
She skimmed her thumb along my bottom lip, and I nipped the soft flesh. Her eyes flared. Then her lips were on mine and I was lost. Consumed by the desire she poured into me and my possessive need to take her. Right here. On the balcony.
Who cared who could see us?
We sure didn’t.
She pulled down my zipper and I lifted my hips. Then I lifted hers, my thumbs grazing over a rigid line of skin inside each hipbone, and settled her over me. I wanted to ask about the scars I’d seen before when she wore a bathing suit and was just now touching for the first time. But the sensation of being inside Natalya stole my words away. We groaned, and started sliding against each other, our breaths coming faster. I thrust into her as though trying to reach that part of her she’d been keeping from me until tonight. When she’d laid bare her feelings and ran, as though expecting me to toss them back, gift wrapped and all, with a “No, thanks.”
I’d done quite the opposite. I’d picked up her declaration and locked it inside where she’d left a piece of herself behind all those months ago. Because with Natalya, I felt whole. Undamaged.
A short time later, Natalya lay on my chest, our heavy breathing easing into a steady rhythm. I grazed my fingers up her spine, in awe of what had just happened between us. I wanted more of this. The connection and of her.
She shivered. I reached for the blanket and draped it over us. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I kissed her forehead. She sighed and kissed my neck. “I’ve been thinking,” she murmured.
So had I. About what I wanted for my sons, who I was, and what was next with Natalya. Marry me teetered on my lips.
“What about?” I asked.
She crossed her arms on my chest and rested her chin on her hands. Her lips were a kiss away, but when I met her eyes, I stopped. She chewed her bottom lip. The vulnerability was back.
“What is it?”
“You should go to California.”
“What?” All the heat we’d built up dissipated as though a cold front moved in. Everything inside me chilled. My arms slid off her waist. “Why?”
“So you can find out—”
“Find out what?” I bit out the rude interruption. That my ID was fake and I’d get arrested boarding the plane? I shoved fingers into my hair and gripped the back of my neck.
She sat up, the blanket spilling behind her. “Who you are, that’s what.” Irritation and impatience hardened her tone.
At the risk of forgetting myself? I could see a face or landmark. I could hear a voice. Anything could snap me out of the fugue state.
“I don’t travel.”
“Listen, Carlos. I know you’re afraid.”
I tightened my jaw.
She cupped my face and I fought the urge to turn away. He may think it himself, but a man doesn’t like to be told to his face he’s scared.
“You’ve known about James for six months. Don’t you think it’s time you stop hiding from who you really are?”
“I’m not hiding. I—”
“Then you should go see Aimee.”
“I—What?”
She stood, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, her gaze skittering away. “She knows you better than anyone.”