Chapter Six

Minnie stumbled down the service lane and out into the formalized vegetable garden, holding her churning stomach, a hand clapped over her throbbing mouth. Beyond the high rows of staked tomatoes was a trellised passionfruit vine. She grabbed the trellis for support, leaned over and vomited.

When she was done, she kicked sand over it and staggered inside, under the trellis. There was a bench sitting in the dappled shade and she curled herself up on one end of it, shivering and only partly aware of her aches, bruises and cuts.

She heard Carmen’s voice again. At least I’m not stupid enough to get the men I sleep with killed. Fresh, cold sweat gathered at her temples with every repetition. Her stomach rolled again.

“It’s not true. It isn’t true,” she whispered.

Duardo had made his own choices, just as she had. What was it he used to say? He’d translated it and used her knowledge of English to get it just right. She could hear his voice even now. “Nothing you do can make anyone do anything, mi pequeño. For every act starts first with a decision to act and you have no control over that decision.”

Why had she acted—reacted—to Carmen’s goad in that way?

Guilt, pure and simple.

Only, if Duardo was right and everyone made their own decisions, then how could she have caused his death?

Her mind shied away from that poser. It was more comfortable to mourn and miss him. The big laugh, the warm arms. Above all, his hands and the length of his hot body against her. That was how they had been when he’d first translated the thought about decisions and control. That had been in his home, in Pascuallita.

Minnie sighed as she recalled that special twenty-four hours. Frankly, she had been terrified at the thought of meeting his family.

* * * * *

She tugged on Duardo’s hand one more time. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him as they walked up the cobbled, crooked and steep street toward the houses at the top of the hill.

“Why would I not?”

“Because in Vistaria, meeting your boyfriend’s mother means something different than in the States. In the States, it’s just a passing moment.”

Duardo nodded. “That is true.”

“So, are you really sure?”

He smiled. “More sure than you. What makes you so afraid?”

She could feel herself blushing. “Your mother won’t approve of me.”

“She will adore you,” he said instantly.

Minnie shook her head. “Most mothers don’t approve of me,” she confessed. “You remember me telling you how I have...well, how I can generally talk to most men, get friendly with them?”

Duardo’s smile broadened. “I am a man. I do not need to remember you telling me. I know that quality for myself. I have seen it at work.”

“Right, well, reverse that effect and that’s what I do to guys’ mothers.”

He stopped right in the middle of the road, dropped his suit bag and gym bag at his feet and turned to face her. He took her face in his hands and his dark eyes were warm. “That is because most mothers are protective of their sons. My mother has had to get used to the idea that she cannot protect me anymore. I am a soldier, a captain in the Vistarian army and soldiers sometimes die. She has learned to accept that. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her, despite their public location. “Besides, my mother has so much to do she has no time to be protective.” He picked up his bags again, took her hand and began climbing the steep road. “And I am a big boy, no?”

Minnie sniffed. “There’s always a little boy inside the big one,” she said darkly.

Duardo laughed and turned through the gate of a big, rambling house. It was typical of the style of housing in Pascuallita—many leveled houses that clung to the sides of hills and outcrops, with orange tiled roofs and lead-lined windows and big beam and plaster walls built with good timber hewn from the forests surrounding the town.

Duardo pushed open the front door and drew Minnie inside.

She was instantly bombarded with impressions. Good cooking smells, laughter far away in a room somewhere, a conversation in quick Spanish beyond the walls of this room, warmth, richly colored furniture and dim, warm light. The house was big but felt cozy and comfortable.

“This way,” Duardo murmured, pulling her through what must be a formal front room into the room beyond, from where the warm light spilled. There were three steps up into the room and he went first and drew her along.

It was a kitchen as Minnie had suspected and it was full of people. When they saw Duardo there was an outburst of furious Spanish. Women threw themselves at him and the hold he had on Minnie’s hand was lost as he hugged them, kissing cheeks and responding.

Minnie could feel herself drawing back toward the doorway. She couldn’t help it. It was one of those rare occasions when she felt inadequate, dumb and ugly. There were four women and one man in the room and all of them were gorgeous, including the man. Duardo’s good looks were a family trait.

The oldest woman had to be his mother. Her hair was tied up in a bun on the top of her head and was gray at the temples. Her eyes were young, though. She was tall, upright and slender. She had Duardo’s eyes with long lashes and there were wrinkles at the corners, showing that she smiled a lot. She wore jeans, topped with what looked like an old army-issue fatigue shirt. When she turned, Minnie saw Peña stenciled across the top of the pocket and hid her smile.

Duardo stepped back to grip Minnie’s hand again and bring her forward. “Everyone, this is Miss Minerva Benning.”

“Minnie,” she amended hastily.

They stared at her.

“Minnie is American,” Duardo added, in Spanish. “Her Spanish is not as good as our English, so let’s change, yes?”

“English is fine,” said Duardo’s mother, stepping forward. “You have the perfect name for one who is with Duardo, do you not?”

“I do?” Minnie blinked, astonished.

“Minerva was the Roman goddess,” she explained. “The goddess of wisdom and...” She frowned and looked at Duardo. “¿Cuál es ‘valor marcial’ en inglés?”

He laughed. “Military skills and courage,” he translated.

“Hell, that’s not me at all,” Minnie said.

“A goddess, yes,” Duardo said. “That does make you perfect. Minnie, this is my mother, Isabela Santos y Narvaez.”

Isabela smiled at her. “You are hungry?”

“A bit,” Minnie confessed.

“We eat in a little, okay?” Isabela marshaled the other women and the man into a ragged row. “But first, my family.” She pointed to the other man—a slightly younger version of Duardo, but with short hair, wire-rimmed glasses and a sharp way of looking right through her. “This is Cristián.”

He nodded at her. “Forgive, but inglés not. Not.” He shrugged. “Better as—” and he waved his hand in the air as if he were writing on invisible paper.

“Cristián writes better English because he is always chatting on the Internet,” Duardo murmured.

Cristián rolled his eyes. “I study also.”

“He will get the first degree in texting,” said one of the younger women, stepping forward. “Hi. I’m Téra Alejandra. As you’ve probably figured out, us three are triplets.” She pointed at the other two women. “That’s Trini Juanita. She hasn’t got much English. But she speaks some of everything and she spends as much time on the Internet as Cristián.”

“I talk…friends in Europe,” Trini said.

“This one is Pía Isabela,” Téra continued. “She has no English. Ask her anything in computer and she’s your girl.”

It was clear that Pía was not following the conversation at all, but she nodded to Minnie when Téra waved toward her.

“Pía is good at keeping our computers going,” Cristián explained. “There are not many digital experts in Pascuallita.”

Minnie took a deep breath. “It’s very nice to meet you all. But...do I use both your names?” she asked Téra. “Are you always Téra Alejandra?”

Isabela laughed, the same low chuckle as Duardo but with a feminine trill. “Only those three use both their names. It is the one thing they do agree upon.”

“I don’t understand,” Minnie confessed.

“Téra, Trini and Pía,” Duardo explained.

Téra wrinkled her nose, lifted a finger. “Birds on a wire. Dit, dit, dit.” She dabbed her fingertip three times in the air to point out the rhythm.

Minnie shook her head. “But it’s charming.”

“It’s bad enough we look alike,” Téra shot back, thrusting out her bottom lip.

“Actually, I think you look more like Duardo than Trini or Pía.”

“Jesús Maria,” Duardo whispered, alarming her.

Téra’s face darkened. She put her hands on her hips and vented a long stream of loud, fast Spanish at Duardo, her gaze flickering toward Minnie. Clearly, she was as pissed as a bee in a bottle. Minnie drew in an unsteady breath as Téra yelled. There were words Minnie recognized, enough for her to gain a tiny hint about what Téra was saying.

“Téra!” Isabela cried, dismayed.

Duardo spoke coldly. “Téra, Minnie is a guest in my house.”

“Fine, then I’ll leave.” Téra turned and strode from the room.

“What have I done?” Minnie said to Duardo.

“You spoke the truth, that is all. Do not worry about it. Come and eat.”

Dinner, after that, was a strained affair. The food was delicious and Isabela was a charming woman. However, Cristián seemed caught up in his own thoughts, while Pía could not and Trini did not seem to want to keep up a conversation. Téra’s absence was louder than a shout to Minnie. Her appetite evaporated.

Only Duardo’s presence next to her kept her seated.

He spoke with his mother, bringing her up to date with his life. They spoke in English for Minnie’s benefit and the conversation was an unexpected one for mother and son. It seemed that Duardo was more than the nominal male head of the family. Although Isabela ran the household while he was away, between the two of them they weighed up the more important decisions—everything from the scheduling of Cristián’s university fee payments to replacing the solar hot water system on the roof. The others weighed in with observations and answered questions, but Duardo had the last word on what that decision would be.

When the meal ended, Duardo picked up Minnie’s bags. He led her up four winding sets of steps to a landing that had to be up near the roof. He pushed a door aside and let her enter first.

The room beyond was a bedroom in the attic, but the walls were plastered and whitewashed and big dormer windows punched through each roof slope, bringing in lots of daylight. A big bed, covered in a patchwork quilt, was tucked under the eaves.

“It is warm up here,” Duardo explained. “No one else likes to climb the stairs all the time.”

“This is your room?”

“Yes.” He put her bags on the floor at the foot of the bed. “And yours, if you please, for tonight.”

She tried to smile and failed. “Sure,” she said.

He lifted her chin. “Tell me what troubles you.”

“Téra doesn’t like me because I’m American. The others...she guides them.”

“Why do you say Téra hates you?”

“It’s what she said. Something about me being American. And what was it about China?”

Duardo’s lips twitched. “She called you a china doll.” He shrugged. “I think that is you, too. A delicate china doll.”

“I thought you knew me better than that.”

“I only meant the appearance. Not in here.” He touched her temple. “Or here.” And his fingertips rested against the upper slope of her breast.

She tried to ignore the sensation of having his fingers right there and concentrate on making her point. “Téra doesn’t like Americans.”

“Téra does not like being like me. We are the same, Téra and I. It causes...”

“Friction?”

“Yes. Rubbing together. Sparks. When I am away, she can be just herself. She can be strong, a leader. When I am home, she gets...bumped?”

“I see. So why did she call me an American as if it was an insult?”

“Your Spanish is getting better if you heard that. She did not say it that way to upset you but to upset me. We are so alike, she knows how to hurt me quickest.”

“And did it? Hurt you?”

He laughed softly. “Not at all. How can I get hurt by the truth?”

Intentional or not, the light weight of Duardo’s fingers against her chest had awakened her senses. She wanted to reach for him but couldn’t. “You are different here at home. I knew that would happen, but I didn’t expect you would be this way.”

“What way am I different?”

“There are no words for it. But I know this. The other Duardo, if I wanted him, I could reach for him and he would welcome it. Not this Duardo.”

His cheer faded. “Do not be afraid of me. You must never be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid. Only, here at home, you are more...Vistarian.”

“You do not like this Vistarian?” he asked softly.

“I like,” she confessed. “I like very much indeed. I am intimidated, though.”

He frowned and she translated as best she could for him. “I am overpowered. Cowed.”

“Ah. I know something about power,” he said. “If you think you have no power over me, Miss Minerva Benning, then it means I am a better liar than I thought.” He picked up her hand and placed it on his chest. She could feel his heart thundering in his chest. “Merely from the mention that you might fear me,” he confessed. “That you might not accept all this,” and he waved his hand around. “My humble home. My competitive family. My life.”

“If I reach for you, what would you do?” she asked.

“Try. See what I do.”

She dropped her hands to his belt and unbuckled it. His eyes narrowed speculatively, but he did not move. “Nothing,” she declared. “That’s not good. That’s not the old Duardo.”

She ran her hands over him. He remained as solid as rock. He stood unmoving as she loosened all the buttons of his shirt and slid it from his shoulders. For long moments, she enjoyed tasting and touching his chest, shoulders and arms. He had soft flesh over iron-hard muscles. She had learned he had strength his lean length hid. He could pick her up with one hand and had done so in the past. Now, though, he stood still. Silent.

Mentally, she rolled up her sleeves. She used every technique she knew to seduce him, to break him and make him hers, to make him respond the way he had in the past. She used her hands and her mouth and her heated, trembling body.

Finally, he moved. He pulled her against him and down onto the low bed and took her with all the energy he had been holding back. Duardo was with her once more.

Minnie smiled at her victory and let him take her. He was merciless. He used every weapon at his disposal—teeth, tongue, lips. She writhed helplessly. Her moans and exhalations of pleasure formed without thought.

This was better, this was...oh! This was heaven!

That’s all I want, she heard herself whisper inside her mind.

They recovered lying together and she could feel his heartbeat grow slow and calm. Then she giggled.

“What is it?” he murmured, his voice sleepy.

“Do you realize this is the first time we have made love in a bed?”

“We only finished here,” he pointed out.

“Well, let’s change that, huh?” She rolled over him and straddled him, but Duardo reached for her and kept her still.

“In a minute,” he promised. “But first, you distracted me by making me think you feared me.”

“God, you’re relentless, aren’t you?” she said, with a laugh.

His expression was gentle. “It is important to speak of these things, Minnie.”

She let her head hang. “Okay,” she agreed. “They’re just not much fun to speak about.”

“That’s just because you insist on being guilty at them.”

“Guilty about them. And I do not.”

“You feel it is your fault that they do not like you because you are American.” His gaze would not let her go, would not let her hide.

“I suppose,” she said reluctantly.

“It is their fault.”

“Huh?”

“Their problem. You know—you say it all the time. ‘It’s not my problem.’ Right?”

“Sure, but that’s for little things.”

“Big things too, Minnie. Most especially for the big things. It is not you who makes Téra hate Americans. It is her choice to hate Americans. Every action starts with a decision. You didn’t make that decision. She did. So, not your fault.”

“That’s hardly a comfort when I am an American. Besides, not every action starts with a decision.”

“No?”

“What about falling in love? There’s no decision there. It’s what you do that makes me love you.” She tried to take the words back, but they were already out and she swallowed, her heart thundering.

Duardo laughed. “Army training doesn’t include emotions like love.” Then she saw him put it together. He studied her. “You love me?”

Was there caution there? Was his heart pounding again with fear of a different kind? Carefully she responded, “I could love you...if only you behave yourself.”

He laughed again and reached for her and the moment passed. As Duardo made love to her again, she tried to shake off her regret for helping send the moment on its way. Then it struck her. That was what she feared about Duardo.

She feared the love.