Lessons From A Latin Lover. Anne McAllister
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In fact it made her feel more naked than she was, stepping into the shower right now.
But the truth was, she was desperate. The realization that things were changing had crept up on her slowly, beginning nearly two years ago when Lachlan’s relationship with Fiona had almost ended in disaster.
Everyone could see how right they were for each other. And yet they almost hadn’t made it happen. Lachlan had very nearly blown it.
Still, she’d assured herself then, that was Lachlan. Her oldest brother had always been totally focused on the soccer pitch and totally clueless in real life. But then sane, sensible Hugh had nearly screwed things up, too, when he’d let Sydney get away!
It had taken him months to find her. And he was damned lucky, to Molly’s way of thinking, that Syd loved him as much as she did.
Both her brothers had been incredibly lucky. They’d come to their senses before it was too late. But some people didn’t.
Hugh’s first love, Carin, and her husband, Nathan, for example, had stayed apart for years after their first encounter. And Nathan’s brothers, according to the island telegraph, had had their own relationship problems.
The path to true love, she knew all too well, was fraught with peril. So it made good sense to make sure the same thing didn’t happen to her and Carson. The thought had been growing ever since Lachlan’s marriage. It had come into sharper focus after Hugh’s wedding. But it hadn’t taken on a real sense of urgency until Duncan appeared.
Duncan was an absolute dreamboat. He was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous male Molly had ever set eyes on. He had eyes as blue as the sea, a dimple in his left cheek that begged to be touched, and a smile so teasing and engaging that every woman he flashed it at nearly swooned at the sight.
And he was only four months old.
The boy would be a lady-killer when he grew up.
One look at Duncan Dunbar McGillivray, her drop-dead-gorgeous nephew, and Molly had fallen like a ton of bricks. Every maternal instinct she’d ever buried beneath engine grease and motor oil and a baseball cap was suddenly on alert.
She caught herself chucking him under the chin and tickling his toes and playing peek-a-boo. She hummed long-forgotten lullabies while she cleaned carburetors, and snatches of old nursery rhymes ran through her head while she welded metal frame.
“Who the hell is the Grand Old Duke of York?” Hugh had demanded last week. “Don’t tell me Grantham got promoted.”
Lord David Grantham hadn’t—and never would—ascend to a dukedom. “No. Dave’s still Dave, as far as I know,” Molly had mumbled, embarrassed, then clamped her lips together and tried not to think in rhyme the rest of the afternoon.
But she still volunteered to baby-sit without being asked. She bought stuffed dogs and school-of-fish mobiles and cardboard books by the dozen. She relished every smile Duncan bestowed on her and cherished every bubble he blew and every noise he made.
That she was such a sap when it came to babies astonished her. She’d always liked kids. She’d been a teacher for several years before she’d decided she’d rather be a mechanic. But this wasn’t just “liking kids” this was different.
This was Duncan. With eyes like his father’s and a nose like his grandma’s and a glimmer of his mother’s—or his auntie Molly’s—red in his hair, in Duncan Molly saw hints of the children that someday she might have. And she found herself rocking him and imagining the day when she would rock a child of hers and Carson’s.
In the region of her heart, she began to feel pangs she’d never ever felt before.
And that was when she knew she and Carson had waited long enough. Carson had made plenty of millions. She had a job she loved. Their engagement had served its purpose. She wanted more.
She couldn’t say Carson felt the same.
The last time he’d come home, eager to show off her nephew, Molly had taken the baby with her to meet him. She was sure he’d take one look at this wonderful new human being and would instantly understand.
He’d been…surprised…to say the least.
“Who’s this?” he’d asked. It had been seven months since he’d been home, so Molly supposed he might not have known Fiona was expecting. But surely just looking at Duncan, he would know.
But before she could reply, he’d gone on, “Are you trying to tell me something, Mol’?” And then he’d shrugged and said a little ruefully, “You could have just told me you’d found somebody else.”
And then she’d realized Carson had completely misunderstood, that he thought Duncan was hers!
“Duncan is my nephew! He’s Lachlan and Fiona’s. I would never—I’m engaged to you!”
A relieved grin had spread over Carson’s hard handsome face. “Well, that’s all right then,” he’d said cheerfully and looped an arm over Molly’s shoulders. “How come you’ve got him?”
“Fiona’s sculpting this afternoon. I said I’d baby-sit.”
He’d looked dismayed. “I thought maybe we’d go fishing.”
His reaction had definitely not been all that she had hoped for. But Molly supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Carson hadn’t been expecting to see her with a baby. But if she’d hoped the notion would grow on him, it hadn’t.
He’d been distracted, preoccupied with business, going back and forth to talk to Tom Wilson at The Lodge on the private island just south of Pelican Cay. They had “irons in the fire,” he told Molly. Something to do with another retreat center for burned-out execs in Savannah like the one Tom had already established at The Lodge. Carson had been helping him with the Savannah operation.
It was Tom, in fact, who had rung up the evening she’d actually tried to steer the conversation around to their engagement and—maybe someday—marriage.
But she’d barely got into it when Tom had rung. Carson had said, “Can’t talk now,” and had gone off to talk shop.
“We’ll do it later,” he’d promised Molly.
But there hadn’t been time.
Well, at homecoming there would be. Time for talk—and considerably more than that, Molly vowed as she scrubbed vigorously under the shower’s spray. Provided she didn’t die of mortification from Joaquin Santiago’s “seduction lessons” first.
He had told her he’d “be in touch,” when she’d left his room at the Moonstone.
“When?” she’d asked. Given a specific time, she figured she could gear herself up for the experience. Or think of a reason to chicken out.
“I need to think about it,” he’d said.
“Really?” She’d been surprised actually. “You mean it’s not instinctive.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” he’d said with that smooth, seductive voice that could send shivers down a woman’s spine.
She’d done her best to look indifferent. “I guess. But I’m going to the Grouper tonight if you want to do it there,” she said with what she hoped was more nonchalance than she felt. The minute he’d agreed she’d felt a frisson of panic, of having jumped into the deep end. And the feeling wasn’t going away. On the contrary it was getting worse.
Maybe she wouldn’t go to the Grouper tonight. Maybe she’d just stay home.
Or maybe he wouldn’t be there. Maybe, she thought with some degree of hope, he’d change his mind.
On that heartening note, she shut off the shower. Just as well, as the water was beginning to run cold. She snagged a towel and scrubbed at her hair when she heard a knock on the door.
“Oh, cripes.” She’d