The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12. Кейт Хьюит
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was your cousin Angela.”
“Again,” Maria said, deadpan.
“Again,” Joaquin agreed.
Suddenly, it seemed too much. The day. The disappointment. The overdue bank loan. The flu symptoms she couldn’t shake, and now a call from Mama… A little moan escaped her lips. Joaquin put his arms around her and she gave in and leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Maria, I have a fine idea. Come with me. You know Sela will be thrilled to see you. She is making Chile Colorado for supper. When was the last time you had something so delicious, hmm?”
She smiled, stood straight and knotted the woolen scarf at his neck.
“Joaquin,” she said gently, “go home.”
“If there was a way Sela and I could help you—”
“I know.”
“If only you had gotten that commission. I still cannot understand the reason you didn’t win.”
She understood it, but she’d sooner have died than divulge it. “You’ll see, Joaquin. Everything will work out.”
“De su boca al oído del Dios.”
From her mouth to God’s ear. It made her smile again. She clasped his face in her hands and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Go home, mi amigo.”
“Sela will be angry I left you alone at a time like this.”
“Tell Sela I love her but I am your boss,” Maria said with mock severity, “and I sent you home.”
Joaquin grinned. “Yes, boss,” he said, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
She watched as he made his way to the door. It swung shut after him and she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. It was very cold in the loft. The high ceiling seemed to steal the landlord’s miserly allotment of heat from the radiators and the windows, though wonderfully big, were as old as the building. On a day like this, the wind was relentless and sent chilly air straight into the cavernous room.
A draft was blowing right on her. And a film of frost was just beginning to form on the glass. Maria rubbed at it with her fist…
What was that car doing here?
It was parked just across the street. A big car, long and black and elegant. She knew little about automobiles but in this still-ungentrified stretch of Lower Manhattan a Rolls or a Mercedes or a Bentley, whatever the vehicle was, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.
Her lips turned down.
It was probably a realtor, trying to get a feel for things. They’d been showing up as regularly as rats in the alley, a sure sign that the area was about to become too expensive for people like her. One realtor had even turned up at her door a couple of weeks ago, oozing charm. She’d only managed to get rid of him by assuring him she didn’t own her loft—though she hadn’t been able to keep from telling him that if she did, there wasn’t a way in the world she’d sell it to him.
In a gesture of defiance and frustration, she glared at the car and stuck out her tongue. Then she drew back into the darkness, laughing nervously at herself. What a crazy thing to do but on a day that had gone as badly as this, it was better than nothing.
Alex, sitting in the back of the Bentley limo, blinked in surprise.
Had the Santos woman just stuck her tongue out at him?
No. Why would she do that? She couldn’t even see him. It was dark. The windows of the car were tinted. She had no way of knowing if there was someone in the car or not.
A distortion, then, caused by the cold and the heavily falling snow.
Not that it had been falling heavily enough to have kept him from seeing that cozy lovers’ greeting between her and the man who’d just left. And not that he gave a damn. Five minutes to explain why he was here, that the commission was hers, and that would be the end of it.
This was for his mother. He could ignore his anger. His disgust. He could do this.
He just wished he hadn’t had to view such a charming little scene. It was enough to make his belly knot. A snowy evening. A lover, so eager for his woman that he met her downstairs. Greeted her with tenderness. Went back upstairs with her. Talked to her. Kissed her…
And walked away.
Alex frowned.
What sort of lover was this man? Why had he chosen the cold night instead of a woman’s heat? As for tenderness… Did he not know that tenderness was not what Maria Santos wanted? She was hot. Wild. Eager in bed.
Even now, he could remember how she had been that night. Her scent. Lilies of the valley, he had thought, as delicate and fragrant as those that grew wild in the hills near his home on the cliffs. Her skin, warm and soft under his questing hands. Her hair, brushing like silk against his throat.
Her nipples, sweet on his tongue.
Her mouth hot, so hot against his.
Her little cries. Her moans. That one incredible moment as he’d entered her when he’d thought—when he’d imagined—that she had never before known a man’s possession.
And, damn it, what in hell was he doing? His body had grown hard, just remembering. Alex let down the window and drew a long breath of cold, snow-laden air into his lungs.
The thing to remember was not how she had been in his bed but the reason she had been there. It had not been an accident; that she’d stood in seeming uncertainty just in front of the building in which he had his offices in Ellos, guidebook in hand, had been, he knew, deliberate.
He had not suspected it then.
But he’d noticed her right away. What man wouldn’t?
Slender, very pretty, her dark mane of hair pulled away from her face by a simple gold clasp and left to tumble down her back, her figure limned by the fading light of the day, she’d been a delightful sight.
He’d paused as he came out the door. She had a pair of small reading glasses perched on the end of her nose; somehow, that had added to her charm.
American, he’d thought, a tourist. And, without question, lost.
He’d been in no particular hurry to go anywhere. Okay, why not? he’d said to himself, and smiled as he’d approached her. “Excuse me,” he’d said pleasantly, “but do you need some help?”
She’d looked up from the slim guidebook, her eyes a little blurry because of the glasses. Her hesitation had been artful, just enough to make her seem not just cautious but almost old-fashioned.
“Well—well—thank you. Yes, actually, I do. If you could tell me… I’m looking for the Argus. It’s a restaurant. Well, a café. The guidebook says it’s supposed to be right here. The hotel desk clerk said so, too. But—”
“But it isn’t,” Alex had said, smiling again. “And, I’m afraid, it hasn’t been, not for at least a year.”
Her face had fallen. Disappointment had only made her lovelier.
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well—thank you again.”
“You’re most welcome.”
She’d taken off her glasses and gone on looking up at him, her eyes—hazel, he’d noted, neither brown nor green nor gold but a veritable swirl of colors—as wide and innocent as a fawn’s.
Innocent as a fox approaching a hen house, he thought now, his mouth thinning to a tight line.
Maria Santos had known exactly what she was doing, right up to how she’d reacted when he’d suggested another restaurant nearby.
“Is it …?” She’d hesitated. “I mean, is this