His Heir, Her Honor (10 page)

“Padre.”
He swapped to Spanish effortlessly. His father had always spoken their native language with Carlos most often of his sons.

Carlos unhooked the chart from the foot of his father's bed and thumbed through it. “What is this nonsense I hear about you rejecting surgery?”

“I will not survive the operation.” Enrique waved dismissively, IV clanking against the metal pole. “I will not put anyone's, most especially my child's, life at risk on such a remote chance.”

Looking up from the dire vital stats in front of him in black-and-white, he met his father's eyes unflinchingly. “You're quitting?”

“You are a doctor,” he said with a pride Carlos couldn't remember hearing before. Their father had railed at each of his sons for leaving the safety of the island for a wide-open world where any nutcase could assassinate them too. “You have read my chart. You can see how weakened I am. I do not have the will to fight any longer.”

Carlos hung the chart carefully on the bed, suppressing the urge to fling the lot across the room in rage. “Listen to me, old man,” he bit out carefully. “When I
begged you to let me end the pain, you refused. You added more nurses and guards to watch me, to push more treatments and physical therapy and any extreme measures you could find to keep me alive, then get me on my feet again.”

Memories of this place, of the torturous rehab sessions he'd endured bombarded him. Of the months in body casts and traction. Of surgery after surgery, pins and steel rods implanted inside him only to be replaced again the next time he grew. And always, the pain, which he could have handled had it not been for the pity stamped on the faces of his caregivers.

He'd finally insisted on solitude whenever possible, gritting through one minute at a time.

“So I will say to you now what you said to me then in the room just next door.” He leaned in until they were nearly nose to nose. “You will not give up. A Medina does not surrender.”

His father didn't even blink. “It is out of my hands.”

“
Idiota,”
Carlos exploded, spinning away and damn near falling on his ass in the process. He grabbed a utility sink for balance, dragging in heaving breaths.

“Carlos,” his father's voice ordered with threads of the younger ruler resonating. “I did not bring you up to be disrespectful.”

“According to your timetable, I am only days away from becoming the head of this family.” The king of nowhere. “So who is going to stop me from saying what I think? Certainly not you.”

His father nodded with approval. “You have become tougher over the years.”

“I am like you, then.”

“Actually, your mother was the truly strong one. But even she could not push me to change my mind.”

Mentions of his dead mother stabbed through the last of Carlos's shaky control. “Your plan now isn't any better than your plan then.”

“My intent now is as it was then.” Enrique's voice faltered. “To protect my children.”

Carlos clutched the bed rail in a death grip. “Then don't make us bury another parent prematurely.”

The hospital room went silent as his father's pale face turned downright chalky. But damn it all, Carlos would do whatever it took to make his father agree to that transplant.

This life had already stolen too much from their family too early. Unless he persuaded his father to fight, no surgery would stand even a chance of saving him.

A way to tether their father's will more firmly into this world whispered through his brain, a way to have it all. And, yes, he would be manipulating his father in order to keep Lilah, but if that protected both of them? Safeguarded both his father and Lilah? The choice was obvious.

“Stick around and you'll get to meet your grandchild. Your heir.”

Regret creased Enrique's weary, weathered face. “Eloisa—”

“I am not talking about her child.” He cut his father short. “You'll have to hang on longer than a few weeks for the baby I'm referring to.” He took a deep breath in preparation for making that final step and found it easier than he expected. “I've brought someone to the island to meet you—Lilah. She and I are expecting a baby.”

Shock, then a deep sadness creased his father's face.
“Son, I am not so ill that I have forgotten your medical history.”

“Doctors can be wrong in their dire predictions and hopeless odds.” The possibility did exist. Regardless, he would raise her child as his. “And I am living proof. My child is living proof.”

He only had to convince Lilah to marry him.

His father's eyes went wide—then watery with emotion. Carlos gathered up his tattered self-control, angry with himself for losing it earlier. Everything was too close to the surface in this place—the island, the clinic.

As much as he ached to be with Lilah tonight, to bury himself in the warm softness of her body, he couldn't risk it. The next time he faced her, he had to have his game plan prepared. If she caught him unaware now, he would combust.

L
ilah bolted upright in her bed.

She searched the dark room lit only by moonbeams piercing the curtains, momentarily disoriented at being in a strange space and unsure what had woken her. The room felt empty, no sounds other than the rolling gush of waves outdoors. She rubbed the slight curve of her stomach as if she could somehow apologize to her baby for disturbing her—his?—slumber as well.

Swinging her feet to the floor, she toe-searched along the dense nap of the antique rug until she found her fuzzy slippers. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, she slid from the high bed, curious and now completely awake. Her sleep had been restless anyway, her imagination painting too vivid a picture of a younger Carlos and his brothers escaping San Rinaldo.

But she refused to get sucked into this extravagant
lifestyle simply because her heart hurt for this family. As much as she truly enjoyed beautiful things, she felt stronger in her own world, where hard work had bought every object in her possession.

She flicked on the bedside lamp, the flood of light confirming she was alone. Where was Carlos now? Asleep in his room on the other side of the sitting area? She hadn't even been able to ask him about what Eloisa had shared. Carlos and his brothers had stayed late at the hospital, visiting with their father. Duarte had called Shannon, who'd passed along the message to the rest of them. Lilah had tried to hide the sting of hurt over Carlos not phoning her directly…then mentally kicked herself for being selfish. He had overwhelming family concerns. This wasn't a pleasure trip.

Still, he could have at least said good-night when he returned.

Snagging her white cotton robe from the bench at the end of her bed, she slipped her arms into the sleeves, covering her matching eyelet nightgown. Carlos's suite was decorated far more starkly than the other quarters she'd seen, much as his Tacoma home provided a bare essentials place to crash. All burgundy leather, deep mahogany wood and brown tones, the space shouted masculinity without even hints of softness to welcome a woman.

As she padded away from her four-poster bed toward the sitting area, she felt the floor vibrate under her bare feet. Again. Again. From music?

She tipped her head to the side, listening more closely to nuances underneath the crash of waves. She swung open the hall door. Melodic runs of a piano swelled from the east wing.

She considered stepping back into her room—or waking up Carlos. But her pride kept her from entering his room when he hadn't bothered to speak to her when he came in.

She stepped farther into the hall. Curious. And determined to tap into her practical lawyer side to find out who was playing, and playing quite masterfully. Nodding to a guard, she continued her search. Hadn't Shannon said she once taught music? If the woman couldn't sleep either, perhaps they could talk more, or she could simply listen until she grew groggy again.

Softly, she followed the hall around corners and down stairs until she stopped outside the almost closed door leading to… She peered inside the circular ballroom she'd only viewed briefly during her tour earlier. Wooden floors stretched across with a coffered ceiling that added texture as well as sound control. Crystal chandeliers and sconces cast shimmering patterns. She looked past the gilded harp to a Steinway grand…

And Carlos?

Not Shannon.

Curiosity melded into something deeper, something more emotional. He sat on the simple black piano bench, his suit jacket and tie discarded over the harp. His gabardine pants were still creased perfectly, a sure sign he hadn't been anywhere near a bed since returning from the hospital.

His face intent, distant, he leaned over the keyboard, his fingers flying across the ivories, playing something classical. Flowing from Carlos's fingertips, the music sounded intense, haunting, so much so she felt the first sting of tears at the tortured passion he milked from every note.

Her feet drew her deeper into the room to a tapestry wingback tucked in a shadowy corner by a stained glass window. She felt closer to him, to the man inside, in this moment than ever before. There were no walls between them now, only raw emotion from someone who'd faced the worst life could dish out and was clawing his way back to the light note by note.

Carlos's hands stilled as the final chord faded. Her breath hitched somewhere between her lungs and throat. She wasn't sure how long she'd been holding it, but hesitated to even exhale for fear of disrupting the mood.

Turning his head slowly, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Sorry to have disturbed you. You were sleeping so soundly when I looked in on you.”

He'd come to her room? How long had he watched her? The thought stirred her, knowing he hadn't simply turned in. He'd been concerned, checking, letting her rest. She closed the distance between them with a half-dozen hesitant steps, her slippers whispering across the hardwood floors.

“You didn't bother me. I couldn't sleep,” she lied, tracing the curved edge of the Steinway. “How did I never know you played?”

He turned on the wooden bench, his eyes tracking her every movement. “It never came up in conversation. I'm not what you would call chatty.”

“That's an understatement.” She stared back from the far end of the piano.

Awareness vibrated from him to her like another chord from his fingers.

“What do you want to know, Lilah?”

“Who's your favorite composer?”

“That's it? Your big question?” His bark of laughter cut through the otherwise silent room.

“That's a start.”

“Rachmaninoff.”

“And you picked him because…?” She walked slowly around the piano toward him again. “Come on, help me out here. Conversation involves more than clipped answers.”

“My mother played the piano. He was her favorite to play when she was upset or angry.” His fingers hammered out a series of angry chords, then segued into something softer. “When I'm at the piano I can still hear the sound of her voice.”

His answer stole the air from her lungs. For a stark man, sometimes he said the most profoundly moving things.

She sat beside him on the bench. “That's beautiful, Carlos. And more than a little heartbreaking.”

“Keep up comments like that and I'll stop the sharing game.” He picked up the pace until his fingers flew across the keyboard again. “Maybe we can play a game I like to call ‘Strip for Secrets'.”

She covered his hands with hers, stilling him, the sound fading. “Or you could stop with the games all together and simply talk to me about what's upsetting you. How was your visit with your father?”

“His condition remains unchanged.”

Upsetting to be sure, but somehow she hadn't reached the core of what was bothering him, of why he chose to play…. “You're thinking of your mother, maybe?”

As tempted as she was to say to hell with it all and lose herself in his arms, she needed something more
first. She needed answers to understanding the man she was considering linking her life with.

The thought stopped her short. She was actually considering his marriage proposal, waiting for a sign that she could trust the feelings building inside her. She waited, letting him find his way as she'd learned long ago there was no pushing this stubborn man into saying or doing anything until he was good and ready.

His hand gravitated back to the keys, rippling a five-finger scale back and forth. “Mother was an artist in a thousand ways and in no way formal. She played the piano by ear. She was an amazing cook but said she learned from watching her mother. And needlework…in spite of having unlimited funds, she knitted blankets.”

The low rumble of his voice carried shades of grief, loss and nostalgia in the treasured memories of a lost loved one.

Her heart squeezed with sympathy. “She sounds like a very talented and busy woman.”

“Busy?” His eyebrows pinched together. “I never thought of it that way since she was always laid-back, never seemed rushed. But what you say fits with what I remember.”

She linked her fingers with his. “How old were you when she died?”

“Thirteen.” His squeezed her hand, tightly, the line of his jaw taut. “I prefer to celebrate the way she lived, not dwell on how she died.”

Cradling his face, she stroked until the tensed tendons under her fingers eased. “I'm sure she would prefer you treasure those happier memories.”

The silence between them stretched with only the
sound of their breathing to fill the vastness of the room and the depth of his loss.

His throat moved in a long swallow before he continued, “I play to remember her because there aren't any home videos or even that many photos of our life as a family. Our father kept us out of the public eye even then as much as he could. He destroyed most of our personal items before we left.”

And his life had continued in that stripped-down fashion from his bare-bones office to his stark home…even his place here, understated in comparison to the rest of the opulent mansion. The escape from San Rinaldo had marked this family in so many ways, but Carlos bore physical scars as well.

“Your brothers mentioned gunshot wounds this afternoon. So there wasn't a riding accident.”

He shook his head, his answer slower this time. “I was wondering what you would think when that was mentioned earlier.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“You could just access my medical records,” he joked lightly.

“Leaving aside the ethics for a moment,” she answered seriously, “I wouldn't break your trust that way.”

“Ah, Lilah…” He tucked a knuckle under her chin, calluses warm and masculine against her tender skin. “That's why I like you. And believe me, I don't say that lightheartedly.”

“Then thank you.” She leaned into his hand, deepening the touch, the connection. “I like you, too, most of the time, anyway. Help me understand you so I can like you even more of the time.”

He looked away, staring into the open top of the grand
piano at the lines of strings. “I was shot in the back by rebels during our escape from San Rinaldo.”

She'd guessed as much from what his brother said earlier, but hearing Carlos confirm it brought the reality of that attack so horribly alive in her mind. “I'm so sorry. I can't even begin to imagine how terrifying and painful that must have been for you.”

Still he stared into the piano, his fingers stroking over the ivories without pressing. “Not any more frightening than the kids I treat who've been gunned down in their own neighborhood for no reason other than where they live or what color shirt they wore that day.”

He had a point, not that it lessened the horror of what he'd endured. “I guess not.”

“I tried to save my mother and I failed. If I'd stepped more to the left… I've replayed that day in my mind so many times and there seem to be a million options I could have taken.”

Heartbroken for the young boy he'd been, for the man now, she touched his arm lightly, squeezing the tensed muscle gently. “You were only thirteen.”

“At the time I thought I was a man.” He glanced at her, his bicep flexing under her touch.

“You must have grown up far too fast that day.” Her heart hurt at the image stamped in her mind.

“Stop. I don't want your pity, and I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

She flattened her hands to the hard wall of his chest, his heart hammering through his shirt. “How can I know this about you and not be moved? How can I just let it go on command?”

Her defenses were impossible to find, much less resurrect around him. She had to face the fact that it was
impossible to stay logical and impartial around Carlos. He pulled her closer until the heat blasting from his body seared through her nightgown, through her skin, deep inside and pooling low.

His head lowered until his breath fanned over her face. “I'll just have to distract you, then.”

Smoothly, his mouth covered hers with the familiarity of lovers who knew each other well, who knew just how to touch, stroke, taste and nip to drive the other to the edge. Even just when to hold back and draw that pleasure tighter.

How could a man know her body so well, yet still be such a mystery? She reassured herself that she'd learned more tonight. They were making headway. He'd opened up more tonight than ever before.

And those marriage proposals?

She still didn't know what prompted him to make those offers for a lifetime commitment, but right now, she wanted to focus on the feelings, the connection. Her heart ached for him and all he'd been through. While she refused to let that blind her, she also couldn't look away.

He skimmed aside the shoulder on her robe and gown, exposing her collarbone to his kisses, his hand curving around her breast.

She wasn't as adept as him at shuttling aside tumultuous emotions. So many roiled inside her, she needed an outlet. And regardless of what tomorrow held, she couldn't leave him here alone with his painful memories. “I think it's time to lock that door.”

 

Need for Lilah searing through him, Carlos opened the security panel in the wall beside the door. Every
room in the house was equipped with one, a way to lock the doors and seal the windows from any outside intrusion. While his father had installed such extreme safety measures for their protection against everything from hurricanes to an attack, Carlos had an entirely different purpose in mind.

Tapping in codes with as much speed as he'd played the piano, he secured the door with a click and hiss. The windows then darkened until the ballroom became a luxurious—impenetrable—cocoon.

Lilah, seated on the edge of the piano bench, gasped in surprise. “I had no idea. And no one can see inside?”

“This is my home, my dominion,” he declared, sauntering toward her. “No one will disturb us. No one can see us. I would never put you at risk. I will keep you safe, always.”