Private Acts (16 page)

“You’re right.” In her fight for control, she spoke in a cool voice. “I don’t want to stay here. Why would I? Like you said, what’s in
Cuenca
? I mean, it’s not even
Quito
, or
Guayaquil
. It’s too slow for me, and I need excitement and
fun
.”

His stance became rigid. Not one single muscle on his body moved except the one flexing in his left jaw. “Which is what I said.”

“You were right.”

“So it’s over.” His blue gaze lowered to her mouth. “How about a goodbye kiss?”

She laughed. “You must be kidding.” She turned swiftly, but his words halted her at the door.

“I told you never to walk away from me again.”

She stared at him. “Our conversation is finished.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You get to dictate the terms of our relationship
and
when it ends,
and
you get to tell me when our conversation is over? My, my, aren’t you the man in charge.”

“I’ve warned you about your mouth. It will always get you into trouble unless you learn to keep it shut.”

“I guess I’ll always be in trouble.”

She stormed out of the room. A third of the way down the stairs, Miguel’s muscular arms wound around her waist and pulled her into his chest. She began to struggle with him, pushing and pulling.

“Stop it or you’ll make us fall down the stairs.” When she stilled her movements, he spoke into her ear. “Kiss me.” She shook her head wildly, determined to refuse his request.

Strong fingers grasped her chin and held her head in place. He pressed her back against the wall. “Kiss me,” he repeated, staring into her eyes. “Please.”

Samirah’s heart filled with sadness. This was the man she loved, and it was the last time she would see him.

The lines of her lips softened, and Miguel settled his mouth over hers. Burying his fingers in her hair, he held her head in place so he could give one of the sweetest kisses he’d ever offered to her. Their mouths glided over one another, tender, soft. He tasted good, smelled good. Her heart ached at the unfairness of it.

He pressed closer so the tips of her breasts grazed his chest. A throbbing ache blossomed at the apex of her thighs. She wanted him, one last time. Her fingers splayed across his back, drawing him closer, curling into the muscles. She lifted onto her toes, aching, needing…

Miguel withdrew, and Samirah reluctantly dropped her hands to her sides. Her humiliation was complete. While he had the strength to pull away, she’d been ready to let him make love to her.

“Will you let me go now?” She swallowed the pain and stared at the ridges and curves of his bare chest. “It’s over. Let’s just make a clean break.”

He remained silent, but she saw the fingers of left hand ball up into a fist at his side. She slipped away from him and he didn’t stop her. She wished he would, but of course, he didn’t.

At the house, she slid under the covers in her bedroom.

Fool.
Fool
. She closed her eyes.

Cast aside again. Only this time, it was much worse. Before, she’d been embarrassed and hurt by the failed relationship with her boss. This time, the gut-wrenching pain threatened to rend her in two.

She pressed her face into the pillow and curled into a ball. No tears came.

She just lay there.

Numb.

* * * *

Miguel hurriedly shoved clothes into his suitcase.

He wanted to possess her. Lock her up and toss the key so she could never escape. Instead, he’d let her go.

He’d done the right thing. She would never be happy in this sedate existence. She was too full of life and energy and would grow to resent him if she stayed. To ask her to stay would be beyond selfish.

The blare of the taxi’s horn accelerated his movements. He snapped the suitcase closed and scanned the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. His eyes settled on the jar of lotion on the dresser, and he lifted the container to his nose and sniffed.

This was Samirah’s scent. His gut tightened like a knotted rope. He’d wanted her one last time, and she had been willing, malleable in his arms. But it would have been unfair to her, so he’d forced himself to pull back.

I did the right thing
, he told himself again.

Even though he’d seen the pain in her brown eyes, he knew this was the best decision for both of them. If he allowed her to stay any longer, she would only become more entrenched in his life, and then he would never be able to let her go when she got ready to leave. Because without a doubt, there would come a time when she would want to leave.

He replaced the jar on top of the furniture.

He’d known it couldn’t last, but that didn’t lessen the pain. He would miss her—her laugh, her awful singing, and her incredible, giving body he couldn’t imagine ever getting enough of.

The horn sounded again, and Miguel grabbed his suitcase. He couldn’t miss this flight. His brother needed him. Aarón had finally confided in him about the verbal abuse from his mother’s lover. He was petrified of going abroad, and talking to their mother did no good. She refused to believe a man so cultured could be so cruel and assumed Aarón must have done something or was exaggerating.

Miguel knew it to be true, though he’d never witnessed any of the abuse. He’d experienced the same himself as a child, and only when he reached puberty and grew taller did the men become less confrontational.

He rushed down the stairs, but his hurried footsteps stalled at the front door. A vase of flowers sat on a table. Pictures Samirah had purchased hung on the wall, bringing color and life to his formerly pallid existence.

He’d made the right decision.

Miguel yanked open the front door and slammed it hard.
Ecuador
would become a distant memory when she went off to her next adventure. She would forget all about him.

And he would have to figure out how to forget about her.

* * * *

As the end of her trip grew closer, Samirah did a poor job of hiding her sadness.
Geneva
and Thomas expressed their concern, telling her she could come back and visit any time she liked. They thought she was upset about leaving the country, but it was so much more complicated than they knew.

On Saturday morning, they escorted her to the waiting taxi.
Geneva
still walked with the cane, but she was much more mobile than when Samirah first arrived.

“Thank you so much, my dear. You were absolutely lovely.”
Geneva
kissed each of her cheeks.

Thomas gave her a big hug. “Have a safe trip back.”

“I enjoyed my stay. I couldn’t have asked for better employers.”

Impulsively, she gave them each another quick hug before jumping into the cab. As it pulled away, she waved through the back window. Thomas stood with his arm around his wife, and they both waved at her until the cab turned the corner.

Samirah took a deep breath, telling herself she would be fine. She had her future to plan, but living in
Miami
didn’t have the same appeal, and neither did heading off to another job overseas. Not with her heart firmly anchored in this little South American country she’d never expected to fall in love with. Not when she realized loving Miguel might have been the best and worst mistake she ever made.

She rummaged in her carry-on bag and found the cell phone she used for emergencies. Her fingers trembled as she dialed her sister’s number in
Los Angeles
.

“Hello?”

“Bekah, it’s me.”

“Hey, Samirah! I guess you’re at the airport getting ready to catch your flight, huh?”

The sound of her sister’s cheerful voice broke her. She’d made it through the past couple of days without crying. But now, tears spilled onto her cheeks and she wiped them away, only to have them replaced by new ones.

Rebekah’s alarmed voice came over the line. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Bekah, I really screwed up this time. Can I come see you?
Please
.”

Chapter Fourteen

In the opulent kitchen of her German lover’s home, Patricia Delgado stood at the marble island and dipped her fork into a bowl full of sliced fruit. She wore tight clothes—a pair of skintight black slacks and a white, ruffled blouse with the top buttons undone to expose her surgically enhanced cleavage. Every type of jewel glittered on her fingers, around her neck and wrists, and in her ears. The effects of Botox kept her face free of the lines typical of someone her age, and she had the body of a much younger woman, thanks to the best plastic surgery money could buy.

The bright colors of the peaches, mangos, and pineapples in the bowl reminded Miguel of Samirah. Everything reminded him of her. Sunshine, beaches, motorcycles, food. Everything. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, knowing they stayed in the same city, and he had no way of getting in touch.

“I love him, you know,” Patricia said.

Miguel struggled to remember what they had been talking about before his mind drifted to thoughts of Samirah. “Yes, I know.”

“He loves me, too. It’s different this time.”

It was always different “this time.” It had been different when she left him at the age of fifteen to fend for himself as she moved with her Colombian lover. It had been different with the Mexican, the Swede, the Canadian, the Englishman—he’d lost count of the men over the years. The only common denominator between them all was their wealth.

“I know,” he said again, though he didn’t believe a word of it. In another year or so, she would be replaced by another woman, perhaps someone younger, and then she would take whatever parting gifts the German gave her until she could find another sponsor.

Love was never a factor in the relationships between his mother and her lovers. All her relationships ended the same way, except for the one she had with Aarón’s father, a seventy-five-year-old man who married her when she became pregnant. He imagined his mother had expected that upon his death she would be left with a vast fortune.

Unfortunately, the old man had been keeping secrets. When he died, his so-called wealth disappeared in back taxes and risky deals gone awry. He’d barely been staying afloat. The small settlement she received had been negligible, and she’d had to sell her jewelry and other gifts to maintain the type of lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed.

Miguel had spent the last few days trying to convince his mother to let him have Aarón, yet she refused to give a definitive answer. He even pointed out how much easier her life would be if she didn’t have a child to worry about. The argument seemed to sway her somewhat, but still, she would not say yes.

Patricia spoke again. “I know what you think of me.”

His mouth set in a grim line. He was in no mood for theatrics. They needed to come to an agreed upon decision about Aarón.

“Mother—”

“I know, Miguel. I see it. You don’t have to deny it, because I
know
.” She picked up the bowl of fruit.

Her stilettos clicked on the tile on her way to the sink. She always wore heels. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her with anything else on her feet. Resting her hands on the sink, she said, “He’s my son.”