Ready for Marriage? (27 page)

As if the dog sensed her, Concho trotted to the patio under her balcony, looked up and began to whine. When Cash followed, Vivian whirled inside and eased her glass door shut. Trying not to think about the couple outside, she peeled off her wet clothes, bathed, and washed her hair, standing in the warm shower far longer than was necessary, as if to wash the memory of Cash’s voice and presence from her consciousness. Finally, she slipped on a cotton nightgown and towel-dried her hair.

She’d missed her swim this morning and now again tonight. Maybe that was partly why she felt so strange and restless as she moved about her bedroom straightening shelves and drawers that were perfectly straight already.

Miguelito was still with Tammy and Julio, or she would have gone to his room and played games or read books with him. When she tried to read in bed, her mind was too scattered to concentrate. So, she got up again and paced.

If only she could swim, but she couldn’t. Not with Isabela entertaining Cash down by the pool.

Tonight was too important—maybe he’d propose. She had to stay focused on the fact that he was her ticket to a new life.

When Vivian lay down on her bed a long while later, she
felt exhausted, but too confused to sleep. She kept thinking about Concho and the fact that Cash cared about
her
dog. The feeling that they were connected in some mysterious way intensified.

It’s been too long since you got any
…

She wished Aaron hadn’t said that. She wished the mattress wasn’t so soft. She balled the sheets in her hands and tried to lie still.

Why couldn’t she sleep? Why was she dwelling on this fantasy about a man she didn’t even know? Worse—he was Isabela’s, and she adored Isabela.

Finally Vivian got up, opened the door and padded barefoot out onto her shadowy balcony again. The sultry night air smelled of mango and avocado, and of grilled chicken and garlic.

Hundreds of candles lit up the pool area. She could see the lovers from her balcony. Isabela pranced about under the ancient pomegranate tree in her sexy, strapless red dress that was the exact shade of the walls and her strappy, see-through heels, while Cash kept moving out of her range.

Mostly Vivian watched Cash, who was half hidden by the tropical foliage. He was big and virile looking in jeans and boots. He was whipcord lean and had the tight-hipped swagger of a street fighter, and yet he was, apparently, a highly sophisticated, brilliant man.

Vivian found that she liked watching him move. His big, raw-boned body somehow went with his rough, haunted face.

Concho liked him too. Claws clicking, the dog padded after him everywhere, and when Cash’s brown hand fell to his side, the mutt’s head was there to lick his fingers and be stroked. Cash seemed much more comfortable with the dog than he did with Isabela.

Don’t try so hard, Isabela
.

Still, Isabela would win. She always did. Broken-hearted or not, the rugged Cash McRay, who had a soft spot for
mongrels, didn’t stand a chance against the seductive, fiery Isabela.

And I want Isabela to win. I do
.

Remembering how gently Julio had courted her with candlelit dinners and dances, Vivian knew McRay was in over his head. Julio specialized in reluctant virgins, just as Isabela specialized in wounded rich men.

And Isabela had broken too many hearts to count. Not that Isabela kept a list of conquests or heartbreaks. She was resilient and optimistic. In her mind, the present man was the only one.

If Isabela pulled this off, Vivian would get to go home to the States. But oddly, Vivian wanted Cash to find true love and be happy and not simply be swept away.

Suddenly Concho left Cash’s side and trotted over to stand underneath Vivian’s balcony. He lifted his head and began to bark excitedly as if she were a skunk or a raccoon he’d treed.

‘‘Go away! Git!’’ Vivian whispered.

At the sound of her voice, Concho leaped against the pomegranate tree and howled. When Vivian heard a man’s footsteps, she quickly shrank deeper into the shadows.

‘‘What’s wrong, Spot?’’

Spot! Spot? Concho didn’t have a spot on him
.

Cash was underneath her too now. Vivian barely dared to breathe when he planted two large, broad feet squarely underneath her balcony.

‘‘Somebody up there, Spot? A cat, maybe?’’

Vivian’s heart knocked.
Just me
.

She
felt
him, and she knew he felt her. Because he stayed there, even after Isabela called to him.

Some weird, out-of-body chemistry was definitely going on. The air grew colder and seemed to snap as if it were as charged with electricity as air after a summer storm. The leaves of the pomegranate stirred, as did the tendrils along Vivian’s nape.

Vivian wrapped her arms around herself tightly and clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering.

‘‘Somebody up there?’’ he repeated, his deep voice silky and seductive.

‘‘That’s Vivian’s bedroom,’’ Isabela told him. ‘‘She’s asleep.’’

No, she’s biting her lips until they bleed and trembling like
a crazy woman while wave after wave of wanton heat washes
over her
.

Oh dear, if this mad feeling didn’t stop soon, she was sure she’d melt and become a puddle.

‘‘Go away,’’ she whispered, her legs turning to jelly as she sank against the wall. ‘‘Please, both of you—just go away.’’

‘‘Vivian?’’ he whispered into the still night air. ‘‘Are you up there?’’

V
ivian woke up on a shudder of longing to a giant tropical moon flooding her bedroom with magical white light. Slowly she became aware of her hot flesh tingling.

She licked her lips. Half awake, and breathless from her dream, she scrambled into her bathrobe and dashed to her balcony, where she stared at the moon and tried her best to forget her outrageous fantasy. But the harder she tried to forget him, the more indelibly he became engraved on her mind.

She’d been dreaming she was naked and sitting on a broad, virile Cash McRay, who was as naked as the day he was born. He’d been solid and warm, sculpted of muscle. His eyes had burned green and bright with tenderness and desire, and even now, just remembering, her body thrummed with longing.

She could still hear his voice. ‘‘
Vivian? Are you up there?
’’

With shaking fingers Vivian wrapped the thick folds of her robe up high under her throat the way a prim old maid might. But she wasn’t an old maid. She was a divorcée. For the first time, she was fulfilling all her suitors’ fantasies about her.

Aaron’s words returned to haunt her. ‘‘
It’s obvious it’s been
too long
…’’

To get her mind off the possibility of sex with Isabela’s beloved, Vivian decided to go for a swim.

A swim—the mere thought energized her and had her racing to her bureau and rummaging through a drawer for her red bikini. Even before she shook out the drawer onto a floor already teeming with clothes she hadn’t hung up for the past few days, she remembered she’d left it in the pool house bathroom.

Five minutes later she was there, tearing her cotton gown and bathrobe off as if demons possessed her.

She couldn’t believe she’d dreamed that she’d spent half the night on top of Isabela’s future husband, her mouth and tongue running wild over his wide brown chest and throat. He’d hauled her closer, so close she’d felt his hardness against her pelvis. Just the memory made her toes curl against the tile floor.

Vivian wasn’t good at hiding her feelings—a major flaw—especially when she had a guilty conscience. She’d die of mortification if she blushed and simpered like a schoolgirl with her first crush when Isabela introduced them at breakfast.

Isabela trusted her.

Just thinking about the way his lips had caressed every part of her body made her cringe. Even so, she imagined it all again…

She had to get a grip, to clear her mind of such treacherous, misplaced longings. She didn’t even know him!

It was beautiful outside—the stars bright against an ink-dark sky. Vivian gazed out the window at the Big Dipper and then the North Star. If the days in Mérida broiled a person, April nights were romantically lush and sweet-scented.

She knew her way around the dark bathroom, so she didn’t bother to turn on the light, not even when she heard a sound from the next room. Then she groped for her bathing suit, which should have been hanging from the towel rack by the
tub. Only when it wasn’t there did she flip on the light to look for it. Seven gilded mirrors—Isabela went in for overstated opulence—lit and reflected every inch of Vivian’s soft, creamy skin. Her red hair was tousled and fell about her shoulders.

Momentarily blinded, she shielded her eyes with her hand while they adjusted to the glare. Quickly she lowered the window shade. She moved languidly, at ease with her seven reflections even though she was naked—until she removed her hand from the light switch and fumbled on the counter for her bikini. Her brain didn’t register what her eyes saw for a second or two.

Her bikini wasn’t there.

She squinted, focusing on a scarred leather bag with the initials
C.M
. carved in the middle. It was a man’s expensive suitcase, and it had no business lying closed on that luggage rack with an expensive pair of black silk slacks dripping out of it.

On the white tile counter, a man’s electric razor was plugged into a wall socket. Her eyes darted to the bottle of aftershave and the squashed tube of toothpaste right beside it. Last of all she saw the bra of her red bikini stuffed in a far corner behind Isabela’s bronze flamingos.

She was reaching for her bikini when a deep, throaty voice that was rough with sleep came from the direction of the sofa bed near the pool table.

‘‘Wow! Who the hell are you—Sleeping Beauty?’’ The man’s heavy breathing seemed to grow more ragged on every word he uttered.

Don’t, please, don’t you dare be Cash McRay!

Of course he was Cash.

She knew who he was even though her desperate mind fought to deny it. His sexy passionate voice turned her to mush.

Concho yawned sleepily. Paws crossed under his wet nose,
the canine ingrate was curled up at the end of Cash’s sofa bed as if he belonged there.

Her nipples went as hard as rubies. All she had to do was take a flying leap into that bed to make her dream come true.

Isabela… This isn’t happening.

Suddenly Vivian was trembling and digging her nails into her palms. Next, she was jabbing frantically at the light switch.

‘‘So, you’re the girl who goes with the itty-bitty, red bikini? You’re taller than I pictured you. Bigger at the top, too.’’

When she missed the switch on the first try, she cried out in sheer frustration.

He laughed. ‘‘I was having a nightmare when you barged into my dreams.’’

‘‘You too?’’ Her glance shot toward him and her skinny dog.

Half covered in the sheet, Cash looked long and sleek and brown, and very masculine. His shoulders were wide, his chest matted with dark hair.

Her mouth went dry, but she got wet in other places. Suddenly, it was all she could do to remember to breathe, much less act like any normal, modest,
sensible
young woman, who found herself
naked
in a complete stranger’s bedroom in the middle of the night.

As she stood there, seconds ticked by—as if she were paralyzed or hypnotized.

‘‘This weird barber had me tied to his chair’’ came that deep beautiful voice from the bed.

‘‘What are you talking about?’’ she whispered.

‘‘I dreamed about a crazy barber.’’

‘‘I don’t want to hear this.’’

‘‘I told him not to cut much of my hair off, but he had an electric razor, and he’d already taken a swipe at my scalp. ‘Oops,’ he said. I wanted to kill him, but it was a dream, so I just lay there.’’

Like I’m just standing here—as if this is a dream and I’ll
wake up and everything will be back to normal
.

‘‘Then he put a bowl on my head and began to shave the hair off around my ears and neckline.’’

Turn off the light, dummy
.

Vivian clamped down on her tongue with her teeth. The coppery flavor of blood and the shooting pain brought her to her senses. Quick as a flash, she hit the switch, and the room went mercifully black.

‘‘Forget you ever saw me,’’ she mumbled, her hot body sagging against the cool tiled wall because her legs had turned to jelly.

‘‘You must be the sister-in-law,’’ he murmured dryly. ‘‘The one who didn’t want to meet me.’’

‘‘No! I’m not her! And I don’t know her. And you don’t either,’’ she replied, panicked.

English. He was speaking English. Real American English
. She loved to hear Americans talking in the street because the sound of her native tongue with its flat vowels reminded her of home. Just the sound of his voice made her long for a normal life with a purpose and a future.

Just the sound of it made her body heat and throb and her
heart long for her wanton dream to come true
.

‘‘What do you think my dream meant?’’ he asked conversationally.

She could hear every raspy breath she took. ‘‘I—I don’t care! It was a ridiculous dream!’’

‘‘Not to me. I’m most particular about letting some freak mess with my hair. It means something. Trust me.’’

‘‘Look! I just had a nightmare myself—and it meant nothing!’’ She spoke in a frantic whisper as she moved away from the wall and began to fumble in the dark for her bathrobe, cursing when her fingers were shaking too violently to pull it on. ‘‘Damn!’’

‘‘Tell me your dream, and I’ll tell you what it meant,’’ he offered.

‘‘I don’t think so.’’

‘‘Trust me, I’m good at this,’’ he said.

She almost moaned.

Bed sheets rustled. Not good. ‘‘You stay right where you are!’’ she screeched, backing toward the shower, stumbling over two objects that felt like a pair of large shoes.

‘‘I liked the light on,’’ he said. ‘‘The view was better.’’

‘‘Well, I don’t. And I don’t want to know who you are. Or hear about your hair. I want to forget I ever met you—’’

Liar. She wanted to lick his long, lean body, to taste him. No. That was a dream.

‘‘The name’s Cash. Cash McRay. And I damn sure want to know the name of the naked lady who saved me from a fiend with hair clippers. I was drenched in sweat from terror—and then there you were, like Venus arising from the sea to rescue me. Exquisite Aphrodite.’’

She groaned aloud. She’d dreamed about getting naked on top of him. Now her future brother-in-law had seen her in her birthday suit and was waxing poetic. Her heart was racing.

‘‘We are not part of some myth!’’ she snapped.

‘‘You gonna tell me about your dream?’’

Why didn’t men ever, just once, do what they were supposed to do? ‘‘Why aren’t you in the guest suite where you belong? Or better yet, in Isabela’s bed?’’

‘‘Maybe you’re my destiny.’’

‘‘Don’t be ridiculous.’’

‘‘You did appear to save me from that mad barber.’’

His laughter brought fresh panic. She put her arm through the wrong hole of her bathrobe. Next she got all tangled up in the sash. She stumbled on the folds of the robe.

Then somehow, miraculously, she quit tripping over the garment, stabbed her arms through the proper holes and wrapped the robe around herself as if it were a shroud. Breathlessly, her chest heaving, tender pointed nipples mashing
against terry cloth so hard they hurt, she tied the sash in a tight knot.

‘‘Broken pipe in the bathroom. No water. Besides, I kind of like it out here,’’ he said.

She almost hated him more because his answer was so reasonable.

‘‘Did you see me—’’

He laughed again. ‘‘Everything. Seven extra you’s are imprinted on my male brain forever—Aphrodite.’’

‘‘Just be quiet and go back to sleep and dream about that barber.’’

‘‘Do you want to go back to sleep and dream your dream—’’

Dear God
.

‘‘See this,’’ he continued, ‘‘you’re way more fun. Not that I’m going to let you near hair clippers in your present mood. My whole body’s buzzing—terror from the barber and then sensory overload from you. I needed to get up early and read architectural journals. But, hey, if you’re going skinny-dipping, I’ll join you—Aphrodite.’’

‘‘No—’’

‘‘Isabela said she’d introduce us at breakfast.’’

‘‘I have an errand downtown.’’

‘‘Join us for lunch, then? By the pool maybe?’’

‘‘No! I’ll be gone all day. Teaching.’’

‘‘Aaron White by chance? He called you last night. Said it was urgent. Said he couldn’t wait to finish his lesson. What exactly are you teaching him?’’

‘‘I’m not in the mood for this conversation. Surely you can understand—’’

‘‘Look, I’m sorry I teased you a while ago. I mean, it’s not every day a naked goddess wakes me up. Let’s be reasonable—’’

‘‘No!
You
look. I’m the last thing from reasonable!’’

‘‘That’s exactly what Isabela said.’’

‘‘She told you about me?’’

‘‘She adores you. And your son. Miguelito, I believe?’’

‘‘Then I’ll never be able to face you.’’

‘‘Why not? You’re beautiful. Surely you know you have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m an architect. I appreciate beauty. I just got back from Florence. I looked at lots of naked ladies in paintings. Naked statues, too.’’

‘‘I’m not some statue or painting. No man has seen me like this…. Not since my divorce,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Oh God. Forget I said that. My sex life is none of your business.’’

‘‘Hey, don’t be embarrassed.’’ His voice was beguilingly gentle now. ‘‘Okay, why don’t we just pretend this never happened.’’

‘‘Because you’re a man, and men always take advantage—’’

‘‘You’ve been in Mexico way too long.’’

‘‘You’re right about that.’’

He laughed. ‘‘I know how to fix this.’’

Before she could say anything, he jumped out of bed and tugged at the chain on the lamp, flooding the room with light. Faster than she could blink, he ripped off the sheet wrapped around his lean waist and exposed himself to her.

‘‘Oh my God! Oh—’’

He was huge—everywhere.

She tried to stare at the sheet on the floor, but the temptation of a fully aroused naked man, after so long…

Inch by inch, her eyes climbed his long, powerful, tanned legs. His hips were lean, his belly washboard flat. Other parts met with her approval, too. And, of course, she stared at the one thing she shouldn’t have looked at.

He smiled with immense male satisfaction when she finally met his gaze. ‘‘There! You’ve viewed the family jewels! We’re even!’’

Even as she gaped, she blushed furiously. ‘‘You’re crazy. And you make me crazy. Do you know that?’’

‘‘Is that why your eyes are bugging and your lower jaw’s
hanging open?’’ He laughed. ‘‘Has it been that long since you saw a naked man? Or are you that impressed?’’

Her breathing was choppy. She shut her eyes for a second and clamped her mouth shut. ‘‘You’re unbearably…conceited…sex-crazed.’’

‘‘Do go on.’’ His voice was no more than a throaty whisper.

He tensed, stretching his lean, dark frame like a giant cat. She watched his muscles flex and contract with unwanted fascination—and a pure unadulterated female admiration that made her body feel molten. Yes! He was overwhelmingly masculine.

Dios
. Women weren’t supposed to care about size, but she wasn’t displeased at the way he looked. Big men, big hands, big… Big. Period. Okay, so she wasn’t politically correct, big turned her on.

Somehow he took up way more space than he physically occupied. Then he grinned, and she really felt bowled over.