“How’s Nicholas?” Santiago asked, interrupting their aimless chitchat.
Charlotte wrinkled her forehead at the suddenness of his question. “That’s an odd question,” she answered, staring at him with perplexed eyes.
“Or, a considerate one,” he shrugged. “His feathers seemed a bit ruffled during our last interaction. I mean, I don’t blame him . . . if you were my woman, and another man showed up in the middle of the day looking for you, I’d be jealous, too.”
Charlotte’s almond brown eyes flashed at him. “He’s fine. Thanks for your concern.”
“Anytime, Shoes,” he returned, his tone thick with sarcasm.
The exchange between the two hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Uh, wait a minute now,” Patricia puckered her brow, glancing back and forth between them. “How close are the two of you, exactly?”
“Not close at all,” Charlotte quickly retorted, ending any possible assumption her friend could have contrived with her overzealous imagination. “We are colleagues, nothing more.”
“Ouch,” Santiago groaned, sounding wounded. “I thought we were at least crossing the bridge of friendship.”
“Hardly,” Charlotte scoffed, looking him square in the eyes. “Friendship is earned. In my opinion, it’s not something that should be freely given.”
Smiling at Charlotte, Santiago tilted his head to one side, and regarded her with a boldness that caused a frown to form between her brows. “Good to know,” he returned, his voice low, seductive. Then rising from his seat, he pulled out his wallet from his pants pocket and withdrew two- twenty- dollar bills, placing them in the center of the table. “This should cover the check,” he said, pushing in his chair.
Patricia sulked. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, I have to get back to the magazine,” he explained, offering her an apologetic smile. “Besides, I have intruded on enough of your time. Split my dessert− I’m telling you it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”
“You don’t have to pay the entire bill,” Charlotte objected, taking one of the twenty’s off the table and handing it back to him. “It’s unnecessary.”
Taking her hand in his, Santiago caressed the back of her fingers until she felt compelled to open her tightly closed fist, allowing the cash to fall to the table once more. “It is quite necessary,” he smirked, then turning away from the two women, he headed for the exit.
Once they were alone, Patricia cleared her throat to get Charlotte’s attention− needing to look the younger woman in the eye. “I’m asking as a friend, with zero judgment. Who is he to you?”
Glaring at the other woman, Charlotte said, “A co-worker.”
“A co-worker?” Patricia repeated. Narrowing her dark brown eyes at her friend, she let out a sigh before shaking her head disbelievingly. “How about the truth?”
Charlotte met Patricia’s hard gaze, her frown deepening into a grimace. “He’s a co-worker. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Mhm,” Patricia agreed. “If you say so.”
“I do, say so.”
Chapter Thirteen
SEPTEMBER 1988
Standing just outside of the Elliot’s estate, Esmeralda pulled her son to her. “Escúchame con atención, mi amor. Cuando pasamos esta puerta,” she said, signaling toward the tall, black steel entrance. “Necesito que tengas tu mejor comportamiento. ¿Lo entiendes?” Listen to me carefully, my love. When we walk past this gate . . . I need for you to be on your best behavior. Do you understand?
“Sí, mami.” Yes, mommy.
Nodding her head, Esmerelda’s gaze moved from her son to the gate and then back again. “Santiago,” she said, forcing a smile for the child’s benefit. “Hay un hombre que quiero que conozcas. Se llama Sr. Elliot y vive dentro de esa gran casa. . . la casa donde trabajo.” There is a man that I want you to meet. His name is Mr. Elliot and he lives inside of that big house . . . the house where I work. Lowering her stance so that she and the young boy were at eye level, she gently caressed his golden- brown cheek. “Cuando lo conozcas, quiero que le des una gran sonrisa y le digas hola,” she told him. When you meet him, I want you to give him a big smile and say hello. “Luego, manteniendo sus ojos en los de él, debe extender su mano derecha hacia él para darle el apretón de manos a un caballero. Asegúrate de extender tu mano derecho,” she pressed. Then keeping your eyes on his, you must extend your right hand to him for a gentleman’s handshake. Make sure you hold out your right hand. “Es posible que desee extender su izquierda porque es su mano dominante, pero no lo haga. Los hombres tiemblan con la mano derecha; es la etiqueta apropiada.” You might want to hold out your left because it is your dominant hand, but do not. Men shake with their right hand; it is proper etiquette.
“Okay, mami.” Okay, mommy.
“No hablo español. Solo hablo inglés, incluso para mí, solo hablo inglés una vez que ingresamos a la casa del Sr. Elliot.” Do not speak Spanish. Only speak English, even to me, only speak English once we enter Mr. Elliot’s home.
“Al señor Elliot no le gusta el español.” Mr. Elliot doesn’t like Spanish?
“El no lo entiende. . . y a veces la gente se molesta por cosas que no entienden. Entonces, no español. Solo inglés.” He doesn’t understand it . . . and sometimes people get upset about things they do not understand. So, no Spanish. Only English.
“No hablo español, mami.” I won’t speak Spanish, mommy.
“Buen chico, Santiago,” she smiled again, this time the act was genuine. “Siempre has sido mi buen chico.” Good boy, Santiago. You’ve always been my good boy.
“¿Es el señor Elliot un buen hombre?” Is Mr. Elliot a nice man?
Blinking several times, Esmerelda offered the child a small smirk, and then rose to her feet, completely disregarding his question. Tucking her thick black hair behind her ears, she reached for her son’s right hand before walking toward the gate. “Good morning, Samuel,” she said into the speaker. “It’s Esmerelda.”
“Good morning, Ms. Martinez,” sounded a masculine voice from the small silver device, implanted in the brick wall on the western end of the gate. “Stand back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tightly gripping his mother’s hand, Santiago’s chestnut brown eyes widened as the large black steel gate slowly parted in front of them, granting a clear view of the Elliot’s French Colonial Mansion. To Santiago, it was a castle from one of the fairytales his grandmother used to read to him in years past. “¿Trabajas aquí, mami?” he asked, a small frown hardening his beautifully sharp features. “¿Eres la criada?” You work here, mommy? Are you the maid?
Esmerelda laughed. “Sin hijos. No soy la sirvienta. Cuido de los niños que viven aquí. Tres niños. Dos niños de tu edad y una niña pequeña.” No, son. I am not the maid. I take care of the children who live here. Three children. Two boys around your age and a little girl.
Santiago’s frown deepened. His thick black brows drew together over long lashes and beautiful cognac colored eyes. “¿Cuidas de ellos?” You take care of them?
“Si.” Yes.
“¿Dónde está su madre? ¿Murió ella?” Where is their mother? Did she die?
“No, ella vive aquí, también, con ellos.” No, she lives here, too, with them.
“¿Por qué no puede cuidar a sus hijos? ¿Está enferma, como la abuela?” Why can’t she take care of her children? Is she sick, like grandma?
“No, ella esta bien,” she said, gently pulling him onward. “Ven mi amor. No quiero llegar tarde.” No, she is well. Come, my love. I do not want to be late.
Santiago planted his feet firmly on the rustic stone walkway, refusing to take another step. “Mami, es por eso que no puedes cuidarme. . .? ¿Porque los cuidas?” Mommy, is that why you can’t take care of me . . .? Because you take care of them?
Esmerelda shook her head, adamantly denying the charge. “No mi amor. Nunca eso! Los cuido para poder cuidarte a ti. Nunca al revés, ¿entiendes?” No, my love. Never that! I take care of them so that
I can take care of you. Never the other way around, do you understand?
Nodding his understanding, Santiago turned his dark gaze back to the Elliot’s home. Speak English. Hello. Smile. Shake hand. No left hand. Only right hand. Speak English. Hello. Smile. Shake hand. No left hand. Only right hand, he chanted quietly. Silently, he prayed that he would do everything correctly, that he would not disappoint his mother.
“Ven Santiago. El señor elliot nos espera.” Come, Santiago. Mr. Elliot is waiting for us.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlotte rummaged through her Chest of Drawers in search of pajama bottoms. Tossing clothing to the floor as she dug deeper into the mass of unfolded T-shirts, she let out an exasperated groan of frustration. Nothing. Washing clothes would have been wise, she thought. The weekend trip to Baltimore for Adeline’s graduation came out of nowhere, it seemed only yesterday that she’d promised her youngest sister that she would attend the event, and now it was here. Packing for the two- day stay should have been an easy enough feat; however, for Charlotte it was insanely challenging. “Hun, you really have to adult better,” she mumbled with a sigh, chastising herself. “No worries, I’ll just sleep in my panties.” Picking up the pile of clean clothes from the floor, she dropped them onto her bed and then made her way to the closet. With quick hands, Charlotte pulled several summer dresses off their hangers, lazily folded them, and then with perfect precision dropped them into her Vera Bradley Weekender Bag which sat on the floor to the left of the closet door. Mentally going over the checklist of items worth packing for the third time, she nodded her head contented. I’ll borrow my mom’s toothpaste while I’m there . . . and I’m sure somebody in that house could spare Cocoa Butter . . . note to self, when you get back home, GO SHOPPING. Glancing down at her watch, Charlotte gasped. 9:07 a.m. “Crap!” Dropping to her knees, she smashed down the unfolded clothes and then carefully zipped the luggage shut. “Menzie!” she called out to her sister- in- law as she made her way down the long hallway leading to the foyer. “I’m leaving.”
“It’s about time,” Nicholas answered her from the living room, his tone mocking. “It takes you so long to do so little.”
Charlotte stopped cold. “Nicholas?” she whispered his name, a small frown hardening her delicate features.
Rounding the corner that separated the living area from the hallway, Nicholas greeted Charlotte with an amused smile on his full lips. “Dimple.”
Staring at him wide eyed, she asked, “What are you doing here?”
Nicholas’ thick brows drew together causing small lines to form around his light eyes. “Adeline’s graduation is this evening, is it not?”
“It is, but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
“You’re smart enough to figure that out,” he said, reaching for her bag. “Come on, let’s go . . . Friday afternoon traffic is going to be hell.”
“Nicholas,” Charlotte sighed his name. “I already purchased a ticket through Greyhound. My bus leaves quarter after ten,” she explained, hoping not to wound him with her confession. “When I purchased the ticket, we were in the beginning stages of−”
Nicholas moved then. Tightly gripping the strap of her travel bag, he pulled her toward him. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re trying to blow me off?” he asked, his breath cool against her cheek. His steel grey eyes stared deeply into her dark browns, as if the answer to his question could be found in their depths.
Charlotte swallowed hard. “I just don’t want to waste money.” Hurting his feelings was not an option, not when they had finally seemed to be getting it right, and especially not when he was staring at her so intensely.
Nicholas’ full lips brushed hers, the softest of caresses. “I’ll reimburse you,” he smiled against her mouth. “Now, let’s go.”
***
Nicholas’ Chrysler 300 smelled of men’s cologne and clean leather. The enticing masculine scents of citrus and wood had filled Charlotte’s senses until she felt consumed by the irresistible fragrances. Inhaling deeply, she smiled as the soft summer breeze touched her skin, as the warmth of the sun kissed her cheeks . . . caressed her arms in the sweetest embrace. It was pure bliss− a welcomed peace that had been eluding her for some time now. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. It wasn’t until that very moment that Charlotte realized how badly she needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. While Manhattan had welcomed her with open arms during a time that she felt lost and alone in the world, lately, she had begun to feel suffocated by the overwhelming atmosphere. The once exhilarating, magnetic city now exhausted her and left her yearning for the quieter existence of Baltimore’s suburbs.
“Can you believe it’s been seven months since we last made this trip together?” Nicholas asked. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
“It does,” Charlotte agreed. “So much has happened since then.”
“Who would have thought that a lie from your mother to get you back home, and a lie from you to save face in front of your family would be the start of our lives together?” he laughed. Licking his lips, Nicholas stole a glance over at his wife as he changed lanes. “Dimple?”
“Hm?”
“When did you realize that you had feelings for me?”
“I don’t wanna’ say.”
“Why not?”
“It makes me feel pathetic.”
Nicholas frowned. “Pathetic? Why pathetic?”
Opening her eyes, Charlotte repositioned her body so that she was facing him. “While I was pining after my best friend, he was gallivanting around Manhattan,” she said with a dejected sigh. “For two years, I had to listen to him talk about one- night stands . . . repeatedly, I had to pretend that I wasn’t jealous . . . I had to fake smiles until I was no longer in front of him . . . I had to keep telling myself that he and I would never happen, and that friendship was all that I could expect from him . . . thinking about all that makes me feel pathetic,” she admitted.
“Two years?” he mused. “So, you’ve had feelings for me since the beginning of our friendship?”
Knotting her arched brows together, Charlotte exhaled insolently. “Nicholas, you already know this.”
Shaking his head at her words, he denied the charge. “I had no idea. If I had known . . . if I had suspected that you had feelings for me, I wouldn’t have paraded other women in your face. I wouldn’t have talked to you about them . . .”
Charlotte stared at him in silence for several seconds before asking, “If you had known, do you think we would have gotten together sooner?”
Nicholas’ expression was thoughtful as he contemplated her question. “No,” he answered honestly.
His response made her heart sink into her stomach. “Oh,” she returned, her voice low− hurt.
Reaching out to her, Nicholas took Charlotte’s small hand in his larger one. Without thought, he brought it to his mouth, grazing the back of her fingers along his lower lip. “I wasn’t good enough for anyone back then, let alone you. If I’m being honest, I’m still not good enough for you,” he confessed. “But− I’m a better man than I was two years ago. At least, I attempt to be . . .”
“You’re a good man, Nicholas.”
Nicholas smirked against her palm. “I could be better.”
“Why do you say that?”
Silence.
Charlotte bit her lower lip to keep from speaking the words that wanted so badly to be heard. More than anything, she wanted Nicholas to be truthful with her, and not simply because she asked for the truth. No, she wanted him to be honest with her because he wanted to be. The last thing she wanted was to force the truth from him; however, his reticent deposition as of late, left her feeling uneasy. “I feel out of the loop with a lot that concerns you. If we want our marriage to work, we have to trust one another− like before . . . no secrets.”
Silence.
“There are a lot of questions that I would like to have answered. For instance, why are you allowing Dean to
continue on as Editor-in- Chief when his blackmail scheme is now a moot point? And, why is Caleb back in Manhattan . . .? Why did we really leave Hawaii so suddenly? . . . . I know it had nothing to do with Gizzelle Bridal because according to Patricia, you had stepped down before we left for the island.” A heavy stillness stretched between them for several heartbeats before Charlotte continued. Sighing, she said, “It’s like I’m ready to close the door to everything that happened, but can’t because I know that behind the door, I’ll find the answers to all of my questions.”
Releasing his hold on Charlotte’s hand, Nicholas gripped the steering wheel in both hands, glancing in the rearview and passenger side mirrors before merging into the far- right lane. Waiting for a break in traffic, he pulled onto the shoulder of the beltway. Then turning on his emergency blinkers, he adjusted his weight under the restriction of his seatbelt. Their gazes locked; their eyes studied one another intently. When Nicholas finally spoke, his voice was dark with emotion. “Why did you take me back?” he asked.
Charlotte blinked rapidly. “What?”
“I’ve given you very little reason to trust me, yet, you’ve taken me back. Why?”
“Because I love you. And because living without you seemed harder than forgiving you.”
Nicholas lifted an eyebrow. “So, you’ve forgiven me?” he pressed, clearly surprised.
“I’m trying.”
Nodding his head, he offered her a faint smile. “Love isn’t enough to keep us together,” he said, his voice low. “At one point I thought it would be enough, but then I quickly found out that it was a foolish thought.”
She flinched. “Nicholas−”
“If love was enough to keep us together, you wouldn’t have left me when the truth came out about Blithe.”
“So, us separating was my fault?” she demanded, exasperated.
“I didn’t say that. I’m just stating a fact. Love isn’t enough to keep us together, and if you don’t trust me . . . we’re never going to last.”
A Winter's Seduction (A Winter's Tale Series Book 5) Page 10
