Leira
His lips taste like a mixture of sin and paradise.
Lying here underneath him as he hungrily introduces me to such worldly delights, I can’t help but be led astray by his seductive lips. I feel like Eve, once pure and innocent, skipping right past the apple to kiss the serpent himself as he awakens her body to all the evils of the world.
Then, he pulls away.
The eyes I closed after I allowed myself to fall now flash open in surprise. I find him staring down at me like I’m some conundrum to figure out. Then, like I actually am Eve, who has convinced him, Adam, to take a nice juicy bite of the forbidden fruit, he rises up, jumping to his feet as though I’m the fires of hell he needs to escape.
I almost stupidly ask what the hell his problem is.
But now that he’s no longer such an overwhelming presence, leading me down the path of certain damnation, I quickly recover. I sit up and try in vain to wipe the sand away from my wet clothes and hair, if only to help rid myself of any evidence of what just happened.
I want to spit every vile and vicious insult at him that I learned in the hallowed halls of those Catholic girls’ schools my father sent me to. Never underestimate the degenerate creativity of a mind forced into chaste submission, especially at an early age.
But I’ve come too far in my silence to back down over a stupid kiss.
“We should get going,” he says, glaring hard at me.
I ignore him, rising up and trying to straighten out my dress, so I at least look somewhat presentable.
He mutters something in Spanish under his breath, and my eyes roll up to find him staring hard at my postulant’s clothes, as though they’re some tempting vice he knows better than to go near. My eyes fall to the drab jumper, coarse white blouse, long dark socks, and “sensible” shoes, wondering what the hell he could possibly find problematic about them. The whole point of a nun’s dress is to avoid any lustful gaze.
“Let’s go,” he practically growls at me.
Once again, I’m left bewildered. If anyone should be angry here, it’s me!
I’m the one who was kidnapped.
I’m the one who was held hostage.
I’m the one who was photographed naked.
I’m the one who was practically assaulted just now.
My tongue inadvertently darts out of my mouth, sliding across my lower lip as though trying to lick away any lingering taste of him there.
Now, I understand his resentment. Just like me, he almost allowed himself to give in to temptation. I’m not the only one with something to lose.
The only difference is, I know his secret, but he doesn’t know mine.
I hold onto that knowledge with smug satisfaction—and more than a little bit of relief—as I follow him across the isolated beach.
His clothes and hair are still wet. The thin cotton of his shirt clings to the muscles of his back, which ripple like the waves of that sea that almost claimed me as he struts across the soft yield of the sand. His dark hair curls at the nape of his neck, each ebony tendril ending in slick, curved daggers.
It’s a reminder that everything about him spells danger.
Perhaps even worse than that which my father has been protecting me from for so long.
Mostly because, despite everything, he’s still so desirable. I still can’t stop that rebellious part of my brain from wondering what could have happened if I allowed him to continue kissing me, his body lying prone on top of mine.
When we finally make our way to the road, I assume that either he has a car waiting for us, or we’ll hitchhike like they do in the movies. Instead, he keeps walking, now along the pavement.
I’ve heard of Ibiza, but only in the way that one hears about distant and exotic places you know you’ll never visit. Now, here I am. It certainly doesn’t match up with the tidbits I’d learned about it being party-central.
Everything around me looks like a more provincial version of the hills of Malibu or Santa Monica, with fewer houses dotting the cliffs and hillsides. It almost feels like some idyllic island getaway, the kind people disappear to in order to escape modern life.
We walk for what seems like forever. At least it’s enough to dry me off, helping rid me of most of the sand that stubbornly stuck to the damp parts of me. Now, the Mediterranean sun is beginning to wear on me, especially in these thick clothes.
In the middle of hiking up a particularly steep hill, I’m almost tempted to break my silence by asking him just how much longer we’ll be walking.
That’s when he finally turns to head up a short walkway to a medium-sized apartment building. I breathe a sigh of relief, already imagining the cool interior and glass of water I plan on gesturing my way into getting from him.
When he pulls out his keys to unlock the front entrance, I pay closer attention to the surroundings. The building reminds me of some of the apartments in Los Angeles, stucco walls, open walkways, slightly aged or retro, depending on your level of sentimentality.
For some reason, it doesn’t fit the man I’m with.
I don’t even know much about him, which is why I find it odd that I can make that assessment. He’s young and casually dressed, which meshes perfectly in this setting. But he also owns a boat. And he just happens to have both a gun and a pair of handcuffs.
Maybe this is a friend’s apartment? Or maybe this is just some second home away from home where he bums around? Or maybe…
I close my eyes and exhale as we walk up the second set of stairs, unable to puzzle this out any further. I’m probably suffering from heatstroke or dehydration or malnourishment or something.
I don’t care who the hell he is. I just want a cool place to rest, take a shower, drink some water, and maybe nibble on some food.
When he opens the door to his unit, my curiosity is piqued again. I follow him inside…and that’s when I freeze, my heart stopping cold with fear.
Chapter Eleven
Enrique
I sense her stop behind me as I enter the apartment.
When I turn around, I see the look on her face as she stands there, not two feet past the threshold. I twist back around, wondering what she finds so intimidating about the place.
There’s nothing to be afraid of.
That’s when it hits me. There’s nothing here. I have a small table with one chair, a small, obviously used sofa. In the only bedroom, there’s a mattress on a box spring.
I certainly don’t typically invite company back to this place. The apartment is sparse by design, meant to be a safe haven should the storm of my life catch up with me.
For the occasional one-night-stand—which Ibiza makes so easily available—I end up either going back to their place or just booking a hotel room for the night. Sometimes right there on the beach late at night if the mood strikes us.
As such, the apartment pretty much looks like the hideout of a criminal, perhaps a temporary holding spot for a kidnapped victim.
Which it technically is.
“Make yourself at home,” I say in a slightly mocking voice as I walk around her to shut the door before she gets any ideas about fleeing.
She flinches as the door clicks behind her, and she makes sure to take two steps away from me as I pass back around to head to the refrigerator. I always make sure this is at least stocked with the essentials of bottled water. There are nonperishables in some of the cabinets. Otherwise, I typically just head into town to eat.
I grab two bottles of water and walk one over to her.
“Don’t drink from the faucet. It tastes like seawater,” I say as I hold the bottle out.
She gives it a suspicious look before snatching it away.
So that’s what it’s going to be like, then. I suppose I can understand her suspicions.
I walk over to the couch and fall down, feeling my exhaustion set in. Patently ignoring her, I open my bottle and take several long gulps. When I’m done, she’s still standing by the door, though she has opened the bottle to take a few sips.
“You might as well rest. I know you’re probably more tired than I am.”
She frowns at me, then makes a cautious trek to the one chair at the small table. She sits down so erect and proper it’s amusing. She’s obviously had the same Catholic education that I have.
Which does nothing to diminish her sex appeal.
If anything, it only makes it worse.
I almost regret asking her to leave the veil back on the boat.
Any traces of my Catholic guilt evaporated a long time ago, leaving nothing but the salty residue of a thirst for atonement from certain guilty parties. Thus, the thought of convincing a bride of Christ—even one who is obviously in a fake marriage of convenience—to defy her vows does nothing but excite that impure part of me most men are tainted by.
I wonder if she’s still a virgin.
“Can I at least get a name, seeing as you’ve so willingly taken advantage of my hospitality?”
She simply stares at me with an expression so dull it borders on patronizing.
I laugh. So much for that.
“Fair enough, I’ll go first. Ricardo.”
As though I’d be stupid enough to give my real name.
I haven’t forgotten my original name—my Christian name, if you will. Thus, I’ve always used a variation that is similar to Eric, especially when committing one sin or another.
I give her an expectant look and get nothing but a hint of a sneer in return.
“Fine, you’ll just force me to make up one.”
The look of indifference she gives me causes me to smirk.
“Bueno, Diabla, it is.”
She blinks and sits up straighter, giving me an incredulous look.
“She-devil. Perfectly befitting a woman who lies about being a woman of God.”
She sniffs and rolls her eyes before taking another sip of water.
“I’ll let you have the shower first, Diabla. You look like you could use it more than me.”
Her eyes snap back to me, suddenly suspicious.
“Don’t worry, I’m far too exhausted to try anything.”
The wary expression doesn’t leave her face, but her eyes fall to her clothes, which are filthy with sand and salt from today’s adventures. She picks at the curls of her hair that fall down her back in wild, frizzy coils, and then frowns. When her eyes come back to me, she twists her lips and gives me a reluctant nod.
I wave toward the bedroom where the bathroom is attached. It has a shower. “There should be a towel in there.”
There’s only one towel, but I’m happy to let her have it. In fact, I doubt I’ll even bother with a shower. A simple change of clothes and washing my face and hands should do the trick.
When I hear the door to the bathroom close, and the water turn on, I head into the bedroom to rifle through my closet. I keep a few changes of clothes and shoes here, just in case. Most of it is as casual as what I’m wearing now.
After pulling out a t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans for myself, I consider the rest. My lips twist as I try to imagine something fitting for the woman in my shower. I wear my t-shirts to size, unlike the Americans who seem to prefer a looser fit. Mine would barely cover that perfectly round ass of hers. I smile as I imagine that, then I snuff it out before my dick starts picturing it as well.
The one exception is a dress shirt I keep in case the occasion requires something a little more business casual. Formal rarely, if ever, enters the equation on this island paradise.
I pull out the white, button-up shirt and tilt my head to the side. It’ll have to do. There’s no way I can take her into town in that nun’s outfit. The attention it would draw is too risky.
I lay the shirt on the bed so she sees it when she gets out of the shower. I change into a new pair of underwear and jeans, then grab a t-shirt and head out to the kitchen. There, I rinse my face and hair free of saltwater and then put the clean shirt on.
I pull out my phone to look at the photo I snapped of her. The look of surprise on her face dials it down from “erotic” to “ridiculous.” Frankly, her covering herself with her legs and free arm was much more of a turn-on, reminiscent of those flirty, mid-century pin-ups. But there’s enough on display in this photo for her to be worried about it being made public.
The first tinge of guilt hits me before I remember myself.
I’m no good guy—no hero.
So long as she behaves, she has nothing to worry about. Whoever she is.
The first question that I asked her back at the lagoon pops into my head once again and I mutter it to myself.
“Quién eres?”
Chapter Twelve
Leira
The water feels amazing.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted a shower so badly. After a swim in the lagoon, I typically let the sun dry me off, and I’m good to go by the time I make it back to the convent.
But wading through the waves, the sandy beach, and the hike up to Ricardo’s apartment have taken their toll on me. I relish the relaxing feel of warm water against my tired muscles almost as much as I need it to cleanse away the sweat, salt, and sand.
Ricardo.
Yeah right.
And he accuses me of lying.
Of course, he’d be stupid to give me his real name, so I don’t hold it against him.
Diabla.
I laugh under the spray of water. She-devil? That’s what he thinks of me? Or maybe it was just an ironic contradiction to my claim to be a nun-in-training.
If I’m a lying she-devil, just what does that make him?
The sparse state of this place only adds to the mystery of him. It looks exactly like the kind of secret hideout where professional kidnappers would keep a hostage as they awaited the ransom—or maybe just the torture victim of a serial killer, like that guy in that TV show Dexter. Frankly, I fully expected him to have duct tape, ropes, and mouth gags hidden away in a drawer.
That has me thinking about my father. It’s late afternoon, which means the alarm has certainly been sounded back at the convent. I wonder how long it will take them to tell Dad.
He’d be on the next plane to Spain, then on the same boat that first delivered me to the island. Mother Agnes is certainly enough of a force to handle even someone like him—a man who I’ve personally seen make men twice his size tremble in fear.
How much would Ricardo ask for if he knew whose daughter I was?
Then again, there was no ransom demand for either Layla or Lucinda.
I frown and turn off the water, no longer enjoying the shower. While I stand there, the water dripping off me, I organize my thoughts.
Ricardo is obviously hiding something—something that has nothing to do with me, my father, or the people who took my sisters. If I can figure it out, perhaps I can use it as leverage for him to let me go…and delete that damn photo he took of me.
“You can do this,” I say to myself.
I may have had an overly sheltered upbringing but that doesn’t make me stupid. I’ll wait in silence while he slips up talking to me.
It should be easy.
I smile to myself and step out of the shower, grabbing the one towel to dry off. I look at myself in the mirror as I do. The equal blend of my parents is more evident in me than any of my sisters. I don’t remember my mother, but there are so many photos of her back home—photos I’ve obsessed over, longing for the mother I never knew—that her image is etched on my brain. My mother’s dark skin and father’s olive tone come together in a rich brown on me. I have his large brown eyes, her full mouth, his long nose, her heart-shaped face.
The thin spirals of hair reaching down my back will eventually dry into thick curls that are impossible to manage without a ton of products. It’s almost the perfect metaphor for the uncontrollable child my father always said I was, constantly defying the sisters at the school, escaping my bedroom when I was put on time-out, getting into places I shouldn’t have been.
It’s no wonder I found that lagoo
n so quickly.
And now, here I am.
I sigh and wrap the towel firmly around me. I cautiously open the door, peeking my head out to make sure Ricardo isn’t around.
My eyes land on the lone shirt on the bed.
Am I supposed to wear that? Only that?
I frown and open the door fully to walk out and pick it up. It’s just barely long enough to reach past my ass. Practically indecent.
I consider the clothes I arrived in. It’s only the thought of that sun beating down on me through all that thick cloth that convinces me this shirt is slightly preferable.
I’ve rinsed my bra and underwear in the shower with me, and head back to squeeze them as dry as possible. When they are only slightly damp, I put them back on, then try on the shirt for size.
My curvy body fills it out enough so that it looks dress-like, even without a belt to cinch in the waist. I roll up the long sleeves, which reach all the way to my fingertips.
The result is…not bad.
The only issue is the shoes. The black, thick-soled, heavy lace-up shoes look patently absurd paired with the shirt.
That thought is pretty much confirmed when I walk out and Ricardo gets a look at me. The way his expression shifts from appreciation to horror is comical.
When he erupts in laughter, it’s contagious enough for me to join him.
“The shoes are the first thing we’ll take care of.”
I raise my brow as though to ask where exactly we’re going.
“Let’s go before the siesta starts. I’m hungry,” is all he says as he pulls a set of keys from the pocket of his jeans.
The thought of food has me following him without protest. If it also means a change of shoes, I’m game.
I follow him back down the stairs. This time we make a detour to the back of the apartment. He leads me to a scooter parked there. I’ve never been on one, and I know exactly where I’m sitting once he starts that thing up.
Still, it’s better than walking to wherever civilization is on this island, especially after that shower.
Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance Page 6
