Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

  He gets on and kicks the stand to right it. Once he starts it up, he turns to give me an expectant look, nodding his head toward what’s left of the seat behind him.

  I sigh and walk over. Just lifting my leg over the back makes me very conscious of how short this shirt-acting-as-a-dress is. I might as well be bottomless.

  And the humiliation of being exposed most of the waking day continues.

  Ironic, considering what I was dressed in after waking up this morning.

  It feels even more scandalous considering my legs are spread wide to accommodate his narrow hips. The purr of the engine only adds to the erotic sensation buzzing through me.

  He starts with a lurch that has me yelping out in surprise and snapping my hands out to grab his waist. I grip hard, feeling the taut muscles along the sides of his rippling abs. If he was turned the other way between my thighs, this is probably where my hands would start out as he—

  I squeal in surprise as he rapidly turns onto the street, leaning the scooter sideways as he does. I feel the vibration of his laughter underneath my hands and I lift one to slap him on the back.

  Ricardo just laughs harder.

  I scowl at the back of his head, but my irritation is dulled by the scenery that passes by.

  With the warm sun cooled by the rapid wind blowing past us, it feels like the perfect day. The idyllic surroundings eventually turn into something resembling a town, white stucco buildings and more traffic buzzing by.

  It doesn’t take long for the tourists and residents to come into the picture, though there are fewer than I expected. Maybe it’s the siesta Ricardo was referring to.

  The city is much more quaint than I expected. I thought there would be large mansions and huge resort hotels with Ferraris and Maseratis speeding by. Instead, it seems more like an old, slightly congested, seaside town.

  I love it.

  The home I grew up in, rising high above Los Angeles in the Hollywood Hills might as well have been a fortress for how massive and well-guarded it was. I could wander the interior or the grounds and not even realize I was in one of the largest cities in the country.

  Here, there are no walls blocking the outside world. It’s free and open and wonderful.

  The road eventually takes us past the water and I squint my eyes against the afternoon sun reflected off the sparkling waves and bright, blue water.

  Ricardo parks near a rustic looking place with plenty of outdoor seating next to a large beach. When he shuts off the engine, I’m the first to get off, standing on slightly trembling legs. I must have been clinging to him harder than I thought.

  “Come,” he says as soon as he gets off. He holds out his hand to me. “I think it’s time we got some sangria into you.”

  I stare down at the hand held out to me. Is it because he thinks I’m going to run? I have to laugh.

  Where exactly would I go?

  This is his world and I’m just an accidental tourist in it.

  So far, it has been more of an adventure than I’ve ever had in my life.

  Sangria.

  I’m not even twenty-one yet. Not that I’m going to tell him that. I think I remember reading somewhere that the drinking age is younger here than in the United States, so it probably doesn’t matter.

  Either way, it’s certainly not going to get me to talk.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Enrique

  I’m surprised when she actually takes my hand.

  I’m even more surprised by the enthusiasm with which she follows me to the same bar I met Ulrich at earlier.

  Maybe it was the promise of sangria. Right about now, it does feel like it would hit the spot almost as much as una cerveza. But the former is far more potent, all the better to get this one talking.

  My eyes flicker across her in nothing but my shirt—and those unfortunate shoes. I ignore the latter in favor of the former. Once again, I have a conflicting stew of sensations boiling inside of me. Her curvaceous legs are fully exposed. The way she fills out that simple dress shirt should be illegal. Her hair is still damp, cascading in an explosion of curls down her back.

  Considering the circumstances, it’s no surprise my mind races to that movie I saw when I was a kid, Splash. The moment Daryl Hannah walked through the crowd completely naked, a mermaid turned woman, was one of my first introductions to puberty. Her dressed in one of Tom Hank’s dress shirts only added to the fantasy.

  This she-devil of mine makes that memory seem as tame as a Disney movie. It’s no wonder sailors considered mermaids to be dangerous creatures. If they all looked like this one, I could see how many a ship might be led toward its doom just from staring at her too long.

  We’re almost at the entrance of the bar when I feel her stop behind me. I turn to find her staring slightly agape at the beach.

  It’s a different group of girls lying there now, but they are no less topless than the ones Ulrich was admiring before.

  The look on her face is a mixture of shock, curiosity, and admiration.

  “Welcome to Spain,” I lean down to whisper in her ear. “I would have thought you’d be more open-minded about that sort of thing.”

  She turns to me, slightly indignant, as though her solitary nude swimming is something completely different from being topless on a public beach.

  I laugh and continue leading her to the bar. I nod at the waiter and bartender, both of whom know me well by now, and continue on to a table with a perfect view of the beach. I allow her the better view, mostly so I can admire her shock and awe.

  It’s strange, in some ways she seems so cunning, but in other ways, she’s as full of wonder as a child. I estimate her age to be about twenty or so, definitely an adult.

  At least I hope so.

  “Are you old enough to drink?” I ask, mostly to make sure.

  She gives me a look as though the question is stupid, and I’m stupid for even asking.

  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure the convent wouldn’t take on a nun, even a nun-in-training unless they were of legal age. If she’s old enough to at least pretend to give her life to God, I suppose she can handle a drink.

  “A pitcher of the red sangria,” I say when Julio comes by to bring menus. It’s a tapas bar and, even though we’ve come just before they shut down for the siesta hours, the staff knows me well enough to accommodate a few dishes for us.

  Diabla—I do love this name I’ve given her—stares at me after the request for sangria, but poses no objections.

  When Julio leaves, her eyes fall to the menu. Based on the crease that forms in her brow, she’s not at all familiar with the offerings. So, probably not Spanish after all, just as I suspected.

  “British?” I toss out, just to gauge her reaction.

  Her eyes flash up to me, her face contorted in such a way that tells me that guess was wrong.

  “American then.” This is another guess posed as a confirmation. She’s just as, if not more likely to be from one of the English-speaking islands in the Caribbean, maybe even Canadian. But I’m going by the numbers, and the fact that she seems to understand at least a bit of Spanish.

  That’s when she seems to realize her mistake, her expression breaking out into a flash of panic before smoothing out into pure neutrality. She really needs to work on her poker face.

  I laugh and shake my head. “American it is.”

  The way her mouth tightens in self-reproach only confirms that truth.

  And we haven’t even gotten started on the sangria.

  She focuses on the menu, avoiding eye contact.

  “I can recommend a few things if you like.”

  She cautiously rolls her eyes up to me and, after a moment, shrugs and nods, setting the menu aside. Her eyes are reluctantly drawn to the girls on the beach again.

  “We can go to the beach after this to join them.”

  She looks at me as though I’ve just suggested she show up to mass naked.

  I laugh. “Don’t get shy on me now, Diabla.”
<
br />   The way her pretty mouth twists tells me she hates the nickname. All the better to pry her real name out of her.

  Julio comes back with a clear pitcher of red liquid, swimming with orange slices and apple cubes. After pouring both of us a glass, I grab mine and lift it toward her.

  She stares at it with wary regard before her questioning gaze slides to me.

  “Salud,” I say, giving her a direct gaze. “To your health.”

  She frowns and takes a sip without lifting her glass to mine.

  I laugh and shrug. “Keep tempting fate, Diabla.”

  She rolls her eyes and continues sipping, her gaze falling back to the beach.

  I sit back and sip my sangria, considering her as I do. “So you can’t, or won’t talk. Are you allowed to write?”

  Her eyes snap back to me.

  “Or we could just work in gestures. I can ask yes or no questions, and you simply nod or shake your head?”

  A slow, sly smile appears on her lips as though she’s well aware of what I’m trying.

  I match it with one of my own. “We both know it isn’t your commitment to the faith that has you keeping silent. Which tells me more than you think.”

  Her smile falters a bit and she diverts her attention back to the beach, hiding behind her glass of sangria.

  Julio comes back to inquire about food, and I order a few of my favorites from the menu.

  While we wait, I decide a bit of stream of consciousness musing might help move things along. Before I begin, I grab the pitcher and fill her half-empty glass. Thankfully, she seems to have a taste for the sangria.

  “So,” I begin, settling back in my chair as I watch her closely for any facial or bodily clues, “An American, at a Spanish convent. You at least know a bit of Spanish. I’ll take an educated guess and assume you’re from somewhere along the southern border states in the west? Or maybe New York or Florida, based on what I know about the country.”

  She just takes a sip of her sangria, now focused on the beach with hard determination.

  “I know there are more than enough convents in that country you could have taken advantage of, which means Santa María was chosen for a reason. All the more so considering its isolated location. Perfect if you don’t want to be found.”

  I think back twenty years to when my mother brought me to that very island to escape Richard Coleman. I have only a vague idea of what happened when she left me, but to her credit, she did do a good job of picking the location. My biological father never found me.

  But right now, I’m more focused on the way Diabla takes another sip of her sangria.

  I’ve found her tell.

  Biting back the smirk I feel itching to come to my face, I continue on.

  “Your clothing tells me you aren’t yet a nun, all the more so since I found you without them on.”

  Her eyes flash to me, filled with angry irritation.

  “Even a soon-to-be-nun knows better than to go swimming naked where any man passing by could find her. Then again,” I pause for effect, “not many people know about that lagoon. As far as I know, there’s only one way there from the convent. Which means you’re an adventurer, certainly more than some on the island. That’s if they could even fit into that narrow opening and last long enough to make it through the other side.”

  I feel a smile tug at my lips as I think about one in particular who once conjured up images of Winnie the Pooh.

  The tiny hitch in her smile tells me she might be thinking about the same nun, imagining her trying to work her way through that narrow cave.

  “Sister Ana comes to mind.” I still remember her slapping the back of my head over something when I was five.

  A small giggle gurgles up from Diabla’s throat and she brings a hand up to silence it, her eyes wide with guilt.

  “I’m guessing she’s still around, and her sour attitude hasn’t changed over the years.”

  Her brow lifts in mild acknowledgment and a hint of a smile touches her lips as she takes another sip.

  I chuckle and take a sip of my own.

  I’ve been back to the convent only a handful of times since being adopted. This was mostly to visit Sister Clara during that phase as a young adult when I was conflicted about my identity. That was also the period when I learned the truth about my adoptive parents.

  “So what are you hiding from, Diabla?”

  She swallows hard and brings the glass down, giving me a hard look.

  “You don’t need to deny that one. It’s obvious. I just think it’s fair for me to know what kind of danger I’m putting myself in front of, being your gracious host and all.”

  She tilts her head and gives me a pointed look, as though to inform me that there’s an easy solution to that.

  I laugh and lift my glass toward her. “I think not, señorita.”

  She rolls her eyes and looks out toward the beach.

  Julio comes back with our food, and now there’s something far more appealing to attract her hungry eyes. I give her first dibs, being that I had a little something to nibble on earlier with Ulrich.

  I smile with amusement as she tests everything.

  She takes almost all of the patas bravas, a simple dish of cubed potatoes with cream sauce drizzled on top.

  The pulpo a la brasa, grilled octopus, she takes one look at and passes on.

  She favors the albondigas morunos, lamb meatballs in couscous, taking more than half.

  The queso de cabra horneado, goat cheese and pear chutney with toasted baguettes, she devours.

  I’m going to have to order another round of most of this, which is fine. I love a woman who enjoys food as much as I do, especially that from my adoptive country, which I’ve grown to love.

  It’s like watching a kid exploring some new-fangled toy store, excitedly trying out this and that to determine what they will and won’t enjoy.

  It’s refreshing to watch.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Leira

  I take another bite of the slice of baguette I’ve just spread cheese on. It’s delicious, all the more so considering how ravenous I am.

  How are there not more tapas restaurants in Los Angeles? Not that Dad would have let me venture to any, at least not without one of his goons accompanying me.

  Ricardo isn’t eating, just sitting there watching with a bemused smile on his face. That’s fine. More food for me. Save for the octopus, I’ll eat everything laid out before us.

  Let him watch.

  I sip some more sangria in between bites. That’s another thing I’ve discovered I have a taste for. It’s definitely hitting me hard by now, so I’ll have to be careful with it.

  But it’s so good!

  Suddenly I don’t care about my circumstances. Yes, he still has that photo of me on his phone. Yes, he’s figured out too much about me for comfort. Yes, I should be working on finding a way out of this situation.

  But right now, I’m enjoying myself.

  I could easily be one of those girls on the beach here in Ibiza for the summer, enjoying some fun in the sun.

  Dad would have never allowed it.

  Even though I’m a damn adult.

  I sip some more sangria, enjoying the symbolic thrill of it. I’m not even old enough to drink in America. But here in Ibiza, I can indulge in all the things I’m not allowed to, even beyond the scope of the law.

  I take another bite and then another sip.

  This is so much fun!

  I think about Ricardo referencing Sister Ana. How does he know her? When was he ever at the convent?

  Just mentioning her with regard to that hole had me picturing her trying to squeeze through it. It’s hard to imagine such a mean woman being a servant of God. She’s never had a nice word to say about me being there, and made damn sure I felt as unwelcome as possible. It would serve her right getting stuck.

  I giggle, only realizing after the fact that I did it out loud.

  “Something amusing? By all means, feel free t
o enlighten me. I could use a good laugh.”

  I twist my lips at him, but can’t help the smile that contorts it.

  He’s so handsome.

  Like some prince in a fairy tale.

  No…that’s silly. He’s more like a movie star. I can’t put my finger on a specific one, but definitely something from a romance. One with a bad boy as the hero.

  I’m getting swoony.

  I hiccup a giggle before taking another sip of this yummy sangria.

  “An arranged marriage.”

  I pull the glass away to give him a confused look.

  “No, that’s not what you’re hiding from,” he says with a subtle smile.

  “You killed a man and ran away to avoid prosecution.”

  I smirk and roll my eyes.

  Keep playing twenty questions, Romeo—or should I say, Ricardo?

  “You’re hiding out because someone is after you.”

  I draw the glass back up to my lips and sip. I should really stop this. He’s getting too close to the truth, and my wits are rapidly drowning in this glass.

  But it’s just so good.

  His smile broadens. “I’ll get the truth out of you somehow.”

  I set my glass down and stick my tongue out at him.

  Really?

  What am I, five?

  I think about his massive dick and how hard it pressed into my ass cheek as he held me in the water. No five-year-old could accomplish that—at least I hope not! I recall the way his eyes crawled over me after he ripped the sheets away from me in his boat. There was no need to interpret that look. Definitely all woman here. The thought sends a wave of pleasure through me, followed by a ripple of giggles.

  “Very mature,” he says with a laugh. “My guess is, you’re feeling that sangria.”

  I shrug and nonchalantly take another sip.

  “Have some more,” he offers, picking up the pitcher and reaching out for my glass.

  I really shouldn’t. Maybe some more of those meatballs to soak it up will help.

  He manages to rescue the glass from my hand and fill it to the top again. I notice that he isn’t even halfway done with his own glass.