Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  A bird’s trill answered on the television.

  Laughter bubbled up in Anamaría’s throat. Alejandro collapsed against her, groaning and burying his face in her neck. The day’s scruff on his jaw scratched her skin heightening her awareness of him. The softness of his hair tickled her jaw as the hard angles and planes of his body melded with hers. His woody patchouli and spice scent invading her senses with its intoxicating allure.

  He released a shaky breath and drew back to stare down at her. His face flushed with passion, his lips wet from their kisses, he looked sexily tousled and horny. Exactly how she felt.

  “Coño, this is like high school all over again,” he complained. “Us making out on the living room sofa, in danger of getting caught by familia walking in.”

  She chuckled. “Truth.”

  He grinned back at her, all boyish charm and manly magnetism that had her heart tripping over itself.

  “So, your exhibit as a whole? It’s going well?” she murmured, trying to pick up the thread of conversation they had dropped when they’d gotten deliciously distracted.

  Gently, he tucked a lock of hair from her ponytail behind her ear. “It’s coming together, thanks to Marcelo and Natalia.”

  “He sure sings her praises, doesn’t he? She must be pretty great at her job,” Anamaría said.

  Ale nodded. His gaze strayed to the television where a brightly colored bird, its wings spread in flight, glided above the splendor of the rainforest canopy.

  “The two of them grew up in the same neighborhood in Chicago,” he explained. “Seems like people there are as tight as many of us locals here. She has a good eye. You can tell by the photographs she recommends, those she nixes. Her vision for showcasing specific ones is strong, vivid. I really like working with her.”

  Much like his niece when she had rattled off the fun she planned to have with her new sibling, Alejandro’s face lit with excitement when he talked about this new art consultant.

  Jealousy flared inside Anamaría.

  Adamantly, she stomped it out like the embers of an illegal fire on the beach. She had no idea what this Natalia looked like, so she had no business picturing her like his ex—tall, statuesque, beautiful. Even if Natalia wound up matching that description, it didn’t matter. Jealousy had no role in Anamaría and Alejandro’s relationship.

  In fact, they were both making progress with their respective, also separate, goals.

  His recovery was going well. This week, he had relied on the crutches more often than the wheelchair. According to his orthopedist, barring any strange setback, he might be ready to have the Ilizarov fixator rings and wires removed the week of his show’s opening. That meant he’d be free to leave shortly after.

  And she . . . she’d been offered a chance to attend two AllFit-sponsored marathon races over eight days in Europe. Anamaría and Brandon were set to work the company’s booth at the expo, with her having two hour-long cooking demonstrations. Her Captain at the fire station had already approved her request to swap Kelly days and tack on another day of leave. As soon as she’d gotten word, she’d driven to the Miami Passport Agency to apply for an expedited passport.

  Come the second weekend in July, she’d be in Barcelona. Alejandro would be back home in Atlanta, or, if his agent had his way, already off on his next shoot.

  She reminded herself that she’d gone into their temporary arrangement with her eyes wide open. The problem was, her heart had remained in the picture. Filled with love for him.

  Oh, she wouldn’t go back on her no-strings promise. Wouldn’t let him know that while the anger and disillusion of their first breakup would be missing from their second, there would still be anguish. For her anyway. But she’d get through it. She would not ask him to stay, but she could love him from afar while they pursued their dreams on their own.

  “It’s good to hear you’re happy with Natalia’s vision for your pieces. They deserve the best,” Anamaría told him.

  “She’s come up with the layout for where each piece will be placed inside Bellísima. Although there’s a special section I’ve been thinking about adding. It has the potential to really resonate with longtime Conchs.” He paused, a strange nervousness creeping into his voice as he sat up.

  Anamaría shifted, crooking her left knee between them to face him. “But?”

  “But I haven’t shown anyone these photographs because they’re—they’re kind of personal.”

  “Okay, now I’m intrigued.” Anamaría started to make a joke about him snapping illicit pics of himself to ease the uncertainty she sensed in him, but the raw vulnerability stamping his angular features stopped her. She cupped his jaw, seeking to help soothe whatever worried him. “These photographs sound important, Ale. What does Natalia think about them?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “What?” Anamaría drew back in surprise. “You just said she’s great to work with and has a fantastic eye for selecting the right images. Why are you holding these back from her?”

  He wove a hand through his hair, sliding it down to cup the back of his head with his palm. “Because I took them when I was in Cuba for a commercial shoot and spent a day on my own. Retracing my parents’ and abuelos’ steps. Visiting familia I’d never met before.”

  Anamaría sucked in a surprised breath. “Does your mother know? I’m sure she’d love to see the—”

  “No. And neither does my father.” He scrubbed a hand over his face in obvious discomfort. “Part of me thinks I should show the photographs. That Mami and Abuela, your parents, those older-generation Conchs who will hopefully come see the exhibition, might feel a connection to their birth home, the Cuba they left behind . . . I think . . . hell, I hope . . .”

  With a heavy sigh that puffed out his cheeks, he collapsed back onto the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.

  “You hope what?” Anamaría prodded.

  He swiveled his head to look at her. In the muted light from the television, the butter yellow leather cushion was a stark contrast to his tanned complexion. His umber eyes brimmed with uncertainty. Something she’d never seen when it came to his photography.

  “God, I don’t want to make a mistake,” he said, the admission gruff with unease.

  “You can’t make a mistake when it comes to your work, Ale. Every image of yours I’ve ever seen is breathtaking.” She pressed a hand over his heart and leaned closer, willing him to see the sincerity in her eyes. “I’m sure your Cuba photographs are the same. Would you like to share them with me, maybe I can help you decide?”

  His throat worked with his swallow, and Anamaría held her breath, wanting him to trust her.

  Leaning forward, he snagged his iPad from the low coffee table and pressed the side button to bring the contraption to life. After several swipes and taps of the screen, a folder opened to reveal a list of images. He clicked on one she recognized from a faded picture framed on the cashier counter at the restaurant, the original Miranda’s in Cuba. His photograph showed the building as it was today, run-down and graffittied, but still standing. A tangible reminder of the man who had sacrificed much for his familia to have the blessings they cherished today.

  Alejandro continued scrolling through the images on his screen, stopping on particular ones that caught his eye. Much like Lulu enjoyed doing when he allowed her to play with his iPad.

  “Wow! I may not be a trained art consultant, but Ale, these are gorgeous. I say, follow your gut; add them to your exhibit if there’s still time. Thank you for sharing them with me. For trusting me.”

  “You’re the first,” he admitted, his voice gruff with emotion.

  She tore her gaze away from the image of a dilapidated, dried-up fountain in the middle of a park, surrounded by a promenade circle, its intricate tiles weathered and cracked with time and age.

  “I am?” she asked, touched by his gift to her.

  A chagrined smile curved his lips, giving him a boyish charm. Unable to resist, she stretched up to kiss his cheek.<
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  He hugged her close, his arms tightening deliciously around her. She squeezed him back, her love for him taking hold, making her loath to release him.

  “I want these photographs to be a bridge,” he told her, when they broke apart. “Not completely demolish one that’s barely hanging on like the Old Seven Mile Bridge up the Keys.”

  Or the one separating him and his father.

  “He’s still barely speaking to you?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He sagged deeper into the sofa cushions as if the single-syllable word was too much for him to carry.

  “Opening Night, any chance he’ll come?” She pitched her voice low, afraid her question and the dismal answer she anticipated would cause him more grief.

  “Doubtful.” The self-deprecating tug at the corners of his mouth, the sadness now shadowing his eyes, made her ache for him.

  Leaning her forearms on his chest, she cupped his face with her hands, seeking to comfort him. “Those pictures, your exhibit, they are not a mistake. I’m sure of it. Everyone is going to love all your photographs. And your dad? He’ll come around; you’ll see.”

  Skepticism flashed across his face.

  She hated seeing him so hurt. Hated that she didn’t know how to help.

  “I think you should show Natalia these photographs, Ale.” She grasped the edge of his iPad. “They could be the pièce de résistance to your show.”

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering. His earlier unease beginning to dissipate. “I really want to add them to the show.”

  “Then do it. I am one hundred percent behind you.”

  A seductive, naughty smile curved his lips. “Behind me, and under, and on top of me. All my favorite positions when it comes to you.”

  She snorted a laugh and shook her head. “Leave it to you to turn a serious conversation into something sexual.”

  He ducked his head to nip at her lips with his, trailing his mouth to her ear. His warm breath sent chills chasing across her shoulders as he whispered, “But you love it, don’t you?”

  She let her eyes flutter closed, afraid he might see the truth she would have to find a way to deal with later. Yes, she did love him. That’s why she planned to soak up every possible minute with him, committing them all to memory, so she could savor them later when she was alone but kicking ass with AM Fitness.

  He nuzzled the shell of her ear with his nose, slowly turning up the heat on her constantly simmering desire.

  “I think we’ve talked about work stuff enough already,” he murmured, pulling back to take one of her hands in his. Lifting it slowly, he pressed a kiss in the center of her palm, gently closing her hand as if wanting her to hold tight to his kiss. Treasure it when he was gone. The tender gesture sent a pang of longing straight to her heart.

  “I agree. There are far more fun activities we should be enjoying,” she said.

  He flashed a sexy smile as his mouth strayed from her palm to her wrist where his tongue licked across her pulse point. White-hot heat shot up her arm, electrifying her nerve endings.

  His mouth strayed higher, liquid fire scorching her skin as the tip of his tongue slipped out to taste her forearm. The juncture of her elbow. Her biceps.

  Her core pulsed with lust, desperate for his touch, craving his tongue in secret places that throbbed with need. She slid her hand under his shirt, reveling at his sharp intake of breath as her fingers splayed across his abs.

  “What do you say?” he murmured against her skin. “Any chance I’ll get to second base before someone from our familias catches us?”

  She chuckled, charmed by his humor.

  He spanned her rib cage with a palm, his thumb languidly stroking the underside of her breast. Her nipples tightened in response.

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “The odds are definitely in your favor.”

  Arching her back, she splayed a hand on the cushion behind her for support. He took her invitation, cupping her breasts with both hands, and she gave herself to the carnal ministrations her body longed for.

  His mouth and tongue joined the fun, concentrating their sensual assault on her cleavage spilling from the scoop neckline of her formfitting tank.

  A low thrum of pleasure hummed in her throat. Needing to feel him, she snuck her left hand under his shirt to explore the firm muscles along his back and shoulders. Her fingers at his nape encouraging him with slight pressure.

  “You are so fucking sexy,” he groaned.

  His teeth grazed her nipple and she gasped, her hips bucking.

  “Sí, más,” she rasped, needing more and not ashamed to let him know.

  His cell phone vibrated on his lap where he’d dropped it earlier.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she groaned. “Un-freaking-believable.”

  Alejandro buried his face in her chest, his strangled laugh shaking his shoulders.

  She reached for his phone, wedged between his shorts’ waistband and tented zipper, proof of his matching desire for them to move way past second base.

  His brother’s text illuminated the screen, and she squealed with excitement as she read aloud, “‘It’s a boy!’”

  “Well, there you go,” Alejandro said, grasping her waist and tugging her onto his lap. “I think this calls for a little adult celebrating. Don’t you?”

  Chapter 17

  “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  Surprised at the accusation, Alejandro halted in the doorway of Bellísima’s office.

  He frowned at Natalia, her petite figure in black, slim-fitting slacks and a silky sleeveless orange blouse, dwarfed by the oversized vintage channel-back accent chair with its textured pink velvet upholstery. It was one of several signature pieces Marcelo and Logan had collected and sprinkled throughout the gallery, including this small office at the back of the building.

  After walking through the gallery visualizing her plan for the various sections of his display, Natalia and Alejandro had settled in here to continue weeding out the final selections while the two gallery owners ran out to grab lunch for them all.

  “I’m not following you,” Alejandro said, in response to her vague declaration.

  Feet curled under her, the savvy art consultant didn’t even bother glancing up. At some point since he had stepped out to take a call from Ernesto, Natalia had made herself comfortable. Her straight dark brown hair was now pulled back into a no-nonsense chignon low on her nape. Her stylish, but sensibly low, black pointy-toed heels sat on the floor in front of the vintage chair.

  All business, she continued scrolling through whatever held her attention on his iPad. The occasional “hmm” her only communication.

  Step-swinging on his crutches, he headed toward the antique mahogany desk, another beautiful piece of furniture that spoke of Marcelo’s and Logan’s refined taste and superior eyes. It went with the vivid oil painting that took up a significant portion of the inside wall the desk faced. Alejandro hadn’t missed the EN scrawled in the bottom right corner, but he would have recognized the dramatic colors and textures, the bold strokes a mix of knife and brush, that stamped the artwork as one of Enrique’s anyway.

  One of the few pieces hanging in a location other than one of his familia members’ homes.

  “That exquisite piece grabs my attention every time I walk in here, too,” Natalia mused, although she had yet to glance up from his iPad screen.

  “He’s so talented. Shame he’s not producing work like that anymore. At least, he hasn’t said anything to me about any new paintings.”

  Her chin came up, her expertly shaped brows angling together. “You know him?”

  Alejandro blinked, taken aback by the intensity of her abrupt question. Leaning his crutches against the desk, he tucked his hands in the pockets of his navy twill shorts. “Uh, yeah. He’s my—”

  Crap, the words girlfriend’s brother nearly slipped out, unchecked. He fisted his hands, pushing away his frustration. No need to put labels on Anamaría and himself.

&nbs
p; “He’s my best friend on the island,” Alejandro amended.

  “Oh really.” Natalia’s hazel green eyes widened, a smug smirk twisting her red lips. “Interesting. So, you could introduce me to this reluctant, incredibly talented artist that Marcelo and Logan swear cannot be convinced to paint on commission. No matter the offer.”

  He noticed she hadn’t asked him a question. Rather, made a suggestion as if she were simply giving Alejandro an opportunity to do something for her. She was wily, this one.

  “I would, if I could, but I can’t,” he answered, purposefully leaving her hanging with his infantile response.

  If she was interested in E’s artwork, maybe Natalia would be the one to find out why he’d up and left a promising art career in Miami to come home and relegate his talent to painting mementos most tourists took home only to get rid of in a garage sale a few years later. E’s work deserved better than that.

  “Why not?” she challenged, unperturbed.

  “Because.”

  With her head cocked, arms crossed, her pursed lips had no need to move. Alejandro heard her annoyed yeah, right, loud and clear.

  “Because he’s a local firefighter out of town for two weeks at the fire college in Ocala. That’s North Central Florida,” he clarified. “But he will be here for the opening. So—”

  “So, you will be a wise, considerate friend and introduce him to the woman who can brighten his future.” Natalia’s satisfied grin drew an anticipatory smile of his own.

  “We shall see.”

  “Yes, we shall.” With that, she went back to perusing whatever had precipitated her accusation when he had first walked in.

  Alejandro shuffled through the sheets of paper on the desktop. Perusing the different layout renderings Natalia had sketched before her arrival yesterday. He spread them out over the marbleized green and brown surface to examine each area individually.

  “That still doesn’t get you off the hook,” she warned him. “Like I said, you’ve been holding back.”

  “Care to elaborate?” he prodded.

  “Her.”