Ready for Marriage?

by Beverly Barton; Ann Major Anne Marie Winston

  But his grief was real, and he had regrets like anybody else. He’d loved his wife and child to distraction. If he’d known how little time he had with them, he would never have left them so often to work in all those far-flung places.

  People thought because his picture was in magazines, he led a charmed life. ‘‘You’ll marry again,’’ they said. ‘‘A man like you…can have anybody.’’

  At first he’d thought he could never betray Susana by marrying another. But nearly three years had passed, and it was getting harder and harder to live on memories. Two months ago, he’d been in Mexico City visiting his old mentor, Marco Escobar, after he’d had a heart attack. Isabela had popped into her father’s hospital room and dropped her shawl. When he’d picked it up, her hand had lingered on his. When she’d shown him sympathy, he’d felt a flicker of interest, the first since his wife’s death. And he’d thought maybe…maybe…

  ‘‘Your Manhattan design was great, Cash. Really,’’ Roger said. ‘‘Everybody said so. You’re just ahead of your time. Look on the bright side. At least you won’t build something that will make Manhattanites scream for your testicles on a skewer, and I won’t lose another expensive shoe. New Yorkers are a lot more violent than Italians, you know.’’

  ‘‘Maybe. But New Yorkers are a lot more receptive to modern architecture too.’’

  It is always a mistake to retrace one’s steps. No sooner was Cash inside the Uffizi than he regretted coming. The walls of the museum that housed the works of the world’s finest collection of Italian Renaissance art seemed to close in. The musty odor of the old building and paintings suffocated him.

  The memories were still too sharp; Susana’s ghost feet too vivid. Only vaguely was he aware of the dimly lit masterpieces, half hidden by glass that loomed above him and Leo in the shadowy gallery.

  ‘‘The last time I was here, I was with Susana,’’ Cash whispered.

  ‘‘I know,’’ Leo said, not without sympathy. But he was a man of the world. His first wife had died in a car crash, and he was now on his third marriage—to a beautiful Parisian model.

  Leo’s heels clicked as he kept walking until they reached a certain gallery in the depths of Galleria degli Uffizi. Suddenly Botticelli’s Birth of Venus soared above them. Outside the sun had set, and it was raining softly, a spring shower that would soon be over.

  The last time he’d been here with Susana, the summer sun had been glorious outside, glorious in her hair, more brilliant and awe-inspiring even than the light in Botticelli’s famous paintings. Cash had wanted to stay outside, to walk in the sunny squares with Susana, to feed the pigeons and look at the buildings. But as always, she’d had her heart set on coming here.

  He and Susana had honeymooned in Florence. Even on that visit, she’d dragged him out of their bed to visit the Uffizi Palace every afternoon, not because the building was one of the most important examples of Italian Mannerist architecture, but because she’d loved Botticelli so much.

  ‘‘If Botticelli were alive, I’d be insanely jealous,’’ he’d teased her once.

  She’d laughed as she’d run through the galleries ahead of him. And always she’d ended up here, staring at The Birth of Venus.

  ‘‘It’s the visual image of the birth of love in the world,’’ she’d explained, sliding her arm through his.

  ‘‘You’re my visual image of love,’’ he’d said.

  ‘‘It’s good you’re here again,’’ Leo said, interrupting his reverie. ‘‘One must banish ghosts.’’

  ‘‘Is that possible?’’ Cash asked, doubtful.

  ‘‘I could introduce you to women who are so skilled, they can make a man forget anything…at least for a while.’’

  Cash thought of Isabela and hoped she would be able to do that for him. ‘‘You Italians…’’

  ‘‘Men are the same everywhere.’’ Leo paused. ‘‘When I saw you at the funeral—’’

  ‘‘Don’t.’’

  Again Cash heard his stepmother tell him it was time to close the caskets—and the gallery became as quiet as death for an awkward moment.

  ‘‘This Venus is one of the most sensuously beautiful nudes painted during the Renaissance,’’ Leo said. ‘‘Do you know the myth?’’

  ‘‘The painting is nice.’’

  ‘‘Nice? What an awful word—too tame. You Americans overuse it.’’

  ‘‘The myth is not so nice. It has some really gruesome aspects.’’

  Leo nodded with a grim little smile, and Cash leaned forward to read a plaque on the wall that told the story. Gaea, mother of Cronus, somehow persuaded the audacious Cronus to castrate his father, Uranus, and throw his severed genitals into the sea.

  Cash’s gut tightened. Still, he stared up from the little plaque to the breathtaking nude redhead with new interest.

  The testicles had floated on the surface of the waters, producing a white foam from which rose the irresistible Aphrodite he saw in the painting. The Romans had adopted the myth, and Botticelli, being Italian, had changed her name to Venus.

  According to the plaque, the winds had carried the foam across stormy seas, and she was born along the coast of Cythera. When the foam washed up on the shores of Cyprus, she rose out of the water and presented herself to the gods.

  Leo broke the silence. ‘‘I always forget how breathtaking Botticelli’s Venus is. The gods fell in love with her upon first sight.’’

  Maybe the mood of the painting affected him. For whatever reason, Cash pulled out a little velvet box and snapped it open. ‘‘I bought a ring…for Isabela.’’ The diamond flashed at them wickedly.

  ‘‘Isabela Escobar,’’ Leo purred in his velvet, accented voice.

  ‘‘She’s charming, vivacious and sexy. She makes me laugh.’’

  Leo looked both surprised and impressed. ‘‘Smart move, marrying Marco’s daughter. More like a merger than a marriage, I’d say.’’

  ‘‘It will be a marriage, damn it.’’

  ‘‘So—was it love at first sight, this spark between you and fiery Isabela?’’

  Cash couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes, and his own voice hardened ever so slightly. ‘‘My plane tonight goes to London. And then in a few days I go to the Yucatán peninsula. She lives in Mérida.’’

  ‘‘You didn’t answer my question.’’

  ‘‘As an architect’s daughter, she would understand my dreams and my obsession about my work. We share mutual interests and mutual friends. Our love would grow.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ Leo said with way too much understanding.

  ‘‘Isabela is perfect in every way,’’ Cash persisted a little heatedly. ‘‘Love will come—’’

  ‘‘But what if it doesn’t? What will you do with your vivacious Isabela then? Leave her behind and amuse yourself with others while you are away working?’’

  Cash’s hand shook as he shut the box and jammed it into his pocket. ‘‘I wish I hadn’t told you.’’

  ‘‘Does she know that you intend to ask her?’’

  ‘‘She knows that I’m coming—yes. That I’m going to propose—no.’’

  ‘‘You’re a fool.’’ Leo laughed. ‘‘Women always know these things. Especially a woman like Isabela. She’s probably planning the exact spot where you’ll propose. There will be moonlight and candlelight and soft music. You’ll be at the beach or by a pool and she’ll be wearing the sexiest outfit you ever saw. Knowing Isabela, she’ll be in black or red, depending on her mood. She’ll touch you, and before you know it, she’ll have you down on bended knee.’’

  ‘‘What does it matter if I’m going to propose, anyway?’’

  Leo dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. ‘‘If this isn’t a merger, and it isn’t love at first sight, what propelled you into…this marital adventure?’’

  ‘‘Love at first sight—at my age?’’ Leo was beginning to annoy him.

  ‘‘What are you—all of thirty-five?’’

  ‘‘Thirty-eight.’’
<
br />   Leo glanced up at the painting again. ‘‘I’m afraid the Greeks would beg to differ with you on love at first sight. Troy fell because of this goddess.’’

  ‘‘That’s just a myth.’’

  ‘‘Myths are very powerful. So is love. Life can be very dull if a man doesn’t have a grand passion for a beautiful woman.’’

  ‘‘Maybe for you Italians. But I am an American.’’

  ‘‘The most unromantic people on earth.’’

  ‘‘Oh, we have our share of romantic fools. But I’m too old and too practical for that sort of thing.’’

  ‘‘How long will your fiery, flirtatious Latina be content with a cold fish for a husband if you don’t fall madly in love with her?’’

  Suddenly the repetitive conversation was bothering the hell out of Cash. But like that cold fish in his friend’s metaphor, he was baited by Leo’s barbs and couldn’t wriggle off the hook. ‘‘Life…love…turn out better if you plan them first.’’

  ‘‘One should never marry just to marry.’’

  ‘‘Maybe no one should ever give anyone else advice,’’ Cash lashed out.

  ‘‘Too true,’’ Leo conceded in his deep gentle voice. ‘‘Congratulations, then.’’

  ‘‘I’ve got a plane to catch to London—’’

  ‘‘Indeed. And then Isabela. And Mexico.’’

  As they began to stroll toward the exit sign, Cash said, ‘‘I am going to redesign and rebuild her beach house on the Caribbean. As a wedding gift.’’

  ‘‘Wouldn’t she rather have…something more personal?’’ Leo paused as if trying to find a way to phrase his thoughts. ‘‘A final warning, my friend. I’ve spent time in Mexico. It is a land with a powerful mythology and ancient gods.’’

  ‘‘What does that have to do with getting married?’’

  ‘‘To go there is to tempt fate.’’

  ‘‘What the hell are you trying to say?’’

  Leo stared at him and shrugged. After that they spoke of inconsequential things. It was pouring when they stepped outside. It had been pouring the day of the funeral too.

  In a blinding flash, Cash knew that whether or not he could ever love Isabela, he had to marry.

  If he didn’t make new memories with someone soon, he’d go mad.

  Two

  Progreso, Mexico

  Waves lapped against the hull of Aaron’s yacht as Vivian Escobar swirled her crystal flute and tried not to fume. She couldn’t believe Aaron, her Spanish student, of all people—sedate, fatherly Aaron—had hit on her and then gone below and expected her to follow.

  Did he actually believe she was panting to have him? Did he think she was going to strip off her bra and fling it down the hatch and then throw herself topless into his waiting arms?

  She was perspiring. The idea of going topless wasn’t totally unappealing.

  She stared at the aqua water, trying to decide how to handle this. Did she or did she not care if she made him mad? After all, he was enrolled in the Instituto where she taught. He might complain about her to the director.

  Being a pretty redhead and a divorcée in Mexico was downright dangerous. Men chased Vivian with more gusto than bulls charging a matador’s red cape. Everywhere she went they ogled her, flirted with her, and made inappropriate remarks. And now…Aaron…even Aaron.

  Did she give off a scent or what? They all thought she’d be an easy conquest. Was there a rule in the male mind that said once a woman had been initiated into the rite of sex, she had to have it? She needed a lover who saw her as nothing more than a piece of female meat, like she needed a hole in her head. Since her divorce, she’d said no to one and all, including her ex. Today wasn’t going to be an exception.

  She drew a tight breath and pressed her lips together as she studied the golden, bubbly liquid sparkling in the tropical sunlight. She was more disappointed in Aaron than she was angry. He was old enough to know better, and he was her best student. He loved diagraming grammar even more than she did. Until today he’d been a perfect gentleman. Maybe she should have known what he’d wanted even before he’d splashed all that champagne into her glass.

  Still wondering what to do next, she glanced at her watch and was shocked that it was so late. Three o’clock. That got her going. She had to get her textbooks and leave. Unfortunately, they were down below on the bunk. Where he was.

  Her former sister-in-law, Isabela, with whom she lived had given her a long to-do list this morning. Vivian had warned Isabela she had a Spanish lesson and might not get all the errands run, but she hadn’t confessed she was driving all the way to Progreso for the lesson.

  Vivian reviewed Isabela’s list. She had to pick up the ironing and get home—fast.

  The rigging sang in the warm sea breeze as Vivian leaned backward and flung the champagne into the water.

  ‘‘What’s taking you so long? Come on down,’’ Aaron yelled from the cabin below.

  ‘‘I have to go. Hand me my books.’’

  ‘‘Come down and get them.’’

  Before she could reply, her cell phone rang.

  ‘‘Damn,’’ he said. ‘‘Your in-laws, no doubt.’’

  Nodding, Vivian smiled. The only two people who ever called her were Isabela or her brother, Vivian’s own exhusband, Julio, who still thought he could boss his ex around. Glad of an excuse to avoid a confrontation, Vivian grabbed her phone out of a bunch of tangled papers in her purse and answered it.

  ‘‘You said you’d be here with the ironing an hour ago,’’ Isabela said cheerfully. ‘‘The roofers…’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, querida. Aaron’s Spanish lesson ran a little longer than usual. I’m in Progreso. On his yacht.’’

  ‘‘Don’t you dare trust him if he has you on his yacht.’’

  If there was one thing Isabela understood, it was the predatory male mind.

  Vivian hung up smiling. Her sister-in-law was wonderful. She’d done so much for Vivian and her darling little son Miguelito since Vivian’s divorce.

  Even so, the one thing Vivian wanted more than anything was to leave Mexico and get her life back on track. She wanted to go back to college and become a certified teacher. She’d been too dependent on her wealthy sister-in-law’s charity for too long, but Isabela always got so hurt when she said she wanted to return to the States, she hated to mention it.

  ‘‘If you want your books, come on down,’’ Aaron teased huskily.

  Dreading dealing with Aaron, Vivian wiped her brow and scooted her bottom along the cockpit seat on her way to the hatch. The muggy air that stirred the turquoise waters felt hot, almost steamy. The sun set the tropical sky on fire. It was only April, and already the day was a scorcher. Thank goodness she was wearing shorts, and she was used to the heat.

  Aaron shot her a challenging smile as he lifted her book satchel onto the counter beside the sink and dared her to come and get it. When she put her foot on the first step leading into the cabin, Aaron leaped toward her and tried to pull her down onto the bunk. Before she knew what had happened, she tumbled into his arms.

  He laughed.

  Regaining her balance, she jumped back and her hairpins scattered onto the flooring. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves of soft, bright silk.

  ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ she sputtered.

  ‘‘It’s my turn to play teacher, Teacher,’’ he whispered, moving so close, she felt his warm lips against her ear. ‘‘How about a little love lesson?’’

  ‘‘You drank too much champagne.’’

  ‘‘Not really.’’

  Aaron White was a retired doctor. He’d sailed to Mexico to enjoy the exotic locale and improve his Spanish. She gave him weekly Spanish lessons. As a change of pace this morning, because it had been sweltering in the city of Mérida where she lived and taught, she’d agreed to drive out to Progreso, which was on the coast, to have lunch and give him his lesson on his yacht.

  Some lesson. All he’d wanted to do was guzzle ch
ampagne, sit too close to her and learn dirty words.

  ‘‘Until today, I felt safe with you because you were a perfect gentleman,’’ she said. When he kissed her cheek, she leaned against the wall and said, ‘‘I shouldn’t have come here.’’

  ‘‘What’s wrong with enjoying yourself?’’

  She wasn’t interested in Aaron. Not at all, but his holding her made her realize how long she’d done without a man’s kisses or caresses. Or was it just the fierce, tropical heat that flooded her senses with sensual stirrings?

  Her vulnerability frightened her. She had to get away.

  When he tried to kiss her mouth, she twisted her head. Then he fingered the top button of her blouse, and she went rigid. Pushing his fingers away, she clenched her limp cotton collar against her throat.

  ‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he murmured.

  ‘‘Everything.’’ With a tight smile, she pushed him away.

  ‘‘Relax. It’s obvious it’s been way too long since you got any…’’

  He touched the tip of her chin and she jumped away from him. ‘‘Who would have thought you’d look this hot with your hair down, when you’re always so uptight and proper—’’

  Vivian gasped, feeling confused as she began scooping up hairpins off the sink and floor and re-pinning her hair into a prim little knot on the top of her head. ‘‘Don’t you dare tell anybody at the Instituto about this.’’

  ‘‘Or you might get fired?’’ He grinned at her, liking his power. ‘‘Calm down. I like the sexy divorcée better than the school teacher.’’

  Her voice shook. ‘‘I—I need this job. I don’t make much, but…’’

  ‘‘Relax.’’

  When he slid a fingertip down her arm, her body went taut again and her breathing stopped.

  ‘‘How long has it been since you’ve let a man touch you?’’

  She grabbed her books off the counter. ‘‘That is none of your business.’’

  Aaron wasn’t bad looking. Like her, he was a redhead, or he had been until a lot of the red had faded to silver. His eyes were blue, but not nearly such a brilliant shade of blue as hers. There were crow’s feet beneath his eyes—he was, after all, thirty-one years older than she.