Ready for Marriage?

by Beverly Barton; Ann Major Anne Marie Winston

  ‘‘You’re rich—’’

  ‘‘I also care about you. I don’t want to lose you.’’

  ‘‘You never had me. I’m a big girl. This is something I have to do. I should thank you. Maybe I wouldn’t ever have had the nerve to strike out on my own if it weren’t for you.’’

  ‘‘You said you didn’t want Miguelito to have to pay for any more of your mistakes.’’

  ‘‘Don’t you dare act like you care more about my son than I do.’’

  ‘‘Did it ever occur to you that maybe being so damn independent when you can ill afford to be might be your biggest mistake? I could care for you and your son if you’d let me. What happened last night…this whole thing… you, Miguelito…it means a lot to me.’’

  ‘‘You’re lonely. It doesn’t take a genius to see you and I are all wrong for each other. We had great sex, but how long would our attraction last? You have a big life. You’re an international player. I’m…nothing.’’

  ‘‘We’re both human beings, damn it. Why doesn’t that count?’’

  ‘‘Our worlds are too different, just like my world was too different from Julio’s for me to understand all the reasons why we wouldn’t work. And we didn’t. You and I couldn’t either.’’

  ‘‘Sometimes our past teaches us the wrong lessons,’’ Cash said.

  ‘‘I’ve been hurt.’’

  ‘‘Join the club.’’

  ‘‘You and me?’’ She laughed. ‘‘This one is a no-brainer.’’

  ‘‘Not for me.’’ He sighed and pushed back his thick, glorious hair. ‘‘All right, then. If you’re determined, just let me at least give you the money for airline tickets and your fresh start.’’

  ‘‘You owe me nothing.’’

  ‘‘I want to do this as a friend.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  Sucking in a hard breath, Cash stared out the window. The light slanted across his carved features in such a way that she saw the exact moment when his face darkened and closed against her.

  Finally, she thought, hurting in spite of herself.

  He spoke again, only this time he avoided looking at her. ‘‘All right, I’m doing this for Miguelito, not you. I’ve got millions. Take the money—for his sake. I’ll give you enough to go back to college, enough so you won’t have to borrow or worry—’’

  ‘‘You don’t care about Miguelito.’’ In another moment she would be sobbing.

  ‘‘You don’t know what I care about because you’re so damn sure you know everything, and so closed off to me because I’m rich, you never listen. Well, I know what it is to grow up lonely—with parents too busy for you. If you go to school and work and he’s far from his father and aunt, you’ll be worried all the time about money and school. You won’t have time for him. He’s a little boy.’’

  ‘‘You weren’t like Miguelito. You were rich. You had everything.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ he said so bitterly she almost wondered if she really did know all about him.

  ‘‘I don’t want your money.’’ But her voice shook as she thought about Miguelito. Cash had hit a nerve. She would be taking her son away from everything and everybody he loved. Her future and his would be frighteningly uncertain. She’d have Miguelito to think about and care about. Money could ease a lot of stress. She’d be able to be gentler and more patient with him.

  ‘‘Suit yourself,’’ Cash said. Then he turned his back on her and headed out the door. His strides were long, determined, as if he were now as anxious to get away from her as she’d told him she was to be free of him.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said about his lonely childhood, about how she might make Miguelito suffer more than he already had with the divorce.

  ‘‘Cash—’’ Her voice was drowned out when he slammed the door.

  Swallowing her pride, she ran after him into the hallway. ‘‘Cash! Wait, please…’’

  This time he turned. He looked huge in the shadowy hall, but she padded up to him anyway.

  ‘‘You were right,’’ she managed to say. ‘‘I don’t want anything from you, but…maybe I’m in no position to refuse.’’

  He started to say something and then bit it back when he read the sorrow in her eyes and the pride in her tortured face.

  She squared her shoulders. ‘‘So, I—I’ll take your money,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I’ll take it—but I’ll pay you back—a little every month, with interest.’’

  ‘‘Damn it. I don’t care about you paying me back—’’

  Her heart slammed, slowly, painfully. ‘‘But maybe I do. Maybe I don’t want to owe you or anybody else anything ever again.’’

  He swallowed a quick violent breath. ‘‘Damn your pride…and your guilt. Both are misplaced. Is it so wrong for me to want to take care of you because I can? Would it be so awful to try to love me?’’

  Love. She loved him. But love didn’t last. At least not for her. Love always went away.

  She stared at her bare feet, too miserable for words. It wouldn’t work, and when it didn’t, the pain for both of them would be unbearable.

  She felt his warm hand lift her chin. ‘‘I’ve made you unhappy,’’ he said in a gentle voice. ‘‘That’s the last thing I ever want to do.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be okay,’’ she said weakly, unable to say more because she was afraid she might break and then he’d see through her little act.

  ‘‘Hell, I’ll write the check. Then I’ll go, if that’s what you want. My address will be on my check. Not that I expect anything from you ever.’’ He paused. ‘‘And for what it’s worth, it was nice knowing you—Aphrodite. Damn nice. Whether you believe it or not, I’ll never forget you.’’

  ‘‘Just go,’’ she said softly, closing her eyes, fighting tears harder than ever because she feared he’d take her in his arms and she’d never have the strength to leave him.

  When she opened her eyes again, he was gone, and Miguelito was there, slipping his hand into hers.

  ‘‘Cash said I won’t ever see him again. Why not, Mommy? I asked him if he’s mad at you, and he said he loves you. Do you hate him too? Like you used to hate Daddy…after the divorce?’’

  She knelt and fingered his collarless T-shirt. Never as long as she lived would she feel free of guilt for divorcing Julio and separating Miguelito from his father. But there wasn’t anything she could do about it but live with it. Miguelito would have to live with it too. She only hoped it would make him stronger.

  ‘‘Darling, I don’t hate your father or Cash, but you have to pack. We’re going home.’’

  ‘‘This is my home.’’

  ‘‘Not anymore.’’

  ‘‘Can we take Spot with us?’’

  ‘‘His name is Concho. And I’m not sure we can manage a dog.’’

  ‘‘Tía doesn’t want him.’’ Miguelito wiped at his eyes.

  ‘‘She doesn’t want us either,’’ Vivian murmured under her breath and continued packing.

  Thirteen

  Four months later

  San Francisco, California

  The clock on the landing struck midnight as Cash slammed the front door. Claws clicked on parquet flooring. Spot ran up barking.

  ‘‘Shh.’’ Cash scratched the orange woolly head when the beast rushed him, his tail thumping wildly.

  Cash felt drained from jet lag and the gala fund-raiser he’d finally managed to escape. Roger, however, was full of energy and determined to have one more for the road. The younger man raced ahead of him down the hall to the elaborate bar Cash kept in his dining room.

  Impatient for his assistant to be gone, Cash unknotted his tie. From his bar came the sounds of the bar refrigerator door opening and closing, of ice clinking into a crystal glass, of a scotch bottle being opened—no doubt his good fifty-year-old stuff.

  ‘‘Hey—this is great. Can I fix you something?’’ Roger called jovially.

  ‘‘No thanks.’’ Cash yanked his tie through his collar and to
ssed it carelessly onto a French burlwood table. He shrugged out of his jacket and slung it onto the worn Aubusson carpet that had once graced the entrance of his grandmother’s grand house in Martha’s Vineyard.

  Smiling, Roger emerged from the hall, drink in hand. ‘‘I couldn’t believe how much you let our beautiful hostess clip you for tonight.’’

  Cash frowned. ‘‘I was tired I guess.’’

  ‘‘You couldn’t tell it. You talked to everybody.’’

  Cash sighed. ‘‘Yes, I talked too much, laughed too much and damn sure drank too much.’’ He’d done all those things to excess lately to extinguish every thought and feeling he had about a certain unforgettable woman. ‘‘I have a helluva headache as a result.’’

  ‘‘When did you get in from Paris?’’

  ‘‘Yesterday. I got to the office before dawn.’’

  ‘‘The place sure was backed up.’’ Roger sipped, watching him. ‘‘So, tell me about Europe. The papers made it sound like you partied nonstop with those aristocratic friends whose estate you were redoing. Another one of Count Leopoldo’s pads, right?’’

  Cash was stroking Spot behind the ears now, and the dog wore an expression of appreciative bliss. ‘‘You met him in Florence.’’

  ‘‘Oh, right. Every magazine that counts said your designs for his palace in the Alps were brilliant and his parties and cruises were A-list. Did you have any fun?’’

  ‘‘I missed Spot.’’

  Roger laughed. ‘‘The mutt doesn’t have a spot on him.’’

  ‘‘He’s a plain dog. He needs a plain name.’’

  Cash sighed. Hell, he’d missed her. Most of all he’d missed her. A scowl worked between his brows. ‘‘I thought you read all about what I did in Europe.’’

  ‘‘I read beautiful babes threw themselves at you.’’

  ‘‘What if I told you that was the most grueling part?’’

  Roger flashed his wide smile. ‘‘Damn. What I wouldn’t give to change places with you. Except you can keep Spot.’’

  ‘‘So, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the parties and the women weren’t any fun, that it’s tough being chased when you don’t want to be caught—even if the predators are gorgeous.’’

  ‘‘I need another drink to swallow that one.’’

  ‘‘Sometimes I’m not sure I can afford you.’’

  ‘‘You can. I do your books—remember?’’

  Remembering all the women, Cash leaned against a fluted column in utter exhaustion. Each woman had been younger and more energetic than the one before. Ever since Mexico, ever since her, he’d been afraid to stop running.

  Roger returned with his drink, and stared at his boss and the orange dog looking up at him with dreamy brown eyes.

  ‘‘My life feels like a merry-go-round of work, absurd social obligations and women,’’ Cash said.

  ‘‘Poor little rich guy. What happened in Mexico? You went to that barbaric land to get a woman and you brought home that ugly mutt—’’

  Spot looked at Roger and moaned.

  ‘‘Isabela was a mistake.’’

  ‘‘Before you went, you told me that any woman from your same class with the proper credentials would do.’’

  ‘‘I was a damn fool.’’ Passion for a woman who didn’t want him gave Cash’s tone an abraded edge.

  Roger squinted at him over the top of his glass. ‘‘You met someone else?’’

  ‘‘I don’t want to talk about her…er…it.’’ When he stopped petting Spot, the animal whined and licked his fingers.

  ‘‘You let her go. Someone—inappropriate?’’

  ‘‘I said I don’t—’’

  ‘‘You’re still in love with her!’’ Roger observed.

  ‘‘Finish your drink and get the hell out of here.’’

  ‘‘Aren’t you going to do something about her?’’

  ‘‘Roger!’’ Cash rubbed his temples. ‘‘I have a raging headache. It’s late, and I’m tired.’’ Cash went to the door and opened it.

  Spot barked joyously and bounded outside. He ran up the hill and disappeared.

  ‘‘Oh god. You were supposed to run—not him!’’

  ‘‘Will he come back?’’

  ‘‘More likely a few neighbors will show up complaining about his crimes first. He likes to turn trash cans over and send them rolling down the hills. Just go.’’

  Roger set his glass down on the burlwood table, shot him a wry smile, and walked out. But as soon as he was gone, Cash wished him back because without Spot or him, the house felt unbearably hollow.

  Vivian didn’t want him. How long would it take, how many women would it take, before he could forget her?

  Eventually Spot would come back and bark when he wanted in, so it was no use going after him. Grabbing his tie and jacket, Cash slung them over his shoulder and headed up the staircase toward his bedroom. His five-story house had magnificent views of the Bay Bridge and Oakland. He’d bought the place for the views. Not that he cared about them now.

  The phone rang, and his idiotic heart leaped at the memory of a naked redhead reflected in seven mirrors. Maybe… He raced up the stairs into his bedroom and lunged across his bed, knocking the phone to the floor as he grabbed the receiver.

  ‘‘Has she called you yet?’’ whispered a surly, heavily accented male voice that sounded unpleasantly familiar despite a lousy connection.

  ‘‘Who is this? Where are you?’’

  ‘‘Julio.’’

  A vise clamped around Cash’s chest.

  ‘‘Vivian’s husband.’’

  ‘‘Ex-husband.’’

  ‘‘I told her to call you. Did she?’’

  ‘‘You sound drunk.’’

  Julio laughed bitterly. ‘‘So what if I am? Soy em-bo-rachado. So what?’’

  Cash rubbed his brow. ‘‘It’s late.’’

  ‘‘Just call her, bastardo.’’

  ‘‘Is she in some kind of—’’

  Julio spit out her phone number. Not that Cash needed it. He’d called Isabela and endured an awkward conversation weeks earlier to get it.

  The line went dead.

  Cash told himself to ignore Julio’s drunken gibes, but his caller ID revealed an unidentified caller had called him ten times today, and Julio’s had come in as that of an unidentified caller.

  Cash was in a panic as he dialed Vivian. Not that she answered. At this hour surely she was there. Like the other times when he’d called, her machine picked up, and he was forced to leave a message.

  The French Quarter

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Vivian was lying awake in the dark watching the oak branch scratch at the window and counting cracks in her ceiling. A friend of her uncle’s had found her this charming one-bedroom apartment in a French colonial, one-story cottage. Not that it felt like home yet.

  But it would. She just had to give it time. The windows reached the ground, and its front door opened directly onto a noisy sidewalk. A loud jazz band was playing at the corner bar. Revelers shouted at each other in the street. Not that the music was bothering her. She had much too much on her mind.

  When the ringing of the phone shattered the early morning stillness of her bedroom, Vivian sprang up and jammed a pillow over it, so it wouldn’t wake Miguelito.

  ‘‘Julio—I told you not to keep calling me—’’ When it rang again and she could still hear it, she stuffed another pillow on top of the other one.

  Julio was driving her crazy with his calls at all hours. Somehow she had to make him understand he had no right to make her decisions. Finally, on the fourth ring her machine picked up.

  When Cash’s voice came on instead, she shuddered. Before she thought, she’d reached for the phone. Just touching the cool plastic receiver while he talked sent a tremor through her and made her feel connected to him.

  She no longer noticed the trailing branch of the oak tree scratching the window or heard the strains of the jazz band. All she could d
o was strain to listen to Cash’s huskily drawling voice.

  When he finally slammed the phone down, she picked up the receiver and cradled it to her chest. Then she played his message again.

  ‘‘Vivian? If you’re there… Oh, hell… Julio said I should call.’’

  Julio—

  ‘‘I know you’re there. Pick up. Is there something I should know? Is something wrong? You don’t need to send me those damn checks, you know. I’m worried about you. Call me.’’

  She pressed her fingertips against her mouth.

  ‘‘Please call. I’m worried about you…and Miguelito.’’

  There was a long silence. Then he left several phone numbers before hanging up.

  Wondering what to do, she wadded up her pillow and buried her face in it. It seemed hours before dawn.

  The morning was a soft gray and smelled of rain. As soon as Miguelito went out into the courtyard to play underneath the oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, Vivian called Julio.

  ‘‘Did he call you?’’ Julio demanded.

  ‘‘Yes. I didn’t answer.’’

  Julio cursed vividly.

  ‘‘You shouldn’t have called him,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t need a man to rescue me!’’

  ‘‘You’re scared and pregnant.’’

  As if she didn’t know.

  She drew a deep breath. Okay, so she was scared. ‘‘I can do this, Julio. Smart, independent women aren’t controlled by what they do in bed.’’

  ‘‘Then be run by this. If you don’t tell Cash about the baby, I’ll find a way to take Miguelito back to Mexico.’’

  Vivian caught her breath. ‘‘Just because I walked down the aisle with you, doesn’t mean you can run my life forever.’’

  ‘‘Not forever, querida. Until you marry again and have a husband to take care of you and Miguelito…and the baby.’’

  ‘‘Women don’t need men.’’

  ‘‘You damn sure got pregnant, didn’t you? Twice. You didn’t do that without a man.’’

  She lapsed into silence, pondering the mysteries of the body. The female body was powerful. It led a woman places that she wasn’t sure she belonged. Why did she always have to suffer life-changing consequences for her impulsive behavior? Why could other people get away with things while her life had to take these crazy, unexpected turns? Cash had used a condom. He hadn’t wanted a baby.