Slightly Imperfect

by Tomlinson, Dar

  "Yeah. I have." His Anglo affinity had always felt wrong; nothing stronger than a sense, guilt thriving in the back of his consciousness. But now Maggie reminded him so articulately by placing names and faces where they belonged. "Coveting Anglos is the flaw I've never been able to overcome."

  Her smile was begrudging. "You're going to get hurt, querido," she said tenderly. "I feel it."

  "Thanks, Maggie. For caring."

  They danced in silence until she asked, "What did you do with Ian?"

  He hid his apprehension in silence.

  She lifted her head from his chest, tangled emotions scuttling around in her ebony eyes. "He wasn't perfect, but it should have been my decision."

  "Trust me, Maggie. There was more to it than you—" He couldn't voice what Ian had alluded to. "Let it go. Please."

  She moved closer, wordlessly sagging.

  "Luke told me you loaned Ian all the money from the Houston house."

  Her eyes clouded. "Before you wisely warned me. Maybe I could have gotten it back, if you'd given me a chance."

  "I'll buy the house from you. You can pay me back when you fix it and sell it. Partners. How does that sound?"

  "Encouraging." She snuggled against his chest. "Very encouraging."

  * * *

  Zac retrieved Victoria from Luke and led her to one end of the big tent. They danced to rock until she was breathless, then slow danced to the orchestra at the opposite end. He enjoyed watching her attempt decorum as she melded into him, her breath quickening now for a different reason.

  "Your family is lovely, Zac." She stared over his shoulder.

  "Yeah, lovely." He smiled wryly. "If Shakespeare was alive he could rewrite Romeo and Juliet. Featuring you and me."

  She smiled softly, tolerantly.

  "Papa doesn't trust gringas."

  "Not even Jan?"

  "He worships Jan, but she's earned it."

  "Then there's hope for me."

  "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen."

  "That's beautiful."

  "It's not original, just Biblical. Come out to the office with me. I have something to show you."

  "I've seen it," she whispered in his ear. "It's superb."

  "I have a couple of tricks I've been saving," he whispered back.

  * * *

  Zac unlocked the door to the trailer office, held it open and found a light. A window cooler pumped frigid air into the little enclosure. He guided Victoria to a counter cluttered with blueprints and hand drawings, and selected the one rolled and tied with a powder-blue ribbon.

  She met his eyes, smiling, as he slipped the ribbon off.

  He spread the architectural rendering on a table, weighting down the corners, then drew her forward, and stood behind. His crotch pressed her derriere, mimicking her first visit to Fischer's Landing. Tonight she didn't jerk away, but he said, "Oops," and stepped back a little.

  She laughed and snuggled in again. Her long hair swung forward on either side of her face as she bent to the plans. She read aloud, "Eleven-twenty Bay Shore Drive. Children's Wing."

  "What do you think? It's a surprise, but I haven't signed off. You can change anything." He circled her waist with his arms. "Do you understand the plan?"

  "Clearly. It's wonderful—exciting. But so many rooms."

  The plan depicted a large addition onto the existing house, multiple bedrooms and baths, a large playroom in the center, even a galley kitchen where he imaged Sylvania making peanut butter sandwiches. "I told you. Cafe-au-lait babies. Are you still game?"

  "It sounds wonderful." She revolved in his arms, lifting her face for a kiss.

  "I looked up your decorator. The one who did the suite and your old Love Victoria offices." He held her face between his palms, reaching into her eyes, offering, "He can redo the existing house for you. Anything you want."

  "I love it just the way it is."

  "It was Carron's house. I want it to be yours."

  "I've known it only as your house. Now it will be ours."

  "Let me redo it for you."

  "That would take too long. I don't want to waste a day. I want to live there with you and start on those babies."

  "We could start right now. Right here."

  "That has a certain appeal. I'm game."

  Zac backed up to the desk, sat down and scooted far enough back to avoid lower body contact. He had miles to go tonight before time would be his own. He drew her in until her thighs pressed the front of the desk between his dangling legs.

  "Do you like diamonds?" A ridiculous question; she dripped stones, the stark, black dress a backdrop for her jewel-encrusted ears, throat, wrists, fingers. He pulled a ring from his inside coat pocket and her eyes fastened on it. "I bought you a diamond—a big one—but I traded it to my mama for this." He held up the wide silver band with a single, amber-colored stone in the center. "It's topaz. It has amazing curative powers. Like bad tempers, insanity, insomnia. Topaz even holds death at bay." He smiled wryly. "But it's fragile—susceptible to sharp blows. It will chip as easily as my heart."

  Her brow creased.

  "It belonged to my mama's grandmother. I hoped longevity would be significant." She took it, green eyes swirling, full lips tugging voluntarily at the corners. "It's beautiful."

  "It's as old as time, Victoria. Like the strength of my love." When he slipped it on her finger, it swiveled to the side. He righted it, clamped her fingers together in his. "Tell me you'll be my wife longer than this ring has endured."

  "I will, Zac."

  "Tell me we'll never chip one another's hearts, novia."

  "We won't." She raised their hands, kissed the ring, kissed his hand, her face stark against his dark skin. "I'll never hurt you, and I could never be happier than I am at this moment."

  "You might be. How does two weeks sound?"

  "Wonderful." She kissed his palm.

  "The seventeenth."

  She shook her head.

  "Why not?"

  "That's the twins' birthday. I don't want to share our anniversary with them for the next fifty years. I want it to be our day."

  "The eighteenth then. A Saturday."

  "Wonderful."

  "Can you get a dress, and arrange a reception by then?"

  "I'll devote every moment to it."

  He pulled her forward, kissed her eyes, her temple, found her mouth and enjoyed it parting beneath his. He fondled her breasts, ran his hand downward, stroking her backside. "Not every moment."

  "No, probably not every moment."

  "I found a renegade priest who believes in love rather than judging people. He'll marry us. We can use the little mission over in Kemah." He held her gaze. "The Church will frown on us, but God won't, and He has the last word."

  She smiled, undaunted.

  "We'll take the Irish out for a couple of weeks, just us. Unless you'd rather go to Bangladesh or Somalia—someplace exotic."

  "I'd love to be alone with you on the Irish."

  He couldn't disentangle from euphoria enough to be certain he'd felt the insinuation of her tongue when she kissed the corner of his mouth.

  "I'd like to live with you on the Irish. Forever," she said, kissing him full on the mouth.

  This time her tongue dotted the "i" in Irish, crossing out Gerald's illusive plans for the boat.

  "We'll live in the hotel until the wing is done," he said.

  "Perfect."

  He reached behind him for the first piece of paper he could find, came up with a pen. "Sign here. I want it in writing."

  "It's engraved on my heart. Just look there when you want assurance."

  She closed her eyes, brought her hands up, running them over the planes of his face, the way he'd seen blind people read Braille. She drew her hands across his mouth, one, then the other, kissed her fingers, pressed them to his lips.

  It had been too long since he'd felt this much love. Then she sealed it.

  "I love you. I
've never loved anyone the way I love you."

  He tried not to think of Tommy. Christian. Coby. He guessed she read his thoughts, for she whispered, "No one ever the way I love you."

  "How?"

  "Sensually and spiritually. You're in my soul, Zac."

  Being in her soul made all the difference.

  * * *

  Pierce tossed three creased and folded newspaper sections onto her lap. Instead of occupying his pulpit, the hallowed leather club chair, he paced the study, scotch in hand, tie loose, his healthy pewter-colored hair a bit wild. "Explain this to me, Victoria."

  The papers containing accounts of the two prior occasions she had attended functions with Coby proved benign compared to the large contribution the Houston paper had given last night's party at Fischer's Landing. Her face, along with Zac's, Gerald's, and that of a notable politician of opposite persuasion to Pierce's, glared at her. She placed the death knell on a nearby table and settled back in the straight-back chair and took up the gauntlet. "Some unimaginative person took pictures of me in the process of living my own life."

  "And last week, pictures of you dragging Cailen into it. I warned you about that. This smacks of mutiny. Again."

  She smiled. "It isn't. I'm not playing games with you. Coby just enjoys controversy."

  "And I'm not playing games with you. This is a direct affront to my views and the campaign platform I?ve planned."

  "It's no more than an unfortunate coincidence." She rose, crossed to the bar cabinet, made the drink he hadn't offered her. "You don't want me connected with your campaign. I'm tainted."

  "You're right. But I wanted your cousin. I have plans for him. I can turn his misfortune to advantage. I don't want to see any more publicity like this." He nodded toward the table, the papers.

  "You won't. Coby is aligned with you."

  "And you're aligned against me."

  "No. I'm only living my life. Zac Abriendo is significant in it, and he happens to be aligned with Gerald Fitzpatrick. If you continue to... malign Fischer's Landing and Gerald in your paper they'll fight back, and I'll be there when Zac wants me." She swirled the glass, ice rattling noisily in the stone-still room. "None of this is complicated, Pierce. Only sad."

  "I've had this man investigated. Do you know where all this money came from, Victoria?"

  She looked at him in silence. Her heart thudded.

  "It came from Carron Fitzpatrick. Zac Abriendo found out she was dying and sucked up to her to get that money."

  Victoria smiled, feigning composure.

  "He's doing the same to you."

  "I'm not dying, Pierce, and I have no real money for Zac to be attracted to. You're sadly misinformed."

  "I didn't want to have to do this."

  Her head jerked up.

  "Either you break ties with Abriendo or I'm filing suit against you to take Ariana and Alexander." He narrowed flinty eyes. "I will also see that Marcus is returned as a ward of the court."

  "You can't do that." She breathed the words, unable to find stronger delivery. Panic shot up her spine, materialized in cold sweat. "Jesus. Why would you?"

  "Zac Abriendo is Tomas Cordera all over again."

  "He's nothing like Tommy. He's decent—respected—"

  "He's affiliated with Gerald Fitzpatrick. That's not complicated, either. Is it?"

  "Why would you take my children? What have I done?"

  "You've acted like a strumpet. Again, Victoria. Ever the enfant terrible."

  She shook her head, her mind darting.

  "You've had sex with this man in the children's presence."

  "Never!"

  He laughed. "Frequently. I have proof."

  "I've been more than—"

  "Discreet? You don't know the meaning of the word, and I have proof. I'll take them. I have the resources. You have a record of indiscriminate conduct. You don't stand a chance against me."

  "No court would take my children."

  "I found a court to tuck your cousin away in a country club hospital instead of prison." He ran his fingers through his hair, an uncustomary move. "Lots of people still owe me favors in this county. Don't get hung up in the justice system. It always comes down to money."

  They faced across the Aubusson carpet.

  She shook her head, fingertips pressed to her temples, then lowered her arms to hug her body, warding off the onset of tragedy. "I don't believe you. You're trying to scare me."

  "I am scaring you. Don't test me, or Marcus is gone, and the twins are mine."

  "Why would you want them?" she demanded. "You didn't—Coby and I were nothing but an inconvenience when we were growing up."

  "Maybe I want a second chance at parenthood."

  "Maybe I want my first chance. I love Zac. Just as I loved Tommy. I won't let you do this to me—again."

  "You aren't letting me. You're forcing me. That's your choice."

  * * *

  The manila envelope lay just inside the suite, in the center of the marble floor. Someone had thrust it, forcefully, beneath the door. Her hand trembled violently as she ripped it open. Photographs fell out. The motel in Kerrville, a copy of her and Zac's registration for joining rooms, a distorted but identifiable picture of them on the terrace, her legs circling his waist. She closed her eyes on the imaged account of them on the ground, her nude backside to the camera as she mounted him.

  She clutched her stomach, swallowing against the threatening nausea as she viewed pictures of them loading the Irish just the week before, the children in attendance—a sweetly mundane depiction of an innocent outing no judge would ever accept once he viewed the evidence of Kerrville.

  She stuffed the photographs inside the envelope, crossed quickly to the phone, Pierce's last edict echoing in her head. "Don't tell him, Victoria. This is between you and me. Zac Abriendo and Gerald Fitzpatrick are never to know. You just walk away from them, and it's over. I warn you. He is not to know."

  The door chimes shattered her stunned recall and indecision. Zac. Thank God.

  Envelope in hand, she rushed to the door and jerked it open. Then she sagged against the polished grandeur of the door, staring in disbelief.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "Christian."

  "Hello, Victoria."

  She struggled to discern the emotions crowding his eyes, straining his face, but she came up void, only sure of the confusion and coincidence jostling her own mind.

  "What are you doing here?" Invented visions of Baku, a place she'd never seen, crossed her mind. "When—" The manila envelope grew heavy, more putrid, in her hands.

  "May I come in? I'd like to see the children."

  She blocked the door, clinging to the jamb, then stepped back. When she closed the door and faced him, he reached for her. She froze, clutched the envelope, her mind racing. He brushed her temple with familiar lips.

  For the first time, his weariness registered on her jumbled mind.

  "Is something wrong?" he asked quietly. "Other than shock, surprise and genuine dislike?" He forced a smile this time.

  "No."

  "Are the children asleep?" He glanced up the steep staircase, his eyes anxious.

  She nodded, an automaton.

  "Could we wake them? I've come a long way. Seeing them could make it worthwhile." She pulled her own gaze back from the stairs to his face. "To see them? You came all this way just—"

  He let his breath out, seemingly resigned. "Let's sit down. I'll tell you."

  He followed her to the seating area before the glass wall. They took opposite ends of the sofa, Puerto San Miguel spread before them in black and illumined amber splendor.

  "What's in the envelope?"

  She looked down. Her hands were turning white. Wordlessly, she placed the package carefully on the lamp table, out of his reach.

  "I'm on my way to Phoenix," he said. "Dad died."

  Suddenly his presence didn't seem so ominously significant. "I'm sorry, Christian." She met his eyes, conveying her since
rity. "When? What happened?"

  He shrugged heavy shoulders, lips tightening. "A massive heart attack while sitting at his desk doing some wealthy client's taxes. Trying to make a deadline on an extension." The bitter tinge was uncharacteristic. He shrugged again, more elaborately. "The story of Dad's life."

  "I'm sorry." She wished she had let him hold her before.

  "He lived for a while, died while I was en route."

  She nodded, at a loss for more.

  "The service is the day after tomorrow. I'd like you and the children to come with me."

  "No." The word lay jagged on the tense air until she smoothed the edges. "I wouldn't want to subject the children to that. They're too young. They'd never understand the grief. The general atmosphere. I'm sorry, but—I'm sorry."

  "They're his grandchildren, for God's sake, Victoria. They belong there. Put someone else first for a change."

  "I am," she said quietly. "My children."

  He looked pained, disbelieving.

  "They never knew your father. That's unfortunate, but they'd be expected to grieve, and they don't know how." She shook her head, wanting to keep the contents of the envelope in perspective, wanting Hank Michaels' death to be the factor. "Try to understand."

  "It's a matter of respect. Try to understand that."

  "Yes. Respect for my children." She stood and crossed to the window. Wrapping her upper body in her arms, she tried to shut out the disappointment on his face, the turmoil in her mind. "I won't subject them—if you want them to visit your mother—all right. I won't permit them to go to the funeral."

  "And you'll come, too."

  "No." She didn't turn around. "I'll send Lizbett."

  He spoke into the ensuing silence. "Pierce tells me you're involved with Zac Abriendo. Is that why you won't come?"

  "You've seen Pierce?" She whirled, studied his face, crossed and retrieved the envelope. "What else did he tell you?"

  "Not to go back to Baku. To stay here and take care of my family." He measured her for effect. "He was adamant, Victoria. Would you like to tell me why?"