She glared at him, and watched his eyes sparkle with suppressed laughter.
It was no use continuing to pretend to be irritated with him. She had never been this close to a man before and even though she knew she should have walked away, all she wanted was to surrender to the wave of pure feeling surging through her veins.
It was only a kiss, after all.
“Maybe I can be persuaded to change my mind,” she told Torres.
She consented to being led back to the sofa, where she grasped him firmly by the front of his shirt and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that the only reason she was kissing him was because she wanted to.
Sitting eliminated the disparity in their heights so Ruben could look directly into her eyes, should he feel so inclined. Though that was an option he would have liked to explore at his leisure, at the moment he was content to keep his own eyes closed as he swept the tip of his tongue over her lower lip. Her mouth tasted tart and faintly sugary—she’d been drinking lime juice.
He had been teasing her earlier when he’d implied she was exchanging kisses for his silence. But as she offered her lips up to him as readily she had offered her trust, he realized after this, there was no way he’d be able to find it in him to betray her.
Whatever had been her reason for kissing him, he had his own for returning it. He had several reasons, in fact, and though her intelligence and her sense of humor and her short temper and her fantastic breasts rated very highly on the list, heading it was her forthrightness. She may have had her secrets, but there was no duplicity in her.
“I ought to go home,” Emilia said, and he was pleased to hear her voice had gone slightly breathy. Her lips were parted and red, and plumper than they’d been a minute before. So plump that he couldn’t resist briefly brushing his own against them again. “Susana will be wondering where I’ve gone.”
“Not just yet.” His hand grazed hers and he slid his fingertips over her soft skin as he turned her palm around and clasped it, using it to draw her to his chest. “You’ve had your turn. Now it’s time for mine.”
The sensible thing would have been to move out of sight of the gaping doors, but there was little room for prudence in Ruben’s mind as he turned his attention to recapturing her swollen lower lip.
Eventually, the sound of voices filtered through the open door and Ruben slowly grew aware of the fact that there were people in the other room—and that one of them was Mrs. Herrera, who would surely not appreciate him using her best parlor to seduce a young—but not, he was beginning to find out, terribly innocent—woman.
Though the thought of seduction brought a level of urgency to their kiss, he managed, reluctantly, to pull away from Emilia.
“Never let it be said I don’t play fair,” she gasped.
“Of all the things that could be said about you, I think that would be at the very bottom of the list,” he assured her.
“I won’t ask you what the other things are,” she said, getting to her feet, “as I suspect none of them are very flattering. Now, I really do have to get home. Susana will worry if I’m not home before dark.”
“Shall I escort you?” Ruben asked, following her to the door.
“Heavens, no. I can’t imagine what Susana would say if she saw I’d gone to see you after—well, never mind that. I’ll see myself home, thank you.”
“All right. But before you go…”
This time, someone did walk in. It was one of the girls who’d been collecting laundry from the rooms above who had no earthly reason to wander into the best parlor with her load. Having dropped her bundle of clothes from the surprise, she begged their pardon and ambled away, though not before throwing them an interested glance over her shoulder.
Leaning her forehead against his, Emilia groaned quietly. “Milagros is the most awful gossip. Everyone in town will hear of this by dinnertime.”
Ruben smoothed the hair on the back of her head. “Would that be a terrible thing?”
“No, just terribly inconvenient. Surely you know how gossip spreads in a small town—or even one of middling size. Don’t be surprised if half of Arroyo Blanco calls on you tomorrow to congratulate you on our engagement.” She looked so tragic that he couldn’t help but laugh, even though the idea of being engaged to her and all it conveyed—or, rather, all it would lead to— made something inside his stomach tighten. “I had better go before someone else comes in and decides we’re halfway to the altar.”
Ruben crossed the foyer beside her, watched her disappear into the growing darkness and then, when her white shirtwaist was only a smudge against the jacarandas lining Paseo Principal, he turned back inside and leapt up the stairs to his rooms.
Manuel was still at the desk where Ruben had left him. He had finished sorting the correspondence they had begun working on that morning and was drafting replies to the letters that remained, leaving them by the lamp for Ruben to look through before he sent them out.
“I’ve another tip about the author of The True Accounts,” Manuel said as his fingers flew over the keys. “This one points the finger at an American woman who’s been living in the city for the past five years or so—Dolly Smith. Have you heard of her? It says here she writes for one of those feminist magazines and penned a piece last week about the empowering of women through prostitution, of all things.”
Ruben closed the door behind him then leaned against it. “I don’t know if I should bother.”
“I know we’ve seen a lot of frauds but this one might be worth looking into. I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Del Valle turned out to be a foreign woman— they seem so much less prudish than the women here. Just the sort to write so frankly about sex.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Ruben said. “But I’ve been thinking we ought to drop the entire idea. We’ve got a good readership now. We don’t have to rely on cheap tricks to draw in more readers.”
Manuel stopped typing and turned around to face him. “Cheap tricks? Now’s not the time to be scrupulous,” he said. “There’s a lot to be gained from cheap tricks, as you call them. Circulation is higher than ever, but Mr. Gonzalez said all the growth is precarious until we’re more established in the public’s view. And a big story like this is just the thing to do it.”
“I don’t want a higher readership if it’ll come at someone’s expense.”
Manuel’s gaze grew sharper. “You know who she is.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. How do you imagine I’d have found out? You’ve been dealing with all the correspondence,” Ruben said.
But Manuel was no fool. “You know who it is and it must be someone you care about or you wouldn’t be trying to protect her.”
Ruben started to deny it, but Manuel cut in before he could get the words out. “I saw you kissing the Cruz girl downstairs. If it’s her… I know it’s been a long time since you were involved with anyone and this girl, well, she’s pretty enough to turn anyone’s head. But don’t let that cloud your judgement. We’ve worked so hard for the past year to make a name for the paper. You can’t undermine all our effort just when we have the means to take things to another level.” His lips flattened. “I won’t let you.”
“I won’t betray her confidence—and that’s the last I’ll say about it.”
Turning his back to Manuel, he began to stuff the proofs of the new edition into a large envelope. It was close to dinnertime and if he didn’t make his way to the dining room by the time the rest of the household had gathered there, Mrs. Herrera would not hesitate to fetch him down.
“But—”
“Here are the proofs. I told the printer he’d have them by tomorrow morning, so you’ll have to take the early train.”
“It’s only a matter of time before another paper finds out who she is and exposes her. Why shouldn’t we write about it first? We can use your relationship with her to our advantage. She must tell you plenty of things she wouldn’t tell anyone else, doesn’t she?” When Ruben didn’t answer, Manuel’s voice turned hard. “Th
e paper is half mine, you know. I have as much say as you have in what’s printed.”
“Blanco y Negro would be nothing if it weren’t for my writing and you know it. You’ll find out, too, if you try anything.” Ruben slammed the envelope against Manuel’s chest. “Take this and get out.”
Manuel glared at him. “You’re willing to let all our hard work go to hell for a bit of skirt?”
Emilia was hardly a bit of skirt and there was also the matter of Ruben’s conscience, which he didn’t intend to compromise—well, compromise further—after he’d given her his word he’d keep her secret. But Ruben didn’t bother explaining that to Manuel. “I’m willing to do much more than that,” was all he said.
A heavy silence stretched between them. Whatever Manuel saw in his face must have convinced him that Ruben was not speaking lightly. His lip curled in disgust, Manuel wrenched open the door and stalked out into the hall.
“Manuel?” Ruben called. Manuel turned, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. “Have a care with what you do next. I know about the money you owe San Miguel. If you so much as breathe a word about Emilia Cruz, I will tell him where to find you and see to it he collects.”
The train station was almost empty when Manuel arrived early the next morning. He hadn’t any luggage to check, only a battered portmanteau with a change of shirt and tie, so he headed directly for the southmost platform, seething all the while.
Torres was a damned fool for letting himself be swayed by a piece of tail, right when the paper was starting to grow in popularity. Uncovering the identity of the most controversial writer of the decade would have been just the thing to cement it, not to mention bring in enough money to settle Manuel’s gambling debts. He might have tried to get the money from Ruben himself in exchange for his silence, but ever since Ruben had turned his back on his family, the man had barely been able to feed himself.
All the more reason why he should have seized the chance to write about Emilia Cruz.
But if Torres had been blinded by lust, Manuel’s head was clear enough to see that by writing the exposé he stood to earn more—much more—than the three hundred pesos he owed San Miguel. All he had to do was pay him off before Ruben could carry out his threat. And even if he didn’t, he’d have enough money to buy passage in a steamer and set off for someplace far enough away that he wouldn’t be found by San Miguel or his cronies. After all, if Ruben knew about his debts then so could many others, including some people who might actually mean him harm.
He was running down the list of possibilities when he noticed the other man in the platform. He was tall, with slicked-back hair and a suit and silk tie that could have easily cost as much as a motorcar—thought not his, which Manuel happened to know was a devilishly expensive model. Manuel offered him a friendly nod, which the man didn’t bother to return. Undaunted, Manuel folded the newspaper he had been pretending to peruse and strode closer.
“You’re Cristobal Mendez, aren’t you?”
“Have we met?”
“At Miss Vidal’s party. I’m Manuel Vega. I’m friends with Ruben Torres. You’re the owner of the ’11 coupe, aren’t you? She’s a beauty. I’ve never seen a motorcar that particular shade before. Did you have it painted to your specification?”
Mendez unfroze slightly. “I did, and I had the seats recovered in maroon leather.”
“Italian leather, I imagine,” Manuel said. “Have you ever thought about entering a motoring contest? A fine motor like yours is more than fast enough to beat out most of the clunkers that are entered.”
That was all it took to get Mendez to dislodge the pole stuck up his ass. By the time the train pulled up to the platform, issuing billowing clouds of steam, he was talking animatedly about the 1907 Grand Prix, which he’d attended, while Manuel nodded with feigned interest and bid his time.
It was his habit to find out various tidbits about the people he met, never knowing when they might come in useful or if they might need them for the paper. Cristobal Mendez, if he remembered correctly, had grown up alongside Emilia and Susana Cruz. There had been some sort of unpleasantness between him and Emilia some weeks before, and he’d heard Carmen Vidal saying she wouldn’t have been surprised if Emilia had slapped him for whatever it was he’d said.
Faced with this revelation of discord between them, Manuel began to formulate a plan.
Thanking whatever higher power had seen to it that Mendez had decided to take this particular train, Manuel climbed up into the train and followed him to a seat towards the middle. And as the train got underway and the outskirts of Arroyo Blanco began to disappear from view, he leaned back in his seat and said, “Tell me. What do you know about Emilia Cruz?”
Chapter 10
Emilia hadn’t the power to call for an emergency meeting of the WSA, but Rosa managed to gather most of the members in her house. It had a spacious veranda at the back into which all fifteen of them fit comfortably, spread out amongst wicker armchairs and carved rocking chairs. Emilia alone was standing, pacing back and forth by the door that led back into the house.
“All right, girls,” Emilia said, rapping on a wooden window frame. “We’ve called you here today because we need to discuss this idiotic boycott of Ana Maria’s.”
Rosa’s cousin, Perla, stood up. “There’s still a lot to do before the elections. There are only four months left and we haven’t so much as spoken to either of the candidates about where they stand on the issue of suffrage. With Mayor Perez in the running, we have a real chance to be heard, but that will never happen as long as we keep wasting our time quibbling over inconsequential things like salacious magazines.”
“Neither will we get ahead if we allow our interests to be censored,” Emilia said hotly. “Suffrage is about gaining the freedom to choose our representatives. How is that any more important than the freedom to choose what we read? Where will it end? Will we let Ana Maria dictate what we wear? Who we speak to?”
An argument erupted and Emilia was so caught up in defending her position that she didn’t notice the new addition to their group until Rosa said, “Ana Maria?”
It was Ana Maria standing there by the door, looking livid. “What,” she said, “is the meaning of this?”
“Only a little gathering,” Rosa said placatingly.
Ana Maria glared at her. “You’ve set up a meeting behind my back and you’re conspiring against me—”
“Oh, we’re hardly conspiring,” Emilia snapped.
Rosa held up a hand. “All we want is to address some of our concerns regarding the protest, as not all of us feel it’s in the organization’s best interest.”
“And none of you thought it would be a good idea to include the organization’s president in your discussion,” Ana Maria said.
“Not when she’s so damned irrational about the matter,” Emilia said.
“Irrational?” Ana Maria exclaimed. “You’re the one who keeps bringing up the subject. Anyone would think you’ve got some sort of vested interest in these stories, you defend them so.”
“I’ve always been passionate about stories. All kinds,” Emilia said through gritted teeth. “I’ve a lot of opinions about them. One of them is—”
Rosa stepped in. “With your permission, girls,” she said, and Emilia was surprised how her soft voice could easily cut through the noise she and Ana Maria were making, “I think it’s time we put the matter up to a vote. A raise of hands will be fine. Now—who thinks the WSA should support a boycott of sensational literature?”
Only a few hands were raised and Emilia couldn’t resist from giving Ana Maria a triumphant look.
“All right.” Ana Maria narrowed her eyes. “The WSA will not participate in the boycott. But the Decency League certainly will.”
“The what?” Perla asked.
“It’s a society for the promotion of moral rectitude in literature,” Ana Maria said. “I’ve just thought of it but I’m sure Mama wouldn’t mind assigning it a booth at the fair. A nice big one, i
n a very prominent location.”
Emilia stared at Ana Maria, aghast. “But that’s—that’s—”
“Exactly what we wanted,” Rosa reminded her gently. “This way the WSA isn’t involved and we can conserve our resources for the election.”
Ana Maria was radiating smugness.
“Very well,” Emilia said after a moment’s pause. “I can’t pretend to be happy with an organization dedicated to censorship, but if the WSA isn’t involved, Ana Maria has a right to do whatever she wants.”
“Well,” Perla said, settling back in her chair, an amused glint in her eyes. “At least we’ll have that to look forward to.”
Chapter 11
To what Ruben imagined was Emilia’s delight, as the days wore on, Luis found a way to manufacture more and more outings and frolics for the sake of seeing Miss Cruz every day. Though he was finding his resolution to keep the two of them apart damnably difficult when they jumped at every chance to spend time together, Ruben couldn’t deny he was grateful to them for the chance they afforded him to see Emilia.
A little over a week after Ruben and Emilia had kissed, Luis decided to have a picnic at the lagoon, under the pretext of showing Violeta the surrounding countryside. This was to be a smaller party than the last time, comprised only of the five of them plus Miss Espinosa and Miss Vidal. Miss Cruz had asked Luis to invite Cristobal at the last minute when Miss Vidal insisted they needed more men needed to make up the numbers, but he’d been unexpectedly called into the city, as had Manuel.
Or so he’d told them when Miss Vidal allowed that he would make a suitable addition to their party and asked why she hadn’t seem him around town. Ruben had asked around and was satisfied Manuel really had left the morning after their argument. He hadn’t seen him since then, and they hadn’t exchanged so much as a note. He still felt uneasy whenever he remembered that Manuel knew about Emilia, but he tried to brush off his concerns with the thought that Manuel wouldn’t jeopardize Ruben’s involvement with the paper over one disagreement.
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