The tension lines around his mouth were even more pronounced than the day before. “Aarón called,” he said by way of explanation. “I have to go.”
Miguel loved his younger brother and wanted to protect him, but she didn’t quite understand what from. It had to do with his own past and his strained relationship with his mother, but she’d never fully understood the gist of it, and he never seemed to want to confide in her.
“What’s wrong? Has something happened to him?”
His fingers brushed the hair back from his face. The muscles of his arm flexed with the movement, but she remained focused on the man and what seemed to be a difficult time for him.
He rested the edge of his butt against the dresser. “My mother has decided to take him with her to Germany, even though she promised we would discuss it. Aarón wants to come live with me. He doesn’t want to be dragged to Europe to yet another house with another man who…” He expelled a heavy breath. “Who doesn’t really want him around anyway.”
Samirah’s gaze landed on the open suitcase again. “When do you leave?”
“Tonight. I’m catching the next flight out to Miami.”
A feeling of dread crept over her. “Were you going to tell me?”
“Of course. I had no intention of leaving without saying goodbye. I wanted to get my things together first because there isn’t much time if I want to catch the flight.”
She nodded her understanding, even though the word “goodbye” held a finality that couldn’t be missed. “Do you need me to do anything while you’re gone? Stock the fridge with groceries, get his room ready?”
“No.” He raked his fingers through his hair again and stared at the suitcase instead of her.
“You sure?” Her voice sounded the way she felt—small and insignificant. Because she understood what was taking place, and she didn’t want to face it. When he didn’t reply, she asked, “How long will you be gone?”
“I hope only a few days, but it could be longer.”
This was it. The dump. He no longer needed her.
“Should—should I—”
“Samirah.”
Her teeth sank into the tender flesh of the inside of her bottom lip. Over the past twenty-four hours, she’d agonized over what would happen and how she would feel if he didn’t ask her to stay as she’d hoped he would, but nothing could prepare her for the excruciating pain she experienced at this moment.
“This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” he said. “I wanted us to spend as much time together as possible over these next couple of days, but—but these are circumstances out of my control. I want you to know I’ve enjoyed every moment we’ve spent together. It was fun.”
Her eyes snapped up to his. “Fun? I’ve been fun? Is that supposed to be some kind of compliment?”
He looked exasperated. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what? Tell you the truth about yourself?”
“Don’t make this into something ugly.”
“Don’t worry, Miguel. You’ve already done a really good job of that on your own.”
He pushed off the dresser. “What do you want me to say?”
“I thought you…cared about me. I came here to tell you…”
The pain of rejection clogged her throat, and her voice kept breaking. She couldn’t stand the look of pity in his eyes so she stared down at the carpet, finding it hard to believe it would end this way. She covered her face with her hands so she could hide behind them. She was falling apart. For the first time in her life, she wanted to hide and didn’t want to be seen.
He came silently over to her and grasped her wrists. “Samirah, querida.”
“Stop,” she whispered. “I told you not to call me that.”
“I’ve been calling you that for a long time now.”
“But you don’t mean it.”
“Of course I mean it. Look at me.” She allowed him to lower her hands, and he tilted up her face with a finger under her chin. “We both knew from the beginning our time together would be short. You have your life in Miami, and your family in the States. I knew you would be leaving. So instead of saying our goodbyes on Saturday, we’re saying them a couple of days early. It has always been inevitable.”
For you, but not for me.
Her throat seized up. She should have known it wouldn’t last, but she’d gotten caught up in the dream, and now reality had taken hold. The pain of her last sordid relationship paled in comparison to the gutting she experienced now.
How could he truly care about her if he was willing to walk away so easily?
“So you care, you just don’t care enough to see where this relationship can go?” Was that her voice, sounding so raw and thick with hopelessness?
“This is exciting to you now, but in a few months you’ll be bored and ready to move on.”
“Don’t tell me what I think and what I feel!”
“I don’t have to, you already said it!” He became very still, the bones in his face sharpening in direct proportion to the tension mounting in the room. “‘Why would you want to stay in the same place when you can go anywhere you want?’”
Samirah stepped back. “You’re using my words against me.”
“I’m not using them against you. I’m simply repeating what you said.”
“That’s not fair,” she said with a vigorous shake of her head.
“And then there’s always your restaurant on South Beach, ‘where all the action is.’”
Her brow line creased. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you want something that’s unrealistic,” he replied in a fierce voice. “You would never be happy here. You could never be happy in a place where the most excitement that takes place is our national holidays and a fundraiser for the arts. You expect me to believe you could live like this, in a modest house in a quiet neighborhood?”
“You don’t even know me. Yes, I said those things, but that’s not what I meant.”
“How else could you mean it? Why would you say those things and not mean them?”
“The conversation took place weeks ago. I’ve been in this neighborhood for over two months and I do love it.”
“For now,” he said. “Relationships take work.”
“I know.”
“You have to start out on some kind of compatible foundation. What do we have? Great sex and a trip to the Galapagos?”
The blunt words jarred her. “That’s all it was to you?”
Pain blossomed in her body. She could feel it everywhere—in her eyes, in her heart, in her soul. Was that all she was good for? A roll in the hay? A screw, an affair, and then on to the next woman? This relationship was much more than a mere fling to her.
“Dammit, Samirah. This wasn’t supposed to be—”
“No!” She covered his mouth with her hand. “Don’t say it.”
She knew how the sentence ended. This wasn’t supposed to be…serious, long term, permanent, forever, a real relationship.
She removed her hand and stepped back, frightened by the fact that despite everything he said, she still wanted him. His touch blistered her skin, the softness of his mouth against her palm made her tingle and want to feel those same lips against hers again.
“You’re right.” In her fight for control, she spoke in a cool voice. “I don’t want to stay here. Why would I? Like you said, what’s in Cuenca? I mean, it’s not even Quito, or Guayaquil. It’s too slow for me, and I need excitement and fun.”
His stance became rigid. Not one single muscle on his body moved except the one flexing in his left jaw. “Which is what I said.”
“You were right.”
“So it’s over.” His blue gaze lowered to her mouth. “How about a goodbye kiss?”
She laughed. “You must be kidding.” She turned swiftly, but his words halted her at the door.
“I told you never to walk away from me again.”
She stared at him. “Our conversation is finished.”
> “No, it’s not.”
“You get to dictate the terms of our relationship and when it ends, and you get to tell me when our conversation is over? My, my, aren’t you the man in charge.”
“I’ve warned you about your mouth. It will always get you into trouble unless you learn to keep it shut.”
“I guess I’ll always be in trouble.”
She stormed out of the room. A third of the way down the stairs, Miguel’s muscular arms wound around her waist and pulled her into his chest. She began to struggle with him, pushing and pulling.
“Stop it or you’ll make us fall down the stairs.” When she stilled her movements, he spoke into her ear. “Kiss me.” She shook her head wildly, determined to refuse his request.
Strong fingers grasped her chin and held her head in place. He pressed her back against the wall. “Kiss me,” he repeated, staring into her eyes. “Please.”
Samirah’s heart filled with sadness. This was the man she loved, and it was the last time she would see him.
The lines of her lips softened, and Miguel settled his mouth over hers. Burying his fingers in her hair, he held her head in place so he could give one of the sweetest kisses he’d ever offered to her. Their mouths glided over one another, tender, soft. He tasted good, smelled good. Her heart ached at the unfairness of it.
He pressed closer so the tips of her breasts grazed his chest. A throbbing ache blossomed at the apex of her thighs. She wanted him, one last time. Her fingers splayed across his back, drawing him closer, curling into the muscles. She lifted onto her toes, aching, needing…
Miguel withdrew, and Samirah reluctantly dropped her hands to her sides. Her humiliation was complete. While he had the strength to pull away, she’d been ready to let him make love to her.
“Will you let me go now?” She swallowed the pain and stared at the ridges and curves of his bare chest. “It’s over. Let’s just make a clean break.”
He remained silent, but she saw the fingers of left hand ball up into a fist at his side. She slipped away from him and he didn’t stop her. She wished he would, but of course, he didn’t.
At the house, she slid under the covers in her bedroom.
Fool. Fool. She closed her eyes.
Cast aside again. Only this time, it was much worse. Before, she’d been embarrassed and hurt by the failed relationship with her boss. This time, the gut-wrenching pain threatened to rend her in two.
She pressed her face into the pillow and curled into a ball. No tears came.
She just lay there.
Numb.
* * * *
Miguel hurriedly shoved clothes into his suitcase.
He wanted to possess her. Lock her up and toss the key so she could never escape. Instead, he’d let her go.
He’d done the right thing. She would never be happy in this sedate existence. She was too full of life and energy and would grow to resent him if she stayed. To ask her to stay would be beyond selfish.
The blare of the taxi’s horn accelerated his movements. He snapped the suitcase closed and scanned the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. His eyes settled on the jar of lotion on the dresser, and he lifted the container to his nose and sniffed.
This was Samirah’s scent. His gut tightened like a knotted rope. He’d wanted her one last time, and she had been willing, malleable in his arms. But it would have been unfair to her, so he’d forced himself to pull back.
I did the right thing, he told himself again.
Even though he’d seen the pain in her brown eyes, he knew this was the best decision for both of them. If he allowed her to stay any longer, she would only become more entrenched in his life, and then he would never be able to let her go when she got ready to leave. Because without a doubt, there would come a time when she would want to leave.
He replaced the jar on top of the furniture.
He’d known it couldn’t last, but that didn’t lessen the pain. He would miss her—her laugh, her awful singing, and her incredible, giving body he couldn’t imagine ever getting enough of.
The horn sounded again, and Miguel grabbed his suitcase. He couldn’t miss this flight. His brother needed him. Aarón had finally confided in him about the verbal abuse from his mother’s lover. He was petrified of going abroad, and talking to their mother did no good. She refused to believe a man so cultured could be so cruel and assumed Aarón must have done something or was exaggerating.
Miguel knew it to be true, though he’d never witnessed any of the abuse. He’d experienced the same himself as a child, and only when he reached puberty and grew taller did the men become less confrontational.
He rushed down the stairs, but his hurried footsteps stalled at the front door. A vase of flowers sat on a table. Pictures Samirah had purchased hung on the wall, bringing color and life to his formerly pallid existence.
He’d made the right decision.
Miguel yanked open the front door and slammed it hard. Ecuador would become a distant memory when she went off to her next adventure. She would forget all about him.
And he would have to figure out how to forget about her.
* * * *
As the end of her trip grew closer, Samirah did a poor job of hiding her sadness. Geneva and Thomas expressed their concern, telling her she could come back and visit any time she liked. They thought she was upset about leaving the country, but it was so much more complicated than they knew.
On Saturday morning, they escorted her to the waiting taxi. Geneva still walked with the cane, but she was much more mobile than when Samirah first arrived.
“Thank you so much, my dear. You were absolutely lovely.” Geneva kissed each of her cheeks.
Thomas gave her a big hug. “Have a safe trip back.”
“I enjoyed my stay. I couldn’t have asked for better employers.”
Impulsively, she gave them each another quick hug before jumping into the cab. As it pulled away, she waved through the back window. Thomas stood with his arm around his wife, and they both waved at her until the cab turned the corner.
Samirah took a deep breath, telling herself she would be fine. She had her future to plan, but living in Miami didn’t have the same appeal, and neither did heading off to another job overseas. Not with her heart firmly anchored in this little South American country she’d never expected to fall in love with. Not when she realized loving Miguel might have been the best and worst mistake she ever made.
She rummaged in her carry-on bag and found the cell phone she used for emergencies. Her fingers trembled as she dialed her sister’s number in Los Angeles.
“Hello?”
“Bekah, it’s me.”
“Hey, Samirah! I guess you’re at the airport getting ready to catch your flight, huh?”
The sound of her sister’s cheerful voice broke her. She’d made it through the past couple of days without crying. But now, tears spilled onto her cheeks and she wiped them away, only to have them replaced by new ones.
Rebekah’s alarmed voice came over the line. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Bekah, I really screwed up this time. Can I come see you? Please.”
Chapter Fourteen
In the opulent kitchen of her German lover’s home, Patricia Delgado stood at the marble island and dipped her fork into a bowl full of sliced fruit. She wore tight clothes—a pair of skintight black slacks and a white, ruffled blouse with the top buttons undone to expose her surgically enhanced cleavage. Every type of jewel glittered on her fingers, around her neck and wrists, and in her ears. The effects of Botox kept her face free of the lines typical of someone her age, and she had the body of a much younger woman, thanks to the best plastic surgery money could buy.
The bright colors of the peaches, mangos, and pineapples in the bowl reminded Miguel of Samirah. Everything reminded him of her. Sunshine, beaches, motorcycles, food. Everything. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, knowing they stayed in the same city, and he had no way of getting in touch.
&n
bsp; “I love him, you know,” Patricia said.
Miguel struggled to remember what they had been talking about before his mind drifted to thoughts of Samirah. “Yes, I know.”
“He loves me, too. It’s different this time.”
It was always different “this time.” It had been different when she left him at the age of fifteen to fend for himself as she moved with her Colombian lover. It had been different with the Mexican, the Swede, the Canadian, the Englishman—he’d lost count of the men over the years. The only common denominator between them all was their wealth.
“I know,” he said again, though he didn’t believe a word of it. In another year or so, she would be replaced by another woman, perhaps someone younger, and then she would take whatever parting gifts the German gave her until she could find another sponsor.
Love was never a factor in the relationships between his mother and her lovers. All her relationships ended the same way, except for the one she had with Aarón’s father, a seventy-five-year-old man who married her when she became pregnant. He imagined his mother had expected that upon his death she would be left with a vast fortune.
Unfortunately, the old man had been keeping secrets. When he died, his so-called wealth disappeared in back taxes and risky deals gone awry. He’d barely been staying afloat. The small settlement she received had been negligible, and she’d had to sell her jewelry and other gifts to maintain the type of lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed.
Miguel had spent the last few days trying to convince his mother to let him have Aarón, yet she refused to give a definitive answer. He even pointed out how much easier her life would be if she didn’t have a child to worry about. The argument seemed to sway her somewhat, but still, she would not say yes.
Patricia spoke again. “I know what you think of me.”
His mouth set in a grim line. He was in no mood for theatrics. They needed to come to an agreed upon decision about Aarón.
“Mother—”
“I know, Miguel. I see it. You don’t have to deny it, because I know.” She picked up the bowl of fruit.
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