His Temporary Wife

by Leslie P. García

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said immediately, picking up a fishing pole. “Do you know how to cast this?”

  “Cast means throw, right?” When he turned, startled, she laughed. “No, I don’t know how to cast, and yes, I know what the word means.”

  “Look. Hold it like this—one-handed. You can steady the line and hook if it distracts you,” he added, noticing the face she was making at the synthetic worm hanging off the hook. “Then draw it back and to the side, depending on where you want the lure to go, and just let it rip.”

  Let it rip? Esme watched attentively, but only thought to look where the lure landed when she heard the splash and saw water ripple near a stand of reeds growing a fair distance away from them. She’d been entirely too captivated by the taut muscles under his shirt—the movement from his shoulder outward along one muscled arm stole her breath and her attention. Show me again?

  She dug a heel into the damp ground and bit her lower lip. She couldn’t be caught swooning over someone she’d just told about her abilities in bed, could she? She’d exaggerated, but the gist was, she had enjoyed the men she’d dated. Women who disliked her on sight and some of the men she had refused to date created an image and a reputation she didn’t try to correct: a woman unafraid to be sensual. Unafraid to seduce and move on.

  “Here.” Rafael handed her the pole, and picked up another, this lure fish-shaped and glittering in the sun. “Variety’s the key,” he said innocently enough, and cast his line out beyond hers. “When we pull them in, we’ll have to be careful. Otherwise, there’ll be a tangled mess.”

  Again, the play of his muscles working so easily under the thin shirt mesmerized her. They stood there quietly for a moment, if not in silence. The big dogs panting nearby, the shrill scream of some distant birds, and the far-off hum of a motorboat or Jetski filled the day with its own kind of music.

  “So, you named your horse?”

  The question came out of the blue and the pole slipped a little in her hands.

  “Uh … yes. Yes I did. Problems with the name?”

  “No.” He jerked on his line suddenly, then began reeling it in. “I just don’t know what Domatrix means.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” This time, the pole slipped completely out of her hands. “You’re a man, for starters, educated, you travel, and even if your mom and dad are the nicest, tamest people in the world …” She broke off, shaking her head, but staring at him in disbelief.

  “Domatrix was a present from Toby when he left Laredo. He had a car a friend of his really wanted. He knew I wouldn’t go home after I’d run away to be with him. So he sold the car and bought Domatrix for me.” She sighed, remembering. “Not a great gift since I was working a few hours at the mall and going to school. But one of my friends agreed to keep her if she could ride her now and then.”

  “So the name?”

  “Well, you saw her. Those long black stockings.” She’d never told anyone where her horse’s name came from before, although she used it once or twice as innuendo when she was trying to impress someone. She shrugged and said with a slight twinge of embarrassment she rarely felt, “We were … kind of crazy then. He said she’d always remind us of how it was … and that anyway, she would always control who rode her.”

  “And Toby named her?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “I really didn’t know. He had to tell me what the name meant.”

  He laughed out loud, with such amusement that the dogs picked up their heads and stared, and a water bird flapped out of its hiding place and flew away.

  “So much for the fish! Just what is so funny?”

  “Well, from your explanation, I suspect you named your horse the wrong thing. Toby probably either said—or meant to say—Dominatrix. You speak Spanish, Esmeralda. “Domina—to control—and then the English ‘tricks,’ but the French spelled it wrong—and there you have what you thought you named your mare!”

  “We named her the wrong thing?” Esme asked, a little put out by how funny he found that. As he tried to control his laughter, though, she couldn’t help smiling. “No wonder no one ever got my little jokes, even when I knew they couldn’t be that naïve.” She finally laughed, too, remembering how she’d told Connie just to call the Appaloosa Trixie, imagining how embarrassing that conversation might have been if Connie had understood the intended name.

  “You’d make one heck of a language teacher,” she teased. “Domina from the Spanish and the English ‘tricks’—misspelled by the French? What kind of explanation is that?”

  “Hey, words are everything. You’d be surprised what I’ve gotten with a few right words.”

  Her smile faded. No, she wouldn’t. Good-looking men with a talent for words usually could get whatever they wanted. Why would his boast, made even in jest, surprise her? She’d come here with every intention of considering his proposal again. His job offer. It didn’t matter, because he was right. He probably could have sold her on anything—all with the power of his words.

  “Why don’t you pick up your rod and try casting it?”

  She bit back a comment and lifted the rod. Then she maneuvered it just as he had done, and heard a yelp of pain and muttered curse. Surprised, she whirled around, involuntarily jerking the pole.

  “Don’t move, dammit! You hooked me!”

  Esmeralda stared in horror at the hook caught on the side of his neck, a thin trickle of blood beginning as he grappled to remove the barbed metal. “I am so sorry—”

  “No biggie,” he reassured her, but then cursed again when his fingers slipped. She watched sickly as he tried to ease the hook out of his skin.

  “There!” he said finally, and let the hook go, before catching it between his thumb and index finger and steadying it. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this happen. Now try again.” He winked. “But this time, aim for the water.” He let go and raised his hand. “Wait while I just walk over here by the dogs.”

  She watched him scoot away from her with a smile. The man wasn’t just gorgeous, he was fun to be with. She hadn’t had a lot of fun the last two times she’d been out with men—they’d had their women on their minds. As far as she knew, Rafael Benton wasn’t taken.

  As far as she knew. She cast her reel and watched the lifelike worm drop into the lake. She glanced over his shoulder, hoping he’d noticed, but he was smearing something on the wound. She cranked the reel around once the way she’d seen Rafael do, and wondered why they were here playing games. Had he made his job offer in good faith? Would he play by those rules of not making physical demands? Could she?

  It was time to stop fishing and decide once and for all if his job interested her. She started retrieving the line, winding the reel slowly as she tried to make sense of her tangled emotions and doubts. Suddenly, the line went taut, and then the rod bent double as the line ran out.

  “Pull it up a little. I think you’ve got one!” Rafael cupped his hands around hers, helping her give a quick upward tug on the line. The line cut crazy patterns in the water, and whatever was on the other end seemed perfectly capable of pulling Esme in after it. Adrenaline coursed through her, and as she fought the fish closer to shore, eager to see it, she suddenly was acutely aware that Rafael stood so close behind her that she could feel his heat, his own excitement. Before she could decipher what kind of excitement surged between them, though, there was a flash of silver as a fish broke the surface and dived again.

  “Keep reeling,” he ordered. “I’ll go get it.”

  “I can catch my own fish!”

  “Not if it breaks the line,” he explained, and went crashing merrily into the water, net at the ready. “Try to get it up a little again … there! Got it!”

  He thrashed out of the water, the jeans clinging to him wetly, extending the net toward her. “Your first, right?”

  She forced her eyes to the fish that was flopping frantically, gills gasping, and forgot the tight jeans in a sudden feeling of guilt.

  “Whatever it is, let
it go,” she pleaded. “I can’t stand to see it like that.”

  “It’s a smallmouth bass, but it’s too small to keep anyway,” he agreed, pulling it out of the net. “It’ll be okay for a minute. It’s your first fish.” He handed the fish, still on her line, to her, then pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket and snapped a quick picture.

  With quick, skillful movements, he freed the fish, holding it up one final time. “Sure you don’t want to stuff it?”

  “I thought I’d caught something worthwhile. It fought so hard.”

  “Which is why fishermen love bass.” He waded into the water and leaned over, holding the bass in the water for a moment, then stepping back. Within seconds, the fish seemed to realize that it was free. With a final splash of silver and water, it was gone.

  He waded out of the water, smiling broadly. “Haven’t had this much fun fishing in a while,” he said, patting the bandage he’d put over the ointment. “In spite of everything. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  “I was just thinking I’ll never do this again,” she retorted, then grinned, remembering the line of a song about giving up love for fishing. “Of course, if I’d brought my guitar, I probably could write a country song.”

  The smile faded and the dimples disappeared. She wanted to kick herself and opened her mouth to apologize, but he shook his head and touched her cheek with a gentle finger. “Cody will always be there, la espina de una rosa, and that thorn may always hurt, but it isn’t your problem.” Then, after a moment, he asked, folding the chair he’d set out for her, “Do I pick good first dates, or what?”

  She shouldered him aside and picked up the folded chair, handing him the fishing pole instead. “There’s no way I’m carrying this to the truck. Who knows what I’d catch.”

  He nodded, but she couldn’t miss the aura of sadness closing in around him. She didn’t want it to, but it tugged at her heart. She could remember losing Toby, and how the pain lingered for years after. And the chasm separating her from her parents still haunted her at times, making her wonder what she could have done differently. Cody hadn’t been gone long, and she didn’t want him to think he had to pretend for her sake.

  “Let’s go,” she said gently. “But we still need to talk somewhere.”

  “We will,” he promised.

  She stowed the chair in the bed of the truck and climbed into the cab, letting him settle the dogs and check for forgotten items.

  Finally he climbed in and shifted in the seat to face her. “So, where to? Fishing just didn’t bring us the right mood.”

  “What’s the right mood to propose marriage to someone you don’t know? For money?”

  He ignored the jab as he backed out, pushing Luc’s head out of his way as he turned to look behind them. “Why don’t we just go back to Witches Haven and talk there?”

  “Didn’t work too well last time,” Esme pointed out. “And your secretary doesn’t like me.”

  “Marie’s my assistant. She hates to be called a secretary. And she’s usually … fine.” He made the tight turn onto the road leading to Truth and on through to Witches Haven and grinned at her. “You already sound like a wife.”

  They drove along and as they neared the hidden drive up to the dark house, he suddenly pointed. “Look! Haven’t seen wild turkeys in a while.”

  She watched the three birds flap awkwardly into cover, a little amused at his enthusiasm. He said he’d traveled the world, but Rafael Benton was clearly a nature boy at heart. She didn’t dislike animals and she loved horses, but she couldn’t see herself being so excited over wild birds, no matter how big, ugly, and apparently uncommon they were.

  “What are you smiling about?” Rafael asked curiously.

  “Hummingbirds. The ones in your yard are a lot prettier than the turkeys we just saw.”

  “When I first started coming here, turkeys weren’t something you saw constantly, but at certain times of day, you’d see them. Now, not so much. I think it’s sad to think of animals dying off or leaving an area, that’s all.”

  Luc and Chief, quiet and well behaved for most of the ride, were excited to be home, and Esmeralda found herself ducking and bobbing to keep out of their way as they crowded her window. As soon as they stopped, Esmeralda threw off the seatbelt and jumped out, running both hands over her hair. “Dog slobber!” she complained. “And I thought having one lick my face was disgusting.”

  Rafael didn’t say anything, just grinned as he opened the door and let the Danes hurtle from the truck and bound away. Then he leaned an arm against the truck and held out a handkerchief. “I have this,” he offered. “But it’s got a little blood on it. Someone tried to rip my neck open with a fish hook.”

  “Oh, all right,” she muttered, following the dogs toward the air-conditioned house. “We’re even. But you don’t play fair.”

  Chapter Nine

  You don’t play fair. Her words stopped him in his tracks. She didn’t have a clue how right her words were. She could marry him and never have cause to complain. The draft contract he’d had written up as soon as he’d had this monumental idea would protect them both, financially. And he would be sure the relationship would remain platonic, as he promised.

  Sure, women sold their virginity online these days, and “reality” shows delved into the most intimate of moments. But he knew, somehow, that as liberated as she claimed to be, even consensual sex with him while they were under contract would trouble her. And him, too.

  He walked after her slowly, wondering how he could make her understand the need for his plan while exposing his own life as little as possible. He’d never liked talking about the pain of his childhood, or the mistakes he’d made moving from unwanted street child to the son his parents doted on. He’d been honest—mostly. His parents’ stance on marriage—undoubtedly grown from their own love for each other as well as their upbringing, their faith, and their work with troubled youth—was unpopular and sometimes hard to explain. But he loved them for their commitment to each other, and a temporary marriage to give happiness to two of the only three people who had ever loved him was a small price to pay—regardless of dollar amount. Money didn’t matter in the face of their happiness and approval. He’d hurt them so often over the years. The marriage would make them incredibly happy. A divorce would hurt them, but it would be amicable. Something they’d accept as better than waiting until it became bitter and complicated. At least, he hoped they’d accept it. He shook his head slightly, then touched the bandage as he felt a slight twinge of pain. A little too early to worry about a divorce when he hadn’t convinced anyone to marry him yet.

  She’d stopped on the porch, obviously waiting for him, probably not wanting to face Marie. He’d have to talk to them both, if she agreed to take his offer.

  And thinking of Marie made him think of Tina Cervantes. He wouldn’t deliberately destroy her, because vengeance wouldn’t bring Cody back. He tried to think rationally, but the bile rose and soured his throat, and his fists clenched. Or maybe he would, and that’s why Esme's words needled him. If he found out that Tina was still harboring Harper—maybe even encouraging his claims of being Justin’s father—then there wasn’t a power play in the world he wouldn’t use to stop them both. Destroy them both. Play fair? Tía’s bar was already teetering on the edge of financial ruin, and he’d heard around town that she wasn’t even coming in every day. She was drinking more, and alienating some of her suppliers. He smiled grimly. She’d better not know where Harper was. He’d seen ruthless business deals over the last ten or twelve years, and participated in a few. Pushing a failing bar over the edge into oblivion wouldn’t be hard. And no one would deserve it more than Tía.

  Esme must have heard the low, snarling oath that forced itself out of his throat, because she faced him in surprise.

  “Did you say something else? I didn’t hear—”

  Good. “No, not really.” He opened the door for her. “Let’s sneak up to the office before we’re seen. We can talk t
here.” They walked together to the stairs, and about halfway up, he noticed the dampness where one of the dogs had covered her with drool. “Heck, if you want, you can borrow the shower to wash off.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. Or thought it. Images of her reaching up to lather her hair, her hands sliding over her body as she covered herself in soap … he stubbed his toes on the next step because he couldn’t see anything but her. Don’t let her turn around and find me drooling like one of the damn dogs.

  She did, though, and raised her eyebrows. “Sneaking upstairs and a shower? Sounds more like funny business than legitimate business to me.”

  She wasn’t helping.

  “I only thought … but if your hair doesn’t bother you, then never mind.”

  She reached up and patted the side of her head, and drew her hand away with a look of disgust. “Gross. I shouldn’t have checked. Point me to a towel and the shower.”

  He led her down the tall, opening a closet on the way, exposing an array of neatly folded towels in a rainbow of vibrant colors. “Grab something you like and follow me.”

  She grabbed the top towel and shook it out as she followed him through his bedroom. He opened the door and stepped aside, then saw the towel she’d chosen. An oversized bath sheet with a lifelike, nearly life size picture of Cody.

  “This day couldn’t get weirder if it tried,” he muttered. “Look for me in the study when you’re ready, and uh … if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Rafa.” She patted his cheek as she moved by him. She’d never used his nickname before, but before he could comment on it, the door closed between them and moments later, water blasted against the shower walls.