by LETO, JULIE
They ended their adventure in Aguas Calientes, a pueblo that was not only the end of the road for hikers and provided train service back to Cusco, but also catered to tourists who wished to experience Machu Picchu without the arduous climb. They found a very nice public shower just outside the famous hot springs that had lent the village its name, then soaked in a heated pool for over an hour. Each moment washed away not only the grit and sweat from the climb, but also eased their sore muscles and battered feet.
Just underneath a bridge that shaded them from the sun and the prying eyes of too many fellow visitors, they found a semiprivate corner of a pool where they could be alone. They imbibed a few exotic drinks, soaked, and talked about what they would do once they returned to Lima, all while kissing and cuddling and making up for the past few days when their concentration had been on not falling off the mountain.
After sundown, the other tourists headed back to town either for dinner or to the ramshackle train station that would take them back to Cusco. Michael and Anne remained behind and as night descended, they were entirely alone, except for a few employees mopping up the water around the springs and cleaning up the bar area. Mike ordered one last round of pisco sours, made with a Peruvian liquor distilled from grapes. When the iced cup met Anne’s hand, the chill chased straight through her body.
“Last one,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m tipsy from the drinks or the heat. But this is heaven. Pure heaven.”
The heated water was a steaming stew of natural minerals that seemed to open her pores to the crisp night air and her mind to endless possibilities. She closed her eyes and basked in the quiet swirl of the water against her flesh and the heat inside her skin. When the current eddied against her, she knew Michael had finished his lap around the pool.
“We’re all alone,” he murmured.
Anticipation lit through her body like fireworks. She opened one eye first, then the other, to scan the area. “Well, look at that,” she said.
“Whatever should we do with all this privacy?”
Michael’s question, fraught with suggestion, sparked the nerve endings in her fingertips so that she simply had to touch him. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, chest, and arms, suddenly jealous that as a man, he could go topless without drawing a single stare. Her breasts, heavy with need, strained against her swimsuit. She knew exactly what she wanted to do now that they were entirely alone, but did she dare?
They were out in the open, even if they were hidden by the darkness.
But they were on vacation—one they’d worked hard for, both emotionally and physically. What was the worst that could happen?
And how could she think about the bad when the best was right in front of her?
“You could start by kissing me,” she suggested.
In a heartbeat, his lips were on hers. He tasted of fruit juices and liquor, his tongue chilled from the icy drink he’d set down on the side of the pool beside her head. Submerged to her shoulders, she opened her knees so that Michael could slide in close. He braced his hands on either side of her neck and as if he’d read her mind, surreptitiously undid the top of her suit.
His boldness was not only invigorating, it was contagious. She slid her fingers around his backside and moved his trunks so that she could hold him, stroke him, and then, when she could take no more of his long, languorous kisses that seemed to milk every ounce of sensual pleasure from her body, she guided him inside. He leaned back so that a swath of light from somewhere above streaked across his face and illuminated nothing but his eyes. The blue, so powerful and intense with passion, penetrated straight to her soul. She surrendered to the sensations around her and inside her until their climaxes peaked.
Soon, the sounds muted moments ago by their mutual desire registered in their brains. Voices. Someone was coming. Mike unobtrusively retied her swimsuit and readjusted his shorts. In the space of an instant, they were relaxing in the pool again as if nothing had happened.
But so much had happened—beyond the lovemaking, though as her passion receded, Anne couldn’t believe they’d done something so intimate in such a public place. Whenever Mike released his inner wild child, the results always exceeded her expectations.
He surprised her. Even after being together long enough to fall into routines, he managed to find ways to inject new life and laughter into their relationship. She had every confidence that he cared about her deeply. Maybe even loved her. He’d definitely shown he had, even if he hadn’t said the words.
But then again, neither had she.
As liberated and nontraditional as she was, there were just some things a woman didn’t say or do first. Just like their first official date, their first kiss, their first trip together—Mike had made the first move. Until he was ready to say it out loud, she’d simply have to keep her overwhelming emotions to herself.
Mike retrieved their drinks. The ice had melted, but the liquid was still cool, particularly against the heat steaming up from the spring—not to mention what they’d just done.
“That was close,” she said, sipping the potent concoction.
He waggled his eyebrows, unashamed. “That’s what made it so fun.”
“That’s the only thing?” she questioned.
He pulled her to him, wrapping his free hand around her waist. “Not by a long shot.”
Up until the moment they reached Arequipa, the trip to Peru had exceeded all of Mike’s expectations. Aside from the brief and mildly annoying bout of altitude sickness Anne had experienced during the ascent to Machu Picchu, Mike figured he’d remember this trip mostly for the breathtaking vistas, the triumph of mastering the physical challenge of the actual mountain climb, and, of course, making illicit love with Anne in a secluded yet entirely public place.
Unfortunately, the trip highlights would not be what he would remember most.
They’d had dinner in town. The restaurant, tucked into an old, light-pink Spanish colonial structure carved with volcanic rock, featured a lovely courtyard surrounded by tall palms that had swayed in the dry night breeze. They’d enjoyed a delicious ceviche, one of Peru’s national dishes and one of Mike’s favorite foods. Then, about an hour after they reached the hotel, Michael wasn’t so fond of the seafood dish anymore. The way down had definitely been more enjoyable than the way back up.
There wasn’t much he wanted to forget about Peru, but food poisoning was at the top of his list.
Sluggish and fighting cramps in his lower abdomen, Mike was only vaguely aware of Anne leaving the room an hour or so after he got sick. He unloaded the last of his dinner in two separate trips to the toilet bowl, glad that the woman he cared about was not around to hear him heaving in porcelain stereo. He’d just climbed back into bed when he heard the door open and she slid back into the room holding a couple of green bottles that clinked against each other as she locked the door.
“Hey,” she said, her voice a reverential whisper. “I got you some ginger ale.”
She used the bottom of her T-shirt to protect her hand while she twisted open the top. She dug into her pocket and retrieved a paper-covered straw, which she inserted into the bottle. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and smoothed the hair away from his sweaty forehead.
“Think you can take a sip?”
For her, he’d do anything.
The liquid enhanced the dry, cracked feeling of his throat, but even without her saying so, he knew the ginger would help settle his stomach. How many times in his childhood had his mother prescribed the same? That Anne knew this home remedy surprised him a little. She was a strong woman, capable and independent and well-traveled and beautiful. But he’d never pegged her for nurturing, too.
He managed a few sips before his lids, which he’d strained to keep open, fell tight over his eyes. He needed sleep. In all of their hikes up and down the Andes trails, he’d never experienced exhaustion like this. And yet, he doubted he’d sleep a wink until whatever microorganism he’d taken into his body at dinner had
completely left his system.
Hot and sweaty, he tore away the covers and tried to concentrate on the nearly imperceptible breeze floating down from the lazy ceiling fan twirling above the bed. His eyes flew open when he felt a soft, cool sensation on his forehead.
“Sh,” Anne said. “You’re burning up. This will cool you down. Just relax.”
In a haze, he surrendered, relaxing as she ran the damp cloth over his face, down his neck and throat, then across his chest and arms.
“You should sleep,” he said, his voice raspy.
The only light in the room came from the tiny bathroom. The golden glow spilled across Anne’s unbrushed hair and oversize nightshirt, illuminating her as if she were an angel straight out of Botticelli. She was ringing out the towel inside the ice bucket, which she’d filled with cool, clean water.
“I’ll sleep once you’re comfortable,” she replied.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, you will,” she agreed, then placed the folded towel across his forehead and forced his eyelids shut with a gentle sweep of her hand.
Mike slept on and off, waking once to empty the last of his stomach contents. During other hazy, yet wakeful moments, he sipped more ginger ale at Anne’s insistence or felt the cool compress she wiped across his skin. At daybreak, she showered and then disappeared out the door. By the time the sun had completely risen in the sky, she was back with the announcement that a driver was waiting for them downstairs and she had the address of a medical clinic.
Mike didn’t have the strength to argue. Anne took complete control from directing the cab to the correct location, filling the doctors in on his condition in surprisingly clear Spanish, and remaining at his side while the nurse hooked him up to an intravenous drip to replenish the fluids he’d lost.
By midafternoon, his strength had returned enough for him to leave. They returned to the hotel and after a brief nap, he woke up, showered, and brushed his teeth, but decided that shaving while he was still so unsteady on his feet was not a good idea. Anne stripped the sheets off the bed and was tucking the last corner of a fresh set beneath the mattress when he returned. He leaned against the wall for support while he waited, watching her move with quick efficiency. Once she’d floated the bedspread across the top, she motioned him back into bed.
“You catch up on some sleep, too,” he said. “I’m done hurling now. Join me?” He moved the sheets aside to make room.
“Eat some crackers first,” she insisted. “The doctor said you needed to fill your stomach with something to stave off the excess acid.”
He shook his head, unable to process the thought of putting food—even the blandest food possible—into his digestive system.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Just nibble on one. The salt helps, too, though I have no idea why. Just do it, okay? Please? For me?”
Even at his strongest, he doubted he could deny anything Anne requested, wanted, or wished for. After he bit half a cracker, chewed, swallowed, and washed it down with semiflat ginger ale, she smiled.
God, he’d do anything for that smile. Anything at all.
The most he could do right now, however, was obey her commands. Until he had more strength. After that, all bets were off.
Nineteen
BY THE NEXT DAY, MIKE FELT NINETY-PERCENT BETTER. He celebrated by suggesting they get out of the hotel room and explore the city for an hour or two, or until he had a relapse. He had not traveled to a different hemisphere to spend his time in bed—well, not unless he was making love to Anne, and he wasn’t quite ready for that type of physical exertion just yet.
Arequipa overflowed with stunning architecture. Five distinct influences, each introduced to the landscape after a huge earthquake hit the region, that created a magical maze of buildings. Anne read aloud from a travel brochure and they wandered around for hours, keeping their pace slow. Moving at a relaxed tempo not only reserved his strength, it gave them more time to hold hands and kiss under impressive archways.
They returned to Lima the next day. Before they’d even left New York, Anne had made reservations for them at a restaurant she’d heard about that overlooked the Pacific. For the occasion, Mike bought her a dress, a pretty pair of beaded sandals, and a handmade shawl from a local market. He’d even sprung for a new cotton shirt for himself, which he wore untucked with a pair of khakis and his favorite sandals. They weren’t the dressiest pair waiting for a cab outside their downtown hotel, but if Mike wasn’t wrong, they were the happiest.
Before walking across the long pier to the glittering restaurant that dominated the entire space with a rich, Wedgwood-blue roof and intricately patterned, crisp-white gingerbread latticework, they strolled along the rocky shore. The salty breeze tousled Anne’s hair so that she tied it back from her face with a ribbon, which gave Mike easy access to her neck once they’d settled onto a rock, their feet dangling above the misting ocean.
“Thank you for taking care of me when I was sick,” he said.
She looked at him like he’d sprouted another head. “You keep saying that. What did you expect me to do when you were puking your guts out?”
He sat back, struck by her question. He certainly hadn’t thought she’d abandon him in his hour of need, any more than he would have deserted her. And yet, he couldn’t lie and say that he’d assumed she’d pamper him the way she had.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “I can be very considerate when I need to be.”
“You were more than considerate,” he assured her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you reminded me of my mother.”
She snorted. “How can I not take that the wrong way?”
“You haven’t met my mother,” he reminded her. “She’s totally cool. Very nurturing and a fabulous cook, but she’s just as strong and independent as you are. I want her to meet you. I want you to meet her. And my father. And my sisters. The holidays are coming up, right? Come with me to Syracuse.”
Mike’s heart skipped a beat for the split second it took for Anne to smile. They both lived close to their families and took time away from each other occasionally to go home and visit. But they’d yet to do the “introduction to the family” bit on either side that would take their relationship to yet another level.
Even though they were in South America after experiencing a trip full of mind-boggling highs and literally gut-wrenching lows, he could think of nothing more terrifying than bringing Anne with him to his aunt’s house on Christmas Eve where his entire family would catch their first glimpse of the woman who’d turned his life upside down in the most spectacular way.
“Really? At Christmas?” she asked. “Won’t your entire family be there?”
He smiled. “Every aunt, uncle, cousin, sibling, niece, nephew, and parent will be there,” he confirmed. “But you have nothing to worry about because they’re all going to love you.”
“And how could you possibly know that?” she asked.
He almost said, because I love you, but the words caught in his throat.
“What’s not to love?”
He slipped his arm around her, and with her head on his shoulder, they watched the sunset prism of oranges, golds, and pinks streak across the horizon. The crash of the ocean against the rocks echoed in Mike’s ears, but even the raucous sound couldn’t block out what he’d nearly said aloud.
He loved her.
After a moment’s consideration, he realized that the fact that he’d fallen in love with Anne did not surprise him in the least. What took him off guard was the fact that he’d stopped himself from saying it out loud.
In his life, he’d only told one woman that he loved her, and back then, when he was so young and inexperienced, the words hadn’t had the power to change anything about their relationship. Love or no love, they’d still hang out, listen to music, and have fun with their friends. With Anne, however, it would be different.
He was different.
Loving Anne meant changing his life. Loving Anne meant looking farther into his future than he ever had before. He loved his life as is. He had a great job, a fabulous dog, an amazing apartment in a neighborhood that rocked. But things couldn’t remain the same. And he didn’t want them to. Without change, there would have been no Anne at all. Her job situation notwithstanding, they’d worked through their rough patches with humor and patience. She understood about his disorder, his ambitions, and his passions. He’d come to trust her in ways he never thought possible.
And then there was the sex.
God, the sex.
Anne cherished intimacy, and with him, she didn’t shy away from anything. She was bold and adventurous and sexy. And trusting. Strong, independent-thinking Anne Miller counted on him as much as he did on her.
Yes, he loved her, but was he ready to make that bold confession?
Was she?
He decided to keep silent. He wanted to enjoy the secret for a little while, mull it over, make sure that when he said the words aloud, both he and Anne would be ready to take their relationship to the inevitable next step.
“Ready for dinner?” he asked.
She snuggled closer to him. “I could sit here with you for the rest of my life and be perfectly content,” she said, sighing as the last arc of the sun kissed the water’s edge.
He laughed with a bit more nervousness than was warranted, then stood, tugged her to her feet, and kissed her with a kind of passion he hadn’t known existed until right that moment.
This passion scraped his insides and left him raw. This passion couldn’t be doused by bad work hours, illness, or any other curve-ball. This passion might just last a lifetime.
And that changed everything.
Christmas at Mike’s house was always a wild and exciting affair. And as it was the first time Anne would meet his family, Mike’s anticipation was a mixture of tension, happiness, and fear. He loved his family. They were loud and boisterous, particularly his father’s Italian-Catholic side, with whom they spent every Christmas Eve. His own Jewish mother had never had trouble fitting in—and not surprisingly, Anne did not either.
