“Hey, don’t do that!” Joaquin wiped away the sand. Duncan screwed up his face and turned red. “And stop that crying!”
But Duncan wasn’t crying. He was filling his diaper.
Where were the bloody women when you needed them?
Well, he knew where Molly was.
She was at the soccer field.
But she would never be able to do with those kids what Lachlan could have done. What he could do, if he were there.
But he wasn’t there. He was at the beach with Duncan who needed changing and was eating sand again.
“Quit that!” Joaquin snatched the boy up into his arms and headed back to his room. He didn’t need an audience for his first fumbling attempts to change a baby.
It was a good thing Duncan was patient, he thought. But even after he’d got the baby changed, Duncan was still sandy and sticky from the sea water.
In the end, because he didn’t know what else to do, he stripped them both and took Duncan into the shower with him. By the time they were clean and dry and dressed again, Joaquin felt as if he’d climbed the child-care equivalent of Mount Everest.
Take that, Molly McGillivray, he thought grimly.
But Molly didn’t know.
She was still at the soccer field.
UNTIL THIS MORNING Molly had always thought she was in pretty good shape. She ran, she lifted weights. She did a certain number of crunches. But running with a bunch of twelve-to fifteen-year-old boys had a way of making a thirty-one-year-old woman face reality.
Reality was that she was going to die before noon.
They drilled and they ran, and they kicked and they ran, and they dribbled and they ran. And Molly tried gamely to keep up with them.
As Lachlan’s sister she had spent more of her childhood than she wanted to remember trying to kick balls past him into a makeshift goal. She knew all about the value of repetition. So she did it with them—again and again and again—until her lungs screamed for air and her legs felt like rubber.
“¿Estés loca?” a rough masculine voice demanded from directly behind her. “Sit down before you collapse.” A hand came to rest on her shoulder, and Joaquin gave her a none-too-gentle push downward.
Powerless to resist, she sat. Duncan, with his bottle, was thrust into her arms. “Feed him, I will deal with this.”
Putting his fingers to his mouth Joaquin gave a short earsplitting whistle that stopped everyone in their tracks. “Come here! Now! We have work to do.”
It was a whole different world.
While Molly had been their “coach,” they had argued and bickered and fussed that she wasn’t doing it the way Lachlan had done it. She doubted if Joaquin was doing everything the way Lachlan did it. But they didn’t say a word because Joaquin knew what he was doing. They were responding to authority.
She’d been a cheerleader.
Joaquin was a leader, period.
He kicked the ball, bounced it off his head, his chest, his thighs, his shins, his feet and ankles, all the while talking intently to the boys, making it look effortless. He played soccer the way Lachlan did, the way Hugh flew and Fiona sculpted and Syd ran the world. With awe-inspiring competence.
Molly couldn’t help but watch—and admire.
And why not? He was beautiful. There was no denying that. His movements were quick and graceful. His body hard and strong. It made her shudder even now when she thought about his paralysis. And she worried that he might do something here that would cause him an injury.
But he asked no quarter and gave none. He played with them, tested them, challenged them. All of them, but especially Tommy.
“Life happens,” he told Fiona’s nephew. “You do what you have to do and you don’t look back.”
“But—” Tommy was still guilt-ridden.
“Did you do what you were supposed to do?”
The boy nodded.
Joaquin did, too, satisfied. “Then you did right. And Lachlan knows it. Come on. Let’s go. You steal it from me.”
Of course Tommy couldn’t. But he tried gamely and got a grin and a thumbs-up whenever he made a good play. All the kids wanted to please. And when Joaquin finally said they were finished, they groaned and argued, insisting they could keep going.
“No.” He shook his head. “You need to take a break.”
“But—” they protested.
“No. Go away. Do something else. Forget this. Go swimming. Go fishing. Go do long division.”
Moans and groans met that suggestion. Still they didn’t leave.
What about this? they asked him. What about that? What should I do if—
Patiently he answered all their questions. Standing there, barely breathing hard, idly tossing the ball back and forth between his hands, he listened and talked and looked totally at home. Totally comfortable. Exactly right.
“You should be a coach,” she said when the boys finally left.
He shook his head.
“But you love it.”
He shoved dark damp hair off his forehead and wiped a hand over his sweaty face, then he hunkered down next to her. “It’s never been that I didn’t want to do it, Molly. I’ve always wanted to do it.”
“Then why—”
“Because if I play, if I coach, if I do anything with soccer at all, I won’t want to do what I have to do. And I have to go home and work with my father. I made a commitment.”
“But if you hate it—”
“I gave my word. It is,” he explained, “a matter of honor.” His mouth twisted and he lifted a sardonic brow. “Perhaps ‘misguided,’ you would say.”
The words were like a knife, and Molly knew she deserved them. She bent her head. “Not misguided,” she muttered.
Whether he heard her or not, she didn’t know. He stood up, looming above her, blocking the sun.
“I will do the rest of the practices,” he said almost formally. “And the games. You will take care of Duncan, yes?”
Molly looked up and met his hooded gaze. “Yes.”
“Good.” He gave a curt nod and walked away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HONOR, JOAQUIN THOUGHT, was hell.
It had made him walk away from making love to Molly for the wrong reasons. It required him to step into Lachlan’s boots as a soccer coach and made him want again the game he so loved while he knew he had to do the right thing and keep his word to his father.
It also meant honoring his parents by smiling politely when, on Thursday afternoon, his mother offered him to Marianela Delgado. On a plate.
Well, maybe not on a plate.
But that was what it felt like.
She had flung her arms around him as if he’d been missing for years. Had smothered him in kisses, all the while poking him in the ribs and saying he was too thin. Then she’d dragged him across the soccer pitch toward the helicopter to meet her widow friend Esperanza Delgado. And then she’d drawn forward a pretty, petite, dark-haired young woman and placed her hand in his.
“This is Marianela,” she said as if she were handing him the key to the universe. And then she turned to the young woman and said fervently, “Marianela. My son.” The amount of meaning she got into those two words defied description. But Joaquin knew—as he suspected Marianela did—what she meant.
My son. My pride. My joy. The focus of all my dreams for the future of my family and my happiness.
Marianela smiled shyly and greeted him in Spanish. And he did likewise, careful to be polite but completely neutral. The slightest interest or enthusiasm would give his mother false hopes.
“I’ve been telling Marianela all about you,” his mother announced with enough enthusiasm for both of them. “All about your soccer playing and your traveling and how that is over now and you are finally settling down….”
She was going to make it difficult, Joaquin could tell. He opened his mouth to tell her bluntly but politely that “settling down” did not mean instant marriage to the woman of her choice, when all at once h
is mother squealed.
He flinched, startled, and turned to see Molly coming out of Fly Guy’s shop toward them with Duncan in her arms. She had kept her part of the bargain, taking care of Duncan last night and today while he’d worked with the soccer team. He’d thought she might come to see how things were going, but he’d never once spotted her.
She’d stayed completely away.
Now she didn’t even look his way. She was focused entirely on Fiona. Duncan was, too, bouncing and waving his arms at his mother.
“Ay, qué bonito! Precioso! Es tuyo?” his mother asked Fiona.
Fiona beamed. “Yes. This is Duncan.” She took him from Molly and gave him a hug and kiss, then held him out to Ana Santiago to do the same.
All attempts to shove him and Marianela together were forgotten as his mother swept the baby into her arms, making silly noises, cooing and gooing.
He had to give Duncan credit. The kid didn’t scream or even blink. He simply regarded the crazy lady with stoic amazement as she burbled and babbled at him.
“Such a gorgeous baby,” Ana said, finally handing him back to Fiona. “You and Lachlan make beautiful children.” She looked over at Joaquin. “My son is handsome, too. I know he will make me beautiful grandchildren.”
Joaquin felt blood rise in his face. “Mama!”
One look at Molly told him she was staring from his mother to him in astonishment, and he knew she was just realizing these were his parents.
“I am only saying,” his mother went on, undeterred. “And I’m saying, too, that having a beautiful wife will help.” Of course her gaze fell on Marianela.
Joaquin’s fell on Molly.
The penny had definitely dropped. She was studying the dark, sloe-eyed beauty of his mother’s choice, and God only knew what conclusions she was drawing. But Joaquin knew he didn’t like them.
“I don’t think you have met Lachlan’s sister,” he said, taking his mother’s arm and steering her deliberately in Molly’s direction. “This is Molly. Molly, my parents.”
To his astonishment, Ana threw her arms around Molly in an abrazo. “Ah, yes. Little Molly. Molly the mechanic. Mira a la mecánica,” she said to her husband happily. “Una mecánica hermosa,” she added, holding Molly at arm’s length, studying her and emphatically nodding her approval. “Lachlan never said that. He was always telling us about his little tomboy sister.”
“Lachlan,” Molly said grimly, “has a big, but selective, mouth.”
Both his parents laughed heartily at that, and his father shook her hand saying, “I always thought of you as little. But you are not so little now.”
“No, I’m all grown-up,” Molly agreed with a smile. “It took a while, but I’m here.” She didn’t look his way at all, but he knew who the words were meant for.
“Hugh tells us his business would not survive without you,” Ana continued, grasping Molly’s hands in hers and squeezing them. “I am so happy to meet you.”
“And I’m happy to meet you, too,” Molly said politely. “Joaquin has told me about you.”
“Does he tell you I am an interfering bossy mother?” Ana beamed. “Of course he does. And it is true. I am an interfering bossy mother. But I only want the best for him.”
“Of course you do,” Molly agreed politely and her gaze, like his mother’s went straight to Marianela.
Joaquin frowned. Enough was enough.
“Come on, Mama,” he said, easing her away from Molly before they began conspiring against him. “I’m sure Molly has to get back to work. And it’s time we got you all up to Lachlan’s house.”
“Oh, but—” his mother protested.
But Molly cut in, “He’s right. I have a lot of work to do, Señora Santiago. I’m glad I met you, though.”
“We will see you again, yes?” his mother demanded.
Molly hesitated. “It’s going to be a very hectic few days. I’m sure you’ll be very busy. Joaquin will no doubt have lots of plans for you, and I’ll have my fiancé staying with me and—”
“He’s staying with you?” Joaquin demanded, his voice harsh.
Molly squared her shoulders. “That’s right.”
“Since when?” He heard his parents murmur something to each other behind him but he didn’t listen and he didn’t care.
“Since he found out there wasn’t room at any of the inns.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of room at my place.” Her tone was even, almost blasé, but he felt as if she were throwing the words in his face.
He ground his teeth. Wanted to say a thousand things. Couldn’t say any of them. So he jammed his hands into his pockets and glared at her.
She looked back, unimpressed. Then her gaze shifted to his parents. “It was nice to meet you,” she told them. “Now I really must get busy. I didn’t get a lot done when Duncan was helping me.”
Then, with a smile that seemed to include everyone but him, she headed toward the shop.
IT HAD BEEN a long day.
A hard day.
No longer and harder than any other day she’d had recently, Molly thought—until she’d taken Duncan to the helicopter to meet his mother and instead met the woman who was going to marry Joaquin Santiago.
That had been a kick in the gut.
He might not realize it yet. He might even rail against it. But, she thought wryly, when it came down to the bottom line, he always did the right thing.
And it didn’t take a pair of bifocals to see what the right thing was in this case. His mother was absolutely right—he and Marianela would make spectacular babies. With her long black hair, slender but curvy body and big brown eyes, Marianela would definitely be an asset in the “beautiful grandchildren” sweepstakes. It wasn’t hard to imagine the gorgeous black-haired, dark-eyed children she and Joaquin would have.
She’d certainly seemed quiet and sweet. Biddable, Molly supposed, would be the right term.
And if she wasn’t exactly the sort of woman a bossy arrogant know-it-all like Joaquin Santiago needed—what he needed, Molly thought, was a lion tamer with a whip and a chair—she would probably be exactly the type of woman he would be happy with.
Once his mother convinced him, at least.
She would. Molly had no doubt about that.
“And more power to her,” she muttered grumpily. It would be nice to have that sort of power. It would be nice to have any sort of power at all.
She felt irritable and out of sorts. She needed to get the house cleaned up and the spare bedroom prepared for Carson, and she was tired and cranky and hadn’t eaten anything all day. She opened a can of spaghetti and dumped it in a pan, but she didn’t feel like eating.
She felt oddly like crying. But after her last furious bout of tears when Joaquin had done the honorable thing by turning his back on her, she had vowed never to cry again. So she wouldn’t cry, damn it. She wouldn’t.
Irritably she stirred the spaghetti. When it began to burn the bottom of the pan, she dumped it on a plate, poured herself a very big glass of wine and sat scowling at the spaghetti while she drank the wine.
Maybe she should get a cat.
If she had a cat, she could talk to it. Tell it all about the injustices in the world. Scratch its ears. Give it bits of her spaghetti. Well, maybe not. But getting a cat might not be a bad idea. She took a gulp of wine.
Maybe Fiona would lend her Sparks.
A sudden sharp rapping at the front door made her hand jerk, and she spilled wine down the front of her shirt. “Hell.”
And with her luck it would be Carson, come even earlier than she’d hoped. Only, instead of finding a seductive femme fatale waiting for him, he’d get a grumpy wine-soaked sunburned witch.
“Hell again.” Molly raked her fingers through her hair and hoped it looked even halfway as good as it did when she actually ran a brush through it. Then she bit her lips to put a little color in them, pasted on her best oh-God-am-I-glad-to-see-you smile, and opened the front door.
Jo
aquin stood on the porch.
“What do you want?” she demanded. She glared at him, then scowled even more fiercely when she spotted the pair of duffel bags he carried.
“Running away again?” she asked snidely.
“No,” he said, striding past her into the living room and dropping his bags on the floor. “Moving in.”
Molly spun around and slammed the door, her back hard against it. “What do you mean, moving in?”
“Just what I said.” He kicked one of the bags with his toe. “You’ve got ‘plenty of room.”’ He quoted this afternoon’s words back to her.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Because of Marianela?”
“No!” The word snapped out. But then he scowled and raked a hand through his hair. “Maybe,” he allowed. “A little.”
“A little?” she scoffed.
His jaw tightened. “A little,” he said stonily. “It will slow my mother down a bit. That’s all.” He paused, then met her gaze. “Mostly it’s about you and Carter.”
“Carson!” She practically shouted it. “His name is Carson!”
Joaquin brushed it off. “Whatever. I gave up my room at the Moonstone. They’ll give it to him. He can stay there.”
Molly couldn’t believe it. “It might have escaped your notice,” she said through her teeth, “but I have a far better chance of seducing him if he’s here.”
“You don’t want to make it easy for him.”
“I don’t?”
“No. You want to make it difficult for him.”
“I do? Why?” She felt like Alice, fallen down the rabbit hole. Joaquin was speaking her language. She understood all the words. But nothing made sense.
“He needs to want you,” Joaquin told her. “But you can’t just make it easy for him—”
“Heaven forbid,” Molly said, really annoyed now. “We all know how successful that is,” she added with bitter irony.
Joaquin’s eyes flashed dark fire. “We’ve already talked about that. We’re talking about this now. If he stays here, it will be too easy for him. You’ve got to put obstacles in his path.”
Lessons from a Latin Lover Page 11
