Lessons from a Latin Lover

by Anne McAllister

  She got up and pulled herself together, put on a pair of her new linen shorts and a gauzy cotton top that made her feel sexy even when she wasn’t.

  She didn’t want him to feel sorry for her. She didn’t want him to think of her as a charity case. She had more pride than that.

  She went downstairs and put on coffee. He came down a few minutes later, looking lean and hard and gorgeous, his hair damp, his jaw smoothly shaved. He smiled at her, but his expression was wary, as if he were worried about what she might expect of him now.

  But Molly didn’t expect anything. She’d already had more than she had any right to expect from him. And so she smiled brightly and handed him a cup of coffee. “I can make you breakfast if you want,” she offered.

  “No, thanks. Gotta run. I—” He paused, as if unsure what to say. No doubt he was. Even a practiced lover like Joaquin Santiago probably didn’t find himself in situations like this every day.

  “Thank you,” Molly said briskly and smiled. “You were very kind last night. And that was quite an education.”

  He looked surprised at her words, but he didn’t reply. And in his silence she felt forced to continue.

  “I learned a lot,” she went on. “And I’m sure I’ll have a use for it all,” she added as flippantly and as cheerfully as she could manage, “when I’m ready to go back to playing the field.”

  THINKING OF MOLLY using their lovemaking as a basis for “playing the field” nearly made him lose it right there. He hung on to his control. Barely. And only because he knew her words were born out of pain.

  She was miserable. She was missing that bastard Sawyer. And Joaquin wanted to kill the jerk for making Molly so unhappy. But at the same time he was glad that Sawyer was out of her life.

  She was free. Available.

  And someday, when she was over this…

  And that was when reality kicked in. Someday, when she was over Carson Sawyer, he, Joaquin Santiago, would be in no better position to offer her a future than he was now.

  His life was mapped out for him. He was going back to bloody Spain and dealing with the Santiago family business for the rest of his life. It was his duty. It always had been. And it was, as his father had long known, time to stop playing games and face it like a man.

  “I’m leaving today,” he told her.

  “Leaving?”

  “After the games.” He shrugged. “My parents are leaving. And Marianela and her mother,” he added. Then he shrugged as negligently as he could. “I might as well go, too. There’s nothing to stay for now, is there?”

  If he’d hoped she would say, yes! Me! he was doomed to disappointment.

  She stood there, holding her coffee mug, looking absolutely blank. “Of course,” she said slowly. “Of course, you’re right. You had your holiday.” Her gaze lifted and met his squarely. “And now you need to go home. To move on.”

  ALL DAY LONG she prayed it wouldn’t happen. She watched him at the soccer games, running along the sidelines, exhorting the boys, encouraging, cheering. And she told herself he’d see the light, change his mind, realize his future was not in some dreary business half a world away. But even as she prayed, she knew that sometimes the answer you got wasn’t the one you were hoping for.

  And then the tournament was over. The Pelicans actually won.

  “Of course we won,” Lachlan said, as if he hadn’t been biting his fingernails with worry and covering his eyes when things looked desperate. “You’ve just gotta have faith.”

  “And a good coach,” Martin Santiago said. “Or two.” He smiled at Lachlan and then over at his son who was on the other sideline being hugged and congratulated by parents and friends.

  “He’s a good man,” Lachlan agreed. “We’ll miss him.”

  “You will see him no doubt,” Martin said. “He will take holidays. He will come visit. He will not forget Pelican Cay. He will bring his family someday.”

  “He’d better,” Lachlan said gruffly.

  Molly just listened and ached. She was glad no one talked to her. She couldn’t have said anything at all.

  She didn’t want to stand there and watch him leave. But she had to. She had spent too many years dreaming foolish dreams about Carson and her because she couldn’t face the reality that was staring her in the face. She needed to face this reality.

  And so she stood in the shed and watched as the Santiagos and Marianela and her mother all got in Hugh’s helicopter. Joaquin was the last one aboard. He hugged Syd and Fiona and Lachlan. He clapped the boys on the shoulder. And then he paused and looked around.

  For her?

  Perhaps. She would hope so. But she couldn’t go out there. It was too hard. There was a limit to how much control any one woman could be expected to have. So she stayed in the shop and watched out the window as Joaquin, with one last look, climbed into the chopper and the door shut.

  The people on the field backed away, and Hugh started the engine. It kicked up clouds of dust and whipped everyone’s shirts and dresses before, slowly and inexorably, it lifted off the field, hovered a moment, then turned and moved away, taking with it her heart.

  She stood and watched and faced reality until she couldn’t see it anymore. And then she went back to the Jeep and dripped tears onto the hot manifold and watched them hiss.

  BARCELONA WAS much as he had left it. Huge. Crowded. Noisy. Filled with diesel fumes and car exhaust and an energy and a cosmopolitan charm he’d forgotten.

  He didn’t care. He barely noticed.

  His mother fussed over him, delighted he was home, telling him that it was all right if he didn’t fancy Marianela. She was a lovely young woman, but there were others. Lots of others. He could take his pick.

  I want Molly. He thought the words but didn’t say them. Couldn’t even say her name, though he thought about her night and day.

  “You are too quiet,” his mother complained. “Are you getting sick?”

  “I’m fine, Mama,” he told her with as earnest a smile as he could manage. “I’m just getting settled in. Jet lag takes a while.”

  His mother didn’t look convinced. And since she’d bounced right back from her jet lag, she found his suspect. He didn’t blame her.

  “Take a day to sleep,” his father suggested. “You can have tomorrow off. I’d take it myself but I have things to do.”

  “No,” Joaquin declined firmly. “If you have things to do, I do, too.”

  Martin gave him a long look, which Joaquin met steadily. He was here and he was ready to meet his responsibilities. But he shook his head. “I’ll be there in the morning. Begin as you mean to go on and all that.”

  Martin looked sceptical.

  “Papa, I’ll be there. I didn’t come all the way home to back out now.”

  He was there, as promised, bright and early in the morning. He was emotionally no more enthused than ever. But he was determined. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of it, too, even though he was there on his own because his father had meetings and couldn’t be there to show him around.

  Well, so what? He’d been here before, although not for years. And he knew his father had obligations. It was better this way, he decided. It let him get his feet wet on his own.

  It let him stand at the window, staring out at the city, thinking not about mergers and expansions but about Molly McGillivray. He was startled when the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up.

  “Ah. So you are there. Will you come with me for lunch?” his father asked.

  For a workaholic like Martin, the correct answer was probably no, thanks. I’ll eat at my desk.

  “Go out for lunch?” Joaquin asked warily.

  “We need to talk,” Martin said.

  Ah, yes. The “how glad I am you finally came to your senses” lecture. His father had probably spent the morning polishing it.

  “All right. Where?”

  “Te espero en Tibidabo,” Martin said, confounding him.

  Why on earth would his father be at Ti
bidabo? An amusement park, among other things, high on a hill overlooking the city, it was a place for families and holiday outings. Not a place for business discussions.

  Joaquin hadn’t been there in years. It took him two buses, the tramvia blau and the funicular to get to the top of the hill. It was an adventure just making the trip.

  The whole thing was crazy, Joaquin thought. And very unlike his father. Had the old man got too much sun on Pelican Cay? Maybe he was losing his mind. Maybe it was a very good thing he had come home to take over now.

  He worried all the way to the top, half expecting to see a confused shadow of the man he had seen just this morning at breakfast.

  But Martin looked strong and lively and healthy as he came to meet him. He was beaming and took Joaquin by the arm, saying, “Ven. Come along. Let’s have a coffee first and sit here.”

  He bought them each small cortados, strong coffee with milk, and they sat at a small table overlooking the city. It was hazy today. Not beautiful as it was sometimes on days when the wind had blown the fumes and smog and dust out to sea.

  Not beautiful as it was every day on Pelican Cay. His throat tightened and ached as he tried to shove the thought away. To appreciate Barcelona. To listen to his father. To get on with the rest of his life.

  Martin sipped his coffee and looked out across the city. “I come here,” his father said, “whenever I need to see the big picture.”

  Joaquin nodded. Here it came. He settled back against the rusty wrought iron of the chair and tried to look attentive.

  “I come to see the future,” his father went on. “To think about my part in it. Your part in it. Santiagos, the business’s part in it. I see more than just what I want to see in front of me then. At least—” he smiled a little wryly “—I hope that I do.”

  Joaquin waited patiently for his father to get to the point.

  “Sometimes a different perspective makes all the difference.” Martin stared into his cup and then out into the distance again. “Whether from here or from New York or from Pelican Cay. It is a lovely place.” He smiled thoughtfully and stirred his coffee.

  Joaquin swallowed. “Yes.”

  “You were alive there.” Martin looked at him suddenly, nailed him with his gaze.

  Joaquin straightened. The wrought iron poked him in the back. “I’m alive here,” he retorted.

  His father nodded. “But not happy. Soccer makes you happy. Santiagos never will.”

  “You don’t know—” Joaquin began.

  But his father cut him off. “I do know. I know a man must do what he loves. And I loved this business. I woke up every morning eager to come to work, eager to try new things, eager to learn more, to build, to grow.”

  The energy in him was obvious. Joaquin could hear it in his voice, see it in the light in his eyes.

  Martin’s voice dropped. “I wanted that for you.”

  “I’m here,” Joaquin reminded him. The last thing he needed right now was criticism for doing what was expected of him.

  “Yes.” Martin leaned back in his own chair and smiled. “Because I asked you. No, I demanded. And you are a good son. You said yes. You tried to be what I wanted.”

  Joaquin didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t know where his father was going. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I am retiring,” Martin told him.

  “Not yet!” Joaquin leaned forward urgently. “You can’t retire yet. I don’t know the first damned thing about running the business.”

  “And with luck you will never have to,” his father said. His dark eyes were smiling.

  Joaquin stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You doing what you love to do. What you tried for years to get me to understand. You play soccer.”

  “I can’t play anymore!” Joaquin almost yelled at him.

  “But you still love it. And you can coach. You do coach. Very well. I have seen you.”

  “I barely did anything,” Joaquin muttered. He slumped back against the wrought iron again.

  “But you loved it,” his father said confidently. “You would like to do it some more. Yes?”

  Joaquin shrugged. “I suppose.”

  Martin laughed. “I suppose, too, mi hijo. And so I have seen the light. I have agreed to a merger with my friend in New York. The one with the sons.”

  “Who work with him,” Joaquin added grimly.

  “Two of whom work with him,” his father corrected. “The third does something with rocket science, I believe. He loves it.” He was still smiling, looking very satisfied with himself. “We will still own as much as we own now. But my friend and his sons will be active. I will retire, and come and visit my son on Pelican Cay.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Perhaps not.” Martin shrugged lightly. “I do not make decisions for you anymore. You will follow your heart, Joaquin. It is the only way.”

  IF THE PAST FEW DAYS had been the first days of the rest of her life, Molly dared to hope that today wouldn’t be as awful.

  Yesterday there had been no Joaquin. No lessons.

  Only work. Change the spark plugs. Plug the leak. Drain the radiator. Change the oil. Nothing to look forward to.

  And more of the same today.

  Hugh had taken the sea plane to Nassau to pick up some tourists who’d decided at the last minute they would like to visit Pelican Cay. Probably they’d heard about it from people who’d attended the festival.

  According to David Grantham, who ought to know, Pelican Cay was now a “first-class tourist destination.” They were, according to David, a thriving place. “The world will be beating a path to your doorstep,” he told them.

  Which Molly supposed would be nice, if she wanted to stay. She loved it here. But everywhere she looked now, she remembered Joaquin there. She couldn’t walk past the Moonstone or look out the window at the soccer field or have a beer in the Grouper. She couldn’t even go to bed at night without remembering, “Joaquin was here.”

  She needed a change. Maybe tomorrow she should ask Hugh to let her do one of the charters. Ordinarily she did them only when he was otherwise occupied. Ordinarily she was perfectly happy working on her engines.

  At least she had been B.J.

  Before Joaquin.

  Someday she would again, she promised herself. It would take time, but she would get over it. Someday.

  But now she had to check out the fuel line leak in Lachlan’s truck. She lay back on the roller and maneuvered herself underneath it. She hung the shop light where she could examine the line and began to use her heels to squirm along, propelling herself.

  She heard footsteps. Turned her head and saw a pair of male feet in deck shoes. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said. “If you want to go somewhere today, my brother’s in Nassau. I’m the only one who can take you.”

  “You’ll do.”

  The voice was so familiar and so completely unexpected that she sat up. “Ow!” She fell back, seeing stars, disbelieving.

  But he was on his knees in an instant, peering underneath the truck, grabbing her by the ankles and yanking her out from beneath it. “My God, querida, are you all right?”

  Molly rubbed her forehead where a good-size egg was forming. “I…don’t—” she was going to say know. She said “—believe it.” She stared at him, doubting her perceptions. But he was lifting her now, touching her! Pulling her toward him and brushing her hair gently away from the goose egg on her head.

  “We’ll call the doctor,” he said.

  “We will not,” Molly contradicted at once. “I’m fine. I banged my head. You made me bang my head, sneaking up on me like that. Where did you come from? What are you doing here?”

  He looked tired and unshaven and absolutely wonderful. “I came from Barcelona. I came to see you. I—” and then he stopped, drew in a ragged breath and raked his fingers through his hair.

  Don’t stop now! Molly wanted to shout at him. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She
opened her mouth, but she found she couldn’t speak, either, couldn’t demand to know what had changed, why he was back.

  Slowly, starting from the beginning, he told her. He told her about his father retiring. He told her about a place called Tibidabo and a view of the future and a change of perspective and a whole lot of things that probably would make sense if she could just get past thinking over and over, He’s here! He’s here!

  “So you don’t have to work for him?” She cut to the bottom line.

  “I don’t have to work for him.”

  “Then…what do you have to do?” She couldn’t believe he didn’t have to do something.

  A corner of his mouth twisted. “Follow my heart, querida.”

  She stared at him, unspeaking, unable to say a word, her breath caught in her throat.

  He lowered his gaze for a moment, then lifted it again and met hers. “I know it’s too soon. I know you still love Carson. I don’t expect that to change. Not yet. But someday—” he said the words almost urgently, and he caught her grimy hands in his “—someday, Molly, you will. I promise you. Someday you’ll be ready to try again, to play the field and—”

  “I don’t want to play the field.”

  The light went out of his eyes. His expression grew grim. His shoulders slumped like a man defeated. She had never ever seen Joaquin Santiago defeated.

  “I don’t want to play the field,” she repeated. “I want you.”

  His head jerked up. He stared at her, incredulous. Ran his tongue over his lips. “You…what?”

  “You heard me. I don’t want to play the field. I’m not interested. Never will be. I love Carson—” the light that had come back flickered again, and she realized for the first time how much she meant to him, how badly she could hurt him if she weren’t careful “—but not the way you think I love him.”

  He just looked at her.

  “I love him like I love Lachlan and Hugh. Like a brother. I told him that the night of the Wilsons’ party.”

  “You told him?”

  Molly nodded. “It wasn’t him dumping me. It turned out we’d both been giving things a lot of thought. You know what I was thinking—” She grinned.