Amado smiled his familiar crooked smile and laid a soft kiss on her cheek. “I’m going to hold you to those, querida. Especially the part about how you support the sacred institution of marriage when you keep your husband happy in bed.” His hushed tones sent a shiver of giggly excitement through her. Amado laughed. “I guess missionary work has changed a bit since I was in school.”
She shrugged, smiling. “They’re unusual people.”
“Just like their daughter.” He looked at Sam. “Is she the most beautiful woman on the planet, or am I just madly in love with her?”
He stepped back and Susannah blushed under his admiring gaze.
“It’s this lovely dress.” She smoothed the cleverly cut white silk that molded to her slim body and found curves where she never knew she had them. “Rosa and Clara made it themselves. Aren’t they brilliant?”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Goodness, yes. They’d give Vera Wang designs a run for the money.”
“They said they used to make all their own clothes when they were younger. Can you imagine?”
“No, way.” Sam laughed. “The fashion industry might fall apart if I started doing that.”
It was a Hardcastle Enterprises joke that Sam dressed only in couture originals. At least Susannah used to think it was a joke. Now she was a family insider, she knew better. Apparently designers even came to their Upper East Side mansion for fittings at Tarrant’s insistence.
Susannah couldn’t imagine how Sam put up with her ebullient husband, but it was obvious she loved him desperately. What would her life be like when he was gone?
As if he was thinking the same thing, Amado wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulders. “You’re my third mom, you know? I think Marisa would be so happy to see us all here together.” He rubbed her arm. “It’s all your doing, Sam. You started the search for Tarrant’s lost children.” Tears welled in Susannah’s eyes as she watched the emotion flickering on Sam’s face.
Sam dabbed at her eye makeup with a designer handkerchief. “Thank you, Amado. I can’t put into words how much it means to me to see you all together, and so happy. This wedding is a wonderful blessing. Tarrant keeps outliving his doctors’ expectations and it’s because his children are giving him such joyous events to look forward to.” Her carefully made-up lips quivered. “Maybe he really will live a long and full life, just to spite them all.” She laughed through sudden tears, and Amado squeezed her hand.
“This evening will live forever in all our hearts,” he said softly. “Would you do us the honor of ringing the bell to call everyone to eat?”
“I’d be thrilled.”
As the sound of the old brass bell reverberated off the stone buildings, guests made their way into the lovely garden. Ignacio with his arm affectionately wrapped around his beloved Clara, Tarrant helped by his daughter Fiona, Dominic and his wife Bella already practicing their tango steps, Susannah’s own parents speaking in animated Spanish to Tomas. Susannah had even found Valentina, who traveled from the Pampas with her husband and three children to join the celebration.
The newly united families joined with friends, neighbors and vineyard workers to share slow-roasted steaks, homegrown vegetables and fresh ice cream. Dinner stretched into a long, sweaty, breathless night of dancing, and Amado and Susannah’s wedding was celebrated with toasts and tears and many, many glasses of the very best wine on earth.
THE END
Read on for an excerpt from A Taste of Heaven, the next book in the Billionaires' Secrets series:
Samantha Hardcastle is horrified when the sensual stranger she has a one-night fling with turns out to be her long-lost stepson. Restauranteur Louis DuLac prefers his relationships short and sweet but he's floored by deep feelings for the beautiful and loving woman who won't let him touch her again. The thrice-married “Merry Widow” has washed her hands of love-until she starts to realize that she's never truly known it before.
A Taste of Heaven 1
Samantha Hardcastle was wound tighter than her late husband’s Cartier watch. The festive happy-hour crowd on Bourbon Street jostled and bumped her. Her new red Christian Louboutin sandals were supposed to lift her spirits. Instead they threatened to bring her down on her butt.
She pushed through the throng toward a less crowded side street, gasping for oxygen in the beer-scented darkness. Streetlights and neon bar signs blurred and jumped in her peripheral vision. Columns holding up the balconies above clustered around her like menacing trees in an enchanted forest.
She was dizzy and light-headed. Probably because she’d forgotten to eat since...had she even had breakfast before her flight?
Her ankle wobbled and she caught herself on a brick wall. She’d somehow lost her way between the shoe store and the hotel. The sun had set, transforming the unfamiliar city into a place of shadows, and now she couldn’t find her way back.
Since her husband’s death, she couldn’t seem to do anything right anymore. Every day took just a little bit more energy than she had.
“Are you okay?” a deep voice asked in her ear.
“Yes, fine, thanks,” she responded. She didn’t take her hand off the wall. The dark street was spinning.
“No, you’re not. Come inside.”
“No, really, I...” Visions of being taken captive fired her imagination as a thick arm slid around her waist. She struggled against hard muscle.
“It’s just a bar. You can sit down and rest a minute.”
He guided her to a doorway. A light-filled archway in the hot darkness. A soothing string instrument filled the air, which— strangely enough—didn’t smell of beer like the air outside.
“There’s a comfortable chair over here.” His tone was authoritative, yet soothing. The large room had the atmosphere of a turn-of-the-century saloon. Ornate gilding, polished plank floors and high tin ceilings. The colors were muted and mellow. Restful.
She let herself be helped to a leather armchair in a dark corner of the bar. “Thanks,” she murmured, as he lowered her gently into the chair. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Just rest. I’ll bring you something to eat.”
“But I don’t—”
“Yes, you do.”
She thought she detected a hint of humor in his firm rebuttal. Maybe she did need food. She kept forgetting to eat lately. She’d totally lost her appetite for—everything.
She glanced around. There were quite a few people sitting at tables and in booths along one wall. Unlike the jovial mob outside, they spoke in hushed tones, and their laughter tinkled in the air.
Two waiters set down a table in front of her armchair, crisp white cloth and gleaming flatware already on it. A strong hand brought a steaming white plate.
“Here, crawfish étouffée with dirty rice. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Thank you.” She glanced up at the owner of the hand and the reassuring voice. “You’re too kind.”
“Oh, I’m not kind at all.” Honey-brown eyes glittered with humor. “I don’t like people passing out cold in front of my door. Bad for business.”
“I guess dragging dizzy women in is one way to drum up customers.” She risked a shy smile.
He smiled back with warmth that surprised her. He had light brown skin and sexily tousled hair and was far too good-looking to be trustworthy.
Apprehension trickled up her spine. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“I’m waiting for you to pick up your fork and eat.”
“Oh.” She grabbed the fork and scooped up a small mouthful of étouffée. Self-conscious under his penetrating gaze, she put it between her lips and attempted to chew. Flavor cascaded over her tongue as she bit into the tender crustacean, marinated in its spicy sauce.
“Oh, my. That’s good.”
A smile spread over his stern features. He gestured for her to continue. “Now, what can I get you to drink?”
He asked the question with a hint of seduction. Not like a waiter, more like...someone trying to
pick her up in a bar.
A hackle slid up inside her. She’d dreaded being single again. Dreaded it with every cell in her body.
“Just a glass of water will be fine, thank you.” She spoke in a clipped and officious manner. Like the wealthy Park Avenue matron she supposedly was.
He vanished out of her line of sight. With a sigh of relief, she fell on her crawfish étouffée, ravenous. She’d been walking around all day, trying to locate the man she hoped was her husband’s estranged son.
She’d finally found Louis DuLac’s house on Royal Street, with its tall windows and scrolled iron balconies. But he wasn’t home. She’d tried twice.
The second time his housekeeper had shut the door rather firmly in her face.
Some festival was in full swing and the city was packed with tourists. She’d overlooked that when she arranged her trip. Her husband’s private jet didn’t require reservations, and the ten-thousand-dollar-a-night rooms were still available. It wasn’t Mardi Gras, though. She knew that was in February or March, and right now it was October.
A loud pop made her look up. Champagne streamed over the side of a Krug bottle. Apparently Mr. Smooth had pegged her as the kind of person who could afford seven hundred dollars a bottle.
Probably her own fault. The red Louboutin shoes didn’t help.
“Oh, I really don’t—”
“On the house,” he murmured, as he filled a tall, fluted glass.
She blinked. Even Tarrant’s favorite sommeliers didn’t hand over Krug champagne for free. “Why?”
“Because you’re too pretty to look so sad.”
“Does it occur to you I might have good reason to look sad?”
“It does.” He handed her the glass and pulled up a chair. “Are you dying?”
There wasn’t a hint of humor in his gaze.
“No,” she blurted. “At least not that I know of.”
Relief smoothed his brow. “Well, that’s good news. Let’s drink to it.” He’d filled himself a glass and he raised it to hers.
She clinked it and took a sip. The expensive bubbles tickled her tongue. “What would you have said if I’d told you I was dying?”
“I’d have suggested you live each day as if it’s your last.” His eyes sparkled. They were an appealing caramel color, with flecks of gold, like polished tigereye. “Which I think is good advice in any event.”
“You’re so right.” She sighed. Her husband, Tarrant, had such a lust for life that he’d far outlived his doctor’s expectations. She’d vowed to follow his example, but wasn’t doing very well so far.
Drinking champagne was a start. “Here’s to the first day of the rest of our lives.” She raised her glass with a smile.
“May each day be a celebration.” His eyes rested on hers as he raised his glass. She felt a strange flicker of something inside her. A pleasurable feeling.
Must be the champagne.
“Do you see the guitarist?” He gestured to a corner of the room. “He’s one-hundred-and-one years old.”
Samantha’s eyes widened. The musician’s white hair contrasted starkly with his ebony skin. It was astonishing he even had hair at that age. And his spirit shone in his energetic finger movements that vibrated out into the air as music.
“He’s lived through two world wars, the depression, the digitization of almost everything and Hurricane Katrina. Every day he plays the guitar. Says it reignites the fire in him every single time.”
“I envy him his passion.”
“You don’t have one?” He cocked his head slightly. His gaze was warm, not accusatory.
“Not really.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell this stranger about her quest to find her husband’s missing children. Even her closest friends thought she was nuts. “Shopping for shoes sometimes lifts my spirits.” She flashed a smile and her new red Louboutins.
In a way, she hoped he’d sneer. That would squash the funny warm sensation in the pit of her belly.
Instead, he smiled. “Christian is an artist and art always lifts the spirits. He’d thoroughly approve.”
“You know him?”
He nodded. “I lived in Paris for years. I still spend a lot of time there.”
“I’m impressed that you could tell who designed a pair of shoes. Most men wouldn’t have a clue.”
“I’ve always had an appreciation for fine things.” His gaze rested lightly on her face. Not sexual or suggestive, but she couldn’t help but hear the words like you hover in the air.
Instead of feeling harassed she felt...desirable. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
She brushed the feeling away. “Is New Orleans always this crazy?”
“Absolutely.” He grinned. “Some people who come here have such a good time they even forget to eat.” He glanced at her almost-empty plate of crawfish and rice.
She smiled. Let him think she was here for a fun vacation. In another life, maybe she would have been. Tarrant had loved jazz and they’d talked about coming for the spring Jazz Festival.
“Don’t go looking sad again.” He shot her an accusatory glance. “I think you need to dance.”
She glanced over his shoulder where a cluster of elegant couples swayed on the dance floor. Adrenaline trickled through her.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.” She took a quick sip of champagne. She was a widow. In mourning, though she’d promised Tarrant she wouldn’t wear black even to the funeral. She flashed her shoes as an excuse.
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Christian would be horrified if he heard a woman had used his shoes as a reason not to dance.”
“Then don’t tell him.”
“I most certainly shall tell him—unless you dance with me. I think it’s the least you can do after I rescued you from the streets and fed you.” A smile played around his mouth.
She chuckled. “You make me sound like a stray waif.”
“A stray waif in Christian Louboutin shoes.” He stood and extended his arm. Apparently he expected her to rise, too.
She took his hand and stood. She was nothing if not polite, the society-wife training ensured that. Besides, what was wrong with one little dance? Tarrant would rather see her moving than moping around.
He made a signal to the guitarist, who winked and struck up a new tune. Bluesy, but with a Latin flavor. Sam felt a shimmer of excitement as they stepped out onto the smooth wood floor. She hadn’t danced in a long time.
The music hovered around them like smoke, filling the space between them. Through the sensual mist it created, she couldn’t help but notice her partner was tall and broad shouldered. Her eyes were about level with his shirt collar, which had a fine pattern of irregular stripes. His jaw was solid, authoritative, like the rest of him.
He took her hand and clasped it softly, wrapping long, strong fingers around hers. The warmth of his blood seemed to pulse through his skin and heat hers as the music beat around them.
“What kind of dance are we going to do?” She didn’t dare look up at his face. Already she was too close to him. So near she could feel the heat of him through her clothes.
“Any kind you like. It sounds like a mambo to me.”
Her feet slipped into the mambo rhythm, following the patterns she’d learned years ago at Ms. Valentine’s dancing school. She tried to focus on the steps, on moving gracefully, and keeping enough distance between her and her partner. He smelled of spices, like the rich food she’d eaten, and of starched cotton.
“I like your shirt.” She risked a glance at his face.
Those rich, honey-colored eyes gazed at her, twinkling with amusement. “You don’t have to make polite conversation with me. I know you’re nice.”
“How on earth would you know that?”
“I can read people. It’s a gift I got from my grandmother. She used to read tea leaves, but she told me her secret was always to read the people as they stared at the leaves.”
“What do you look for?” She tried to ignore the stea
dy warmth of his big hand on her back.
“Facial expression tells you what matters to someone, not just while you look at them, but every day. All the little dimples and wrinkles reveal something.”
“Uh, oh. I’m getting self-conscious.” Two plastic surgery consultations had reassured her that it wasn’t yet time to get drastic, but at thirty-one, Samantha knew she was no longer at the peak of her once-prize-winning beauty.
“That dimple in your chin tells me you smile a lot. And the tilt of your eyes tells me that you like to make people happy.”
“That’s true.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I’ve been told I try too hard to please. I’m a ‘yes’ woman.”
“But you have strength of character. I can see that by the way you carry yourself. You care very much about everything you do.”
She frowned, taking in his words. Was it true? Maybe she just had good posture from training for beauty pageants.
She’d tried hard to mature. To learn from her failed marriages and all the mistakes she’d made.
She’d given everything she had to make Tarrant’s last years the best they could be.
“And you’re very, very sad.” His low voice tickled her ear. While they moved, he’d come closer.
“I’m okay,” she stammered, trying to reassure herself as much as him.
“You are okay.” His hand shifted on her back, stroking her. “You’re more than okay. But my grandmother would tell you to breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she protested.
“Little shallow breaths.” He leaned into her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck. “Just enough to keep you afloat, to get you through the day.”
He squeezed her hand inside his. His penetrating gaze almost stole the last of her breath. “You need to inhale and draw oxygen way down deep into your body. To let it flow all the way through you, out to your fingers and toes.”
Her toes tingled. “Right now?”
She swallowed. Glanced around his broad arm to where other couples danced, lost in their own world.
“No time like the present.” He smiled.
Grapes of Wrath (Billionaires' Secrets Book 2) Page 15
