His Thirty-Day Fiancée

by Catherine Mann

  Why hadn’t he stayed to see her reaction? Could he be as unsure as she was about where and how to proceed next?

  Her stomach churned with excitement and fear. Maybe she was working herself up for nothing. Wouldn’t she feel foolish if the present turned out to be a new gown to wear to the wedding? Or some other accoutrement to play out their fake engagement?

  Her heart squeezed tight at the memory of meeting Enrique, a delightful old man who took her at face value and reeled her right in. Guilt had niggled at her ever since deceiving him—a warm and wonderful father figure to a woman so sorely lacking in that department. She hated to think about all the lies yet to come.

  But there was only one way to find out what the box held. She swept the gift from the pillow, heavier than she’d expected. Curiosity overcame her fear and she tore off the crisp gold bow, then the thick maroon paper. Lifting the lid from the box, she found…

  A small framed black-and-white photo—oh, God, an Ansel Adams of a moonrise over icy mountain peaks. Her hand shook as her fingers hovered over the image. He’d remembered. Just one conversation about her favorite photographer and he’d committed it to memory, choosing this gift with her preferences in mind.

  Yes, he’d overstepped in spiriting Jennifer away, but he was obviously trying to woo her. And not with some thing generic that could have been ordered for any interchangeable woman.

  Kate set the gift aside reverently and swept the covers away. She had to find him, to thank him, to see if she was reading too much into one gift. She stepped into the closet—good heavens, Duarte and his family had closet space to spare. She grabbed for the first pair of jeans and a pullover. Dressing on her way out of the room, she scanned the sitting area for Duarte.

  The balcony door stood open.

  Different from the wrought-iron railing she’d seen on the other side of the house when she’d arrived, this terrace sported a waist-high, white stucco wall with potted cacti and hanging ferns. In her time on the island, she’d realized the house had four large wings of private quarters, one for the king and three for his sons. Here, wide stone steps led down toward the beach, yellow moon and stars reflecting off the dark stretch of ocean.

  She scanned and didn’t see anything other than rolling waves and a small cluster of palm trees. As she turned away, a squeak stopped her short. She pivoted back and peered closer into the dark.

  Moonlight peeked through the clouds long enough to stream over a hammock strung between two towering trees. The ghostly white light reminded her of the gorgeous photograph he’d given her. Duarte lounged with one leg draped off the side, swinging slowly. She couldn’t think of when she’d seen him so unguarded.

  Hand dragging along the wall, she raced down the steps. A chilly breeze off the water lifted her hair, night temperature dipping. The squeak slowed and she realized he must have heard her.

  As she neared, her eyes adjusted to the dark. Duarte wore the same silky ninja workout clothes as the night they’d met. Looking closer, she saw a hint of perspiration still clung to his brow. He must have gone to the home gym after she’d fallen asleep. She was increasingly realizing he channeled martial arts moments to vent pent-up frustration.

  Breathless—from the sight of him more than the jog—she leaned against the palm tree. “Thank you for the gift.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said softly, extending an arm for her to join him on the hammock.

  Almost afraid to hope he might be reaching out to her on an even deeper level, she took his hand.

  “It’s such a perfect choice,” she said as she settled against his warmth, the hammock jolting, rocking, finally steadying. “An Ansel Adams gift? Very nice.”

  “Any Joe with a big bank balance could have done that.”

  “But not just any Joe would have remembered what I named my cat.” She brushed a kiss along his bristly jaw. “I can’t wait to find just the right place to hang it.”

  Back at her apartment? Every time she looked at it, she would be reminded of him. The air grew heavier as she breathed in the salt-tinged wind.

  His arm under her shoulders, he fit her closer against him. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

  It was one thing to talk in the course of a day or even in the aftermath of sex, but cuddling quietly in the moonlight was somehow more…intimate.

  Furthermore, was she happy? At the moment, yes. But so much rode on the outcome of this month. She still feared disappointing so many people with a failed engagement.

  “You’re not what I expected, you know.” She traced the V-neckline of his jacket. “But then that’s my fault. It was easier to paint you as the arrogant rich prince. You try so hard, even when you screw up.”

  “Such as bringing Jennifer here without asking you.” His deep voice rumbled over her hair, his chin resting on her head.

  “Bonus points for admitting you were wrong.” She stroked her toes over his bare feet beside hers. “I am sorry for not consulting you before bringing Jennifer to the island.”

  She shifted to look up at him. “Did that apology hurt coming up?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Laughing, she swatted his chest. “I bet you’ve never begged for anything in your life. You’re too proud.”

  “You would be wrong,” he said so softly she almost missed the words. Then he squeezed her hand lightly. “I would give you an Ansel Adams gallery if you wish.”

  “Thank you, truly.” She stretched to kiss him, just a closemouthed moment to linger and languish in the rightness of touching him. “But no need to go overboard. The clothes, private planes, guards—I have to admit to feeling a little overwhelmed.”

  “You? Overwhelmed?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I’ve only known one woman as bold as you.”

  For the first time that she could recall, he’d offered up a piece of personal information about himself. Another sign that he was trying to make amends? Get closer?

  Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if he could feel it against his side. Was there a hidden, lost love in his past? “Who was the other woman?” she asked carefully. “The one as bold as I am?”

  His heart beat so hard she could feel it under her palm. She waited, wondering if she’d misread his slip. And how would she feel if he suddenly revealed he’d been in love with someone else?

  Finally, he answered, “My mother.”

  Everything inside her went still. Her senses pulled tightly into the world around her. The pulsing of her blood through her veins synched with the tide’s gush and retreat. The palms overhead rustled as heavily as Duarte’s breaths.

  Kate stroked his chest lightly. “I would like to hear more about her.”

  “I would like to tell you…Carlos and I used to talk about her, verifying that our memories weren’t becoming faulty with time. It’s so easy for some moments to overtake others.”

  “The little things can be special.”

  “Actually, I’m talking about the bigger events.” He paused, his neck moving against her in a long swallow. “Like the night she died.”

  She held her breath, terrified of saying something wrong. She’d covered dangerous and tragic situations in her job, back in the beginning, but she’d been seeing it all through a lens, as an observer. Her heart had ached for those suffering, but it was nothing compared to the wrenching pain of envisioning Duarte as a young boy living out one of those events.

  “Kate? The fierce way my mother protected us reminds me of how you take care of Jennifer. I know you would lay down your life for her.”

  And he was right. But dear God, no woman should ever have to pay the price his mother had to look after her children. She closed her eyes to hold back the burning tears as she listened to Duarte.

  “That night when the rebels caught us…” His chest pumped harder. “Carlos whispered for me to cover Antonio and he would look after our mother. When you said you couldn’t imagine me ever begging…” He cleared his throat and continued, “I begged for my mother’s life. I begge
d, but they shot her anyway. They shot Carlos because he tried to protect her…”

  His voice cracked.

  Her throat closed up with emotions, and now it wasn’t a matter of searching for the right words because she couldn’t speak at all. He’d planted an image so heartbreaking into her mind, it shattered her ability to reason. She just held him tighter.

  “Once our mother died,” he continued, his slight accent thickening with emotion, “time became a blur. I still can’t remember how Antonio and I got away unscathed. Later I was told more of our father’s guards arrived. After we left San Rinaldo, we spent a while in Argentina until we were reunited with our father.”

  Shivering more from the picture he painted than the cool night wind, she pushed words up and out. “Who was there to console you?”

  He waved her question aside. “Once my father arrived, we stayed long enough to establish rumors we’d relocated there. Then we left.”

  His sparse retelling left holes in the story, but regardless, it sounded as if there hadn’t been much time for him to grieve such a huge loss. And to see his oldest brother shot, as well? That hadn’t appeared in any news reports about the Medina family. What other horrifying details had they managed to keep secret?

  Shadows cast by the trees and clouds grew murkier, dangerous. “It’s no wonder that your father became obsessed with security and keeping his sons safe.”

  “And yet, he risked trips to the mainland those first couple years we were here.”

  “Your father left the island?” Where was Duarte going with this revelation? She had no idea, but she did know he never did anything without a purpose.

  And she’d been so hungry for a peek inside his heart and his past for clues as to what made this man tick. She would be glad for whatever he cared to share tonight.

  “My father had developed a relationship with another woman,” he said, his voice flat and unemotional, overly so.

  What he said merged with what she knew from covering his family. “You’re talking about your half sister’s mother.” Kate knew the details, like the age of Enrique’s daughter. Eloisa had been born less than two years after the coup in San Rinaldo. That affair had to have been tough for three boys still grieving the loss of their mother. “How did they meet?”

  “Carlos’s recovery from his gunshot wounds was lengthy. Between our time in Argentina and relocating here, Carlos had a setback. Our father met a nurse at the hospital.” The muscles in Duarte’s chest contracted. “He found distraction from his grief.”

  So much more made sense, like why Duarte and his brothers had little contact with their father. “His relationship with the nurse created a rift between you and your father.”

  It was easy to empathize with either side—a devastated man seeking comfort for an immeasurable loss. A boy resentful that his father had sought that comfort during such a confusing time of grief.

  “You probably wonder why I’m telling you this.”

  She weighed the risks and figured the time had come to step out on an emotional ledge. “We’ve been naked together. While being with you is amazing, I would like to think we have more going for us than that.”

  “You’ve mentioned my numerous short relationships.”

  She hated the pinch of jealousy. “Your point?”

  “I’ve had sex, but I don’t have much experience with building relationships. Not with my family. Not with women. I’ve been told I’m an emotionless bastard.”

  “Emotionless? Good God, Duarte,” she exclaimed, shifting over him, hammock lurching much like her feelings, “you’re anything but detached. You’re one of the most intense people I’ve ever met. Sure you don’t crack a bunch of jokes and get teary eyed at commercials, but I see how deeply you feel things.”

  He silenced her with a finger to her mouth. “You’re misunderstanding. I’m telling you I want more than just your body.”

  Her stomach bumped against her heart. Could he really mean…

  “But, Kate, I can’t be sure I have the follow-through. Given my history, I’m a risk to say the least.”

  Hearing this proud man lay himself bare before her this way tugged at her heart, already tender from images of a hurting young boy. She thought of the considerate gift, left on her pillow rather than presented in person. Could he be every bit as unsettled by their relationship as she was? He acted so confident, so in control.

  Unease whispered over her like the night wind blowing in off the ocean. He’d said a relationship with him was a risk and she was just beginning to realize how much she had to lose—a chance with Duarte, a chance at his heart.

  So much had changed so fast for both of them. If he was every bit as confused and stunned by the feelings erupting between them, perhaps the best answer would be a careful approach.

  “Duarte,” she whispered against his mouth, “how about we take it one day at a time until Tony and Shannon’s wedding?”

  Shadows drifted through his eyes like a stark Ansel Adams landscape playing out across Duarte’s face. Then he smiled, cupping her head to draw her mouth to his.

  The breeze blew over her again, chilling her through as she thought of how he’d opened up to her, and wondering if in her fear she’d fallen short in giving him her trust.

  They’d eaten an honest-to-goodness family dinner.

  Working his kinked neck from side to side, Duarte cradled his post-meal brandy in the music room. Well, it was more of a ballroom actually, with wooden floors stretching across and a coffered ceiling that added texture as well as sound control. Crystal chandeliers and sconces glowed.

  And the gang was all here, except for Carlos, of course. But their numbers had grown all the same.

  Shannon played the piano, her son seated beside her with his feet swinging. Tony leaned against the Steinway Grand, eyes locked on his fiancée. His brother was one hundred percent a goner.

  Sweet Jennifer sat cross-legged on the floor by the mammoth gold harp, petting Benito and Diablo, blessedly oblivious that she played with trained guard dogs while armed security flanked the door. What the hell had he brought Kate and her sister into?

  Enrique reclined in a tapestry wingback chair, his feet on an ottoman. The bottle of oxygen tucked by a stained glass window reminded Duarte how very ill their father still was. Kate sat in the chair beside him, her foot tapping in time with the “Ragtime Waltz” that Shannon whipped through on the ivory keyboard.

  Kate.

  His eyes lingered on her. Her basic little black dress looked anything but basic on her curves he knew so intimately well. His gaze skated down her legs to her sky-high heels. If only they could stay in bed, this attempt at a relationship would be a piece of cake.

  It had been tougher than he’d expected spilling his guts for her last night in the hammock, but that’s what women wanted. Right? Yet somehow he’d missed the mark because still she held something back.

  The last ragtime note faded, and Duarte joined in the applause.

  Tony retrieved his drink from beside the music. “Hey, Kate, maybe you can persuade Duarte to play for us.”

  She turned toward him, surprise stamped on her face. “You play the piano?”

  “Not well.” Duarte lifted his drink in mocking toast to his brother. “Thanks, Tony. I won’t be forgetting that. Keep it up and I’ll tell them about your harp lessons.”

  Laughing lightly, Tony returned the air toast. Carlos was the only one of them to catch on during music class. Tony had never been able to sit still long enough to practice. The teacher had told Duarte he played like a robot.

  Great. Tally another vote for his inability to make an emotional commitment—even to a piece of music.

  Enrique angled toward Kate. “Duarte might not have been the best musician, but my goal was simply to give my sons a taste of the arts so they received a well-rounded education. We may have been isolated, but I made sure they had top-notch tutors.”

  “Hmm.” Kate nodded. “I don’t see you as the sort of person who s
its back and turns over control. So tell me, what did you teach them?”

  “You are a good reporter.”

  “That’s gracious of you to say.” She winked at Enrique, as at ease with him as if she spoke with the mailman. “Considering who I work for.”

  “I taught my sons art history.” Enrique continued on about his favorite Spanish masters.

  Duarte swirled brandy in the snifter. Kate’s jab at the Intruder surprised him. But then he’d seen her scruples show in the photos she chose. Would she have taken a job she didn’t like just for Jennifer?

  Of course she would.

  His determination to win her over multiplied. He still had ten days left. His mind churned with plans to romance her between now and the wedding. Time to fly her to the Museum of Contemporary Photography in Chicago, to live out the pretend courtship they’d concocted.

  She might not have understood that he was reaching out last night. But he could tap every last resource in the coming days up to the wedding to ensure she stayed.

  His will strengthened, Duarte looked forward to his first step—a surprise trip this weekend to woo her with art in the museum she’d never visited. He savored the vision of another plane ride with her until—

  Tony waved for everyone’s attention. He hefted Kolby up and slid his other arm around Shannon’s waist. “We have an announcement to make. Since our family is here, why not proceed with the wedding? Or rather we will as soon as Carlos arrives in the morning.”

  Enrique’s pocket watch slipped from his hand. Duarte lunged and scooped it up just shy of the floor.

  “We don’t want to wait until the end of the month,” Tony said, his eyes zipping to their father just long enough for Duarte to catch his fear that any delay could be too late for Enrique. “We want to get married this weekend.”