The Saint's Devilish Deal (13 page)

“But you want to learn to surf.” He gathered her to him, pulling her back against his chest and waving his hands toward the horizon as if he could bring the ocean straight to them. “Imagine the two of us in warm, rolling water. Lying on surfboards, feeling the waves caressing our skin.” Esme barely held back a sigh, the picture he painted was so perfect. Only surfing didn’t involve just lying on surfboards.

“And then being pushed around by the waves and shoved into the sand. I don’t think I’m ready for that, Saint.”

“You’re ready.” He took her hand and led her to the Porsche. Opening the door, he leaned in, scorching Esme’s mouth with a hard kiss. His lips tasted fresh; no hint of the wine they’d had with lunch remained. He nipped at her lower lip as she sighed and melted against him. “You’re ready for anything now, and since tomorrow we’ll be busy decorating the villa with the truckloads of checheres you bought after lunch, indulge me. Let’s squeeze as much into the day as we can.”

“The trucks aren’t filled with junk, they’re filled with the villa’s future. What I’d like to squeeze in is a long, hot bubble bath in Constance’s Jacuzzi. You’re welcome to join me,” she said, sinking into the soft leather seat and leaning her head back. An image of the far-away earth popped into her mind before Esme could relax. No, she was definitely not ready for any kind of surfing adventure, not now.

“If you come surfing with me, we can make it a bath for two later. With the terrace doors open to the sea air, a few candles and the breeze blowing across our hot bodies.” He did it again. Esme’s body went on full alert, her nipples pebbling and a wave of moist heat slipping from her core at his words. “But for the next hour, you are going to have your first surfing lesson. And later this week, after the guests are gone, I’ll take you diving. Maybe even rock climbing.”

“I thought my daily vacations were supposed to be relaxing?” She twisted her mouth to the side, as if contemplating his request. She couldn’t let him know, not just yet, that she was ready to ask “how high” every time he said “jump.”

“Don’t worry, there will be plenty of relaxing after our excursions. Think of relaxation as a reward for fearlessness.” He winked at her, making her blush and shake her head at the same time. This Santiago was so familiar to her. So like the boy she grew up with and the young man she fell in love with in Napa. A thin wave of panic increased her heart rate and clenched her neck muscles. Love. Santiago.

God, she was falling for him. Again.

*

They didn’t surf. The water on the bay was too calm for more than swimming. So Esme packed a picnic, Santiago gathered blankets, and now here they were, beneath the stars finishing the last of the tomatoes and cheese.

Esme leaned back on her elbows. “Have you noticed that the stars always seem brighter here?”

Santiago wrenched his gaze from her upturned face, leaned back on his elbows and contemplated the summer sky. Once the sun had disappeared into the Pacific, the night had cooled nicely. Now a light breeze drifted over them. He crossed his ankles as the North Star twinkled from the handle of the Big Dipper. The Summer Triangle, where points from the constellations Cygnus, Lyra, and Aquila seem to form the shape, appeared. He’d seen it from both sides of the Pacific, but never brighter than it was here.

 Or was that just the effect of the woman beside him? In either case, he didn’t answer. Esme would know if he lied and if he didn’t. . . Well, being honest would only make her believe he was more invested in their deal than he was. More than enough reason to nip this all in the bud and go back to the way things were before: she loathed him, he kept his distance. She turned her head, smiling.

“Do you remember the night you showed me the Milky Way through the Triangle? You said it could only be seen by special people and that, at first, it would just look like dust or smoke, but the longer you looked the more you could see into another world?”

“I remember,” he said. “You’d just come to live with Con after your parents died. You looked so sad, staring up at the sky as if you needed to see something up there.”

Their fingers were only inches apart. It was a simple thing to take her hand in his and instead of walking away, of hurting Esme, he took it. Caressed her palm with his thumb.

“And you gave me something to look for,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I blamed them, you know, for a long time. My dad for indulging my mom’s manic phases. My mom for taking everything away.”

“Mental illness isn’t an easy thing to deal with when you’re a kid.” Or an adult, he thought, but didn’t say it. Magdalena’s illness was possibly the best kept secret in Puerto Vallarta, although Esme knew more than most thanks to the connection between Constance and his mother.

“Is that why you haven’t returned any of Magdalena’s calls?” Esme asked. Santiago swallowed hard. “She’s called every day since I’ve been back and you deleted every message on the landline or ignored her calls to your cell. You haven’t visited either, have you?” He could only shake his head. “Agoraphobia isn’t bipolar disorder, but it’s still debilitating. You should call. Go over to the peninsula.”

She was getting too close, too personal. He had to stop this before it went too far. Before she saw too much. “Playing psychoanalyst now, Esmerelda?”

“Snapping at me won’t make me go away. Just like ignoring Magdalena won’t make her stop calling. Eventually I just blamed myself because I wasn’t enough for either of them to choose me.”

Before he could react to her psychoanalyzing him, she was doing the same to herself. He couldn’t argue, couldn’t stop her. “Esme, it wasn’t that—”

She held up a hand. “I know. Constance made sure I had the best therapist in Vallarta and then California. I know my parents’ accident wasn’t my fault, but it still felt that way. Meanwhile, Eduardo used Magdalena to keep you on a leash. Is still using her, I’m guessing. Of course you thought Magdalena’s collapse was your fault. You were barely a teenager and I saw how Eduardo hounded you.” She switched back to her story before he could reply. “I was just starting to really get my balance when Napa happened. I think that’s why I tried to blame you for so long. I don’t blame you, Saint. I never really blamed you. It was just easier to be mad at you for leaving than to examine my heart.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you Es, I just couldn’t stay.” Santiago was sweating. He didn’t want this conversation, not now, possibly not ever. He didn’t need psychoanalysis. He knew what Esme didn’t: Magdalena’s collapse was his fault. Completely.

“I know. And I know you can’t stay after these next six months are over.” She turned, kneeling beside him. “But I need you to know that when you go, I’ll be okay. You can’t break me, Santiago, so stop telling yourself that you have to handle me with kid gloves.”

He tried to lighten the mood. “You think skydiving is handling you with kid gloves?”

She nodded, moonlight creating a bobbing, brown halo around her face. “I think you’re using every trick in your book to keep me at arm’s length like your starlets and surf bunnies.” She kissed his chin, laid her hands gently against his chest, and pushed him down onto the sand. The band around his heart tightened. She was too close to the truth. “The thing is, I already am. I know this ends as soon as Constance returns.” The kisses continued along his jaw. “The biggest adrenaline rush I’ve had since coming home was sleeping with you on the terrace.” Finally, her sweet lips reached his, teasing him with their softness. “I was terrified when we jumped out of that plane this afternoon, but you were there and that made it okay. So, adrenaline junkie, I’m ready for my next fix. Will you stop holding back and give it to me?”

“Esme, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“We’ve been over this. Twice now. I’m a big girl, Santiago Cruz, and I can handle whatever you throw at me.”

“Are you sure about that?” His voice was raw and he hated it. Hated knowing she was getting to him. Hated that now she knew it, too.

“Positive.”

The cool night wrapped around them like a blanket, but didn’t cool the heat between their bodies. Santiago knew he should take Esme inside, should get away from her as quickly as possible because she didn’t know. She might say she was ready for a no strings relationship, but she was fooling herself. She was no more ready for a fling than she was ready for a tsunami to take the entire Vallartan coast. He knew all of this and yet he couldn’t turn away.

Santiago pulled her onto his chest and sank back into the sand, devouring her mouth with his. Within seconds her clothes were scattered around them and his quickly followed. He fit her body snugly beneath his, watching her closely as he merged their bodies into one pulsating mass of need.

She sighed against his mouth as he thrust into her.

He nipped the corners of her mouth, her throat, her shoulders, wanting to take her as high as possible.

“Santiago.” His name, whispered against his skin, seemed to flutter along his spine and he knew he was a fool.

Powerless to stop the pain that would come to Esmerelda because of him.

He rested his forehead gently against hers as her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him more deeply inside her. Pushing them both over the edge until they were flying side by side toward the Summer Triangle.

Into an abyss as murky as each of their childhoods. A place that might destroy them both.

Chapter Nine

For two days Santiago and Esme existed in a quiet world inhabited by only the two of them. Once the crews finished painting late Monday morning the constant clanging and banging stopped, encasing the villa in stillness. By Monday evening all of the new furnishings had arrived and been placed in the appropriate rooms, as decided by Esmerelda, who stood at the door as movers carried in box after box, chewing on her thumbnail as if placement were of the utmost priority.

Santiago stayed out of the decision making, trying valiantly to keep his distance. From Esme, from the villa. And losing ground with every second because the harder Esme worked the more he wanted to work beside her. Make decisions with her. Get involved.

In everything.

Which was definitely not on his Puerto Vallartan agenda. So behind the front desk he stayed, ignoring the impulse to share ideas. Focusing instead on the progress the bank manager was making in paying down the villa’s debts from the influx of cash from Santiago’s accounts. That, of course, took about ten minutes of both Monday and Tuesday morning, which left him an interminable amount of time to just watch Esme.

As he was doing at just this minute.

She stepped back from the mahogany mantle, cocked her head to one side, hands on her hips as she studied the yellow and green glass sculpture. Just as she’d said, the colors popped against the stark white walls. She’d been right about his color scheme, too. The white furniture and white walls needed every small chechere purchased in Viejo Vallarta to keep the rooms from feeling stark and neglected. Not chechere, he reminded himself, chachkies. Little pieces of Esmerelda that would endear her to the guests.

A clang from upstairs reminded him the last pieces—the tiled sinks from the talavera—were being installed this afternoon, just in time for their guests to arrive tomorrow morning. He could see the room completed: the light film of dust removed from the floors, the place smelling slightly of lemon cleaning solution, orchids and roses in the small vases scattered about the place.

In three short days Esmerelda had created a paradise that Santiago was having trouble considering leaving.

“We should sell them,” he said, his voice loud in the newly furnished room.

She turned from her scrutiny of the wall. “Sell what?” Esme busied herself pushing a vase on Constance’s recovered-wood coffee table; every spare minute she seemed to be arranging and rearranging the little oddities and baubles.

“Everything,” he said, waving at the room in general. “We could partner with the galleries and talaveras, let our guests take a piece of Casa Constance home with them.”

Her eyes widened and her hand clutched a small wooden figurine. “We can’t sell these things.”

Santiago warmed to the idea even as a piece of him agreed with Esme. “Everything has a price and with the added benefit that there is always something new to see at Casa.”

“I am not turning my home into a consignment shop!”

“This isn’t your home, it is your business. Don’t think of this as a consignment shop, but a living, breathing gallery for local artisans and craftsmen. Many chains offer their linens or pillows for sale, we’ll take that one step further.” Why was he pushing this, pushing her? In just a few weeks the villa would be his to do with as he pleased. Why not let her live in her little dream world a little bit longer?

  Because with every minute you’re here you’re buying in to her little dream world.

The phone rang, interrupting them. Santiago froze but didn’t reach for it. Esme folded her arms over her chest and waited. Another ring. Another interminable silence in which Santiago felt frozen to the high chair behind the desk. Another ring.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“We aren’t officially open until tomorrow, when the ad crew arrives. Anything else can wait.”

Another ring.

“Haven’t you kept her waiting long enough, Saint?”

The answering machine picked up, and then a short silence.

  “Santiago?” Magdalena’s voice, wobbly, came through and Santiago’s heart clenched. And then a whisper, “Pequeño.” And a bit louder. “I wanted to say hello, my Santiago. I hope we can talk soon.” The same message he had heard every day since returning to Vallarta. The phone clicked off and Santiago deleted the message before the little boy inside him could replay it again and again.

“As I was saying,” he began, wishing Esme would stop looking at him like he’d grown two heads, “if some of the smaller things are for sale, it would allow the guests to take a piece of vacation home with them.”

“A memory.” Esme’s voice was flat.

“Exactly.”

“But you don’t believe in memories, in looking back. Why would you care if our guests do?”