RoxannesPirate Page 10

  You have your own failings—you’re in no position to judge others. Judgment of any kind led back to her father. Pride was what had ruined him. Pride and passion and fear of John Murkley.

  Roxanne jumped when her BlackBerry buzzed. She had a text message from Carlos.

  Roxanne,

  Warm and tender,

  Kissing, stroking, riding,

  Longing for this,

  For you.

  Her pirate was a poet.

  This weekend she would not dwell on her failings or on the tragedy of fallen men or on Murkley’s crimes. She tapped her response.

  Aching,

  To hold you,

  And set off,

  Fireworks.

  In a few seconds she had his reply.

  Rock-hard.

  But waiting.

  She grinned. She would do exactly what she’d told Mrs. Bigelow she would—she was going to enjoy herself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Roxanne sat in a leather club chair in the lobby of the Las Flores Hotel, an open magazine in her lap. Every few seconds she glanced at her watch. Carlos was ten minutes late. She jiggled her foot. Where was he? Out the corner of her eye she glimpsed movement. Her nose detected a familiar scent. She looked up.

  Carlos stood in front of her. His gaze swept from her jiggling foot to her face. “Every time I see you, you look different. This evening, you are particularly lovely.” He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “You look handsome too,” she said. That was an understatement. In his dark suit, polished white shirt and brilliant blue tie, he could easily break her heart.

  She stood and slipped her hand in his. He smiled and tightened his hold.

  “How was your day?” he asked. They walked through the lobby to the door.

  “Much better now that you’re here.”

  The doorman opened the car door for her. She took her seat. Carlos put her suitcase in the trunk of his car. He got in the driver’s seat.

  “We have reservations for dinner. I’m afraid the restaurant doesn’t have much of a view, but the food is good.”

  “Fine,” she said. His restraint was annoying.

  He drove down the hotel driveway toward the main street but veered into a dark parking lot.

  “Now I can greet you properly,” he said. He freed his seat belt and pulled her into his arms. They kissed with deep hunger. She wanted to press her body against his. He pulled away, breathing rapidly.

  She stroked the side of his face and ran a finger over his lips. “We can skip dinner if you’d like.”

  “No. That would be ungenerous of me.” He caught her hand and held it. “I haven’t been very gracious in our previous encounters. I have a lot to make up for.” He kissed her hand.

  “Last night was a lesson in the perils of waiting.”

  “That will not happen to us again.” He opened the glove compartment and tossed in his cell phone. “Nothing is going to interfere with us tonight.”

  She took her BlackBerry from her handbag and put it in the glove compartment. “They can keep each other company.”

  He drove on. He asked about her meeting. She told him she thought it had been a success and how touched she was by Mrs. Bigelow’s praise.

  “So you made the right decision in not following your father’s path.”

  She looked at him. His gaze was on the road. “There were many reasons why I chose not to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

  “I understand. I also had powerful parents. My father found his niche in business. My mother was a historian with a concentration in U.S. and Latin American relations. I wanted to carve out my own way. Fate intervened.”

  “I almost forgot. You had a compliment today too.” She told him about her conversation with Frank Sen. “He introduced me to Elspeth Perry.” She paused as she sought the right words. “I had the feeling that there was something between Elspeth and Spencer. She seemed so saddened by his death.”

  “Spencer and Elspeth dated in college, but after graduation, she married Richard Perry.”

  “I asked her if Spencer had ever mentioned John Murkley. She said he hadn’t, but she was obviously shaken by my question. I think she was lying.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It could. She could have information that would tie Murkley to Rivera and Spencer.”

  “Have you switched careers and become a prosecutor?”

  “No. I thought if you were interested, she might have information for you.”

  Carlos shook his head. “I’m not interested. I settled the case with Rivera today. You and I don’t have to worry about it anymore. No more leaping out of bed with ethical dilemmas. You can relax, Roxanne. Life will be much less complicated from now on.”

  A trumpet solo blared from the car radio. “Listen to this,” Carlos said. He turned the volume up. “The musician was a friend of my father’s. He tried to teach me to play. I was a dismal failure.”

  She leaned back in the seat and let him talk, enjoying the flow of his words, the sound of his voice. She would follow his lead and concentrate on the giving and getting of pleasure. She would leave all else behind.

  The maitre d’ at the restaurant assured them their table would be ready soon and asked them to wait in the bar. Carlos excused himself to go the men’s room.

  Roxanne sat at a table in the bar and watched orange and silver koi swimming in the garden pond outside the window. She heard a loud throat-clearing noise and looked up toward the bar. A handsome blond man with tortoiseshell glasses and a shirt casually unbuttoned at the neck raised a glass to her. He had a vivid smile against his tan skin. His smile faded.

  Roxanne sensed Carlos at her side. He was glaring at the man at the bar. He pulled out his chair and sat next to Roxanne.

  “I have a new appreciation for the custom of making women cover themselves in public.”

  Roxanne laughed.

  “Who else do I have to worry about?” he asked.

  “Meaning?”

  “Your other lovers.”

  “Well,” she said coolly, “you’ve read all my emails and done a thorough search of my voice and text messages. You know the answer—you’re it.”

  “What about Paul?”

  “We started dating in law school. I thought he was sane and safe. We got engaged and then one day he woke up and realized I wasn’t any fun. He was right. I wasn’t. After he broke our engagement, I hid under the covers for a year. Then I emerged and walked straight into you—my pirate.”

  “Your what?” He looked perplexed.

  Roxanne flushed. Had she said the words out loud? She twisted a strand of her hair. She would be honest. “I had this fantasy about someone who looked a lot like you, so when I saw you in the club, I was instantly smitten.”

  “And this fantasy man is a pirate?” Carlos grinned. “Should I be flattered?”

  The waiter approached and asked if they wanted drinks.

  “They have excellent mojitos,” Carlos said.

  “Fine.”

  Carlos placed the order. He leaned toward Roxanne. “What exactly happens in your pirate fantasy?”

  Heat radiated from her face. “Nothing we haven’t already done.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  The best way to deflect this line of questioning was to go on the offensive.

  “It’s your turn, Mr. Delgado. I haven’t had the opportunity to go through all your private information so I’m at a great disadvantage. Who else is in your life?”

  “No one. That should explain how I allowed myself to be seduced by you so easily.”

  “That and I’m very persuasive.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You have a scar on your back.”

  “From an accident years ago.”

  “Any scars on your heart?”

  “Only one of any depth. She was, or rather is, an artist and the wife of a diplomat. Her name is Marit. When I met her, she was living apart from her husband
.”

  The waiter brought their drinks.

  Carlos raised his glass. “Cheers. To a lovely weekend.”

  This time, Roxanne clinked her glass against his.

  “Was it love at first sight with Marit?”

  “Is there such a thing? Not for me. There’s lust certainly, but love is something else.” Carlos swirled the liquor in his glass and watched the ice cubes shift. “I don’t fall in love often or easily, but I fell in love with her. We lived together for a year. It ended badly. Her husband became ill and she decided she needed to be with him. He’d supported her in her career and she felt a deep obligation to him. I think she just loved him more than she loved me.” He frowned. “I did not take the ending of our affair well. I said something to the right person that led to Marit’s husband being sent home in disgrace. Later, I was ashamed of what I had done. I rarely act so rashly in business, only when my heart or my pride is involved.” He lifted his glass. “Which explains my overreaction to you.”

  “What was Marit like? Was she like Ines?”

  “Not at all.” He leaned back in his chair. “She was much more like you.”

  Don’t let that go to your head. Maybe he says that to all his women.

  “That’s interesting. You’re nothing like Paul.”

  “He wasn’t a pirate?” Carlos smirked. A caveman might have given his prospective mate a similar look after he’d clubbed a rival—smug, defiant, sexually triumphant.

  Roxanne’s body responded in kind. A warmth spread up her torso. Her nipples puckered.

  The waiter came to tell them their table was ready.

  The dining room was elegant, with soft amber-colored walls decorated with painted vines and tropical flowers. The candles on the linen-covered tables cast a soft glow. Outside the large windows, the fronds of palm trees swayed in the breeze.

  “It’s a lovely room,” Roxanne said when they were seated. “Do you come here often?”

  “I’ve been here twice before for business lunches.”

  She gave him a skeptical look.

  “Truly, Roxanne. I haven’t been on a date in a very long time.”

  “We have that in common. Any recommendations?”

  “Oh yes, I have plenty.” He gave her his caveman smirk.

  “I meant for dinner.”

  They discussed the menu. At Carlos’ suggestion, Roxanne ordered a mango salad and the sautéed Bahamian grouper. Carlos ordered the same. Roxanne suggested a California sauvignon blanc for the wine. When the sommelier brought the bottle, Carlos said that Roxanne should taste it.

  She swirled the glass and took a sip. “Delicious.”

  The sommelier filled their glasses.

  “You really should try it,” Roxanne told Carlos. She took another sip.

  “I will.” He leaned toward her, and with one hand behind her head, gently brought her face to his. He kissed her, his lips parted and his tongue touched hers. The taste and warmth of his mouth, made her sigh.

  “Very nice,” Carlos said.

  “I didn’t know tongue was offered as an appetizer,” Roxanne said. “I wouldn’t mind more.”

  “It’s also on the dessert menu.”

  She laughed.

  They flirted and touched throughout dinner. For Roxanne, every sensation seemed heightened by her desire for him—the touch of his fingers on her skin, the feel of his skin under her fingertips, the taste of the wine, the tang of spices on her tongue. She pressed his thigh. He stroked her arm. They talked about restaurants they’d visited or wanted to visit, memorable meals they’d had, their cooking successes and failures. He told her stories about his family, and talked a little about his business and his plans for the future. He was a wonderful companion.

  The waiter cleared the plates.

  “Would you care for dessert?”

  Under the table, Roxanne had her hand on Carlos’ thigh. His hand made circles on the soft skin just above her knee.

  “No thank you,” Carlos said. “I’ll take the check.”

  “You mentioned tongue for dessert,” Roxanne said. She squeezed his leg. “I wouldn’t mind some of that now.”

  He seemed to ignore her, but his hand moved up her leg to her inner thigh. “I have a special place in mind for coffee.”

  “Maybe we should skip the coffee.”

  “No.” He took his hand away. “We have to have coffee.”

  She sighed but did not argue.

  They walked to the car. Much as she wanted to, she did not jump on him when they were seated inside.

  “It’s not far,” he said.

  She sat back and admired his profile.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Trying to decide what part of you I like best.”

  “What are the top contenders?”

  “Eyes, mouth, hands, feet.”

  “Feet?”

  “You have lovely long toes.”

  “You know what they say about a man’s toes, the longer they are, the better a dancer he is. And now we’ll have the chance to prove that theory.”

  He drove the car into the parking lot of a strip mall. The dry cleaner and real estate office and coffee shop were all closed. Carlos drove behind these stores to a single, low, pink stucco building. A man sat in a white plastic chair by the entrance. The sound of music flowed out and around the building.

  “What is this place?” Roxanne asked.

  “A social club for people who like to dance. A friend of mine sent me a membership. I’ve rarely used it.”

  Carlos showed the man at the door a blue card. The man nodded and held the door open for them.

  The room had a raised platform at one end where a band was playing. There was a bar on the right and several round tables and folding chairs on the left. Some men and women were drinking coffee or sipping brightly colored drinks. Most of the people in the club were dancing. The men wore guayabera shirts, the women wore brightly colored dresses. They looked middle-aged or older, but all of them were fine dancers.

  “I feel intimidated,” Roxanne told Carlos. “They’re all so good. I know the foxtrot and some salsa steps, but nothing like they’re doing.”

  A couple passed in front of her. The man was slight and a few inches shorter than his partner, a stout women with high teased hair and earrings like door knockers, but he moved her around the floor with ease, their feet nimbly stepping in complicated patterns.

  “I don’t care if you have two left feet,” Carlos said. “We’re here to dance.” He took a few steps out onto the dance floor. He raised his left arm to Roxanne. “Come.”

  She obeyed his summons and settled in his arms. He waited a beat, and then moved her. She followed his lead, stepping back with her right foot, forward with her left. She had danced with some men who counted the time out loud, others who regarded any misstep on her part as a personal affront. Carlos was smooth. He seemed to anticipate her mistakes and correct them with the pressure of his hands and the movement of his hips.

  “Someone told me,” he murmured, “that it was a man’s obligation to fall in love with his partner, at least for as long as they dance.”

  “If you and your partner dance well together, it must be hard not to fall in love.”

  “We dance well together.” He turned her.

  “I’m just following your lead.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  There was something powerfully erotic about surrendering to him, letting him lead her on the floor, feeling the two of them combined to make something new. The music stopped and began again. This time the band played a faster tune. Carlos led her in a salsa, sending her out and pulling her back again. She loved it—the release, the joining.

  They danced to several songs then the music slowed. An old man with a pencil-thin moustache stepped up to the microphone and spoke in Spanish.

  “He’s dedicating this song to the love of his life,” Carlos explained. “He wrote it himself.”

  The man sang
in a high, trembling voice full of emotion.

  Roxanne brushed the soft skin at the nape of Carlos’s neck. “What do the words mean?”

  “He is singing that his love comes to him in dreams. She brings him soft kisses, warm caresses, and he is young again. He repeats—my heart, my soul, I ache for your touch. Come to me even if it is only in my dreams.” He held her close and moved them in a circle around the dance floor. “Did I tell you how pretty you look in that dress?”

  “You mentioned it, but I don’t mind hearing it again.”

  She pressed his neck so he would bend to her and when he did, she kissed him. She heard his intake of breath, felt his arousal. She ached for him. She looked into his dark eyes and saw that same ache.

  The song ended. The singer bowed, acknowledging the applause.

  “Vaminos,” Carlos said. He took her hand and led her to the car.

  They did not touch on the ride to his house, but when their glances met, they smiled at each other. He drove into a gated community not far from the downtown area. The house was modern and spare in style—a series of interconnecting boxes, tucked under the shelter of a group of large trees right by the bay.

  “I’m impressed,” Roxanne said.

  “It’s a rental. The owner is a nervous Venezuelan businessman. He isn’t ready to move his family out of the country, but he keeps buying properties in the U. S.”

  Carlos opened the door.

  “Oh my,” Roxanne said.

  The ceilings were high, the walls looking out to the bay were nearly solid glass. The furnishings were spare and Mid-Century modern, the floor was a highly polished stone. Carlos put her suitcase down.

  “Come out back,” he said. “I want to show you my favorite spot.”

  There was a patio off the living room near a pool. Beyond this, the backyard swept out into a green lawn that angled into the bay like the prow of a ship. Roxanne took off her sandals and followed him across the lawn to the edge of the water.