Lessons From A Latin Lover

“See, I knew you could do it. And I can tell how completely thrilled you are,” he drawled sarcastically and screwed up his face in such an absolutely horrible expression that Molly burst out laughing.

And at the sight he nodded. “Ah, yes. Mucho mejor. Much better, querida. Like that. You have a beautiful smile. Truly. Now say, ‘Yes, thank you, Joaquin. I’d love to.”’

Molly tried to wipe the lingering smile off her face, but it wasn’t quite possible. That truly had sounded sincere. Did he mean it? Did he really think her smile was beautiful? Shaking her head in confusion, Molly repeated his words—all but his name. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say that.

Fortunately he didn’t insist. “Bravo,” he approved. “Very good. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“I can meet you there.”

Dark brows came down in a scowl. “No, you cannot meet me there. I am inviting you, Molly. I will escort you. This is not a negotiation. It’s a date.”

“But—”

“A date,” he said firmly.

“It’s a lesson,” she corrected him.

“A learning-by-doing lesson,” he retorted. “And now you say, ‘That would be very nice, thank you.”’

The battle of wills began again. Molly wondered how long she could make him just stand there waiting. Probably not as long as he could make her stand here wearing only a towel.

“That would be very nice. Thank you,” she grumbled, remembering to tack on a smile at the last second. And was annoyed to find she was pleased to see the swift grin of approval that replaced Joaquin’s frown.

“Bueno. I’ll see you at seven-thirty. Hasta entonces, Molly.”

“Um…hasta entonces,” Molly mumbled, then stood clutching her towel, feeling a mixture of relief and panic—what had she got herself into?—as Joaquin gave her a wink as he went on his way.

IT WASN’T A DATE.

It was not a date!

No matter what he’d said, Molly knew better. Joaquin Santiago might be taking her to the Grouper, but it was nothing like the way a real date with God’s gift to women would be.

So why were her palms sweating? And why was her stomach swirling? And why had she spent the last hour ransacking her closet for something attractive to wear?

It wasn’t as if something was going to miraculously materialize in her closet. Since she’d quit teaching and moved back to the island she hadn’t bought new clothes. She made do with Hugh’s and Lachlan’s cast-offs and a couple of swimsuits.

She did what she could, putting on the most respectable pair of shorts she owned—the only pair that had not been Hugh’s or Lachlan’s first—and a clean T-shirt without a beer or a junkanoo slogan on it. She even tucked it in.

It wasn’t as if she was out to impress Mr. Hotshot Latin Lover, after all. She was going with him to learn from him, not tantalize him.

He was her “teacher,” not her date.

Still, she felt a very unfamiliar unsteadiness when, at precisely seven-thirty, there came a knock on the door. Taking a quick—and she hoped, calming—breath, Molly jerked open the door.

Joaquin Santiago, in all his handsome glory, black hair flopping across his forehead, stood on her porch, shaking his head and saying mournfully, “I liked the towel better.”

Molly’s face flamed, but she said gruffly, “You almost got it. I only have shorts and T-shirts.”

“You wore a dress for Lachlan’s wedding.”

“I borrowed it from Carin, and you know it.”

“I thought you might have decided to buy one since you looked spectacular in it.”

Molly didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t used to having a man comment on her appearance or even, in fact, noticing her appearance. She shrugged awkwardly. “No place to wear it.”

“Maybe if you had one, Carter would think of someplace you could go.”

“Carson,” she corrected him sharply, and he smiled and nodded, and she narrowed her gaze at him, wondering if he’d given Carson the wrong name on purpose. It was hard to tell what Joaquin did on purpose—besides flirt and play soccer. And he wasn’t doing the latter anymore. “And Carson’s too busy for us to go anywhere.”

“Which we will have to change.” Joaquin offered her his arm. “Come along.”

Molly stood stock-still and looked at him, appalled. “I can’t take your arm!”

“No? ¿Por qué? Why not?”

“Because…because…” she sputtered “…everyone would think we were going out!”

“Sí. We are going out.”

“Not…like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like a…couple!”

“Tonight we are a couple.”

“We’re not! It’s lessons!”

“As in teacher and student, sí? Then you will take my arm as a part of the lesson, querida.” He smiled. The arm awaited her, raised a bit.

“I don’t—”

“Who is the teacher?” he asked her, his tone gently mocking.

She glared. “Carson wouldn’t like it.”

Totally untrue. Carson wouldn’t care at all. Carson wasn’t the least bit jealous. But Molly cared. Tongues would wag. Carson wouldn’t care about that, either. But she did. She did not want to have to explain to anyone why she was seen walking arm in arm with Joaquin Santiago.

“We can walk to the Grouper together,” she told him firmly. “But that’s all. We’re friends.”

Joaquin didn’t look convinced. But he shrugged. “Very well. If you are afraid that your reputation will suffer.”

His gallantry irritated her further. “I just don’t want people talking,” she explained.

“Perhaps you would like to walk five paces behind me?”