Lessons From A Latin Lover

Molly didn’t have a clue how enticing she was. She had no idea of her own ability to arouse a man. That little thing she’d done with her tongue, licking her lips when they were standing there just now was a case in point.

His whole body had gone on alert. In fact it responded so quickly and vehemently he’d taken a quick step back.

Of course Molly—gracias a Dios—hadn’t noticed.

But he’d have to watch his step. He was supposed to be teaching her how to be seductive, not allowing himself to be seduced by her.

Seduced by Molly McGillivray?

The thought wasn’t as bizarre as he might have wished. Another time—and another woman—he wouldn’t mind a little fooling around. But she was his best friend’s sister. Therefore she was like his own sister.

But he wasn’t thinking about her as his sister as he hurried to catch up with her. She was already inside the Grouper and about to sit at the bar when he grabbed her hand again.

“It is customary,” he told her, “not to share one’s date with everyone at the bar.”

“What?” Molly looked at him blankly, waggling her fingers at the bartender in greeting.

Joaquin turned her so she faced him. “A couple,” he instructed her, “must focus on each other.”

“But—”

He wasn’t listening. With her wrist manacled by his fingers, he towed her to a table in the back of the room. “Here. We will sit here.”

“But the music—”

“Is not the issue. The issue is to get to know each other.” He let go long enough to pull out a chair for her. “Sit.”

She gave him a mutinous look. “Carson and I already know each other,” she said. “And I like being where I can hear.”

“You can hear if you stay home,” Joaquin said which was only the truth. “Sit.”

He thought she might argue further, but finally, reluctantly, she sat. He had barely sat down opposite her, when she bounced to her feet again.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the beer. I think a pitcher—”

He caught her hand. “No.”

“You don’t want a beer?” She looked perplexed.

“Beer is fine. I’ll get it. You’re not waiting tables here. You’re on a date.”

She shifted restlessly. The skin of her wrist was soft under his fingers. He lifted her fingers and brushed his lips across them. She jerked but he held her fast.

“Sit down, querida,” he murmured. “Just sit. Enjoy. Don’t clean the tables. Don’t go visit your friends. Wait for me.”

Because, damn it, he wanted her to wait for him. He wanted to be the focus of her attention.

She looked doubtful, but finally gave a small jerky nod and sat down again dutifully, folded her hands, then gave him a beatific smile. It was such a sweet smile—so unlike Molly—that he gave her a narrow look, wondering what he’d forgotten to forbid her to do.

“Wait,” he said again. “I’ll be right back.” Then, giving her one last nail-her-to-the-chair look, he hurried to the bar. Another night he would have stopped to chat, to flirt, to tease, to charm the women in his way. Tonight he was on a mission. So he smiled and sidestepped them all, ignored Michael the bartender’s curious look, and returned with a pitcher and two glasses of beer in a matter of minutes.

Molly, he was relieved to note, was still there.

He poured the beer and pushed a glass across the table for her. She wrapped her hand around it and said politely, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He sat down opposite her and focused on her. “Now,” he said, “we talk.”

“About what?” She licked her lips again.

His gaze went straight to her mouth. He swallowed. “We get to know each other.”

“But we already do, Carson and I. I told you that.”

Forget Carson, he wanted to say. But he was the reason they were here, of course. So Joaquin raked his fingers through his hair and said, “There must be things about him that you don’t know. What makes him tick? What drives him? What matters most?” He was talking off the top of his head, just wallowing in the green magic of her eyes. “Do you know all that?”

“I—maybe not,” she admitted. “Or I wouldn’t be doing this, would I?”

“Exactly. So you focus. You pay attention to him. You ask questions. Yes?”

“Okay, yes.” She sipped her beer and did that quick tongue thing to her lips again.

Joaquin felt his blood run hot and did his best to distract himself. “So you try, all right?”

She touched her upper lip with her tongue. “You mean, ask about what he—you—most care about?”

“Yes.” And stop doing that thing with your tongue!

“All right.” Molly nodded, pressed her lips together and looked down into her glass a long moment, then she lifted her gaze and met his. “Are you afraid to come watch Lachlan and the kids play soccer?”

“What?” He stared at her, gut punched.

“You don’t come. I know he’s asked you. But you never come.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t talk about soccer,” he said harshly.

She looked genuinely surprised. “Why not?”

“Because—” He hesitated. He didn’t want to continue. Didn’t want to go there. But there didn’t seem to be any way out. The noise and commotion in the bar swirled around them, but he didn’t hear any of it. He heard the roar of blood in his head and the echo of Molly’s frank question.

“Wrong question?” she asked gently when he didn’t reply at once.

His fingers tightened on the glass he held. He let out the breath that seemed to be choking him. “No,” he said honestly. “I asked for it.” Because he had. He’d challenged her—and she’d challenged him right back.

“I don’t talk about it because it makes people uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable.” He swallowed. “It hurts.”