Marriage, Bravo Style!

Talk about playing with fire. He was smarter than that—or so he kept trying to tell himself.

She said, “You mentioned that your brother was your business manager?”

“Cormac. Yes.” He braced a hand on the doorframe a few inches from her head, much too close to all that glorious gold-shot dark hair.

“Will Cormac be coming down here soon—I mean, if the negotiations continue?”

“Yes, he will. Next week.”

“And you’ll both stay here, at Caleb’s?”

“No, we have a suite reserved at the Hilton—the one on the River Walk? Caleb and Irina have been great, but I don’t want to take advantage of them.”

“They have plenty of room. I think they’d love to have you and Cormac stay with them.”

“That’s what they said, too. But no. The Hilton will be perfect.”

“So…the negotiations are moving right along, then?”

“Absolutely.”

She slanted him a knowing look. “But you still won’t admit that it’s a done deal.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll look forward to meeting Cormac.” She smiled—and there it was, that tempting dimple teasing him again, right there beside her way-too-kissable mouth.

It was his turn to say something. Anything. It didn’t really matter what the words were, he realized. Only that he spoke. And she answered. “I like your dad.”

“He likes you.” Her gaze slid to his mouth—and then swiftly lifted again so she was looking in his eyes.

A kiss, he was thinking. Just one. How wrong could it be to steal one little kiss?

True, it couldn’t go anywhere between them. But not everything had to go somewhere. It was such a simple, perfect moment. A beautiful woman, a whispered good-night.

A kiss. One kiss…

He went for it, stepping in a little closer, lowering his head.

She lifted hers.

Their lips met. Electric and tender.

He wanted to linger, to take her by the shoulders, pull her body close to his, to wrap his arms good and tight around her, to taste her more deeply.

To take his sweet time about it.

But he didn’t. That wouldn’t be right.

He lifted his head, whispered her name. “Elena…” It tasted so good in his mouth, as good as her lips had felt pressed to his, as good as the scent of her, sultry and sweet.

“Good night, Rogan.” She slipped away from him, opened the door and went out.

He followed, as if pulled by invisible strings, and stood on the porch to watch her run down the walk away from him, the high heels of her red sandals tapping briskly with each step. At her car, she circled around to the driver’s door, pausing when she got there to give him a last wave.

He lifted his hand, returned the gesture.

And then she was ducking inside. The engine started up. The car pulled away from the curb and rolled off down the street.

Rogan stood there on the front step after she was gone, thinking that he shouldn’t have kissed her.

Wishing he had kissed her again.

Chapter Three

That night, Elena dreamed of Rogan. Of kissing Rogan. Of being with him in some hazy, romantic place where they talked about everything, all through the night.

But when she woke in the morning, she couldn’t remember a single thing they’d said. All she knew was that she would see him again that afternoon.

She could not wait.

Eager for the day to come, she threw back the covers and headed for the shower. An hour later, she met her mother at church and they attended early mass together, took communion side-by-side. After mass, Elena suggested they share Easter breakfast.

But Luz only hugged her and said, “Not today, m’hija. Have a beautiful holiday….”

Elena almost told her then. I plan to. Mami, I’ve met someone. Someone so special…

But she didn’t. She hugged Luz a second time and they parted on the church steps.

At home, she made coffee and stared out the kitchen window while it brewed, thinking about Rogan, trying to make the all-important decision as to what to wear to Bravo Ridge that afternoon. The knock came at the front door as she was filling a cup.

She went to answer and found her dad, wearing a white dress shirt and dark trousers, holding a bakery box. “I stopped in at El Mercado.”

Laughing with pleasure at the sight of him, she took his arm and pulled him inside. “Just in time. I have the coffee ready.”

She filled two cups, got out the milk and sugar and they sat at her kitchen table and ate cuernos de azúcar—Mexican croissants dusted with sugar—and lemon-filled empanadas.

“More coffee?” she asked.

At his nod, she got up and poured them both another cup and then carried the pot back to the warming ring.

When she returned to the table and slid into her seat, he reached out and laid his hand on her arm. “Elena…” All at once, his eyes were so serious, the set of his mouth way too grim.

A panicked tightness squeezed her throat. She gulped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He patted her arm. “Please. Don’t be afraid. It’s nothing so terrible.” A sad laugh escaped him. He withdrew his hand. “Or at least, it’s nothing you don’t already know about.”

She remembered her mother’s refusal to have breakfast with her. Not today, m’hija, Luz had said, but nothing about why not. “Mom knows you’re here?”