California Royale

  “Couldn’t find a larger towel, eh?” she asked as he stepped into the tub.

  “Why, it would be like putting a rain coat on a Greek statue.”

  “Vanity, thy name is Araiza.”

  Shea watched, nearly hypnotized despite herself, as he eased down in the mud. The symmetry of his back muscles, which flexed as he settled into the tub, was pure male perfection. He leaned back, worked the towel free, and laid it across his lap. Duke Araiza, naked except for that small square of white cotton …

  “Oink,” he said gruffly.

  Chuckling, Shea emptied the buckets of mud on top of his torso and legs, then silently reproached herself for feeling regretful when his magnificent body was hidden from view. Revenge, she recalled.

  “Now what?” he asked, smiling wickedly. He pulled his towel out of the mud and dropped it on the floor. “Naked and ready.”

  “Now you put your head back, close your eyes, and I’ll massage your face and scalp.” She patted the black satin pillow attached to the rim of the tub.

  Duke rested his head on the pillow and shut his eyes blissfully. “Magnifico, querida,” he whispered.

  Shea spent a wistful moment studying his angular, handsome features. Then she clenched her teeth, smiled grimly, and hoisted a remaining bucket of mud.

  “You deserve this, hombre,” she said fiendishly, and dumped the mud onto his head.

  He sat up hurriedly, made a garbled shouting sound, sputtered, and grabbed for her with both big hands. Shea whooped with glee and darted back, but not far enough. He caught her by one wrist. “Take a wallow with me, hellion!”

  “Por favor! Por favor! Please! No!” she yelped one second before he pulled her into the tub.

  Shea flailed at his iron grip and began laughing as she sank into the mud between his updrawn knees. He shook his head, slinging mud everywhere like a dog shaking rainwater from its coat, and used his free hand to wipe his eyes.

  “Ever think of starring in a remake of The Jazz Singer?” Shea managed to ask. She laughed harder. As a matter of fact she couldn’t remember when she’d ever laughed this way. She couldn’t remember when she’d sat in a tub full of mud with a naked man. Never, actually. He uttered a stream of colorful curses in Spanish and English.

  “I see the whites of your eyes and the whites of your teeth,” she continued. “But otherwise you look like a giant piece of chocolate. Like one of those giant chocolate Easter rabbits …”

  “You play hard, querida. All right, I like that,” he said in a tone that was half angry and half amused. “I deserved this.”

  “Yes, you did,” she said in a voice gone suddenly soft. “And I enjoyed it immensely.”

  “But it won’t be forgotten! You’ve toyed with a master gamesman! You’ve thrown down a challenge.…”

  “Quiet, hombre,” she ordered, and kissed him.

  He went still for a second, and then his muddy arms went around her in a snug, possessive hold. Mud seemed to be everywhere except their mouths.

  Shea wrapped both arms around his neck and burrowed as close as she could, kissing him wildly, giddy and thoughtless of everything except his taste and touch. She hadn’t intended to kiss him, but her good intentions no longer mattered. He was outrageous, sexy, and a very good sport, three qualities that she admired tremendously. With a hoarse cry Duke twisted his mouth against hers. The kiss was wanton and yet something much more; they were equals, sharing a passion that encompassed respect and affection as well as hearty lust.

  Mud slipped over the side of the tub as he squeezed her closer to him. Shea realized that she was lying between Duke’s long, muscular legs, then that he had wrapped his legs around her. It was a strange feeling, to be wrapped in his body. It was a secure feeling.

  Shea ran a hand up the back of his head. “Your hair, your poor muddy hair,” she said between kisses.

  “I’ll go through a mud bath ten times a day if this kind of treatment comes with it,” he replied hoarsely. He dipped his head and kissed a clean spot on her neck. “Hell, you’re not really sorry about my hair. You’re enjoying every second of what you did to me. You enjoy being reckless and bawdy. I knew those urges were hidden under that golden princess exterior of yours.”

  She sighed in a way that acknowledged that truth. “Oh, Alejandro, this is ridiculous and wonderful and—”

  “Alejandro?” he repeated softly.

  Shea wiped mud from his face and nodded sheepishly. “Do you mind? I think it’s a wonderful name.”

  He smiled, his teeth looking so white against the mud-stained background of his face that she laughed again. He laughed too, then. “No one else calls me Alejandro. If you want to, that makes it special.”

  “It is special. You’re special. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be sitting in this tub of mud with you. I wouldn’t have kissed you.” She looked a little concerned. “I don’t know what’s going to happen between us, but—”

  “Sssh. A very famous philosopher once said. Que sera, sera. What will be, will be.”

  “Famous philosopher, my foot. That was Doris Day,” Shea retorted, chuckling.

  “Yeah, so, but Doris was right.” He was smiling at her, but slowly the smile faded, replaced by a look that was hungry and serious.

  “I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered.

  “Lose me?” he asked in a soft, worried voice. “No way.”

  “I’m not very good at relationships.”

  “But what about your friend?” Duke spoke gently. “The one who was killed.”

  Shea shook her head. “We weren’t … like this. There was more friendship than passion.” She laid one hand alongside Duke’s jaw, as if to reassure both him and herself as she looked into his dark, sympathetic eyes. “I grew up lonely, Alejandro. No father, and a mother who had too many problems to spend much time caring what happened to me. I’ve learned to keep people at a distance so if they don’t care about me, it won’t hurt.”

  “Oh, querida,” he said huskily, “I care about you, and I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  Shea kissed him again, and her torso sank lower into the mud. Her stomach met his, and even the mud couldn’t obscure the hard ridge of his aroused body. She nearly groaned at the open, ready feeling that surged through her own body in response.

  “Part of me wants to make love to you right here,” Shea whispered against his mouth. “And part of me—mostly the estate manager part—wants to vamoose before anyone sees us.”

  He took a deep breath, and she knew that he was trying to calm his own impulses. For her sake, he was trying. And suddenly Shea knew just how easy it was to fall in love with him.

  “Querida, there’s all the time in the world,” he whispered. Smiling stoically he planted a kiss on her nose.

  “Alejandro, I don’t think it would be a good idea if I gave you a massage today.” Shea hugged him in apology. “Things are happening so fast, and that would only make them move faster. I’ll get one of the others to …”

  “No. It’s all right.” He nuzzled her ear. “I don’t want anyone’s hands on me but yours. I’ll wait.”

  She had never really felt special to anyone. The feeling now, of being so special to Duke that he didn’t want anyone else to touch him, made tears rise in her eyes.

  She hugged him fiercely, then pushed herself back from him, but he trailed his hands along her arms and grasped both her hands. They faced each other in the tub full of mud. Shea looked down at herself, at her clothes covered in mud, at the stuff all over her arms. She looked at Duke, who still resembled a chocolate confection. They shared quirky little smiles that quickly grew into chuckles and then into full-fledged laughter.

  Being a manager came naturally to Shea, and she assumed that it was both an inborn trait and a survival technique learned during her childhood. By the time she was ten years old she had taken charge of the household bills—when her mother had enough money to pay them. When there was no money. Shea became adept at sidetracking creditors. By the time sh
e was twelve, she knew how to make her voice sound like an adult’s when she spoke to bill collectors on the phone.

  So now she felt certain that she could manage Duke. He seemed to be mellowing on the subject of the estate. He had made friends with Chip Greeson and Glenda Farrar. He had actually attended a yoga class, though someone told her later that he fell asleep in the middle of meditation. His mantra was steak.

  Shea checked the cheese-and-cauliflower casserole bubbling in her kitchen oven. Tonight Alejandro would eat health food and love it. She would bring him one step closer to appreciating her lifestyle and the estate.

  When he arrived, he gave her oversize white T-shirt and snug white jeans a devilish once over, then kissed her firmly on the mouth. In return Shea deliberately scrutinized his short-sleeved print shirt, jeans, and loafers with no socks, then kissed him firmly on the mouth.

  “White wine,” he said grandly, and held out two bottles. “From a local vineyard.”

  She took it, nodding her thanks while she sighed inwardly. Guests weren’t supposed to go traipsing off the estate grounds and buy wine. But she was determined to make tonight a peaceful interlude. “A little white wine never hurt anybody,” she told him. “Wine is not incompatible with a healthy regimen.”

  “I’m so glad you approve,” Duke told her indulgently, and made a low bow.

  Shea laughed. “You don’t care if I approve or not. You want to corrupt me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re corrupting me too. I’d drink beer otherwise.”

  He followed her toward an immaculate little kitchen, gazing around the cottage as he did. Through a door in one corner he saw her bedroom, and Duke noted that its atmosphere was decidedly sensual—lacy pillows and a plush, satiny bedspread. She had a huge antique bedstead with roses carved into the head and footboard. Roses. Appropriate, Duke thought with a smile. He could smell her roses-and-cream fragrance throughout the cottage.

  The dining room and den of the small dwelling were filled with sleek, modern furniture. Pastel abstracts adorned the walls, and fat white pillows nestled on a fat white couch in front of a conical, freestanding fireplace. Bookcases held a collection of handmade ceramic vases. The bedroom floor was covered in creamy, thick carpet, but the rest of the cottage floors were shellacked hardwood dotted with rugs done in muted pastel colors.

  “This place is as pretty and light as the inside of a flower,” he remarked as she poured wine into two crystal goblets.

  “And you’re my invading bee,” Shea teased.

  His dark eyes sparkled as he flashed her a sexy smile. “Bzzzzz.”

  They ate at a small dining-room table decorated with a low glass dish in which tea roses floated in water. Besides the casserole, Shea had fixed bell peppers stuffed with rice and tofu, chicken covered in a light honey-and-sesame-seed glaze, homemade wheat bread, and kiwi fruit for dessert.

  “I can live on it,” Duke observed with an appreciative nod as he finished a bit of kiwi.

  Her voice was droll. “Why, thank you.”

  “It’s great, Shea. Bueno. I don’t deny it. I wouldn’t mind trading real food for it every once in a while, though.” They sipped a second glass of wine and he continued, “There’s something I have to know about you. Something very intimate.”

  “No more palm reading,” she warned.

  Duke chuckled. “Nope. It’s about roses. You’re a rose freak, querida. Your perfume, your bedstead, your table decorations, the rose bushes outside this house. There must be a story. I have to know.”

  Shea cleared her throat and looked down at her dessert plate, smiling tentatively and trying to ignore the pensive feeling that grew inside her. “I didn’t realize you noticed so much about me.” As if I didn’t notice everything about you, Alejandro. The careful way you hold delicate things, like the wine glass. The way the light shines on that black hair of yours. The way you bring life and vitality into my home.

  “I notice,” he said simply. They looked at each other for several seconds, trading silent promises that they might someday fulfill together. “Tell me about the roses,” he urged.

  A memory came back to Shea so clearly that she could almost smell the stained city air and feel the sweaty heat of that Los Angeles day many years ago. And the roses. She would never forget the way they struggled valiantly amid the squalor. Keep them alive for me, nino. This life, it is ugly, but the roses will always bring you love and beauty. Those were the last words from Señora Savaiano’s thin, ancient lips before the paramedics took her to the hospital for the last time. Shea had never forgotten the words or the flowers.

  “A neighbor who took care of me when I was growing up loved roses,” she told Duke slowly. “She managed to keep bushes of them growing outside the door to the apartments where my mother and I lived. Nothing else was beautiful about the place but those roses.”

  “The woman who took care of you?” he asked.

  “My mother worked nights.” Shea stood up. She cleared her throat, feeling uncomfortable, as usual, about discussing her past. “She was a waitress.” Discussion closed. “Let’s get the other bottle of wine and go into the living room.”

  “Whoa!” Duke exclaimed in dismay. “You always throw out bits and pieces about your past, and then you clam up.”

  Shea walked around the table and stopped beside him, looking down at him with a taut frown on her face. Duke would allow no secrets between them; that both excited and frightened her. “My mother was a waitress,” she repeated in a blunt, defensive tone. “We didn’t have much money. Everything I have today—my education, my job, this place—I worked hard as hell to get. I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t come from the classy background you assume. That’s why I don’t like to talk about the past.”

  He studied her for a moment, anger slowly etching itself into his features. Dear Lord, but he could look fierce when he wanted, Shea thought raggedly.

  “Dammit!” he exploded. Duke stood quickly and caught her by one wrist, not painfully, but firmly. “Do you think I’m looking for a blond, debutante, society type to show off back home? So everyone will know that the grandson of a dirt-poor immigrant has really made good? Is that what you think?”

  Shea tried to jerk her wrist out of his grip. “No! I’m not capable of that brand of snobbery, and I never will be! I just don’t want you to have any foolish illusions! I’m a mustang!”

  “A what?” he said in consternation, his brow furrowed.

  Shea thought grimly that she must have sounded like an idiot. She repeated in a lower voice, “A mustang, at heart. Like you. Tough and mean and strong.”

  After a thoughtful moment he exhaled, his anger gone, and said, “Well, hell, I know that you’re tough and mean and strong. What other kind of woman would dump a damned bucket of mud on my head?”

  “Whatever you think of me, don’t ever think that I look down on your background or your Mexican heritage. That’s ridiculous. I grew up in a Los Angeles neighborhood that was more Mexican then American. I spoke Spanish almost as early as English.”

  He studied her, and after a moment his expression softened. He spoke gruffly. “You say you’re a mustang. But you’ve got class too. And style. And compassion. And intelligence. And—”

  “Enough, Alejandro, enough. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Somebody needs to embarrass you. Somebody needs to rattle your cage, and I’m the man to do it.”

  Without another word he grabbed her, swung her up into his arms, and marched into the living room. Stunned, Shea stared at his expression of determination as he strode to the couch. He dumped her unceremoniously on the soft cushions, then jabbed one blunt finger at her.

  “I’ll be right back with the other bottle of wine,” he said in a firm tone. “Have you got a deck of cards?”

  “Yes,” she said, and pointed to a drawer at the bottom of the bookcases.

  “Get it. Clear off your coffee table. I’ll teach you how to play poker.”

  “I know how to play poker. I also k
now how to shoot craps.”

  He gave her a long, respectful look. “Good, Ms. Mustang. I’m not in the mood to shoot craps, if you don’t mind.”

  “Me neither. We can play cards.” She felt giddy and confused.

  “Marvelous. Playing poker’s one of the best ways to calm my nerves.”

  “Poor man,” she commented dryly.

  “One of the best ways, I said.”

  “I’m sorry for upsetting you a minute ago. I never meant to imply …”

  “I’m a little oversensitive—comes from being treated like a second-class citizen when I was young.” His voice became sardonic. “I guess we Latin types are bound to be temperamental.”

  “Me too. I’m not Latin, but I’m a temperamental something.”

  “Woman,” he concluded for her. “All women are temperamental.”

  She threw a pillow at him as he made his way to the kitchen, and he threw it back. By the time he returned with the wine bottle and two fresh glasses, she was seated cross-legged on the floor, shuffling the cards atop her coffee table.

  “That’s better,” he noted in a tone of grand satisfaction. “You’ve calmed down.”

  “Sit down and be quiet, hombre,” she warned. “What are we playing? Five-card draw?”

  “Fine.” He took the deck.

  “What are we betting, Alejandro? I don’t have any chips, pennies, or matches.”

  “Let’s improvise. No ante. Straight and simple. We’ll bet clothes.” When she arched one brow and gazed at him without speaking, he added, “Chicken?”

  “I won’t bet chickens. It isn’t humane, and they’ll drop feathers everywhere.”

  “Very cute.”

  “All right, Araiza, I’ll play strip poker with you. I’m a shark, I warn you.”

  “I thought you were a mustang.”

  “Deal the cards, wise guy.”

  “My shirt against your shirt.”

  “Hah! Great! I’d love to have a man’s shirt to sleep in.”

  “I’ll use yours for a sweat rag.”

  “You’re a cruel man, Alejandro.” She smiled fiendishly and began dealing the cards.