Anne McAllister - Lessons From A Latin Lover

As Molly watched, Joaquin’s gaze locked with the woman’s. They’d smiled. Flirted. They’d moved closer together as they talked. The others didn’t leave, but it became clear they were a couple. Joaquin’s hand lifted as he gestured. The grin flashed again, and when his hand came down it was on the woman’s arm. She moved in closer.

Molly watched intently. Two tourists moved between her and the unfolding drama. She leaned sideways, practically tipping off the bar stool to get a better look. But it wasn’t fifteen minutes until Joaquin and that night’s conquest—or had she conquered him? Molly wondered—left the bar together.

Back to the Moonstone, undoubtedly, where she would share his bed.

Molly gave the wrench a vicious twist, and the nut came off and clanked to the floor. “Damn it!”

She scrabbled after it. Got it. Then pulled back and came up too soon, banged her head. She saw stars—and a vision of Joaquin with last night’s blonde in his arms.

The night before that it had been a brunette. In the last week, Molly could recall half a dozen women she’d seen him with. Obviously, the man was a sex god.

But just as obviously, the women had something, too. What?

What caused a man to single one out? Hone in on her?

Want her?

Ask him, her idiot brain had suggested. Right there in the middle of the Grouper the notion had come to her, and had almost knocked her on her butt.

Yeah, right, she’d countered her own idiocy. Just walk up to the playboy of the Western World and ask him what he finds appealing about any given woman.

For him they only had to be breathing.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t true. Joaquin had standards. He had his pick of women, and he only chose certain ones.

“I’d take his leftovers,” Hugh had said once in his pre-Syd days.

Ask him, the voice persisted.

Molly snorted again, just thinking about it. Joaquin Santiago didn’t even know she was alive.

Well, he knew. He was one of her brother Lachlan’s best friends in the world. He’d been in and out of her life ever since he and Lachlan had played soccer together in Italy when he was nineteen. Years later he’d come to Lachlan’s wedding and to Hugh’s, bringing a different, equally gorgeous, French model to each. He’d been charming to everyone, even Molly, giving her a taste of the Santiago charm as he’d asked to be introduced.

“Introduced?” Hugh had goggled. “That’s Molly! In a dress.”

It had been almost funny to see the unflappably debonair Santiago looking momentarily nonplussed as he’d had to admit he hadn’t recognized Lachlan’s sister wearing one of her friend Carin Campbell’s outfits.

“Dab a little engine grease on your nose, Mol’,” Hugh had suggested cheerfully. “Then he’ll know you.”

“Shut up.” She’d laughed because she hadn’t cared what the likes of a playboy like Joaquin Santiago thought of her. Still didn’t.

She’d refused to dance with him then. She didn’t want to talk to him now. But clearly he knew what men found sexy and alluring in a woman. He knew what made a man sit up and take notice. He knew what made him sit up and take notice.

Ask him, that irritating little voice in her head plagued her again.

But still she resisted. It would be too awful, too humiliating. How girly was it to admit you didn’t even know how to act like a girl? Molly shuddered at the thought. She hated admitting any weakness. She’d spent her life determined to keep up with her two older brothers, and damn it, she had. Anything they could do, she could do better.

Almost.

There were some things, she was beginning to realize, that they would never have to do, blast their miserable hides.

She finished disassembling the carburetor and plunked the pieces in a pan of cleaner to soak. Surely she could come up with a better idea before Carson came home again.

It wasn’t like he would be here anytime soon. She had assumed he would come to the Pelican Cay Homecoming Festival this month. It was going to be a big deal. It had been Syd’s idea almost from the start. Working with Lachlan and Lord David Grantham, she had come up with a way of bringing ex-islanders home and enticing tourists to the island for a weekend of fun and revelry. Everyone on the island had got behind the plan, and Molly had thought Carson’s return would be a given. But when she’d mentioned it, he’d shaken his head.

“Can’t. Got to go to Ireland.”

She’d smiled and done her best to hide her disappointment, telling herself he needed to do his job, and that it wasn’t important. There would be time for them. Hadn’t he just recently bought that big house in Savannah he was planning to restore? Didn’t that mean he was thinking about marriage and family?

Maybe she didn’t need to do anything to entice him.

Carson was a dark horse, after all. He kept his own counsel and did his own thing in his own time. No one else from Pelican Cay had gone from a poor fisherman’s son to a multimillionaire in twelve short years. Carson had because he had always known what he wanted to do.

And he’d simply gone out and done it. He hadn’t talked about it.

Perhaps next time he came, he wouldn’t talk about marriage, either, he’d just bring a license and they’d get hitched.

Or perhaps he’d be as distracted as ever, Molly thought wearily.

The phone rang. She had gunk on her hands and let the answering machine get it. Whoever wanted to schedule a flight could leave a message and Hugh could call them when he got back.

“Mol’? Sorry I missed you. Thought you’d be there.”

Oh, God! She stumbled across the room and punched the speaker button with her elbow. “Carson? Hi! I’m here! I’ve got oil, er…” She didn’t need to spell it out for him. “Never mind. How are you? Where are you?”

“In Miami. Just got a break in a meeting. Just wanted to say I ran into a couple of islanders last night and we got to talking. Got a little homesick.” There was a catch in his voice that made Molly smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Missed it. Missed you,” he said gruffly. “God, it’s so damn hectic all the time. The business. The house. Stuff…We never really got to talk last time I was home.”

Molly’s heart kicked over. “No,” she said carefully. “But I knew you were busy.”

“I was. Still am,” he said. “But some things are more important, you know?”

“I know.”

“Good. So I just wanted to let you know I’ve rescheduled Ireland. I’ll be there for homecoming.”

Molly grinned. “You will?”

“Yep. And we can talk and— Oh, hell. Gotta run.”

“Carson—”

“Not now, Mol’. Can’t talk. Sorenson’s off the phone. I’ve gotta go. We will, though. Promise. See you next Saturday.” There was a click and Molly stood staring at the dead phone.

Outside she could hear the Pelican Youth Soccer team yelling as they practiced and her brother Lachlan shouted out instructions for a drill. Inside she could hear the pounding of the blood in her ears.

Carson was coming home!

A surge of hope shot through her, followed at once by the tempering memory of his promise that they were “going to talk.”

Fine. Good. She wanted to talk. But she and Carson had been talking for years. That’s pretty much all they had ever done beside some dreaming and some kissing and some teenage groping and fooling around. Everything else had been set aside because Carson had been far too busy.

And because he’d never been especially inclined to make love to a woman who smelled like engine oil and wore steel-toed boots? Molly wondered.

Well, she could get rid of the smell and buy a new pair of shoes.

And then what?