Kathleen Pickering - Where It Began

Elias had chuckled at Daniel’s jaw-dropping reaction to Maria, and murmured, “I know, son.”

Daniel had asked to accompany her down to the beach. She had smiled, taken his hand, and from that day forward, had never let it go.

Then, there was Carmen. How twins could be so diametrically opposed boggled his mind. While Maria was sweet, sensual and loyal, Carmen was like a viper. Beautiful and dangerous. Any man who came into her sights was not long for this world. At least, that’s how Daniel perceived her.

Carmen had spent way too much time with her mother. Daniel suspected that the charming and seductive Rosalinda indulged in a few secret indiscretions, but that was no business of his. What was his business, however, was Maria. He had seen, firsthand, how his girlfriend’s naïveté shielded her from her coldhearted sister and calculating mother. Daniel had pegged both women as poisonous from his first encounters.

While he would always be grateful for Rosalinda’s generosity in bringing him into her home, he never extended himself past everyday courtesies or brief conversations. After he’d become older, Rosalinda’s gaze seemed to offer far more than a mother figure should. He’d always wondered why Maria and Elias couldn’t see this behavior in the other two women. He never acknowledged his own discomfort, not when Maria seemed happy.

He only wished he had known back then what he knew now. Perhaps he wouldn’t be sitting in this cockpit, anxious to restart his life while the woman of his dreams stormed below in a huff, wishing anyone, other than he, was on the Honora.

Literally. This trip was going to be hell.

THREE A.M. ARRIVED WITHOUT a sound. Daniel stretched on his bunk, immediately awake as if the water lapping the hull had caressed his senses alive. Years of sailboat racing had his internal clock set for the changing tide. Other than Maria, nothing appealed to him more than manning a ship under sail.

The heat of adrenaline surged through his veins at the prospect of running the Honora across the Gulf Stream. Clearly, it had been too long since he’d felt the sea beneath him. He could look at this trip as a shakedown for his confidence. Test the waters. Test his skills. Recapture faith in his vocation.

He was going to make this trip his way. Safely. Getting them there and back without a hitch. He’d clocked too many miles on a sailboat to let one accident, no matter how terrible, stop him from knowing exactly how to run a ship under any conditions. Besides, overcoming this hurdle would set several serious wrongs to right. He had made this promise to himself, to Carmen, to Rosalinda.

Making this run across the Gulf Stream would also help cleanse the poison in his heart that was filled by the Santiago women. He’d given up way too much for love. And though there was a very real chance that Maria might return once more to his arms, he needed this trek to reveal his own desires. Since the accident, Maria seemed more callous, the way Carmen used to be. Yet, Maria’s doctor assured him her behavior was a symptom of the amnesia. Fear often caused an amnesia victim to withdraw, or lash out, whichever reaction made them feel safer.

Once they reached the Bahamas, he and Maria might manage to enjoy the journey, as long as he ceased doubting his own abilities and helped Maria to feel safe.

He shook his head. At the rate yesterday afternoon had gone, fat freaking chance. Already his bravado was wavering. She had spoken to him more since boarding the ship than she had in a year, even if it had upset him. He’d almost forgotten how her sultry voice stirred his blood. Maybe if he played the role of a jerk, he could keep the animosity going and not worry about trying to seduce her.

Right. Even if he enraged her, he’d want to test his skills at subduing her. Hell, he used to do it all the time with her hotheaded temperament. Yes, indeed. He was screwed, no matter how he played his hand.

Her cabin was quiet across the dark salon. It was time to sail. The only drawback to the location of her berth was that the rattling anchor chain might awaken her.

Would that be so bad?

A beautiful woman’s company on a starlit morning with the trade winds pushing them across the Atlantic? Another impossible fantasy. Damn. So many dreams seemed just out of reach. Sighing, he climbed the companionway onto the deck.

She looked ethereal seated on the bow as moonlight mingled with the lantern light swaying above her head. The onboard breeze teased his senses with her perfume. Intent on the new creation coming to life on the easel, she didn’t sense him this time.

He sent a grateful prayer skyward. He wanted to watch for as long as possible. When she painted, his beautiful, talented and emotionally driven lover came to life. As usual, watching her concentrate while she created made him want her even more. It always had.

The waning moon behind them cast the tall mast and deck in silver light and shadows. Anyone else would have been facing the moon, bathing an upturned face in its thin, seductive light. But not Maria. She’d turned her back on the obvious.

Instead, she painted like a woman purging a nightmare. Agitation seemed to flow through the bristles as she slashed the ink-black canvas with haphazard strokes. She changed brushes without looking, and slowed to concentrate on what resembled singed angel wings spiraling through the star-dotted canvas past a fine line delineating night from a hollow, indigo sea. The effect was alluring. Forbidding.

Maria seemed terrified.

His breath caught in his throat. He’d catch her if she fell. Didn’t she know that? He drew closer, wanting only to comfort her.

With his first step, her head dropped.

“Why do you sneak up on me?”

The despair in her voice stung.

So, she wanted to cross swords. At least she was talking to him. “I like to see you jump, Princess. Nice to know you’ve still got a pulse.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

He waited, willing her to look at him. Not a chance. “I thought you were sleeping.”

From the way her head dropped back, he could tell she closed her eyes, as if trying to gain patience with a buffoon. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“What are you painting?”

She scrunched a shoulder. “The moon.”

He moved closer. Still no eye contact. “But the moon is behind us.”

She lifted a hand toward the open sea. “Yes, but moonlight stains the sky and sea in pieces.”

Despite the intermittent flash of the lighthouse on the point, the few boats at anchor reflected the moonlight in glittering silver.

“You see the moon in pieces?”

She slowly met his gaze, as if surprised by his question. “It didn’t occur to me to think of it like that.”

He pointed to the falling, moon-singed wings on the canvas. “And what are these?”

She remained quiet way too long before whispering, “Not what. Who.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t need to say another word. He knew exactly who the wings represented. Carmen and Rosalinda. And now he felt like a loser of the highest order for pushing her anxiety.

Elias had told him Maria felt profound guilt that her sister and mother had died while she had not. This was too raw a subject to discuss so soon, especially while she had no faith in him. He scrambled to change the subject.

“I’ll bet you’ll earn a fortune for that one.” He let admiration fill his voice. “It’s haunting and beautiful.”

“You would think of money, Del Rio.”

Another insult. She sure knew how to push him. “Name’s Daniel, if you’d care to use it.”

She ignored the suggestion. “Know what this painting would fetch?” The anger in her eyes almost blinded him. What was he supposed to say? “With your charming wit right now? I don’t think I care.”