Best Kept Secrets (11 page)

“Nothing. Go back to bed.”

“Why were you cursing?”

Samuel swallowed another expletive. His penis had hardened so quickly that he feared spilling his passions in the shower. He held his engorged flesh tightly, struggling to stop the flow of semen straining for release.

“It’s nothing, M.J. Please go back to bed.” He was pleading with her, and didn’t care if she knew it.

There was a moment of silence. “Okay, Samuel.”

She left the bathroom, yet her sensual image lingered. He washed his hair and body in record time. Pushing open the louvered door, he reached for a towel. He hadn’t realized his hands were shaking until he peered into the mirror to blot the moisture from his hair.

He’d slept with women whose faces or names he couldn’t remember, yet a slip of a woman-girl he’d claimed as his wife had him close to losing control.

Even when Charles Cole whipped him, Samuel never cried. He would’ve forfeited his life before he’d permit his father to control him. He loved M.J., but she was never to know that she’d come close to controlling him.

Walking on bare feet, he left the bathroom and made out the bed. M.J. had opened the curtain covering a porthole. He slipped into bed and pulled her close to his body. She was trembling.

Samuel kissed her forehead. “Baby, we don’t have to do anything tonight. I’ll give you all of the time you need to get used to sleeping with me.”

M.J. shifted, burying her face against his chest. She wrinkled her nose, smiling. The hair on his chest tickled her nose. “I’m okay, Sammy.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Are you sure, baby?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Then kiss me.”

She obeyed; pressing her lips to his, she inhaled his breath, his scent.

Samuel smiled. “Good.”

Waiting until her trembling subsided, he swept back the sheet and removed her nightgown. Supporting his weight on his arms, he began at her hairline, trailing kisses over her forehead, the end of her nose, mouth, jawline, throat, breasts, belly, thighs, legs and feet before reversing a path over the expanse of her velvety, fragrant skin.

M.J. could not stop the moans escaping her parted lips, the rush of moisture bathing the folds at the apex of her thighs, could not keep her hips from writhing or her legs from shaking. Samuel’s mouth was driving her crazy.

“Now I want you to touch me, darling.”

“Why?”

Samuel’s soft chuckle filled the space. “Because I’ve touched you.” Reaching for her hand, he pressed it to his groin and tightened his grip when she attempted to pull away. “No, baby,” he crooned against her ear. “Feel how much I want you. That’s it,” he continued as her fingers closed on his erect penis. “Move your hand like this.” He guided her hand in an up-and-down motion.

M.J. felt the heat, the flow of blood and the throbbing against her palm. “You want me and I want you, Sammy.”

He suckled her lower lip. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Curving an arm under one shoulder, she kissed his throat. “I’ve been told that it will only hurt the first time.”

“I’ll try to be gentle.”

Sighing, M.J. closed her eyes. “Don’t talk, Sammy.” She opened her legs. “Just do it! Please.” She’d sobbed her entreaty.

Spreading her legs wider with his knee, Samuel guided her hand and eased his penis into her vagina. Her gasps, one overlapping the other, escalated as her tight flesh stretched to accommodate his sex.

“Do you want me to stop?” He’d asked the question when it was the last thing he wanted to do. M.J.’s feminine heat, her smell, tightness, made him feel as if he were losing his mind. He’d thought perhaps it was because he hadn’t been with a woman for some time, but knew differently. It was the woman to whom he’d given his name and pledged his protection.

M.J. shook her head. She wanted it done so the pain could stop. Samuel was big, much larger than the men in the drawings she’d glimpsed in her aunt’s books. Closing her eyes, she prayed for the burning to stop, and miraculously it did.

Samuel froze. He was only in halfway. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his hips forward, tearing the maidenhead his wife had offered as the ultimate gift.

He buried his face between her neck and shoulder. “Thank you, darling. Thank you for saving yourself for me.”

Tears flooded M.J.’s eyes and flowed down her cheeks as she recalled the words of the Greek poet Sappho:
Maidenhood, maidenhood, whither has thou fled from me?

She nodded, unable to form the words locked in her throat. She had become wife and woman in the twentieth year of her life.

Samuel moved slowly, tentatively, as if testing how much he could thrust into her newly opened flesh. His hands traced a sensual path down her ribs and hips. He took his time, arousing her until she squirmed and writhed in an age-old rhythm that needed no tutoring. Passion and lust pounded the blood through his head, heart and loins.

M.J. gloried in the scent of her husband’s freshly showered skin, the feel of his skin against hers, his touch that sent tingles
up and down her body, and the hardness sliding in and out of her body, setting her afire.

He quickened his thrusts, M.J. following his pace. Heat shot through her like an electric current; throwing back her head, she screamed—not a high-pitched sound but a low growl that subsided to long, surrendering moans. A deep feeling of peace entered her being as Samuel collapsed heavily on her body. The sound of their breathing competed with the rush of water lapping against the yacht as it sailed toward their honeymoon destination.

M.J. closed her eyes. A man who’d offered her his love, his heat and his passion had awakened the dormant sexuality of her body, a man who’d become her husband; a man, she prayed, who would become the father of her children.

1925

“P
or Dios!
What did you do to yourself?”

M.J. halted in the task of placing earrings, necklaces, rings and bracelets into velvet pouches, and glanced up. Ivonne Ferrer stood in the doorway, a hand covering her mouth and an expression of shock distorting her pretty face.

M.J. rolled her eyes at her cousin. “Say it, Ivonne.”

Diminutive, with unruly bright red curls and dark blue eyes, Ivonne lowered her hand. “You’ve ruined your skin.”

Ivonne’s reaction was similar to those who saw her since she’d returned from her honeymoon. She and Samuel had spent the week swimming, eating and sometimes sleeping on the beach where the sun had darkened her face and body. The first
day she’d burned so badly that she couldn’t bear for Samuel to touch her. But instead of peeling, her tan deepened until she was as brown as some who worked long hours in the tobacco fields.

M.J. lifted her expressive eyebrows. “Why? Because I now look like
mi bisabuela?
”

Ivonne lowered her hand. “She really wasn’t your great-grandmother. She was your
bisabuelo
’s mistress.”

“She was my father’s grandmother, and therefore
mi familia
.”

Ivonne blushed. “And I’m not?”

“Yes, Ivonne, we are family because our mothers were sisters.”

Walking into the bedroom, Ivonne held out her arms, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I didn’t come here to fight with you,
m’ija
, but to say goodbye.”

M.J. hugged her. “It’s not goodbye. You promised you would come visit me.”

“And I will. But first I’m going to let you get used to your new husband.”

“I’m already used to him.”

“How is he?” Ivonne whispered.

“He’s wonderful.”

Ivonne held M.J.’s hands. “How was it?”

“What?”

Ivonne blushed again. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Pulling her fingers from her cousin’s loose grip, M.J. went back to packing her jewelry. She’d decided not to put the heirloom pieces with the other items that were to be shipped to her new West Palm Beach home.

“Are you talking about sex?”

“Don’t say it so loud.” M.J. gave her a sidelong glance. “So…was it…good?”

A small smile of enchantment touched M.J.’s lips. “No, it’s not good.” She ignored her cousin’s gasp. “It’s wonderful.” Her hands stilled as she tried ignoring the rush of heat making its way down her body. “I can’t get enough of him, Ivonne,”
she whispered coconspiratorially. “We finish, rest a few minutes, then do it again. I’m like someone…someone possessed, or addicted to…to opium.”

“M’ija
, I’m so happy for you.” The tears in Ivonne’s eyes sparkled. She sat down, watching M.J. as she closed a large carved jewelry chest. “I hope when I marry I will find a man like your Samuel.”

“Don’t worry, Ivonne, you will. You’re only eighteen, and you have time before people will start calling you a
solterona
.”

“I have no intention of becoming a spinster. Now, tell about your honeymoon.”

The two women sat on a chaise, M.J. holding Ivonne’s rapt attention as she described in vivid detail the beauty of Cayo Largo del Sur and the house where she and Samuel stayed that belonged to a wealthy American. Her voice softened considerably when she revealed how she and Samuel lingered in bed until midday, took their meals under a copse of pine trees, several hundred feet from the pristine blue-green waters of the Caribbean, and ended the day sitting on the beach watching the sun set.

She didn’t tell Ivonne that she and her husband had swum naked in a secluded lagoon, then fallen asleep in the tropical sun. That would remain their secret.

Ivonne’s face had taken on a dreamy expression. “Did you cook for Samuel?”

“No. A cook, maid and gardener were there to take care of all our needs.”

“It’s probably going to be very different for you once you move to the United States.”

Vertical lines appeared between M.J.’s eyes. “Why would you say that?”

“Will you have what you have here in Cuba? Who’s going to cook for you, clean your house, or take care of the flowers you love so much? Will you have as much land as you have here?”

M.J.’s face clouded with uneasiness. “I don’t know.”

“Have you not asked your husband these questions?”

Biting her lip, M.J. glanced away from her cousin, uncomfortable with the fact that she’d spoken the truth. The apprehension she had experienced after accepting Samuel’s offer of marriage was back—this time stronger than before.

She wanted to believe that Ivonne was jealous because she had what she had—a man who loved her enough to claim her as his wife. And all Ivonne ever talked about was becoming the wife of a rich man. She wanted to live in a grand house and host grand parties that would become the talk of all of Cuba.

Tilting her chin, M.J. stared down her nose at her younger cousin. “I’m certain Samuel can give me whatever it is I want.”

“What is it you want, darling?”

Both women turned and stared at the tall figure standing in the doorway. Neither had heard his approach.

M.J. moved off the chaise, closing the distance between her and her husband; at the same time Ivonne jumped up, her face flushed with embarrassment.

Samuel glared at Ivonne Ferrer as she brushed past him. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but had managed to hear the spiteful woman’s taunt. He and M.J. were only married a week and he did not want someone filling her head with doubt, doubt as to whether he could provide for her, and whether he would make her a good husband.

Rising on tiptoe, M.J. brushed her mouth over his. “I want only you, darling.”

Curving an arm around her waist, he stared down at the face the shade of a newly minted penny. He found M.J. exotically stunning with her sun-browned skin, glossy black hair and luminous large, dark brown eyes, and it was not the first time he’d been awed by the beauty of the woman who’d become his and his alone.

“I came to tell you that we have to leave now.” He’d made arrangements with the captain of an American fishing boat to
take them directly to West Palm Beach. Once there he would pick up the car he’d left in a warehouse on the pier.

Smiling, M.J. pulled out of his loose embrace. “I just have to get my jewelry.” Returning to the bed, she picked up a leather drawstring pouch.

Samuel’s eyes widened. The handbag was the size of a small feedbag. “What on earth do you have in
that?
”

Looping the ties around her wrist, M.J. said, “My mother and grandmother’s jewelry. I’m saving them for my daughters.”

She’d said it so confidently that he wondered whether his wife knew something he didn’t. He’d waited two days for her tender flesh to heal, then made love to her like a man possessed, and there was the possibility that he could’ve gotten her pregnant on their honeymoon.

M.J. had mentioned daughters when it was sons he wanted. Sons he would relate to and rear differently than his father had him and his brothers. He’d taken a solemn oath never to whip his children or berate them. He would praise their successes and provide support during their failures.

Dismissing the memories of his tortured childhood, he smiled. “What if we only have boys?”

“Then I’ll give them to my granddaughters.”

Samuel extended his hand, grinning broadly. “Let’s go, little mama.”

Tilting her chin, M.J. stared down the narrow bridge of her nose, the gesture the epitome of haughtiness. “My children will not call me Mama. It will be Mother.”

Samuel’s eyebrows lifted. It was the second time she’d referred to their children as
my children
. “Your children?”

“Okay, Sammy. Our children.”

He grasped her free hand, tucking it into the bend of his elbow. “That’s better.”

As he led M.J. down the staircase, Samuel recalled the arguments between his parents. Belinda always claimed her
children were “my sons,” while Charles referred to his sons as “your bastards.”

It was something he could never understand. Why had Charles called his sons bastards when he’d married their mother and fathered them? Samuel did not want to dwell on the past, not when he looked forward to a future filled with things he’d dreamed about all of his life.

West Palm Beach, Florida—January 12, 1925

M.J. successfully concealed her disappointment when she walked into the living room in the house that was her new home. It was half the size of the house where she’d grown up, the land on which it was erected was smaller than her garden in Pinar del Rio, and the only thing that evoked memories of Cuba was a copse of palm trees shading the front of the one-story, stucco property.

Wooden crates that were shipped from Cuba lined a wall in the sparsely furnished space. Samuel’s revelation that he hadn’t furnished or decorated his house was an understatement.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Not long.”

“How long is not long?”

“Four…maybe five months. Why?”

She met his questioning gaze. “Because it doesn’t look lived in. It’s a house, not a home, Sammy.”

He lifted wisps of hair sticking to her moist cheek. “I’ll leave it up to you to make it look like a home. You can purchase whatever you need. I have a woman who comes in twice a week to clean and dust.”

“Does she cook?”

“No.”

“Who cooks for you?”

“I cook for myself.”

“Are you good?”

Samuel angled his head, forcing back a smile. “I’ve never gotten sick.”

M.J. moved closer, tilted her chin and flashed a seductive moue. “I’ll do the cooking, and your
woman
can continue to clean.”

“She’s not my woman.”

“Did you not say, ‘I have a woman who—’”

His mouth stopped hers in an explosive kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. Samuel Cole was a thief. Without warning he’d come into her life and stolen her heart, and she knew she would love him forever.

He cradled her face and kissed the end of her nose. “Would you like to see the rest of your house?”

M.J. traced the outline of his lower lip with the tip of her tongue. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I have tomorrow, the next day and all the days after to see and decorate the house.”

Samuel moaned softly. “Baby.”

“I love your mouth, Sammy,” she crooned. “The way it feels, the way it makes me feel.”

He stopped her words a second time, deepening the kiss and wanting to absorb her into him. His blood heated with unbidden memories of making love to her.

“What do you want, darling?”

M.J. writhed against him like a cat in heat. “I want you. I will always want you.”

Samuel gazed deeply into his wife’s eyes. She’d declared what he was feeling and would always feel with her. There would never be a time when he would not want her.

Sweeping her up in his embrace, he carried her across the
living room, past the dining room, a large kitchen, and down a wide hallway leading to the bedrooms.

The house was one of twelve newly built homes in an area populated by professional Negroes, all who were college graduates. His lack of a higher education was offset by his status as a businessman. His former marital status had served him well when several of the older couples considered him a suitable catch for their young daughters. However, that would change because he’d returned to West Palm Beach with a wife.

He carried M.J. into the master bedroom, a knowing smile parting his lips when he heard her soft gasp of surprise. The bedroom and an alcove in the adjoining dressing room were the only furnished areas in the house. When at home he spent most of his time there. The exception was when he took his meals in the kitchen.

“It’s beautiful, Sammy.”

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

And she did. M.J. stared at the four-poster mahogany bed draped in delicate white lace and a mahogany pedestal table with two matching chairs covered in white petit point. Nightstands with table lamps flanked the large bed. The white-on-white embroidered coverlet and matching pillows would’ve appeared feminine if not for the heavy dark furniture. The walls were covered with paper dotted with sprigs of soft blue forget-me-nots, and the floor with a pale sisal rug.

“Who decorated this room?” M.J.’s eyes shimmered with excitement.

Samuel set her on her feet and rested his chin on the top of her head. “My mother. I wanted it to look like a bedroom I once saw in a French chateaux.”

“You were in France?” There was no mistaking the surprise in her voice.

“Yes. It was during the war.”

Her expression sobered quickly. “You were a soldier?” He nodded. “Did you kill any Germans?” Turning her in his embrace, Samuel gave her a cold stare that pebbled her flesh although the air inside the house was warm.

“I’m only going to say that I did whatever it was I had to do to come back alive. This will be the last time we speak of my past.”

M.J. opened her mouth to tell him that she knew very little of his past, except that he was the youngest of three sons born to Belinda Cole, and he made his money importing and exporting produce, but then closed it quickly. This was not the time to challenge him. After all, they were married and living together. As his wife she doubted whether he would be able to conceal too much from her.

“What’s in there?”

“A dressing room and my study.”

M.J. left the bedroom, walking into a spacious dressing room with two facing ornately carved armoires, a highboy, a dressing table and bench. Tucked away in an alcove was an antique secretary with compartments for letters, drawers for stationery, and a blotter-covered surface for writing. A telephone sat to the right of a supply of fountain pens. Framed photographs and bottles of ink linked the top shelf of the mahogany piece. The shelves behind the glass doors of a built-in Chinese chest were filled with novels and titles on crops and animal husbandry.

Her earlier assessment that the house was too small vanished quickly. If she chose her furnishings with meticulous care, there was no doubt her home would be an exquisite showplace.