Dancing in a Hurricane (10 page)

He came up behind her and she could feel his warm body close. His fresh scent reminded her of the pine forests near her hometown.

"What are you making here?"

She read from the cookbook. "This sauce completes the soufflé. At the table, tenderly excavate a small hole in the center of it then dramatically pour the cream into the hole. Carefully cut the soufflé in two and with a flourish, place it delicately on small plates."

"Then we voraciously devour it, not even stopping to breathe?"

She turned her head to look at him. "Yes! You've read the cookbook?" His face hovered just inches from hers.

His smile gradually slid from his lips and his eyes took on a sober look.

A flash of desire skittered down her spine, warming her core, making her hips shift. She held her breath. There were so damn many walls keeping them separated. She turned back to her pan. "Don't make me burn this, or it'll be dumped over your head."

He backed up a step. "A threat I know you'll follow through on." He pulled two cups from the cupboard. "Three sugars?"

"That's my morning kick-off coffee. Just black for me tonight."

He poured the coffee and set it on the table, brought the rest of the supper dishes into the kitchen, and put everything away. "Good salmon, Bree. Everything was great. Thanks."

Stirring her sauce, she smiled. "I'm happy that you're happy."

"You're almost always happy."

She shrugged. "Yes, mostly. I find myself a little down sometimes. But I've learned how to pick myself up again."

"You should write a book."

"The Physical Therapist's Guide to Mental Health?"

"Madame Briana of the Gypsies' Guide to Psychological Well Being."

She laughed, snorted a couple times, then shushed them both, checking to be sure they hadn't flattened the soufflé.

The timer rang and she gently lifted the pan from the oven, unwrapped the foil, and when it didn't fall, clapped silently wearing hot pads.

She shooed Sixto out to the dining room and carried the soufflé to the table, made a grand production out of serving it, and they devoured it, but slowly, savoring every dark chocolate bite, sipping three cups of rich coffee each.

They talked about the mundane things around the house: garbage and recycling, the sprinkler system, the pool boy, which was actually a company that came in once a week. He explained the roll-down hurricane shutters that worked by remote, but if the power went out, they could be rolled down manually.

The sun was an hour from setting when they walked into the kitchen and he filled the sink with water to do the dishes.

"I can do that, Sixto. You must have studying waiting for you."

"No. After that fabulous meal, I'd like to get some fresh air." He washed and rinsed a plate and handed it to her. "How about a walk after we finish?"

"Sure." She snapped the dishtowel and got busy. "Is this neighborhood safe?"

He laughed. "It's so safe, the police used to stop me and question me. This is a non-diverse neighborhood." He stuck his hands into the soapy water.

"Oh, Sixto. I'm sorry."

"It was always funny to…" He looked at her.

She huffed. "To Cloe, right? She would think that was amusing. I would have called the chief of police and made a stink."

"You're a stink-maker, huh?"

She smiled, drying a wine glass. "Oh, yes. I've been known to raise my voice to uphold justice."

"Drama. I love it. Guys can't get enough of it."

"What?" She turned to face him. "You told me guys hate drama and games. Make up your mind, which is it?"

"Guys are all different, Bree. You've got to realize that we're all looking for something in a woman and it can be completely the opposite of what another man is looking for."

"True. A good example is Greg."

"Greg?"

"The guy Cloe was seeing at the office. He was serious about her. But you didn't think anyone could get serious about her."

He stayed quiet.

She dried another glass and put it away. "You never told me what you're looking for in a woman." Bree glanced sideways at him.

He drained the sink, washed the suds down, and dried his hands. "I don't know what I'm looking for." He twisted the towel and snapped it toward her. "Ergo the recurring dream."

They walked out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and slid into their sandals at the garage door. He opened the door for her and in an unexpectedly gentlemanly gesture, held her elbow and guided her down the three steps into the garage. He released her arm as they headed down the driveway toward the Atlantic then turned north.

She breathed deeply. "The ocean smells different here."

"That's because it's a different ocean."

"Oh, right. Silly me."

He glanced at her. "You are usually good about being teased, but you didn't care for my joking around about your Aunt Prudence dream. Why is that?"

Bree watched her feet move along the pavement. "Hits close to home, I guess." She took a peek at his face, and then stared straight ahead. "I'd hoped to be married with a family by now."

"That makes sense. The dream and the fact that you were engaged…"

The topic seemed too heavy for the beautiful evening. "I felt your anxiety about your dream, as well. Seems we both have a sore spot that our subconscious won't let go of."

"Mm hm."

She waited for more, but he grew quiet. "You were going to tell me what you like in a woman."

He bent and picked a small flower from a neighbor's garden and handed it to her. "It's hard for me to make a list. I think I'll just know her when I meet her."

She looked at the flower and felt his stare focused on her.

"Just the basics. The basic qualities she absolutely has to possess."

He groaned out a long breath. "Let's just enjoy the walk."

"Not fair, Sixto. You asked me the same question and I answered." She smelled the tiny rose, tickling her upper lip with it. "I just want a basic list from you. How will you know when you find The One?" She looked at him.

He stared at the flower—at her lips.

A tingle started at her mouth, spread to her chest where her breath caught, and slid down to her belly, making that lovely ache that she associated just with Sixto.

He snapped his head forward. "A quiet woman who doesn't ask a lot of questions."

She crossed her arms and stopped walking.

He turned and looked back at her. "An obedient woman who will walk three steps behind me."

She smiled. "I'm not too proud to lay in the street and kick and scream."

He crossed his arms, mirroring her and gave her a glare. "Do it. And I'll throw you over my shoulder, carry you home, and give you the spanking of your life."

She drew in an excited breath. It sounded like fun, actually. His big hands holding her, peeling away her shorts… She regained her composure, dropped her arms, and started moving again. He fell into step beside her.

"You win," she whined.

He shrugged. "I always do."

For a few blocks, they walked in silence. Who was his perfect woman? There had to be a reason he wouldn't share his thoughts with her. Especially after she'd told him everything on her husband shopping list.

How long until she found him a man she could love and…marry? She knew for certain she'd find a husband. After her impromptu therapy session with Dr. Know It All, she admitted she had complete faith that she'd find the perfect man. No Aunt Prudence scenario for her.

As they walked, he pointed out features of the neighborhood that interested him. Plants, architecture, colors. His attention to detail fascinated her. As they stepped off the curb to cross streets, he took her elbow. She found it sweet, old fashioned. When it started getting dark, they took another street and looped back to the house.

As they headed up the driveway, he said, "One thing I want to mention."

"Mmm hmm?"

He stopped and waited for her to turn and look at him. "Once in a while I bring women home. That's not going to be a problem for you, is it?"

Her stomach sank as a wave of possessiveness threatened to overcome her better judgment."Of course not," she said too quickly.

He took her elbow and guided her through the garage door.

She added, "As long as you're okay with me bringing men home. Ouch!" She jerked her arm out of his sudden clamp.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to…" Sixto looked surprised that he'd hurt her.

She rubbed her elbow and glared at him. That was going to leave bruises.

"No, I don't mind if you bring men home," he said quietly.

He opened the door into the house for her and she said, "Good night."

As she closed her bedroom door, she looked up to see him standing in the foyer, watching her. She locked her door, this time definitely to keep
him
out.

***

Bree kept busy the next day clearing out the rest of Cloe's things. Besides clothes and shoes, her sister owned very little, as if she wasn't settled here. She had no roots. Was she waiting for Bree to forgive her before she made a life for herself? Bree went through every box, drawer, and cabinet twice, the second time specifically looking for the letters Bree had returned unopened, but they weren't here. Had her sister thrown them away?

After she stacked the boxes outside the garage to be picked up by the Goodwill, she went back into her nearly empty room. Bree kept a few of her sister's things, a statue, a painting, some jewelry. Items that were personal and would serve as reminders of Cloe. There wasn't anything sentimental except their mother's watch. Nothing of Cloe's touched her heart.

Looking around the room, she felt her sister's sparse existence. She'd lacked friends, had alienated her only family, and lived only to make herself a success. No wonder she was so thin and looked so anxious in the photo she'd had at her office.

Some called it identical twins' intuition, some would say Cloe's spirit spoke to her, but Bree lay on the bed, curled up around her sister's pillow. She let herself feel the need that drove Cloe, the regret that stared back at her in the mirror, and the fear of a lonely future.

Two hours later, she woke, feeling more steady, empowered to create the life she desired. Bree cleaned every surface, put away her clothes, and set out the few photos and decorative items she'd brought with her. Mid-afternoon, she was exhausted, but pleased with the way the room had become hers.

One of the things Bree kept was her sister's impressive bookshelf of erotica. Bree needed a break, she spent a quiet hour reading.

The afternoon sun streamed in through the patio doors onto her bed and after reading the incredibly sexy stories, she was warm, inside and out. She peeked out her bedroom door into the shared space and saw Sixto in the kitchen. She silently closed and locked the door, grabbed the tiny vial of lubricant from her travel pack, and lay back on pillows against the headboard. She slid her shorts and panties down and let the sun warm her vagina. She'd chosen a paranormal vampire book, and she flipped through the pages until something meaty caught her eye.

The vampire could ensnare a woman just by making love to her. With his extreme vampire strength, he would lift a woman above his head and hold her there, lapping at her clitoris until she came in screaming ecstasy.
Bree closed her eyes, applied lubricant to her finger, and imagined herself up on a vampire's face.

She opened her eyes. "Nope." She tossed the book aside and plucked the next one off the shelf.
The Harley rider loved anal sex.
"Nope." The next book was an historical erotica about an Italian prince. She pictured a dark-haired Fabio.

The prince caught his runaway bride, hauled her up in front of him on his horse, and galloped her home to his villa. He leapt off the horse. His bride tried to escape on the stallion, but with one whistle, the prince halted the mighty steed in its tracks.

"Go Fabio."

The prince grasped her waist and drug her off the horse, setting her on her feet. "Will you behave like the wife of a prince now?"

"Never!" she screamed and slapped him.

He bent and flung his recalcitrant bride over his shoulder and walked up the stairs into the villa, up the curved stairway to the second floor where he tossed her on their bed and locked the door, throwing the key out the window.

"Now, wife. You will learn the penalty for disobeying me. Then, I will teach you the extreme pleasures of being my princess."

Okay, this was getting good. She lubed her finger and touched the sun kissed flesh between her legs. God, how she loved Miami!

The Italian prince stripped his wife from the waist down and laid her across his lap.

Bree rubbed herself. Sixto threatened to spank her yesterday. "Mmm, naughty."

The prince walloped his bride a couple good ones then kissed her sore, red bottom, turned her over, laid her on the bed, and began the promised pleasure portion of the evening.