Dancing in a Hurricane (21 page)

She quickly closed her blinds, not wanting to be the nosy roommate. But it was killing her! She had to see what this model looked like.

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she turned on HBO. Austin Powers was playing again. She slid the volume lower, listening for a female voice from the living room. She'd almost polished off her glass of wine when the doorbell rang. She stood, tottering a little. Must be a strong wine.

Bree opened her bedroom door a crack. Sixto walked from the kitchen to the front door. He'd set the dining room table and lit the candles. Shakira played on the house stereo, that sexy song she'd heard on her second night here.

The pang of jealousy that sprung up to clench her chest surprised her and she mentally shook it off.

She was happy for Sixto, and the model was a lucky girl to find a man as great as her roommate. Of course, she compared Sixto's date to her own last date—which, in her e-mails to her friends in Seattle, she'd taglined, "The Teacher from the Black Lagoon."

She couldn't see them, but Sixto's voice carried to her door. "Helena, you look fantastic." Then silence and Bree pictured them kissing. The visual set her teeth grinding.

"I brought wine," the model's breathy voice said. Bree detected a slight accent.

"Thank you," he replied. "Sweet. I'll open it with dessert."

Dang, she couldn't see…

"Sangria?" his low voice rumbled.

"Mmm. Yes, please."

The sound of liquid poured into glass reached her.

"Let me give you a quick tour." They started in the living room. "The pool and spa. If you feel the urge to get wet."

The model giggled.

Bree rolled her eyes.

They walked closer to her room and she saw the woman from behind. Tall and very thin, like Bree's sister. Did Sixto like skinny women? Guess so, he had his hand on her back.

"The bathroom is here."

He turned and pointed to her door. "My roommate's bedroom."

Bree stepped back so they wouldn't see her.

"Sixto?" the model purred.

Bree peeked out her door.

The model smiled at Sixto. Wow, stunningly beautiful. Long, straight, dark hair, exotically tan, perfect skin, no curves, just a boy-thin body wrapped in an expensive knee-length turquoise dress, long stork-legs perched on four-inch heels. This woman would own the runway.

The model tipped her head. "Where's
your
bedroom?"

He chuckled. "I thought you'd want to eat supper first."

The model draped herself on him, her arm around his neck, her body pressed to his. "Sixto, you're so naughty."

Bree tsked and mimicked, "You're so naughty." Unfortunately, a glass of wine on an empty stomach made her a little too loud.

Sixto and the model turned to look at her door.

She quickly closed it, shocked at her behavior. Was she regressing to middle school? Pressing her ear to the crack, she heard Sixto say, "Let me turn the music up."

Bree grimaced. That was his way of warning her to behave. She sat and watched the movie for a few minutes then, restless, picked up her library book and padded into the bathroom. She closed the drain on the whirlpool tub and started the water running. She wasn't much for baths, but tonight seemed like the night to learn to enjoy them.

Piling her hair on top of her head, she sprinkled jasmine scented salts into the water. She stripped, poured another glass of wine, and climbed in, sinking up to her chin in the deliciously soft water.

An hour later, two more glasses of wine, and tingling with a pervasive sexual longing, thanks to the spicy romance novel, she eased her pruney body out of the tub. She dried herself and smoothed on the scented lotion that matched the bath salts.

Looking into the mirror, she fluffed the dramatic mound of hair, curled tighter thanks to the humidity, and pulled a few tendrils to curl at her temples and nape. She picked up her new cherry-red lipstick and smeared some on.

In the dresser drawer where she'd hidden all her slinky purchases, she pulled out pink see-through baby-doll pajamas. She slid into them—the top hugged her breasts then flared out, ending at her upper thighs. Matching pink undies caressed her, outrageously sexy and she slid on a pair of her sister's clear plastic high-heeled sandals with pink furry straps across the arches.

She sashayed into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Laughing, she poured herself more wine. She sure wouldn't give Helena much of a challenge on the runway. She looked like a Barbie doll gone wild.

She took the book and her wine and cozied up in the big chair, ready to find out if the sweet virgin peasant girl would allow the rakish earl to have his way with her.

A half hour later, a cramp punched into her lower belly. She expected her period this week and here it was. She got up and looked through her purse for the pharmacy bag. Damn, she left it in the Miata. She peered through her blinds. The living room was dark and slivers of light shone from the drawn blinds in Sixto's room. Lucky Sixto. "Lucky Helena."

She opened her bedroom door, walked to the garage door, turned the handle, and heard voices. In the living room.

Sixto and the model sat on the couch, their backs to her. He kissed her neck and murmured his seductive patois.

She froze. Should she slink back to her bedroom? She'd already reached the garage door and if she didn't take a Midol now, her cramps would overwhelm her. If she was quiet… She opened the door slowly, staring at the couple.

Sixto's head shot up, his eyes popped wide and his mouth dropped open.

She grimaced, held a hand up in surrender, and mouthed, "Sorry." Tiptoeing into the garage, she leaned into her car to get the bag from the glove compartment. Her elbow hit the horn, blasting it for just a second.

Crap. What an idiot.

She retrieved the bag and steadied herself against the car for a moment. She'd do anything for another way back to her bedroom. How long would it take her to dig a tunnel under the foundation?

When no hole magically appeared for her, she tipped up her chin and walked up the stairs to the door. Stepping into the house, she silently closed the garage door behind her whilst praying for a tiny miracle.

No such luck. Sixto and the model stared at her.

"I'm sorry." She held up her bag. "I forgot my pills." She smiled, armed herself with the miniscule amount of her remaining pride, and marched her pink, frothy self back to her bedroom.

"What was that?" the woman asked.

"Someone who's been watching too much HBO," Sixto growled.

Bree closed the door, humiliated beyond the point of knowing what to do next. She sat on the bed and opened the Midol bottle, poured two pills into her hand and washed them down with the rest of the wine.

Hopefully, the combination would help her fall asleep and, if she was lucky, would block this whole incident from her memory. She stood up, wobbled to the dresser, and verified the wine bottle was empty. She used the bathroom before plopping into her chair and staring at the comedy on HBO. Unfortunately, the story revolved around a woman who couldn't do anything right. Instead of being entertained, Bree worked herself up into tears, identifying with the klutzy girl.

She woke a half hour later. Her eyes wouldn't focus and her head felt like it circled slowly on her neck. Crap, she needed to get into bed. Using the remote, she shut off the television and got to her feet. Her slipper heel caught in the carpet and sent her careening into the tall dresser.

She grabbed it to keep herself upright, sending the lamp and statue from the top flying off and crashing onto the lower dresser. The lamp smashed to pieces on the TV as the heavy statue fell, sending everything hurtling onto the floor. The room plunged into total darkness as she went down.

She sank onto the carpet and took a moment to feel for anything painful. When no excruciating pain surfaced, she laced her fingers together. "Oh, please, please don't let them have heard…"

A knock on the door came as the negative answer to her prayer.

"Bree? Are you all right?" Sixto called.

"Fine, thanks!"

He swung open the door and barged into the room, flipping on the ceiling light.

She looked up at him, trying hard not to be pathetic. "I'm okay. You can leave."

He looked past her to the broken porcelain and miscellaneous items piled on the carpet. "What the hell are you doing?"

Her temper flared. How dare he stomp in here and yell at her. "What does it look like I'm doing?" she slurred. "Playing Twister?"

The look he gave her was pure disgust.

Oh, hell, he couldn't be more disgusted with her than she was with herself. Her anger left, replaced by a misery so profound, she had to force air into her lungs. In one evening, she ruined the tentative friendship they formed.

He sighed. "Get away and let me clean this up before you electrocute yourself."

She managed to stand.

He caught her arm when she almost tipped backward. Sniffing her fermented breath, he made a face. He helped her to the bed and picked up the bottle of pills she'd left on the comforter. "You're drinking and taking muscle relaxants? Did you eat?"

She sat and stared at her hands, folded in her lap. "No." She wanted to crawl under the bed and hide. When she glanced up at him, he gave her a worried look, his eyes a velvety brown. He quickly turned away and set the pill bottle on the nightstand.

Biting her lower lip to keep from cooing, she let the pleasant rush of adoration run through her. He wanted to take care of her. Sure she was a comic mishap, but he was worried, and a sob caught halfway from her chest.

He grabbed the trashcan from the bathroom, unplugged the broken lamp, and carefully picked up pieces of porcelain. The television and statue were unbroken and he set them on the dresser. "Don't walk over here until I vacuum. There may be small shards."

She rubbed her pinkie finger.

"Did you hear me?"

She looked at him. He sounded like her father. "Yes. Sixto, I'm sorry—"

He made a slashing motion with his hand. "I'm too pissed to talk about it right now. Just…" He took an audible breath, released it slowly. "If I get you something to eat, will you please lie there until you fall asleep?"

She nodded and he walked out.

She lay back on her pillow, her fingers linked, hands over her stomach, her legs straight—oops, she forgot to take off her slippers. She lifted one leg, peering at her foot, liking the look, but she should paint her toenails. In Port Angeles, it seemed like sandal season lasted less than a month. Here in Florida, it was year round.

"Helena?" Sixto called in the other room.

The front door opened and slammed shut.

"Fuck!" he shouted.

"Uh oh." The model left? Yeah, if she'd been in the same situation as Helena, she would have run fast and far from the insane roommate.

Banging noises came from the kitchen. Sixto was fixing her something to eat. And he wasn't happy about it.

When the noises stopped, Bree closed her eyes so he'd think she was asleep.

"Jesus, woman, you look like you're dead." The bed jiggled as he sat next to her. "Sit up and eat this." He turned on her nightstand lamp.

She struggled upright and pulled off her slippers, tossing them on the floor. Crossing her legs, she reached for the plate he held out to her.

He stared at her V zone.

Oh, crap. Her underwear was see-through.

His gaze shot to her breasts.

Great. Nipples showing, too. Could this night get any worse?

He looked away. "Eat."

She picked up the thick sandwich and took a bite, her red lipstick staining the white bread. After swallowing, she said, "You don't have to stay."

"Yes, I do. In your condition, you might choke."

She took another bite, a bigger one to finish eating quickly so he wouldn't have to babysit her. Around a mouthful of food, she asked, "Did she leave?"

"Yes. Took her wine with her."

Funny, he seemed more upset about losing the wine than losing the woman. Bree giggled, but stopped when he pinned her with a deadly glance.

He went out to the hall closet and came back in with the vacuum. When he bent to plug it in, she enjoyed the view of his luscious backside. "Mmm."

He straightened and looked at her, his brows furrowed.

She held up her sandwich. "Yummy."

One side of his mouth twitched. Was it anger or humor?

He switched on the vacuum and ran it over the carpet, thoroughly enough to get any chips of porcelain as well as take up half the carpet fibers.

Finishing, he put the vacuum away as she swallowed the last of her sandwich.

He strode to the side of the bed and took the plate from her. "Get under the covers," he commanded as he pulled down the quilt and sheets.

She did as she was told, banging her head only once on the headboard.

He pulled the linens up to her chin.