Dancing in a Hurricane (38 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Yanking her arm out of Victor's grasp, Marisa said, "Don't ever touch me again." Hearing the shaking in her voice, she tamped down her fear and squared her shoulders. She looked around the neighborhood, hoping one of the neighbors was watching them, in case he struck her, or tried to drag her to his car.

"You're pregnant, aren't you, darling?"

Her gaze shot to his eyes. That confirmed her suspicion. "Why would you think that?"

"Are you?" He took a step toward her.

"How could I possibly be pregnant?" She wouldn't lie, but she would never tell him about the baby. "You used condoms every time we had sex."

His hands fisted and she braced herself for a hit.

He only glared at her. "I'm going to be watching you, Marisa. When I see you fat with my baby in your belly, I'll give you one more chance. You will come home with me and we'll raise our child together." He stepped closer. "If you don't, I will use every legal means at my disposal to gain custody of the baby. And I'll make sure you never see it."

She shook her head. "Do you hate me that much?"

"No. I want you that much." He said it as if he despised his weakness for her. "I'll do anything to keep you."

He'd never said the word "love" to her. She finally understood why. She was just another possession to him.

"Goodbye, Victor." She turned and walked slowly to her car, waiting for his anger to manifest. But he didn't follow. She got in the car, closed and locked the door. Watching him in the mirror, relief flowed through her as he drove away. As the adrenaline left her body she started to shake.

She dropped her head back onto the seat. "What do I do now?" She was trapped. There was no doubt Victor would do everything he threatened if she didn't go back to him. He was that powerful and that ruthless. She'd never subject a child to a life of fear.

If she ran away—he'd find her. A fake ID? A new life? She'd miss her family. And he'd probably still find her.

There was only one solution.

Nausea gripped her stomach and bile rose in her throat. She grabbed her purse, got out of the car and ran back into the house.

***

Sixto hung his raincoat in the garage and walked into the house smelling bacon mixed with a sour aroma. Bree was cooking? He took off his shoes and walked toward the noise in the kitchen.

She stood at the stove, poking a fork into a large pot of boiling water.

"Hi,
cariña
," he said, strolling up behind her and putting his hands on her hips. "What're you cooking?"

She turned her head, smiling. "I'm making you a traditional German meal." She puckered her lips and he kissed her, smelling bacon on her breath.

"Smells delicious," he lied. "What is it?"

She put the lid back on the pot. "Hot potato salad, red cabbage, and blood sausage."

Holy shit. "That sounds great," he lied again. "How long until it's ready?"

She checked her watch. "Half hour? We planned to eat at six, but I'm running early. Are you hungry?"

He forced a smile. "For your cooking? Definitely." He kissed her neck. "I'm gonna take a shower."

She stirred a pan of clear sauce. "It'll be ready when you're done."

He swatted her butt and went to his room. German food? This would be a challenging meal. He stripped and jumped in the shower, washed his hair and soaped his body. Sudsing his unit, he stroked his cock. Should he relieve his sexual tension so he wouldn't be as tempted to attack her tonight?

He smiled and rinsed off. If he could choke down her bizarre meal, he'd probably have enough digestive trouble to keep himself unaroused for hours.

Dressing in khakis and a polo shirt, he went to the dining room and helped her set the table. A timer rang in the kitchen and Bree said, "Sit down and I'll bring everything out."

She poured two mugs of beer and he chugged down half his, trying to jump-start his appetite.

She carried out two bowls, both sour smelling concoctions, followed by a platter with a big sausage curled in a spiral. He breathed deeply through his mouth, keeping his focus on her.

"Thanks for cooking for me,
cariña
."

She smiled, took her seat, and lifted her beer mug. "Prost!"

He hefted his mug. "Huh?"

"German drinking toast."

"Ah. Prost!"

They drank and she said, "Dig in."

He looked at the sausage. "I've had bratwurst before. Is this the same thing?"

"Not really. It's got beef blood and tongue in it, besides pork."

Blood and tongue? Oh, shit. His stomach churled, but he reached for the fork and knife on the platter, sliced a two-inch piece of meat, and set it on his plate."

She laughed. "Is that all? You usually eat about twelve times that amount of meat."

"I…had a late lunch." Looking at her face, he could tell she didn't believe him. He passed her the platter.

She handed him one of the sour bowls—the potato salad. It was hot, had chunks of bacon in it, but smelled like vinegar. He spooned a small pile onto his plate and took the other bowl from her. Red cabbage, it smelled strangely both sour and sweet.

He waited until she filled her plate then picked up his fork. He could do this, he'd choke down her cooking to make her happy. He stuck his fork into a potato and put it in his mouth. Yup, tasted as sour as it smelled. The unusual flavor of vinegar and bacon melded unpleasantly and he washed it down with a good swallow of beer.

"Good potato salad," he said and saw her unhappy face. "Did your mother teach you how to cook?"

She nodded. "She was second generation German-American. I don't remember much about my grandparents, they died when I was young. But I hear my Grandma Louisa was an exceptional cook."

"What else do you cook?" If he kept her talking, she might not notice him swallowing the food whole.

She looked at him and blinked rapidly. "I probably should have made something less pungent. Like spaetzle and schnitzel."

Was she crying? Damn. How was he going to get out of this one without having to eat a pound of tongue and blood? He grinned. "Those are dog breeds, aren't they?"

She stood. "You like to poke fun at anything different, don't you?" She walked into the kitchen.

Shit. It wouldn't be easy to tease her out of
this
mood. "Bree." He got up and followed. "I'm sorry, this is all new to me."

She reached into the fridge and handed him a beer. "Here. This should help you force down the rest of the meal."

He took the beer and set it on the counter and pulled her close. "Don't feel bad, baby. I'm sure your cooking is great, but I'm not used to that type of food."

Her eyes opened wide. "Don't feel bad?" She pushed his arms away, anger sparked in her gaze. "I don't feel bad. I'm angry that you aren't willing to try anything different." She backed up a step. "You're so damn set in your ways. Anything new scares you."

Her anger surprised him. "That's not true."

"It's how I see you." She crossed her arms. "The things you eat, what you drink. The places you go."

He shook his head. "I tried your cooking—"

"Yes. And I appreciate it. But you came out of your bedroom looking like you were walking into a funeral."

He gestured with his hand and admitted, "The smell was…I don't know. It wasn't making me hungry."

She nodded. "Okay. I can understand that. I didn't mean to overreact. It's just that it took me all afternoon to put this meal together."

He smiled. "I can see that. Thank you. But maybe you were right. With someone as unimaginative as me, you should have started out slowly with the schlitzo and shitzu."

Her tightly drawn lips relaxed into a smile. "Spaetzle and schnitzel." She shrugged. "I had a craving for food from home." She looked into his eyes. "Forgive me for snapping at you?"

He pulled her into his arms. "I've heard about hot German tempers."

She wrapped her arms around his waist. "Nothing compared to a Cuban temper."

"
Cariña
, you haven't seen me mad yet." He looked out the window at the rain. "My father calls me a Category 5 shit storm."

Bree laughed. "I'm going to try to avoid that."

"There's nothing you could ever do that would make me that angry with you." He kissed her forehead.

Her brows drew together. "I hope not, Sixto. But if I ever do, please know that it would not be intentional."

He ran his fingers through her hair. Curly, butter-colored silk. Her face was as sweet as a child's, her skin perfect, like a doll's.

Damn. There was something
he
was doing—intentionally—that would make her insanely angry. Lying to her about the east warehouse and the swingers' club. Intentional? Yes. Rational? Hell, no.

She'd labeled him correctly. He didn't like change, he was reluctant to break from his normal routine. He weighed his options: telling her about the club and risking her shutting it down, or letting things go on as they were, but gambling that she'd never find out.

"Sixto? What are you thinking?" Her big blue eyes searched his.

Never a man to jump into the middle of a fight, he would wait, hope things continued as they were, but find the right moment to tell her everything.

"Thinking about you, Bree." He hugged her tight against him, holding her cheek against his chest, kissing the top of her head.

The hollow feeling in his stomach had nothing to do with the German food and everything to do with his disgust in himself. In everything else in his life, he prided himself on honor. But on this one issue, he had a fatal flaw.

***

The next Tuesday, Sixto brought Bree with him to an early morning photo shoot. He modeled swimwear in a couples sunrise shot and she joked that she needed to chaperone so he didn't fall for the female model. Standing behind the camera with a group of executives, one man asked Bree if she ever modeled.

She thanked him and dismissed his question. He was just being polite. Or was that his come-on line? He tried to convince her she should put on a swimsuit and let the photographer snap a couple shots. She laughed so hard, they asked her to leave the set.

On the way home, Sixto asked, "What was so funny?"

"The executive's male assistant?"

Sixto nodded.

"I saw him reflected in the mirror. He stood behind me pantomiming to his boss that I have a big ass."

Sixto laughed. "Are you serious? I'm going to pound that twinkie into—"

"No you're not. He's right, I do have a big ass." She giggled. But it was funny watching the expression on the exec's face."

They walked into the house and Bree said, "I'm going to my room for a nap and a yoga."

He yawned. "Do you want to nap together?"

She shook her head. "No." She grinned. "Not that I don't trust you, but I don't trust myself."

He caressed her bottom. "I trust you."

"Uh uh." She shook her head and they went to their separate rooms.

Two hours later, Bree had gotten in an hour nap and was almost finished with her yoga workout.

At a knock on her door, she called, "Come in," from the down dog position.

He laughed. "All I can see is your butt."

"Because it's so big?"

He shook his head. "You're not okay with that, are you."

"Sixto, I'm fine with my body. It's not what defines me."

"Profound,
chica
."

She looked at him from between her feet. "I'm an enigma."

He sat on her bed and watched her movement. "Does that hurt?"

"Being an enigma?"

He laughed. "No, yoga."

"Mmm. At first, then it feels good." She knelt and sat back on her heels. "Want to try?"

He scratched his cheek. "Not with you watching. But to prove that I'm open to trying new things, I'll borrow your DVD. Someday."

"That's the sweetest thing you've said to me all day."

He stood, but she put out her hand. "A couple more minutes?"

She balanced the top of her head on the yoga mat, put her hands on the back of her head, elbows down to make a triangle, and slowly lifted her legs in the air.

He walked over to her, standing in front of her. "
Cariña
, this is a view of you I've never seen.

She toed him in the chest. "Don't bother me while I'm opening my blood vessels."

He ran his hands down her calves. "Sexy blood vessels."

She giggled. "You have hair on your legs."

He glanced down at her face. "You're just noticing?"

A vision of him in his swim trunks crossed her mind. "But you don't have any hair on your chest?"

He stepped back and sat on the bed. "Weird, isn't it?" A teasing smile quirked his lips.