Dancing in a Hurricane (9 page)

She dressed quickly and jumped into her car—although it was still hard to think of it as hers—and drove to the grocery store. The other shoppers seemed surprisingly friendly, especially the men. Had she wandered into a grocery store or a social club? She'd have to remember this place on those many alone nights coming up.

Back home in the kitchen, she submerged the salmon in a spicy Cajun marinade, started the potatoes boiling, and fired up the grill. She tossed a salad with spinach, pine nuts, and craisins, and made a balsamic vinaigrette dressing. In the mixer, she beat egg whites, added the melted chocolate and egg mixture, folded it gently by hand, and poured it into a soufflé pan. In slow motion, she put it in the oven while saying a tiny prayer. Her soufflés only came out perfect about half the time, but her oven in Port Angeles wasn't as fancy as this one.

She set out the ingredients for the vanilla cream drizzle and put whole garlic cloves on the grill to roast. Hearing music coming from his room, she walked to Sixto's patio door and knocked.

"Come in."

She slid open the door and peeked her head in. The scent of his space filled her nostrils. Leather, soap, and a manly musk all his own. His bedroom was the same size as hers but looked smaller because of the big furniture. On one side he had three red leather recliners and a huge television. On the other side stood his impressive dark wood bed. The black satin sheets and a red and black quilt fit his personality. The gray walls showcased his colorful abstract artwork.

He sat on the bed, propped against the headboard, a textbook open next to him, typing on his laptop. He showered, but only wore red satin basketball shorts. Against the black bedding and dark headboard, he looked feral, smooth, and sexy. She bit her cheek to keep from purring. And clenched the door handle to keep from jumping onto the bed with him.

"I'm making an apology supper for you."

He glanced at her. "Yeah?

"Are you hungry?"

"Are you going to poison me?"

"Not intentionally. Interested?"

He chuckled. "Sure. Right now?"

"About a half hour. I'll knock when it's ready."

"Thanks." He smiled. "And thanks for the apology. I wasn't expecting it."

She grimaced. "I did call you a jerk and pour ice water over your head."

He shrugged and went back to typing. "It's not the first time it's happened."

"I'd like to hear about the others."

"Not in this lifetime."

"That means you did something to deserve it."

"Oh, yeah. I'm bad at break-ups."

"Aren't all guys?"

He looked at her, a sad expression in his eyes.

He had to be thinking of her broken engagement. Her heart gave a little hiccup. He was so understanding and intuitive. And hot, and sexy, and gorgeous. She backed out of the room, easing the door closed behind her. Crap, it was as if they were living with a time bomb that they threw back and forth between them. She sighed. One day it would go off and she'd either become his lover and settle for "just sex," or she'd have to move out. Or kick him out.

She stopped walking and stared at the pool. Or…could she buy him out? Did she have enough capital to do that? She should know her options, just in case. Time to find a local lawyer.

A half hour later, she knocked on his door. "Supper."

"Be right there."

She set the table with the same dishes he'd used. Between the candles, she arranged a bright red vase with the exotic, fragrant flowers she'd impulsively bought at the grocery store. She put the platter of grilled salmon on the table and had just stuck the corkscrew in a bottle of wine when he came out of his bedroom. He'd pulled on a black satin muscle shirt, the sporty look was very attractive.

His steps slowed as he neared the table. His eyes scanned the platters of food as he took his seat. He seemed truly overwhelmed. "Nice. No one's fixed me a meal in my own home before."

She loved the homey feeling of sitting down to dinner with him. And being his "first" was extremely interesting. What kind of girlfriends did he have? "It's nothing fancy. Just salmon, which is very cheap in Seattle, but very expensive here. I'll have to learn a new fish."

"It smells good. Thanks for cooking."

"White wine okay?" She picked up the bottle. He nodded, she poured a glass for him and one for herself.

His brow furrowed and he glanced around the table.

"Sixto, what's that face about? You look too serious. Drink some wine."

"This is strangely like a recurring dream I have." Always the gentleman, he held the big platter of salmon for her. "Something about the flowers is bringing it all back again."

"Tell me about it." She chose a small fillet.

"No." He set the platter down and chose a large piece of fish for his own plate.

"You can't just blurt out that you have a recurring dream and expect me to let it drop." She spooned garlic-mashed potatoes onto her plate and salad into her bowl. In silence, he did the same.

"If you tell me yours," she whispered, "I'll tell you mine."

He looked at her evenly. "Mine's embarrassing. Is yours?"

She grinned. "Oh yes. Very."

He shrugged.

"So embarrassing, in fact," she added. "That it might provide a good research paper for your psych class." She sipped her wine, enjoying the bite of the light, fruity chardonnay.

He looked doubtful. "All right, but it had better be worth an A, or at least a B+." He sighed. "I dream that I'm asking a woman to marry me. I'm sitting here, she's…" He gestured. "Right where you are. But she laughs in my face."

"Oh, that's so sad." She nibbled on her food for a few minutes. "What does it mean?"

"Huh?"

"You're a psych major. What does it mean?"

"I don't know." He made a dismissive gesture and ate, evidently hoping to get out of answering her question.

She set down her fork. "Let me try and interpret it."

"Yeah, sure." He downed his wine and poured more. "This should be good."

"Okay." She rubbed her hands together and narrowed her eyes. "Freudianly speaking—"

"No such word."

"Listen and learn." She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "You are simply afraid of marrying the wrong woman."

He choked on his potatoes. "Shit. How did you do that?"

She smiled, pleased with herself. "Really? Is that what it means?"

"Yes." He took a drink of wine and cleared his throat a few more times. "That's what three of my professors told me."

Why would Sixto live in fear of marrying the wrong woman? His parents were happily married. His sisters, too. What caused an anxiety so deep-seated that his subconscious replayed the dream over and over? Did it have anything to do with his desire to become a social worker? He seemed so closed right now, she would wait and bring up the subject another time.

He gave her a look. "What did you say you did for a living?"

"I'm a mind reader. Telepathic. Madame Briana of the Gypsies."

"You just got lucky." He poured more wine for them and sat back in his chair.

"You're not jealous, are you?" She smiled, wondering at his discomfort.

"You should think about moving back with the gypsies."

She barked a laughed. "Then who would be here to keep you company?"

"That's true. You are amusing." His tone sounded bored.

Amusing? Great. That made her feel like a trained seal.

He pushed his empty plate forward, put his elbows on the table, and fisted his hands together. "Your turn. What's your recurring dream?"

"It's really stupid." She sounded petulant, but she wasn't sure she wanted to share her deepest thoughts when he was in this unsettled mood. "I'll tell you some other time." She forked into a piece of arugula and ate it, the tangy vinaigrette bursting on her tongue.

He laughed. "Come on. Tell me your dream so we can eat whatever's producing that awesome chocolate smell in the kitchen."

She sat back and gazed at him. How would he interpret her dream? Did she want to find out?

"We had a deal." He pinned her with a stare.

Oh, what the heck. Since she already yakked about her love life, one more awkward personal revelation wouldn't hurt. "All right. I dream that I'm talking to my Aunt Prudence when—"

"You really do have one?"

"Yes.
Did
have one. She was actually my mom's aunt—Great Aunt Prudence. So, I'm having tea with her in her creaky old house in Port Angeles and a cold, heavy fog rolls in."

"Foreboding evil."

"Who's telling this story?" She raised a brow.

He smiled. "Sorry."

"So, a heavy fog…" She stifled a grin. "Laden with evil, moves in."

He chuckled.

She just listened for a moment. He had a nice laugh. And a smile that warmed his eyes. Staring at him, she lost her place. "Um…"

"Fog rolls in…"

"Right. When the fog lifts, I'm Prudence. I'm eighty-five, never been married, no kids, no family." She heard a catch in her voice. This nightmare was traumatic, even in the daytime.

"Uh huh. How often do you have this dream?"

She looked at the ceiling. "Maybe twice a week."

"And when was the last time you had it?"

"I don't remember. Maybe three weeks ago, I guess."

He smiled a cocky, smarmy grin. "And what life-changing decision did you make three weeks ago?" His voice sounded annoyingly confident

She frowned, counting back the days. The answer popped into her brain. "To move to Miami."

"There you go. You left the fog of the Puget Sound behind and you're here in the Florida sun, starting a new life. I predict you won't have that dream again." He leaned back in his chair and dramatically tossed his napkin on the table.

He was far too cocky, and for some reason, it just tipped her over into irritation. She wiped her mouth and set her napkin on the table. "We'll just have to see if you're right or not."

He let out a humorless laugh. "I'm using master's program psychology. I think that might be why I could interpret it while your 'Freudianly speaking' self-analysis fell short."

She clamped her jaw shut. She hated to be mocked. Her lack of graduate school education was a sore spot. "You think you've got everyone figured out, don't you." She picked up her barely-touched plate and salad bowl. "I think I
should
move back with the gypsies."

As she walked by him, he put his hand on her stomach to stop her.

Chapter Seven

Sixto's touch sent tingling through Bree's body. His hand rested lightly on her stomach and he looked up at her from his chair.

"I'm sorry if that sounded rude." His gaze held sincerity. "We were teasing and I got carried away."

She nodded, not yet ready to shake off her annoyance. She sighed. "There are some things I have a hard time laughing off."

"Like?"

"I'm not very sophisticated, I only have a bachelor's degree. I'm sometimes oversensitive about—"

"I'm glad you're here, Bree." His grin lit his face. "I like you a lot."

She scrunched her brows, feeling her anger melting under his smile like chocolate in the sun.

He pulled his hand back and picked up his own plate and the salmon platter, and stood next to her. "Things are going to be different for you here. You can leave behind all the insecurities and let yourself be who you really are."

"Oh, perfect." Just when her temper began to cool, he had to layer on more psychobabble. "Now you're a self-help guru?"

He laughed and followed her into the kitchen. "Admit it, Bree. You play down your best assets and worry about things that you have no control over."

She set down her dishes, not ready to acknowledge that his analysis was amazingly accurate. "If you tell me I need therapy, I will scream."

"They doubted Freud in his day, too." He leaned back on the counter, picked a chunk of fish off the platter and popped it in his mouth, smirking.

She looked at him, admiring his self-confidence. Setting her hands on her hips, she teased, "Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you consider yourself in the same league with Freud. Is that the class you're taking this semester? Delusions of Grandeur 101?" She chuckled as she walked to the other side of the kitchen and bent over to look into the stove through the glass window.

"Ha ha." He followed her. "Did anyone ever tell you you're a smartass?"

She turned and shushed him. "No loud sounds by my soufflé."

He stepped around her, looked in the oven, and whispered, "Chocolate soufflé? I've died and gone to heaven."

She prayed it would turn out.

He walked to the coffee maker. "Decaf?"

"I'd love it." She turned on the burner under her pan and whisked the ingredients for the cream sauce while he made coffee.