Lina saw enjoyment rather than envy in his expression. So different from Mercurio. Hunter appreciated the age of the combined Reyes Balam family lines, but he felt no need to been seen as an aristocrat in the eyes of his fellow man. Nor did he feel somehow inferior for being “common.”
She leaned closer, brushing her cheek against his arm for an instant. She had been looking for a man like him for a long time—confident rather than arrogant.
“I like the main kitchen and Abuelita’s family table,” Lina said. “The rest of it is simply there. When I was a child, most of the house was off-limits. After I was four, I rarely spent more than a few days at a time in the house. The rest of the time I was shuttled between digs and galleries until I told my mother that I was old enough to live on my own, with my own rules.”
“I’d like to have heard that conversation,” Hunter said with a slight smile.
All Lina said was “I think of the estate as belonging to others, not to me. Which is accurate. I may be the only pure Reyes Balam descendant, but I’m female. The lands and estate aren’t mine and never will be. If I happen to produce a son, everything will pass to him. If I have daughters, it will be held in trust until their first son inherits.”
“Your family didn’t follow the Spanish custom of dividing land among sons and money among daughters?”
“I guess the Maya model held, though most grandsons of Maya rulers inherited nothing but death. Usurpers took the previous king’s name or began their own dynasty, celebrated their own name.” She looked at the flowers and the jungle surrounding everything. “I never really thought about all of this. All I cared about was being allowed to dig in the family ruins.”
“So who owns it all now?” Hunter asked.
“Abuelita’s name is on the deed. She came into it by inheritance. Funny thing is, she lived out in a village called Ixúmel most of her life.”
“Is there a lot of the Balam family left?” Hunter asked.
“Not many. The mainline Balams are all but gone. The ‘cousins’ want nothing to do with Tulum. Even Carlos lives in Houston and only visits here.”
“Interesting. Aside from the weird shrines and some scary dude called El Maya,” Hunter said, “I like Tulum. But then I’ve always liked the Yucatan.”
“Well, for Mexicans, being from Tulum is like being from…”
“Brownsville?” Hunter asked, smiling. “Barely a step above Hicksville?”
“Pretty much.”
A lone figure came out of the front door of the main house, backlit by a hallway of brilliant chandeliers. The porch lights flooded on, revealing Celia Reyes Balam.
As always, Lina was struck by what a beautiful woman her mother was. She looked every bit the aristocrat that her birthright pronounced her. Tonight she was wearing exquisitely fitted black slacks and black heels with more height than leather. An emerald-green silk scarf embroidered in gold thread with Maya glyphs lay softly about her shoulders, partially covering a black silk blouse that had been created to highlight her assets in a sleek and stylish manner. A large, emerald-embedded gold cross hung between her breasts. The gold chain holding the cross was twenty-two carats, gleaming like a well-loved dream.
Even in her five-inch heels, Celia was inches shorter than her daughter.
That’s how she gets away with it,
Lina realized all over again.
Someone that tiny and voluptuous is always underestimated. Men never get past that “Pocket Venus” thing.
Celia paused at the top of the many steps leading up to the entrance. Mounds and waterfalls of flowers framed her.
“Your mother,” Hunter said, though he couldn’t see her face clearly.
“How did you know?”
“You have her elegance and curves.”
Lina made a startled sound. She’d never considered herself as lushly built as her mother. To know that Hunter thought of her that way sent heat rippling through her.
Celia waved casually, then started to walk down the stairs one swaying step at a time. Even in the low lighting, the sensuality of her walk was striking.
“I don’t move like she does,” Lina said.
“No, you’re sexier. Those long legs add an extra punch that high heels can’t match.”
“Stop it before I crawl right into your arms.”
“That’s supposed to discourage me?” Hunter laughed softly.
Then he bit down on her hand with a tender intensity that took her breath. She forced herself to remember that her mother was approaching.
The wind blew warm into the car, like a huge animal breathing.
“Hunter,” Lina said huskily.
“Yeah, I know. That’s your mother coming toward us like a thunderstorm. Time to see how bad it’s going to be.”
Hunter got out and walked quickly around the Bronco. He gave Lina an unnecessary hand out of the car and shut the door behind her like a good courtier. She smiled slightly and held on to his hand, telling him without words that she wasn’t going to pretend he was just a business associate.
“You sure?” Hunter asked in a low voice.
“Yes.” Her voice whispered against his ear as she went up on tiptoe. “Celia only respects strength.”
“Which is your bedroom?”
“In the back, on the second floor. Southeast corner room.” She smiled suddenly. “Wrought-iron trellis up to the balcony. Watch the bougainvillea. It has thorns.”
“I’d expect nothing less leading to the bed of a princess,” Hunter said. He gave her neck a quick, biting kiss.
Celia hurried forward.
Hunter and Lina walked more slowly. He had time to size up the woman who looked more like Lina’s older sister than her mother.
The files Hunter had read told him that Celia had had her first and only child after a difficult birth at age seventeen. Yet she looked barely a handful of years older than her daughter, a testament to good genes and better plastic surgeons.
“Lina,” Celia said, stretching up to embrace her daughter. “It’s about time!” The words were in Spanish.
Although Lina leaned down into the hug and her mother stood on precariously high heels, Lina was still taller than Celia.
Those long legs add an extra punch that high heels can’t match.
The memory of Hunter’s words made Lina feel much more feminine than her travel-wrinkled clothes.
“I told you I’d be here for Abuelita’s birthday and the holidays,” Lina said in English.
Celia’s mouth shaped into a delicious pout and she said in Spanish, “It’s fortunate that Abuelita insisted on an intimate family celebration this year. You know I depend on you for family arrangements.”
“Really? I’ve never noticed,” Lina said in English.
Hunter told himself he hadn’t heard Celia emphasize “family” twice, but he knew he had.
So had Lina.
“Cecilia, this is Hunter Johnston,” she continued in English, deliberately standing very close to him. “Think of him as a very, very good friend. I do. Hunter, meet Cecilia Reyes Balam, my mother.”
Hunter’s poker face held, but it was a near thing. Lina’s emphasis on the second “very” had been a declaration of intimacy. When it came to throwing down gauntlets, she’d been taught by experts.
He smiled at Lina, letting every bit of the heat and possessiveness he felt shine through.
Celia would have to have been blindfolded to miss it. The flat line of her mouth said that she didn’t like what she saw.
“Señora Reyes Balam,” Hunter said deeply in Spanish, his voice caressing the words like a native speaker. “It is my pleasure and honor to meet you. I now understand the source of Lina’s beauty.”
Then he waited for Celia’s next move.
With the smoothness of a businesswoman and the elegance of a queen, Celia held out her hand. Hunter took it in both of his, letting her measure the difference between his big, work-hardened fingers and her own fragility.
“Mr. Hunter.” Celia nodded, switching to English. “How…unexpected.”
“A thousand apologies,” Hunter said in Spanish. “Lina and I just decided it was time for me to meet her family.”
Lina had a good poker face, too. She’d been wearing it since she’d bent down to greet her mother. Deliberately, Lina rubbed her cheek against Hunter’s arm in a lover’s caress.
Celia watched with eyes that missed nothing. She didn’t like what she was seeing, but she was too shrewd to leap into uncharted territory.
“But of course,” Celia murmured. “Lina’s little friends are always eager to meet her family.”
Translation:
Men saw Lina as a way to marry well.
“She is her mother’s daughter,” Hunter said. “I imagine that your marriage to Dr. Philip Taylor was quite a surprise to your family.” Then he smiled.
It wasn’t his warm and fuzzy smile. It was a statement that if Celia wanted open warfare, he’d deliver it. Philip might have come from an old Boston family, but they were hardly aristocrats. Yet Celia had married him despite his lack of great money and noble pedigree.
Celia blinked and reassessed Hunter. He might be a fortune hunter, but he wasn’t weak or stupid. Which was truly unfortunate. Celia’s grandmother had made no secret of her desire for Lina to marry a Mexican man of good family.
Lina spoke casually, as though she was unaware of the dangerous tides shifting beneath the conversation. “I thought it would be a lovely birthday present for Abuelita. I know she worries that I don’t like men.”
Hunter almost choked. He gave Lina a fast sideways look. She responded with a smile that announced just how much she liked a particular man: Hunter Johnston.
Lina was enjoying this entirely too much, but he couldn’t bring himself to spoil her fun. He had a feeling that she was well and truly fed up with being shoved at men and reminded it was her duty to have children.
“You look exhausted, dearest,” Celia said, tugging Lina toward the house. “Mr. Johnston will bring your luggage while you greet—”
“Hunter isn’t my lackey,” Lina cut in. “Is the second-floor guest room across from me prepared?”
“No. All the rooms in the house are assigned.”
That many guests for Abuelita’s intimate family party?
Lina thought sarcastically. But all she said was “Then one of the casitas will do.”
Celia stopped. “Abuelita and Carlos won’t tolerate you sleeping in the same room as your…guest.”
“We’ll each take a casita,” Lina said, shrugging like it made no particular difference to her.
“You will take your regular room. Mr. Johnston will be in the casita next to Philip.”
“I thought you just said that all the rooms in the house were assigned to guests,” Lina said.
“Carlos didn’t assign your room to anyone else. The men living in the house are guards, not guests.”
“Guards?” Lina asked sharply.
“Of course. Guards have lived in the house for years. You just haven’t noticed because you’re never here for more than a few hours before you take off for one of Philip’s grubby little digs.”
“Carlos must be as paranoid as Philip,” Lina said.
Celia shrugged. “The world has changed. Especially now. Every crazy in the world has come to the Yucatan to celebrate the destruction of the old and the coming of the new.” She looked at Hunter. “I do hope you aren’t one of those deluded souls?”
Hunter smiled.
Lina winced.
“No, ma’am,” he drawled in English. “Your beautiful daughter is all the lure this boy needs to come to the Yucatan. But Tulum sure did look crowded.”
“Idiots,” Celia said. “Chasing legends like village children after butterflies.” She turned toward one of the paths leading into the shadows. “Come, Mr. Johnston. You can settle in Casita Cenote while I take Lina to her room. After you have time to refresh yourself, dial three on the phone. Someone will come and bring you to the house.”
Lina didn’t object to the separate quarters. Casita Cenote was old, but better than the stable, which she’d bet was her mother’s first choice for Hunter. “I’ll show him the casita. I’m sure you’re busy juggling Abuelita’s celebration and a house full of guards.”
For a moment Hunter thought Lina’s mother would object to letting them out of her sight. Then Celia gave him directions to the casita and turned to her daughter.
“Come with me,” Celia said. “We have much to talk about and very little time together.”
Lina looked at Hunter, who smiled with a warmth that made her flush.
“No problem, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m good at finding my way around.”
C
ELIA LOOKED UP AT THE YOUNG WOMAN WHO WAS SUCH
a complicated mix of many cultures—Lina had the stunning facial structure of a female who could trace her royal Balam ancestors back six centuries, the height of her noble Spanish ancestors, and the tongue of an independent American woman.
All of it, thrown away.
“A gringo?” Celia demanded. “Is that how you repay your family? It is your duty to carry on the family line.”
“Me?” Lina said, shocked. “What about Cousin Carlos?”
“Fifteen years of marriage, remarriage, far too many mistresses—no children. As Americans put it so crudely,
mi primo
is shooting blanks. That leaves you.”
Lina didn’t know whether to laugh or wail.
The tight line of her mother’s jaw told Lina neither would get the job done. Same for the dutiful daughter routine. She was tired, tense, and repelled by being treated like a walking womb.
“The Reyes Balam family has married out of Mexico as often as it has married in,” Lina said.
“Aristocrats,” Celia said in a clipped voice.
“Really? Last time I checked, Philip was the son of two university professors. A gringo with no rich inheritance coming. You married him and you were only half my age at the time. The world kept turning. Your parents survived having an ordinary gringo in the family just fine.”
“You will not speak to me with such disrespect!”
“Lies are disrespectful. I’m speaking the truth.”
“Are you pregnant?” Celia demanded.
Lina stared at her mother. “No.”
Not yet, anyway.