Dancing in a Hurricane (6 page)

"I contend that we have the basic need to explore relationships sexually as well as emotionally."

She didn't flinch. "Of course you do. But I was raised to believe in love, commitment, and faithfulness as the basis for a relationship."

He nodded. "You're saying you want it all, emotionally, before you're willing to allow a physical connection?"

"Yes. And there are a lot of people who believe the same thing." She opened her eyes wide. "Men, too." Her voice dripped sarcasm.

He didn't know any. He sat forward and crossed his arms on the table. "At breakfast, you said men don't find you sexy. How can they when you hold them off sexually, waiting for an emotional bond?"

She looked surprised then pensive. "I don't know. But I'm sure I won't find my soul mate jumping from one bed to the next, hoping sex will make a man love me."

"That's not what I'm saying." Damn, she was sharp. "It's only natural to come together in body as well as soul. How can affectionate love grow if we don't allow the passionate, physical love to develop?"

She crossed her arms on the table, her face softened. "It can. That's the relationship I had with Kyle—my ex-fiancé."

"Fiancé?" That sent his head spinning. "You were engaged? What happened?"

She slashed air with her hand. "It's over."

"Yeah, I figured that, but—"

Her eyes grew intense. "The reason we ended isn't important, but the knowledge that we loved each other before consummating a sexual relationship gives me the confidence to wait until I find that kind of man again."

He had enough wine in him to make her last statement a riddle. "What will you do until you find the perfect man?" He was hinting, looking for an opening. "You're older, you've matured. It might be time for you to explore your sexuality, Bree." He stared at her, used his voice to seduce. "You're a sensual woman, it's natural to want to embrace the urges and allow yourself to experience the beauty of purely physical love."

She looked at him, the blue of her irises darkening. Her mouth opened slightly and her breath came faster. A soft pink blush colored her cheeks.

He held his breath. Would she admit she wanted him as much as he wanted her? The wine burned a path from his stomach to his genitals. He felt himself harden.

She shook her head, staring at her wine glass. "I'm not interested in 'just sex'."

"All right." He never had to coerce a woman into his bed and he wouldn't start now. She could just sleep with her convictions until she found another social idealist. Shouldn't take more than sixty or seventy years.

Picking up his plate, he stood. "Consider the boundaries
firmly
in place."

He walked into the kitchen, leaned on the counter, and took deep breaths. Shit, women turned him down before and he didn't take it this hard. Why was he acting like an ass?

He sucked in a breath and fought his need. He was strong, mentally, physically and would be her friend, her roommate. And nothing more.

When he walked back into the dining room to apologize for his last remark, she was gone, her bedroom door closed. "Damn." He offended her.

He switched the music to
Salsa
Cubana
and cranked it up. Clearing the table, he looked at the mess she made of her food. She'd spread everything around the plate and mashed the chicken. Had she eaten anything? She'd done the same thing with breakfast. She said she liked his cooking, so why wasn't she eating it?

He scraped her food into the compost bucket and put the rest of the leftovers in Tupperware. Filling the sink with soapy water, he washed the dishes that couldn't go in the dishwasher while cursing the hard-on tenting his shorts.

He had a more critical problem than keeping his hands off Bree. Emptying the bottle of the wine into his glass, he stared out the window toward the ocean and drank, savoring the expensive, oaky wine. Chewing on it to discern the light vanilla undertone. "This might be your last, Doria."

If Bree found documents at Cloe's office tomorrow detailing the business plan of the club in the east warehouse, he could say goodbye to this upscale lifestyle. He'd have to move in with Élian and Rico and start drinking three-dollar bottles of wine.

She might not find anything, though. Cloe didn't seem like the type to keep personal papers at work.

He knocked aside the fist of guilt pounding on his conscience. He'd prefer to be honest with Bree. Eventually he'd tell her everything. Right now, though, his priority was to keep a lid on the situation. Just until things settled down.

***

Bree shut her bedroom door and locked it. Was she keeping Sixto out, or keeping herself in? She closed her eyes and a hot tremor of longing swirled in her stomach, hardened her nipples, tingled in her core. God, that man could light her up with just a look. And, heaven help her, he wanted to be her lover. Her mind flashed to a vision of them together on her bed.

Reality struck like a car crash and her eyes popped open. That was her sister's bed. Her upper lip curled. She walked past the big rattan bed, the shiny floral satin bedspread and sheets that were her sister's leftovers. They definitely needed to be replaced. After her trip to Cloe's office tomorrow, she'd find a store and buy something in her own style.

Her gaze shot to the smaller of the two dressers. Would she find a bathing suit that would fit? She opened each drawer, flipping through the contents. In the bottom drawer, she found her sister's toys. "Uck!" A spasm of disgust churled in her stomach. Vibrators and a whip, condoms, handcuffs. She'd need rubber gloves to get rid of that crap. And possibly a facemask. Hell, if it wouldn't cause alarm, she'd buy a HAZMAT suit. She slammed the drawer shut.

She walked through the door to the adjoining bathroom and a few steps more into Cloe's office and sat at her sister's desk. Through the window that faced the pool and living room, she watched Sixto in the kitchen at the sink. A tiny slice of intuition wedged into her mind. Was he all he seemed to be—a really nice guy, just a bit oversexed? His midnight trip to Cloe's office somehow didn't seem right. Did he know more than he shared? He definitely liked to distract her with long, personal talks and sexy innuendos.

Crap, she'd only been here twenty-four hours and she was lost in a fog thicker than a morning in Port Angeles. She sat at Cloe's desk and turned on the light. Okay, it was time to get serious. She pursed her lips and started with the top drawer.

***

The next morning, Bree found a note on the dining room table from Sixto. It said he was sleeping, but by the time she got back to the house, he'd be gone. He had an afternoon photo shoot and wouldn't be home until late. He wanted her to have his cell number, just in case.

She stuffed the note in the pocket of her jeans, grabbed a protein bar, picked up her Target purse and Cloe's Coach bag, and went into the garage. She stopped abruptly. Next to her sister's car sat Sixto's truck. A huge, black monster with a lot of chrome. A four-door crew cab with a full-size bed that looked like it was used for real work. Interesting. She would have put him in a sportier vehicle.

The day she moved in, her sister's blue Miata convertible looked pathetically small sitting alone in the three-car garage. She smiled and shook her head as she slid into the driver's seat. Next to his truck, the little car seemed just…silly.

She backed down the driveway, turned onto the street, and drove slowly, glancing around. Wow! She'd been half asleep the night the cab dropped her off. She rolled down her window to feel the ocean breeze on her skin. Her cute, tan stucco house in Miami Shores sat in an older, prestigious area of town.

She drove past a mall whose upscale stores promised hours of pleasant shopping. At Cloe's office, the receptionist recognized her immediately and called Christi, who greeted her warmly and brought her down the hall to a small, windowless office.

"Thank you for the flowers you sent to the funeral," Bree said.

Christi tipped her head. "It was the least we could do."

Bree hadn't expected anyone to fly all the way to Washington for the funeral. Her sister hadn't been much for making friends in her first twenty years. From what she saw of her life in Miami, not much changed in the last five.

Christi flipped on the light. "Cloe wasn't here often. She spent a lot of time on location. She kept her work papers in there." Christi pointed to a tall file cabinet. "So I think everything in her desk is personal, but just leave anything that isn't. It's locked, so hopefully you have the keys?"

"I think so." Bree looked at the black and white portraits on the wall. Artsy angles and dramatic lighting. Not anything she would have chosen.

"You're welcome to take those, if you like," Christi said.

"Thanks." She didn't want to offend by saying no, but they would be staying with the company. She picked up a framed photograph of Cloe from the desk. It was the first time Bree had seen her sister in five years. "May I have this?"

"Of course. One of our award-winning photographers took that. He and Cloe were dating."

Chapter Five

Bree's head snapped up and she looked at Cloe's boss. "Really?" Cloe actually had a boyfriend? Cloe's office held as few personal things as her bedroom did. Why didn't her sister have any pictures of herself with her man?

"Yes, rather seriously from what I understand. He's here today and would like to meet you, if you feel up to it."

"Sure." She wanted to see the kind of man her sister had become serious about. "How about her friends? Did Cloe have many girlfriends here?"

Christi smiled and shook her head. "Cloe was kind of a loner."

Bree nodded. Her sister had always been more interested in the opposite sex. She pulled a ring of keys out of Cloe's purse and sat behind the desk. Sliding a small key into the lap drawer, she twisted it to unlock the desk. "Okay, I'm in."

"Uh…" Christi looked hesitant. "I want to warn you, since you're staying at Cloe's house. She mentioned that she kept some personal papers here because she didn't trust her pool boy."

"Pool boy?"

"Sixto," Christi whispered.

Bree gritted her teeth to keep from defending him. Damn her sister, badmouthing Sixto to her co-workers. It sure seemed as though Cloe's behavior hadn't changed over the years.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, but I'm right across the hall." She put an empty box on the desk. "Let me know when you're done and I can get someone to help you carry everything out."

"Thank you."

Alone in the office, she looked at the photo of her sister. Short, curly, died-red hair with perfect highlights and lowlights, a nice tan, immaculate makeup, manicured nails, but she didn't see happiness in her smile. Her eyes seemed distracted. Heavens, she was thin, she almost looked ill. Why had she become so gaunt?

No wonder there were no photos at the house. Cloe was never comfortable in her skin. On their twelfth birthday, she'd refused to come out of her room because she hated how fat her dress made her look. Odd, because Bree had been wearing the same size dress. Cloe had cried and said Bree looked so much prettier. Even when Bree offered to swap dresses with her, Cloe had lain on her bed and cried for nearly an hour.

She sighed as the memory squeezed around her heart, a reminder of their painful childhoods.

"I took that." A man's voice brought her out of her reverie.

Bree stood as he came into the office.

He inspected her face. Was he seeing the ghost of his girlfriend, but with extra pounds layered on?

He wasn't what she expected. Shorter than her, thinning blond hair, but a look of intelligence in his eyes.

"Sorry," he shook his head. "It's just so random."

She smiled. "She never mentioned me?"

"No. I didn't know you were twins, but I knew about you."

"Oh? How?"

He took the picture from her, gazing at it. "I brought her mail in for her once. A letter she sent to you was on top. Return to Sender." He looked at her. "You never read her letters?"

An uncomfortable twinge of remorse hit her stomach. Every six months or so, envelopes arrived from Cloe. Bree wrote "return to sender" on them and dropped them back in the mail.

She lowered herself into the chair. "I didn't. I wasn't ready to forgive her."

He nodded, looking at the photo. "Cloe took the envelope and stuck it in her purse. She told me, 'You're lucky you don't have a sister'."

Bree shrugged. Where would she be right now if she hadn't had a sister? Happily married with beautiful children, leading the life she craved. "I agree."

He looked at her, his eyes held understanding. "She hurt you."

"She ruined my life."

"Unforgivable?"

Bree probed deep into her emotions, but could find only dislike for her twin. Dislike, and the ever-present guilt that she wasn't strong enough, mentally or spiritually, to forgive Cloe. "Right now, yes." She ran her fingers over the handle of the coffee mug that proclaimed, "Photographers Do It With Flash." A trace of Cloe's lipstick lingered on the rim.