Nacho Figueras Presents (3 page)

H
er husband is in the hospital,
pobrecita
,” said Sebastian's mother, Pilar, as she poured him a cup of morning coffee. “A stroke apparently.”

Sebastian accepted the cup gratefully, rubbing his temple. The bright morning light pouring in through the kitchen windows made him wince. The girls had finally left just before dawn. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but which maid? Surely not the blond one—I didn't even know she was married.”

Alejandro snorted as he leaned over to his baby son and spooned some cereal into his mouth. “Not that it would make any difference to you if she was.”

Pilar
tsk
'd, distracted. “
Ay
, don't say such things, Jandro. Your brother would never be involved with a married
doña
.”

Alejandro shrugged. “One would hope.”

“Well, I suppose it depends on just how big her husband might be,” Seb joked.

Pilar gave him a little punch in the arm. “
Basta ya, hijo.
Anyway, I am not talking about a maid. I'm talking about Corinne. The housekeeper. Really, Sebastian, she's worked for us for years.”

“Oh, poor Corinne! When did this happen?” asked Alejandro's wife, Georgia.

Unlike her husband and mother-in-law, who were both immaculately dressed and groomed, Georgia was still in her pajamas, her caramel-colored hair in casual disarray. Sebastian glanced at her and smiled, glad to have a
compañera
in his dislike for early mornings.

Pilar spooned some sugar into her tea. “Two days ago. It was a small stroke, but still, he will need time and rehabilitation. I only just found out now. Corinne called to let me know she wouldn't be in this week. I told her not to worry—
por supuesto
, we would be fine—but she's insisting that she'll bring in some help. She has a daughter who used to work for her apparently.”

Georgia put down her fork. “Well, I'm going to call and see if there's anything we can do. Surely a meal or two at least?”

Alejandro smiled at his wife and reached out to touch her arm. “That is very sweet of you,
querida
.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, exchanging a glance so private and charged that it made Sebastian look away, embarrassed.

He smiled ruefully. If he didn't see proof of it on a daily basis, he never would have believed that his brother could fall so hard and so deep for a woman.

Having grown up under the shadow of a father who regularly and openly strayed from their mother, the two brothers had each struggled to find their own ways of coping with their paternal legacy.

But as much as he admired his brother's marriage, Sebastian couldn't see himself taking the same path. He'd figured out quite young that no one could get hurt the way his mother had been if no one ever got attached. So he flitted from one woman to the next, having his fun along the way, and being certain that he never paused long enough to form any real connection.

Pilar cleared her throat, and Alejandro and Georgia jumped, suddenly seeming to remember that they were not actually alone. “Yes, well,” said Pilar, “let me know what Corinne says. And I'll order flowers. But I'll need one of you to deliver them to her house. You know
el hospital
cannot be trusted.”

Sebastian snorted. Ever since his mother had once sent flowers to an ailing friend that had been misdirected to the maternity ward, she refused to believe that anything would be delivered properly. “Send Jandro,
Mamá.
Old ladies like him better than me.”

Georgia giggled and then quickly covered up with a cough when her husband shot her a look.

Pilar frowned at Sebastian. “Between the match and the award he is getting tonight for mentoring those
barrio
children, your brother has enough to do.” She smiled at her elder son and patted him on the arm.

Alejandro smirked at Seb like he was nine years old again and had just been given the last piece of cake.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Fine, then, wouldn't want to interrupt Saint Alejandro's quest for a Nobel Prize.” He turned to his brother. “Pity I won't make it to the barn this morning, though, but obviously, this is much more important.”

Pilar shook her head. “No, no, the flowers won't be delivered until later today. You can do both,
no problema
.”

Alejandro smiled smugly at Seb. “
Sí, hermano
, you can do both,
no problema
.”

Sebastian headed for the barn, annoyed. He was hungover and exhausted, and the last thing he wanted to do was ride, but he had skipped practice twice already this week, and he knew he should get some warm-up time on the pitch before the game. Plus, it wasn't worth seeing the pissed-off look on his brother's face if he insisted on taking the morning off.

He sighed as he brushed out his pony. When did things get so bad between him and Jandro? Of course, Alejandro had always been more responsible, more conservative. He'd had to be. He was the older brother, the head of the family since their father had died. But Sebastian's lifestyle—his drinking, his partying, the women—had never seemed to bother his brother before. In fact, Jandro had always seemed amused by it all, if anything, enjoying his younger brother's sense of humor and lust for life.

The pony snorted her protest at Seb's heavy hand with the curry comb. Seb instinctively lightened his touch.

He knew that Alejandro had gone through a lot. His brother had been unhappily married, and then widowed, very young. For years he'd raised his daughter, Valentina, on his own while he also led the polo team and managed the family dynasty. He'd definitely carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But things were different now. Georgia was more than his match in every way. Valentina was safely off to college in New York City. They had little Tomás, who was a bright and easy baby. The team was winning again. The Del Campos were respected and admired just as much, if not more, as they had been when their father was still alive.

Really, in most ways, Alejandro was happier than Seb had ever seen him.

And yet his relationship with Sebastian was worse than it had ever been. Whenever Jandro turned to his little brother, it seemed that the happiness simply slid off his face. He was brusque, sharp, and disappointed. It was almost as if, once Alejandro had managed to get his own affairs in order, his focus had simply shifted onto Sebastian's life. And, thought Sebastian ruefully, his brother had obviously found it to be greatly wanting.

Seb put down the curry comb, annoyed. Why should he try to please Alejandro when his brother treated him with so little respect? Why should he practice when he was exhausted? If he was going to play at all decently this afternoon, what he really needed was a nap.

He patted his pony as he led her back into her stall. “Sorry,
chiquita
. I'll make it up to you later.”

He passed his mother behind the wheel of her Mercedes as he made his way back to the
hacienda
. She stopped her car and rolled down her window. “
Bueno
, Sebastian. I'm glad you're back. The flowers should be delivered within the hour. I left Corinne's address on the kitchen table. Run them over with our regards as soon as they arrive, okay?”

Seb reluctantly nodded. So much for his nap.

Instead of going back to bed, he made his way down to the home theater in the basement, yawning as he sank into the butter-soft leather sofa. He started to scroll through the menu of movies on the flat screen, but nothing looked appealing. Maybe just a quick little rest, he thought as his eyes slowly closed.

I
t never failed to amaze Kat how her parents managed to keep every last detail of their home exactly as it had always been. It was as if the cottage were encased in amber. The worn, indescribably comfortable red sofa in the living room, the cheerful grass green tile on the kitchen floor, the round pine table in the dining room with the cut-glass cruets of olive oil and balsamic vinegar—subtle evidence of her mother's Italian-American heritage. Even the succession of identical, slightly mangy black cats who all seemed to enjoy the same sunny spot in the living room window. Kat's father was an animal lover, and he always said that no one ever wanted black cats, so he made it a special point to give them a home.

She had not seen her father yet. Her mother had picked her up from the airport, and they had gone straight to the hospital, but her father had just been whisked away for tests, the doctors said it might be a few hours before he could receive visitors. Her mother had insisted that Kat go home so she had could unpack and rest a little before coming back to the hospital. She assured Kat that her father was not bad at all. “Just a little stroke,” she'd said. “A teeny tiny one. He'll be absolutely fine.” And Kat desperately wanted to believe her.

Kat drifted into her old bedroom, which was also untouched but strikingly different from the rest of the cottage. Instead of perfect cleanliness and order, here were messy clues to her past and a chaotic map of her future. The walls were papered with movie posters and pictures torn from magazines: Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis grinning out from
Thelma and Louise
; Holly Hunter from Jane Campion's
The Piano
; stills from
Clueless
,
9 to 5
,
Bull Durham
,
Breakfast Club
,
She's Gotta Have It
…a whole collection of Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis, and Marlene Dietrich. On one wall, she had pinned up her tickets from every movie she had seen from the time she was ten years old.

She smiled as she touched the overlapping collage of film stubs and memories—she had seen some great films, but a lot of terrible ones as well. She hadn't known how to differentiate yet. All she knew was that there was no place she was happier than the air-conditioned multiplex on a Sunday afternoon.

On another wall were pictures of her favorite film couples—Bogie and Bacall, Liz and Dick, Maria and Tony, Edward and Vivian, Rose and Jack, Harry and Sally, Satine and Christian, Buttercup and Westley…These made her feel wistful, remembering the girl she had been—endlessly lying in bed, staring up at these images of true love, feverishly spinning her own romantic future…God, that's probably why she'd never found the right guy. All these expectations. There was no way real-life romance could hold a candle to the glories of the silver screen.

She sighed and sank down onto her narrow bed. Her body fit into the mattress as if she were sixteen all over again. She turned her head on the pillow and took a deep breath. She could almost smell the Anaïs Anaïs perfume, Noxzema face wash, and Mane 'n Tail shampoo.

Oh, if she could only go back to that girl and give her some advice—let her know that the braces would come off, her skin would clear up, that being tall and smart were not such bad things after all. She would tell her what mistakes to avoid, what men to stay away from, not to spend so much time worrying that she'd be stuck in Wellington forever.

Except, of course, here she was, home again.

She tried to tell herself she'd come home for her parents' sake, but deep down she couldn't ignore the niggling suspicion that she would have ended up back here anyway. There had simply been nowhere else to go. And prospects seemed dim that she'd make it back out this time. Unless she could finally find the way back to her work.

The buzz of the doorbell startled her. She groaned and buried her head in her pillow. Her first instinct was to ignore it—hoping that whoever it was would go away—but then, she reprimanded herself, she had come here to help, not hide in her room like a recalcitrant teen.

Sebastian felt foolish. A gigantic bouquet of purple, hot pink, and orange blooms—wisteria, peonies, and birds of paradise—blocked his view. The florist must have made a mistake. There was no way his mother would have ordered something so ostentatious. But he'd overslept and the flowers had been delivered before he had woken from his nap. He knew that if he bothered to take the time to return them and negotiate the exchange, he'd never get them dropped off and still make it to the club for the opening chukka.

The door swung open, and instead of the motherly-looking maid he was expecting, a tall woman with golden skin, high cheekbones, riotous black curls, and cool gray eyes looked back at him.

“Uh,” he said, “Mrs. Parker?”

The woman shook her head. “She's out. Can I help you?” Her voice was low and husky.

He blinked, momentarily forgetting why he was even there. There was something about her steady gaze that unnerved him. That, and the little beauty mark just above her upper lip. It looked like a tiny smudge of chocolate. “I—uh—Mrs. Parker—”

“My mother,” she prompted.

He nodded. Right. He'd forgotten that her daughter was in town. He looked at the flowers in his hands. “Ah, oh yes, these are for your
papá
. Your father.” He thrust the enormous bouquet into her arms. “Courtesy of the Del Campo family.”

The woman raised her brows, looking amused. “Wow. Well, I'm pretty sure this is the biggest bouquet my daddy's ever received.” She ducked her head and smelled a peony, looking up at him through the fringe of her long, dark lashes. “Actually they're probably the only flowers he's ever received,” she added, and smiled.

Sebastian's heart constricted. Her smile was slow and sweet and absolutely dazzling. He felt breathless.

She looked at him expectantly for a moment longer, and then said, “Oh! Sorry! Wait. Hang on,” and left him standing in the doorway.

He blinked, confused, and then she was back with her purse in her hand. She dug out a five-dollar bill and tried to hand it to him.

He stared at her bewildered.

She wrinkled her nose. “Is it—is it not enough?”

“What?”

“The tip?”

He almost laughed. She thought he was the delivery boy.

She waited earnestly for his answer.

He smiled, mischievous. “Oh, well, normally it would be fine, but you know, for around here…” He shrugged.

She flushed and added a ten-dollar bill to the five and offered it to him. He grinned and took the money from her.

A tingling bolt of electricity passed through his body as his fingers brushed hers.

Her eyes widened. She obviously felt it, too. He gazed at her for a moment—noticing the tight curves of her body beneath the simple jeans and tank top she was wearing, her shapely legs that seemed to go on forever. Suddenly, he felt a little less playful.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “I didn't catch your name.”

She frowned. “I didn't give it.”

He took a step toward her. She didn't move. He smelled something sweet and dark, like caramel. He wondered if it was her or the flowers. “Maybe you should,” he said.

She looked at him, her cheeks flushing an even deeper pink. “I—I don't think so.”

She took a step back.

“Wait—” he said.

But she had already shut the door in his face.