His Thirty-Day Fiancee (13 page)

Guiding her down the hall toward the wing housing his father’s quarters, Duarte kept his hand on her back to steer her through the winding corridors. He barely registered the familiar antique wooden benches tucked here, a strategic table and guard posted there, too preoccupied with the introduction to come.

What the hell was up with the edginess? He’d planned this from the start, to bring her along to appease the old man. They’d made a business proposition. So why did the whole thing suddenly feel off?

Because they’d clearly gone from business to personal in the past week and that rocked him to the core. He wanted more. Over the past weeks, she’d surprised him in ways he never could have foreseen. Like how she’d left her camera behind for this meeting with the king.

She’d told him that she planned to limit her photos of the king to the old man’s appearance at Tony’s wedding. For that matter, Duarte had been surprised at how few pictures she opted to send to the
Intruder
overall. Since the world was getting a steady flow of photos, news outlets ran those and weren’t searching as hard for others. The interest hadn’t gone away, but Javier’s security team back home wasn’t peeling as many reporters off the fences.

Now, entering the monarch’s private suites, Duarte tried to focus on the present. While the mansion sported a small fortune in works of art by Spanish masters, Enrique saved his Salvador Dali collection for himself, a trio of the surrealist’s “soft watches” melting over landscapes.

The old guy had become more obsessed with history after his had been stolen from him.

Cradling his antique Breguet pocket watch, Enrique waited in his bed, sitting on top of the cover, wearing a heavy blue robe and years of worries. His father’s two Rhodesian Ridgebacks lounged on the floor at the foot of the bed. Brown, leggy and large, the dogs provided protection as well as companionship. Kate leaned down to pet Benito, the dogs accepting her because she was with Duarte.

Frail and pasty, Enrique appeared to be sleeping. Then his eyes snapped open with a sharp gleam in his gaze.

“Father.” Duarte kept his hand planted on the small of her back. “This is Kate.”

Enrique tucked his watch into his robe pocket and stayed silent, his coal-dark eyes assessing Kate. Duarte slid his arm farther around her, bringing her closer to his side. “Father?”

Kate rested a hand on his softly and stepped forward, facing the old man head-on and bold as always. “I’m glad you’re well enough to return home, sir.”

Still, his father didn’t speak and Duarte began to wonder if Enrique had taken a turn for the worse. Was his once-sharp mind now failing, as well?

Kate stepped closer, magnificent in her unfailing confidence. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Still staring intently, Enrique motioned to the leather armchair beside his bed.

Sinking onto the seat, Kate perched a bit more formally than normal, her legs tucked demurely to the side. But other than that, she showed no sign of nerves in meeting the deposed king.

She pointed toward the framed painting closest to his bed. “I’ve always been a fan of Dali’s melting watch works.”

“You’ve studied the Masters?”

“I took art history classes in college along with my journalism degree. I can’t paint or draw to save my soul, but I like to think I capture natural art and tell a story with my lens.”

“I’ve seen some of your earlier photographs in our security file on you. You have an artist’s eye.”

She didn’t even wince over the background check, some thing his father appeared to have noticed, too.

Pushing against the mattress, Enrique sat up straighter. “You’re not upset that I had you investigated?”

“I investigated your family. It only seems fair you should have the same freedom.”

Enrique laughed, rumbly but genuine. “I like the way you think, Kate Harper.” He lifted her hand and eyed the ring, thumbing the top of the ruby once before nodding. “A good fit.”

With that succinct endorsement, his father leaned back on the pillow, his eyes sliding closed again.

That was it? Duarte had expected…something more. Digs for specifics on a wedding date. Hints for grandchildren. Even a crack at her profession, and that made him wonder if perhaps there’d been something to Javier’s accusation that he’d chosen Kate to jab back at the old man, after all.

If so, the joke was soundly on Duarte, because seeing Kate reach out to his father stirred a deeper sense of family than Duarte had ever felt before. Watching her in this setting finally pounded home what had been going on for weeks without him even noticing. Kate was more a part of his world than he was. She was a seamless fit in a high-stress environment, a strong but calming influence on the people around her, an intelligent and quick-witted woman who knew her mind and took care of her own.

What a kick in the ass to realize Kate was right about his lack of commitment to even a house, much less a relationship. He’d always prided himself on being a man of decisive action, yet when it had come to Kate, he’d been living in limbo—granted, a sex-saturated limbo—but limbo all the same.

Time to take action. He had about two weeks until his brother’s wedding and he needed to utilize every second to persuade Kate to stay in his life after the thirty-day dead line.

Whatever the cost.

Her heart pounding out of her chest, she searched the room for him…but no luck. She’d fallen asleep in his arms, slipping into a nightmare where she’d melted away like a Dali watch, sliding from the ledge of Duarte’s resort on Martha’s Vineyard.

Sliding away from him.

She scraped her hair back from her face, the sheets slithering over her bare skin. The scent of his aftershave clung to the linens as surely as he lingered in her memories. He’d been so intense, so thorough tonight.

Stretching, her arm bumped something on the pillow. She jolted back and switched on the Tiffany lamp. A wrapped present waited in the cradle left by the imprint of his head. She clamped a hand to her mouth at the flat twelve-by-twelve package, a maroon box with a gold bow and no card. Not that she needed a card to know. Receiving a gift was different from the jewels and clothes he’d given her as part of the public charade. This was a private moment.

Why hadn’t he stayed to see her reaction? Could he be as unsure as she was about where and how to proceed next?

Her stomach churned with excitement and fear. Maybe she was working herself up for nothing. Wouldn’t she feel foolish if the present turned out to be a new gown to wear to the wedding? Or some other accoutrement to play out their fake engagement?

Her heart squeezed tight at the memory of meeting Enrique, a delightful old man who took her at face value and reeled her right in. Guilt had niggled at her ever since deceiving him—a warm and wonderful father figure to a woman so sorely lacking in that department. She hated to think about all the lies yet to come.

But there was only one way to find out what the box held. She swept the gift from the pillow, heavier than she’d expected. Curiosity overcame her fear and she tore off the crisp gold bow, then the thick maroon paper. Lifting the lid from the box, she found…

A small framed black-and-white photo—oh, God, an Ansel Adams of a moonrise over icy mountain peaks. Her hand shook as her fingers hovered over the image. He’d remembered. Just one conversation about her favorite photographer and he’d committed it to memory, choosing this gift with her preferences in mind.

Yes, he’d overstepped in spiriting Jennifer away, but he was obviously trying to woo her. And not with some thing generic that could have been ordered for any interchangeable woman.

Kate set the gift aside reverently and swept the covers away. She had to find him, to thank him, to see if she was reading too much into one gift. She stepped into the closet—good heavens, Duarte and his family had closet space to spare. She grabbed for the first pair of jeans and a pullover. Dressing on her way out of the room, she scanned the sitting area for Duarte.

The balcony door stood open.

Different from the wrought-iron railing she’d seen on the other side of the house when she’d arrived, this terrace sported a waist-high, white stucco wall with potted cacti and hanging ferns. In her time on the island, she’d realized the house had four large wings of private quarters, one for the king and three for his sons. Here, wide stone steps led down toward the beach, yellow moon and stars reflecting off the dark stretch of ocean.

She scanned and didn’t see anything other than rolling waves and a small cluster of palm trees. As she turned away, a squeak stopped her short. She pivoted back and peered closer into the dark.

Moonlight peeked through the clouds long enough to stream over a hammock strung between two towering trees. The ghostly white light reminded her of the gorgeous photograph he’d given her. Duarte lounged with one leg draped off the side, swinging slowly. She couldn’t think of when she’d seen him so unguarded.

Hand dragging along the wall, she raced down the steps. A chilly breeze off the water lifted her hair, night temperature dipping. The squeak slowed and she realized he must have heard her.

As she neared, her eyes adjusted to the dark. Duarte wore the same silky ninja workout clothes as the night they’d met. Looking closer, she saw a hint of perspiration still clung to his brow. He must have gone to the home gym after she’d fallen asleep. She was increasingly realizing he channeled martial arts moments to vent pent-up frustration.

Breathless—from the sight of him more than the jog—she leaned against the palm tree. “Thank you for the gift.”

“You’re welcome,” he said softly, extending an arm for her to join him on the hammock.

Almost afraid to hope he might be reaching out to her on an even deeper level, she took his hand.

“It’s such a perfect choice,” she said as she settled against his warmth, the hammock jolting, rocking, finally steadying. “An Ansel Adams gift? Very nice.”

“Any Joe with a big bank balance could have done that.”

“But not just any Joe would have remembered what I named my cat.” She brushed a kiss along his bristly jaw. “I can’t wait to find just the right place to hang it.”

Back at her apartment? Every time she looked at it, she would be reminded of him. The air grew heavier as she breathed in the salt-tinged wind.

His arm under her shoulders, he fit her closer against him. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

It was one thing to talk in the course of a day or even in the aftermath of sex, but cuddling quietly in the moonlight was somehow more…intimate.

Furthermore, was she happy? At the moment, yes. But so much rode on the outcome of this month. She still feared disappointing so many people with a failed engagement.

“You’re not what I expected, you know.” She traced the V-neckline of his jacket. “But then that’s my fault. It was easier to paint you as the arrogant rich prince. You try so hard, even when you screw up.”

“Such as bringing Jennifer here without asking you.” His deep voice rumbled over her hair, his chin resting on her head.

“Bonus points for admitting you were wrong.” She stroked her toes over his bare feet beside hers. “I
am
sorry for not consulting you before bringing Jennifer to the island.”

She shifted to look up at him. “Did that apology hurt coming up?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Laughing, she swatted his chest. “I bet you’ve never begged for anything in your life. You’re too proud.”

“You would be wrong,” he said so softly she almost missed the words. Then he squeezed her hand lightly. “I would give you an Ansel Adams gallery if you wish.”

“Thank you, truly.” She stretched to kiss him, just a closemouthed moment to linger and languish in the rightness of touching him. “But no need to go overboard. The clothes, private planes, guards—I have to admit to feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“You? Overwhelmed?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I’ve only known one woman as bold as you.”

For the first time that she could recall, he’d offered up a piece of personal information about himself. Another sign that he was trying to make amends? Get closer?

Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if he could feel it against his side. Was there a hidden, lost love in his past? “Who was the other woman?” she asked carefully. “The one as bold as I am?”

His
heart beat so hard she
could
feel it under her palm. She waited, wondering if she’d misread his slip. And how would she feel if he suddenly revealed he’d been in love with someone else?

Finally, he answered, “My mother.”

Everything inside her went still. Her senses pulled tightly into the world around her. The pulsing of her blood through her veins synched with the tide’s gush and retreat. The palms overhead rustled as heavily as Duarte’s breaths.

Kate stroked his chest lightly. “I would like to hear more about her.”

“I would like to tell you…Carlos and I used to talk about her, verifying that our memories weren’t becoming faulty with time. It’s so easy for some moments to overtake others.”

“The little things can be special.”

“Actually, I’m talking about the bigger events.” He paused, his neck moving against her in a long swallow. “Like the night she died.”

She held her breath, terrified of saying something wrong. She’d covered dangerous and tragic situations in her job, back in the beginning, but she’d been seeing it all through a lens, as an observer. Her heart had ached for those suffering, but it was nothing compared to the wrenching pain of envisioning Duarte as a young boy living out one of those events.

“Kate? The fierce way my mother protected us reminds me of how you take care of Jennifer. I know you would lay down your life for her.”

And he was right. But dear God, no woman should ever have to pay the price his mother had to look after her children. She closed her eyes to hold back the burning tears as she listened to Duarte.

“That night when the rebels caught us…” His chest pumped harder. “Carlos whispered for me to cover Antonio and he would look after our mother. When you said you couldn’t imagine me ever begging…” He cleared his throat and continued, “I begged for my mother’s life. I begged, but they shot her anyway. They shot Carlos because he tried to protect her…”

His voice cracked.

Her throat closed up with emotions, and now it wasn’t a matter of searching for the right words because she couldn’t speak at all. He’d planted an image so heartbreaking into her mind, it shattered her ability to reason. She just held him tighter.

“Once our mother died,” he continued, his slight accent thickening with emotion, “time became a blur. I still can’t remember how Antonio and I got away unscathed. Later I was told more of our father’s guards arrived. After we left San Rinaldo, we spent a while in Argentina until we were reunited with our father.”

Shivering more from the picture he painted than the cool night wind, she pushed words up and out. “Who was there to console you?”

He waved her question aside. “Once my father arrived, we stayed long enough to establish rumors we’d relocated there. Then we left.”

His sparse retelling left holes in the story, but regardless, it sounded as if there hadn’t been much time for him to grieve such a huge loss. And to see his oldest brother shot, as well? That hadn’t appeared in any news reports about the Medina family. What other horrifying details had they managed to keep secret?

Shadows cast by the trees and clouds grew murkier, dangerous. “It’s no wonder that your father became obsessed with security and keeping his sons safe.”

“And yet, he risked trips to the mainland those first couple years we were here.”

“Your father left the island?” Where was Duarte going with this revelation? She had no idea, but she did know he never did anything without a purpose.

And she’d been so hungry for a peek inside his heart and his past for clues as to what made this man tick. She would be glad for whatever he cared to share tonight.

“My father had developed a relationship with another woman,” he said, his voice flat and unemotional, overly so.

What he said merged with what she knew from covering his family. “You’re talking about your half sister’s mother.” Kate knew the details, like the age of Enrique’s daughter. Eloisa had been born less than two years after the coup in San Rinaldo. That affair had to have been tough for three boys still grieving the loss of their mother. “How did they meet?”

“Carlos’s recovery from his gunshot wounds was lengthy. Between our time in Argentina and relocating here, Carlos had a setback. Our father met a nurse at the hospital.” The muscles in Duarte’s chest contracted. “He found distraction from his grief.”

So much more made sense, like why Duarte and his brothers had little contact with their father. “His relationship with the nurse created a rift between you and your father.”

It was easy to empathize with either side—a devastated man seeking comfort for an immeasurable loss. A boy resentful that his father had sought that comfort during such a confusing time of grief.

“You probably wonder why I’m telling you this.”

She weighed the risks and figured the time had come to step out on an emotional ledge. “We’ve been naked together. While being with you is amazing, I would like to think we have more going for us than that.”

“You’ve mentioned my numerous short relationships.”

She hated the pinch of jealousy. “Your point?”

“I’ve had sex, but I don’t have much experience with building relationships. Not with my family. Not with women. I’ve been told I’m an emotionless bastard.”

“Emotionless? Good God, Duarte,” she exclaimed, shifting over him, hammock lurching much like her feelings, “you’re anything but detached. You’re one of the most intense people I’ve ever met. Sure you don’t crack a bunch of jokes and get teary eyed at commercials, but I see how deeply you feel things.”

He silenced her with a finger to her mouth. “You’re misunderstanding. I’m telling you I want more than just your body.”

Her stomach bumped against her heart. Could he really mean…

“But, Kate, I can’t be sure I have the follow-through. Given my history, I’m a risk to say the least.”

Hearing this proud man lay himself bare before her this way tugged at her heart, already tender from images of a hurting young boy. She thought of the considerate gift, left on her pillow rather than presented in person. Could he be every bit as unsettled by their relationship as she was? He acted so confident, so in control.