Slightly Imperfect (34 page)

"To Andrea," she whispered, as though getting it straight in her own mind.

An interesting turn of phrase. "No!"

Her eyes widened, nostrils flaring with an intake of breath.

"Don't do that. That's the old Victoria—your old pattern. Running away never solved anything. Stay and fight."

Whatever the hell they were fighting.

"I don't know how to fight." She faced back to the window. "I'll leave Marcus with you."

He quietly, desperately tried to discern the meaning behind that, clawing at the shroud of ambivalence, searching for a fallacy to stomp out.

"You're saying I prefer Marcus over the twins—that having him will pacify me?"

"No. I'm not. I don't think that."

"Then you're saying the twins are enough for you."

"No. Oh, God! I'm not—"

"What the hell are you saying? Don't go anywhere, Victoria. Don't leave him if you love him. That's telling him he's not good enough for the three of you—only for me. Only for his own kind. It's telling the twins the same thing." He placed his hand on her forearm, gently. Her skin iced over. "Think,
novia
."

She turned, left the room. He stayed for a moment, resting his head against the glass where hers had been, reasoning with himself to stop caring. He tried to want to leave, to quit. He left the room when he heard her calling Lizbett.

"I told her to take the children to the pool."

Across the room, she whirled, leveled her eyes on him. Distance kept him from knowing if he saw fear or imagined it. "You had no right—"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Christian is coming to pick them up. They have to be—"

The look on his face—sudden, blaring awareness—had probably stopped her. "How long has Christian been here?"

No answer.

He moved closer. "Are you sleeping with him?" Silence. "Who
are
you sleeping with, Victoria?"

She shook her head, pulled her bottom lip in, hugged herself. Her eyes pleaded, it seemed.

"Who's feeding all your insecurities? Coby, maybe?"

He could have stuck a pin in an already limp, water-filled balloon. Tears, big, hot looking, oozed out, ran in a stream through her perfect facial
Aura
. He could keep puncturing her, but he wanted her back, didn't want to inflict irrevocable damage. "I didn't mean that about Coby. I'm sorry."

She lowered her eyes to her hands, slipping off his ring, soundlessly placing it on the granite-topped table behind the sofa.

His heart ripped just as soundlessly. "Don't do this."

He grabbed the ring, grabbed her hand, shoved the ring on her finger and clamped his hand around it, too tightly. She winced. He held on.

"You're hurting me." Fresh tears.

"You're hurting me,
novia
." He let go.

She slipped the ring off, offering it; he took it.

"It was a dream, Zac. I've been... awakened."

"It's not the gambling," he said softly. "You just woke up one day—about ten days ago, I guess—and you remembered I'm Mexican, and you're not, and you don't want to live the rest of your life apologizing for that." He wondered if the scenes from brunch at the Wentletrap were running through her mind, too.

"I love you," she whispered. "I want you to know."

"I know that. You just don't love me enough to turn my skin white—or Marcus's. God help
him
when you get over your cross-culture whim."

Her head moved in agreement of which she might not be aware.

The doorbell pierced the silence. She swiped her wet cheeks with the pads of her fingers. He reached for her. She stepped around him, crossed the room to open the door. Christian entered, appraised the scene, appearing complacent in Zac's eyes.

Zac speared his gaze. "It's bad luck to count your winnings while you're sitting at the table."

Christian looked puzzled. His mouth hardened a little.

"An old gambling adage. It means the game's not over yet." Zac walked past him to where Victoria leaned against the open white lacquered door, watching. He met her eyes, drew his index finger along her cheek, across her lips.

"Does this mean I'm not in your soul anymore, Victoria?"

She raised her palms to her face, her shoulders shaking.

"That's enough," Christian said from behind them, his cultured voice deep, authoritative.

"Yeah," Zac considered hitting him, destroying his pretty Anglo face, finding a Bible somewhere in the lauded suite and feeding it to him, page by page. "Yeah. You're right. It's probably just enough."

* * *

"Lizbett?"

She glanced up from a
Cosmopolitan magazine
, panic crossing her face.

Zac guessed he looked as unraveled as he felt. "You've got to do something for me."

She sat up quickly, closing the book.

"You have to get me the entire list of Andrea Von Felsberg's phone numbers. The yacht, too. Can you do that?"

"I don't know, Mr. Zac. Ms. Victoria keeps up with all that stuff. I don't usually fool with—"

"You have to." He glanced at the sleeping twins, at Marcus climbing the ladder of the high board. Zac checked out the alert lifeguard. "I'm going to move all of you into that

hacienda-plantation-kind-of-Mecca on Bay Shore, and we're going to live there for the rest of our lives, Lizbett. But first you have to do this for me. Will you?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Zac. Somehow I will."

* * *

Zac went straight to Buck's Cowboy Bar.

He commandeered his old end stool, the one that had supported him through falling in love with Carron, his marriage breaking up, learning Carron was dying. He hadn't been there for a while, but the hard leather and his pain had a familiar feel.

Now Victoria's name, resting soundlessly in his thoughts, created an ache that seized, choked, doubled him over. He couldn't stop his mind running to her.

Little things, like how he'd loved watching her dress, the way she'd leave the door open if she welcomed intrusion, the way the twins or Marcus—or all of them—would stand outside knocking, calling to her if she chose to close the door. Zac would sometimes take the children, entertain them, to give her privacy, to show he cared.

He had loved her little rituals, the way she bent forward from the waist and brushed her hair down from the nape of her neck, its pale ends sweeping her shins.

Watching her evoked all kinds of erotic notions he couldn't quite work out the details for—until he realized it was not complicated. He simply loved everything about her, and learning new things had given him a rush very near the sensation of an erection.

Yeah, he'd loved her little rituals; he loved her. Maybe not the way he'd loved Maggie, that probably would never happen again. But he was sure as hell
in
love with Victoria.

Sitting there, staring at his face in the veined mirror, listening to Vince Gill, he remembered how it had hurt watching Carron die. Today hurt almost as much, ripped his gut; he thought he could hear blood gurgling inside his chest. It pained him to know Victoria didn't trust him enough to share real reasons with him, but it hurt a hell of a lot more to know she'd made a new decision of how she wanted to live her life.

Given a choice, Carron would never have left him.

Maggie had never left him. Not really.

Way down deep, in that part of him he took no pride in, he had thought the money he'd inherited was enough to make a difference. It wasn't. There wasn't enough money in the world to bleach his skin or alter his ethnic heritage.

He had come full circle.

He finished his Corona with just enough time to take a cold shower and still make his philosophy class, where maybe he'd discover a wisdom the familiar barstool hadn't afforded.

He sat in Buck's parking lot, staring into the traffic crawling on Rocket, squeezing the truck phone with aching fingers until her machine kicked in.

"Victoria, I don't know about still seeing Marcus." He swallowed, waiting for a steady voice. "I guess it depends on how intense the pain gets. Right now I'm numb." He breathed into the numbness, tried to rationalize. He thought of Ruffin Sloan, the freighter, a cabin with two bunks, maybe. "I've thought of taking him and running away. Not a lot has changed since that first day in Portofino has it?" The day ran through his mind. Late afternoon sun, gentle breeze stirring Victoria's hair, Marcus so like Allie, the twins falling asleep against Zac's neck. "But then what would I do about Ari and Alex?"

And what would he do about Angel?

He placed the phone on the hook, blinked against the wet heat in his eyes. Then he picked up the phone and punched redial.

"I won't take him and run, Victoria. Don't be scared,
novia
. I'm sorry I said that."

He walked into a surprise birthday party at Bay Shore and began the best acting job of his thirty-four-year career.

"Happy birthday!" Every last Abriendo shouted, "Surprise!"

"Yeah." He scooped Angel up, spreading his grin wider. "It sure as hell is." It looked like he'd be sacrificing his philosophy class again.

The diving board sprang loudly. Water splashed and ran across the aggregate deck beneath the wheels of Alejandro's chair. The pool was full of his sisters and nieces. His nephews played touch football on the St. Augustine lawn with Pete, Luke and Josh while Sylvania labored over ribs on the grill.

A real domestic scene, one he'd been praying for. To have his family under the Bay Shore roof, to have the magnificent facilities used. The painful party represented familial acceptance, at last, of the tragedy that had produced his wealth. Maybe he'd have to get an additional line now, list it in the directory as Bay Shore
Poolside
.

God was still working in weird ways.

Maggie handed him a Corona and hugged him.

"You knew about this," he accused "Today at Gerald's office."

She nodded, looking up at him.

"Thanks for tipping me, Magatita." He kept smiling.

She shrugged, smiling back.

"Can a king get one of those margaritas in his own castle?"

"I'll get you one, Poppie." She eased their daughter out of his arms. "Then why don't you meet us in the shallow end?"

He watched her walk away, hips and hair swaying, then he knelt beside his father's chair. "This is great, Papa. Was it your idea?"

Alejandro's lips tightened over an escaping smile. His black eyes clouded in the last throes of evening, then cleared.

Zac shrugged. "It's still great, Papa, even if you're here under protest. I've wanted you here since the day I knew this place was mine. It's finally my home now that you've chosen to come. I want you to know that."

Alejandro put out his hand, moving more and more easily as the days went by, thanks to Randy. He ruffled Zac's hair, cuffed the back of his neck.

"Happy birthday, Zaccheus. I thank God for the day you were born."

That did it. Zac's tears rushed, cascaded. He rose quickly, going toward the house to don a swimsuit for the rendezvous with Maggie and his daughter.

Luke caught him at the kitchen door, shook his hand, hugged him. "Happy birthday, Zac. I hope you can afford this party. We charged it all to you."

"No problem, Luke. There hasn't been a lot of money lavished on entertainment. Up until now."

"Things are changing, Zaccie."

"Yeah. They sure as hell are." Quickly.

Luke cocked his head, eyed him closely. "I called to invite Victoria and the kids. She never called back."

Zac didn't trust a reply.

"That's why you were so down at the restaurant today. Lover's quarrel, huh?"

He nodded, looked away and watched Maggie drag Angel through the shallow end. He heard his daughter's melodic squeal.

"Too bad," Luke said. "Marcus would have loved this."

"Yeah," Zac said quietly. "But if Victoria was here, Papa wouldn't be. I guess I can call it a sacrifice."

"Hang in there, bro. We'll get rid of these hangers-on and break out the Corona. You can tell me about it."

"Thanks, Luke."

Maybe by then he'd know what the hell to tell him.

* * *

Zac and Maggie occupied a table for two, working on the ribs. The family was allowing them a wide, obvious berth. From her vantage point on Zac's lap, Angel slapped noisily at his plate, spraying barbecue sauce liberally. He pinched off a bite of beef and fed it to her.

"Your hair is getting long, Maggie."

"So is yours. Would you like me to cut it for you?"

"Not tonight."

"Soon, though."

He met her dark gaze. So intense. He could only guess at the meaning. "Tell me about
your
hair."

For the last few years she had said her short hair was for convenience, but when he'd met her, almost ten years before, it had been heavy, glistening, hanging below her shoulders. He remembered it swaying above him, caressing his bare chest, sending him to some far, privileged plane. He adjusted in his seat to cope with the sweet residual of all that remembering. "I like it when it's short, too. It's beautiful any way."

"You're still sweet, Zac."

He smiled, aching. Where had sweet ever gotten him?

"Most men like long hair." She arched her brows. "Don't they? I have to keep those things in mind now."

"Why?"

"I'm on a man hunt." Her smile was devilish.

Zac laughed uncomfortably, stabbed by her words. "God, why?"

She leaned, dabbed at Angel's mouth. Her breasts gathered into cleavage at the front of her swimsuit.

"Why, Maggie?"

She smiled, all diabolical quality replaced with soft appeal. He reeled a little.

"I want another baby. Before it's too late. I need a man for that—preferably a husband."

"Preferably not. Husbands are a big liability, Magatita."

"Yes, Zaccheus. But there are times when they're big assets. It's like childbirth. It's hard to remember the pain."

He pushed his plate aside. Settling in his chair, he positioned Angel to a prone position on his chest. She rested her cheek against him. He pressed his lips to her hair as he considered complications developing like Apaches gathering on a distant horizon. He couldn't think of Maggie married, sleeping with another man, sharing Angel with a substitute father.