His Thirty-Day Fiancée

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?