Fortune's Just Desserts (15 page)

Because she'd said the words once, to Channing, not realizing until this moment what they truly meant. The words had been thrown back at her. Not at that time, but later, when Channing had shed her as if she were last year's ski jacket. He had abandoned her to take up with the woman who shortly thereafter became Mrs. Channing Hurston.

There was another reason she didn't give voice to the sentiment that echoed within her. Marcos undoubtedly heard the words “I love you” all the time. She didn't want to be like all the other women who had passed through his life.

Not because she was naive enough to think that what they had would turn into a relationship—she was finally smarter than that—but because she had her pride. If nothing else, she wanted to be at least a little unique in his eyes. And that meant not saying the L-word. Even if she desperately wanted to.

“Every woman wants to be mysterious,” she finally said in response to the observation he'd made that she was an enigma.

Marcos threaded his fingers through her hair, pushing a few wayward strands back from her face. The smile on his lips all but made her melt all over again.

So did what he said next.

“You don't strike me as being like ‘every woman,'” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. And
then his lips softly brushed a kiss against each eyelid.

Wendy could feel the fire—never fully extinguished—flaring again. “You
are
good,” she breathed, turning her body in toward his. As excitement began to swiftly build up in her all over again, she nipped the tip of his chin with her teeth, and then her lips.

She heard Marcos suck his breath in and that excited her all over again

As if she needed more fuel.

“Right back at you,” he breathed, his voice low and rumbling along her skin.

The next moment, there was no space for words, only actions, as they once again embarked on the wild, heady roller coaster ride without brakes that they'd just experienced.

Joy vibrated through Wendy. She'd just bought herself another trip to paradise and pushed back the inevitable for a while longer.

H
e couldn't sleep.

Contentment warred with fear. Fear
existed
because of the contentment.

Marcos suppressed a sigh as he carefully leaned back against the headboard. He'd never been in this place before, never felt this way before. Hadn't known
how
something like this could even begin to feel until he was hip-deep in it.

The disappointment he'd been hoping for last week had never materialized. Making love with Wendy had not just lived up to expectations, high though they were, it had exceeded all expectations.

And, as exhilarating as this feeling was, that was how frightening it was, as well.

He was in big trouble and he knew it.

Moonlight inched its way in through the bedroom window, softly caressing the face of the sleeping woman beside him.

Wendy.

The ball of fire he'd made love with for the first time a week ago. And every single night since, without realizing that in so doing nothing would ever be the same again.

Oh, Marcos had had his suspicions, but he'd discounted them and forged on anyway, thinking that the pattern would ultimately remain the same: his interest would wane with each intimate encounter until it eventually disappeared.

Except that it hadn't.

Instead of waning, the feeling, the
need
for her, only seemed to intensify. Which was what scared the hell out of him—he felt consumed by this feeling that she'd generated. Consumed by the desire to be with this woman
all
the time.

He was addicted to Wendy's smile, to the very sight of her. Moreover, he
cared
about her. That was the strongest word he could bring himself to use.

It wasn't just the attraction that kept him a prisoner. Marcos realized that he cared about how she felt, what she thought, what she did. Cared about whether or not she was happy.

He cared.

He'd always treated the women in his life with respect, but there had never been this overwhelming
attachment
that had embedded its hooks in him the way it had now. And he had no idea when it had happened, only that it had. One moment he was a carefree bachelor, bedding yet another desirable woman, the next, he wasn't thinking about any woman but Wendy. Wasn't
wanting
any woman but her.

He had to put an end to this. Now. Before he sank so deeply into the quicksand, there would be no getting free. Ever.

Very slowly, so as not to rouse Wendy, Marcos got out of the queen-size bed. Gathering together the clothes he'd shed so haphazardly last night, he slipped into the bathroom and quickly got dressed. Except for his shoes. Those he carried, afraid that if they came in contact with the tile, she might hear him.

If Wendy opened those soft brown eyes of hers and looked at him, he knew there would be no leaving. And shortly thereafter he'd be going down for probably the third time. Utterly lost.

There was a pad and pencil by her bed. She'd told him she kept them there in case the ingredients for a new dessert came to her in the middle of the night. He took the pencil now and hastily wrote her a note, saying he had to get an early start on the day and hadn't wanted to wake her.

The latter was the truth, but the former bent the edges of that concept. It wasn't the day he was getting an early start on. It was his escape.

Marcos left the note on the pillow next to her.
Holding his breath in addition to his shoes, he let himself out of her bedroom, her apartment and, if all went according to his hastily conceived plan, very possibly her life, as well.

 

Wendy stared at Enrique later that morning, trying to process what he had just said to her. She'd felt rather dazed and confused ever since she'd woken up this morning to find herself alone in bed. Calling out to Marcos, she only heard her own voice echoing back to her, compounding the emptiness.

The moment she'd seen that his clothes were gone, an uneasy feeling had settled in the pit of her stomach. Finding his note on the pillow hadn't helped any. Neither had coming into work only to be told that he wasn't here and wouldn't be for a while.

She had a very bad feeling about this.

“Los Angeles?” she asked Enrique incredulously. Wendy blinked. Why hadn't he mentioned anything about this to her last night? He must have known he was leaving. “What is Marcos doing in Los Angeles?”

“He called me this morning and said he had some business to take care of.” Enrique knew his answer probably only raised more questions for her. “Marcos said he was leaving me temporarily in charge.”

A chill ran down her back. She should have seen this coming, she upbraided herself.

“How long is ‘temporarily'?” Wendy did her best
not to look or sound like someone whose feelings had just been slashed.

Enrique shrugged. “Probably only a couple of days or so,” he speculated quickly, seeing the flash of hurt in Wendy's eyes. “He said it had something to do with the restaurant,” Enrique felt compelled to add, even though the words were his and not Marcos's. The restaurant manager hadn't explained anything at all about the impromptu trip.

Wendy was barely aware of nodding. Everything inside of her felt momentarily numb and disjointed. “Thanks for telling me.”

When she'd found herself alone in her apartment this morning, she'd quickly gotten ready and left for work, expecting to see Marcos's car in the lot. But the parking space was empty. Still, she held on to hope, thinking perhaps he had taken a cab here for some reason, or had someone drop him off. Maybe his car was in the shop. Maybe—

Maybe she was being a gullible fool, Wendy told herself angrily.

Marcos hadn't said anything about needing to go in early today, much less going out of town. There was a reason for that, she thought. This had to do with them, not Red.

Her heart felt like lead in her chest as she returned to the table where she normally did her work. She stared at the canisters of various ingredients, not re ally seeing them. She was drained. More than that,
she felt as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach.

Damn it, why had he pulled this vanishing act on her? She hadn't been counting on forever. She was a big girl and knew better than that. But she
had
thought that they had something special going on. A spark.
Something
that would cause him to treat her like a person rather than a nameless, disposable body in the dark.

Had she done something wrong?

How could he just go away like that without saying a single word to her?

Easy, because there's nothing between you. He enjoyed himself and now he's moved on.

Wendy pressed her lips together, hurt and angry as hell at the same time. She thought of the resignation she'd penned last week. It was still in her purse. She'd done it then so that he would sleep with her. But now it took on a whole different reason for existing.

Maybe she should just give it to Enrique. If Marcos could move on so effortlessly without a backward glance, well, then, so could she.

Not move on, quit,
a voice in her head mocked.
Are you going to go back to being a quitter after you've come so far?

Wendy drew in a shaky breath, trying unsuccessfully to shut the voice out.

And then, suddenly, she squared her shoulders as fire came back into her veins.

No, damn it,
she thought abruptly,
I'm not.

She was through being a quitter. That was the old Wendy. The one who didn't have any real self-esteem to speak of. But she'd evolved past that, she told herself. Not just evolved, she'd developed a talent. For the first time in her life, she was
good
at something other than picking out flattering clothes, and nobody was going to take that away from her. Not even a mercurial man with a lethal mouth and the morals of a degenerate alley cat.

“Something wrong?” Enrique asked sympathetically, coming up behind her.

Wendy had been so engrossed in her internal struggle, she hadn't even heard the chef approaching. Startled, she quickly collected herself, raised her head and flashed him a quick smile.

“No, nothing's wrong. Everything's fine.” She used her work as a cover. “I'm just trying to visualize a new dessert, that's all.”

“You know,” he told her gently, “we can serve something more than once here. You've already come up with more different desserts than most chefs create in a year—if not longer. There is no shame in a rerun,” he informed her.

Wendy could see she surprised him by agreeing with him wholeheartedly. “No, there isn't. From now on, why don't we do this? We'll offer one old dessert and one new one on each menu.”

Enrique nodded, giving his approval to this new approach. “Sounds good to me.” And then he decided to stop sidestepping around the elephant in the room
and address it instead. He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, Wendy?”

“I am terrific,” she informed him with genuine enthusiasm.

And she meant it.

She had made up her mind right then and there that she wasn't going anywhere. If Marcos—whenever he
did
come back—wanted her to leave, he was going to have to show her the door himself, then brace himself for one hell of a battle because she wasn't about to quit and run away anymore.

One way or another, she was here to stay and he might as well make his peace with it. And if he didn't, well, that was his problem.

 

Contrary to what he'd told Enrique when he'd called the chef at his home that morning, Marcos wasn't going to Los Angeles. It was a handy excuse to keep anyone—specifically Wendy—from coming to look for him. Rather than take off for California—or parts unknown—he'd remained in Red Rock. But rather than his own home, he'd gone to stay with Rafe.

Accustomed to his own counsel and working things out for himself, Marcos had to admit that this time around he needed a sounding board. He needed someone near his own age to talk to and help him sort out the confusion that had swallowed him whole.

Because from where he was standing, the turmoil wasn't over yet.

So he'd come to Rafe for some brotherly advice. And, if possible, to be talked out of what he was feeling before he allowed his emotions to make him do something stupid. Something he was afraid he was going to wind up regretting.

Rafe hadn't even tried to hide his surprise at seeing his younger brother on his doorstep. Instead of the confident go-getter he was accustomed to, Marcos looked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And it was about to break him.

“Didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon. Is there a problem with the booking?” He guessed at the first thing that occurred to him.

“The booking?” Marcos echoed blankly.

“For my wedding reception,” Rafe prompted.

“Oh.” Marcos felt like a fool for forgetting about something so important as his brother's wedding.

“No, no problem,” he assured Rafe. “This isn't about you.”

Rafe gestured toward an overstuffed, wine-colored armchair. He took a seat opposite it. “What is it about?” he asked, purely for form's sake, having a feeling that the out-of-kilter look in his brother's eyes had to do with a woman. Obviously not an ordinary woman, as he'd never seen Marcos like this before.

“It's about me. And a woman.” It was coming out choppy and he didn't want it to. But his eloquent tongue had deserted him—along with his common sense, Marcos silently jeered.

“Does this woman have a name?” Rafe asked.

Marcos debated using a false name, but he hadn't come here to Rafe to lie. It had taken a great deal for him to seek help and he had to be completely truthful if he ever hoped to resolve this in some kind of satisfactory manner.

“Wendy,” he finally said. “Her name is Wendy Fortune.”

“The albatross
tía
and
tío
saddled you with.” At least, that had been the last report he'd received from Marcos.

“Not so much an albatross,” Marcos allowed. “She turned out to be rather talented.”

“In or out of the restaurant?” Rafe queried.

“Both,” Marcos admitted. He took a breath, then let it out. That was followed by another.

“Did you come here to tell me what's wrong, or to hyperventilate?” Rafe wanted to know.

Bracing himself, Marcos began.

The revelation took more than several minutes, with Marcos tripping over his own tongue, something that caught Rafe completely by surprise. Rafe was the older brother, but Marcos was definitely the smoother one, the one who could talk a nightingale out of its feathers. This uncertain Marcos was someone he was not expecting or accustomed to.

Rafe listened and did his best to hold his tongue, even though he wanted to jump in and finish Marcos's sentences for him. It took patience.

Even so, it wasn't easy. When his brother paused,
either for breath or because he was finished for the time being, Rafe took his opportunity. He didn't bother hiding his surprise.

“So you're telling me that, completely unintentionally, you've found what everyone in this world is looking for—and you're trying to turn your back on it?” When Marcos made no denial, Rafe assumed that he'd guessed right. His next words caught Marcos off guard. “Are you crazy?” Rafe demanded, stunned. For the life of him, now that he was so deeply in love himself, he couldn't see Marcos's problem. “Do you know how many people never find what you just stumbled onto?”

Marcos lifted his shoulders in a vague shrug and then dropped them.

“No,” he lied.

“A lot,” his older brother assured him. Rafe sighed, shaking his head. He would have never believed that Marcos could suddenly become so uncertain. “Just what is it that you're afraid of?”