The Bride Tamer (14 page)

Four months later
San Francisco, California

T
he clock on the landing struck midnight as Cash slammed the front door. Claws clicked on parquet flooring. Spot ran up barking.

“Shh.” Cash scratched the orange woolly head when the beast rushed him, his tail thumping wildly.

Cash felt drained from jet lag and the gala fund-raiser he'd finally managed to escape. Roger, however, was full of energy and determined to have one more for the road. The younger man raced ahead of him down the hall to the elaborate bar Cash kept in his dining room.

Impatient for his assistant to be gone, Cash unknotted his tie. From his bar came the sounds of the bar refrigerator door opening and closing, of ice clinking into a crystal glass, of a scotch bottle being opened—no doubt his good fifty-year-old stuff.

“Hey—this is great. Can I fix you something?” Roger called jovially.

“No thanks.” Cash yanked his tie through his collar and tossed it carelessly onto a French burlwood table. He shrugged out of his jacket and slung it onto the worn Aubusson carpet that had once graced the entrance of his grandmother's grand house in Martha's Vineyard.

Smiling, Roger emerged from the hall, drink in hand. “I couldn't believe how much you let our beautiful hostess clip you for tonight.”

Cash frowned. “I was tired I guess.”

“You couldn't tell it. You talked to everybody.”

Cash sighed. “Yes, I talked too much, laughed too much and damn sure drank too much.” He'd done all those things to excess lately to extinguish every thought and feeling he had about a certain unforgettable woman. “I have a helluva headache as a result.”

“When did you get in from Paris?”

“Yesterday. I got to the office before dawn.”

“The place sure was backed up.” Roger sipped, watching him. “So, tell me about Europe. The papers made it sound like you partied nonstop with those aristocratic friends whose estate you were redoing. Another one of Count Leopoldo's pads, right?”

Cash was stroking Spot behind the ears now, and the dog wore an expression of appreciative bliss. “You met him in Florence.”

“Oh, right. Every magazine that counts said your designs for his palace in the Alps were brilliant and his parties and cruises were A-list. Did you have any fun?”

“I missed Spot.”

Roger laughed. “The mutt doesn't have a spot on him.”

“He's a plain dog. He needs a plain name.”

Cash sighed.
Hell, he'd missed her. Most of all he'd missed her.
A scowl worked between his brows. “I thought you read all about what I did in Europe.”

“I read beautiful babes threw themselves at you.”

“What if I told you that was the most grueling part?”

Roger flashed his wide smile. “Damn. What I wouldn't give to change places with you. Except you can keep Spot.”

“So, you wouldn't believe me if I told you the parties and the women weren't any fun, that it's tough being chased when you don't want to be caught—even if the predators are gorgeous.”

“I need another drink to swallow that one.”

“Sometimes I'm not sure I can afford you.”

“You can. I do your books—remember?”

Remembering all the women, Cash leaned against a fluted column in utter exhaustion. Each woman had been younger and more energetic than the one before. Ever since Mexico, ever since
her,
he'd been afraid to stop running.

Roger returned with his drink, and stared at his boss and the orange dog looking up at him with dreamy brown eyes.

“My life feels like a merry-go-round of work, absurd social obligations and women,” Cash said.

“Poor little rich guy. What happened in Mexico? You went to that barbaric land to get a woman and you brought home that ugly mutt—”

Spot looked at Roger and moaned.

“Isabela was a mistake.”

“Before you went, you told me that any woman from your same class with the proper credentials would do.”

“I was a damn fool.” Passion for a woman who didn't want him gave Cash's tone an abraded edge.

Roger squinted at him over the top of his glass. “You met someone else?”

“I don't want to talk about her…er…it.” When he stopped petting Spot, the animal whined and licked his fingers.

“You let her go. Someone—inappropriate?”

“I said I don't—”

“You're still in love with her!” Roger observed.

“Finish your drink and get the hell out of here.”

“Aren't you going to do something about her?”

“Roger!” Cash rubbed his temples. “I have a raging headache. It's late, and I'm tired.” Cash went to the door and opened it.

Spot barked joyously and bounded outside. He ran up the hill and disappeared.

“Oh god.
You
were supposed to run—not him!”

“Will he come back?”

“More likely a few neighbors will show up complaining about his crimes first. He likes to turn trash cans over and send them rolling down the hills. Just go.”

Roger set his glass down on the burlwood table, shot him a wry smile, and walked out. But as soon as he was gone, Cash wished him back because without Spot or him, the house felt unbearably hollow.

Vivian didn't want him. How long would it take, how many women would it take, before he could forget her?

Eventually Spot would come back and bark when he wanted in, so it was no use going after him. Grabbing his tie and jacket, Cash slung them over his shoulder and headed up the staircase toward his bedroom. His five-story house had magnificent views of the Bay Bridge and Oakland. He'd bought the place for the views. Not that he cared about them now.

The phone rang, and his idiotic heart leaped at the memory of a naked redhead reflected in seven mirrors. Maybe… He raced up the stairs into his bedroom and lunged across his bed, knocking the phone to the floor as he grabbed the receiver.

“Has she called you yet?” whispered a surly, heavily accented male voice that sounded unpleasantly familiar despite a lousy connection.

“Who is this? Where are you?”

“Julio.”

A vise clamped around Cash's chest.

“Vivian's husband.”

“Ex-husband.”

“I told her to call you. Did she?”

“You sound drunk.”

Julio laughed bitterly. “So what if I am?
Soy em-bo-ra-chado.
So what?”

Cash rubbed his brow. “It's late.”

“Just call her,
bastardo.
”

“Is she in some kind of—”

Julio spit out her phone number. Not that Cash needed it. He'd called Isabela and endured an awkward conversation weeks earlier to get it.

The line went dead.

Cash told himself to ignore Julio's drunken gibes, but his caller ID revealed an unidentified caller had called him ten times today, and Julio's had come in as that of an unidentified caller.

Cash was in a panic as he dialed Vivian. Not that she answered. At this hour surely she was there. Like the other times when he'd called, her machine picked up, and he was forced to leave a message.

The French Quarter
New Orleans, Louisiana

Vivian was lying awake in the dark watching the oak branch scratch at the window and counting cracks in her ceiling. A friend of her uncle's had found her this charming one-bedroom apartment in a French colonial, one-story cottage. Not that it felt like home yet.

But it would. She just had to give it time. The windows reached the ground, and its front door opened directly onto a noisy sidewalk. A loud jazz band was playing at the corner bar. Revelers shouted at each other in the street. Not that the music was bothering her. She had much too much on her mind.

When the ringing of the phone shattered the early morning
stillness of her bedroom, Vivian sprang up and jammed a pillow over it, so it wouldn't wake Miguelito.

“Julio—I told you not to keep calling me—” When it rang again and she could still hear it, she stuffed another pillow on top of the other one.

Julio was driving her crazy with his calls at all hours. Somehow she had to make him understand he had no right to make her decisions. Finally, on the fourth ring her machine picked up.

When Cash's voice came on instead, she shuddered. Before she thought, she'd reached for the phone. Just touching the cool plastic receiver while he talked sent a tremor through her and made her feel connected to him.

She no longer noticed the trailing branch of the oak tree scratching the window or heard the strains of the jazz band. All she could do was strain to listen to Cash's huskily drawling voice.

When he finally slammed the phone down, she picked up the receiver and cradled it to her chest. Then she played his message again.

“Vivian? If you're there… Oh, hell… Julio said I should call.”

Julio—

“I know you're there. Pick up. Is there something I should know? Is something wrong? You don't need to send me those damn checks, you know. I'm worried about you. Call me.”

She pressed her fingertips against her mouth.

“Please call. I'm worried about you…and Miguelito.”

There was a long silence. Then he left several phone numbers before hanging up.

Wondering what to do, she wadded up her pillow and buried her face in it. It seemed hours before dawn.

The morning was a soft gray and smelled of rain. As soon as Miguelito went out into the courtyard to play underneath the oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, Vivian called Julio.

“Did
he
call you?” Julio demanded.

“Yes. I didn't answer.”

Julio cursed vividly.

“You shouldn't have called him,” she said. “I don't need a man to rescue me!”

“You're scared and pregnant.”

As if she didn't know.

She drew a deep breath. Okay, so she was scared. “I can do this, Julio. Smart, independent women aren't controlled by what they do in bed.”

“Then be run by this. If you don't tell Cash about the baby, I'll find a way to take Miguelito back to Mexico.”

Vivian caught her breath. “Just because I walked down the aisle with you, doesn't mean you can run my life forever.”

“Not forever,
querida.
Until you marry again and have a husband to take care of you and Miguelito…and the baby.”

“Women don't need men.”

“You damn sure got pregnant, didn't you? Twice. You didn't do that without a man.”

She lapsed into silence, pondering the mysteries of the body. The female body was powerful. It led a woman places that she wasn't sure she belonged. Why did she always have to suffer life-changing consequences for her impulsive behavior? Why could other people get away with things while her life had to take these crazy, unexpected turns? Cash had used a condom. He hadn't wanted a baby.

“Isabela shouldn't have told you, Julio. You had no right to call Cash. Why did you do that? You don't even like him.”

“You've got two days before I call him back and spell it out! Now, put Miguelito on the phone—”

“Don't you dare call Cash back.”

“Just get Miguelito. I don't want to talk to a crazy woman.”

“When you two are done, I want to talk to Isabela.”

“Claro, mi amor,”
he said huskily, blowing her a kiss.

When she gave Miguelito the phone, he said only a few words before ducking his head shyly and running out into the
courtyard, where he crouched behind the thick trunk of an oak and spoke to his father in a secretive, whispery voice. Watching him from the window, she grew edgier by the minute.

What was Julio telling the boy? Finally, he darted back inside, stared at her belly with big scared eyes and mumbled that
Tía
wanted to talk to her.

“What did your father tell you?”

“
Nada. Tía
wants to talk to you. Can I go?”

Though furious at Julio, Vivian smiled at her son. Her hands shook when she nodded and took the receiver.

“Isabela! For this, I forgave you for sending me and Miguelito away? For this I welcomed you into my little apartment when you stood at my door holding all those roses and weeping and begging my forgiveness? Guess what your brother did? He called Cash, and I think he just told Miguelito.”

“No, I forgave
you,
Vivi. I flew to New Orleans and found you. But only because the minute you left, the servants sulked so much that living in my own house was a new kind of hell.”

“You promised you weren't going to tell Julio.”

“It was an accident,
querida
…like your pregnancy. He gave me wine. He is my little brother. He tricked me, okay?”

“Not okay. He called Cash.”

“But, Vivi, Julio has a point. Cash is the father of your baby. We are all family.”

“Cash and I were only together one night.”

“So? You got pregnant. Leaving him was your decision, not his. I think he loves you.”

“I had my reasons.”

“Crazy
gringa
reasons.”

“This isn't Mexico. I want my own identity…an education. Up here women are people too.”

“Down here women are women and men are men. You
gringas
are too stubborn for your own good. You want to be independent when one of the most fantastic men you've ever met wants you?”

“He's too fantastic. I don't deserve him.”

“That is stupid. Down here, women tell the fathers of their children they are expecting.”

“If he had a choice, he would never marry a woman like me.”

“Why did you steal him from me…and then throw him away?”

“Look, I read about him in the major gossip magazines. I've seen dozens of shots of him at openings and galas with beautiful women on his arm, each girl lovelier and younger than the last.”