be wearing a toe tag in the morgue right now if Santiago hadn’t swooped in to the rescue. There weren’t many folk who would leap off their motorcycles—and, yes, she’d ogled the mint condition road bike, envied it and just for a teensy-tiny second imagined Santiago straddling it—all to come to the aid of a man who most of the world had forgotten about. There was definitely a heart somewhere underneath that big expanse of a chest that was working the plain black T-shirt he was wearing. She tipped her chin to the side as if it would help her see him in a white shirt. Yup! That would look nice, too. Caramel skin rocked all colors of the just-the-right-amount-of-tight T-shirt world.
“We got there in the end.” Santiago’s eyes didn’t leave her, one of his teeth dragging across his full lower lip in slow motion...just as it had earlier in the day when she’d been very obviously staring at his...er...attributes.
Stop staring at his lips. You are no longer in the kissing business.
Saoirse feigned a “whatever” eye roll just to pull her eyes away from his mouth and ended up stopping in midroll when his dark-lashed eyes caught her own with a teasing wink. He knew her game. She could feel it straight down to her tightly laced mental bodice.
“Saoirse’s name means liberty,” Amanda quipped, clearly feeling left out of the staring contest.
“And justice to all?” Santiago asked, his eyes taking a quick side trip to Amanda then straight back to Saoirse’s, all the while doing their jolly best to unnerve her.
For all the flaming rainbows in Ireland. Were those flecks of gold in his coffee-brown eyes? Nah... Had to be all the fairy lights laced around the walled patio’s palm trees. No one had gold flecks in their eyes. Except for tigers. And lions. Best leave the bears out of it because there was nothing grizzly about the man standing in front of her, waiting for a response to his clever quip.
“I told you. It’s Murphy. Murph if you get tired halfway through.”
She received a lightly arced eyebrow and a suggestion of a smile in response.
Why did everything they said to each other seem to have a sexy, satin-sheets connotation? She briskly turned to Amanda. “I need a drink. Shall I get you anything when I’m at the bar?”
“Same again.” Amanda wiggled her near-empty margarita glass, delighted to have a little me time with Mr. Luscious. Saoirse hesitated for a second. Happily married herself, Amanda had matchmaking down to a fine art. Especially given Saoirse’s...how to put this exactly...little bitty visa problem. The one she didn’t really want to think about ever but had to, given the high-speed tick-tock of that old life clock. Her advanced work-study degree to shift from NICU nurse to paramedic was running out and just thinking about heading back to Ireland turned her palms clammy.
Even so...she gave Santiago a sidelong glance. Poor mite. He wouldn’t know what had hit him. Give Amanda five minutes alone with a man and she would have the rest of his life planned out, whether he saw it coming or not.
Ping!
Mr. Luscious blinked.
Uh-oh.
Had they just done that connect-eyes, mind reading thing again?
“How ’bout I give you a hand? The crowd’s pretty wild in there.” Santiago turned to join her, much to Amanda’s delight.
“I’m all right, thanks.” Saoirse bristled. Talk about a rock and a hard place. She might be short but she wasn’t some helpless female who needed a big strong man to help her carry a couple of drinks. On the other hand, if she left him alone with Amanda it was highly likely they’d find themselves hand in hand on the beach, their bare feet being lapped by the waves as some new age minister united them in eternal marital harmony. She shrugged. This was pretty much a no-win situation. “Do what you like.”
“We’ll all come!” Amanda hooked her arms through each of theirs as if she were Dorothy and they were all going to gaily skip off on a grand adventure, conquering evil and learning some valuable lessons about themselves along the way.
The only delight at the end of this particular rainbow was going to be another margarita.
* * *
“Let’s just hope these were worth waiting for. Made by the man himself.” Santi handed over the icy goblet.
“Ángel?”
Saoirse’s smile broadened for the first time since her friend had made a flimsy excuse to go and speak with someone else. “Work matters.” He knew a setup when he saw one. Not that he minded. Saoirse was ticking a lot of boxes he hadn’t realized needed ticking: Unimpressed. Funny. Intelligent. Pixie-sexy. He’d never thought he had a type, but...the length of time it took to finish a margarita would be time well spent. And then he’d move on. Like he always did.
“Mad Ron,” Santiago corrected with gravitas, body blocking a couple of people trying to get to the bar so he could hand Saoirse her fresh drink.
He watched as she took the glass with a reverent nod.
A Mad Ron Margarita. He hadn’t had one for years. ’Twas a thing to be cherished.
She took a slow sip, closed her eyes, the thick goblet resting against the pink of her lower lip, and tipped her head back, visibly enjoying the sensation of the citrusy drink sliding down her throat. The tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips and added a bit of salt to the mix. Salsa music was pumping through the bar, but he was pretty sure he heard a little moan of pleasure vibrate along the length of her delicate throat. Halfway through the motion, he realized he had licked his own lips in response. He hooked a thumb in the belt buckle of his jeans and cleared his throat. Ojos de ángel.
“Someone looks like they needed a drink.”
“I’m not one to drown my sorrows,” Saoirse said with a hint of a prim edge to her voice, “but I am losing an amazing partner today.”
“Joe?” He stated the obvious, but scintillating comebacks were eluding him.
“The one and only.” She lifted up her glass to toast her invisible partner, who was no doubt holding court in one of the huge semicircular leather banquettes. “I presume that’s why you’re here.”
He gave a vague nod. “Joe mentioned the party when we were loading up Diego.” To Saoirse, but that made it public information, right?
She didn’t need to know he was psyching himself up to do some long overdue bridge building. Mad Ron’s wasn’t much more than a stone’s throw away from the family’s bodega and for some reason he’d gotten it into his head that a sighting of Saoirse would strengthen his resolve. Something—or someone—to strengthen the desire to stay in his hometown long enough to make amends. He’d flown back before—on leave—and not even made it this far. It was time he did more than drive by.
“What’s your story, then?” He needed to shift focus off of himself. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Yeah.” She scanned the room, a twist of anxiety tugging at the edges of her blue eyes. The girl didn’t give up information freely. Woman, rather. There wasn’t a curve on her he wasn’t itching to caress. But she didn’t seem the type for a cheap alleyway make-out session and he was the last person on earth to offer himself up as relationship material. All the more reason to keep his hands to himself.
