whether you want to admit it or not.”
A small gasp came from her mouth, but she didn’t pull away and she didn’t deny it. How could she when the proof was in front of her face? The proof was in that kiss and the way her body reacted to his.
Slowly, she moved her hand up and she placed a palm on his cheek. “I’m not the one you want, Duncan.” Sadness crept into her eyes again and it maddened him when things were going so well between them. He didn’t want to stop, and he didn’t want anything to get in his way.
“You are the one I want.” He hardly had to move and his lips would be against hers. Every breath she took tingled against his skin.
A sudden interruption on the portál ended the conversation.
“Here it is. I told you my special hot chocolate would be just the trick to warm you up from the inside out.” Lupe hustled across the patio stones and placed a serving tray in front of them. She handed each of them a huge, steaming mug.
“Lupe, this smells incredible.”
“It is!” She clapped her hands together once. “This recipe has been handed down for generations in my family. You will love it.”
“Thank you, Lupe. How’s he doing?”
“He’s asleep and looks peaceful for the first time in months.” She leaned over and kissed Duncan on the forehead. “Thanks to you, mijo.” She moved to Rebel and gave her a kiss as well. She smiled and for the first time tonight he saw the fatigue and the fear in her eyes. “Thank you, mijo. It’s time for bed for me. You two enjoy the evening.”
“Goodnight,” Rebel said.
Duncan watched her as she stared into the fireplace, cupping her hands around the mug of hot chocolate he already knew was a gift from the gods. “Somewhere along the way, Lupe’s family must have made a Mayan sacrifice to get that recipe.” He’d been drinking it since he was a child and it never ceased to impress him.
“What?” She frowned. “What?”
“Kidding.” He clinked his mug gently against hers. “It’s magical. The Mayans were the first to use chocolate and chili in their cooking.”
“This whole place is magical, Duncan.” Hesitation in her eyes, the stiffness in her posture indicated a level of discomfort he wanted to put at ease.
And he really wanted to kiss her.
Clearly there were events in her past that continued to haunt her in the present. If they were going to be friends, or anything else, he needed to know some of them. Patience had never been his way, but right now he knew it was the only way. The way he tended to plow right through things worked in some ways, but not now. Not with Rebel.
She blew on the steaming hot chocolate, and he noticed a tremor in her hands he’d not noticed before. Maybe he made her nervous or just talking about her past made her tense up.
“Want to talk about what happened earlier?”
Shy, she looked down at her mug and avoided the question for a few moments. Then she nodded, as if having come to a firm decision. The mug rattled against the table as she set it down and then turned to face him. “You deserve the truth. To know the truth about me and my family.”
“What, are you descended from a line of circus performers, or bank robbers or something?”
She gave a sad smile. “No. Much worse.”
“You have the plague?” Seriously? What could it be?
Tears sprang into her eyes, and he had to confront the fact there might be something seriously wrong he’d not been aware of. He dropped the attempt at humor. Obviously, now was not the right time for it. “Tell me what it is. Some things are best told straight out. Why don’t you try?”
After a few breaths, she looked at him and held his gaze. “My family has Huntington’s disease.”
Duncan closed his eyes, immediately feeling sadness for her and understanding her grief—her behavior now made perfect sense. Genetically, it was a death sentence. There was no getting around that. At least for some people.
“I’m so sorry, Rebel. Truly.” He leaned closer to her, intending her to see how serious he was. “But you can’t give up your life because of an illness that may or may not strike. Have you been tested?”
“No. I don’t need to, I know I have it.” She looked down, shamed. “I’ve begun to have symptoms.”
“What? How long has this been going on?” That thought sickened him. She was in the prime of her life, and they’d just met.
“It started in the last couple of days. Things like this have never happened to me before, so I’m certain it’s the Huntington’s.” She brushed away a tear that was making its way down her cheek.
“Tell me what your symptoms are. I’m not a genetic expert, but I know a bit about the disease.”
“Over the years, I’ve become one. I’ve got tremors in my hands, shortness of breath, headaches, and I’ve been losing control of my extremities.”
“How so?” He hadn’t seen anything unusual.
“The last few days I’ve been dropping things more than usual. Paperwork mostly, but I dropped the vial in my lap three times when I was preparing it for Rafael.”
“Have you checked your blood sugar? Simple things like dehydration and moving to a higher elevation can make you behave in ways your body isn’t accustomed to.” The panic in him started to settle down. “You haven’t been here long enough to have acclimated. I’m sure it’s something like that.”
“It’s not. It’s can’t be just that. I’m accustomed to traveling.” She picked up her mug again and avoided his gaze. “I appreciate you trying to help, but—”
“But nothing, Rebel!” Anger snapped inside him, and he had to rein it in. He normally didn’t have much of a temper, but when injustice occurred in front of him, his temper roared. “You can’t just sit here and say you’re giving up. Unless you’ve been tested, you can’t know you’re going to develop the full-blown illness.”
“Haven’t you ever just known something in your life? I mean, just known it down in your gut without anyone ever having to tell you?” She looked into her mug as if she were going back into her memories, seeing them now as if they were a movie in front of her eyes.
“Of course, everyone has. But I’ve also been wrong about some of those things too. That’s a sign you’re thinking with your emotions and not logic.” He’d been there and done that, in spades.
“Logic? Research shows a full fifty percent of people develop the disease. The pattern in my family is well over the fifty percent mark. So far, seventy-five percent. There were four children and three have died of it.”
“Rebel, you’re not interpreting the research properly. A full fifty percent of people then don’t develop any symptoms and go on to live beautiful lives.” He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated at her thinking process
