“Me and a one-eyed, foul-breathed Portuguese. He was a pumper on the tanker I shipped out on the summer before my senior year in high school.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say Joachim didn’t appreciate smart-assed kids pointing out he hadn’t grounded himself before opening the feed nozzle. Now...”
His hands cupped her butt and scooted her up a few inches.
“Let’s get back to more important matters.”
* * *
Zia hadn’t planned to zone out. Grabbing twenty or thirty minutes to recharge in the residents’ lounge had pretty much become a way of life. All she’d intended was a brief catnap between the sheets with her head nestled in the warm angle between Brennan’s neck and shoulder. So when she blinked awake to a blaze of sunlight spilling through the wide windows she gave a small yelp.
“Oh, no!”
She jerked upright and pushed her hair out of her eyes. A quick glance around confirmed her hazy impressions from last night. The flooring was wide oak planking polished to a rich sheen. One wall did sport a collection of framed, poster-size photographs of oceangoing vessels. And she huddled amid a welter of silky cotton sheets topped by a cloud-soft suede cover. Naked. With what felt like a good-size patch of beard burn on her left cheek.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! She was an adult. Responsible and unattached. She had no reason to feel guilty or uncomfortable about explaining a whisker scrape to her family. Or the fact that she’d spent the night with an interesting, attractive man.
A man who evidently knew his way around a kitchen. She discovered that after she’d made a trip to the bathroom, scrambled into her clothes and followed the scent of frying bacon. Mike had a small feast laid out on a glass-topped breakfast table with a breath-knocking view of the Gulf. Her surprised glance slid over the juice, sliced melon and basket of croissants to lock on a tall carafe.
With a melodramatic groan, she made her presence known. “Please tell me that’s coffee,” she begged, nodding to the carafe.
Mike angled around, spatula in hand, and grinned. “It is. Help yourself.”
She did, but one sip had her gasping. “Good Lord!”
“Too strong?”
“Strong doesn’t begin to describe it. This makes the black tar in the resident’s lounge taste good by comparison.”
“Sorry. I try to remember not everyone likes navy swill. Guess I didn’t water it down enough. Why don’t you run another pot?”
“That’s okay. I’ll just doctor this one.”
Several ounces of milk and two heaping spoons of sugar made the coffee marginally more palatable. Sipping cautiously, Zia leaned her hip against the marble-topped island and watched the man work. She couldn’t help noting how his faded University of Texas T-shirt molded his broad shoulders and his chestnut hair showed glints of dark red in the morning sunlight. She also noticed that he wielded the spatula with easy confidence.
The bacon cooked, he drained the grease and swiped the pan with paper towels before offering her a choice. “I’ve got the makings for a Spanish omelet and French toast. We can do either or both.”
“You don’t need to go to all that trouble. I’m fine with just coffee and a roll.”
“I’m not,” he countered, a smile in those sexy green eyes. “We burned up the calories last night. I need sustenance. So...omelet or French toast or both?”
“Omelet. Please.”
Zia settled onto one of the stools lined up at the island, a little surprised she didn’t feel even a trace of morning-after awkwardness. Not that the absence should surprise her. Mike Brennan had proved an easy, attentive companion at dinner last night. She’d opened up to him about doubts and worries she hadn’t even shared with Dom yet.
Which reminded her...
She’d carried her purse into the kitchen with her. She fished out her cell phone, so glad she’d sent that text last night so Dom wouldn’t have the police out searching for her maimed and mutilated body. She skimmed over the list of messages and saved them to be read later before sending a brief text saying she’d be home soon. That done, she refilled her coffee cup and watched a master at work.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked, marveling at his chopping, browning and omelet-flipping skills.
“That one-eyed Portuguese I told you about? Joachim Caldero? He pulled doubled duty as pumper and cook. Bastard jumped ship in Venezuela. Since I was the junior crew dog aboard, the captain stuck me with galley duty.” He slid the first omelet onto a plate and poured the remaining egg mixture into the frying pan. “It was either dish up canned pork and beans all the way back to Galveston or teach myself a few basic skills.”
She admired the perfect half oval. “Looks like you learned more than the basics.”
“I added to my repertoire over the years,” he admitted with a shrug. “My ex-wife wasn’t into cooking.”
Or anything else that didn’t involve exclusive spas and high-end boutiques. Mike didn’t look back often. Nor did he wallow in regrets. But as he added diced peppers and onions to the second omelet, he had to force the memory of his soured marriage out of his head. The outing took surprisingly little effort with this stunning, dark-haired beauty watching him with admiring eyes. Playing to his audience, he flipped the omelet into a perfect crescent and let it firm before sliding it onto a plate.
“Bring your coffee,” he instructed as he added bacon strips to each plate and led the way to the breakfast table.
* * *
Mike already knew he wanted more time with Dr. Anastazia St. Sebastian. Arranging a follow-up assignation turned out to be a challenge, however.
“I need to spend time with my family,” she said when he proposed getting together later. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she added when the significance of the day failed to register with Mike.
“Oh, hell. So it is.”
No way he could duck the mandatory family gathering. With its dense Hispanic concentration, the four-block area of Houston where his grandmother lived still clung to the old ways. The entire Brennan clan would gather at her house this afternoon for food and games. Come dusk, they’d troop outside to watch the traditional posada. Local teenagers had been chosen to portray Mary and Joseph, and the whole parish would follow with lit candles and paper lanterns.
After the procession, it was back to his abuelita’s to hoist the star-shaped piñata. The seven-pointed star held all kinds of religious significance, most of which Mike had forgotten. There were devils in there. He remembered that much. They had to be beaten out with a stick, with the reward being the candy that showered down on shouting, squealing kids. After that came a feast of gargantuan proportions. Tamales, atole, buñuelos, and ponche—the potent hot drink brewed from spiced fruits.
Then the Irish portion of Mike’s heritage
