he was assigned a choice government position, he would be on a more equal footing, at least socially, with women such as Señora Fuentes. Who knew, without Miguel as a rival for Zita’s affections, she might consider him as potential husband material. What a delectable thought—having access to the lady’s millions, as well as having her in his bed every night.
“Querido, why are you keeping me waiting?” Zita called from the head of the stairs. “I thought you had to make only one phone call.”
Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed upstairs and into the welcoming arms of the luscious and naked widow.
Miguel stayed up past midnight, deliberately giving Señorita Blair enough time to eat, bathe and go to sleep. He did not want another confrontation with her tonight.
Standing outside the door to his bedroom suite, he hesitated, wondering if, when he went inside, he would find her asleep in his bed. Would she be curled up in the middle of the down mattress topper, sleeping like a little black kitten, purring softly as she breathed in and out, her breasts rising and falling with each heartbeat?
He could not continue doing this to himself. Yes, she was a highly desirable woman and yes, they would be together day and night, possibly for weeks. But an affair was out of the question.
Why was it out of the question?
She was a woman; he was a man. Neither of them was married or otherwise attached. Why shouldn’t they consider an affair?
Miguel opened the door quietly and eased into the semidark room. Only the moonlight floating through the double set of French doors on either side of the fireplace illuminated the sitting room. Scanning the area, halfway expecting to find her asleep on the sofa, he moved toward the bedroom when he did not see her.
The bedroom was slightly darker, but enough light came through the floor-to-ceiling windows for him to make his way into the room without tripping over anything. Within minutes his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he noted that his bed had been untouched, except for a missing pillow. As he made his way across the room, heading for the closet, he paused and searched for her. She lay on the chaise lounge, a cotton blanket covering her from the waist down, leaving her bare shoulders and neck visible.
Was she asleep? Should he call her name? Or should he do the wise thing and ignore her? But how did a red-blooded man ignore the fact that a scantily clad woman was in his bedroom, sleeping only a few feet away from him?
Miguel entered the closet, flipped on the overhead light, then closed the door halfway. After finding his robe, he searched through the highboy for a pair of pajamas. He owned several, but seldom wore them, preferring to sleep in the raw.
Chuckling silently to himself, he wondered what Señorita Blair would think if she woke in the morning to find him lying naked in his bed? Being an American woman who had probably been with many men, he doubted she would be the least bit shocked.
Just how many men had there been in Jennifer’s life? Two or three? A dozen? Two dozen? She looked young, no more than her late twenties, but American girls became sexually active in their teens, so it was possible that she’d had numerous lovers.
Why should he care how many lovers his make-believe fiancée had had? It wasn’t as if he was actually going to marry this woman, or that she would be the mother of his children.
After rifling through every drawer in the highboy, he finally found two pairs of pajamas, one set silk and one cotton. He chose the black silk, which had been a gift from a lady friend a number of years ago. He’d never worn them. Hurriedly, he removed his shoes and socks, then slipped out of his slacks and dress shirt. He laid them out for Ramona, who would take care of the items in the morning. Wearing only his black cotton briefs, he hung the robe and pajamas over his arm and walked back through the bedroom and into the bath, forcing himself not to glance toward the chaise.
If he were spending the night making love to his phony fiancée, he would take the time to shave. He possessed one of those heavy black beards that required him to shave twice a day if he didn’t want to go to bed with thick, prickly stubble, which women apparently hated. But tonight, he would be sleeping alone, as he did more often than not. Although he had known his fair share of women since reaching manhood, he had never been a Don Juan, and he had not indulged in what the Americans referred to as a one-night stand since his college days at Harvard.
Wearing the black silk pajamas and carrying the robe, he made his way back into the bedroom and went straight to his bed. While turning down the covers, he hazarded a quick glance toward the chaise. She had turned over, her back to him, and the cotton blanket lay on the floor beside her.
Don’t go over there, he cautioned himself. If she becomes chilly, she’ll wake, find the blanket and pull it up and over herself again.
But before he had finished the thought, he was halfway across the room. As he approached the chaise, he slowed his movements. Standing over her, he glanced down and wished he hadn’t. She had turned in her sleep and her lavender silk gown had ridden up and twisted around her, revealing her calves and lower thighs. The material stretched tightly across her hips and derriere. Nicely rounded hips and full, tight derriere. A perfect upside-down-heart-shaped butt.
Miguel swallowed.
Her short, curly hair shimmered a rich ebony against the white pillow beneath her head. Her lavender gown was cut low in the back, almost to her waist, giving him a view of her smooth, satiny skin. His fingers itched to reach out and touch her.
Whatever you do, do not touch her.
Leaning over, he picked up the cotton blanket, spread it out and laid it over her from bare feet to slender neck. She stirred and mumbled the moment the blanket came into contact with her skin. Her eyelashes fluttered.
He held his breath, praying she wouldn’t wake and find him standing over her. When she curled up in the blanket and sighed contentedly, he backed away from her, then practically ran to his bed. After crawling in and drawing the covers up over his chest, he lay there and stared up at the ceiling.
In the distance he heard St. Angela’s church bell announce one o’clock. It was already early morning and he had an incredibly busy day ahead. Instead of lying here with an erection thinking of Jennifer Blair, he should be sleeping. He would need his rest for the hectic schedule facing him, not only tomorrow, but in the weeks to come.
After tossing and turning for what seemed like forever, he sat up in bed, unbuttoned his pajama top and removed it. Lying back down, he settled against the cool, soft sheets. He liked the feel of his naked skin against the luxurious cotton. But despite being more comfortable half-naked, he remained awake, longing for sleep that wouldn’t come. Sometime after he heard the church bells strike twice, Miguel finally dozed off to sleep, his last thought of the woman lying only a few feet from him.
She woke before dawn and needed to go to the bathroom, but she didn’t want to traipse across the bedroom and risk waking Miguel. She lay there until she couldn’t wait a minute longer, then she tossed back the cotton blanket, slipped off the chaise and stood up on her bare feet. Tiptoeing across the room, she cast a quick glance at the large body lying sprawled in the middle of the king-size bed.
Ignore him. Pretend he isn’t there.
She rushed to the bathroom, closed the door as quietly as possible, then, without turning on a light, she felt her way to the commode. Afterward, she washed and dried her hands in the dark, feeling for the soap and the towel and finding them without knocking anything over and causing a disturbance.
As
