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I blamed it on worry about Granda. For all his rallying, I could see he was barely clinging to life. I blamed it on the charade, the lies I was spouting every time I opened my mouth, the lie I was living. And most of all, I blamed it on the fact that in the morning I was going to have to face the only man I had ever loved, Marcus Whitehead, and it was going to be devastating.
But even though I was living a lie, it was another thing to lie to myself. As I lay on the comfortable bed, looking out at the inky black sky, I went over each worry and dismissed or explained them away in a futile effort to soothe myself. And each time, I came back to the one thing that I couldn’t explain.
Ian’s unexpected kiss. Ian the Wretch, the nasty bane of my existence, had kissed me. And it had started out like the kind of kiss Ian would give—hard and insulting and totally devoid of emotion.
But it had changed. The feel of his hand, soothing me, running down my back, the softening of his mouth against mine, the taste of him, dark and foreign and bewitching. And the way I had kissed him back.
Was I out of my mind? I had to have been. Because that kiss had been different than anything I had ever felt before. He could have had me on the floor beneath him in seconds if he’d wanted, and I’d spent my twenty-eight years carefully avoiding most sexual encounters. And yet, if he’d pushed it, he could have had it. Had me.
That would have shaken the very pillars of heaven, I thought grimly, rolling over in the bed. Marcus would have returned to find Bella in his brother’s bed—who would have guessed? And no one would ever know that it was the exiled Kitty who’d let herself be ravished.
Except it wouldn’t be like that with Ian, I knew that instinctively. He’d have no interest in a pliant partner, which was exactly what I was. And Ian would know immediately that I wasn’t Bella, who would be voracious, demanding what she wanted, taking it.
Sex with Ian was the last thing I was interested in. If he hadn’t kissed me, if I couldn’t still feel his mouth, the hard warmth of his body, the strength in his hands, then I wouldn’t even be thinking about it. Him. Damn him.
It was dawn before I finally drifted off to sleep, and then I only managed a few short hours before I was wide awake again, this time concentrating on the one thing I should be worrying about.
Marcus was coming. And I needed to be ready to face him.
It was another perfect day, the sky bright blue, and I wanted to laugh. Rainy days were few and far between in my memories of Mariposa, but I’d always assumed that had been revisionist history. Two perfect days in a row hardly made up a halcyon existence, but I somehow knew I was only going to get bright, sunny weather as long as I was here. I just wished I could relax and enjoy it.
Today I managed the full Bella on my face and hair, so that I looked perfect, from my skillfully arched brows to my pedicured toes in the high-heeled sandals. I dressed in silk slacks and a loose silk top—just the look for a life of leisure. I knew I was going to get dirty in a matter of hours, I thought gloomily, but first impressions were paramount. I’d made a few false steps yesterday, tiny ones, and I couldn’t afford to falter in front of Marcus.
I headed straight for the kitchens and coffee, only to find a cheerful-looking woman at the stove. I stumbled my way toward the dining room in a caffeine-deprived haze, only to halt in the doorway as a momentary panic sliced through me.
Marcus. Golden, beautiful Marcus was there, and for a moment I was a podgy, awkward sixteen-year-old, desperately in love.
“God, Bella-Beast, it’s not as if you haven’t seen him in a decade,” Ian drawled from the sideboard where he was pouring himself a cup of coffee. There was no sign of Mary Alice and her faithful shadow, for which I had to be grateful.
“Bella!” Marcus said, his rich voice full of warmth as he rose from the table. “Just ignore Ian—he’s jealous.”
“I always do,” I managed, quite proud of myself, only to falter a moment later when I realized Marcus meant to kiss me. I didn’t have time to duck, to prepare myself, before he pulled me into his arms and kissed me smack on the lips as he gave me an enthusiastic hug.
I was then held at arm’s length as he surveyed me, and I might almost have thought there was surprise in his eyes as they swept over me. “Beautiful as ever,” he said.
“Would you expect anything less?” Ian drawled. “You want coffee, Bella?”
“Yes, please,” I managed, wishing Marcus would stop looking at me. I wasn’t unaware of the irony of this—all my life I’d wish he’d really look at me. “Black,” I added, pulling out of Marcus’s hold with a shaky little laugh. And then my inner demon made me add, “You’re as beautiful as ever yourself, Marcus.”
Ian made a disgusted sound as Marcus beamed. But it was nothing but the truth. He was a shade shorter than Ian’s lean length, but he was much wider, with broad shoulders and chest, blond hair swept back, beautiful blue eyes and a granite jaw. He was Prince Charming or a Greek God, take your pick, and I waited for my heart to quicken.
It didn’t. I looked at him, surveying him as he’d surveyed me, and waited for the old attraction to sweep over me. How could it not, when a man looked like that, and he was staring at me as if I were a T-bone steak?
Whose idea had the break-up been? Who was I kidding—of course it had been Bella’s idea. No one ever said no to Bella, at least no man in his right mind.
But I was prepared now, grateful for an impartial providence that made me momentarily resistant to Marcus’s golden glory. It would probably wash over me once I had coffee, but for now, too much was crowding my mind with not enough caffeine.
The sideboard was piled high with food and I was famished. By the time I filled my plate with eggs and tostadas, jambon, and crispy churros, I was ready to start drooling, and I sat down where Ian had placed my coffee, only to find he was between me and Marcus. Just as well, I thought, though proximity to Ian wasn’t much safer.
Ian surveyed my plate with amusement. “Where’s the dry toast you usually favor?” he said. “Have to keep that girlish figure, don’t you?”
They’d all teased my appetite when we’d been teenagers, and I could feel a tell-tale flush starting. Defiantly I speared a sausage and took a healthy bite. “I decided I was too skinny,” I replied in a silken voice.
“And you used to be a firm believer that one can’t be too tanned, too skinny, or too rich. As a matter of fact, you’re looking a little less leathery today. I imagine you’ll be spending the day at the pool trying to turn yourself bronze.” It was the trace of a question, but I didn’t answer it.
“Remember you haven’t seen me in five years,” I said blithely. “A woman can change.”
“And that’s the first time I’ve heard you refer to yourself as a woman, not a girl,” Ian continued. “Has my Bella-Beast grown up?”
