Her words seemed to amuse him, judging by his sexy laughter. He didn’t say a word, instead lifted the instrument into position and began to strum.
Bold music filled the air, and Julieta’s hips swayed to the music despite herself.
¡Ay, Dios mío! Was he playing “Abrázame” by Julio Iglesias? It was one of her favorite songs ever. Mamá had played that song over and over when she was a child.
The beautiful notes rang out from his seductive strings, and chills ran through Julieta’s spine as he opened his mouth and serenaded her.
Just like in that movie she’d loved as a child.
Her lips parted in response; a warm flush came over her body.
And there, under the San Diego moonlight, Julieta’s heart skipped a beat.
Maybe romancewasalive on the Day of the Dead.
Chapter Three
The words Ramón hadn’t sung in ages echoed through the night air. Sure, serenading a señorita on Day of the Dead while dressed as a mariachi was a bit cheesy, but the truth was that he loved playing the guitarrón. Especially for a beautiful woman.
Guau. The girl in the garden was breathtakingly gorgeous. She had a petite frame, dark iridescent skin, and magnetic energy. Her haunting espresso-colored eyes hypnotized him. Ramón had to force himself to stop staring at her fabulous cleavage. But her curves didn’t stop there. That ass was the kind that songs were written about. He could write one about her right now.
He studied her tattoos—a welcome change from the straitlaced women he normally dated. Maybe she had even more tattoos hidden underneath her clothes. Ramón would find out later tonight.
His body flooded with warmth. He didn’t give a damn that he was making a fool out of himself—it would all be worth it if this girl went home with him.
Make thatwhenshe went home with him.
The chica danced fluidly in time with the music and kept smiling at Ramón. Their eyes met—Ramón held her gaze and raised his brow. She blushed and turned away.
Yup, he had this in the bag.
Should he have picked a shorter song? Probably, but he had gone with a classic—one his father used to sing to his mother, back when they hadn’t despised each other. Papá had taught Ramón to play it years ago.
Ramón stared directly at the girl. She sang along with him, her voice sweet and soft.
Like an angel.
She knew the words? Impressive. Most girls he met didn’t know any of the old-school songs. His college sweetheart had hated mariachi music and had never come to his shows. She had always wanted him to sing pop songs to her in English, but Ramón believed that the lyrics sounded better in Spanish.
The final notes left his mouth, and Ramón placed his guitarrón down. He knelt, plucked a single red rose from the garden, and presented it to her. “Eres bella.”
Her hand brushed against her cheek.
O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!
“Gracias. Wow. You’re really talented. I love that song. I didn’t think anyone our age played the guitarrón. Where did you learn?”
“Well, my father taught me guitar, but I picked up the guitarrón at Stanford. I was in the student mariachi group there.”
Her pupils widened. “Stanford? You must be smart.”
Women like confident men—never downplay your abilities.He leaned into her and grinned. “I am. And you have great taste in music—that song is a favorite of mine. What’s your name, beautiful?”
The woman paused.
Uh-oh. Why was she hesitating? Probably because she didn’t want to tell some stranger in a dark garden her name.
She twirled a lock of her hair. “What’s yours?”
