Reckless Kiss: A forbidden, billionaire romance (stand-alone) Read online

  “Good night, Irene, I was a child. I didn’t understand half of what everyone was talking about.”

  That sounds familiar.

  “Well, I did.” Ms. Irene nods at me. “Your grandmother married the rich one—who was your grandfather, I guess, since you have all the money.”

  “Oh, yeah, Deacon’s loaded.” Mindy gives my shoulder a playful shove.

  “But from what I understand, she never got over the other guy. What was his name?”

  “Pablo.” Miss Jessica holds up a finger. “No… That wasn’t it. Marco… No… Juan.”

  “Oh, sweet lord. I’d say she was getting dementia, but she’s always been that way with names.” Ms. Irene shakes her head. She leans forward and lowers her voice. “I never knew what his name was, but he was of the Mexican persuasion.”

  Her lips press together and she nods.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Holy shit. “Are you saying my grandmother left my grandfather for another man? A Mexican man?”

  “I don’t think she ever left him.” Ms. Irene’s blind eyes drift around my face. “I think she came here after things… went too far.”

  “Went too far?” I look at Mindy, who’s looking at me with raised eyebrows. “Does that mean…”

  “You know what it means!” Mindy stage-whispers. “Your grandmother was a ho.”

  “Melinda Claire Ray!” Miss Jessica swats her with the remaining three envelopes. “Kimberly was a wonderful girl. She just got a little mixed up. It happens.”

  Miss Jessica is an old maid, if I remember what Mindy told me. Still, I’m not interested in what she knows about love triangles. I’m wondering if this crazy story might be what has Angel’s brother so pissed at the Drings.

  I take Miss Jessica’s hand again. “Do you have any idea where I could find out the other man’s name?”

  “You have the letter.” She nods towards it. “I’m sorry that’s all I know.”

  Looking down at the faded ink on paper, I wonder if I can wait the two-and-a-half-hour drive home to read it… Nope.

  I’m not even sure I can wait to get to the parking lot.

  “Thank you for telling me this.” I stand, sliding the envelope into my pocket.

  Ms. Irene reaches for Mindy and slowly rises to her feet. She grasps my forearm. “I’m sorry if I upset you with that story.”

  “You didn’t.” I lean down to hug her carefully. “You actually might have helped me.”

  “Well, I hope so. I would never want to hurt anyone.”

  “I’d better get on back, but I’ll be here for the festival.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Come see us, will you?”

  Miss Jessica stands, holding my arm. “Don’t be too hard on your ancestors. They were human just like us.”

  “As in everybody makes mistakes?” I give her a wink.

  “Exactly.” Her tone reminds me of a school teacher, and we walk slowly to the exit. “Jesus said he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  “Don’t worry.” I give her a final hug. “I’m not planning to stone anybody.”

  I’m trying to get certain people to put down their rocks.

  “See you in a few weeks.” Mindy gives me a quick hug before guiding the ladies in the direction of the cafeteria.

  I dash out to my car, hopping inside and whipping out the envelope. The paper is yellowed and fragile, and the words are faded and written in an ancient, swirling script. Still, they’re legible.

  Dear Winona,

  I miss you so much, my dearest friend. Rogers is gone again. Each time his trips seem to last longer and longer. Brandt started kindergarten, and I find myself alone so much. I used to cry every day.

  It’s not like spending summers with you in Harristown. How I long for homemade peach ice cream and swimming in the lake, picking peaches off the trees and walking through the meadows…

  I scan over her descriptions down to a name that causes my breath to still.

  Manuel gave me chocolate with chili pepper yesterday. Isn’t that exotic? He brought me lilacs and yellow roses. You should see how beautiful they are together, and the scent…

  Manuel. Shit. Here it is. I skim through her descriptions of flowers and dresses and air conditioning until I get to the critical part.

  You have to help me, my dear, dear friend. I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I have to stay with you at least until the child is born and we know. What would I do if I were alone here, and everyone saw what I’d done. Rogers would be humiliated.

  I can make the journey in a month, and you can help me if the worst happens…

  My chest is tight as I finish the letter. It sounds like she came here to have her baby. Doing quick math in my head, if my father was in kindergarten, he was only five or six. Aunt Winnie is seven years younger than he is.

  Was this baby Manuel Treviño’s? I feel strongly the answer is yes, since I don’t know of any other aunts or uncles. If that’s the case, what happened to the baby? Where is it?

  Looking at the clock, it’s after one, and I need to rebook my hotel room. I can’t go back to Plano today. I have to find out what happened.

  12

  Angel

  “That’s not my best angle.” Winnie is beside me looking at the pictures I’ve taken using her digital camera.

  She’s wearing a fitted, dark green V-neck dress, and her hair is gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her makeup is subtle, emphasizing her blue eyes, and she has a light stain of plum on her lips.

  I think she’s stunning, and I flick the buttons on the back, changing the filters and dropping subtle yellows and pinks over the image. “My mother would have loved this camera.”

  “Your mother was a photographer?” Her voice is sharp. “You drew her with a camera.”

  “She was an artist. We lived in Mexico, at the foot of the Sierra Madre, and she would take pictures and blow them up and add paint to them. It was a unique style, similar to Georgia O’Keefe.”

  Winnie’s eyes narrow. “Why did you leave Mexico?”

  I shrug, looking around. “When she died, I came to live with my family.”

  “I see.” She straightens, walking away from me and going to the fireplace. “How about this?”

  Placing a hand on the mantle, she looks towards the windows. I raise the camera and take her photo from several different angles.

  “Not bad… I have one last idea. See what you think.” I lead her to the chair she was sitting in yesterday and have her turn in the same direction, facing the windows. “Shoulders back. Now let’s have this guy in your lap.”

  Reaching down, I pick up the white cat I noticed yesterday with the black legs and ring-striped tail.

  “What?” She laughs. “Boots?”

  “I think it adds a whimsical element that shows personality.”

  Her blue eyes narrow, but she cooperates. Again, I take several shots from different angles. When we’re done, I take them all to the laptop computer she provided and plug in the camera.

  “You’re very professional.” She says it like she expected me to be unprofessional, but I let it pass.

  “These are my favorites.” I bring up four images and she sits in the chair in front of the computer.

  “The deal was I would choose my favorite.”

  “I’m just helping find ones with good highlights. See in this one, your expression is more dramatic, the contrast of shadow and light—”

  “I’ll look at all of the images and tell you the one I like. You can wait in the hall for me to call you.”

  Hesitating a moment, I bite back all the things I really want to say to her right now. Clearing my throat, I nod. “I’ll take a look at those art supplies.”

  “Oh, yes. They’re just in the sitting room. Through that door.” She gestures to a door beside a bookcase.

  It leads to a smaller room filled with natural light shining through a wall of windows. “This would be the perfect place for me to pai
nt.”

  She doesn’t answer, and I see a plastic bag sitting on a desk. Going to it, I notice a fifty-dollar bill is also on the table beside it. Ignoring it, I pull out the tubes of oil paint. Turning them over, I study the labels. I’m more familiar with acrylics, but I’ve been studying tips and techniques for working with oil.

  Looking around this small but elegant room, I scan the titles of the leather-bound books on the shelf, Giant, True Grit, Texas Ranger…

  Everything in this house is massive and old. In addition to the two life-sized portraits in the grand hall, enormous paintings of cowboys and cattle drives hang in prominent locations throughout. I kind of love them for their color and energy and wild spirit.

  Winnie calls from the other room. “I’ve chosen one, Angela.”

  “Coming!” Grabbing the bag, I start for the door when a ping in my chest stops me.

  I remember Rosalía told me Deacon’s aunt likes to leave cash lying around to see if they will steal it. My jaw tightens, and I snatch up the fifty, carrying it straight to where she’s sitting at the laptop.

  “Let me see what you chose. Oh, I think you dropped some money.” I place the bill on the desk beside her computer, and she narrows her eyes at it.

  Taking the bill, she stands. “I’ll have Peter set up the easel in that room if you prefer it.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get started as soon as we sign the contract.”

  “It was a verbal agreement.”

  “I prefer to have it in writing.”

  Again her eyes narrow, and she goes to the door. I turn to the computer and see the photo on the screen. It’s the pose I arranged with her cat—my favorite pose, and it feels like a little victory.

  The canvas is bigger than I am, but I’m not intimidated. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and think of Spirit. The energy of that piece allows me to shake off the negativity of my subject and let the images to flow through me.

  Lifting the charcoal pencil, I begin. Some artists like to use a grid to work out life sized portraits, but I’m more comfortable using a sketch. Winnie wants it to match the more classical style of the original two works, but I saw her reaction to the portrait of my mother.

  That piece is anchored by the eyes and the face, and the rest is more spiritual, emotional. I start with Winnie’s eyes, glancing at the photo but also allowing my memory to guide me. As the face takes shape, they seem to take on life. My stomach warms, and I feel as if I’m looking into the eyes of my love.

  Perhaps there was a time when this woman wasn’t such a bitter old pill. It’s hard to imagine. Still, this shared feature makes me wonder if it could ever have been possible. Moving on, I start on her cheeks, the sweep of her hair.

  Time passes so quickly when I’m working, I barely even notice it’s after lunch until my stomach growls. I’m plotting out the room around her using blocks instead of details. We can decide on that later.

  “It’s after three.” Winnie’s voice causes me to inhale sharply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I assumed you’d be stopping for the day.”

  “It’s later than I thought.” Stepping back, I wipe the black off my fingers.

  “People always said I have my mother’s eyes.” She observes my sketch. “She was a very beautiful woman.”

  “I’m sure.” Lifting my pencil, I finish sketching out the surroundings.

  “You’ve captured the resemblance here.” She holds her hand towards the canvas. “I like it. You may continue.”

  Is that a compliment? I do my best not to act surprised. “I’ll start laying paint tomorrow.”

  “You work fast.”

  “Once I start painting, it’ll slow down.”

  Her eyes narrow, and she surveys me. “How much time will it take?”

  “Depends on the weather, but I expect a few weeks.”

  Her lips tighten, and she seems annoyed. “The article I read said a portrait should take fifty hours to complete. Why would you need longer than a week?”

  Why would you ask me how long it takes if you already know?

  I don’t say that.

  “I can’t work on it nonstop. When working with oils, you work in layers.” I really hate that she has me on the defense. I hate feeling like she’s accusing me of being lazy. “I’ll start with the darkest colors then add highlights on top. Each layer has to dry or it gets muddy—"

  “If you’d like to come over in the evenings to work, I will allow it.” She nods as if she’s the Queen of England passing down a decree.

  “I don’t know if that’ll make a difference.” Rubbing my forehead, I try to think. “I could start earlier in the day then take a break at lunch and return later. A fan would help.”

  “I’ll have a fan delivered in the morning. You can begin your revised schedule then.” She marches to the door as if problem solved, pausing before she leaves. “This is for you.” She places a white business-sized envelope on the end table.

  With a sigh, I collect my things. It’s not like I want to hang out in her mansion longer than I have to, but I would like to add this to my portfolio. On my way out, I pick up the envelope. Inside is the signed contract, with the correct numbers and what we agreed to do.

  I suppose it’s the yin to her yang. She’s a racist, bossy bitch, but at least she’s a woman of her word. Shaking my head, I’m on my way out when Rosalía meets me.

  “How’s it going?” She puts her hand on my arm, and we walk to her car together.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said she was the worst. I thought people like that only existed in the movies.”

  “I wish. Need a ride?”

  “Sure, thanks.” Beto’s house isn’t too far from the Dring estate, and Rosalía chats about her day polishing the silver and Winnie’s habit of counting everything afterwards.

  She pulls into the driveway, and I pause before getting out. “How can you do it every day?”

  “She pays me in cash, and at least she’s fair.”

  Pressing my lips together, I think about this. “Why does she pay you in cash?”

  “I think she thinks I’m illegal. She never asked for my social or anything.”

  Dropping my head against the headrest, I groan. “This woman!”

  Rosalía laughs, and we say goodnight. I climb out, walking to my brother’s home wondering how Deacon and I will ever merge these two worlds. It feels impossible.

  The burner phone vibrates and I pull it out to see a text from my guy. Staying over an extra day or two. Can I call you?

  Touching the number, I call instead of texting a reply.

  “Hey, beautiful. How was your Monday?” His rich voice warms my insides, and I want to thread my fingers in his hair, see the blue eyes that love me.

  “The Mondayest.” Instead of going into my brother’s house, I walk along the sidewalk that loops the lake.

  “Busy day at La Frida?”

  “Actually… I’m not working at the coffee shop anymore. Juliana took over my shift. I got a job… an art job.” God, I sound like Rosalía. “I’ve been commissioned to paint a portrait. It was kind of out of the blue, but—”

  “What?” I hear him smile, and in spite of it all, I smile. “That’s fucking amazing. Who are you painting? Tell me all about it.”

  He can’t see me wince. “Let’s talk about it when you get home. It’s a really neat opportunity, though. If it works out.”

  “It’ll work out. You’re the best.”

  This guy. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you.” I love hearing him say it.

  Maybe Lourdes is right, and I did make a deal with the devil… But I see little flickers of a bridge, and I want what Deacon wants. I want our families to like us. Or maybe I’m dreaming of somewhere over the rainbow. My mother did raise me to believe in dreams.

  “Why are you staying in Harristown? Is something wrong?”

  Now I hear him hesitate. “Maybe I should wait and tell you when I know more. At this point… I’m not
really sure.”

  “Sounds like we’re both keeping secrets.”

  “Fuck that. I hate secrets.” He’s growly, and I laugh. “Noel had this old letter… it was from my grandmother to her best friend who lived here a long time ago.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I need to find out more.” His voice grows quietly serious. “It might be the reason your brother is so angry at my family.”

  “Oh, Deacon…” My stomach tightens. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Too soon to tell.” He exhales heavily. “Either way, we’ve got to know what happened. I feel like I’m getting close to answers.”

  Nodding, I look up at my brother’s house, rising tall in the twilight. “I wish you were here.”

  “I’ll be there soon, Angel. Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  13

  Deacon

  “Is there anyone alive who might’ve worked at the hospital back then?” I’m back at Pine Hills in the activity room with Miss Jessica and Ms. Irene.

  They were both surprised to see me again, and when I explained the situation, they apparently already knew most of the story. My grandmother came here pregnant, and she left without a baby. The second part is the mystery. Neither woman knows, but neither one acts surprised either.

  Mindy is at the front desk, and we’ve been ordered not to say anything interesting until she gets back. I’m not waiting.

  “Is there a nurse or administrator who might have helped her?” I’m hoping against hope.

  Miss Jessica presses her lips into a straight line before shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help.”

  “Martha Landry.” Ms. Irene nods knowingly. “She was a candy striper, and she had the biggest mouth in our senior class.”

  “Martha Landry? I don’t remember her ever working at the hospital.” Miss Jessica looks at her friend confused.

  “She got kicked out after a year.” Ms. Irene flares her eyes. “She thought she was so cute in that uniform. From what I heard, the boys did, too.”