Intimate Strangers Affair Read online

  “I wouldn’t be so certain about that, I may be of more assistance than you realize. You know that old saying ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief’? Well, maybe the same thing’s true about spies.”

  My mouth dropped. I couldn’t be more surprised if Claude suddenly started flapping his arms and fly around the room. “Are you saying you’re a spy? Like Papa?”

  Claude snorted. “Didn’t say that, I’m just your garden variety flimflam man. I just happen to get around a lot.” He winked.

  ***

  Claude was going to burst. Any moment now, he was going to pop right open at the umbilicus if he took another bite.

  Breakfast was long gone, and dinner almost over as we sat under the old black laurel tree on the bluff overlooking the bay. The remains of our picnic lay scattered around us, but my brother was still eating as if he had two hollow legs. He lay on his side, Alicia attentively peeling grapes for him.

  Claude took another, chewed, then heaved a long satisfied sigh. “This is life. Food, friends, and the company of a beautiful lady.” He winked at Alicia, who giggled. “It doesn’t get any better than this. Any more of that chicken?”

  “No. You already finished that off.” I couldn’t get too irritated with my brother right now. He was trying to needle me, but I wouldn’t let him. I was too full of warm sun, wine, and the presence of Miguel, who sat in his shirtsleeves and breeches next to me. I pretended to look through the hamper. “Hmmm. Looks like there’s a couple of hardboiled eggs left over. Want one?”

  Claude straightened up suddenly. “Uh, I’ll pass. But I’ll try something else. Let’s see.” He picked up a jar of blackish-brown spread. “What’s this? No one’s opened this one.”

  “That’s Papa’s Tapenado,” Alicia said. “No one eats it but him. It has those flat fish with the eyeballs.”

  “Anchovies?” I laughed.

  She nodded, making a face.

  “And what else?” I untied the string and removed the fabric cover from the jar. Yes, she was right. No exaggeration. Dozens of tiny unblinking eyes stared up at me. It was creepy, and I doubted that this tasted like chicken. I sniffed cautiously. “Capers, oil, and…what are those brown things?”

  “Mushrooms,” Miguel explained, doggedly peeling another of my eggs.

  I laid my hand over his and shook my head. “You don’t have to,” I said in an undertone. Even I couldn’t finish mine.

  “But I like them,” he replied seriously. I thought I caught a glimmer in his eye, but I wasn’t sure.

  “You like them? No offense, Miguel, but there’s only two explanations. Either you’re certifiably crazy, or you must be in love. Hard to tell which. In fact, it’s probably all the same thing when you think about it. Sure hope it’s not contagious.” Claude dipped a finger in the Tapenado and licked it. He nodded. “Not bad. Reminds me of those hot Catalonian nights and…what was her name? Helena. Ángel, they called her.”

  “A real angel?” Alicia asked, her eyes big and shiny. “I like angels. My mother is an angel, and she’s watching over me right now. Lin-Mei says so.”

  There was a pause when Claude’s eyes met mine. We waited for Miguel to say something, but he only ate his egg.

  So Claude cleared his throat. “Well, she wasn’t a real angel, darlin’, though everyone thought Helena was heavenly. And talented, exceedingly talented.”

  I frowned at my brother. “I think we can do without that particular story.”

  But Claude ignored me as usual. “She was something else. All the men thought so. Just exceptional. She could actually reach-”

  “Claude!” I hissed.

  “Three octaves.” He paused, his mouth in a perfect O of surprise, his eyes wide and innocent. “Why, sis? What did you think I was talking about? Helena was a top-notch singer. Made grown men cry. Just bust up and boohoo their little hearts out. Every night. Not a dry eye at the cantina.”

  “Which one?” Miguel asked.

  “The Running Bull,” my brother replied, his eyes sharpening suddenly. “Why? Do you know it?”

  Miguel shrugged, biting into his egg. “Sounds familiar. My men…they talk now and then.”

  “Hmm. Could be. Well, Alicia, we’re a team, remember? Ready to go pick those blackberries for Lin-Mei?” Claude stood up, taking his tin pail. He casually brushed the sand off his legs. “I think we should make this a little more interesting. How about a race? Winner takes all. Double or nothing.”

  “Yes.” Alicia grabbed Claude’s hand. “Let’s go, I know the good places. We don’t need Tio Ricardo, he’s still flying his kite.”

  “Is he? That’s dedicated. Every man needs a hobby. Take mine, for instance. Mine is the study of humankind. You can learn an awful lot by watching people. That’s the number one rule for gamblers like me. Just study the mark. Every man has his weakness, no one appears as he seems. Observation, darlin’. That’s the ticket. Now what about your father?”

  “Papa?” Alicia looked quizzical as if she were considering something impossible like flying a ship to the moon. “He never plays. He’s a great man, everyone says so.”

  “Well, that’s enough about hobbies. It’s blackberries right now. Remember that song I taught you? The one about the tattooed lady? Let’s run through that one again.” Singing to himself, Claude started walking over the dune with Alicia. They held hands, swinging their pails, her voice joining his.

  ***

  The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. I wasn’t sure any more who my brother was, or what he was talking about. Claude talked round and round like a tornado traveling at dizzying speeds. No matter how hard you ran after it, you never quite caught it. He always left me in the dust, so I was stuck with the same basic gamble: trust him or not. And I did, straight from the gut, even though my head couldn’t make any sense of him. He was my twin, my other half. How could I not trust him?

  Before dinner, we had divided up the work between us. So my irresponsible, suddenly turned responsible, brother was taking care of the major while I was taking care of Miguel. Or so I told myself.

  Right now, Miguel didn’t look like he needed any doctoring at all. He looked fine. More than fine in his open-necked white cambric shirt, which was tucked loosely in a pair of breeches. The heat flattened his curls. In one hand he carried a tin pail, picking blackberries with his usual quick competence. He hardly ever got scratched, or if the thorns caught him from time to time, he never complained.

  “Mi amor,” he said softly. He pointed to the bush, then to my pail as if reminding me of our task. He was the team leader in our blackberry picking contest, and he’d led us to a faraway thicket on Black Point, several dunes away from the bluff. Even at this distance, we had a great view of the entire bay. From the top of the hill, I could see everything from the Golden Gate to the Broadway wharf, where Cabrillo Shipping was headquartered. But view or no view, we must have walked two sweaty miles before we reached these particular bushes by a little creek.

  “Must you be so competitive? Let’s let Alicia and Claude win. I don’t care if they pick more blackberries than we do. Anyway, you’ve picked enough for both of us. How much jam can Lin-Mei make?”

  “A lot.”

  “Well, that’s fine. I don’t know why I’m doing this anyway. So much work for such awful fruit. I can’t stand blackberries, the seeds always stick in my teeth.” I was nursing a long nasty scratch on my forearm. I felt dusty, hot, and more than a little irritated.

  Miguel studied me. “These aren’t just any blackberries.” He picked a plump one and plopped it into my mouth. As soon as the berry hit my tongue, it burst apart into little pops of flavor like a firecracker that tasted darkly sweet. A little tart. My mouth puckered. The juice was still warm from the sun, and it ran over my lip and down my chin.

  Miguel wiped the stain with his thumb. His stare made me feel more uncomfortable by the second.

  “You know, Miguel, I’ve been thinking. Alicia has a beautiful voice. Have you ever thought abo
ut lessons? She’s talented. She must get that musicality from you since you play the cello and all that.”

  He looked at me as if I’d said nothing at all, his face carefully painfully blank. “From both sides. Her mother too,” he said at last.

  I waited for him to elaborate, but of course, he didn’t. He never did. “Alicia’s mother, your wife. I heard she’s dead. I’m sorry,” I added quickly. The man was more close-lipped than a clam. It was all so annoying. What was the big mystery? Life. Death. It touched everyone, nothing to be ashamed about. There were no pictures of her in the house, not even in Alicia’s bedroom. Poor child.

  “I…don’t speak of her.”

  Well, no kidding. Door closed, locked, and sealed. I can take a hint. Undaunted, I vowed to ask Lin-Mei later on. That was my best bet. And there was always Catherine to fall back on for additional information. Somehow or other, I’d find out.

  He set down his pail and stepped toward me.

  “Anyway, I hope you have come to your senses about tonight. You’re too sick to make that midnight meeting. You’re not going, right?”

  Miguel didn’t reply. He took another step, then two more.

  “Done for now? Yeah, it’s a little sparse here. Maybe we should be moving on, there aren’t too many berries. Why did you pick this spot anyway? Real out of the way and not too much fruit.”

  “I have my reasons,” he said huskily, staring at my lips. He was looking so closely at me that it almost seemed as if he peered through me like one of Roentgen’s newfangled x-ray machines. The scrutiny was unbearable.

  My mouth dried so that my tongue stuck to the inside of my cheek. I didn’t speak anymore; I couldn’t have said a single word even if I wanted to. All I could do was watch him approach me with his steady assured step, and the slight roll of his shoulders. What was he doing? His hands touched me, then his mouth. And suddenly, I no longer had any doubts about his intentions. He made them quite clear.

  “Miguel,” I murmured. “Not…”

  He moved more insistently in a clear “yes.” He pulled me down into the soft dune grass. We rolled, and there was a crush of bay leaves and wildflowers. Nothing had ever smelled sweeter. I thought I heard a creek laughing nearby, but it might have been me. That tickled. He moved differently. That did not. Definitely did not.

  “Now? Here?” My word came out like a gasp. “There’s no bed.”

  “Quietly, querida. Can you? You must.” He licked my lips, then lower at the blackberry stain. “Zarzamora,” he groaned, moving even lower, then relentlessly lower still. Shocked, I twisted, but his large strong hands held me there, open to him. And when his lips and tongue touched me, I forgot to feel shocked. I forgot everything else.

  He tormented me, licking and sucking, tasting and thrusting, just as he had done to my mouth. I was lost in a world of pure sensation. He then slid back up my body and took me into his arms, and I could feel his raging heat, his arms and chest muscles clenching, tightening, his erection a hard ridge against his pants pressing insistently against my softer flesh. There was nothing soft about his body, such a contrast to the sweet vulnerability of his dusky, pink lips, the beauty of his eyes beneath a tangle of lashes, his lovely, tousled curls lit red and gold in the sun. He looked down at the crests of my breasts rising beneath my camisole and corset. My breathing was labored and I imagined he could see the flutter of my heart, and the flow of my blood beneath my skin.

  “You are perfect, Nathalie,” he said softly, lowering his head to press kisses to my breasts, his mouth leaving an imprint on the straining fabric. “You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

  He undid my dress and quickly divested me of the rest of the garments and his own. He lowered me to the sand again, kissing the places where the corset had dug into my flesh. His eyes were half-closed with passion and longing. His hand seemed to tremble a little as he touched me there where I ached for him.

  “I want this to last forever,” he whispered, before he kissed my breasts, teasing, sucking, licking them into peaks with his ravishing mouth.

  I was crazy with wanting him and my release was thrashing upon me the moment he touched me with his wicked, clever fingers. He stared down at me in wonder. I tried to turn my head away, embarrassed that my need for him was so strong, my love was so very obvious.

  He caught my chin in his hand and forced me to look at him. “Don’t turn away from me, querida. It amazes me that you can feel so much. For me. You’re mine, Nathalie. You belong to me.” With those words, he thrust himself into my pliant flesh. One hard, glorious thrust and he was home. He whispered that I should trust him. Love him. No matter what.

  Slowly, he raised up onto his arms, his eyes smoldering. I watched him mesmerized. He was shaking. I drank in his handsome face, gasping as he filled me, filled my heart and my soul, knowing that he was seconds from his own completion. A few more wild deep, thrusts, and he went still, his eyes locking with mine.

  “Oh, Dios…Mon Dieu,” he sighed, the words wrung out of his throat in breathless gasps. He dropped his mouth to mine, letting me take his weight, kissing me so sweetly and whispering my name. “Nathalie…te amo…je t’aime…I love you.”

  “You belong to me, Miguel,” I whispered. “Always. Forever.”

  He slid off me and lifted one arm. I scooted closer, snuggling like a boat into dock. Smooth. Easy. A perfect fit. I rested my head against his chest and yawned. The combination of heat, Miguel, and our recent exertions hit me all at once. Drowsiness blanketed me. I could barely keep my eyes open at all.

  “Is this an official siesta? If it is, I like it. Great custom. So sensible. Sign me up for another.”

  “So soon? Maybe later.”

  “What?” I twisted my head and saw his self-satisfied smile, all superior and masculine. But somehow, I didn’t mind this time. After all, I had no cause for complaint. Smiling back, I yawned again.

  “You brought me here. Why?”

  My question seemed to surprise him. His brow lifted. “Should I…remind you?” His hand drifted over my back, hip, then lower. Maybe later was sooner than I’d expected. Much sooner. His touch left a trail of goose bumps along my skin.

  “No, that’s not what I meant. Is that all you can think about?” Trying to concentrate, I moved away from his questing hand. Pushed it aside. “This is a special place, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. Reaching over, he picked a strand of my hair and wrapped it around his finger.

  “Why?”

  His hand paused. “Mama brought me here…long ago. This was her magic patch. And her madre took her here when she was a little girl.”

  Inside I melted a little as I imagined a small Miguelito picking berries so many years ago in this same place: his blunt nose, just a little button then, maybe his cheeks still toddler-chubby, and that cleft in his chin would have been a perfect miniature. He had probably been very serious about it just like he was now. Serious about everything.

  “And you brought Alicia here?”

  “What?” He looked surprised. “No. Never.”

  “Well, why not? Don’t you want to carry on the tradition? She’s the next in line, isn’t she?”

  Miguel paused, looking away. The warmth had left his face so that it looked stoic and removed, less human somehow. Unnatural. It irked me.

  “She’s your daughter, but you practically ignore the child. You provide a good home, food, clothing, but she needs something more. She needs you. She’s starving for your attention.”

  “Nathalie.” He still avoided my gaze. For a long time he silently played with a lock of my hair. I wanted to hear his denial, an explanation, some reason for his behavior, but instead, I only heard his soft breaths, and the burbling of the creek. And in the sky hummed the bamboo strips, which flew like fringe from Ricardo’s centipede kite. It sounded alive. Charmed, I listened and waited patiently for Miguel to say something.

  Finally, when my patience was wearing thin, he murmured, “You would not understand.
”

  “Try me, I’m more mature than I look.”

  “No,” he said quietly. Stubborn to the core.

  Exasperated, I plopped my chin on to his chest. His breath hissed out. “Okay, whatever. Feel free to make your own mistakes. Be my guest.”

  His brow crinkled for a moment as he seemed to consider something. He hesitated, then offered, “There is more.”

  “I knew it.”

  “After my parents died, I ran away. The first time, I came here. This place. They could not find me. Not for two weeks.”

  “You were how old then? Only five? Same age as Alicia. How did you survive?”

  “On water and blackberries.”

  “Even if the seeds stuck between your teeth.”

  “Yes.”

  I thought about the man laying next to me, that strange mysterious man I was learning to love. My diagnostic dilemma. He wasn’t who I would have chosen; no woman in their right mind would pick someone so unmanageable.

  I leaned over so that our heads touched, temple to temple. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For telling me about that. I know that wasn’t easy for you to do.” And in an odd way, I felt more closer to him after listening to his story than after making love. I held him tighter. There was hope for him yet. Hope for both of us. “Miguel?”

  “Yes, querida.”

  “Tell me something.”

  He pulled back a little. “If I can,” he said cautiously.

  “You said a word. Zarza…Zarzamora. I’ve seen that word before. It was carved inside the glove box. Did you make that?”

  He nodded.

  “Thought so. Well, I’ve been wondering. What does zarzamora mean? Is that some place you’ve been? Some place exotic…you know, like Timbuktu or Zanzibar. Or maybe it’s the name of a goddess or a warrior princess.”

  His mouth quirked. “It’s Spanish.”

  “I knew it! A place in Spain. Where? Near the Bay of Biscay? Or further south? Castile? Cadiz? I’ve been to Cadiz.”

  “It’s a word, not a place.”

  “Oh.” I angled closer to him, curiosity chasing away the last of my sleepiness. I moved even closer until I was looking directly into his eyes. “Well, what is it?”