Intimate Strangers Affair Read online

  “Is there a problem? Do you have another…meeting?” I injected as much sarcasm as I could into the last word.

  “No. Cleared the rest of the day for you.”

  The rest of the day. My heart beat a little faster.

  I watched his fingers push the hammered gold buttons through the embroidered buttonholes of his black silk vest. Then it parted, hung open, and I could see the outline of his hard muscles underneath his crisp, pleated cambric shirt. He undid his tie so that it hung at the ends of his collar, then started to unfasten the first stud along the front of his shirt. Fabric gaped, revealing the V of his sternum, then a few dark brown chest hairs for the first time.

  My stomach dropped. I reminded myself of his reputation, but the reminder didn’t help very much. Get a grip, you’ve seen male bodies before. This is no different. But it was. It was all the difference in the world.

  “Well.” I turned around, suddenly feeling flustered. “Well,” I said again, sounding like an idiot but not being able to help myself, “do you have a dressing gown? Maybe you should use one.”

  “Whatever makes you comfortable,” he said quietly, throwing my words back at me. His footsteps padded across the room. The dressing room door opened. I heard the plop-thump of his patent leather shoes being toed-off and falling to the floor. Fabric rubbed together, then slid against skin. More footsteps, the mattress giving, the bedsprings creaking.

  I swallowed hard, then turned around to face him. Don Miguel wore a pine green robe. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, knees apart, so that the front of his gown was split open near the hem. His calves were firmly muscled, his feet long and well shaped. Undressed, he seemed even larger than ever to me. Overwhelmingly large, undeniably masculine.

  “It’s hot in here. Too hot. I’ll open a window.”

  “No. Sounds carry.”

  Sounds? What exactly did he think we were going to be doing?

  “Draw the drapes,” he said.

  “I like the sunlight.”

  “Privacy.”

  “I need good light. Otherwise…” I stopped, fumbling with my gloves. The loop closures were tightly fastened around the pearl buttons. I struggled more, feeling more wretched by the moment. Fashion be damned. I was ready to forget about manners and use my teeth on the loops, when Don Miguel spoke up.

  “Let me.”

  I extended my right hand. He deftly unfastened the first button, the second, a third. The glove parted for him, air brushing up my wrist and over my palm. I could feel the warm pads of his fingers work over mine as he finished off the remaining buttons. Then he gradually worked the ends of the fingertips, tugging here, then there. And slowly, the softest of kid leather slid over my fingers until my hand was bare in his.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  Temptation sat in front of me wrapped in a green robe, ready to be unwrapped. Don Miguel looked expectantly at me as if to say, “Your move.” But he seemed like a hunter who was ready with his next three moves, and only curiously gauging his prey.

  That prey was me. Me? That knowledge ruffled down my spine, then somewhere deeper through me, somehow pleasing me even as it infuriated me at the same time. I didn’t understand my reaction. I only knew that it was there. My hands fisted tight, then tighter until the pearl buttons on my discarded gloves dug into my palm.

  Temptation. Don’t touch. This is wrong, said a little shrill voice inside my head. No, insisted another more silky voice. This is right. For the first time, this is right. For the first time in your miserable life, don’t think about it. Just take what you want. Take it and run. “But I don’t know anything about you,” I said, half in protest, half thinking out loud, as I sat down at the head of his bed, a good three feet away from him. Three important feet. Distance was sanity. I put my gloves on the bedside table. “I don’t know you at all. Tell me about yourself.” There. Listen to your patient. The second rule of a good physician. I was on familiar ground again, felt a little better already. I looked encouragingly at him. “Go ahead.”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “That’s hard to believe, there’s always something to tell. Even about the lowliest peon working the land, and especially about a high someone like Don Miguel. I bet people think they know you, but they really don’t.” I watched his mouth pull at one corner, then smooth out again. Well, that was some reaction. Good. I pointed to the miniatures on the bedside table. “Who’s that? He looks like you. The shape of your face, and that same stone-dead serious expression, but you can see a little humor around his eyes. Who is he?”

  “My père. Rene Samuelle.”

  “The explorer? That Rene Samuelle?” Surprised, I looked at him. “I’ve read all his stories, they’re wonderful.”

  “They were written by my madre.”

  “No kidding, good for her. Too bad she never got the credit, but I suppose then she wouldn’t get published. And her family wouldn’t think it was proper, would they?” I could feel his silent waves of disapproval as I picked up the miniature of a young woman. A lace mantilla and wavy auburn hair framed her gamin face, which seemed full of life and mischief. Her green gaze sparkled with it. Not a quiet little señorita. Not at all. “Is this your mother?”

  “Yes. Anna Cabrillo.”

  “I remember reading about your father’s trip. He explored the Bering Strait, the Aleuts, then down through Alta California. Right to here, when it was still called Yerba Buena, before it changed to San Francisco. That’s when your parents must have met. The sailor and the señorita.”

  He nodded. “Mama knew the ranchero days were ending.”

  “Yes. Each ship brought more people. More people, less land. Less land, less cattle. So is that why your family started the shipping company?”

  “A small effort at first. Shipped our own tallow and hide, but Papa expanded the business.”

  “Cabrillo Shipping. Everyone’s heard of you. The Horn trade, even the Orient route. You’re one of the largest now.” I set the miniature down, carefully placing it so that it faced the one of his father. I liked the notion of them sitting side by side on the table. “So your father married into the Cabrillo family. And he took their name.”

  “No,” Don Miguel said quickly in a harsh soft tone. “We were always Samuelle. Always, until now. My uncle, the Don, died, then cousin Edmundo. When I became the Don, I changed my name. Had to. Duty.”

  “Oh, I see. No heir. Otherwise, the American courts would have taken everything away from your family. But don’t you have another cousin Ricardo?”

  Don Miguel’s face softened a little. A small sound escaped him as he nodded. “Ricardo. Si. Good-hearted but…not capable. It all fell to me.” He stuffed his hands into his dressing gown pockets, then gave a half-shrug.

  “So now you’re landlocked. Lots of responsibilities, I bet. That’s too bad. I saw you out there on the ship and I can tell that’s where you belong. That salt’s as much in your blood as it is in the sea. It’s part of you, your real home, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you get to sail much anymore.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Of course, it matters. But for once, I didn’t voice my opinion. Or my pity. I wanted to reach out and touch his hand just to signal I was there, but I didn’t. I just sat there. He wouldn’t have welcomed it. “Well, what would you like to know about me?”

  A little light flickered in his eyes. “I know.”

  That irritated me. Men. They look at a woman, and that’s all they need to know: vital statistics. It meant nothing at all about the woman, the real person inside her. But what else should I expect from Don “Juan” Miguel. My sympathy for him vanished like the dew on the grass. “You know me? Already. I see. Just like that! What can you possibly know about me? I’m not just a pair of big blue eyes. We hardly know each other. We’ve barely even spoken. You don’t know me at all.”

  His mouth pulled upwards as if he were amused by me, by the silliness of my question. “I know everything on my ship. Everything, niña.
When Madam Lefevre delivered, you stole warm bricks to keep the baby warm. Then you purged the first mate after he confronted you.”

  “Harassed me, you mean. It was for a good cause. Little Sophie would have died if we didn’t keep her warm. And that man was nasty, he deserved it. I’ve never used my blister beetle for such good purpose.”

  “Poor Domingo. Won’t touch Madeira ever again.”

  “Good. He drank too much anyway. It’s bad for him.”

  For a moment, Don Miguel looked like he might laugh, really laugh, but he didn’t. His lips only twitched a little before settling down again. “And you graduated from L’Ecole de Medicin, first in your class. Very impressive.”

  “For a woman, you mean.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “No, just impressive. The dean wanted to rank you lower. A woman first in their class? Impossible. But your professors refused and supported you. So you remained where you deserved. At the top.”

  “How do you know that? No one else outside of the faculty knows. Not even the students. Not even Major Moore knows…” I halted, suddenly unsure of how much more I should say, could say. I wondered if I had just blundered, because Don Miguel’s body seemed to tense up.

  “Major Moore. Ah.” He rested one palm over his belly. Rubbed a circle. “Our mutual acquaintance.”

  “Does he run you? Are you a spy? My father was from time to time. He was a sailor, in and out of port. Good cover for catching information and passing it on. But that’s all right, I won’t think badly of you. I don’t think it’s low dirty work. Well, not too dirty. Do you work for Moore?”

  “No. He relies on me.”

  “For what?”

  Don Miguel looked reprovingly at me as if I had just interrupted the middle of a fine elegant dinner with the most egregious burp.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

  He shook his head, his mouth tightening a little more. “No.”

  “Okay, wrong question. Sure, sure, I know better than that. But I will ask this one, and you better answer it. No holding back now. Come on, Don Miguel, you can trust me.”

  His eyes narrowed as if I suddenly pulled a gun on him, or perhaps even a veterinary syringe with a needle the size of a chopstick. He looked wary.

  “You must tell me. What is wrong with you?”

  For a long time, Don Miguel remained silent as if I had never asked him a question. He looked past me as though I had suddenly disappeared. I felt invisible, ignored, dismissed. I sat there, waiting patiently for him, but frankly, I was stumped. The man was as talkative as a rock. They never taught me how to diagnose rocks. I was a doctor, not a geologist. I stood up and walked slowly around the room. Sometimes closeness seemed too intimate and disturbed patients. Maybe giving him some distance would make him feel more comfortable. When I reached his chair halfway across the floor, I paused, resting my hand on top of his coat. This seemed like a reasonable safety zone; far, but not too far. I gently cleared my throat, but Don Miguel still stared at the far wall where the masks and a clock hung.

  So I asked again, “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m…fine,” was all he said.

  “You’re fine. I see. Is there anything troubling you at all? Tell me anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Nothing’s too silly.”

  He barely lifted one shoulder.

  “Major Moore said that you’d been sick lately. What have you noticed?”

  The clock quietly ticked like the steady pulse of the room. At least a minute passed before he said, “Nada.”

  “Nothing? Absolutely nothing? The major seems concerned about you. Maybe he’s just worrying too much. Maybe he’s not, and there’s some small way I can help you. What do you think is going on?”

  Again, he only shrugged, apparently unconcerned. Inwardly, I groaned. Men! They either pretended nothing was wrong when they were practically bleeding to death, or they moaned over the slightest paper cut. There was no middle ground. “Mind if I examine you?”

  “I said I would cooperate.”

  Cooperate? He called this cooperating? Ha! I’d hate to see him being uncooperative. “Perhaps you’d like someone to chaperone us. Your manservant?”

  “No.” His brows knit together. “No one must know, you must promise.”

  “Of course, it’s confidential. I would never tell anyone without your permission.”

  “Even Moore?”

  I bit my lip, hesitating. That was a harder promise to make. I thought of Claude and my responsibility to him versus a patient. But maybe that’s what I needed to do to gain Don Miguel’s trust. “All right, I mean, yes. Of course! Patient confidentiality, you know. Everything that passes between you and me, well, that’s secret. No one else should know. No one but you and me,” I finally said, trying to add a little starch to my tone. I hoped that I sounded indignant enough with just the right touch of confidence. It seemed to satisfy him, because he appeared to relent.

  He let me take his large hands, and now the touch of our skin, which had been so disturbing a moment ago, felt ordinary instead. I examined his palms. They were ringed with calluses, a scar, maybe from a slipped knife; the hands of a working man, not a noble with more time and money than good sense. Then I turned his hands over. Faint silver lines crossed the backs in exact even intervals.

  My breath sucked in at this evidence of deliberate cruelty. Someone had taken great care and pleasure in this work. “You were caned. At school?”

  “Yes,” he said blankly.

  “The Jesuits are very strict, aren’t they? Pain, they say, is one-step closer to godliness. Like the military or medical school, for that matter.”

  “I was a boy,” he replied softly as if that explained it all.

  “That’s no reason at all.”

  “After my parents died, the Don sent me there. I ran away and kept running.”

  “So they beat you. Repeatedly. Sure, sure. What a great way to persuade a kid. Lots of fun. Like you’d want to stay there so they could beat you some more. That makes sense, all the sense in the world.” I heard him make a small puff of laughter, and his hands relaxed in mine.

  Next, I examined his fingernails. They were well shaped like almonds, hard and smooth, without lines or pitting. No sign of scurvy or malnutrition. Then I pressed my fingers to his wrist bone. I counted out the beats while I watched the second-hand move around the clock. His pulse was slow and strong like an athlete, but then, it started to race. Sixty, eighty, ninety…too fast. I looked sharply at Don Miguel. His face seemed calm as always, lips unsmiling, not pursed to suck in more air. I looked lower. Above his breastbone, the skin fluttered like a leaf in the wind. What was going on?

  “Are you okay?”

  “No,” he said hoarsely.

  Alarm shot through me as I watched his pupils dilate and his breath quicken. “What is it? Where does it hurt?”

  His lips moved, but no sound came out. I leaned close so that I could hear him. No better. Air rasped through his mouth, but still no distinct words. I moved even closer until I could feel his quick hard breaths brush my ear. “What is it? Show me.”

  His hand scrambled across the bedclothes and caught mine. He pressed it under his dressing gown and against his chest so that I could feel the bounding bump of his heart.

  “There,” he groaned softly into my ear. “Right there.”

  His pulse accelerated triple time under my sweating palm. My God. Was his heart seizing? Try nitrate pills, then tincture of foxglove. Good thing I’d brought my medicines in the black bag.

  “Niña…” Suffering made his word shatter. His mouth worked, his eyes pleaded with me, his anguish made all the more terrible by his silence.

  It was horrible to see him this way, a proud quiet man reduced to asking for help. But pity was poor medicine. He needed more than that, and I needed to keep my mind clear, my feelings uninvolved. I had to do something quickly. “Yes. Right away.”

  I was about to get the medicine when his
arm suddenly wrapped around my shoulders and pulled fast, faster than lightning itself. I tumbled forward and landed breathless against his chest. My soft against his hard, curves against angles. His hands dove into my hair. My snood snagged and pins flew every which way as his fingers met and locked around the back of my head like he would never let me go. And then, his mouth seized mine.

  Have you ever fallen into fire? I did once. I was three years old then, and I remember the coals had been pretty, glowing like rubies. I’d reached over and tumbled into the fireplace. And I’d felt so hot, sizzling, then even hotter than whatever my nerves could register. Everything else had faded away, because at that moment I’d gone to some terrible wild place beyond feeling. Beyond words.

  And now I had fallen into the same fire again. That same feeling overwhelmed me as Don Miguel kissed me. A kiss? What was that? Some four-letter word. Silly, paltry, inadequate. It didn’t even begin to describe what he was doing, how he made me feel as his firm lips slid over mine, moving, coaxing, commanding. He drew me closer to him, to the fire, as he completely devoured me.

  And I kissed him back. Tentatively at first, then more boldly as I needed more, as he encouraged me with his growls to take and touch and taste. So this was his flavor: wine and spice and Miguel. I tasted some more, following the dance and retreat of his tongue, sometimes leading with a heat of my own. I was eager, curious. I admit it. I wanted this now, had wanted this from the very moment he had first ordered me below the hatch. I wanted to kiss all his arrogance and hurt away. It made absolutely no sense at all, but I could no more help myself than ash can turn back into wood.

  His kiss deepened, hardened, as his hands swept over me again and again, touching, provoking, stirring me to even higher degrees. How hot could I get? How hot could we? Just one touch here, a kiss there, and a lifetime of rules and reason burned away.

  During all this, he said nothing, but his mouth and hands said everything. They became more eloquent by the moment. I listened, lulled, until I felt cool air wash along my back. Air? What? How? It shocked me. I let go of his dressing gown and reached behind me. My hand groped, checked, found my dress unbuttoned, the back ties of my corset loosened. When did that happen? I pulled away, but his mouth followed mine. Then my thumb pressed on the corner of his mouth to break the suction between us, and his teeth scraped gently down my finger to my very sensitive tip. I groaned and heard him laugh throatily. It was that single sound of masculine triumph that extinguished the last embers of my passion.