Marriage, Bravo Style!. Christine Rimmer

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СКАЧАТЬ the same row. One was her dad’s secretary’s car. One belonged to another Cabrera Construction employee.

      There was also a Mercedes she’d never seen before. It was low and lean and fast-looking. A beautiful silver bullet of a car.

      As she entered the building that her dad had owned for almost twenty years now, she thought how sad it was that he might actually sell out. She had memories here. Family memories. From back when her mom and dad were still together and so much in love it was kind of embarrassing.

      If she closed her eyes and listened real hard, she could almost hear her own happy laughter as she and Mercy played tag or hide-and-seek.

      “Tag, you’re it!” Mercy would crow in big-sister triumph.

      “No fair!” Elena would whine.

      “Is so!”

      “Papi, Mercy cheated….”

      “Don’t be such a baby.” Mercy would stick out her tongue. “Did not.”

      “Did so!”

      Elena opened her eyes. The memory of young voices receded. Yes, it was sad to think of someone else running the place, someone else’s children playing tag in the reception area.

      But then again, neither of Javier Cabrera’s daughters had shown any interest in following in his footsteps. Elena was a teacher, Mercy a vet. And there was no son. Her dad was close to sixty and he often complained that he was tired, ready to relax a little, maybe travel some, see the world.

      If this thing with Caleb’s friend panned out, her dad might get his chance for freedom. Too bad he no longer had her mom to share his retirement with.

      He really ought to get out more, Elena thought. He ought to try and meet someone. But he never did. He and her mom were over and done with. But they were true Catholics. They might be apart with no hope for a reconciliation, but there would be no one else for either of them.

      Really, it was kind of heartbreaking.

      But she shouldn’t think like that. Maybe they would surprise her, and each of them would end up happy with someone else.

      It could happen. Lately, even though she dreaded the thought of dealing with a stepmother or stepfather, she found herself wishing for one. Hadn’t her parents suffered enough? Elena thought so. They both ought to just move on….

      “Elena.” Marcella, who had been her dad’s secretary for as long as Elena could remember, smiled a greeting from behind the front desk.

      “Hi. Is my dad in back?”

      The secretary nodded and then tipped her big head of red hair toward the hallway that led to Javier’s private office and the drafting room. She pitched her voice low. “He’s with the buyer.” The buyer. So was the sale already made, then? “Is it all right if I go back, you think?”

      Marcella shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

      Elena hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything important. What if they’re in the middle of delicate negotiations?” And then she heard voices—her dad’s and another man’s.

      Marcella smiled again. “No problem. They’re coming out, anyway.”

      “Elena,” her dad said a moment later as he and another taller, younger man emerged from the hallway to the back rooms. Her dad gave her a warm, tired-looking smile.

      They’d come a long way from those first awful days when he’d learned that she wasn’t his natural daughter. There had been a time when he could hardly bear to look at her. He’d hated himself for that. But she’d never held it against him. She’d understood his pain. After all, she had lived through that same pain herself.

      And slowly, they’d become what they really were again. Father and daughter, blood tie or not.

      She went to him and he wrapped his strong arms around her. He smelled of everything safe and good in the world, like Old Spice aftershave and geraniums in the sun. “Papi,” she whispered. “I just thought I’d stop by.”

      “I’m glad.” He released her. She gazed up at him, thinking he looked so old, all of a sudden. The crow’s feet at the corners of his black eyes were etched so deep they seemed to make his whole face droop. Her dear Papi. Old. When had that happened? “Elena, this is Rogan Murdoch.”

      She turned to the other man, her gaze tracking up his broad, deep chest to a very Irish-looking face with green eyes and straight brows, full lips, a square jaw and a strong nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. He wasn’t handsome, exactly. But he was certainly compelling. And very…male.

      He smiled at her and took her hand. “Elena,” he said, as if he knew her already. As if he’d only been waiting for her to show up. Her throat felt dry. She gulped. Words completely eluded her. “Caleb’s mentioned you often.” His large, warm hand engulfed hers. She couldn’t breathe—or more precisely, she wasn’t breathing. She had to consciously suck in a breath and push it back out again. “We’re just going to lunch,” he said. “Why don’t you join us?”

      She eased her hand free of his. It seemed safer, somehow, not to be touching him. At the same time, she had the presence of mind to glance down, to check out his other hand.

      He had thick, strong fingers. And he wore no wedding band.

      She managed weakly, “I already ate, thanks.”

      “Come with us, anyway,” her dad said from behind her. “Have a cold drink, maybe a piece of pie.”

      “Well, I…”

      “Yeah. Please,” Rogan said, in his deep, rich, slightly rough voice that sent a lovely shiver racing under the surface of her skin. “Join us.”

      She couldn’t have said no if her life had depended on it.

      Chapter Two

      At lunch, Rogan sat across from Javier and his daughter. The restaurant was on the River Walk. They had a table out on the patio overlooking the water and the tour boats gliding past.

      But the best view was across the table from Rogan. He tried not to stare.

      The Cabrera girl was beautiful. Too beautiful. Mess-with-a-man’s-head beautiful.

      She had thick coffee-colored hair that fell around her slim shoulders in soft waves, hair shot through with strands of red and gold. It was the kind of hair that made a man’s fingers itch to touch it. And beyond all that amazing hair, she had golden brown eyes and a mouth made for kissing.

      And her skin. Soft. Velvety. Golden as the rest of her. Somehow, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off that dimple that appeared at the corner of her mouth when she smiled.

      Rogan was not a poetic man. But when he looked at Elena Cabrera, he heard poems in his head.

      It was an acute case of lust at first sight.

      And lust was fine. Lust was great. With somebody other than Javier Cabrera’s daughter. Somebody who didn’t СКАЧАТЬ