Nights of Passion: Mendez's Mistress / Bedded for the Italian's Pleasure / The Pregnancy Affair

Rachel swallowed. ‘I don’t think you should make fun of me,’ she protested, and Joe stifled a rueful laugh.

‘Oh, baby,’ he said. ‘I’m not making fun of you.’ He hesitated, and then continued roughly, ‘Myself, maybe. I’m the one who’s drowning here.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘You don’t have to flatter me.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Joe swore then. ‘I’m not flattering you, damn it.’ His hands dug into her knees for a moment and then he released her. ‘Hell, that ex-husband of yours did some number on you, didn’t he?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Rachel reached for the margarita again, needing the punch of the alcohol to steady her nerves.

‘Sure you do,’ said Joe, his expression sardonic. ‘But okay, we’ll play it your way. For the time being, at least.’

Thankfully, Henri returned to offer them menus, and then later to ask what they’d like for dinner, and for the next few minutes Rachel was able to pretend she wasn’t out of her depth. But she had to admit that Joe’s analogy had been apt—though she was the one who was drowning, not him.

Eventually, they were shown to a table by the windows. The lamplight was reflected in the glass and Rachel realised why the restaurant was called the Sea House. Their booth overlooked a rocky promontory, and discreetly placed lights illuminated the water below. There was no moon, but the restless waves lapping against the shoreline were distinctly audible.

She ate scallops with tempura vegetables, and an escalope of seared sea bass with a delicate truffle sauce. The food, as Joe had told her, was delicious, and despite her nerves Rachel found herself enjoying it.

Joe chose the wine, and if she’d reserved judgment about the margarita she had no such doubts about the smooth Chablis. It slid effortlessly down her throat, and she hardly noticed that the waiter refilled her glass several times throughout the meal. It was all wonderful, and unbelievably relaxed, and she was sorry when the time came for them to leave.

‘I’ve had such a good time,’ she said, regarding Joe with shining eyes. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

‘You could say you’ll accept my offer of the house on Biscayne Bay,’ Joe murmured, capturing her hand that was lying beside her plate. His thumb probed the sensitive veins on the inner side of her wrist before sliding down to caress her palm. ‘I really wish you would.’

Rachel sucked in a breath. ‘And what would you do?’

‘Me?’ Joe lifted her hand and rubbed his lips against her knuckles. ‘You don’t think I’m suggesting we should share the place, do you?’

Rachel hesitated, her stomach fluttering nervously. ‘You—you’re not?’

‘No.’ Joe regarded her over her quivering fingers. ‘I told you, I have a condo on Miami Beach. The house on Biscayne Bay has been in my family for years. My sister used to live there before she moved to Los Angeles. I never have.’

‘Oh!’ Rachel was nonplussed.

‘Does it make a difference?’

It shouldn’t have, really, but she couldn’t deny it did. If Daisy had to stay in the United States for a while, it would be so much better for her than living at the Park Plaza hotel.

‘Maybe,’ she said at last, withdrawing her hand as Joe got to his feet. ‘Can I think about it?’

Joe shrugged, but Henri Libre was at his elbow, and he didn’t say anything more until they were outside the building. Then, as the valet went to get his car, he bent his lips to her ear. ‘Why don’t I show you the place? It might help you make up your mind.’

A particularly strong breeze caused Rachel to sway a little, and she wasn’t sure if it was the wind or the amount of wine she’d consumed that made her feel so unsteady suddenly. But when Joe stepped closer, and slipped a protective arm around her waist, she knew she didn’t want the evening to end.

‘Yes,’ she said, barely audibly, and wondered exactly what she was agreeing to.

The valet reappeared with Joe’s car, and after brief farewells they were on their way. It was quite late; after midnight, Rachel guessed—but there was still plenty of traffic on the main highway.

She leaned her head back against the soft leather squabs and closed her eyes for a moment. It had been a wonderful evening, she thought, guiltily aware that she’d only thought of her daughter very fleetingly. But it was so long since she’d allowed herself any real indulgence whatsoever.

An awareness that the sound of the traffic was fading caused her to open her eyes again, and they widened in dismay when she realised they were heading in the wrong direction. She was sure they’d driven south from Palm Cove, and they were still driving south, with the lights of the city behind them.

She was about to voice her concerns when Joe took the offramp into a residential suburb. Here the streets were quieter, even deserted at times. Houses sheltered behind iron gates and high stone walls that were overhung with vines and bougainvillea. Some of the roads were lined with trees, palms and live oaks, the scents of night-blooming stocks mingling with the tang of the sea. Their exotic fragrance invaded the car, a heady mix of salt and sweetness.

‘Where are we?’ she exclaimed, not exactly worried, but not exactly relaxed either. She was sure this wasn’t the way back to her hotel.

‘We’re in Coral Gables,’ replied Joe casually as they negotiated a cross street where the signs were predominantly Spanish. ‘It’s an attractive neighbourhood. In actual fact, it considers itself a separate city within the Greater Miami area.’

Rachel licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘And we’re here because …?’ Though she suspected she already knew.

‘You said you’d let me show you the house we were discussing earlier,’ said Joe, glancing her way. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not much farther.’

Rachel let out a nervous breath as they turned onto a yet narrower road. She glimpsed a sign that read Viejo Avenida,which she thought meant Old Avenue. But the headlights were already illuminating wooden gates ahead, bright with scarlet hibiscus.

‘This is it,’ said Joe, and as if by magic the gates opened to allow them through. ‘Don’t be put off by all this vegetation. If it bothers you, I’ll have Ramon cut it back.’

‘Oh, no.’

The involuntary denial was out before she could prevent it. But although she couldn’t yet see much of the house, Rachel thought the gardens were a delight. The headlights swept over an old banyan tree guarding what appeared to be a stone fountain; the fountain gleamed with lichen, a stone angel pouring water from a stone urn.

The drive was enclosed by kudzu and oleander, and a covered porch was cloaked with flowering vines. Rachel saw this before Joe doused his headlights, and in the shadows she saw him looking at her now.

‘Would you care to see inside?’

CHAPTER TWELVE

HOW could she refuse?

Besides, sitting here in the darkness, she felt far more aware of him than she would be in the house. ‘If you like,’ she said, trying to sound casual. She pushed open the door and got out into the almost total blackness. The air seemed marginally cooler here.

How far away was the sea?

She heard the gates close behind them, and guessed Joe had used whatever instrument had opened them on their arrival to complete the task. Evidently her hope that Ramon, whoever he was, had opened them at their approach was wishful thinking. There were no lights that she could see anywhere. Joe even produced a flashlight to guide them to the front door.

He handed the torch to her as he found the key, and the door swung inward. Half expecting a draught of musty air—usual when a house had been unoccupied for a while—Rachel was pleasantly surprised when the air inside seemed relatively fresh. Scented, even, she thought, smelling verbena. Someone looked after the place. As Joe Mendoza was the owner, what else could she have expected?

Nevertheless, it was quite a relief when Joe found the switch and the interior was suddenly illuminated. She turned off the flashlight as Joe closed the door behind them, her breath catching in her throat at the beauty of her surroundings.

The house was old. That was obvious. Probably built in the twenties, she suspected, and extravagantly designed accordingly. An Italian-marble tiled foyer gave access to a handful of rooms, all elegantly furnished from what Rachel could see. Lots of rich wood and fine leather; Tiffany lamps gleaming in the reflected light from the hall.

The walls of the hall were panelled in pale oak, and boasted a gallery of art-nouveau paintings that she guessed were worth a small fortune. A staircase that folded back on itself climbed the far wall, a stained-glass window at the first landing highlighted by a Venetian glass chandelier.

‘Welcome to Bahia Mar,’ said Joe lightly. ‘As you’ve probably guessed, the house backs onto the water.’

Rachel took a breath. ‘I thought I could smell the sea.’

‘Yeah. Well, one of the waterways that runs into the bay,’ agreed Joe, glancing about him. ‘Let’s go into the living room. I’ll switch on the outside lights for you to see the garden.’

Beyond French doors, a paved terrace looked inviting. Chairs and loungers were set around a table, whose canvas awning was securely tied against the wind. Rachel noticed how the bushes surrounding the terrace were bending in the current of air that blew off the water. Joe slid the door back only wide enough for them to step outside.