“You must be tired, querida.” Emilio rubbed her back with wide, circular motions.
“You should rest more and not do so much work on Miguel’s campaign. And now that he has a fiancée, you must allow her to take over the duties as his hostess.”
“What do you know about this woman, this Señorita Blair?”
Emilio shrugged. “Only that Miguel met her on his last trip to Miami and asked her to marry him.”
“It is not like Miguel to keep such important news from me.”
“Perhaps he wanted to wait to see if she would accept his proposal.”
“Hmm…perhaps.”
Emilio turned her around and urged her into movement. “Come to bed with me.”
She smiled at her husband. “And we will make love?”
“I would like nothing more, but if you are too tired—”
She stopped him with a kiss, one that quickly became passionate. His strong, smooth hands moved over her shoulders and across her heavy breasts. When he flicked her tight nipples with his thumbs, she moaned deep in her throat.
“Did I hurt you, my love?”
“No, no, you didn’t hurt me.”
Hand-in-hand, desire burning inside them, they rushed to their bedroom and closed the door. Within minutes, Dolores no longer thought about Miguel and his mysterious American fiancée or about Emilio’s late-night phone call from Roberto.
Josephina Esteban Santiago did not sleep well. Her arthritic hips often woke her in the night and once awake, her overactive brain would not allow her to fall peacefully back to sleep. Since she often woke several times during the night, she usually went to bed early and stayed in bed late. The financial support of a loving nephew afforded her certain luxuries in her old age. Not that she was impoverished. Her late husband had left her comfortable, but she had used a great deal of her money to send Juan to medical school. She was so proud of him, her brother’s only child, a boy she and her late husband Xavier had taken into their home shortly after his parents were killed in a car crash when he was nine.
As Josephina crept along the semidark hallway toward the kitchen, she thought she heard voices coming from the parlor. Surely not at this late hour. It was nearly midnight. But she paused and listened. Yes, that was Juan’s voice. She would recognize it anywhere. Not meaning to eavesdrop, she turned and continued toward the kitchen, but before she reached her destination, Juan called out to her.
“Is that you, Aunt Josephina?”
“Yes, dear. I am sorry to have bothered you. I am going to the kitchen to prepare some warm milk. That often helps me sleep.”
“I’ll come with you and we will drink warm milk together,” he told her as he came out of the parlor.
“You’re up rather late, aren’t you, dear?” She patted his cheek when he drew near enough for her to touch him. “Did Miguel’s dinner party last this long?”
“No, it actually ended a bit early,” Juan told her, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You heard me speaking on the telephone, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I heard you speaking to someone, but I couldn’t hear what you were saying.”
“I was on the phone with St. Augustine’s. I wanted to check on a patient whose condition greatly concerns me.”
“You are such a good man. Such a conscientious doctor.”
“You thought I was on the telephone with her, didn’t you?” A frown marred Juan’s handsome face. Handsome to her, although perhaps not to everyone. His wide, flat nose and high cheekbones revealed his mother’s Indian heritage, while his height had been inherited from the Esteban family, who could trace their roots all the way back to Spain. What her nephew lacked in good looks, he made up for in brains and talent.
“It is none of my business to whom you speak,” Josephina told him. “But you know how I feel about her. She is a woman betrothed to another man, yet she seeks you out time and again. If anyone discovers that—”
He grasped her hands in his and held tightly. “We are friends, Aunt Josephina. Only friends. She is very unhappy and needs to talk to someone she can trust. I am her doctor.”
“And she tells you she does not want to marry this man because she does not love him. What nonsense. In my day, we married for better reasons than love.”
“There is no better reason,” Juan said, a wistful tone to his voice.
“You may be only friends with her, but you love her, do you not?”
“Come along and let me prepare us both some warm milk.”
Josephina allowed him to change the subject momentarily as he led her into the kitchen and aided her in sitting at the table.
“If she does not marry this man, her family will disown her, especially if they discover she has feelings for you and learn that you are one of Miguel’s dearest friends.” Josephina cradled her stiff, aching hands in her lap. Arthritis was such a curse. “Have you told Miguel that you are friends with his sister?”
“His half-sister,” Juan corrected. “And no, I have not mentioned my friendship with Seina to Miguel. There is no love lost between Miguel and Cesar Fernandez’s family. Seina knows that Miguel is my friend. She has no animosity toward Miguel, not the way her brother and mother do.”
“Be careful, my dear boy, that Seina Fernandez does not use you in any way.”
“What are you implying?”
“As you say, there is no love lost between Miguel and his late father’s family. It is no secret that the Fernandez family support the reelection of Hector Padilla. If they could use you against Miguel, they would.”
“I would never allow that to happen.”
“I hope not. Miguel is a good friend and he is the people’s hope for the future of Mocorito.”
Roberto Aznar hung up the telephone and turned off the light. The lady waited for him. He would be a fool to leave her, not after such a warm invitation to stay the night, to share her bed. Perhaps she had made the offer only because she was angry with Miguel, but he was not a man who would turn down a beautiful woman just because she wished he were another man. The loving would be just as good for him regardless of who Zita Fuentes pretended was between her spread thighs. It wasn’t as if he would be betraying Miguel. After all, Zita and Miguel had not had even one date and now that Miguel had a phony fiancée ensconced in his home, in his bedroom, it was highly unlikely that Zita would forgive him, even if the truth about the American woman came to light. Besides, after the election, when he was assigned a choice government position, he would be on a more equal footing, at least socially, with women such as Señora Fuentes. Who knew, without Miguel as a rival for Zita’s affections, she might consider him as potential husband material. What a delectable thought—having access to the lady’s millions, as well as having her in his bed every night.
“Querido, why are you keeping me waiting?” Zita called from the head of the stairs. “I thought you had to make only one phone call.”
Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed upstairs and into the welcoming arms of the luscious and naked widow.
Miguel stayed up past midnight, deliberately giving Señorita Blair enough time to eat, bathe and go to sleep. He did not want another confrontation with her tonight.
Standing outside the door to