Santa Rosa, El Tigre—South America
THE BLONDE STRODE into the cantina as if she owned the joint, instantly snagging Finn Kavanagh’s attention. The afternoon had been laden with impulses and he congratulated himself on following the one that had brought him here.
He’d only arrived in the capital city of this tiny South American country some forty-five minutes ago. After the usual long day of travel frustrations, he’d fully intended to head straight to the hostel that a Kavanagh Construction vendor had recommended. But when the always-in-motion network of overhead gondolas caught his attention, he’d hitched his backpack over one shoulder and tracked down the nearest Metrocable station instead.
As he’d ridden toward the crest of the crazy-steep hill to the north, he’d enjoyed the hell out of the bird’s-eye view of the sprawling, bustling city in the valley below. Mountain views from every angle and a river that cleaved the town in two took an already amazing vista and turned it into something flat-out spectacular, sending him reaching for his camera. The higher the gondola had risen on its steep climb to the destination station, however, the more run-down the area below had become. Shanties stood cheek-to-jowl on the flats and if the patchwork roofs were anything to go by, the places were made from whatever materials the dweller could scrounge. More rickety dwellings supported by fragile-looking stilts rose out of the verdant green foliage of the hillside. From Finn’s overhead perspective, the area looked big-time poverty-stricken.
The woman who pushed through the door, on the other hand, looked like a million bucks. He frowned, because that wasn’t quite right. The vibe she projected wasn’t even close to rich girl. But she was sure as hell easy on the eyes.
Real easy.
Not that he could put an exact finger on what it was about her that so captured his attention. She was pretty, yes, but not at all his usual type. Okay, he didn’t really have a type. But he could honestly say he’d never gone for the punk girls.
And this chick was definitely that, with those sleek blond sidewalls and the longer, shaggier top that ended in bangs bisecting her eyebrows in edgy points. It was far from a look he was ordinarily drawn to, yet something about her was setting off serious sparkage.
And he honest-to-God didn’t understand why.
She was a medium-tall, blue-eyed blonde but, hell, he was thirty-four years old; he’d met an abundance of those. He couldn’t claim to have seen many blondes since arriving in this part of the world, but then he’d been here less than an hour. They held no novelty in Seattle, however, the city he’d called home since birth. And while she had a fine body, again it wasn’t Vegas-showgirl material.
Maybe it was the energy she projected so strongly that it practically generated a red aura around her. Or her general vibe, which hinted she not only knew the score, but had maybe even invented it. Hey, a man could hardly ask for more than that, right? Sipping the cold brew he’d ordered, he lounged back in his chair and watched as she strode up to the bar. He made no bones about eavesdropping when she ordered up a drink.
Not that it did him a helluva lot of good. She spoke in liquid, rapid-fire Spanish.
Okay, language barrier. That was kind of deflating. He didn’t know why he’d gotten the impression she was American. Maybe it was the fair skin and light hair in a room full of dark-complexioned, dark-haired people. Or the cargo shorts and double tank tops, or that shoulders-squared, tits-out posture with a ’tude. Whatever it was, her Spanish was fluid and sounded like no American-accented version he’d ever heard. He was hardly an expert, but he’d bet it was her first, and quite possibly only, language.
Damn.
The unexpected disappointment had him straightening in his chair. No. It was just as well. He’d come to El Tigre for a vacation, partly because he just plain needed one—and partly because lately he’d begun questioning the choices he’d made. Choices that until recently he’d found perfectly satisfying.
He laid the blame for the current rise in second-guessing himself squarely on his brother’s shoulders. Of the seven Kavanagh siblings, he was closest to Devlin in both age and shared interests—and last year Dev had gone and gotten himself hitched. The guy was so moon-faced in love with his wife, Jane, that Finn was kind of embarrassed for him.
Yet he found himself surprisingly envious as well. And that tipped so far to the left of normal he could hardly wrap his mind around it.
Despite—or more likely partly because of—Aunt Eileen’s constant harping about how it was time he traded in his bachelor ways for the love of a good woman, he’d always reveled in his single status. He’d sure as hell never harbored a burning desire to change from a me to a we. He got enough of that crap working side by side with his brothers every day. So when he’d suddenly begun questioning why he’d been patting himself on the back simply because he’d dodged having a special woman in his life for longer than a night or the occasional weekend, it had stirred up a never-before-encountered restlessness. An itchy sensation that had reached epic proportions when he’d started to wonder if maybe it wasn’t time he joined the ranks of the committed-to-one-relationship grown-ups.
So, hell, yeah, he was jumpy. His thoughts had never trekked that particular trail before. And he could honestly say he wasn’t all that thrilled to have them trekking it now.
That he was even thinking about settling down, however, had driven home how much he needed to get away and see if this was something he actually wanted—if maybe it was time he grew up and joined the marriage brigade that was an integral part of his large, extended family.
Or if he had simply been brainwashed by all the happy-happy shit that seemed to surround him these days.
His gut told him it was the latter, but with these chick-type thoughts popping into his head lately, who was to say his gut wasn’t overcompensating?
In any event, he didn’t have to figure out everything right this minute. All he really needed to do this evening was drink his beer, check out the pretty girl and contemplate which route in this part of the Andes he most wanted to hike. And relax. Yeah, especially that.
Above all else he’d come here to relax.
* * *
THIS WAS THE WORST damn birthday Magdalene Deluca could ever remember. God knew, a few back in her early teens had been pretty crappy, but that happened when a girl’s parents shipped her off to boarding school in order to free up more time to pour their missionary fervor into other people’s kids. Gazing at the shot of tequila the bartender had just given her, she was sorely tempted to toss it back where she stood and hold out the empty for a refill. Hey, she liked to party as much as the next woman and if she got a little buzzed...well, there was no one here she had to be accountable to for her behavior.
A bitter laugh escaped her. No shit.
All the same, she walked away from the bar, took a seat at a nearby table and simply stared for a moment into the pale amber liquor. Then she picked up a wedge of lime,