Patricio had removed his sunglasses in the dimness, and now he squinted at her, brow furrowed with a scowl.
“If you snuck over here to check up on me, I’m fine,” she told him, settling on the foot of her bed, facing him.
“First of all, I didn’t sneak anywhere.”
“Oh, okay. So your Rocky-running-through-the-streets-of-Philly outfit is just a new look for you?”
“Hilarious.” He pulled the string tie loose and skimmed the hoodie off his head.
Unfairly, his disheveled wavy black hair gave him a sexy, roguish appeal. No ’80s-rock-band jokes for him.
“You didn’t reply to Alberto,” he chided. “Or George.”
“I was up late watching a movie, so I set my phone to Do Not Disturb until eight thirty and slept in. What’s the big—”
“Or me.”
Something in his tone—more like unease than the annoyance she expected—stalled her flip remark.
This was new. In the nearly two months since they’d first met during the Battle of the Mariachi Bands, Patricio had run the gamut from arrogant to demanding, taunting to teasing. Even smoldery.
Back in San Antonio, when he stopped by her dressing room before Mariachi Las Nubes had opened his show, Patricio had seemed a little concerned. But the emotion now blanketing his handsome face smacked too much of pity, and she refused to be pitied, by anyone. Especially if it was because of her past.
Straightening her shoulders, she pushed down the edginess still lingering from the emotional pit she’d fallen into last night, focusing instead on her irritation with the unfair portrayal of her in the article.
“I’ve dealt with crappy press before,” she told Patricio. “Machismo and the patriarchy and traditionalists who think my sisters and I and others like us don’t belong. At least not in the spotlight.”
“This is different. It calls your character into question.” Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes peering into hers. Searching, gauging, as if he could see into the hidden corners of her soul. The secret places where she shoved the memories and emotions she didn’t care to deal with. The ones he did not need to be aware of.
She blinked and looked away, deliberately conceding in their staring contest to protect herself. “Look, it is what it is. Am I pissed that a woman wrote that bitchy article? Sure. Will being pissed off change anything? No.” Dragging in a shaky breath, she wedged her fingers through her hair, combing it back off her face. “It might feel good for a little while. But the best revenge is to prove them wrong. Show them what I’m capable of. Show him how it should be done.”
Patricio drew back with a frown. “Him who?”
“What?”
“You said ‘him’: ‘Show him how it should be done.’ Who were you—”
“No one.” Appalled by her Freudian slip, Cat hopped off the bed. “I meant, you know, a collective ‘him.’ Like, the patriarchy. That’s all.”
Liar.
The only person outside of familia she ever discussed her birth father with was her therapist. The cabrón had done nothing to help her get where she was today, so the bastard didn’t warrant mention in any conversation she had with Patricio. That didn’t mean the anger stoking her determination to succeed didn’t flare, singeing emotions still raw from last night.
Frustrated tears pricked her eyes, and she stepped toward the tiny alcove with the microwave, fridge, and coffee maker before he could notice.
Patricio clasped her wrist, stopping her.
“What’s going on? If someone back in San Antonio or”—his tone darkened, a rough edge sharpening his words—“on my tour is giving you a hard time, say the word and I’ll take care of it.”
“There’s no need.”
“But you’re not denying that there is an ‘it.’”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. Let’s drop the topic.”
“Catalina.”
She groaned, frustrated by his pestering. “Do I look like a damsel in distress who needs saving?”
His gaze made a leisurely stroll down her faded LATINA AF tee and exercise shorts, following the length of her legs to her bare feet, then back up again. She shivered at the interest sparking in his black-coffee eyes when he met her gaze. The pad of his thumb stroked the sensitive skin on her inner wrist in a slow, sensual caress. Awareness skittered up her arm, a match to the flame of lust. The juncture between her thighs tightened with need.
She was a damsel in distress, all right, but foolishly, saving was not what her body craved.
“You might scare some people off with your snarky attitude and mouthy tees. But I see this.” He cupped her jaw, sliding his hand until his thumb touched the outside corner of her right eye, where a tear had pooled.
Her eyes fluttered closed, the entire side of her face on fire from his gentle touch. Heat spread down her neck and into her chest. Her nipples pebbled, straining against her cotton shirt.
“I’ve felt the slash of your sharp tongue,” Patricio said, chuckling when she wrinkled her nose in complaint. Then his expression sobered, his gaze softening as he stared down at her. “But I’ve also witnessed the way you use it to inspire others—your sisters, your students, the kids yesterday. I know how much your music means to you. It shows in every performance and is why the fans adore you.”
“What’s with all this sweet talk? You’re gonna make me blush,” she joked, playfully swatting at his stomach in an attempt to shift the charged mood. Her fingers snagged on the front pouch pocket of Patricio’s hoodie. She left them there, reluctant to let go of him.
“Whatever secrets you have, they’re yours to keep,” he promised. “Pero you know people will dig. They’ll make shit up to sell magazines or get more clicks. Be prepared, and try not to let it, or them, get to you.”
Moved by his unexpected concern, she nodded, her throat clogged by a sudden rush of tears.
“Behind those bright lights you seek, Cat, there’s a lonely darkness. I hate to think of your spark being dimmed because of it. Or by anyone. You deserve better.” He loosened his grip on her wrist, his hand sliding in a warm trail up her arm to cup her shoulder.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up to meet hers again. Unable to resist his pull, Cat leaned toward him. Her fingers tugged on his hoodie pocket. Desire flared in his eyes in the seconds before they closed, his head drawing nearer. She sucked in a breath and his earthy scent bombarded her. Lust took over and she stretched up on her toes. Eager for his kiss.
A knock sounded on the door. They both froze. Eyes wide with shock, their lips a faint touch apart. The second tap at the door had panic gripping her at the thought that someone might have followed him.
“Catalina?” a hushed voice called. “It’s Alberto. Checking to make sure everything is, uh, as it should be?”
The breath she’d been holding rushed out on a relieved sigh. Patricio straightened, a pained look tautening his angular features.
“¡Dios mío, ese viejo! I swear, he’s got a parental sixth sense or something. His timing . . .” Patricio’s hand slid from her jaw, his fingertips skimming her neck, her collarbone . . . tickling her skin, and leaving a delicious trail of pinprickly awareness.