“It’s for the best,” she murmured.
Actually, Alberto’s timing was impeccable. The absolute last thing she needed was to put truth to that damn article’s insinuation by kissing Patricio. No matter how badly she wanted to taste his lips. Feel his hands on her body while she explored his, stoking the fire his touch kindled inside her.
Instead, legs wobbly, Cat stepped away. The backs of her calves bumped her mattress, a stark reminder that they were stretching the boundaries of temptation. That she was dangerously close to making a costly mistake.
“You should go,” she said. “We both have a busy day before tonight’s concert.”
Patricio reached for his oversize sunglasses on the desk next to her comfy robe. “Keep your chin up. Let your performance do the convincing.”
“Oh, it will. Believe me.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He winked, making her silly heart flutter. Then he slipped on his glasses, pulled the hood over his head and tied the bow, and left.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Cat collapsed onto her bed with a muttered groan.
Madre de Dios, that had been close. Too close.
And yet, recalling his words of caution, his sincerity and gentle touch, the way her body burned for his . . . Parts of her complained that it hadn’t been close enough. He hadn’t been close enough. Not nearly.
Chapter Ten
Late Monday afternoon, Patricio sipped his añejo tequila and watched the employees at work on the other side of the plate glass window separating the private tasting room from the distillery at Verona Tequila. Hints of caramel and custard with a lingering essence of dark chocolate teased his taste buds as the liquid burned an invigorating path down his throat, into his chest.
But neither his favorite drink nor a day spent shadowing the tequilero, learning the intricacies of the craft distillery’s unique process, which blended traditional with modern techniques, had dispelled the unsettled thoughts swarming in his head. The ones starring Catalina Capuleta and her stunning mix of strength and vulnerability.
In spite of the online fervor sparked by the less-than-flattering article, Thursday evening Catalina had wowed the crowd in Irving. As he’d known she would. And he had no doubt she’d continue to do so, especially if she followed his advice and stayed away from social media. Too bad he hadn’t followed Alberto’s advice and stayed away from her hotel room.
Talk about making another pendejo move! Something he normally avoided due to his father’s constant reminders that everything Patricio did reflected on the legacy Vicente coveted.
But when it came to Catalina . . . Bueno, rational thought had a tendency to flee from Patricio’s brain like the bandidos of Pancho Villa’s era.
The woman excited him with her coy glances and mesmerizing talent and intrigued him with the flashes of vulnerability beneath her strength. Somehow, she managed to get under his skin in a way no one ever had. As he’d read the article’s suggestive headline, the twisting of her “scrappy childhood,” and the not-so-subtle subtext implying her scheme to use him as a rung on her stepladder to fame, guilt had trickled through him.
If anyone was using the other, it was him. She didn’t deserve the reporter’s low blow.
As soon as the article had hit the internet, Alberto, the father of two girls, had flown into protective papá mode. George had called almost immediately to confirm his instinct that the interview’s slant was bogus, also eager to discuss potential damage-control maneuvers. When Catalina didn’t respond to their texts or calls, the two older men had grown increasingly troubled. When she ignored Patricio’s message, his apprehension mushroomed.
He wanted to blame his furtive race across the hotel’s parking lot and up the four flights of stairs on the promise he had given her parents. But it wasn’t the only reason. It definitely wasn’t the main one.
The tears shining in her hazel eyes were the first crack he’d seen in her tough-girl facade. Her bravery as she fought to keep the hurt at bay. The jealousy that knifed his side at the thought of some mysterious “him” she had alluded to, then refused to discuss. They all coalesced in a huge tidal wave of remorse, awe, and desire that had crashed over him. Its tumultuous undertow tossed and turned, leaving him out of breath and uncertain which way was up. Nearly pushing him—them—past a line in the sand they wouldn’t have been able to uncross.
Their near kiss had changed the dynamic between them. No one else had mentioned anything, but Patricio had sensed it during their concert later that evening. And he’d bet his shares in the distillery that Catalina had as well.
She was a naturally demonstrative performer. Her passion—onstage, with her music, in life—was one of her many traits that drew him to her. Depending on the duet they sang together, she might slide him a beguiling over-the-shoulder glance, clutch her heart on one of those angsty lyrics she teased him about, or shake her fist at the cheating lover she lamented. She was also a toucher, cupping his elbow as she sang to him, laying her hand with her red-painted nails on his forearm, linking their fingers when he held his hand out for hers, pressing against his side when he looped an arm around her waist to draw her near when they shared a microphone.
Thursday night in Irving and Saturday in Hidalgo, Catalina sang her freaking heart out. She grinned and flirted and joked with the fans. She blew kisses to the shouts of “¡Te adoro, Cat!” All while keeping a respectable Catholic-school, hands-off distance from him.
He should have been relieved. The tweaks to their interplay meant less chance for photographs that could be misconstrued in the tabloids and on the internet.
Should have, sí. But he hadn’t been. He missed her innocent touches. Couldn’t stop thinking about what might have happened if Alberto hadn’t knocked on Catalina’s hotel room door. Imagining the sweet taste of her mouth. Picturing himself peeling that LATINA AF tee off her body to free her breasts, cupping their luscious weight in his palms, unencumbered by the sexy bra she had snatched from his fingers with a blush staining her cheeks.
Wild fantasies he owed it to her to excise from his brain.
He was already being duplicitous about the album. Patricio refused to compound his deceit by following in his father’s footsteps and bedding one of his backup singers. No way would he do that and risk hurting Catalina.
Seeking time apart to get his head screwed on straight, Patricio had hopped his private jet immediately after Saturday’s concert in Hidalgo and flown to Guadalajara.
George had been far from pleased. Wearing his executive producer hat, Patricio’s closest friend had whined about his agreement to work with Catalina on the road in between concerts. Right now, though, he needed distance to regain his perspective, and the media required a distraction. Something else to talk about.
The latter had easily materialized, thanks to an intimate dinner with a former Miss Mexico—a friend who didn’t mind pretending they were more if it helped keep her and her charitable foundation in the press. As he had anticipated, local paparazzi had photographed the two of them seated at a small table on the private outdoor balcony of a trendy restaurant. Heads pressed together, ostensibly whispering sweet nothings to each other. In reality, discussing her next fundraiser and her search for an up-and-coming performer.