“It is beautiful,” she murmured.
Pivoting, she stared out at the open water. Her reflection in the pool’s surface rippled, her dark hair and the skirt of her dress rustling in the humid breeze. She was postcard picture perfect. The epitome of “the view is beautiful, wish you were here.” He would buy that Puerto Vallarta memory from the corner vendor as a keepsake if he saw it. But he was especially thankful he got the chance to experience it for himself.
“Honestly, though?” she said, her voice soft, pensive. “The ocean’s endless infinity usually makes me feel like anything is possible. But right now, it feels daunting.” She pressed a hand over the swell of her breasts as if to calm her pounding heart. “Like, the life I’ve been working my ass off to build for Blanca and me, dispelling this damn ghost from our past, is beyond the horizon, out of reach. Just when I think I’m finally about to exorcise him from our lives, she does this.”
Patricio didn’t know exactly what the “this” Blanca had done entailed, but he’d bet it involved Luciano. Worse, he had no idea who the “him” Catalina wanted to exorcise might be. What the man might have meant to her. What he still meant to her. If—and Patricio hated to even consider this—there was any chance she might get back together with the nameless, faceless cabrón who clearly had caused her intense pain. And threatened to drive a wedge between her and her sister.
Jealousy snapped at Patricio with sharp fangs. He wanted answers. For starters, the name of the man he felt like punching in the face. But he kept his questions to himself. This wasn’t about him or his ego or his lust irrationally demanding he claim her as his.
This was about her, what she needed.
“Usually, when I’m tense, I pour myself some añejo to take off the edge. Want me to open a bottle of wine for you? Make another daiquiri?”
“It’s probably not a good idea to loosen our inhibitions.” She shot him a sly glance under her lashes. “At least, not with each other.”
Images of them losing their inhibitions together flooded his mind. Her nestled on a bed of colorful pillows in the hut, ready and willing. On a lounger by the pool, their bodies brushing and bumping and seeking pleasure. Upstairs in his king-size bed, sheets tangled around them as he kissed a trail up her inner thigh, hungry for the taste of her arousal. Blood rushed to his cock. Now that he had tasted her, touched her, heard her moans of satisfaction, he wanted more.
“We could head down to the hut,” he suggested. “Catch whatever sunset the clouds will allow and eat dinner.” And only dinner. He would sample nothing more, he reminded the salacious devil whispering ideas in his ear.
Catalina drew back, a dubious expression raising her brows. “In your den of iniquity?”
“My qué?”
“Ay, por favor.” She swatted his forearm, her husky chuckle making him long to kiss the smile on her lips. “With all those overstuffed pillows scattered across the rugs, inviting you to get comfortable. The mood-lighting lanterns casting a soft glow and long shadows over whatever’s happening on those pillows. The orgy-size hammock, which you talked me into trying once already.”
“You have a wicked imagination, sabes?” Apparently he did, too, seeing as how moments ago he’d been picturing her lying on those very pillows with him.
“Yeah, I know.” She hitched a shoulder, a hint of her sassy smirk curving her mouth. “I’ve been told worse, though.”
Patricio crossed his arms to keep himself from reaching for her. “You’re assuming I meant that was a bad thing. Wicked can be very, very good.”
With her, no doubt it would be sublime.
“How about we hang out in your studio?” A hopeful expression brightened her eyes. “Get lost in music for a while? Maybe fool around with one of our songs?”
Our songs.
Because as far as she knew, the songs they wrote were for his next album. That’s what Padua thought, too. Because that’s the line Patricio had fed them all.
So far, his original plan was working. Today had been a great day. Music had started playing in his head and heart again. For the first time in months, he felt confident that he’d prove his viejo wrong. Patricio hadn’t sold out to pop music because he didn’t have what it took to succeed long-term in the arena where Vicente reigned.
And yet . . . and yet, today had been great because of her.
The truth sideswiped him, sending him into a tailspin.
¡Qué chingada! He drove a hand through his hair as the curse pinballed around his head. That was exactly what his plan had devolved into. A fucking mess born from foolish pride. His father’s and his.
No longer could Patricio delude himself into thinking that the media attention of being on tour with him brought Catalina or that his recommendation of her songwriting skills to other Padua artists would be enough to satisfy her determined drive. That his decision to write his entire album on his own and not use any of her songs wouldn’t sting her pride. It would. It was foolish for him to continue thinking otherwise.
He had to find another way to help them both achieve what they wanted. A new plan that would catapult her career in the way she deserved. Because despite his best intentions to avoid it, Catalina had come to mean far more to him than simply an incredibly gifted talent, and he refused to risk hurting this captivating woman.
“So, you wanna go fool around in the recording studio, ha?” he asked.
“Patricio Galán, are you propositioning me?” Her mischievous grin made a special appearance that had him secretly cheering like a devoted fan. It curved her lush lips and sparkled in her bright eyes. “What kind of girl do you think I am anyway?”
“The stunning kind.”
“Ay, you’re such a sweet talker. Tell me more.”
He chuckled. Madre de Dios, she had a smart mouth. And he’d give anything to taste it again.
“Vente.” He tipped his head toward the house. “My sound system in the music room hasn’t been fired up lately. Let’s put it to good use.”
Catalina started to loop her right arm through his left but paused, then dug both hands in her dress pockets. Wise move, though it didn’t make him miss her touch any less. With a swish of her long skirt and a heavy dose of attitude, she swept by him. “That revenge song we’ve been working on? Brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”
At least one of them could lay claim to that feat. His brilliant idea was seeming more like a house of cards, in danger of toppling over.
Chapter Eighteen
Catalina held her breath, completely mesmerized by Patricio.
He sat on the edge of a padded barstool in his home recording studio, his right foot propped on the stool rung, a guitar cradled on his lap. The muscles along his left forearm tensed and relaxed as his fingers pressed and released the strings up and down the instrument’s neck, masterfully playing the song’s various chords. Eyes closed, face taut with emotion, he strummed the guitar strings and sang the final chorus of a well-known ranchera.
The epitome of the angsty, pining hit she’d teased him about writing, “No Lo Beses” was a song he regularly performed in concert. But despite the number of times she had seen his show, she had never heard him sound this beautiful. Intense, at times guttural, at others silky smooth. His voice trembled with passion, hitting notes she couldn’t ever remember him reaching. Not even during sound check or private rehearsals.