Gerta didn’t usually muse on the condition of her face or how young she looked. Such things mattered little to her—until now. Tonight, she appraised her attributes because of Angel de la Cruz. She was embarrassed to admit that she wished she were younger. She wanted to look younger. For him. How old was he, anyway? she wondered. Forty? Forty-five? Too young, she thought with a dash of her hopes and looked down from the mirror.
“The only thing worse than a fool is an old fool,” she told herself.
She put a shaky hand to her forehead. It was late, the hour when she doubted herself most. She still couldn’t completely process what had happened in the barn. They’d danced! Another laugh of disbelief. She hadn’t danced since she’d lost her leg. Granted, it was only a back-and-forth stepping, but afterward she felt she could twirl! What was it about him that one couldn’t say no? He had an energy about him, a confidence she found annoying. Invasive. Charming . . . And he had the most beguiling smile—so genuine, almost childlike the way it lit up his face. She closed her eyes, picturing it, and smiled.
A warmth swept through her, titillating, arousing. She felt again his arms around her. Saw again the way his pupils quivered like dark pools when he became excited. The way he looked at her lips. She opened her eyes and saw desire reflected in the mirror. Her fingers trailed from her forehead to her lips, feeling the tenderness.
Remembering.
* * *
A few miles away, Angel slipped quietly back into the lake house. The rain had stopped but the night remained as thick as mud. The house was pitch-black. Hannah had not left a light on for him.
When he opened the door Max gave off a low gruff of warning. Angel could hear the clicking of toenails as he crossed the tile.
“Come on, boy,” he said, bending at the waist to embrace his dog. “Good boy, eh? You missed me. I’m back. I always come back to you.”
Max rubbed against his leg like a cat, his rear shaking in joy.
Angel straightened and flicked on a light. Charles’s waxed cotton jacket was damp and heavy. He slipped it off and tossed it on the chair as he walked to the refrigerator. The bottles clinked on the door as he jerked it open and light shone from the interior. The fridge looked cold and barren. An open bag of carrots was meant for the horses. Bottles of kombucha, vitamins, and serums for Hannah. Bottles of beer for him. His mind flashed to the fridge at the cottage. He’d peeked into it when Elise had offered him a drink. He was blown away to see how stocked it was—cheeses, fresh fruit and vegetables, those little deli containers filled with various salads, and wine. Good wine. He knew it wasn’t Elise who shopped.
Gerta. The memory of her gave him pause. He stood in front of the fridge, opened a bottle, and drank thirstily. Gerta, he thought again, confused by the emotions running through him. He closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, drinking his beer, lost in his thoughts. The woman had been a complete and utter surprise. He could live to be a hundred and he’d never forget the sight of her, drenched and limping, her eyes blazing with determination as she walked Butterhead—his horse—in the pouring rain. She was a warrior! Fierce and powerful. He loved that about her.
He sighed, shaken again by the memory. But it was the vulnerability he’d discovered in her eyes that had brought him to his knees. He knew that seeing such emotion was rare. She’d let him see the woman behind the regal mask she wore for the rest of the world.
Gerta . . . She was the whole package. Beautiful. Smart. As regal as a queen. Wealthy, yes, he thought, wincing. He hated himself for even having that thought. But that was not why he was so drawn to her. He was, in fact, hopelessly attracted to her. When he’d held her in his arms, he wanted her. Her. Gerta, the woman.
He preferred older women. Always had. He was dating Hannah, after all—weren’t she and Gerta about the same age? Yes, he realized with a smug satisfaction, as though that proved his point. He enjoyed younger women too. But older women had a clarity and substance he appreciated. And they gave him space. They had their own thing going, knew who they were and weren’t so needy. Young women could act foolish and immature. It was all about them and how they looked and they were forever wondering what they wanted next. He didn’t have time for that. Older women knew what they wanted, often had it, and were eager to ask him what he wanted.
Yet Gerta was at a whole different level—the highest level. She was like a Grand Prix horse, an international champion. Full of elegance and talent, spirited, self-driven—oh yes, and temperamental. She couldn’t be forced. No, no. She needed to be coaxed. She needed the right partner—a skilled rider—to help her become receptive and responsive. To bring out the dance within her. He drank again, enjoying the refreshing taste of bitter hops.
Sadly, Hannah was no longer a challenge. She was wonderful—kind and funny and drop-dead gorgeous. But the spark was gone. They were friends more than lovers. Gerta, on the other hand . . . He reached up to rub at the stubble on his jaw. There was a woman who would be a challenge for a long time.
He scratched his head vigorously and blew out a plume of air. “Basta ya,” he said, setting his bottle on the counter. He sighed, feeling a great heaviness in his chest, a sadness that the time had come. He had to face it. It was over between him and Hannah. It had been for some time. He’d hoped that after this hurricane they could work things out. But tonight only confirmed that it was time to break up.
He reached out to pat Max on the head. The dog was so big that when he sat, his head was at Angel’s waist. Angel let his eyes travel to the stairs. He couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. He had to talk to Hannah—tonight. Man up, he told himself. She deserved honesty.
With a resigned sigh, he took off his boots and went up the stairs to the master bedroom. The door was closed and no light shone from under the door. He paused, debating whether to awaken her. Let her sleep, he decided. We can talk tomorrow. He gently opened the door, cringing at the squeak. Sticking his head in, he spied Hannah lying in bed. He took one step forward when suddenly a small dog leaped from the bed, yapping hysterically.
Hannah’s eyes sprang open and she stretched out for the bedside lamp.
Light flooded the room and she saw Angel jumping back from the snarling Chihuahua. Max hovered at the door, seemingly afraid to enter.
“Mierda!” Angel exclaimed.
“It’s about time you showed up.”
“What is this?” he shouted, hands out to the incessantly yapping dog darting at his feet. The little body jumped up with each bark. “Este perro esta loco!”
Hannah clapped her hands and whistled. “Nacho! Come!”
The fawn-colored Chihuahua cast Angel a withering look with his large brown eyes, then turned and effortlessly leaped up to the top of the bed and pranced across the mattress to settle in Hannah’s lap.
“He’s my dog,” she told Angel. “I adopted him.”
Angel ran his hands through his hair. “I thought you hated dogs.”
“No. I only hate your dog.”
Mumbling in Spanish, Angel came farther into the room, keeping a wary eye on Nacho. He pulled off his dirty T-shirt and began unbuckling his pants.
“He reminded me of you,” she said with a smirk.
Angel didn’t think that was funny. His scowl deepened. “You could’ve warned me.”