Full Throttle(107)

Then he turned back to her, bending to kiss her cheek and whisper, “And just so you know, I approve.”

“Wha—?” she managed to croak, running a hand under her leaking nose. She was no longer shaking her head in denial; she was shaking it in bewilderment. Approve of what? But before she could ask him, he straightened and headed for the stairs, stopping to quickly pump Carlos’s hand. Then he jogged up the carpeted treads with the quick, confident steps that only the leader of the free world could pull off. A second later, a muted snick told her he’d closed the door behind him.

Oh, sweet Peter, Paul, and Mary. And now she was alone with the man she loved more than life itself, the man whose sister she’d—

“It doesn’t represent your love of gardening and all things botanical, does it?” Carlos asked, lifting his chin but remaining rooted over there by the stairs. He looked good. A little tired, but clean-shaven and freshly showered and…so handsome she could barely catch her breath. Or maybe that was because her nose was all stuffed up from the Niagara Falls’ worth of tears stacked behind it.

“H-huh?” she stuttered, completely taken aback, completely confused. Those were not the first words she’d expected to hear from him should he ever deign to be in her presence again.

“The tattoo on the back of your neck,” he said, rocking slightly on his heels. “The rose. It doesn’t have anything to do with your profession.”

Of its own volition, her hand jumped to cover the ink on the back of her neck, visible because she had her hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail. “M-my tattoo?”

“Sí.” He nodded. And then, oh, jumping Jesus! He started stalking in her direction.

One step. Two. Three in that lazy, loose-hipped walk of his. She stopped counting when he was close enough for her to feel his heat, smell the soap on his skin, hear the low murmuring sound he made deep in his chest when he removed her hand. His palm was so warm, so deliciously familiar. And his touch brought back a thousand wonderful, painful memories. She closed her eyes, and two more fat tears raced down her cheeks.

“Just as I thought,” he said, having bent to study her tattoo. His hot breath puffed against the back of her neck causing every inch of her skin to erupt in goose bumps. “I didn’t get a good look at it in the hut, but I wondered if this twining bit of vines running up beside the rose spelled something.”

She opened her eyes, her breath sawing from her lungs on a noisy exhale. He was right. It did spell something. It spelled…Rosa.

“It w-was a way for me to p-pay tribute to her,” she admitted. “For years afterward, whenever I would smile or laugh or whistle or get lost in a movie, I would feel awful. Like I’d forgotten about her, even if it was only for those few minutes. And so I…” she had to swallow as more tears threatened to choke her. “I got her name tattooed on my neck. A daily reminder of her, the woman I loved like a sister. The woman I k—”

The hand he still had wrapped around her wrist tightened. “Don’t say that again,” he warned. She sucked in a breath, her eyes snapping up to his face. It was still so…unreadable. “I don’t want to hear you take the blame for Rosa’s death ever again.”

“B-but—”

“I know what happened. Your father told me everything on the flight from Chicago. And how awesome is Air Force One, by the way?”

She didn’t hear his question; she was so focused on the first two things he’d said. He couldn’t know what happened. If he did, he’d know she was to blame.

“Carlos,” she whispered. He heart was raw and burning, like a papercut doused in rubbing alcohol. I mean, really, was she going to have to take him through it, step-by-step? Wasn’t it enough that—

“So, then let’s move on to another matter.” He slid his hand down to lace his fingers through hers. It was so unexpected, so simultaneously wonderful and awful that she had to lean against the back of the couch or risk a very ungraceful ass-plant straight into the carpet.

“No,” she told him, sniffling. “No, we can’t move on. Not until you tell me exactly what my father told you.”

His chin jerked back, his brow furrowing. “He told me what really happened with the bombing.” His tone was all about the well, duh.

Some of her tears dried up as she frowned at him. “This is one instance where you need to go into detail. Please.”

He smiled down at her then, shaking his head. “Dios. You people and your need for details.”

And it was a good thing she was already leaning on the sofa, because that smile, directed at her when she never thought she’d see it again, would have brought her to her knees otherwise. “I’m serious,” she told him.