Chapter 3

On a busy street corner across the city, Irene couldn’t calm the thunder in her chest. Beneath the cool shade of a spreading tree, both palms kept pressing the dress it had taken forever to select. A cute flower print, not too short, not displaying too much cleavage.

The rumble of a city bus brought her attention to the broad Passeig de Gràcia. In front of numerous upscale garment shops, the sidewalks were less crowded than the road. It was midday, and most people were at their jobs, like she should’ve been.

“Two lies already,” she mumbled.

One to Oscar. No, she’d not lied to her husband. He’d simply made an assumption, although her outfit and the heavier makeup had given him pause. And asking Henri for a long lunch? No lie there either.

“Besides, what’s to lie about? Nothing will happen.”

It wouldn’t.

The previous evening, stunned by Conor’s call, she’d only listened. He’d asked about her knee. When no answer had arrived, the young man had repeated the query in broken Spanish, prompting her to respond at last. With her mind whirling, it’d taken much longer to scrounge for English words.

“It is fine. Still aching a little. But fine.”

His deep, lovely voice had continued. Yet, off-balance, she’d been struggling to both slow racing breaths and focus. Why such confusion?

He cared. The warmth in that chest-rumbling tone was ... comforting.

Answers had tumbled from her at last, short and shaky ones. Yes, the shoe was ruined. And, yes, very unfortunate, it had been cute. No, her foot was okay, and the walk home hadn’t been too horrible.

When more words had filled the speaker, her brows had grown ever narrower, and the hand once again stirring the stew had frozen, then trembled. Would it be possible for him to see her again? In her fist, the spoon had shaken even more. The entire kitchen had been shaking. Before any part of her brain dared object, she’d mumbled, “Si.”

“Wonderful! I really could use your help, Irene.”

The memory of the pure joy in his reply made her smile at the next rumbling bus. From one of its windows, a portly matron in a colorful headscarf scowled at her. Yes, the woman playing hooky from her job and life might very well be insane.

As Conor had gone on to describe the reason for needing her assistance, she’d become confused and asked him to repeat himself. He’d added a few words in Spanish, but the puzzlement only deepened, and her brow had furrowed tighter.

At last, understanding had arrived. He needed better clothing, wanted a woman’s eye. Simple. Nothing more than a friendly request, correct?

Ah, but if so, why the inability to shake his image throughout dinner? No, she’d not risked fingering herself that night but had awakened to find a hand tight between her legs. Not since blooming and discovering boys in secondary school had she suffered such heat.

With a pair of newer, shinier high-heeled sandals shuffling on the pavement as flutters refused to slow, she turned away from the bus. Head down, she also avoided the glances of passers-by. Any of them could be somebody she knew. What might they say?

Dutiful, steady Irene was not at work. Not at home. Not with Oscar or the girls. No, she stood alone on a street corner, with both a wispy dress and disobedient, bronze-streaked curls swirling in the humid breeze.

One hand clutched a purse hanging from her shoulder. Within the brown leather, the mobile sat silent. Any minute, he’d call, tell her it was a mistake. Another woman would be his guide, a younger one, skinnier, without spine-aching breasts, much prettier, and wearing a lot less.

No, that didn’t happen. Instead, the same strange feeling tugged on her as when he’d called; she sensed his approach. Heart racing even quicker, the suddenly trembling woman turned to find fate marching toward her.

Pure ... man. So tall, so broad. He moved like the proverbial jungle cat, one of the larger examples. The largest of them. A lion. Yes, with massive shoulders and powerful legs pumping like fluid. No, lions didn’t live in the jungle. A tiger, maybe. Yes, one of those.