Dear God. He’d had his arm around her, his hand down the front of her dress. She’d had her head on his shoulder, her nails digging into his chest.
Intimacy was a slippery slope, with one thing leading to another, and without thinking, today she had slid dangerously close to peril. His arm around her had felt too natural; his shoulder had been too comforting and right there, as if meant for her use.
Hurriedly, she pulled her dress up and skimmed it off over her head, then donned the blouse and wiggled into the skirt. Both were a little tight, but they would do until she could get home. When she was dressed, she leaned over and rapped her knuckles on the window, and he got back into the truck.
“What would you like to eat?”
Her insides were shaky, telling her that she needed to eat something, even if she wasn’t certain she could hold a fork. “Anything. Fast food will do.”
Instead of a fast-food restaurant, he stopped at a fonda, one of the many small, family-run restaurants. There were three tables outside on a small shaded patio, and he led her there. The waiter, a tallish young man, politely did not look at the bandage on Milla’s neck. She ordered tuna empanaditas and bottled water; Diaz went for the enchiladas and a dark beer.
While they waited for their food, she played with her napkin, folding and refolding it. She fidgeted with her blouse, because it was tighter than she liked. Then, because she couldn’t ignore him and she knew he was silently watching her, she said, “You’re very at home here.”
“I was born in Mexico.”
“But you said you’re an American citizen. When did you get your citizenship?”
“I was born with it. My mother was American. She just happened to be in Mexico when I was born.”
So he had dual citizenship, just like Justin.
“And your father?”
“Is Mexican.”
She’d noticed he said “was” when talking about his mother, and “is” when it concerned his father. “Your mother is dead?”
“She died a couple of years ago. I’m fairly certain they weren’t married.”
“Do you know your father very well?”
“I lived with him half the time when I was growing up. That was better than living with my mother. What about you?”
Evidently that was all the small talk he was prepared to make about himself. Tit for tat, though, so she told him about her family, and the rift between her and her brother and sister. “It’s hard on Mom and Dad,” she said. “I know it is. But I just can’t be around Ross or Julia now without—” She shook her head, unable to find the right word. She didn’t want to hurt either of them, yet at the same time she wanted to bang their heads against something.
“Do they have children?” he asked.
“Both of them. Ross has three, Julia has two.”
“Then they should be able to understand how you feel.”
“But they don’t. Maybe they can’t. Maybe you have to actually lose a child before you really understand. It’s as if part of me is missing, as if there’s nothing but a great big hole where he used to be.” She bit her lip, refusing to cry in public. “I can no more stop looking for him than I can stop breathing.”
Diaz regarded her with those somber eyes, eyes that saw straight through to the core. Then he leaned over the small table, cupped her chin in his hand, and kissed her.
16
It was just a small kiss, but it was so damnably unfair of him that she just sat there, stunned. Too much had happened in too short a time; she felt dazed, off balance, totally unable to cope. She caught his wrist with both hands, then didn’t know what to do or say when he released her chin and lifted his mouth, leaving her still hanging on to his arm.
That grim mouth was softer than she’d expected, and gentler than she’d ever imagined. The kiss hadn’t been passionate; it had, in fact, been more comforting than anything else. She hated him for that. She shouldn’t want any kiss from him, but if she had to have one, she certainly didn’t want it to be for comfort.
She glared at him. “What was that for?”
One corner of his mouth quirked in his equivalent of a chuckle. “I don’t guess,” he said, “that you’ve ever seen what other people see in your eyes.”
“No, of course not.” When he didn’t say anything else, she waited a minute, then, goaded, said, “What?”
He shrugged, and seemed to be considering the matter, picking his way through various words and discarding them. Finally he said, “Suffering.”
The word punched her, hard. Suffering. God, yes, she had suffered. Only parents who had lost a child could possibly understand. Yet this man, whose contact with emotion seemed tenuous at best, had seen and responded. And she had slipped even further down that blasted slope.
The waiter brought their meals, and she was glad to devote herself to the empanaditas, which were one of her favorite Mexican dishes. The tuna-stuffed pastries suited her taste today, and she plowed through them, not stopping until her plate was clean. Getting her throat sliced seemed to have really revved up her appetite. There was nothing like a brush with death to make you appreciate food.
Diaz made equally short work of his enchiladas, though he drank only half his beer.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked, indicating the bottle.
“Well enough. I just don’t drink much.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Never have.”
“Vote?”
“In every election since I was of age.”