Destiny's Way: Destiny's Trilogy, #3

By Victoria Saccenti

One disastrous night rips the lovers apart. All is lost, until Fate intervenes.

Brian's love for Marité burns with the heat of an eternal flame. However, when Michael makes a play for her, Brian's PTSD-fueled demons convince him Marité's better off with someone younger, less damaged—anyone—but him.

Anger tears at Marité's heart. Anger at Brian for giving up so easily. At Michael for trying to reignite an old infatuation. Mostly, anger at herself for her part in the debacle and for not having the strength to fight for the only man she'll ever love.

But Destiny is not quite finished with the lovers…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Saccenti
• Release date: Jun 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780996416962

Victoria Saccenti

Award-winning and bestselling author Victoria Saccenti writes contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic women's fiction. Not one for heart and flower stories, she explores the edgy twists and turns of human interaction, the many facets of love, and all possible happy endings.  After thirty years of traveling the world, she’s settled in Central Florida, where she splits her busy schedule between family and her active muse at Essence Publishing. However, if she could convince her husband to sell their home, she would pack up her computer and move to Scotland, a land she adores.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Praise for the Destiny’s Series.

DESTINY’S WAY

Copyright

Dedication

Quote

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

A Note From the Author

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books by Victoria Saccenti

Praise for the Destiny’s Series.

Destiny’s Plan was a phenomenal book and I absolutely loved it. ~ Itsy Bitsy Book Bits

Gripping romance set in the Vietnam War Era. ~ Lindsay Marie Miller, Amazon reader

The political backdrop of 1960s America takes a back seat to the secrets in the Muro family, the two atmospheres combining in a very satisfying and engrossing way.

~ Readers’ Favorite

Destiny’s Choice:

Destiny’s Choice is book 2 in the Destiny’s Series by Victoria Saccenti, a riveting tale of a love that is as powerful as it is dangerous.

~ Readers’ Favorite

Destined to love this Book! The writing is superb. ~ Amazon reader

The plot is well crafted, the characters artfully developed, and, most importantly, the story is beautifully written. ~ Laura @ OutlanderBookClub

DESTINY’S WAY

The Destiny’s Series

Victoria Saccenti

Destiny’s Way

Copyright 2017 Victoria Saccenti

ISBN: 978-0-9964169-6-2

Editor: Linda Ingmanson

Cover Design: Amanda Walker

Formatting: Anessa Books

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For John

When love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him…

~ Khalil Gibran

Chapter One

Atlanta, December 1973

WHY are you testing me?" Brian MacKay groaned, glancing upward to the domed ceiling of the huge terminal as if an unseen listener hovered above him. Eastern Air Lines’ departures-and-arrivals board at Atlanta Airport had flipped open to Flight 149 for San Antonio. The status updates showed an hour delay. Not too horrible for local boarding passengers or travelers with a normal connection. But normal didn’t fit Brian’s morning or schedule at all. The flight from Gainesville had landed thirty minutes early. The delay extended his transit time to three eternal hours in a semi-solitary concourse. He breathed in, seeking patience, and dropped the duffel on the floor. Concession stands hadn’t opened yet, and even if he crawled to the posted gate two concourses away, he could never waste enough time. The personal conference with his anxious mind and troubled conscience couldn’t be avoided, not as he’d evaded Marité.

From her, he’d run.

Brian had taken off. A jealous, demented coward, he’d fled in the dark hours. Before Marité awakened, before she could explain and change his mind. Or worse, before he revealed the fury that had nearly consumed him when he saw Michael’s greedy arms around Marité, his love, his angel of light, his woman. And the kiss? Hell, the kiss had twisted a fiery knife in Brian’s gut. In that moment, his dormant killer instinct had jerked to life, ready to strike. His hands had itched with the desire to squeeze Michael’s neck until the punk stopped breathing. If Brian hadn’t set aside the champagne glasses he’d been holding like a waiting fool, he would’ve shattered them to tiny shards.

No one could accuse Brian of hiding his possessiveness, especially Marité.

"I don’t share. Once you’re mine, that is it. I couldn’t handle another man touching you." Good Lord, his chest ached viciously as he remembered the moment of unforgettable intimacy when he’d said those words.

He’d been clear. He’d warned her. And she had accepted his terms.

Some sleepless hours after the disastrous party, after everyone had gone home, he’d urged Matthew to drive him to catch the first flight out of Gainesville, regardless of the destination—Timbuktu sounded really good. Poor Matthew… His friend had argued against this move all the way to the airport. "You’re being rash, reacting to the scene instead of learning what happened. I agree it looked incriminating, but I know there’s a reasonable explanation. Marité loves you."

Brian had ignored him. "Would you call my father, please?"

Livid, Matthew had retorted, "Call him yourself if you’re so intent on leaving."

Judge and jury, Brian MacKay, do you have all the facts? If he didn’t fear being arrested for behaving like a madman, he’d bang his forehead against the flight board in frustration. No. He had had no good answers and zero facts, other than a jealous perspective and the certainty that he, of all people, didn’t deserve happiness. Any suppositions had been as pathetic as the note he’d left behind.

Stop. Enough. It’s over.

Gotta call Dad. Focusing on that immediate need, Brian scanned the hallway in search of a bank of pay phones. He located the symbol posted amid multiple directions for baggage claim, ground transportation, and the information counter. He grasped the suddenly heavy duffel, almost as weighted as his soul felt, and, exhaling a grunt, slung it over his shoulder. He shuffled onward, digging for coins in his jeans’ pocket, through the slowly growing crowd of travelers, his limp more pronounced than ever.

He dialed the number. Two rings later, the deep voice of Randolph MacKay answered. Hello.

Mornin’, Dad. I apologize for calling so early, Brian said as a desire to see, embrace, and be close to his father overwhelmed him.

Your mother and I are early risers, son. What’s wrong? Are you all right?

Everything’s fine. I’m in Atlanta, waiting for a flight home.

But I thought you were staying longer, through the holidays, Randolph said.

I’m on a pay phone. I’ll explain when I see you. Can you pick me up in San Antonio? I know it’s a drive, but it’s the closest airport I could manage on short notice.

Not a problem. Give me the details.

Eastern Air Lines, Flight 149. It’s due in at twelve fifty-one, but so far it’s delayed. Check before you drive down.

I’ll be waiting at the gate. Have a safe flight.

Thanks, Dad. I love you, Brian murmured.

I love you too.

Brian hung up just as the irritating female recording demanded another twenty-five-cent deposit for an additional three minutes. He sighed, glancing around the main concourse. Did he wish to sit at the gate alone, a willing victim to his punishing mind? Not particularly. Speaking to his father had improved his gloomy outlook. Besides, his stomach had already voiced its acute hunger, and in this area of the terminal, the food places had opened. The mouthwatering scents of breakfast filled the air and his senses. He could enjoy a hot beverage and a muffin as he watched a caravan of distracting humanity speed by.

As he repositioned the bag around his shoulder and headed for the nearest coffee shop, he told himself once more that he’d done the right thing by leaving. Maybe he could’ve stayed to address his reasons face-to-face with Marité. But then the explanation might have devolved into an argument. No. He shook his head. He couldn’t second-guess his actions. He’d decided for both of them. He knew best. He was older than Marité, more experienced.

Despite her protestations of love, Marité’s actions had shown she wasn’t ready for a committed relationship, and certainly not with him. She needed to spread her wings. See and explore the marvels the world offered. Most of all, find someone better suited to her age, not a man seven years older like Brian. He was tired and used up, loaded with emotional baggage and a hundred flaws, unworthy of affection. He had no right to interfere and derail the course of her life. In their situation, love would never be strong enough to bridge the gap.

And yet…if he had chosen correctly to leave, why the hell did it hurt so much?

Ocala, December 1973

BEAUTIFUL, unspoiled, and so peaceful… Marité Muro knew the path to the Reynoldses’ ranch better than the small lines on the back of her hand. Every blade of emerald grass and gray pebble, every hidden bend and unseen hollow on the soil was imprinted in her mind. She glanced at the ancient landmark, the live oak tree to her left, lording over the area with its canopy of gnarled branches and thick roots crawling along the grass. Four shadows from the past fled past her vision: a girl and a boy, and two dogs, giggling, barking, frolicking, and rolling on the ground…

This had been her personal play area. In her childhood imagination, the grounds between the ranch and the house seemed limitless. The expanse had been allocated just for her entertainment by some kind, magical being, or so she used to daydream years ago, when Nina and Sam, the border collie and Labrador, chased after her, tails wagging, a toy clutched tight within their jaws.

"Catch, girl!" Marité remembered yelling as she flung a slobbery stick into the air. Nina, a blur of black and white, had bolted in instant pursuit; dutiful Sam waited for his turn at Marité’s feet. She smiled, thinking of their happy antics, the unconditional love dogs offered, unlike skeptical humans, who placed limits, questioned, and hung a price tag on emotions. They were gone now, departed to an eternal canine heaven where treats abounded and uncatchable squirrels were forever plentiful.

Marité had left too, sent to a distant home across the ocean. Years had passed, and she’d returned to realize her adult hopes. What a mistake. She should have stayed in Spain.

"Wait for me, cuz."

Yes, Michael’s call reverberated out of the alley of time. He’d been a member of the carefree fun. In the late afternoons, as soon as his homework and chores were finished, her cousin joined in.

All had turned wrong, so terribly wrong.

The ache stabbing her chest went deep, almost all the way through. She frowned, and the landscape returned to the emptiness of the present. No childish images lingered. Silence suppressed the innocent laughter. Only a gentle winter breeze, light as tissue, offered to dry the hot tears blurring the scenery. Marité pressed her splayed, icy hands on her burning face, inhaled as deeply as her lungs would allow, then resumed her march forward, to the ranch and her final mission in Ocala: a personal confrontation with her cousin before flying back to her refuge, Abuela’s house in Jerez.

Crap, she was tired. Could she handle this conversation?

After last night’s debacle and Brian’s frightful detachment, Marité had slept a few fitful hours. An internal alarm had awakened her with a terrible premonition even before dawn broke. But she had been too late. Brian had gone, leaving behind the briefest note with his unilateral decision to end their love with no opportunity to speak or explain:

"The right love is waiting out there for you."

Bastard. Had Brian been within reach, she’d give him a real piece of her mind, expletives and all. Since she had no other target on hand today, Michael would be the recipient of her full, unabated fury.

A smile curved her lips. Life is not fair, darling cousin. Besides, you’re no saint. You played your part in this little disaster.

Indeed he had. The surprise kiss had been a cataclysmic stunner for her, as well as for everyone who witnessed Michael’s open declaration of what…forbidden infatuation, sinful attraction?

Be fair.

Marité shoved her hands in her pockets. She could escape anyone but the justice seeker. Accurate and dispassionate, the entity that saw everything and knew her down to the most private thought and truth pointed an accusing finger at her, refused to give her a pass. Yes, Marité had a last-minute epiphany. But, that did not excuse her portion of the blame. She’d enjoyed Michael’s kiss four years ago, as much as she’d enjoyed it nights ago in her stepfather’s driveway. However, when clarity ordered the confusion, gave it the proper context, she should’ve run to Michael and shared her newfound knowledge, helped him understand, guided his feelings like the good, loving cousin she claimed to be, and averted last night’s snafu.

What had she done? Nothing. Zip. Nada.

She’d been centered in her jubilation, her unrestrained euphoria with Brian’s requited love, and in her triumph, she’d ignored Michael’s possible confusion and heartache. Two days ago, she’d had the gall to be dismissive and critical of her cousin, almost cruel. Shameful. Downright insensitive, because she had known…damn her, she had known her cousin’s mixed-up feelings for her. Consequently, the matter had exploded in her face, as unresolved issues are prone to do. Life had taught her a new lesson in payment for her selfishness and sin of omission by throwing her an impossible-to-hit slider pitch. The kind where she could stand at home plate, swing the bat a hundred times, and miss the ball on the break every time. There was nothing left to do on this cool winter morning but finish out this errand of reparation she’d embarked on.

That’s a bit much. Don’t overdo the drama.

Granted, Michael hadn’t made it easy. Since his arrival from Miami, he’d avoided her at every opportunity. Nevertheless, she should have forced a meeting, same as she was doing right now. Gone to him and talked…

Marité.

Startled, she turned in the direction of the voice. Michael’s tall form approached from the opposite direction, down the gentle slope. In a few more steps, he would reach her. He must’ve been walking for a while, yet she’d been so absorbed in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed him at all. As he came closer, she realized her earlier anger had almost evaporated. Like a soft cascade, her emotions had fallen into their rightful place one over the other. Happiness had displaced ire. This was her dear cousin, her friend and play buddy. The nervousness she might have expected didn’t materialize either. But the obvious hesitation in him, the contrite gaze, saddened her. They needed to clear the air.

How did you know? she asked, and he blushed, a rare gesture in Michael. That I’d be here, she explained for his benefit.

He shrugged. I… W-we have to talk. And I took a chance. Wishful thinking on my part. I’d hoped to find you here, in our old area. Some fantasies become real.

He sounded hoarse and spoke with difficulty. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the evidence of excesses and restless nights, had deepened since yesterday. And yet he was still handsome, so similar to Uncle Jonas, with a hint of Aunt Coralina’s genes that shaped the masculine hazel-brown eyes same as Marité’s own—almond-shaped, the undeniable proof of their close blood link. The doleful expression got to her. She had to end his misery.

Forgetting her resentment, she reached for his arm in her usual effusive way with him. But Michael stiffened, and she let her hand drop. Too soon…too soon. This fence mending required slow, small steps.

If I made trouble for you, I’m truly sorry. I can explain to Brian. You didn’t do anything. It was my fault, he whispered.

Instead of addressing his words, she pointed to the huge oak. Walk with me. We can sit under our tree and chat.

They settled on a large crawling limb. This fascinating marvel of nature, although uncomfortable, a little slanted and stiff, was curved high and thick enough to serve as a temporary seat while offering sufficient personal space. Marité waited for Michael to speak first, but he didn’t seem ready to do so. Except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he didn’t move. Head bent, he stared at the ground and the dried-up leaves; the playful breeze rustled and gathered around his sneakers.

Enough of this.

There’s no easy way to begin, so I’m just doing it. I owe you an apology, Michael.

Wide-eyed, he flicked his head toward her. That doesn’t make sense.

It will, if you let me explain, she said.

I’ll shut up, then. He nodded, holding up an open palm in invitation to continue.

This is my theory, about our…attraction. She paused, feeling silly. But she had no time for shyness, so she pressed on through the awkwardness.

Okay. I believe we confused our cousinly affection for romantic love. We didn’t grow up together, you see, and the emotions that should’ve developed within the family circle did not. We were strangers when we met, yet our connection was instant. I think I idolized you right away, and when you defended me so valiantly from my mother’s fury, well…you became my savior, my older brother, and my Captain America rolled into one. Do you remember the night of the triple baptism? For some reason, you’d been pulling away from me, and I missed you, I was worried. Were you on drugs then?

The question seemed logical to her, and she threw it out without malice, but when Michael didn’t answer and turned even paler, she realized she’d trampled into private territory without an invitation. Add tactlessness to her growing list of shortcomings.

"Forget I asked that. I remember you tried to get me to leave your room and I wouldn’t. I kept pressing you for answers. So when you kissed me, I was flattered and elated. I’d regained your attention. It was exciting in a weird way…good but not really. I was fifteen then. What the hell did I know about anything? And you? You were barely twenty. As it worked out, I was sent with Abuela soon after. We didn’t have a chance to speak or figure out what had happened.

During my years in Spain, I allowed the memory of the kiss to expand in my imagination, made it larger than I should have. I know you fell into the same trap as I did. We love each other. We’re almost brother and sister. Our affection got somehow blurred, slipped out of familial boundaries into romantic territory. When I understood this, I should’ve come to you and helped you see it the way I did. But I didn’t, and for that I apologize. It’s the reason why I’m not kicking the crap out of you for that public embrace and surprise kiss. Luckily, you and I are back on track. We still have to patch things up with the family.

She glanced at him, offering her best smile. Michael’s gaze remained riveted to the ground as she carried on this one-sided conversation. Michael, does that make sense?

At length, he looked up. Her stomach tightened into a knot. His expression was stiff and unnatural. Like an old Venetian carnival mask, the huge smile had distorted into a downward grimace. The temperature around them dropped. Her skin prickled in alarm.

Michael?

Yeah. Sure it does, Marité. He nodded. Pushing off the branch, he landed with a thud. I misunderstood everything. I’m so relieved it’s all cleared up. I can go back to school and my life in Miami. First I gotta deal with the Lion of Ocala, dear old Dad. What are you guys doing later? Where is…Brian? Sleeping, still?

In less than a second, Michael had slammed a wall of studied indifference between them. Rows of concrete blocks and mortar rose from the ground in quick succession. Before the last layer formed in place, Michael grasped her wrist, kissed her forehead, stunning her into silence, and, without another word, he pivoted and sped toward the ranch.

Have I lost you forever? A dark certainty filled her soul with dread. She had reached out, completed her task, but Michael wasn’t listening, and she had her own wounds to heal. Her life’s path pointed in the opposite direction, to another man, to Brian, if anything remained between them. She didn’t have a minute to spare. Maybe in the future, if Destiny allowed it, she’d see her cousin again.

Chapter Two

Ocala, December 1973

GRATEFUL for the long legs he’d inherited, Michael hurried away from Marité as if wild beasts nipped at his ankles. He needed as much distance between himself and his infuriating cousin as he could get. When did you become so high and mighty? Such a damned bitch, he muttered under his breath. It’s gotta be that nosy cowboy’s fault. I know it. That’s what I get for trying to be a nice guy.

He’d come out first thing in the morning, before the ranch hands or his father began their labor, with the intention to find her, offer a private apology for his behavior last night. Instead, he got a patronizing lecture on blurred feelings. You didn’t have trouble enjoying my kiss, did you? He grated the words as he marched on, his anger doubling as he recalled her patient expression.

How dare you talk to me like I’m an infant. Maybe you’ve confused your emotions. But I remember. You kissed me back, you fucking did. He realized he was yelling and she might hear him, or so could a worker nearby. He came to a full stop and glanced around the area. A minute later, he sighed in relief. As far as he could see, the grounds were empty. He was the only human crunching the frosty morning grass under his forceful steps.

He reached the ranch and slipped quietly inside through the back screen door. Mindful of the faulty damper, he waited as it swung in. Half an inch away from the lock, he gave the door a careful tug. When it shut without a sound, he moved toward his bedroom, treading carefully. Alerting his parents to his presence was the last thing he wanted. Already he could hear his mother’s muted sounds as she tooled about in the kitchen. If he maintained the illusion that he was still asleep, he could pack his belongings unmolested. Then he’d be ready to split town a minute after the family powwow ended. Much as he wanted, he couldn’t skip the conference without inflicting a mortal blow to the stressed relationship with his parents. That, he knew. But to linger, a passive target, while everyone shot arrows and poked holes in him wasn’t his idea of a happy afternoon with the relatives. He’d rather handle the yells and accusations in one shot.

He swept around the room in a flash, gathering as he went every item he brought north, plus a few more, just in case. He dove into his closet. This time, he remembered to retrieve the old stash box. Leaving empty hangers, a pair of old shoes, and the shelves almost bare would be a silent, straightforward message to his mother when she examined his room. Don’t expect me back up any time soon.

The content and tone of this discussion would dictate the timing of his next visit to Ocala. If his father remained as furious as he’d been last night or Marité denounced his behavior before everyone, including the see-it-all, know-it-all cowboy, Michael wouldn’t return for a long, long time. What the hell, he was human. He could tolerate only so much embarrassment.

Michael’s thoughts flew to his best friend. Rafe would not approve.

Last night, Michael had messed up big. His judgment had been nonexistent, and when Marité appeared at his door, assertive, challenging, and breathtaking, he’d lashed out with every bitter word in his arsenal. He’d wanted to destroy her to pieces, hurt her deeply. Give her a sample of his pain whenever he imagined her in the arms of that country bumpkin. And he hadn’t been high. Just exhausted. Weakened by the excesses of the previous night, a night of the wildest sex in memory, and his first adventure with cocaine. A high so intense, Michael had been catapulted to the stratosphere. He’d flown at such numbing altitudes, the ground below his feet and his promise to stay clean and sober had disappeared under a bank of clouds. Damn, he could see Rafe’s frown deepening. The white powder topped the list of forbidden substances in Rafael Alarcón’s list, and for the obvious reasons.

So Michael got stupid, Marité ran from his vitriol, and he went after her. What an idiotic mistake. He’d seen her tears, had tried to placate her, and the situation went south. If only he could undo… No, no use regretting his actions. The milk had been spilled, his true feelings for his cousin revealed. He couldn’t pour the liquid back in the glass any more than he could erase the passionate display in the hallway.

Fuck me, Michael sighed. After cramming the last item into the bag, he flopped down on the bed, defeated and frustrated. What am I going to tell my father? What’s my excuse? My poor mother must be worried sick.

"Maybe you should’ve thought about that sooner." He heard Rafe’s voice, clear as a bell, resonate throughout his room.

"MICHAEL. Are you awake?" Three raps on the door followed Coralina’s voice. Michael’s eyelids flew open. Momentarily disoriented, he jumped upright, staring around the room as he tried to pull apart the thick cobweb trapping his mind.

Did you hear me, son? We’re waiting for you.

Back to reality.

I hear you, Momma. I’ll be there as soon as I dress.

All right, she said. Join us in the living room.

He’d fallen into an absolute dreamless sleep. Likely the Quaalude’s residual effect. The chick from the club had given him the powerful downer to counteract the cocaine’s restlessness. He felt physically refreshed and more coherent. His thoughts sharpened by the second. He would need a clear head to parry his father’s arguments and escape. A tentative getaway outline began to take shape: First a quick shower, next he’d slink out the back, drop off the bag in his car, and tuck the keys in his pocket, ready to roll out in a moment.

Pity he couldn’t leave the car running. He smiled, amused by the vision of his car spewing fumes all by its lonesome, then he bolted up, shedding his clothes as he dashed to the bathroom.

It didn’t take long to clean up, dress, and pack his car. He reentered the ranch through the same screen door he’d been so careful with earlier. This time he let it slam shut with a loud, satisfying bang.

As he followed the voices coming from the family room, he paused and cocked his head to listen: his father and Xavi, his best friend, and Coralina spoke, no one else. Weird, his mother had said they were waiting for him. Surely that meant everyone: the Buchanans, Repulleses, and Muros. Michael wouldn’t be surprised if what’s-his-name, Matthew’s eternal shadow and Marité’s current boyfriend, had been invited, which would increase Michael’s humiliation tenfold. Crap. They waited for his arrival in silence. The minute he entered, target practice would commence.

The speakers didn’t sound angry, only agitated as the conversation jumped quickly from one person to the next. Michael slinked forward, trying to decipher the thread of the discussion. He paused when he heard Xavi’s turn. The graceful accent in his speech was unmistakable. His father’s friend had moved to the States long ago. Despite his having lived in America for years, the telltale Spanish lilt would accompany him like a faithful friend until the end of his years, same as his mother and Uncle Emilio—also strangely silent. Xavi’s murmur continued, and Michael stretched his neck. Did he hear correctly?

Marité’s leaving, Xavi said.

Whoa, she didn’t say anything earlier. Where the hell is she going? Michael stiffened. He didn’t like the sound of that.

Can’t you convince her to stay? Isabel must be so disappointed, Coralina piped in.

Once she learned Brian had left, Marité called Alicia. Her grandmother wants her in Jerez right away. Frankly, I can’t tell if Marité’s reacting to Brian’s abrupt departure or last night’s event. She’s become very difficult to read, Xavi continued.

Great. His stomach bottomed out. Feeling hyper, with a crawling itch, as if he’d snorted a fresh mound of cocaine, Michael propped his weight against the wall and ran his trembling fingers through his hair. Of all the luck in the world. The cowboy