Free California Royale by Deborah Smith

didn’t notice everything about you, Alejandro. The careful way you hold delicate things, like the wine glass. The way the light shines on that black hair of yours. The way you bring life and vitality into my home
.
    “I notice,” he said simply. They looked at each other for several seconds, trading silent promises that they might someday fulfill together. “Tell me about the roses,” he urged.
    A memory came back to Shea so clearly that she could almost smell the stained city air and feel the sweaty heat of that Los Angeles day many years ago. And the roses. She would never forget the way they struggled valiantly amid the squalor.
Keep them alive for me
, nino.
This life, it is ugly, but the roses will always bring you love and beauty
. Those were the last words from Señora Savaiano’s thin, ancient lips before the paramedics took her to the hospital for the last time. Shea had never forgotten the words or the flowers.
    “A neighbor who took care of me when I was growing up loved roses,” she told Duke slowly. “She managed to keep bushes of them growing outside the door to the apartments where my mother and I lived. Nothing else was beautiful about the place but those roses.”
    “The woman who took care of you?” he asked.
    “My mother worked nights.” Shea stood up. She cleared her throat, feeling uncomfortable, as usual, about discussing her past. “She was a waitress.”
Discussion closed
. “Let’s get the other bottle of wine and go into the living room.”
    “Whoa!”
Duke exclaimed in dismay. “You always throwout bits and pieces about your past, and then you clam up.”
    Shea walked around the table and stopped beside him, looking down at him with a taut frown on her face. Duke would allow no secrets between them; that both excited and frightened her. “My mother was a waitress,” she repeated in a blunt, defensive tone. “We didn’t have much money. Everything I have today—my education, my job, this place—I worked hard as hell to get. I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t come from the classy background you assume. That’s why I don’t like to talk about the past.”
    He studied her for a moment, anger slowly etching itself into his features.
Dear Lord, but he could look fierce when he wanted
, Shea thought raggedly.
    “Dammit!” he exploded. Duke stood quickly and caught her by one wrist, not painfully, but firmly. “Do you think I’m looking for a blond, debutante, society type to show off back home? So everyone will know that the grandson of a dirt-poor immigrant has really made good? Is that what you think?”
    Shea tried to jerk her wrist out of his grip. “No! I’m not capable of that brand of snobbery, and I never will be! I just don’t want you to have any foolish illusions! I’m a mustang!”
    “A what?” he said in consternation, his brow furrowed.
    Shea thought grimly that she must have sounded like an idiot. She repeated in a lower voice, “A mustang, at heart. Like you. Tough and mean and strong.”
    After a thoughtful moment he exhaled, his anger gone, and said, “Well, hell, I know that you’re tough and mean and strong. What other kind of woman would dump a damned bucket of mud on my head?”
    “Whatever you think of me, don’t ever think that I look down on your background or your Mexican heritage.That’s ridiculous. I grew up in a Los Angeles neighborhood that was more Mexican then American. I spoke Spanish almost as early as English.”
    He studied her, and after a moment his expression softened. He spoke gruffly. “You say you’re a mustang. But you’ve got class too. And style. And compassion. And intelligence. And—”
    “Enough, Alejandro, enough. You’re embarrassing me.”
    “Somebody needs to embarrass you. Somebody needs to rattle your cage, and I’m the man to do it.”
    Without another word he grabbed her, swung her up into his arms, and marched into the living room. Stunned, Shea stared at his expression of determination as he