Santiago's Convenient Fiancée

CHAPTER THREE

“STOP KICKING THE desk already! What’s it ever done to you?”

Amanda smiled as she told her friend off and Saoirse pulled back her booted foot just as it was ready to connect with the ER check-in desk for another thud.

“I’m tired of waiting. Where is this guy anyhow?”

“Ah!” Amanda’s eyes lit up and she leaned conspiratorially across the counter. “It’s a male person, is it? Do you know if he’s single? I can’t believe you didn’t talk to that guy at Joe’s going-away party. Muy guapo. They don’t make them that handsome and available all that often, Murph. You should’ve pounced.” She did her best cat-pounce look, managing to look completely adorable in the process.

“Enough! I’ll figure out my little problem outside work hours, thank you very much.” She pursed her lips and gave her friend a wide-eyed glare.

“I’m just saying, beggars can’t be choosers and you had an amazing option last night...” Amanda paused for effect. “Until you bailed.”

“I didn’t bail!” What’s so bad about bailing when all you have to offer is yourself? The self her ex couldn’t see fit to marry...on their wedding day.

“And I’m no beggar,” she tacked on for good measure—as if it would make a grain of salt’s worth of difference to Amanda.

“Yeah, right. Tell it to the deportation police.” Amanda pulled out her phone and scrolled through the images until she hit the one she wanted and turned it toward Saoirse.

The calendar. As if she needed a visual aid to remind her the days were passing faster than the sands of time. Or were those the same thing?

“Three months, Murph. Three months to find some talent who is going to put a ring on that finger by the end of your course.”

“I told you, I’m not in the market for a ring. Or a romance. None of that. It’s a green card I’m after. Nothing more.”

“C’mon.” Her friend nudged her over the countertop. “If you’re going to marry someone so you can stay, he might as well be nice to look at and, come to think of it, there is plenty of talent right here at Seaside. Why not keep it in the family?”

“All right! I get it!” Saoirse cut her off. “I’ve got more than enough to worry about with having to add Finding a Hottie Who Will Marry the Poor Immigrant Girl whose fiancé couldn’t be bothered to do the trick, don’t I?”

“Like what, exactly?” Amanda asked pointedly. “What is it you have to worry about besides that?”

“Uh...like my new partner showing up so we can get out of here and fix some people!”

“Amanda.” A man’s voice cut across Saoirse’s. “Know anything about the head injury in cubicle three?”

“Yes, Dr. Valentino. She’s just been brought in...”

Amanda’s voice turned into a buzz in Saoirse’s head as she looked at the doctor standing beside her. He definitely had Latino blood running through him. The smokin’ hot variety. Tall, dark hair. Not as pitch-black as Santi’s. And the cut was crisp and clean—it would’ve suited a high-powered businessman just as well as a... What was this guy? Some sort of specialist? Something exacting anyway. The man couldn’t have been more alpha male if he tried. Not her type. He wasn’t as rakishly rebel with a cause as Santi came across with his long lean body all casual and taut at the same time. And that thick, soft ebony hair gently curling along his neck. Not that she’d been burning the details of their encounter into her mind or anything.

She tamped down the memory and tried to pull a surreptitious sidelong glance at the immaculately dressed interloper. This chap was more gentleman than gaucho in the looks department. He had the same broad-shouldered, athletic build as her guy. Well, not her guy but...she knew what she meant. Dark brown eyes, the same rich voice that could’ve doubled for Spanish hot chocolate...

Her gaze swung to the double doors, opening automatically as a virtual replica of the man beside her purposefully strode in. The closer he got the more prominent the differences became but even so—these two were cut from the same cloth. A very familiar Latino islander cloth if she wasn’t mistaken... Caramel-colored skin, cheekbones to die for, dark eyes that could stand in for a shot of spicy mole sauce or espresso, depending on the lighting... She was tempted to go up on tiptoe and look for flecks of gold.

“Amanda, what sort of riffraff are you letting into your ER these days?” he intoned, simultaneously doing the very male chin jut thing to the nearer Identi-Kit doctor. “Rafe! Come over here, I need to pick your brains,” he called across the crowded waiting room.

“Two Valentinos are better than one!” Amanda riposted with a cheeky grin, managing, as she handed a chart to him, to eye-signal to Saoirse that both men were ring-free.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Saoirse shifted a heavy-lidded glance at the two gorgeous clones now deep in conversation over the contents of the chart. Amanda, on the other hand, was looking a bit too innocent. There was little doubt her friend was going a bit haywire on this whole let’s-find-Saoirse-a-husband-so-she-can-stay thing. There were other options, but maddeningly getting married was the easiest. Nothing like a bit of bureaucracy to kick a girl when she’s down. But at least Amanda was trying, which was more than she could say for herself. It was little wonder her godsend of a friend’s phone didn’t have smoke coming out of it from all of the texts she must’ve been sending to gather this collection of fine male specimens about the main desk.

Not that they were paying even the slightest bit of attention to her.

Which stung a little.

Okay, more than a little.

This was more than life playing funny jokes on her. This was life being mean. These men were born for procreating. The strong features, the chiseled good looks, the cover-model perfection so many aspired to, only to stumble at the first hurdle. And they were both doctors. Smart ones, from the sound of their rapid-fire conversation, huge polysyllabic words effortlessly whizzing between them. These men were meant to have offspring populating the earth, making it a better place. A better place to look at anyhow.

Baby-making.

The words sank to the pit of her stomach like a bad plate of enchiladas.

The one thing she wasn’t able to do—and now she was all but fenced in with available men in unspeakably perfect packages?

She tugged at the collar of her uniform as if it would release her from the suffocating thoughts. This was bonkers. As if yesterday’s run-in with Mr. Luscious hadn’t been cruel enough, life was serving up not one but two variations on the man who’d unwittingly kept her up half the night when what she’d really needed had been a good sleep before she met her new partner, who would no doubt make her day a misery by not having the slightest clue—

Her eyes widened as the main character in her nocturnal reflections stepped through the sliding glass doors and into the ER. His eyes scanned the large waiting room before locking with hers, a smile lighting up his face at the hit of recognition. His gaze shifted to her left and then again to her right. One second for each of the doctors flanking her before he executed an abrupt about-face and walked straight back out to the ambulance bay.

Saoirse took off at a run to catch up with him, vaguely hearing Amanda shouting something about her paperwork. The backpack stuffed in her locker would have to wait. The chances of her having a ring on her finger by the end of the month were looking less and less likely. Right now she just needed to make sure she kept her job. On the brink of deportation and homelessness wasn’t an option.

“Hey!” she shouted when she’d swerved past her ambulance and had caught up with Santi. “What’s your problem?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He whirled around to face her, hands on hips, body poised as if ready to pounce if she came any closer.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why were they there with you?”

“What? Who? Are you talking about those guys? The Mirror Men?” She threw a look back over her shoulder as if they would magically appear.

“You don’t know them?” Santi was looking at her with an intensity that, frankly, was a bit unsettling. She’d endured quite enough inspection and being unsettled to last her a lifetime, thank you very much. She glared back. Her eyes widened suddenly as her brain started connecting a whole bunch of dots she hadn’t seen sixty seconds ago.

Santi was wearing a uniform. The same one she was.

“Are you here to work on Ambulance 23?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

Oh, for the love of Pete!

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right.”

Amanda was going to get a very long, very shouty text message coming her way. Saoirse tapped her name tag in a repeat of yesterday’s gesture. “Ring any bells?”

This time Santi’s eyes did the widening. “They didn’t give me a name. Just the number of the vehicle.” He rocked back on his heels, deliciously toned forearms folding across his chest as his frown deepened. “You’re my new partner?”

“Well, don’t bother sounding pleased about it or anything,” she snapped back, more angry at her meddling friend whose brainchild she supposed this was than the unwitting hottie she had to sit next to all day. There was no way Amanda wasn’t involved in the pairing. It was taking the whole matchmaking thing one step too far. Amanda knew everything about the past year was still stinging as badly as if Saoirse’d just rolled in nettles. Pain lurked in every nook and cranny she possessed. There would be words. Terse ones.

She pursed her lips and gave a heavy sigh. Fine. They might as well get this over with.

She pulled the keys from her pocket and gave them a jangle. Santi reached for them and she pulled them away before he could grab them. “Uh-uh! I drive. Them’s the rules.”

“I thought I was meant to be senior.”

“Not on this rig.”

Santi laughed. “Look at you, talking all tough.”

The words sobered Saoirse up instantly. “I am tough.” She nodded a short, sharp, don’t-even-try-to-mess-with-me nod at him. “You’re meant to advise me if you feel it’s necessary, and I’m telling you right now, it won’t be necessary.”

He nodded.

“Let’s get going, shall we? You’re late and I need to run you through everything in the truck before we go anywhere.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a sharp salute.

“I’m not screwing around.” She gritted her teeth to stop a whole mess of impolite images his faux obedience elicited. A riding crop might’ve been one of them. And a nonregulation issue nurse’s outfit. Neither matched the other, but neither did she and this...this...übermale slanting a dubious eyebrow in her direction.

“Neither am I.” One look up into those eyes of his told her Santiago was serious. Very. “Do you want to continue this display of who’s more important than who or should we just get to work?”

Turning around and getting into the cab of the ambulance was her only option. With a little bit of slamming.

Damn, that man pressed a whole lot of buttons. Nearly every single one of them...a little too well.

* * *

“You’re not a big fan of speed limits, are you?” Santi finally broke the silence after fifteen minutes of oppressive quiet in the front cab of the ambulance.

“I think you meant to say, do you always deal with the heavy traffic of Miami so beautifully, Murphy? Especially since I was late and now require you to take the law into your hands so we can get to our assigned area in time.”

“Absolutely. That’s exactly what I meant to say.” He nodded and grinned, his hand slamming against the dashboard as she took another corner without hitting the brakes. “Practicing for the racetrack?” he threw out, trying to add some more light to her thunderously bad mood. Not that his was all that brilliant.

“You’d better believe it. I’ve got three races on Saturday and I’m not letting the likes of you hold me back from the winners’ circle.”

“No joke?” He pushed against the dash, turning in the seat so he could face her, even though her eyes were glued to the road and the last thing he’d be receiving was eye contact.

“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

He felt her mood lift.

“What kind of races?”

“Pony car,” she answered, as if there weren’t any other type of racing. “They might be smaller than the muscle cars but definitely require greater skill at the wheel!” She mimicked a television announcer as she spoke then tacked on a little musical sound-effects riff for added impact, wrapping up with the first smile he’d seen on her lips all day.

“Respect.” Santi flick-snapped his fingers and gave a low whistle. So she was a speed junkie. Now, that was sexy. He could picture Saoirse in racing gear a little too easily. The image took fireproof underwear to a whole other level of sexy! He swept away a cluster of torrid images and focused on her fingers, snugly tucked around the steering wheel. Three o’clock. Nine o’clock. The girl didn’t mess around with one-fingered casual driving. Chances were, she didn’t mess around with casual much of anything.

“I’d like to see you in action.”

She shot him a quick sidelong glance. “What do you mean by that?”

“Driving. Why? What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing,” she answered too quickly, a hit of red streaking along the length of her cheekbones. “Nothing at all.”

He turned toward the side window to hide his smile, palm trees and fast-food joints flashing past them at a rate of knots. He seemed to bring out the sandpapery side to Saoirse. How long would it take, he mused, the smile still playing on his lips, to shift the rough to the smooth? Not that he couldn’t apply the analogy to himself.

Or know if he had the staying power. Just arriving in Miami—far better by bike than plane—had set off the creeping tendrils of wanderlust. After years abroad he knew his dragon slaying had to happen here, on his home turf. Face up to the responsibilities he’d left behind. But arriving armed with that knowledge wasn’t proving to make the task any easier.

A flash of blond caught his eye as Saoirse gave her head a shake, her brain clearly as busy as his was, each of them thinking their way through problems neither of them were ready or willing to share.

All of which suited him just fine.

Working with Murph was shaping up to be a much-needed antidote to the tangle of disasters he was trying to sort out in his personal life.

“Those two chaps...” Saoirse began tentatively, tossing a quick glance in his direction. “The ones standing at the ER desk beside me. Are you related or something?”

The mood in the cab shifted again—the chill factor on his side of the cab increasing by the second.

Santi swallowed the urge to deny fraternity until he’d set things right. He’d come home to fix the fractured bonds, not make them worse. Who knew how dark a white lie could turn if it crept outside the confines of the ambulance?

Her question—innocent enough—was a reminder that he didn’t know Saoirse at all and no matter how un-getting-to-know-you their conversation had been up to this point, he wasn’t up for this sort of fact-finding mission.

“What makes you say that?”

She made a “duh” sound before putting on a perfect mimicry of a Miami Beach party-girl voice. “I know I’m just a little girlie-wirly, but I have these things called eyes in my head and I used them and then I added up everything I saw and I am beginning to think your parents had more than one child. What’s the deal? They seemed all fancy-surgeony. And you obviously know a whole lot more than a paramedic. Why the downgrade?”

“Isn’t this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?” Santi shot back. “You’re not an ‘ordinary’ paramedic from what I’ve seen.”

“I used to be a NICU nurse.” The information was given reluctantly.

“So do you see yourself as a ‘downgraded’ specialty nurse?”

Saoirse bit back quickly. “Not in the slightest.” It was just too painful to stay in NICU. All those little babies...

Her knuckles whitened against the steering wheel as she trotted out her line. “I just felt I could be more hands on when I moved here if I drove an ambulance.”

“Ditto.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you didn’t say hi. I mean, they are your brothers, aren’t they?”

“Qué?”

“You heard me. I saw the look in your eyes. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough. What did you do? Steal their lunch money or drop one of them on their heads when they were a baby?”

Santi’s left hand shot out instinctively, his fist connecting with the door in a short, sharp punch. El horno no está para bollos! “Remind me not to play darts with you, chica.”

“Easy, tiger...just wanted to know who I’m stuck with on shift, is all.” There was a curl of an apology woven through the shock in her eyes. And more than a little wariness. Santi wouldn’t have blamed her if she pulled a wheel-screeching U-turn, headed back to the hospital and requested a new partner. Punching things wasn’t his style but she’d aimed, shot and unwittingly scored a bull’s-eye. He’d made all of his brothers’ lives a whole lot more difficult than they’d needed to be after his parents had been killed, and hauling around the burden of guilt for the last fifteen years had all but buried him.

“Sore subject.”

“No kidding,” she muttered, slowing the vehicle and pulling into a parking lot across from the beach. She jerked the ambulance to a halt, unclicked her seat belt and shifted around in her seat to look him in the eye. “Right. This is my ambulance—”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “I’m the senior one. I was told you were still in training.”

“That’s just a technicality.” Her jaw tightened.

“Not where I come from.”

“Where I come from—if the so-called senior partner starts acting all crazy we are cruising for Disasterville and I get to call the shots. I don’t know about you but I need this job. It’s the only thing keeping me sane and you’re not helping me keep my cool or my calm. So spill it.”

“What?” Not the world’s best dodge, but it would buy him a few more seconds.

“Don’t prevaricate.” She was serious now. “You’ve got a story and what is it you Americans say? ‘Better out than in’? Spill it so we can get your funk out of this cab and focus on work.”

“You want my funk?”

She stared at him wide-eyed then burst out laughing. “Yeah.” She nodded as the idea settled into place. “Don’t ask me why, but lay it on me. I am the funk master.”

Santi shook his head. This woman was as mad as a hatter. Good mad. He leaned back against his door, arms folding across his chest as he weighed up the pros and cons of playing along.

“So, what are you saying? You want to do this Vegas-style?”

Crinkles appeared at the top of her nose. “I presume you’re not referring to bathing in champagne and luxuriating among satin sheets?”

It hadn’t been what he’d been thinking, but now that she mentioned it...

“Whatever floats your boat, chica.”

* * *

Santiago dropped a wink that made more of an impact than Saoirse wished it had. She forced herself to purse her lips and give him an “in your dreams” look.

Then the penny dropped.

She was the one whose mind had slipped straight between the sexy sheets. Her brain played catch-up on the revelation.

“You mean what goes on on the road stays on the road?”

“Exactly.” Santi nodded, his full lips curving into a self-satisfied smile. “Glad to see you are keeping your finger on the American pulse.”

“That’s precisely what I’m trying to do,” she said with feeling.

A bit too much feeling for someone who was...er...living in America. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. “Would you hurry up and tell me what has got you all sensitive and girlie—”

“Whoa!” He held up his hands in protest. “Let’s not get carried away here. There’s only room for one princesita in this cab and it’s not—”

Saoirse silenced him with a zip-it yank of her fingers across her mouth. She’d had her princess days and they’d landed her alone and heartbroken. Her fingers crept up to the back of her neck, feeling the short hairs bristle under her touch. It hadn’t been that long ago she would have felt her thick hair swish along the small of her back. Her eyes flicked back up to Santi’s. By the looks of things he was quite merrily enjoying her discomfort.

Typical overconfident, survival-of-the-fittest male! Everything about him, his physique, his confidence, his whole being, exuded man. She’d have to develop an immunity to it. And from the effect his eyes alone had on her, now would be a pretty good time to show him his gorgeousness had absolutely no effect on her.

“Enough,” she said decisively. “Spill.”

“You know, Murphy, you’d be really good at blackmailing people. Or torture. Have you ever considered a career—”

She waved off his attempts to veer off course, making it clear by her gestures that he needed to start talking or get the boot.

“Fine. You got me. They’re my brothers.”

Saoirse shot a triumphant fist into the air with a whoop and ended up smacking it on the roof of the cab. “Ow! I knew it.” She shook her hand and gave her knuckles a quick covert inspection. “I knew it,” she said again, just to make sure he was aware she was still the one in charge here.

“And what are your parents? Doctors or models?”

“Dead.”

Saoirse felt her face flame with horror. Talk about open mouth, insert foot. Her parents had been just about the only reason she hadn’t flung herself off a jagged cliff edge the day of the wedding-not-wedding. She couldn’t imagine not having them at the end of a phone, at the very least. Video links were even better.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea, Santi.”

“Don’t worry. You weren’t to know.” His voice had a heavy dose of robot about it now. She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t even say her ex-fiancé’s name without tearing up, and he was alive and kicking.

The look on Santiago’s face said Don’t even think about giving me sympathy, so she swallowed her pity and ploughed on. If they’d both just endured the worst year ever, they’d finally have something in common.

“Recently?”

“No.” He maintained eye contact almost as if he were giving a frontline report to a senior officer that half his men had been killed and the other half had been taken hostage by terrorists.

Her mind reeled back to the intensity with which he’d fought for the homeless veteran’s life yesterday. That hadn’t been about saving a stranger’s life. It had been about something personal. Something buried away deep in his heart.

She nodded for him to continue.

“My parents were killed twenty years ago at our—at the family bodega. A robbery gone about as wrong as they can when there are guns involved.”

He was painting a picture. It was hard to tell whose benefit it was for, but Saoirse clamped her lips tight now that she’d finally got him talking. Not that it made for easy listening. Just hearing the absence of emotion in Santi’s voice was chilling.