Private Acts Read online

  “Buenas tardes, Senorita Samirah!”

  She waved and smiled at the young boys playing soccer in the street. She waved again at the old matron sitting in the second floor window, keeping an eye on the goings on in the neighborhood. Nearby, a group of girls jumped rope and sang a song in Spanish. Normally, Samirah would stop and jump with them for a few minutes, but her time was short today because she’d idled over lunch and browsed some of the shops looking for souvenirs to send to her family. She always mailed the souvenirs so she wouldn’t have the hassle of carrying extra baggage on the return trip home.

  She couldn’t believe three weeks had passed since she arrived. For the past ten years, she’d traveled all over the world, but Cuenca was turning out to be one of her favorite places by far. UNESCO had declared Cuenca’s historic center a World Heritage Site, and rightly so. The charming city’s cobblestone streets held an old-world charm with their plazas and ancient churches. Colonial-era buildings housed hotels, restaurants, and shops.

  She also felt at home here. The food was exceptional with fresh ingredients readily available at the local markets. Getting around in Ecuador’s third largest city was as simple as catching the bus or walking, so most expats didn’t even own cars. The friendly, easy-going people made her stay enjoyable, including the British couple who had hired her, Geneva and Thomas Hill. They treated her more like family than a live-in housekeeper.

  Samirah cringed inwardly.

  She hated the word “housekeeper,” but in truth, they didn’t need only a personal chef. They didn’t care if she had a certificate in the culinary arts from Le Cordon Bleu. They also didn’t care she’d been traveling the world mastering her craft in various establishments and homes of the wealthy across the globe since the age of nineteen. They were paying an obscene amount of money—money she could put to good use in the pursuit of her dream of opening her own restaurant—so she wasn’t complaining.

  “Good afternoon, Samirah.” The slowly-spoken greeting came from a middle-aged man walking his dog. He liked to practice his English whenever he saw her.

  She spoke slowly, too, to make it easier for him to understand. “Hello. How are you today?”

  “I am fine. And you?”

  “I’m doing well. Where are you going?” Samirah patted the dog’s head.

  “I am bringing the dog for a walk. Later, I will bringing the dog back home and then I am going to the store.” He looked pleased with himself for tackling such a long sentence.

  “Good,” Samirah said. “But remember, it’s I am taking the dog for a walk, and I will bring the dog back home.”

  “Ay! I forget again.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “It’s okay.” She winked at him and patted his shoulder. “You’re getting better.”

  “Gracias.” With a shy smile, he moved on.

  Samirah opened the wrought iron gate and walked through the yard to let herself into the house. At the threshold, she removed her sandals and entered the modern kitchen, which flowed into an open great room. When she’d first seen the kitchen, she’d practically drooled over the Professional Series stainless steel Viking appliances. They were a testament to Geneva’s love of cooking, something the older woman would temporarily have to forego until the hip therapy enabled her to move around like she used to.

  She set her bag on the granite countertop and placed the flowers in a vase on the accent table in front of the window with a view of the street. After putting away most of the food, she spread out the items she planned to use for dinner.

  Meal preparation was always her favorite part of the day. Tonight she would fix a traditional Ecuadorian dish, encebollado de pescado. The tasty fish soup filled with tuna, pickled onions, tomatoes, and yucca was not only hearty, but considered to be a good cure for a hangover.

  Samirah smiled to herself. No hangovers here. The Hills didn’t drink, and with her low tolerance for alcohol, she seldom did either. Humming to herself, she reached for a tomato, but she paused as a thought came into her head.

  A glance at the clock told her she had time for a quick dip in the pool. She loved to swim. Forty-five minutes, tops, she promised herself. She would have to be out of the pool and have dinner ready by the time the Hills arrived, but she could do it.

  After only a few seconds more hesitation, Samirah placed the soup ingredients in the fridge and went into her private quarters on the first floor. The three-room suite consisted of a bathroom, a combined living room and kitchen, and her bedroom. The living room contained a sofa, recliner, and a couple of accent tables. A two-burner stove and small refrigerator made up the kitchen. The best part of the bedroom was the French doors that led out onto a small patio in the backyard. She changed into a white halter-top string bikini and grabbed a towel.

  Shortly after her arrival, she’d discovered a loose fence board while watering the plants. She made her way across the yard to it now. With the panel pushed aside, she turned sideways and slipped into the yard next door. The owner was out of the country and a pool cleaning service came in twice per week to clean and make sure the chemicals remained at an acceptable level.

  Samirah dropped her towel over the back of one of the patio chairs and gracefully dived into the pool with a small splash, resurfacing a few feet away.

  * * * *

  In his downstairs studio, Miguel heard what sounded like a splash in the pool. He sighed. Very few people knew he was back, and he guessed it was one of the neighborhood kids who didn’t realize he was now at home. While out of the country, he’d kept the gate locked, giving only the pool service company a key. The last thing he’d wanted was to have one of the kids in the neighborhood using his pool unattended because of the risk of drowning.

  He pushed the wheeled stool back from his latest creation, a four-foot image of an indigenous woman bent over a basket of fruit. The three-dimensional woman protruded from a rectangular block of plaster fitted around her like a frame.

  He was luckier than most. His work continued to sell well despite the fact that he hadn’t done a tour in years. He already had a New York buyer for this one, sight unseen. Once completed, his agent would arrange to have it picked up and shipped.

  Miguel stood with the mallet and chisel he’d been using to carve her feet and walked across the dusty, plaster-covered floor. At the window, the afternoon sun warmed his bare chest. He looked out into the back yard and drew in a sharp breath at the unexpected image of a woman with chocolate-colored skin easing her way across the pool with her long hair dragging on the surface behind her. Within seconds, he recognized her.

  Well, well. What have we here?

  She swam several laps, using an unhurried pace as her arms sliced through the water before turning over to float on her back.

  The poorly lit bar had not done her justice. Her body was full and ripe in all the right places, and the skimpy bikini enhanced every dip and curve. As his eyes roamed her body, the sting of attraction assailed him, tightening his gut and reminding him it had been months since he’d last touched a woman.

  If he believed in destiny, he would think she had been served up on a platter by fate, his for the taking. But that’s not how real life worked, and he knew that all too well. The only question to be answered now was, how had she ended up in his pool?

  * * * *

  With her eyes closed, Samirah relaxed after swimming several laps, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness in the water.

  Another beautiful day, she mused to herself.

  Too bad she would have to give up her secret indulgence when the owner came back. She hoped he would stay gone for at least a couple more weeks, but with her luck, he’d probably show up tomorrow. According to Geneva, he was a sculptor. She hoped he was the neighborly type. If so, maybe she could convince him to allow her to use the pool from time to time.

  All of a sudden, Samirah had the eerie feeling she was being watched. A frown marred her forehead as she drifted along in the water with her arms outstretched. Her eyes flew op
en, unease settling in her stomach. She let her gaze travel to the fence. She shifted it to the right, the left, and back to the front again.

  Nothing.

  Her lids lowered and she smiled to herself. Guilt could do that to a person. People who engaged in behavior they shouldn’t often had the feeling they were being watched, and she had no business in the neighbor’s pool.

  Moving her arms like oars, she created little ripples and glided slowly through the water.

  The prickly sensation persisted. She ignored it at first, but soon it became unbearable and her heartbeat accelerated. She opened her eyes again, looking around. Although she could see into this yard from upstairs in the house where she stayed, the Hills weren’t home yet, so that didn’t explain the uneasiness. Fruit trees blocked the view of the pool from the house on the other side. Still, the odd feeling remained.

  Then she heard something—movement—behind her. She didn’t imagine it. She froze, listening. Even though the sound didn’t repeat, she knew whatever or whoever was there hadn’t left.

  Tilting her head back in the water at an awkward angle to see behind her, Samirah saw the culprit. It wasn’t a stray cat as she’d secretly hoped.

  It was a man. The hunk from the bar!

  He’d disappeared not long after she’d walked away from him last night. Now he stood staring down at her with his hands on his hips.

  Her eyes widened and every muscle in her body tensed, which caused her to sink below the surface of the water. She splashed wildly for a moment before kicking her feet to right herself. Treading water in the deep end, she stared up at him in shock.

  He hadn’t moved.

  “Having fun?” he asked in a dry tone.

  Her mind blanked, distracted by the hard muscles of his chest and washboard abs. He’d been hiding quite a body beneath the shirt she saw him in last night, a classic male shape of broad shoulders and lean hips covered by a pair of khaki-colored linen slacks that hung low on his narrow waist. A half-inch of pelvic bone jutted above the waistband and captured her attention. Clearly the drawstrings were not as tight as they should be to keep the pants properly secured.

  “Did you follow me?” she demanded when she found the wherewithal to look away.

  He seemed taken aback. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  His voice poured over her like warm syrup. She swallowed, one part of her registering the undeniable tug of attraction to this golden-skinned god, the other part not sure if she should panic or not.

  “This is private property, and you’re trespassing. What are you doing here?” No sooner had the words left her lips, Samirah got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. He appeared way too relaxed and was half-dressed. She suspected she wouldn’t like the answer.

  “I live here,” he replied. Her stomach plummeted. “What are you doing here?”

  Oh boy.

  Chapter Three

  Nine times out of ten, whenever Samirah found herself in a sticky situation, it was because she’d said or done something she shouldn’t have. Only one time out of ten could she honestly say she found herself in a situation not of her own doing. This was not one of those times.

  “You’re the owner, the artist.”

  It was a statement of dread rather than a question, and she knew she’d have a lot of explaining to do. This was the famed sculptor Geneva had gushed about—Delgado, Ecuador’s pride and joy. Now she understood the reason for his incredible physique. As an artist who sculpted using plaster, he would have to lift heavy bags on a regular basis and reposition his sculptures from time to time. To think she’d met him last night and didn’t have a clue to his identity.

  “Correct. Miguel Delgado.”

  “You’re supposed to be in Miami.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I came back yesterday.” His steady gaze didn’t waver. “You mentioned something about trespassing?”

  Samirah opened her mouth to speak and promptly closed it. She experienced a rare occasion where she couldn’t think of a single adequate answer. She was busted.

  Miguel leaned forward and extended a hand to her. Reluctantly, she took it and allowed him to lever her out of the pool.

  Once she stood before him, he didn’t let her go right away. He held onto her arm and looked down at her from a good nine inches, his face unreadable. His heated gaze made her feel as if he’d brushed his hand down the front of her body and made her very aware of the fact that the bathing suit, although in good condition, fit tight because she’d gained weight since purchasing it years ago. Her fuller breasts were squeezed tightly together and pushed above the edge of the top.

  She became conscious of the part of her anatomy where his eyes lingered. A tank of oxygen would do her well right now, and a pair of industrial-thick oven mitts that came all the way up to her elbow to prevent the skin of her forearm from scorching in his grasp.

  Under normal circumstances, Samirah prided herself on being in control, but right now, she felt decidedly weak and—unsafe. The promises she’d made to herself before taking this trip suddenly seemed under threat of ruin.

  “May I have my towel, please?” she said softly, not trusting her legs to support her walking around him to retrieve it where she’d tossed it over the chair.

  He seemed reluctant to release her. When he did, he prolonged it, letting his slightly rough fingers drag along the sensitive skin of the inside of her arm. His warm touch sent tingles to settle in her breasts, making the nipples harden in an embarrassing way. Once freed, her arm hung limply at her side. He turned around to get the towel, giving her a good view of his muscular back, which tapered up into an impressive vee from the waistband of his pants.

  She pressed her lips together and pulled them inward to fight back a whimper as she imagined smoothing her hands across the sinewy muscles. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his bronze body. Could she have picked a worse time to try to be good?

  He handed her the towel, and Samirah donned it like a cloak of protection, her only defense against the invasion of warm sensations evoked by his nearness. She wrapped the towel tightly around her body like a giant bandage and tucked it securely under one arm.

  Feeling stronger, she laughed guiltily. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  The scarred brow rose. “Oh really? You mean you weren’t swimming in my pool without my permission? Because that’s what it looks like. Have you been sleeping in my bed and eating my porridge, too?”

  Her face heated at the Goldilocks reference, which under normal circumstances would be comical since physically she was probably as far removed from Goldilocks as a person could get. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to read Miguel yet and needed to get on his good side. So far he didn’t appear upset, but she’d rebuffed him last night and he might still be nursing a bruised ego.

  “Not exactly. I—”

  “And please, speak slowly so I can understand. It seems my English is not so good.” He folded his arms across his muscled chest. He wasn’t cutting her any slack, using her own words from last night against her.

  Taking a deep breath, Samirah launched into an explanation. “Obviously I’ve been using your pool while you were gone, but not very often.”

  “How often is ‘not very often?’” His disapproving face reminded her of the many times she’d been called into the principal’s office as a teenager for one infraction or another.

  She shrugged like it was no big deal. “Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” They happened to be the same two days Thomas took Geneva to the hospital for physical therapy. With them out of the house, no one would see her in the pool. “We’re neighbors, you know,” she said, trying to appeal to his sense of community. She tilted her head toward the house.

  Miguel frowned. “The Hills live over there.”

  “Yes, and I’ve been staying with them the past few weeks. I’m the new housekeeper.”

  “New housekeeper?” he repeated in disbelief, quickly running his eyes over her. �
��You do not look like a housekeeper.”

  “Well, I am. Monday through Friday I cook the meals, do light housekeeping, and run errands. The maid they’ve had for the past few years continues to come in on the weekend to do the heavy cleaning and laundry.”

  “That doesn’t explain how you ended up in my pool.”

  She suspected no explanation she gave would be satisfactory. So much for staying out of trouble on this trip. “I know what I did was wrong, but I swear I only intended to do it one time. Except, I enjoyed myself so much, I continued to come.” She could very well be digging a deeper hole for herself. When he didn’t respond, the silence unnerved her. “I know that’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. Are you going to tell my employers?”

  She couldn’t afford to be fired from another job. Even though the Hills liked her and appreciated her work, she didn’t know how they would respond to sneaking onto the neighbor’s property.

  “Should I?”

  “I don’t see why. It could be our little secret.”

  Miguel ran his knuckles along the underside of his chin. “As you pointed out a few minutes ago, you were trespassing. I don’t know if I should let such bad behavior go unpunished.”

  The fact that he didn’t want her behavior to go unpunished didn’t cause quite the concern it should. Maybe because when he looked at her from beneath lowered lids, he didn’t look as if the punishment he had in mind would result in any physical discomfort on her part.

  Samirah swallowed. “I know I didn’t endear myself to you last night, and now this—but I’m a nice person. And was any harm done?” Once again, he wouldn’t respond, and she felt the need to break the silence. “No harm done, right?