Marriage, Bravo Style!. Christine Rimmer

Marcella, who had been her dad’s secretary for as long as Elena could remember, smiled a greeting from behind the front desk.

      “Hi. Is my dad in back?”

      The secretary nodded and then tipped her big head of red hair toward the hallway that led to Javier’s private office and the drafting room. She pitched her voice low. “He’s with the buyer.” The buyer. So was the sale already made, then? “Is it all right if I go back, you think?”

      Marcella shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

      Elena hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything important. What if they’re in the middle of delicate negotiations?” And then she heard voices—her dad’s and another man’s.

      Marcella smiled again. “No problem. They’re coming out, anyway.”

      “Elena,” her dad said a moment later as he and another taller, younger man emerged from the hallway to the back rooms. Her dad gave her a warm, tired-looking smile.

      They’d come a long way from those first awful days when he’d learned that she wasn’t his natural daughter. There had been a time when he could hardly bear to look at her. He’d hated himself for that. But she’d never held it against him. She’d understood his pain. After all, she had lived through that same pain herself.

      And slowly, they’d become what they really were again. Father and daughter, blood tie or not.

      She went to him and he wrapped his strong arms around her. He smelled of everything safe and good in the world, like Old Spice aftershave and geraniums in the sun. “Papi,” she whispered. “I just thought I’d stop by.”

      “I’m glad.” He released her. She gazed up at him, thinking he looked so old, all of a sudden. The crow’s feet at the corners of his black eyes were etched so deep they seemed to make his whole face droop. Her dear Papi. Old. When had that happened? “Elena, this is Rogan Murdoch.”

      She turned to the other man, her gaze tracking up his broad, deep chest to a very Irish-looking face with green eyes and straight brows, full lips, a square jaw and a strong nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. He wasn’t handsome, exactly. But he was certainly compelling. And very…male.

      He smiled at her and took her hand. “Elena,” he said, as if he knew her already. As if he’d only been waiting for her to show up. Her throat felt dry. She gulped. Words completely eluded her. “Caleb’s mentioned you often.” His large, warm hand engulfed hers. She couldn’t breathe—or more precisely, she wasn’t breathing. She had to consciously suck in a breath and push it back out again. “We’re just going to lunch,” he said. “Why don’t you join us?”

      She eased her hand free of his. It seemed safer, somehow, not to be touching him. At the same time, she had the presence of mind to glance down, to check out his other hand.

      He had thick, strong fingers. And he wore no wedding band.

      She managed weakly, “I already ate, thanks.”

      “Come with us, anyway,” her dad said from behind her. “Have a cold drink, maybe a piece of pie.”

      “Well, I…”

      “Yeah. Please,” Rogan said, in his deep, rich, slightly rough voice that sent a lovely shiver racing under the surface of her skin. “Join us.”

      She couldn’t have said no if her life had depended on it.

      Chapter Two

      At lunch, Rogan sat across from Javier and his daughter. The restaurant was on the River Walk. They had a table out on the patio overlooking the water and the tour boats gliding past.

      But the best view was across the table from Rogan. He tried not to stare.

      The Cabrera girl was beautiful. Too beautiful. Mess-with-a-man’s-head beautiful.

      She had thick coffee-colored hair that fell around her slim shoulders in soft waves, hair shot through with strands of red and gold. It was the kind of hair that made a man’s fingers itch to touch it. And beyond all that amazing hair, she had golden brown eyes and a mouth made for kissing.

      And her skin. Soft. Velvety. Golden as the rest of her. Somehow, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off that dimple that appeared at the corner of her mouth when she smiled.

      Rogan was not a poetic man. But when he looked at Elena Cabrera, he heard poems in his head.

      It was an acute case of lust at first sight.

      And lust was fine. Lust was great. With somebody other than Javier Cabrera’s daughter. Somebody who didn’t happen to be Caleb Bravo’s adored half sister.

      Rogan could tell just by looking at her that she wasn’t going to be interested in a simple, mutually satisfying hookup. She would want at least the potential for a serious romance. Marriage would have to be a possibility.

      And it wasn’t. Not for Rogan. Not for years yet.

      He saw freedom in his immediate future and he intended to enjoy it.

      Javier said, “I understand that you and Caleb went to school together?”

      Rogan smiled at the older man. Time to trot out the family history, clarify the personal connections. “Yes, we did. UT in Austin. He introduced me to Victor Lukovic. Victor had come to the U.S. on a football scholarship. Now he plays football for the Dallas Cowboys. We hung out together for a while, the three of us—Caleb, Victor and me.”

      Elena told her father, “Victor and Caleb’s wife, Irina, were raised together in Argovia—it’s a small country in the Balkans, on the Adriatic Sea.”

      “Ah,” said Javier. “That’s right. I remember now.” He glanced across at Rogan again. “Caleb gave Irina a job as his housekeeper, so she could get a permit to work in the U.S. They fell in love and married.”

      “That’s right.”

      “And Victor is a linebacker. They call him the Balkan Bear.”

      “The one and only,” Rogan said. “Since he and his family live in the Dallas area, we get together often.”

      “So you all three graduated from UT the same year?”

      “No. Caleb was a year ahead of Victor and me. And I left in my junior year, so I never did get my degree.”

      Javier frowned. “What happened that you didn’t graduate?”

      “My parents were killed in a freak boating accident. I went home and took over the family business.”

      Javier’s daughter made a soft sound of distress. “Oh, Rogan. How awful for you….”

      “How old were you?” Javier asked.

      “Twenty-one.”

      “So young to be in charge of your own company…”

      He shook his head. “The death of my parents, that was bad. They should have had years and years ahead of them. But taking over the business? It was no hardship. It was something I wanted to do. I’d been working with my dad every summer for years before he died. I knew the business. And my plan had always been to go in with my dad eventually, to take over when he was ready to retire.”

      “I lost my father when I was twenty,” said Javier. The dark circles under his eyes gave him a haunted look just then. “It’s not a good thing, for a man to lose the steadying hand of a father too soon. It can make him…bitter. Impatient. Angry.”

      Rogan met Javier’s eyes without flinching. “I managed. I got through it. I don’t think I’m bitter.”

      Javier shook his head and muttered regretfully, “I spoke of myself, not of you.”

      “Ah,” Rogan said, and left it at that.

      Elena was looking at her father now.