Hot Latin Docs Collection. Tina Beckett

      Saoirse’s smile broadened for the first time since her friend had made a flimsy excuse to go and speak with someone else. “Work matters.” He knew a setup when he saw one. Not that he minded. Saoirse was ticking a lot of boxes he hadn’t realized needed ticking: Unimpressed. Funny. Intelligent. Pixie-sexy. He’d never thought he had a type, but...the length of time it took to finish a margarita would be time well spent. And then he’d move on. Like he always did.

      “Mad Ron,” Santiago corrected with gravitas, body blocking a couple of people trying to get to the bar so he could hand Saoirse her fresh drink.

      He watched as she took the glass with a reverent nod.

      A Mad Ron Margarita. He hadn’t had one for years. ’Twas a thing to be cherished.

      She took a slow sip, closed her eyes, the thick goblet resting against the pink of her lower lip, and tipped her head back, visibly enjoying the sensation of the citrusy drink sliding down her throat. The tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips and added a bit of salt to the mix. Salsa music was pumping through the bar, but he was pretty sure he heard a little moan of pleasure vibrate along the length of her delicate throat. Halfway through the motion, he realized he had licked his own lips in response. He hooked a thumb in the belt buckle of his jeans and cleared his throat. Ojos de ángel.

      “Someone looks like they needed a drink.”

      “I’m not one to drown my sorrows,” Saoirse said with a hint of a prim edge to her voice, “but I am losing an amazing partner today.”

      “Joe?” He stated the obvious, but scintillating comebacks were eluding him.

      “The one and only.” She lifted up her glass to toast her invisible partner, who was no doubt holding court in one of the huge semicircular leather banquettes. “I presume that’s why you’re here.”

      He gave a vague nod. “Joe mentioned the party when we were loading up Diego.” To Saoirse, but that made it public information, right?

      She didn’t need to know he was psyching himself up to do some long overdue bridge building. Mad Ron’s wasn’t much more than a stone’s throw away from the family’s bodega and for some reason he’d gotten it into his head that a sighting of Saoirse would strengthen his resolve. Something—or someone—to strengthen the desire to stay in his hometown long enough to make amends. He’d flown back before—on leave—and not even made it this far. It was time he did more than drive by.

      “What’s your story, then?” He needed to shift focus off of himself. “You’re a long way from home.”

      “Yeah.” She scanned the room, a twist of anxiety tugging at the edges of her blue eyes. The girl didn’t give up information freely. Woman, rather. There wasn’t a curve on her he wasn’t itching to caress. But she didn’t seem the type for a cheap alleyway make-out session and he was the last person on earth to offer himself up as relationship material. All the more reason to keep his hands to himself.

      “Miami suits you.”

      One of her eyebrows lifted imperiously while the rest of her facial features tried their best not to overtly dismiss him.

      He could’ve chewed the words up and spat them out in the gutter. Ridiculous space fillers. One roadside rescue and a margarita’s worth of time with this woman and it was easy enough to ascertain she wasn’t a thing like the pata sucia he’d grown up with. Dedicated clubbers who regularly saw dawn from the wrong end of the day. There was no lip liner or gloss that could improve on this woman’s mouth, let alone any of her other features. A natural beauty.

      “What makes you say Miami suits me?” she finally asked. “You think I look like a snowbird, do you?”

      “Hardly.” He laughed appreciatively. “I think we can safely say I wasn’t likening you to a geriatric. However long you’ve been here in Miami, it seems to have rubbed off on you. In a nice way,” he emphasized, smiling as her eyes skittered off again in a vain attempt to find her long-gone friend.

      He couldn’t help himself. As much as the crowded bar would allow, he took advantage of her divided attention to take a luxurious head-to-toe scan of her tomboyish ensemble. Blond hair gone nearly white with the sun. Half pixie, half mermaid, he was guessing by the bikini tan lines ribboning across her collarbones. Sun-kissed shoulders. A bit freckled. Her body-skimming T-backed tank top swept along the curve of her waist. That was all he could make out as the rest of her curves were mostly hidden by a baggy overalls dress thingy. Something a girl who wasn’t on the lookout for a boyfriend would wear. Even so, the shortish skirt showed off a pair of athletic legs. Flip-flops rather than heels. No surprise there. He had his own stash of flip-flops. They were de rigueur in Miami. Her toenails were painted an unforgiving jet black. Interesting. Her natural coloring would’ve suited pastels to a T. It was almost as if she was fighting her own, very feminine, genetic makeup.

      “Stop your gawking, would you?” she muttered, flip-flopped feet shifting uncomfortably as the crowd jostled and moved around them. “I’m not so good at taking all these American compliments.”

      He threw back his head and laughed. “That was an American compliment, was it? What would an Irish person say?”

      “Oh...” She ran a finger along her full bottom lip as she thought and for the second time that night Santi felt envious. It was too easy to imagine using his own finger taking that journey, lips descending on hers to explore and taste, salt, lime—Focus. F-O-C-U-S.

      “They probably wouldn’t say anything nice at all,” she said with a huge grin. “Just something dispirited about the weather. ‘The rain’s not rotted your boots yet, then?’ Or, ‘What on God’s green earth have you done, moving to Ireland when you’ve got the whole of America and the sunshine and the crunchy peanut butter and heaven knows what else when all we’ve got is too much poetry about getting in the peat before the rains set in and not a single pot of gold at the end of one of blessed rainbow...’”

      Her eyes caught with his. The sharp shock of connection hit him again. A connection Saoirse broke so quickly he wondered for an instant if he’d imagined it. Her eyes were so alive, Santi felt he could practically see the memories of her homeland hit her one by one until...hmm...a not-so-nice memory clouded the rest of the good ones out. Pity. She all but lit up from within when she smiled.

      “You know—” he tried to give her an out “—they say one of the true tests of becoming a local is surviving a hurricane. Have you been here long enough to go through a season?” He cringed at his own lack of finesse. This was a massive flunk-out in the charm-the-flip-flops-off-the-lady school of making a good impression. He near enough checked his T-shirt for a pocket guard and a row of tidily stashed writing utensils.

      “Arrived in the middle of one,” she shot back triumphantly, blissfully unaware of his internal fistfight. “The plane nearly had to be diverted.”

      “But you obviously made it through the storm.”

      “Something like that.”

      Another cloud of emotion colored the pure sea blue of her eyes.

      And...three strikes...you’re out!

      Her tone said what her eyes had already told him. They were done now.

      She raised her glass with a thanks-for-the-drink lift of the chin. No words necessary for that universal gesture.

      See you later, pal. Better luck next time.

      And then she disappeared into the thick of the crowd.

      Santi looked down at his own drink, considered taking it down in one, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to reek of booze the first time he spoke to his brothers in... he looked at his watch to tot up the years that had passed since he’d last spoken to them, proof his brain was all but addled by his run-in with the Irish Rose of Miami Beach.

      Right. He put the unfinished drink down on the bar. It was time to do this thing.

      He