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Santiago's Convenient Fiancée
Annie O'Neil


Can a convenient arrangement last forever?Saoirse Murphy came to Miami to bury herself in work, determined to forget the cancelled wedding she left behind her, and she wants to stay…but only a green card will do!Enter ex-combat doc Santiago Valentino. Having reluctantly returned to face his dark past, he’s only too happy to be distracted by his paramedic partner and her shocking proposal.But when their ‘convenient’ engagement tips into a very inconvenient passion, Santiago wonders…will she be his for ever wife?Hot Latin DocsSultry, sexy bachelor brothers on the loose!







Can a convenient arrangement last forever?

Saoirse Murphy came to Miami to bury herself in work, determined to forget the canceled wedding she left behind her, and she wants to stay... But only a green card will do!

Enter former combat doc Santiago Valentino. Having reluctantly returned to face his dark past, he’s only too happy to be distracted by his paramedic partner and her shocking proposal.

But when their “convenient” engagement tips into a very inconvenient passion, Santiago wonders...will she be his forever wife?


Dear Reader (#u722645bc-6d74-5ef1-b781-a9cbefe41aca),

I discovered a few wonderful things in the course of writing Santiago’s Convenient Fiancée. First—new friends don’t need to live around the corner to be close! Writing with these chicas bonitas was an absolute pleasure.

Another discovery: changing my desktop picture from my dogs to Miami Beach. I live in England and wrote this in the dead of winter, so that visual splash of sunshine, white sand and Art Deco never failed to get my synaptic gaps flashing. And would you believe it? I have never hankered for Latin American food more than during the writing of this book. Rural England is not the best place to come across plantains and puerco pibil, believe you me.

And finally—writing about a scrumptious Latino with a huge heart and a chip on his shoulder is deeee-lightful. Especially with Saoirse Murphy as his heroine. She’s the kind of gal I’d just love to be friends with. Loyal, feisty, passionate about her work, and fighting with every bone in her body not to fall in love with the most yummy, inky-haired, long-legged, perfect-looking man she has ever seen.

Please, please don’t be shy. I love hearing from readers—good or bad. I promise I’m working on a thick skin! I can be reached at annie@annieoneilbooks.com or @AnnieONeilBooks (https://twitter.com/annieoneilbooks?lang=en) on Twitter. Oh! And I’m on Facebook, too.

See you soon—and enjoy!

Annie O’ xo


Santiago’s Convenient Fiancée

Annie O’Neil






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really!) and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing.

Books by Annie O’Neil

Mills & Boon Medical Romance

Christmas Eve Magic

The Nightshift Before Christmas

The Monticello Baby Miracles

One Night, Twin Consequences

The Firefighter to Heal Her Heart

Doctor...to Duchess?

One Night...with Her Boss

London’s Most Eligible Doctor

Visit the Author Profile page at

millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.


This book goes unabashedly to the women behind the creation of each of the Valentino brothers—The Ugly Sisters. Tina, Amalie and Amy—you kept the fiery, feisty, sizzlin’ hot hearts of each story shining bright and strong. Thank you, ladies—you’re in a class of your own (a really good one, in case you didn’t know that already). Thanks, too, to the great team at M&B/Harlequin. May there be a Mad Ron margarita in each of your futures. Xx


Annie O’Neil won the 2016 RoNA Rose Award for her book Doctor...to Duchess?


Contents

Cover (#ubb4b4dbb-9b82-5855-aff1-ef9d4ef4bdf2)

Back Cover Text (#uaf0f969c-2510-59f5-8280-9522ca7b278d)

Dear Reader (#u9da1b570-b41b-541c-8ae6-fc3f0777632f)

Title Page (#u68ec91f1-3a1a-5a81-93d8-d1f48a2e61f4)

Booklist (#u3b4e6d00-0c2d-5317-a040-9e3860ba084d)

Dedication (#u462050dc-b0cc-593d-abfb-4fd9f30c3bba)

Praise (#u9b9839eb-42df-5f92-b420-82487143d681)

CHAPTER ONE (#u1ec22db6-bb49-5917-a4e6-0bbbebcb0399)

CHAPTER TWO (#u12774d6a-a40c-5212-8219-7eb269afd167)

CHAPTER THREE (#u64e48fc0-5fac-51d8-b762-44f38117ace9)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u722645bc-6d74-5ef1-b781-a9cbefe41aca)

SANTI CLENCHED HIS fists so tightly it hurt. Good. There was still feeling in them. He shot his fingers out at full length, simultaneously giving them a hard shake. The movement jettisoned him back to memories he’d thought he’d left back in Afghanistan. Syria. Africa. Wherever. Didn’t matter. Dog tags were dog tags. CPR worked or it didn’t. The need to shake it off and stay neutral was the same no matter where he was.

What mattered now was the chest in front of him needing another round of compressions. Fatigue couldn’t factor into it. Giving this guy another shot at living could.

“Where the hell is the ambulance?” he bellowed to anyone who might be in the vicinity. The only answer...the echo of his own voice reverberating off the cement stanchions of the underpass. Raw. Frustrated.

Santi wove his fingers together again and pressed the heel of his palm to the man’s chest, ignoring the worn clothes, the stench of someone who had slept rough too many nights and the fact he’d been providing CPR for twenty minutes since he’d rung for an ambulance.

“C’mon, Miami!” he growled, keeping steady track of the number of compressions before stopping to give the two rescue breaths that just might jump-start this poor guy’s system. “Give the man a chance.”

He glanced at the man’s dog tags again. Diego Gonzalez.

“What’s your story, amigo?” He tugged off his motorcycle jacket, leaving it where it fell on the dry earth before beginning compressions again. He might leave it for Diego once the ambulance turned up and they got a shot or two of epi and some life back into him. From the state of Diego’s clothes, the world had given up on him. Well, he sure as hell wouldn’t. He’d seen it time and again since he’d left the forces. Veterans unable to find a path after their time overseas. Nothing computing anymore. Lives disintegrating into nothing. He might have hung up his camos just a few months ago, but the last thing he was going to do was forget the men who’d given the military their all, only to find life had little to offer when they came home.

Home.

The word was loaded, and just as dangerous as a sniper bullet. He shook his head again, tightening his fingers against his knuckles as he pressed.

Twenty-nine, thirty.

As he bent to give another two breaths he heard the distant wail of a siren.

“Finally.”

One. Two. Three...

* * *

“Ready or not! Here we come!” Saoirse flicked on the whoop-whoop of the sirens, loving the wail of sound that cleared a path through the thick of Miami’s commuter traffic.

“For crying out loud, you mad Irish woman! You’re not in your racing car now.”

“Is that you angling for a ride this weekend, Joe?” Saoirse grinned.

“I’ll be happy to make it through this shift alive, thank you very much. And then you are taking me straight to the cantina. Safely,” he added with a meaningful look as she took the next turn at full pelt. “And heaven help your next partner. They’re going to need nerves of steel.”

Saoirse laughed, weaving between the cars as if she were barrel racing a horse she’d known since it was a colt. Smooth, fluid. It was grace in motion, if weaving an ambulance through grumpy Floridian drivers was your thing. It was hers. Hadn’t always been. But speed ran through her blood now and the tropical heat suited her to a T.

At least something in the past year had turned out all right.

Life had well and truly shot her in the foot, but it had also given her a visa to the States. It should have been a fiancée visa, but the student visa did the same trick. Not that the change of direction still wasn’t raw. Still too fresh to discuss. She gave her head a quick shake and refocused.

“What kind of cake will you be having, then, Joe? Not that awful rainbow-colored thing you had on your birthday, I hope.”

“Hey, little whippersnapper. It’s my retirement party—not your twelfth birthday.”

“I’m partial to coconut.” She gave him a cheeky wink, eyes still glued to the traffic. “We don’t get that sort of thing in Ireland. Want me to call the desk and tell them it’s your favorite?”

Joe pressed his hands to the dashboard of the ambulance as Saoirse hit the brakes then the gas pedals in quick succession as a very expensive-looking convertible whizzed past them, horn blaring.

“What’s up with them?”

“They weren’t expecting Annie Oakley behind the wheel, Saoirse,” Joe hollered. “For the love of my retirement check! You’re going to give me a coronary before we get to the call!”

“Joe! What are the chances you’re going to pronounce my name properly before our last ever shift is over? Sear-shuh.” She overexaggerated the vowel-heavy name her parents had lumbered her with. Maybe she should change that, too. Chopping off most of her hair had been downright liberating.

Joe made another mangled attempt at pronouncing it as they lurched through the next junction and Saoirse laughed.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice, just go with Murphy. If that’s too much for you, Murph will do just grand.”

“Sorry, darlin’.” Joe spoke through gritted teeth as they shot through another red light. “I’m of the generation where you do not call a lady by her last name.”

“Is that what you think I am?” Saoirse shot him a sidelong glance. “A lady?”

“Well,” grumbled her partner of two months, “something like that, anyways.”

Saoirse threw back her head and laughed. “Don’t you worry, Joe. I’ll get you to your party safe and sound tonight. Your wife won’t have to worry. There’s only one heart attack we’re fixing today and that’s whoever is...” she abruptly pulled the ambulance to a halt at the side of an overpass where a motorcycle stood without a rider “...under this bridge. You ready for a bit of off-roading?”

* * *

“Down here!” Santi shouted as loudly as he could once the siren’s wail was turned off in midscreech and he heard the slamming of doors. Keeping count as he took in the change of environment was second nature to him. What wasn’t was registering the stuntwoman-style entrance of the paramedic.

The skid down the embankment was more snowboarder with a portable defibrillator than cautious EMT adhering to health and safety codes. First came the boots in a cloud of gravel and dust, then a set of...decidedly female legs...a swoop of a waist and... Ker-ching! This woman wore her regulation jumpsuit as if she were delivering a sexy singing telegram. Hard to do, harder to pull off.

“How long you been at it?”

The lilting voice and ultrafeminine figure didn’t match the C’mon, buckaroo, I dare you to say something unprofessional attitude her face was actively working. Fine. Suited him. He wasn’t here to pick up a date.

“Twenty-four minutes. What took you so long?”

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” she shot back, all the while pulling out the pads to her twelve-lead ECG. “Why haven’t you got him back yet?” Her blue eyes sparked with confrontation as she gave a satisfied “Humph!” in response to his lack of one.

Feisty.

“It’s a long time to carry out compressions.”

“That’s very wise for an EMT.”

“Paramedic,” she snapped, unshouldering her run bag on the ground opposite him and pressing two gloved fingers to Diego’s carotid pulse point, eyes glued to his. If this had been a staring contest he would’ve been happy to stay all day but they had a life to save.

“Are you sure it’s been that long or are we just guesstimating?”

“We’ve been timing.” His eyes stayed on hers. “Still early days yet.” He gave her a look that said You give up easy, received a glare in return as she ripped open the man’s shirt—all without blinking. Even the sea went cloudy sometimes, but not her blue eyes. They were as clear as could be. Limitless.

Santi refocused on his hands. “He’s a vet.”

“You, too?”

Wasn’t much of a stretch to make the link. One life wasn’t worth more than another, but some prodded at your conscience a bit harder.

“Marines.” He never gave much more information than that. He nodded toward the unconscious man. “Diego Gonzalez. That’s the name on his tags, anyhow. Thirty!” He gave the two breaths as she applied the monitoring pads to the heavily tattooed chest.

“Joe! How’re you coming with the AED?” she shouted over her shoulder, a swish of short blond hair following in her wake as she began peppering Santi with questions. “Have you sprayed nitroglycerin, injected epinephrine, anything?”

“Yeah. I keep it just here in my invisible magic bag of tricks.”

“Easy there, cowboy. It was just a question.”

He checked his tone before he continued. She was just doing her job. He needed to do his.

“I saw him stagger at the side of the road when I was riding past. Then he fell down the embankment. I’m an off-duty doc—paramedic,” he quickly corrected. Coming to Miami was about looking forward, not what he’d left behind. “I was on my bike so...no run bag. That’s why I called you guys. There are some cuts and bruises that’ll need looking at and I’m pretty sure he could do with a saline drip.” He nodded down at Diego’s dry skin. “Dehydrated. Big time.”

“Right. Guess we’d better get to it, then.” She raked around in her bag as her partner skidded to the bottom of the hill in a slow-motion version of—what was her name anyway? He hadn’t seen her around the depot when he’d checked in to get his schedule. Santi’s eyes flicked to her badge.

Murphy.

He gave a satisfied smile. Irish. He’d thought that was what her accent was. Hopefully she’d brought some of that fabled Irish luck along with her, too.

“Open wide, Diego.”

Santi watched as she swiftly carried out the tracheal intubation and attached the airbag and oxygen tanks together. The woman was no stranger to a cardiac arrest. That was for sure.

“Joe! Have you got that AED ready or not? And how about some epinephrine for the poor lad?”

“Give a man a chance, woman!” her partner huffed as he handed over the paddles for the AED unit after he’d pressed the power button. “I’ll load you up some epinephrine.”

“Thanks, Joe. You’re the best tutor a girl could ask for.” Her eyes zapped to Santi as the AED began its telltale charging noise. “Are you clear? Wouldn’t want you getting shocked, now. Would we?”

He lifted his hands away from Diego’s chest and, once again their eyes met. More of a lightning strike than a tiny click of connection. He didn’t know what she was seeing in his eyes, but the triumphant glint in hers made his raised hands feel more like a surrender than a safety measure.

“Clear!”

The corners of her lips twitched into a smile at his microscopic flinch. She’d cranked up the volume on purpose. It was easy enough to see she wasn’t flirting, but not so simple to put a finger on the rise she was trying to get out of him. The day was pulsing with tropical heat, but this woman didn’t sweat. But, válgame Dios, did she ever have a glow.

He followed her gaze to the portable heart monitor. Nothing.

“Joe?”

Her colleague wordlessly handed her a syringe loaded with a one-milligram dose of epinephrine as Santi recommenced compressions.

“Want me to get the backboard?” Joe asked with an unenthusiastic glance up the steep embankment. The poor guy looked like he could’ve done with an iced coffee in the shade. January wasn’t usually this hot, but it’s what the weather man had brought.

“Don’t worry, we don’t need it for this phase. Too uncomfortable for the patient while we’re doing compressions.” Santi threw the guy a get-out-of-hard-labor option. “When I finish this round, why don’t you take over compressions and I’ll get it—”

“Hey! You’ll stay exactly where you are, big shot,” Murphy jumped in. “You’re not raking round our ambulance. We don’t know you from Adam.”

“He said he’s a paramedic,” Joe interjected, obviously still hopeful he wouldn’t have to clamber up the embankment. “Who are you with?”

“No one today. I’m what they call in between positions.” He saw Murphy’s eyes narrow at his words. She didn’t need to know he’d already polished his boots in advance of his first day at Seaside Hospital. “Twenty-nine. Thirty.”

He raised his hands away from Diego’s chest and looked directly into Murphy’s eyes as she pressed the charge button on the AED. Through the high-pitched whine of the charging defibrillator he felt an otherworldly surge of electricity hit him in the solar plexus. That indefinable connection that made a man cross a crowded room when his eyes lit on a perfect stranger and the organic laws of chemistry did their explosive best to bring them together. He hadn’t felt that charge of attraction in a while. On a roadside, giving CPR to a vet, wasn’t exactly where he’d thought he’d feel it next, but...he hadn’t really thought there’d be a “next.” Too many ducks already waiting to be put in a row. He scraped a tooth along the length of his lower lip, eyes still glued to hers... The hot Miami sun wasn’t the only thing warming him up.

And then—she blinked.

Ah...so he wasn’t alone here. She felt it, too.

“Huh.”

He heard the sound—an instinctual response to disbelief—come from her throat, but her lips hadn’t even parted. Just pushed forward in a disapproving moue that disappeared as she pulled her lips in on themselves and swallowed whatever words were roiling around her mind.

Santi fought his own features, trying to maintain his best neutral face when all he wanted to do was grin.

His first chink in her Gaelic armor.

He wasn’t a flirter and this sure as hell wasn’t flirting, but—electricity was hard to ignore. The automated voice of the AED broke through the static in his head. Verbal sparring would have to wait. He watched as her eyes flicked to the monitor at the sound of the electric charge making the connection.

A thin flat line.

Her fingers shot down to Diego’s carotid artery and, as if she was an angel delivering the healing touch...beep, beep, the flat line re-formed into the graphic mountainscape that was a beating heart. It was a far cry from a match to the Rocky Mountains—more like the rolling hills of South Dakota—but with a bit of luck and a stint in the hospital he’d get there. The triumphant glint returned.

“Guess you’d better get away up that hill for a backboard, then.” She jutted her chin toward Joe. “It’s my partner’s last day. We don’t want the old fella slipping a disk or anything, now, do we?”

“Watch it, girlie. I still have plenty of time to file a grievance against you and get you shipped back to where you came from,” Joe cautioned, as he all but proved her point by performing the stretch and twist only a stiff back could bring.

A jag of discord took hold of her features and just as quickly was lifted away with a bright smile. There was a story there. But she hid it well, cleverly tucking it away behind a sharp wit and a winning smile. Miles better than his go-to scowl.

“That’d be about right, Joe. Picking on a poor wee girl fresh off the boat from Ireland. Now, quit your faffing about and get me another dose of epi, would you?”

Santi’s eyebrow lifted in an amused arc. At five feet and a splash of something extra, this woman—“Murphy”—would’ve struggled at a standing-room-only stadium concert. But he had little doubt she was head and shoulders above your average crowd.

“Hey,” he asked as he pressed up from the ground, “what’s your name, anyway?”

The smile she was refusing to give him morphed into a smirk as she raised a finger and double-tapped her name tag.

Murphy.

So that’s all he was getting.

He felt his lips peel into a full smile as he took the steep incline in a few long-legged strides. They’d board up Diego then away she’d go...

Meeting this enigmatic woman was no doubt going to fall into the brief encounter catalog of his life, but he could feel the moment elbowing into the happy memories section. Suffice it to say the department wasn’t very big, but the unexpected jolt of affirmation that he was still a red-blooded male was a reminder that some parts of life were definitely worth living.

* * *

“Here you are, mija.”

Saoirse reached out both hands to take the iced glass, loaded to the brim with a freshly whizzed margarita. With salt. It was a take-no-prisoners cocktail and about as well deserved as end-of-day drinks got.

“Your parents named you well, Ángel!” She gave the bartender a grateful smile. It had been a lo-o-o-ng day. New Year’s Day celebrations seemed to have lasted two weeks in Miami. One of their patients had only been adorned in a swirl of glittery tinsel. Didn’t he know it was bad luck to leave his decorations up so long? Or take quite so many little “magic” pills? It was one way to start the New Year with a bang. His girlfriend had looked exhausted.

“Murph!”

She looked up, scanning the growing crowd, eyes eventually landing on her friend Amanda waving to her from the entryway to the patio, arm crooking in a get your booty over here now arc. She took a huge glug of the margarita, convincing herself it was to make sure the drink didn’t spill as she wove her way through Mad Ron’s Cantina to the picnic-table-filled, blue-tiled garden area already overflowing with well-wishers for Joe. She’d been lucky when she’d landed him as a mentor in her work-study program. The guy had seen it all. Not to mention the fact that, forty years on, an ambulance had helped him accrue a vast pool of friends. The place was heaving.

“Hey, girl! What took you so long?” Amanda gave her one of those American half hug things she was growing to like. Irish people weren’t huggy like this, but after the day... No. Make that the year she’d had? The blossoming friendship was a much-needed soul salve.

“I wanted to stop by the hospital to check on a patient.”

“Oh? Bit of a hottie, was he?”

Saoirse snorted. Mostly to cover up the fact it had been the roadside stranger she’d been hoping to see, not the tattoo-covered vet they’d saved.

“Not so much. But he’d been out a long time—cardiac arrest—and I wanted to see what his recovery was like. Curiosity. Never seen a guy make it through who’d had over twenty minutes of compressions.”

“You did that? Twenty minutes?” She blew on her fingers in a color-me-impressed move.

“Don’t be mad!” Saoirse waved away the suggestion, trying to shake the mental image of Mr. Mysterioso’s very fine forearms as she did. She had a thing for forearms and his had launched straight to Number One on the Forearms of the Week list. Not that she actually kept a list or anything. She blinked away the image and forced herself to focus on Amanda. “No mad compressions for me. I would’ve stuck my magic electric shockers on him straight away.” She made her best crazed-scientist face to prove it was true.

“You’re such a diligent little paramedic, aren’t you?” The verbal gibe was accompanied by an elbow in the ribs.

Saoirse jabbed her back and laughed. “Hey! Don’t be shortist!”

“As long as you promise not to be tallist!”

They clinked glasses with a satisfying guffaw. Amanda towered over Saoirse and rarely missed a moment to comment on her friend’s diminutive stature. Just about the only person in the world who could.

A swift jab of pain shot through her heart at the memory of her fiancé—ex! Ex, ex, ex! Ex-fiancé resting his head on top of hers. To think it had made her feel safe! What a sucker. She shook off the scowl the memory elicited and replaced it with a goofy smile when she saw Amanda’s questioning look. The woman had laser vision right into her soul. “Wouldn’t it just be my luck to come across the lippiest desk nurse in the whole of Miami?”

“Not everyone’s prepared to take all your blarney, Murph. Fess up. Why were you really at the hospital? Don’t tell me you’re a margarita behind the rest of us just because of quizzical interest. You got exams coming up or something?”

Saoirse avoided the light-saber gaze her friend was shooting at her and took another thirst-quenching glug, a shiver juddering through her as the ice hit her system.

“Oh. My. Word.” Amanda’s eyes were well and truly cemented across the heaving garden. Saoirse’s shoulders dropped. Phew. Dodged a bullet. Looked like eye candy had saved the day.

“Three o’clock,” Amanda murmured. “Tall, dark and too freakin’ sexy for the word sexy. I’m going to get a cavity in my eye from the sweetness of this man. Murph—what’s better than sexy?”

Mr. Mysterioso popped into her head and quite a few words jostled for pole position. “Edible? Scrumptious? Lip-lickingly perfect? Luscious?”

Hmm...there was a bit of a food theme going on here. Couldn’t have anything to do with the perfect caramel color of the knight in shining motorcycle gear’s forearms, could it?

“Luscious,” Amanda repeated, her voice all soft and swoony. Was she remembering she was happily married?

“Three o’clock?” Saoirse had to at least take a glimpse. Looking never hurt, right? It was the feeling part that hurt—and she wouldn’t go down that stupid, heart-crushing path again.

Her eyes flitted from face to face, none of them fitting into the knee-weakening territory Amanda’s stranger clearly dominated. “I can’t see him!”

“Get up on the picnic bench, then.” Amanda didn’t wait for Saoirse to protest, all but lifting her up and aiming her toward the entryway. “You’ve got to get a look. This guy could fill up a calendar all by his lonesome. Then they’d have to make up some more months just for fun... Can you imagine it? Mr. Yes-Ma’am-uary!” She gave a military salute before giving Saoirse an additional prod to hurry her up on her quest to steady herself on the bench seat.

“For crying out loud, Amanda. Quit your pushing, will you? I can get on the bench by myself—Oh...”

They said lightning never struck twice. But that had been disproved. And today was blasting another hole in the theory.

“You see what I mean?”

Did she ever? And when Saoirse’s eyes connected with the object of their evaluation...she needed to get down from the bench. Quick smart.

“He’s all right. I’ve seen better.” Saoirse jumped down and took another spine-juddering slurp of her icy drink. Her jets needed cooling. Big time.

“You’ve gone mental.” Amanda’s jaw all but dropped in disbelief. “The man rocks it!”

“Rocks what exactly?” Saoirse went for a dismissive snort and ended up cough-choking. Awesomely sexy. Not.

Okay. So she didn’t really need to ask the question because she knew exactly what he rocked. And it wasn’t just her boat. He was rocking her tummy. Which was currently doing some sort of loopy ribbon-twirling fest thing with the half of margarita it had inside it. He was rocking her heart. Which seemed to have kicked up a notch—or seventeen—in the pace department. Her entire nervous system was experiencing a takeover as if he were playing a goose-bump xylophone along her arms...then down her back and in a sort of heated swirl around her—

“Uh.” Amanda pressed a hand to her friend’s forehead. “Are you sure you weren’t at the hospital to make sure you aren’t going clinically insane?” She drew out the last word just to make super sure Saoirse knew her friend thought she was nuts. “How on earth are we ever going to find you a hot boyfriend to marry in the next two months if your taste in men is so weird as to not find that amazing specimen of a man...?” Her hand shot out in a pointy gesture and made contact. With a chest. A chest Saoirse had already had the good fortune to stare at for some length of time earlier that day.

Amanda’s jaw dropped again.

“Miss Murphy. We meet again.”


CHAPTER TWO (#u722645bc-6d74-5ef1-b781-a9cbefe41aca)

YOU KNOW HIM?

That’s what Amanda’s wide-eyed look said. And then she said it out loud for good measure.

“Ha!” Saoirse barked. “No.”

Saoirse’s eyes darted between her friend and Mr. Mysterioso. This was awkward. Why wasn’t the earth being kindly for once and swallowing her up in a freak sinkhole incident? Now would be a pretty good time for Mother Nature to intervene if she was ever going to show her largesse. She hadn’t bothered when her fiancé had left her standing at the altar like a complete and utter ninny in a ridiculous meringue of a dress... Well...it had rained a lot so it had masked the tears, but Hop to it Mummy Nature—now’s your chance to make things right!

“Santiago.”

He stretched his hand forward toward Saoirse, who ignored it, and then to Amanda, who—after exclaiming how fun it was that he was a lefty—took it, gave it a stroke with her other hand to check for a ring and shook it in slow motion, all the while mouthing to Saoirse “You know him?”

“Santi, if Santiago’s too much of a mouthful.”

The comment was aimed directly at her. And elicited some images that would’ve sent a nun straight to the burning flames place.

Saoirse drained her glass. It wasn’t ladylike and rocketed a brain freeze straight to the neurotransmitters that would’ve helped her with witty rebuttals, but...tough. Mr. Created-for-Calendars here had made an impact and she’d been working long and hard on the impenetrable fortress built around her heart, not to mention her—ahem—golden triangle. Or whatever it was called these days. For crying out loud! It was feeling a bit too much like there was some sort of fireworks display going off in her heavily ignored girlie parts.

“And you are...?”

She could hear Santiago speaking again. Santi-ahhhh-go... Of course he’d have a gorgeous name to go with his gorgeous everything else.

Why couldn’t she speak?

“I’m Amanda and Miss Mutey-Pants here is Sear-shuh.” Amanda valiantly stepped into the fray with a perfect mimic of Saoirse trying for the billionth time to get people to pronounce her Gaelic name properly. It wasn’t that hard. And right now she wished she could tell her friend it was actually pronounced Sear-shut up, Amanda!

Santiago turned the full beam of his smile onto Saoirse, clearly enjoying her very obvious discomfort. And that wasn’t just the fact she had to tip her chin way up to meet his amused grin. It had been a right old comedy of errors when the pair of them had boarded up Diego and tried to get him up the embankment to the ambulance.

“You all right after this afternoon’s workout?”

Oh! It appears someone does a little bit of mind reading on the side.

“I think it’ll be safe to say Joe is more than happy to be throwing in the towel today.”

“You held your own.”

Flatterer.

“What? Coming up on the rear, with you pulling him up one-handed like? I don’t think so.” She might not want to like him, but the man deserved all the credit on that one. Diego would be wearing a toe tag in the morgue right now if Santiago hadn’t swooped in to the rescue. There weren’t many folk who would leap off their motorcycles—and, yes, she’d ogled the mint condition road bike, envied it and just for a teensy-tiny second imagined Santiago straddling it—all to come to the aid of a man who most of the world had forgotten about. There was definitely a heart somewhere underneath that big expanse of a chest that was working the plain black T-shirt he was wearing. She tipped her chin to the side as if it would help her see him in a white shirt. Yup! That would look nice, too. Caramel skin rocked all colors of the just-the-right-amount-of-tight T-shirt world.

“We got there in the end.” Santiago’s eyes didn’t leave her, one of his teeth dragging across his full lower lip in slow motion...just as it had earlier in the day when she’d been very obviously staring at his...er...attributes.

Stop staring at his lips. You are no longer in the kissing business.

Saoirse feigned a “whatever” eye roll just to pull her eyes away from his mouth and ended up stopping in midroll when his dark-lashed eyes caught her own with a teasing wink. He knew her game. She could feel it straight down to her tightly laced mental bodice.

“Saoirse’s name means liberty,” Amanda quipped, clearly feeling left out of the staring contest.

“And justice to all?” Santiago asked, his eyes taking a quick side trip to Amanda then straight back to Saoirse’s, all the while doing their jolly best to unnerve her.

For all the flaming rainbows in Ireland. Were those flecks of gold in his coffee-brown eyes? Nah... Had to be all the fairy lights laced around the walled patio’s palm trees. No one had gold flecks in their eyes. Except for tigers. And lions. Best leave the bears out of it because there was nothing grizzly about the man standing in front of her, waiting for a response to his clever quip.

“I told you. It’s Murphy. Murph if you get tired halfway through.”

She received a lightly arced eyebrow and a suggestion of a smile in response.

Why did everything they said to each other seem to have a sexy, satin-sheets connotation? She briskly turned to Amanda. “I need a drink. Shall I get you anything when I’m at the bar?”

“Same again.” Amanda wiggled her near-empty margarita glass, delighted to have a little me time with Mr. Luscious. Saoirse hesitated for a second. Happily married herself, Amanda had matchmaking down to a fine art. Especially given Saoirse’s...how to put this exactly...little bitty visa problem. The one she didn’t really want to think about ever but had to, given the high-speed tick-tock of that old life clock. Her advanced work-study degree to shift from NICU nurse to paramedic was running out and just thinking about heading back to Ireland turned her palms clammy.

Even so...she gave Santiago a sidelong glance. Poor mite. He wouldn’t know what had hit him. Give Amanda five minutes alone with a man and she would have the rest of his life planned out, whether he saw it coming or not.

Ping!

Mr. Luscious blinked.

Uh-oh.

Had they just done that connect-eyes, mind reading thing again?

“How ’bout I give you a hand? The crowd’s pretty wild in there.” Santiago turned to join her, much to Amanda’s delight.

“I’m all right, thanks.” Saoirse bristled. Talk about a rock and a hard place. She might be short but she wasn’t some helpless female who needed a big strong man to help her carry a couple of drinks. On the other hand, if she left him alone with Amanda it was highly likely they’d find themselves hand in hand on the beach, their bare feet being lapped by the waves as some new age minister united them in eternal marital harmony. She shrugged. This was pretty much a no-win situation. “Do what you like.”

“We’ll all come!” Amanda hooked her arms through each of theirs as if she were Dorothy and they were all going to gaily skip off on a grand adventure, conquering evil and learning some valuable lessons about themselves along the way.

The only delight at the end of this particular rainbow was going to be another margarita.

* * *

“Let’s just hope these were worth waiting for. Made by the man himself.” Santi handed over the icy goblet.

“Ángel?”

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 went out to the street and pulled on his half helmet. The one that let in the wind and the scent of the sea as he rode along the causeways to the Keys. It was his go-to journey when he needed to think and he’d been to the Keys and back more times than you could shake a stick since he’d returned to the States four months ago. He’d flown into Boston for no good reason at all. Putting off the inevitable, most likely. If he was going to do this, he wanted to do it right. Fixing fifteen years of messed-up family history wasn’t going to happen overnight. He looked up at the evening sky as if it held the answer to his unspoken question. What made reconnecting with family so hard?

He swung his leg over his bike, the strong thrust of his foot bringing the Beast to life with a satisfying roar of the engine. The Beast and he had steadily worked their way down the coast, picking up paramedic shifts here and there as he went. He could’ve walked straight into any ER he chose after all the frontline doctoring conflict zone after conflict zone had demanded of him. But “downgrading” to a paramedic had fit right. He wanted the raw immediacy being first on the scene required. A penance for everything he hadn’t set right when he should’ve.

What kind of man abandoned his kid brother when he needed him the most? Left his older brothers in the lurch when they’d been doing the best they could with a bad situation?

A boy who’d been loaded with too much responsibility? Or a plain old coward?

Time to see if a decade-plus of being a Marine had made an actual man out of him.

He shifted gears again and headed toward Little Heliconia. The neighborhood he’d been born and raised in held more of his demons than anywhere else in the world. And he’d seen some hellholes in his time.

Santi reached the familiar corner, leather boots connecting with the ground as he debated whether or not to make the turn. A horn sounded behind him and he fought the urge to kickstand his bike and give the impatient driver a little lesson in common courtesy. Waiting two seconds wasn’t going to kill anyone. His heart caught for a moment.

At least, not in this scenario.

He sucked in a deep breath, flicked on his blinker and took his bike into a low dip, knee stopping just shy of the asphalt as he rounded the corner.

The lights were on in the back alleyway, but he couldn’t see anyone. He turned off the ignition a couple of doors down from the one he knew like the back of his hand, pulled off his helmet and let the night sounds settle around him. The chirrup of tree frogs and steady hum of the crickets kept cadence with the wash and ebb of the waves just a couple of blocks away, but the thud and thump of his heart won out. He’d driven past about twenty times since he’d been back. This was the first time he’d stopped.

“Ay! Dante! Don’t forget to put orange soda on the list this time, pero. We’re out.”

Santi’s spine stiffened as he heard his older brother give the admonishment. Rafe’s words had always held more bark than bite and it didn’t look like much had changed. The sound of his voice transported him right back to the time and place when everything had changed. He couldn’t even remember why they’d all been in the shop. There had been nothing unusual in it. But the command to get down on the ground had been a first. In less than a minute the “perfect family” had been irrevocably altered.

“Not my fault this time, Rafe. Blame it on la fea!”

Santi stifled a guffaw. Still calling each other “the ugly one,” were they?

“You boys! Stop your bickering and get back to work. I don’t want to be here all night.”

“Don’t worry, Carmelita. We’ll get you back home in time for your favorite soaps.”

“No seas tonto,” Carmelita shot back, appearing at the back doorway as she spoke over her shoulder. “I know how to record things now on my thingamajig. I’m every bit as modern as you boys.” She cracked a small area rug out into the empty space of the alley, a cloud of dust left billowing in the pool of streetlight with barely a chance to settle before she was in and out of the doorway with another one. Her efficiency had seen them through the darkest days of their lives. She may not have been blood—but she was all the family they’d had after that day.

“Carmelita, give me those. I can finish up.”

Santi froze when his little brother appeared alongside their adoptive auntie, then he slowly leaned back on the seat of his bike as if the darkness could envelop him more than it already had.

Carmelita clasped Alejandro’s stubbled chin in one of her chubby hands and gave it a loving shake, then patted his cheek as if he were a toddler. “You’re a good boy, Alejandro, but I’m not an old woman yet. You already work too hard at that hospital of yours. All of you boys do.”

Alejandro clucked away her talking-to and wordlessly took the next mat and gave it a sharp shake.

Santi felt a sting hit him at the back of his throat. His lungs constricted against the strain of trying to swallow back the sour twist of emotion fighting to get out.

Alejandro had changed. Hardly surprising given the last time Santi had seen him he’d been in his midteens. His little brother was a man now. About the same height—six feet with an inch or two more for good measure. He’d been a good-looking kid and the same held true about the man standing not twenty yards away. No thanks to him. He’d bailed when his brother had needed him most. And from the looks of things, he’d done more than all right without him.

Santi swore softly, then swore again when Alejandro turned at the sound.

No. He couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Still too soon.

His body went into automatic pilot, turning the key, kick-starting the bike into a roar of disparate sounds that melded into one. The engine, the quick-fire gear changes and the piercing screech of rubber twisting on tarmac couldn’t drown out his thoughts as he took the sharp turn out of the alley and without a second’s hesitation headed to the bridges so he could hit the Keys and get himself straight again.


CHAPTER THREE (#u722645bc-6d74-5ef1-b781-a9cbefe41aca)

“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.




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