Perfect By Elizabeth SaFleur Sometimes the perfect man is the one who’s most forbidden. Isabella Santos married the wrong man. After her husband’s death, fate gives her a second chance to connect with her perfect Master—Mark Santos, the brother of her late husband. After her husband’s death, Isabella Santos fled Washington and its bruising memories. But estate matters force her to return and fate gives her a chance to connect with a man she’d always secretly longed to call Master—Mark, the brother of her late husband. Mark, retired from his black ops career, grabs the second chance Isabella’s sudden appearance in D.C. presents. He’s never forgiven his late brother’s neglect of Isabella, a woman he’s loved from afar for ten years. Now reunited, he’s determined to earn her heart and submission. As their forbidden love blooms, they forge a perfect domestic discipline life that provides a feeling of oneness and completion. But her family’s opposition and demons from her late husband’s life intervene. In the end, the only way to have future they’ve dreamed of, will mean both must come to terms with the past.
Chapter One Isabella stood on the front porch of her abandoned Arlington, Virginia home and willed herself not to cry. She hadn’t stepped inside in eleven months, twenty-eight days and sixteen hours. She slipped the key in the lock, and her body began to shake like a skeleton in a windstorm. She stepped backward. Returning was a mistake. She should have obeyed her mother and father and stayed in Miami. No. Dios mío! Just open the stupid door. The loud crack of protesting wood followed a screech of hinges left unused for too long. She hitched the mailbag higher on her shoulder and stepped inside before she chickened out. Bed sheets draping the furniture resembled deflated, mismatched ghosts. The silence in the house rivaled her husband’s gravesite. She needed to do something fast before she turned and fled. Coming here alone? Stupid. She whipped the sheet off the couch. Another mistake. Dust clogged the air. When her coughing subsided, she wiped the tears from her eyes and scanned the abandoned room. More cautiously, she pulled the sheet off Jorge’s beat-up leather chair. She ran her hand over a small tear on the armrest. He sat here. Stop it. She reminded herself why she’d returned without telling anyone she was in town. You’re going to get in and get out, remember? No maudlin reminiscence. Wandering through the hushed rooms, she quickly identified what she’d set aside to take with her. Her grandmother’s antique saltcellars and a small painting by Albrecht Dürer made the “save” list. As for the rest? 1-800-JUNK could haul the rest of the household items away. Who needed the reminders of all she’d lost here? Tomorrow she’d hire a realtor and never, ever come back to this place. She remained undecided about visiting Jorge’s gravesite. After dropping to her knees in front of the coffee table, she dumped the bag of mail she’d picked up from the post office. Her eyes rested on her late husband’s Guns & Ammo magazine. She winced at the reminder of one of the many pastimes that had supplanted her, and eyed the mound spilling across the surface and onto the floor. There were bound to be others. She should leave sorting mail to another day when she didn’t feel so fragile. Little squares of fading daylight on the floor led toward the back porch, as if beckoning her to follow. Rising, she padded through the kitchen, averting her eyes from anything that might spark more memories of her life here. She focused on the simple deadbolt on the back door that led to her garden—what had once been her pride and joy. Pausing on the back stoop, she scanned the scruffy-looking backyard. She barely recognized the yard she’d designed, planted and cared for all by herself. Years ago, the National Wildlife Federation had certified the small quarter-acre lot as a backyard wildlife habit. Her father had his own certificate made up from his company, Sandoval Landscaping, and shipped it to her preframed. Isabella Sandoval Santos, Ángel de la Tierra. The Earth’s Angel. Not anymore, Papi. Rogue grass blades invaded her herb garden. Only a lone rosemary bush remained to fight the interlopers. A neglected hummingbird feeder hung sideways from the Japanese maple. It looked like she’d felt that last year with Jorge. Forgotten. When she stepped off the flagstone patio into the thick grass, her kitten heels sank into the moist ground. She kicked off her shoes, scrunched her toes in the cool green, and took in a lungful of the
earthy air. Sounds of not-too-distant cars mixed with the peter-peter-peter of a titmouse in the oak trees. She took slow steps around the perimeter of the small, fenced-in yard and took inventory. A pool, the length of a refrigerator, fed a too-small trickle of water into the larger pool below choked with leaves. Large hydrangea bushes lined the back wall, tiny buds forming on the ends of their rounded mopheads. Had they always bloomed blue? As she circled around the yard to the side of the house, more signs of neglect showed. Cigarette butts lay in the side yard, likely thrown by the guy who cut her grass. She turned and a dewy, sticky mass of white strings hit her face. She swatted at the gluey fibers. Gah! She backed up and sticky strings pulled across her skin. “Mierda!” She brushed at the gummy strands. Her fingers touched a squishy little mass, and a crawl across her forearm crushed her in fear. “Ay, Dios! Quítamela!” Something moved on her neck. There’s more than one. She could feel their hairy legs. Get off! Get off! More stickiness tangled in her fingers. She had to get away before she was covered in longlegged, furry spiders. They might bite. Get into her hair, her eyes, her mouth… She kicked and the earth pitched sideways as she lost her footing in the wet grass. “Isabella!” A male voice boomed in her ear. Marcos? What was he doing here? His shirt pressed into her face as he pinned her to his hard, male body with incredible strength. With her arms and hands immobilized against his solid abdomen, his hands swept over her back. “Pare, pare, stop,” she cried into his chest. He released his grip. She pushed him off and ran to the middle of the yard. She couldn’t catch her breath. The ground crashed into her knees. A sharp pain radiated up her arm as she landed on her wrist. “Calm down.” His body covered hers from behind, his hold gentle as if she was made of glass. His heartbeat drummed against her shoulder blades. “Jesus, I thought someone was attacking you.” “Something was.” She turned her face to look up into a pair of familiar, steel-grey eyes. Her heart climbed into her throat. “Marcos.” Dios. She wasn’t strong enough to see him yet. The temptation he presented was too much. It wasn’t fair, damn it! She hadn’t seen Mark since Jorge’s funeral—on purpose. A lazy smile stretched across her brother-in-law’s face. “Ella.” His chuckle rumbled against her back. Her breath hitched at hearing his nickname for her. He lifted her to standing and twisted her to face him. “For someone who likes to play in the dirt, you’ve always had quite the overreaction to spiders.” She backed up a little to make space between their bodies. “Why are you here?” “Are you okay?” His gentle hand descended on her shoulder. She peered up at him, not quite sure what to say. “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up.” Mark’s muscles glided under his T-shirt as he led her toward her back stoop. She tried hard not to stare. She stopped at the steps. “You have a gun tucked into the back of your jeans.” “Thought someone was hurting you.”
“Well, spiders can bite, you know.” His warm chuckle shook some of her tension away and the tightness in her stomach released. “How did you know I was here?” “The security firm called and told me someone had entered the house.” He gestured her inside. Oh, wow, her mind resembled a sieve these days. She’d forgotten about the security cameras. Mark had arranged for them while the house sat empty. At the funeral, he’d offered to watch over the place while she was gone. Of course, since his work frequently took him out of the country, it made sense he would hire a security company. She paused and eyed the back screen door. It hung on one hinge as if a wild lion had crashed through. “Your screams… well, the door was in my way.” He grimaced, yanked the door off its final hinge and leaned it against the siding. “I’ll fix it.” “Don’t bother. I’m calling a realtor in the morning. They’ll likely have a long list of things to fix.” As soon as she entered the kitchen, he pointed to a stool. “Here, sit for a minute. Let me look at that wrist.” She gratefully sat her butt down. Mark’s muscles strained the capacity of his T-shirt as he wet a cloth with cold water. His welldefined forearms flexed as he wrung it out. Mother Mary, he had glorious muscles. She ripped her gaze away. She shouldn’t notice Mark in that way. As he wrapped the cloth around her wrist, she tried not to think about his strong fingers. “There. So when did you get into town?” He sat down on the stool next to her. “I, uh, arrived yesterday. I was going to call. But, well… I wasn’t sure you’d be in town.” It was a lie, and lame. Mark deserved better. “Thanks for this.” She lifted her wrist a little. “Does it hurt?” “Not really.” He studied her face as if he almost didn’t recognize her. “The house is dusty,” she said. What a moronic thing to say. As usual, around Marcos her intelligence deserted her. Her hormones took over. “I’m sure. I haven’t stopped by much. And, well, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.” Shame colored her insides, and heat crossed her face. “I’m sorry about not returning your calls after his…” She couldn’t bring herself to say Jorge’s funeral. She didn’t know what to say to Mark at all. How could she talk about what happened after the burial services? Even if she’d never stopped thinking about how his lips felt when he suddenly kissed her. Nice. Too nice. “I was calling to apologize. My behavior was… well, I wasn’t me that evening. I should never have kissed you… and I shouldn’t have brought this up now. Timing never was my strong suit.” He scrubbed his chin. “It’s good to see you, Isabella.” “You, too.” Her heart hitched a little when his lips pulled back, showing perfect white teeth in his perfect face. Okay, so what if he turned her insides to mush? No woman could be unaffected by a smile in such a package. Was Mark still single? Perhaps he had a girlfriend now. “How are… things?” She hoped she sounded casual and not prying. “Good. Not travelling as much. Went to work for Congressman Brond. He’s off the taxpayer’s payroll now, and he’s getting married.” “I’d read about that. So, you’re not doing that… other job?”
She hoped not. She knew his former career had involved danger, given the number of times he’d disappear only to reappear with bruises and stitches. Yet over the years he’d dodged all questions about his secret work and ignored Jorge’s ribbing about his silence, calling him James Bond and Rambo. “No. I stopped altogether. Was too distracted. Put others at risk.” “I’m sorry, Mark. You lost Jorge, too. It must have been hard.” She touched his forearm. Her fingers met human concrete. Before she could withdraw her touch, his hand covered hers. “Death I can handle. It’s worrying about the living that’s hard.” A slight chill travelled up the back of her neck. In a way, she understood his words. Jorge’s death had brought emptiness but also a strange peace. At some point, she’d given up fearing for Jorge. His drug addiction was pointless, and later, his extreme sports addiction seemed such a waste of his sobriety. She never stopped fearing for Mark. His risks, although unknown to her, seemed commendable. “You back working for your father?” he asked. “Yes. Lots of new construction in Miami. He needed landscaping help.” Mark unwrapped her wrist, as if to check for bruising. “Did your father tell you I came to see you in Miami?” “No.” A sliver of anger flared at the thought she’d been cloistered by her family. “But that sounds like Papi. Overprotective.” She’d have to confront her father later. Not telling her Marcos had visited? She couldn’t let that slip. It was rude. Like not calling him back wasn’t? “You also changed your cell phone number.” His shrewd grey eyes cut into her heart. God, he had beautiful eyes. She couldn’t lie to those eyes. So, tell him the truth. “That cell phone’s at the bottom of Biscayne Bay, the victim of a rough day on Papi’s boat. Since I was living in Florida, it seemed better to change to a local number.” Plus, no amount of blocking had stopped the disturbing calls she got for weeks after Jorge’s funeral. Changing her number was easier, and she had needed easy. His eyes didn’t seem to buy the story. Okay, so it wasn’t the whole truth. He gave her a look she’d seen before—a look sported by her husband when he wasn’t pleased. It made her insides go soft. Marcos and Jorge… so alike, yet not at all. She’d met the brothers at the same time. She’d been pulled more strongly to Mark, but his mysterious disappearances scared her. Jorge had seemed safer, and almost as attractive, and he’d understood her—sort of. He’d turned out to be not safe at all. Dios! She reached out to grasp the edge of the counter. She’d grown dizzy. She always did whenever she thought about how opposite life had turned out from what she’d expected when she married Jorge. “Ella, do you want to rest upstairs?” Mark’s hand moved to her arm to steady her. Warmth spread across her whole body at his obvious concern. Right. She loved the feel of his hand on her. “You should—” “I’m not staying here,” she blurted. Besides, no way in hell was she entering her old bedroom. “Today’s just been… “ “Overwhelming. Just take a minute.” Seeing Marcos, as strong and indomitable as ever, she realized how much she’d missed him. “Thanks for being here, and I’m sorry, Mark.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” “Yes, there is. My father shouldn’t have dismissed you. But, more importantly, I should have returned your calls. I should have done a lot of things before now.” Sold the house. Handled her estate. Could her to-do list grow any longer? “If you need help sorting through anything, I’m here. Not planning on going anywhere.” Her to-do list suddenly seemed petty. Because of Mark’s secret occupation, her heart lightened whenever he reappeared—alive. “Where are you staying?” he asked. “Marriott.” “A hotel?” His brow furrowed. A long groan from the basement captured their attention. Mark pushed off the sink with a start. “The furnace,” she said quickly. “It’s always done that.” “I’ll go check on it. Will you be alright?” She nodded. As Mark pounded down the basement steps, memories pounded on her brain. She hated that basement. Hairy-legged spiders lived down there, their webs guarding climbing harnesses, grappling ropes, motorcycle helmets—all remnants of Jorge’s life that didn’t include her. As if his disappearance into cocaine wasn’t enough, once clean, he’d escaped into base jumping, rock climbing, moto-cross—anything that offered a new kind of high. She’d lost herself in the stillness his absence left behind. With no role to play in his life, her world diminished to nothing. She diminished to nothing. Another loud moan sounded from downstairs, and that familiar ache she’d harbored for too long welled up hard and fast. She clutched the edge of the island and held on. She’d badly miscalculated the impact visiting her old house would have. Yes, returning was an epic mistake.
Chapter Two The stairs creaked as Mark descended into a dimly lit, musty cellar. He smacked his forehead on the ceiling of the stairwell. Pre-WWII homes were clearly made for smaller people. Isabella was back in town. The second the security firm rep had said her name, the desire he’d barely kept contained since he’d met her a decade ago rose to the surface. Desire, hell. She turned his blood to rocket fuel—always had. But the prolonged absences from his job had killed any chance of competing with his charming and ever-present brother, the man who had won her in the end. At least until he fucked everything up. To pull into the driveway today and hear Isabella screaming had flooded his body with brainnumbing adrenaline. He’d had his Glock out of the glove box and loaded in seconds. He was ready to shoot dead the person who’d dared to violate Ella’s space. As she waved her arms and danced around an invisible attacker, only his years of training kept him from sending a bullet into the neighbor’s yard. He pulled a chain and the lone light bulb waged an inadequate battle to light the gloom. Still, he could see one thing: a boot print in the dirt on the concrete floor. Jorge’s? A deep throb built in his chest. He shook it off. He glanced around. Good thing Isabella hadn’t come with him. Light barely penetrated the thick dust that coated the two small windows draped in spider webs. He chuckled lightly. Yes, she’d hate it down here. Given her terror of bugs, he’d never understood her career choice as a landscape designer. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the odd shapes and mounds morphed into skis and snowboards stacked against the exposed cinderblock wall and coils of climbing ropes stacked on top of tent tarps. Two surfboards leaned against a shelf filled with camping gear and lanterns. Backpacks, likely containing parachutes, sat next to a lone mountain bike. Jorge’s dive into extreme sports in the last year of his life may have helped keep him off drugs and gambling. Still, nothing in the thousands of dollars of equipment surrounding him should have replaced the most important gift in his life—Isabella. That she’d had to compete for attention with Jorge’s other toys—that she had to compete at all—filled him with disgust. He did the only thing he knew that might help Ella now. He went to work. The aluminum side of the furnace came off easily. He searched for a new filter on a rickety metal shelf barely standing against one wall. He lifted painting tarps, moved jars of nails and tried not to breathe in too much of the moldy smell. When his eyesight grew more accustomed to the dim light, he discovered a door obscured by the unstable shelving. What the hell? The thick padlock on the door intrigued him. He pulled the shelving clear and ran his fingers along the door framing, looking for a key. His fingers met more dust. He pulled out the ring of keys he’d been given at the reading of Jorge’s will and systematically tried them. He’d always kept them, along with his gun, in his glove department. Why he should do such a thing struck him as odd now. Ah, well. The third key opened the padlock. Releasing the hasp, he pulled the door open. Holy fuck, Jorge. As he stepped backward, he mentally absorbed the contents of the tiny space. A Henry repeating rifle, a .30-06 rifle with a power laser scope, and a pump action shotgun lay in cradles against the far wall. Several AR-15 rifles and five .45 caliber pistols hung on pegs. Five more handguns, including Glocks and a Beretta, lay in a tray on a tall wooden table. Cans of gun
oil and rags littered the floor. To the left, boxes of ammo were stacked like bricks. To the right, backpacks, rounded with contents, hung on pegs, along with several bows and arrows. A pair of night vision glasses hung lower still. He had enough room to step in, reach a weapon and turn. This stash didn’t fit the needs of a sports junkie. Jorge either had been a budding prepper, or he was involved in something dangerous. Mark glared at the scope on the .30-06. Dumbass, you put the laser on the AR-15. And why not a gun safe? Having these weapons lying around gathering dust behind a wooden door showed extreme irresponsibility. What if someone had broken in? Security firm or not, a drug-addled burglar, or even some curious kids, could have taken out half the neighborhood with what this room contained. He should slam the door shut, padlock it, and get Isabella the hell out of there. He should then return with some trusted colleagues to catalogue and dispose of the closet’s contents. Instead, he crouched at the base of the table, certain he’d find more ammo on the bottom shelf. He found something worse. A wooden crate held several blocks of C-4 explosives and blasting caps. Hijo de puta. Jorge had been Isabella’s Dom while all this was in the house? What had his brother been involved in? Who did he expect? And why put the one person he should have moved heaven and earth to protect in extreme danger? His mutter filled the tiny room. “You didn’t fucking deserve to be her Master.” A small metal box with yet another padlock lay tucked under the table. He pulled it closer, the metal scraping along the dirty concrete floor. It took him two minutes to retrieve the bolt cutters and throw the box open. He removed a stack of what appeared to be legal documents. Unfolding one stapled set, he scanned the page. He skimmed the second set and then the third. A string of Spanish curses flew from his mouth. More debts. He’d never wanted to punch a man more badly than he did right then. So cabrón. For this, Jorge was a shithead, an asshole and all those other vulgar translations of the word. How dare Jorge endanger Isabella like he had, and still did from the grave. His heart wrenched at seeing her pained face today. The lines on her forehead didn’t come from today’s sprained wrist. Perhaps she knew what was down here? No, she couldn’t have. Her estate manager and their mutual friend, Alexander, would have been told, and he’d have disposed of everything. Alexander also would have told him. He stuffed the papers back into the box and set it outside the door. The damnable evidence of Jorge’s recklessness was going home with him. He’d assess everything later. By the time he’d relocked the tiny room and put the shelves back, he no longer mentally cursed. He still stopped and smeared Jorge’s footprint with his boot until it resembled his brother—nothing more than useless dirt. ~~~~~ Mark closed the basement door behind him and set a box on the counter. “I hope you don’t mind me taking this… I’ll return it.” Isabella shook her head. “No, take whatever you want.” Now that she was here, she wanted nothing from this house. In fact, a desperate urge to leave took hold. She slipped off the stool. “It’s time I go.”
“Ella, you should stay with me.” What? “Oh, no, Mark, I—” “I have plenty of room. You can stay in my spare bedroom. We’re family. You can’t stay in a hotel. Or perhaps you’d be more comfortable at Accendos?” She shook her head. No way. The sexual energy of Alexander’s home-turned-BDSM-club would be too high. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. We did enough of that in the past,” she said quietly. The ‘we’ she and Jorge used to be. “There’s nothing you can do to inconvenience me.” When she didn’t answer, he stepped in front of her. “Ella.” No fair, using his pet name on her. It turned her insides to slush, warm and pliable and willing. Well, why not stay with Mark? She had no emotional reserves left, and his strength infused her with a calm she really needed. She looked up into his eyes. No man should have such beautiful grey eyes. “You really wouldn’t mind?” “I’d only mind if you said no.” His tone told her he wouldn’t accept ‘no’ for an answer. “You’re tired. Leave your car here. I’ll drive us to the Marriott, check you out, and then I’ll make dinner. At my house.” “Thank you. I didn’t realize being here would have such an impact.” “Your compass has been taken away, that’s all.” Mark’s words reoriented some lost part of herself. “Let’s go.” When he stretched out his hand, her body responded without thought to his words. Formal. Honest. Direct. Dominant. She obediently placed her hand into his. Raised in a traditional Cubano family, secure and comfortable with the dictates of strong men, she was never one to balk at being told what to do. Rules comforted her. Standards defined her. Ritual fueled her. She knew who she was under such circumstances. She felt safe—just like she did now hearing Mark’s strong, confident voice. As he led her through the living room, she realized how unsafe she’d felt the last twelve months, even more than when she dealt with Jorge’s disappearances and relapses. Mark even went to the trouble of buckling her into the front seat of his Range Rover. He checked the belt’s tension. “You ready?” “Yes, Marcos.” “Good girl.” A familiar relief filled her at his words. It occurred to her then that maybe, just maybe, Mark knew more about her than Jorge ever had.
Chapter Three “Your suitcase is in the upstairs guest bedroom. Go rest while I prepare dinner.” Mark nodded toward the stairway. “Thank you. That’s probably a good idea.” She’d fallen asleep in the car ride over and only awoke when he’d set her down in his stairway. She didn’t look too steady on her feet. “You remember the way?” “Yes, thank you.” He couldn’t help but watch her hips swing as she made her way up the steps. Good thing cooking honed his concentration and gave his hands something to do. Otherwise, his hands might find themselves where they shouldn’t be. He adjusted his jeans and headed to the kitchen. After chopping ingredients, he threw diced bits of chili peppers into a pan of spices, garlic and onion. Sparks of oil danced on contact with the intruders. He welcomed the pain pricks as the oil arced out of the pan and landed on his hand. The slight burn sharpened his brain. While Isabella regrouped upstairs, he also needed time to assess what’d he’d found in her basement. In his mind, he ran through all the reasons Jorge might require a room full of weapons. Unlike his brother, he’d been a professional soldier, and even he didn’t own half the items Jorge had hoarded in his hidden arsenal. He couldn’t shake the image of one item. What in God’s name would Jorge do with C-4? God, Jorge. Putting Isabella at such risk? So cabrón. After today, no matter how many polite protests she mustered, he wouldn’t permit her to set foot in that house alone. No realtors, either. Not until he dealt with Jorge’s stash and found out what the contents of that locked box meant. Another problem remained unresolved. How could he tell her what he’d discovered without sounding like a paranoid ex-black ops operative? They’d never discussed what he did, but she was too smart not to know. After prepping the stuffed green peppers and slipping them into the oven, he cracked open a beer, boxed his anger, and called the one person who could give him an answer about what lay in Jorge’s strongbox, now hidden in his office. “Derek, I need your help.” The man on the other end of the phone huffed. “Well, this may be a first.” Not exactly. Derek Damon Wright was the lone reason he hadn’t smashed himself into a concrete wall the night of Jorge’s funeral. The fact Derek had never addressed his uncharacteristic drunken behavior that night was the reason the two men had grown to be close friends. “Met Isabella at her house today.” “She’s here? How is she?” So Derek hadn’t known Isabella was in town, either. Childish relief sparked inside him. “She’s going to be fine. Just working through some house details.” The minute the words left his mouth, a realization hit. She wasn’t fine. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. Truthfully, her fragility today stunned him. She was at least twenty pounds lighter than when he’d last seen her a year ago. The purple shadows under her eyes made him wonder when she’d last slept through the night. “What do you need, Mark?” “I found something in Jorge’s basement. Loan notes.” Derek let out a long whistle. “You sure? We cleaned all that up.”
“I want you to go through them. To be sure. Can you meet me at Accendos tomorrow? Say seven?” “Of course. Oh, and Mark? If those who Jorge owed haven’t come to collect by now, they likely won’t, because they’ve been paid. Loan sharks rarely let things go this long.” “Thanks, Derek.” After he hung up, his mood lightened considerably. Derek’s personal knowledge of East Coast and Caribbean casinos had proven instrumental in monitoring Jorge’s not-so-secret trips to Baltimore gambling establishments over the years. He took a large, thoughtful swallow of beer. Jorge’s drug addiction had grown apace with his gambling to support it. Yet his last stint in rehab had seemed to stick. Alexander, Derek, Jonathan, all of Mark’s friends, had promised to keep a close eye on Jorge whenever he was out of town. Just before he died, Jorge had sold his construction firm for a pretty penny, leaving him and Isabella more than well off. His watchdogs reported Jorge travelled a lot, soberly, and he was glad Isabella was given those breaks from her husband’s drama. He’d also been secretly glad she slept alone. So maybe you’re the cabrón. It wasn’t like he’d stuck around. Regret circled his momentary feelings of superiority. After all, he’d abandoned her as much as Jorge had. While Jorge ran to his sports addiction, he’d run to his job. Why had he been so quick to leave? You know why. It was the honorable thing to do, because he coveted his brother’s wife. But in the end, was that the right thing to do? The vision of Jorge’s arsenal smothered his guilt. He could help her now, and he wasn’t leaving. Alright, first up. If Jorge was so clean, when and why did he buy all those guns? Secondly, why didn’t Jorge ask his brother, the black ops specialist, for help? Finally, why keep it secret when everyone rose to help him at every turn, without judgment and without hesitation? That last question worried him the most. He’d been so focused on not thinking about Isabella important details had slipped by him. This weekend, he’d clean out Jorge’s arsenal. Tonight he’d convince Isabella to stay with him for a while. The first was a cakewalk. That second? Not so much. He’d fucked up his first chance with her, allowing Jorge to seduce and charm her into a life of what appeared to be stability. Now, his second chance with her had grown complicated. He could live with the thought she was safe and well without him. Knowing she was in potential danger and without him was unacceptable. A laugh escaped his throat when the water pipes in the walls groaned. Isabella had turned on the shower. No one rivaled her grooming habits. But then again, even with dirty feet, spider webs in her hair and grass-stained pants, no other woman could compare. He shook the vision of her nude body standing in his shower from his mind and picked up his beer. He gazed out his back door for long minutes. A typical spring Washington, D.C., rain shower doused the yard. Leaves bounced as the raindrops slapped them up and down. His small plot looked better than Isabella’s, but also rather boring, like it’d been given no thought. He had a thought now. He’d forgotten the simplest solution to any problem was often the best one. “Smells heavenly.” Isabella stood in the doorway in a tight ivory knit dress, her slight curves stretching the fabric. Her wet hair was upswept into a bun, a single strand twisting down the side of her face. His cock stirred in his pants. Something crackled too loudly in the oven and an acrid smell from the kitchen stole his attention from her beauty. He pointed to a stool next to the large chopping block dominating the center of the room. “Dinner will be ready in a minute.”
“I should have made you dinner.” As she perched herself on the stool the fabric over her hips strained more. “It would have been the least I could do, given your spider intervention.” She laughed. “You feel better. How’s the wrist?” “Fine, and it felt good to get the spider webs off. Thank you for rescuing me.” “Believe me, the pleasure was all mine.” She blushed and slid off the stool to peek into the oven. “Your grandmamá’s stuffed peppers. They’re my favorite.” The glee in her voice filled him with happiness—and suspicion. He recognized her mask of good manners. Well, tonight wasn’t the night to challenge her coping mechanisms. She’d had a rough day. He poured them both a glass of red wine, a switch from his usual beer and whiskey. “Crianza Selección. I think you’ll find it goes well with the spices.” Isabella took a sip. “Hmm, licorice. You always were such a gourmand.” “The military cures you of bad food for forever.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “You look beautiful tonight, Isabella.” “Thank you. Not much need for dressing up in Florida. Especially now that I work for my father.” “That’s a shame.” Try as he might, he couldn’t picture Isabella in chinos and a polo shirt sporting Sandoval Landscaping. She belonged in executive suits, spreading out plans in mahogany-lined boardrooms, or on a runway. The oven buzzer went off. More imperfect timing. For the next thirty minutes, they sat in silence at the chopping block island and ate. God, he loved watching her eat. Her lips pulled across the fork with each mouthful of pepper, meat and onions. She licked the spices from her upper lip with each bite, driving him to distraction. Her healthy appetite swelled his ego, and what was stuffed in his pants. Every time she swung her legs toward him, he fought the urge to pull her off her seat and between his own legs. He’d be sure she ate well while in his care. She’d lost too much weight. Where was the woman who used to wash down the warmth of spicy foods with large spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream? Her fleshy inner thighs no longer touched and the soft jiggle of her ass had disappeared. A woman like Isabella should carry some softness, enough flesh to signal to the world she was well taken care of. More Sophia Loren. Less Anne Hathaway. She placed her napkin next to her cleaned plate. “Had enough?” “Mmhmm. You can cook for me anytime.” She circled her finger over the edge of her wine glass, an innocent move that equaled pure seduction. “I enjoy feeding you.” He paused for a moment. What came next was important to their reconciliation. “I have a proposition.” Her teasing finger stilled and uncertainty clouded her eyes. “Oh?” “My yard needs the most sought after landscape designer in Washington.” “You want my help with your landscaping?” “I’ll sweep the area for spiders first. Unlimited budget. Pick your crew to do the dirty work. Do anything you want. Hardscapes, gardens, a full-scale labyrinth. Maybe you can figure out how to get rid of the tumbleweeds. They were bright yellow last month. Now they’re a tangled mess.” “Ah, forsythia. I know what you’re doing. Luring me into your web.” “I’m not a spider.” “I can refer you to someone… to rid you of tumbleweeds.” “You don’t think I deserve the best?”
Her lashes fanned over her cheeks. “You deserve the best, and it’s not me. I haven’t done any design in a long time. I’ve been planting butterfly weed in dry, dead schoolyards, putting in outdoor classrooms and gardens.” “Yes, Garden Grace, your father’s pro bono work. You once told me you wanted to start something similar here. Teaching kids sustainability.” “You have a good memory.” “I remember everything you’ve told me. Besides, I know how you like to play in the dirt.” She tittered lightly. “Much to my mother’s chagrin. She wanted me to be a beauty queen.” “Which you are.” Did she just wince? He took her hand. “Ella, please. Consider my offer. It will be good for you. Help you take things one step at a time. And I’ll strike you a deal. If you say yes, I’ll handle the sale of your house. You’ll never have to go back.” For the first time that day, the lines around her eyes softened. “You would?” “Consider it done. I’ll take care of your house if you’ll take care of my tumbleweeds.” “Can I think about it?” He recognized her delaying tactic. Still, he’d feast on Isabella’s scraps until she had more to give. “Fair enough. I have another request of you.” He pulled her up to standing and encircled her wrists with his hands. “Call me Marcos.” Screw it if he was going too fast. “Will you call me Ella? It grounds me… a little.” She flushed anew, sending a weighty thrill through his body. “Ella.” He ran his thumb over her wrist line, and then tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her. Isabella wobbled a little. “You need sleep.” “Well, it’s after midnight and I’ve had too much wine and my head hurts…” “Off to bed with you.” He swung her up into his arms. His caveman move earned him a littlegirl squeal. When she laid her cheek on his shoulder, he desperately wanted to kiss the crown of her head. He didn’t. He’d taken enough liberties today. After arranging her on the bed, he took a long moment to gaze down at her. She looked so small and delicious in the queen-sized bedding. The familiar urge to lie down next to her would never abate, would it? She threw him a sleepy smile. “You’re not so scary when you drop that military face, Marcos.” “If I thought I’d caused you a moment of fear, I’d never forgive myself.” Her eyes misted. “The only time I’m not afraid is when I’m with you.” Her words hung in the air between them. If he could have grasped them and flung them into a box to keep, he’d have done it. He hadn’t had any idea how much his whole life hinged on hearing that one sentence from her until it was spoken. Forgetting about Isabella had failed. No matter an entire year had passed. Now, seeing her wrapped in his sheets, he couldn’t pretend he could live without her in his life in some form or fashion. So what if she didn’t love him? He’d love her to the end of time. Before he left, he turned in the doorway. “See you tomorrow, Ella.” She didn’t hear him. She’d already drifted off. He turned off the light, but not his hope. Thank you for reading this excerpt of Perfect by Elizabeth SaFleur Like what you read? Want more? Be sure to get this title from your favorite retailer today! Links available on this website or go to www.trollriverpub.com