“That would be it, yes.”
His wariness faded completely, and he mentally apologized for thinking she was crazy.
“You don’t want to get involved with me,” he said.
“You’re very nice,” she told him. “A really great guy.”
He chuckled and moved closer to the bed. “Be honest.”
“Okay, I don’t want hearts, flowers, or forever.”
“Uh-huh.” He sat next to her and took her hand. “But you wouldn’t mind a little slap and tickle.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t think I’d like any slapping.”
“Spanking?”
“Only if I get to do it to you.”
He grinned. “No way. I’m the dominant male around here.”
She angled toward him. “I’m sorry I blurted out the marriage thing. The sex was so good and then I panicked.”
“Me, too. I thought you’d gone postal.”
She chuckled. “No. I was overwhelmed by my physical response is all.”
He touched her face. Beautiful, responsive, and not interested in forever. And honest. The one quality he valued above all others.
“I’m into serial monogamy myself,” he said as he cupped her cheek. “No plans to get married.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I didn’t like my experience, either.”
She drew in a breath. “Okay. At the risk of moving too fast, would you be open to a monogamous sexual relationship with no emotional ties?”
He didn’t have to think twice. Not when the woman in question was as appealing as this one. “Absolutely.”
Francesca thought her experience with Sam had peaked with her orgasms, but maybe she’d been a little hasty in her judgment. Was it possible to have everything she wanted and nothing she didn’t?
“We’ll see each other when we want,” he said. “Good conversation, lots of laughs, and plenty of time in bed. When one or both of us want to end it, we will. No expectations. No hard feelings. Deal?”
She felt wicked. She felt excited. God was probably going to punish her, and if the Grands ever found out, they’d have her hide. But it would be worth it.
“Deal.”
When Francesca arrived at the hacienda for brunch the following morning, she had a bad feeling that everyone was going to guess something was going on with her. She felt radiant, her skin was glowing, and she just couldn’t seem to stop grinning.
Not that it was all her fault. After striking their deal, she and Sam had spent the entire night making love. They’d crept downstairs about midnight to grab something to eat and then had retreated to the quiet, sensual darkness of his bedroom.
The only way she’d been able to drag herself from his presence was the realization that if she didn’t show up for her weekly brunch with her family, the Grands would set the FBI on her trail. And she couldn’t very well bring Sam with her. The sight of her in the company of an eligible man would fill the house with the sound of wedding bells. Something neither of them wanted.
Francesca climbed out of her truck and headed for the back door of the big Spanish-style house. It was early June, which meant every form of plant life was lush, green, and growing. Tall trees provided shade over the rear of the house. The vegetable garden by the garage soaked up the bright sunshine. In the distance acres and acres of vines rustled and danced in the light breeze.
The flowers on the grapevines had dried up, while the small pea-sized grapes had appeared. From what she had seen on her drive up to the hacienda, they were going to have a banner year. But there was still a lot of time left until harvest, and Brenna would be happy to tell her all the things that could go wrong between now and then.
The back door burst open. “Francesca!”
She glanced up and smiled as Grandma Tessa held out her arms. “Come, child. We have missed you.”
Francesca ran toward the house and up the three steps, then hugged her grandmother close. “How are you? Feeling all right?”
“I’m old, eh? Things don’t work as well as they used to, but I’m here. That’s enough.” She released her granddaughter, reached up, and pinched her cheek. “Still a pretty girl. But you’re not so young anymore. You need to be married, Francesca. You need bambinos. It is time.”
Normally she found the family pressure a little exasperating, but today nothing could puncture her good mood. “Before I’m too old, right?”
“Single women over thirty,” her grandmother said knowingly. “I read. Easier for you to be taken by aliens than find a man. You only have three years, Francesca. Don’t waste them.”
Francesca laughed. Her cheek stung from Grandma Tessa’s enthusiasm, but the pain was as familiar as the entreaty that she marry and produce offspring. Over the past three years the hints had become much less subtle. Fresh off the success of her older sister’s engagement, the family had increased the pressure.
If she mentioned Sam, they would get off her back about finding a man. Of course, they would also want to meet him and find out if a wedding date had been set. Knowledge of her “no commitment” agreement with him would send both grandmothers scuttling for their rosaries and force her parents to have a long talk with her. Better to play along.
“Talk to her,” Grandma Tessa said as they entered the open and airy kitchen.
Grammy M-Mary-Margaret O’Shea to the rest of the world and Francesca’s maternal grandmother-glanced up from the dough she’d rolled out on the granite counter.
“Francesca! My darlin’ girl.” She wiped her hands on the apron she wore.
Francesca walked over for another hug-this one without a cheek pinch-and bent down to embrace the tiny woman.
“Grandma Tessa wants me to get married again,” Francesca said with mock surprise. “What do you think?”
Grammy M shook her head, causing her white curls to bounce. “You’re supposed to be respectin’ your elders, young lady, not makin’ fun of them. We want you to be happy.”
“You want me pregnant.” Francesca snatched a scone from a cooling rack.
“Married and pregnant,” Grandma Tessa corrected.
Grammy M grinned, her blue eyes dancing with humor. “Oh, I don’t know, Tessa. I’m thinkin’ we could probably find it in our hearts to forgive Francesca if she found herself with a wee one in the oven.”
Francesca chuckled, but didn’t even try to get in the middle of that conversation. Instead she broke the still- steaming scone in half and took a small bite. The firm, golden-brown crust gave way to a soft, perfectly baked, orange-flavored center that made her mouth water even as it dissolved on her tongue.
“Amazing,” she breathed. “Grammy M, we’re going to have to try another scone lesson. I want to be able to do this at home.”
Her maternal grandmother gazed at her fondly before shaking her head and returned to the dough she’d rolled out.
“You’re a lovely girl, but you don’t have much success in the kitchen.”
“I took that cake-decorating class a couple of years ago.”
“Your father nearly choked to death on that piece he ate,” Grandma Tessa reminded her.
Francesca knew they were right. She was a disaster when it came to cooking, although she continued to take classes. Mostly because despite a degree in psychology, she couldn’t seem to talk herself out of the guilt she felt for not caving to family expectations about marriage and kids. So she substituted a quest for excellence in the domestic arts.
“The flowers on the cake were pretty.”
“That they were,” Grammy M agreed. “And you make a lovely radish rose.”
Francesca took another bite of scone, then crossed to the cupboards above the dishwasher and grabbed a glass. “Is this your way of telling me my cooking has style but no substance? I was thinking of taking a class on
