Her Latin Lover (Contemporary Romance) by Katheryn Lane Page B

sparkled from Clara’s ears.
    “Why are you wearing that dress?” Paulo asked as she stepped nearer.
    “I found it in a wardrobe in one of the bedrooms. We’re going to a fiesta, so I thought I’d dress up a bit. It fits perfectly, doesn’t it?”
    The dress fitted her as if it had been made for her. He was not surprised. Mary was identical in build to the original wearer of the red silk gown.
    “I can see that you don’t like it,” she said. “It’s the same dress, isn’t it?” She pointed to the painting.
    The dress was a little crumpled in places, but otherwise it was no different from how it was ten years ago when it was first worn. It hadn’t even faded. Paulo didn’t know until now that it still existed. Isabella must have kept it stored away all these years in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs.
    “Take it off and get changed, now.” He tried hard to keep his voice steady, but his words came out as more of a command than a gentle request.
    Mary yanked up the silk sides of the gown and charged back upstairs.
    Twenty minutes later she reappeared, this time she was dressed in plain navy blue trousers and a thin, white cotton blouse. It was the same outfit she had worn when he met her in the hotel bar, the night after the poker game. He could hardly believe that it had only been a couple of nights since that poker game. A week ago he was living quietly with nothing more to worry about than the falling price of coffee. Now, just a few days later, his coffee crop was lying unharvested in the fields, because his farmers stood guard outside his house in case an enraged El Leon tried to take away a woman that he was rapidly falling in love with. If only he had never walked into the bar in Corazon that night and met the awful Nick Kingsley! However, if he hadn’t been there, El Leon would have beaten Kingsley at cards and Mary would now be under his so-called protection. That is, if El Leon had allowed her to live this long. Paulo shuddered at the thought.
    “You don’t like this outfit either?” Mary asked. “I’m not going to get changed again.”
    “You look fine.” What was he saying? She looked more than fine. She looked absolutely gorgeous, though he bet she looked even more amazing with the clothes off. The blouse she was wearing was so thin that he could just make out a white, lacy bra underneath it. He wondered what type of panties she was wearing beneath her trousers and if they matched the bra. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman in her underwear. He would give anything to see her standing before him in hers. He took a deep breath and tried desperately to stop thinking about Mary’s naked body.
    “You’re angry about the red dress, aren’t you?” Mary said.
    “No, I’m not angry at all. It was just a bit of a shock seeing it again.”
    “You are angry. I can tell by the determined look on your face. You’re just trying not to show it. Why was it a shock? Who is she?” Mary looked at the painting. “Isabella told me that her name is Clare, or something like that.”
    “Clara,” he corrected her. “Clara de Santa Maria. She was my fiancé.” Poor Clara. She was so beautiful, so innocent, and so young. It was all such a long time ago and yet in some ways it all seemed as if it happened just a few weeks ago. Sometimes he still caught himself thinking, “I must mention that to Clara,” or “Clara would like this, maybe I’ll buy it for her,” and then he would remember that he would never be able to mention anything to her again; he would never see her again and her delicate young body was probably no more than dry bones and ashes in the ground. “Thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.”
    “What did you say?”
    He looked at Mary, who looked so much like Clara, but who was so very different. Clara, with her strong Catholic faith, would have immediately known what Paulo was referring to.
    “It’s from the Bible, Genesis, chapter 3. It’s what the