“And you’re a tease,” he replied smoothly.
She realized he was toying with her, baiting her; he’d done as much before. His amusement was palpable, and it infuriated her because he was still not taking her seriously, he was not considering the magnitude of the situation they were in. Frustrated, choleric, she felt like slapping him, as she’d once done.
He let go of the mannequin and cocked his head, his smug face daring her to react, perhaps to insult him more. She bridged the distance between them and stretched out a hand. Instead of hitting him, she yanked his head down for a kiss.
He seemed to freeze in place, too confused to react. She’d startled him and she enjoyed knowing she’d thrown him off-balance; she felt the pure pleasure of having bested a competitor. But after a few seconds he kissed her back, wrapped his arms around her, and she began to feel a pleasure of a different sort.
It had been a long time since she’d kissed a man, and Salvador’s kisses had been clumsy, although eager. Ulises kissed with razor-sharp precision, his hands were careful upon her skin, sliding against her waist, then resting at her hips.
There was something faintly clinical about his movements, something practiced.This is how he kisses all women,she thought, and this made her bite his lower lip, irritated.
He gasped, startled again, and pulled back. When she looked into his eyes the sharpness, the cold precision, seemed to vanish, and there was a spark of something else there. Delight. Desire that was not feigned and manufactured.
She rested a hand on his chest, and she felt her lips tug into an involuntary smile, mirroring that joy.
She realized two things in that moment: she found him attractive, and she liked him. The first was not a real discovery. She’d told him he was pretty, and he was. There was no need to pretend otherwise. But to like him was something entirely different, something perilous.
To make matters even worse, she felt the uncomfortable weight of desire that made her want to kiss him again, this time with no intent to startle or provoke him, just for the sheer need of it.
At once a cold terror spread across her body, dousing any pleasurable feeling, and she shoved him aside.
“Stay out of my way and get out of my room,” she said.
“You invited me here,” he replied, sounding offended.
“That was when I thought you might be of some use.”
“Apparently I am.”
She pressed a hand against his trousers, feeling his half-hard member.
“This? Any boy in town can offer me that. You don’t have anything to give me that’s worth a damn.”
He swatted her hand away. “You’re insane. Why don’t you shoot her between the eyes if you’re eager to get caught? I promise to write to you when you’re in jail.”
He sneered at her and stepped out. She felt exhausted suddenly, and leaned against the wall, breathing in deep. On the walls the handsome actors and the gorgeous starlets smiled at her.
—
It was perhaps the talk of death earlier in the day that induced the nightmare. It began as it always did, with Inés walking through the house, her doll under her arm. Though on this occasion the dream was slightly altered. She heard voices talking, snatches of a conversation.
“Why? The town’s not good enough? We’re not good enough for you?”
The dream was usually wordless, and then there was the noise of abody tumbling down the steps, the harsh thud against the floor. But now the voices made the scene more awful. They echoed through the house, stirred the shadows.
“You can’t leave me alone!”
Her mother lay at the foot of the stairs and the blood that seeped out of her body spread fast, reaching Inés’s foot, staining her shoes.
A low, piteous whine strained her ears. She stepped back, eyes wide open, as she watched the blood pooling thick and dark by her mother’s corpse. It trickled across the floor, licking the walls, spreading up toward the ceiling.
Her mother opened her mouth, speaking, but the words were a gurgle.
“Mommy?” she said.
Suddenly she looked up and her aunt was there, clutching her tight.
“Inés,” she said.