“Better,” she said, even though the painkiller couldn’t have worked yet, and put the glass in the dishwasher.
“Right. Everything’s fine with you, perfect.” If she could convince him of that maybe he wouldn’t ask questions. Was that what she thought?
He knew she’d correctly interpreted his tone when a hint of wariness entered her eyes. But that only heightened his curiosity. Why was she so cautious, so secretive about her past? What was she afraid of? Deportation? Or was it something worse? He couldn’t say, but she definitely didn’t believe she could trust anyone—including him. “Sí. I am fine,” she said stiffly.
This was getting him nowhere. He couldn’t even decide how hard he should push her, which added to his frustration.
Heading to the fridge, he got the cold beer he’d promised Brent, but didn’t return to the living room. His new housekeeper wasn’t someone life had chewed up and spit out. No doubt she’d hit a rough patch, but she didn’t fit the drug addict/sex slave scenarios he’d concocted. She wasn’t crazy or emotionally broken or undesirable. Just the opposite seemed true. So why was she in her current predicament?
“Cierra?”
No answer. She’d gone back to stirring the food as if it required all of her attention.
“Cierra,” he repeated.
She didn’t face him, but at least she responded. “Yes?”
“Look at me.”
Setting the lid on the pan, she turned but there was no mistaking her reluctance to confront him. “Soon, you will eat.”
Another attempt at diversion. She knew he hadn’t been about to ask for dinner. “Someone, somewhere, must be looking for you,” he said.
Her knuckles whitened on the spatula in her hand but she shook her head. “No. No one.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
He stepped closer, couldn’t help testing her. She’d certainly kept to herself and out of his way so far. But she seemed to understand that he was challenging her and stood resolute, almost defiant, as she stared up at him. It was that fearless quality, along with her stubborn pride and her work ethic, that made him admire her, although she had nothing other than her beauty, not even a decent set of clothes, to suggest she should be admired.
“A woman like you…she doesn’t get forgotten, doesn’t go unnoticed.”
“A woman like me?”
“A woman as beautiful as you.”
She wasn’t flattered; she knew he was merely stating a fact. Her only reaction seemed to be worry. “I will leave. Soon.”
“I’m not asking you to leave. I just want to know who’s looking for you.”
“No one.” She threw her spatula aside. “The man who wanted to marry me is dead, okay?”
Ken was doing exactly what he’d told himself not to do—digging into her past—but what she’d revealed demanded a follow-up. The man who’d wanted to marry her was dead? “When?”
“It has been three weeks.”
Then why did she show so little emotion? Hadn’t she cared for him? “Where? In Vegas?”
“Sí.”
“How’d he die?”
“A…stroke?”
Ken had expected an accident or a gang shooting, the type of death more common to younger men. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard of someone under thirty dying of a stroke. “Was it some…rare disease that caused it?”
“He had a bad heart, and—” she struggled to remember the word “—diabetes?”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How old was he?”
“Seventy-four.”
Ken made no effort to conceal his surprise or his disgust. “No…”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “Sí.”
“You were going to marry a seventy-four-year-old man? What are you, twenty-five? That’s sick!”
Moving toward him instead of away, she lost the demure expression she’d adopted the past twenty-four hours—that of a housekeeper staying in the background, doing her work—and pounded a finger into his chest as if she was every bit his equal. “It is easy to judge when you have always had everything, is it not?” she snapped, and presented her back to him as she once again resumed cooking.
CHAPTER SIX
“WHAT DID YOU DO to her?”
Ken looked over at his brother. They’d eaten dinner and were back in front of the TV, but since the game was over, they were channel-surfing, looking for a movie or some other show to entertain them. “Who?”
“Cierra.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but he did. During dinner, Cierra had been far friendlier to Brent and had positively beamed when he complimented her cooking. But, other than to set a plate in front of Ken, she’d barely acknowledged him.
“I think she’s mad,” Brent explained.
Reclining his chair, Ken crossed his feet at the ankles. “She’s tired. And too proud for her own good.”
Brent punctuated his response with a laugh. “And you’re not?”
Ken clicked to a different station. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Sure it is. And maybe pride is all she has. Did you ever think of that? Why else would she guard it so fiercely?”
For once in his life, Brent had made a profound statement. Ken knew that comments like this stemmed from his little brother’s sympathy for Russ, and his bitterness over the fact that Ken didn’t share that sympathy. But just because he expected people to eventually get control of their lives didn’t mean he had no empathy for their struggles. He was tired of being disappointed, that was all. How many chances did a person deserve? How many had Russ already wasted?
“She’ll be fine in the morning.” Tossing his brother the remote, he got out of his chair. “I’m ready for bed.”
“What are you going to do about her?” Brent asked before he could leave the room.
Ken hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“She needs help.”
“I know she needs help. What do you think I’m doing? I don’t typically have the average homeless person move in with me, even at Christmas.”
Lowering his eyes, Brent fidgeted with the remote. “But…this might not be a quick fix. I’m worried that you’ll run out of patience. You’re always so big on getting everyone to quit enabling others. And it’s not like I can do anything for her. I’m just a starving student. I’ll be heading back to school after the holidays.”