Deep in his soul, in love. More in love than he'd thought possible. Perhaps foolishly so.
He had always adored women. And women, he'd learned early in life, adored him. Had been adoring him since he'd been born the only boy to a house full of soft hands, warm smiles, and unqualified love from his mother and his sister, who had fussed over his onyx black eyes, played with his dark curly hair, sighed over his handsome features and caramel gold skin.
Whether it was the women in his family cuddling him close and singing in his ear, his nanny slipping him special treats, or his mother's model friend seducing him, at sixteen, with that first electric taste of physical love, Manny had been surrounded by, loved by, and idolized by the fairer sex.
In turn, he welcomed every opportunity to give back all the adoration that had been lavished on him. Sometimes, to his regret. But with Lily ... he regretted nothing.
Unless ... sometimes, he talked too much. He'd confided in her that he was a clandestine operator, often worked with the U.S. government as well as his Contra brethren intent on overthrowing the Sandinista regime. He told her all of this. He put his life in her hands. A dangerous and risky thing to do, as he'd just found out.
Waiting for her back at the apartment, he leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his mind reeling with fear of her, of betrayal.
His chest tightened when the kitchen door finally opened and she walked inside, her arms full of flowers and a bottle of wine.
"Hey, you," she said brightly as she unloaded her things on the counter, pecked him on the cheek, then opened a cupboard door. "I thought you were picking me up today."
"What was Poveda doing at the clinic?"
"Hm?" She glanced at Manny over her shoulder, then resumed her hunt for a vase for the flowers.
He caught her by the arm, spun her around. "Poveda. He was at the clinic when I came for you. I saw you talking with him."
She looked shocked, then confused. "Oh. Oh, right. He was there. But what you saw was him attempting to talk to me, not me talking to him. Manny? You're hurting me."
Only then did he realize there was pain mixed with her confusion. He let her go, felt a sick knot in his gut when he saw the imprint of his fingers on her arm.
"Manny? What's going on?"
"You cannot speak to Poveda of me."
She blinked. Shook her head. "You think I would talk to Poveda about you?"
She looked so hurt, so perplexed, that a fist of self-loathing punched him in the chest.
"I did, yes," he confessed, and knew by the look on her face how wrong he'd been to doubt her. Relief was almost as potent as regret.
"I was wrong to do so. I'm sorry, Lily." Folding her into his arms, he held her tight against him. "It is just that he is already upset with me—because I took you home from his party. I cannot afford to become someone he concerns himself about."
She stiffened in his arms. "What you mean is, you're not certain you can trust me with your secrets."
He expelled a breath heavy with regret. Yes. That is what he'd meant. He wasn't proud of it, but it was true. As his father so often pointed out, for all Manny had experienced, he was not yet fully a man. He had a man's body, a man's appetites, and a man's appreciation for a beautiful, heartbroken woman, but sometimes he led with a boy's heart instead of a man's head.
Lily was the proof of that.
He'd placed himself in jeopardy.
Because he was in love.
"I am so sorry, Liliana. I should not have doubted you. It is just... Poveda. He wants you. I saw it in his eyes that night at his house. Not only that. In my country, one never knows who is friend. Who is foe. It is hard to trust. Old habits—they are hard to break."
The tension in her body softened as he held her. "I would never betray you, Manny," she whispered against his chest.
"I know, mi amor. I know. Forgive
He had always adored women. And women, he'd learned early in life, adored him. Had been adoring him since he'd been born the only boy to a house full of soft hands, warm smiles, and unqualified love from his mother and his sister, who had fussed over his onyx black eyes, played with his dark curly hair, sighed over his handsome features and caramel gold skin.
Whether it was the women in his family cuddling him close and singing in his ear, his nanny slipping him special treats, or his mother's model friend seducing him, at sixteen, with that first electric taste of physical love, Manny had been surrounded by, loved by, and idolized by the fairer sex.
In turn, he welcomed every opportunity to give back all the adoration that had been lavished on him. Sometimes, to his regret. But with Lily ... he regretted nothing.
Unless ... sometimes, he talked too much. He'd confided in her that he was a clandestine operator, often worked with the U.S. government as well as his Contra brethren intent on overthrowing the Sandinista regime. He told her all of this. He put his life in her hands. A dangerous and risky thing to do, as he'd just found out.
Waiting for her back at the apartment, he leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his mind reeling with fear of her, of betrayal.
His chest tightened when the kitchen door finally opened and she walked inside, her arms full of flowers and a bottle of wine.
"Hey, you," she said brightly as she unloaded her things on the counter, pecked him on the cheek, then opened a cupboard door. "I thought you were picking me up today."
"What was Poveda doing at the clinic?"
"Hm?" She glanced at Manny over her shoulder, then resumed her hunt for a vase for the flowers.
He caught her by the arm, spun her around. "Poveda. He was at the clinic when I came for you. I saw you talking with him."
She looked shocked, then confused. "Oh. Oh, right. He was there. But what you saw was him attempting to talk to me, not me talking to him. Manny? You're hurting me."
Only then did he realize there was pain mixed with her confusion. He let her go, felt a sick knot in his gut when he saw the imprint of his fingers on her arm.
"Manny? What's going on?"
"You cannot speak to Poveda of me."
She blinked. Shook her head. "You think I would talk to Poveda about you?"
She looked so hurt, so perplexed, that a fist of self-loathing punched him in the chest.
"I did, yes," he confessed, and knew by the look on her face how wrong he'd been to doubt her. Relief was almost as potent as regret.
"I was wrong to do so. I'm sorry, Lily." Folding her into his arms, he held her tight against him. "It is just that he is already upset with me—because I took you home from his party. I cannot afford to become someone he concerns himself about."
She stiffened in his arms. "What you mean is, you're not certain you can trust me with your secrets."
He expelled a breath heavy with regret. Yes. That is what he'd meant. He wasn't proud of it, but it was true. As his father so often pointed out, for all Manny had experienced, he was not yet fully a man. He had a man's body, a man's appetites, and a man's appreciation for a beautiful, heartbroken woman, but sometimes he led with a boy's heart instead of a man's head.
Lily was the proof of that.
He'd placed himself in jeopardy.
Because he was in love.
"I am so sorry, Liliana. I should not have doubted you. It is just... Poveda. He wants you. I saw it in his eyes that night at his house. Not only that. In my country, one never knows who is friend. Who is foe. It is hard to trust. Old habits—they are hard to break."
The tension in her body softened as he held her. "I would never betray you, Manny," she whispered against his chest.
"I know, mi amor. I know. Forgive
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