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CHAPTER THREE

The sound of runningwater woke Bea the next morning, and she took a while to orient herself. Not one of her sisters, but Casildo. Lean, lanky, delectable-looking Casildo. He’d probably hate the description, but growing up in the expatriate Chilean community surrounded by machismo culture, Bea found Casildo’s gentle strength enormously seductive. Especially when she’d guessed his Middle Eastern background had its own version of machismo.

In the last few months, she’d learned of his deep love and loyalty to his friend Hunter, a man he called brother. He also designed textiles. His unique wedding gift to Anna and Hunter of sheets, doona and cushion covers said he did. Was that why he wanted the boxy room? His equivalent of an artist’s garret? Would he tell her if she asked?

Bea hadn’t pictured him as a struggling artist. Those rumours she’d heard about money suggested not just that he came from money, but that he’d inherit a bit. One day.

He didn’t act like a guy living on expectations. She refused to discuss her finances, and he had the same right to privacy. Money was one of those topics that got messy very fast.

People with money didn’t always understand the struggles of those without. Or maybe the superrich had different struggles. Another one of those pesky rumours said Casildo had been chased for money, or rather, his family’s money. Anna hadn’t said anything, but then Anna had had less to do with Casildo than Bea over the years. It wasn’t until Anna met Hunter that she’d spent more time with Casildo. Anna liked him, mostly because of his absolute loyalty to Hunter.

Not dating, and not discussing her promise to her parents made life simpler.

I’m not dating Casildo.

I’m not thinking of dating anyone, much less Casildo.

We both work. We have friends in common. Friends we want to keep.

I’ve given him a week’s trial as a housemate. Not much can happen in a week.

* * *

Cas had set his alarmfor early. In and out of the shower before Beatriz stirred, a habit he’d learned living with two sisters. Five daughters. He pictured steamy bathrooms, barely-there lingerie draped over clotheslines. Multi-coloured? There’d been a kid in his class who was the sixth son. Each son had been assigned a colour, so clothes couldn’t be confused or misclaimed. Wow!

Does the Gomez household have a timetable for showers?

Will she tell me if I ask? Or look at me as if I’m a sexist idiot again?

It’s a logistical issue, a real question. Bet her parents thought about it.

Beatriz and he had each needed an immediate bolthole. Both of them had chosen Anna’s apartment because it was rent free. For a finite period. But Cas planned to have his new business premises lined up by the end of this month. He could bunk down there for a bit if need be, or see if Hunt knew someone with a room free. Serving Beatriz breakfast was his opening bid in convincing her she could tolerate him for more than a week.

“Coffee, tea, more hot chocolate?” Cas asked.

She was back in her neat jeans and cardigan this morning. Her limited wardrobe confirmed her story that she’d got as far as snatching a few hours of freedom. He’d regret disrupting her plans, except she intrigued him. She’d always intrigued him. She was so self-contained, so unflappable, when his gut told him she had more layers than a black forest cake. He had a secret addiction to black forest cake. Chocolate, cherries, whipped cream and Beatriz made for a delicious fantasy. Instinct told him she’d forced her nicely rounded self into a square hole, and he was the lucky witness to her breaking out.

“Anything without caffeine?”

“You can’t start the day without caffeine.”

Even her clothes intrigued Cas. Good quality, sustainable fabrics, classic designs that she was comfortable wearing more than once. Her choice wasn’t dictated by a budget, or only partly. He’d seen her hand glide over a sofa or a drape, testing the fabric, making a tactile connection. Last night’s kaftan was a tie dye cotton, possibly even second-hand because he could have sworn it was an authentic Malaysian design.

She looked down her pert nose, and stepped around him to check the cupboard. “Three ginger tea works.”

“For what?”

“If you’re going to question every food or drink choice I make this”—she made a circling gesture with her hand—“cohabiting won’t work.”

“We agreed on Turkish and beer last night.” He moved out of her way. “I picked up some fruit at the same time, if you’re prepared to poison your gloriously healthy body with oranges or bananas?”

“I’ll shop later.” She filled a teapot with boiling water; a gallon at least of the gingers.

“We’llshop later. I have a car. We’ll need a few supplies.”