“That’s an incredible command of profanity, she’s got,” said Manfred cheerily. “And the way your girlfriend’s shaking her fist at you doesn’t bode well for your future.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” growled Benito.
Manfred’s already huge grin got bigger. “Could have fooled me!” He eyed the shrieking young woman. “In my experience—okay, it’s limited, I admit—but still . . .” The grin faded a little, and the next words came softly. “Young Benito, I think only a woman in love gets that angry at a man.”
“You’re crazy!” snapped Benito.
They were almost at the edge of the canal. With as little effort as if he were picking up a toddler, Manfred hoisted Benito by the armpits and began to deposit him off the barge.
“Maybe so,” he whispered. “But if she isn’t, you’re the one who’s crazy, not me. Damn, but she’s gorgeous.”
Benito stared at the furious eyes that Manfred’s huge hands were depositing him before, to meet his punishment. The square jaw, the red face, the thick hair swinging wildly—almost as wildly as the fist—the broad shoulders.
Damn. She is gorgeous.
* * *
The thought vanished as soon as Maria’s hand cracked his face. And it stayed away while she shook him by the shoulders—slapped him again; not as hard, but twice—and finished cursing him. But it returned, in a flood, when she seized him and hugged him close, sobbing softly in his hair and kissing his cheek.
“God damn you, Benito, don’t ever scare me like that again.”
“I’m sorry, Maria,” he mumbled. “But . . .”
He didn’t know how to respond. He was too confused. Damn, but you’re gorgeous seemed . . . crazy. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not a damn thing that didn’t seem . . . crazier.