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on a full stomach.” He seated himself comfortably at the kitchen table and watched her cut up some cold chicken.
    “I watched the game,” she said as she put the sandwich in front of him. “What would you like to drink?”
    “Milk, please.” He took a bite and chewed. “I didn’t think you watched baseball.”
    “I haven’t—until now.” She put two glasses of milk on the table and sat down herself. “Why did that pitcher throw that ball at you? The announcer seemed to think it was deliberate.”
    “It was,” He swallowed some milk, looked at her expression and chuckled. “Don’t look so horrified, querida . Baseball is a constant war between the pitcher and the batter and one of the battles is over who has control of the plate. The batter likes to get close because it makes life more difficult for the pitcher. When the batter gets too close, however, the pitcher has to try to move him back.”
    “By throwing the ball at him?”
    “Well, that is one way.”
    Susan drank some milk. “That was when you hit a home run,” she said.
    He raised a black eyebrow. “I do not like having a ninety mile per hour fastball thrown at my head.”
    “I should think not,” she replied fervently.
    They sat for a few more minutes in silence as Ricardo finished his sandwich. Then Susan said, “Did you ever think that this was how you’d be spending your wedding night?”
    He laughed, his teeth very white in his tanned face. “No. But I’m not complaining.” He finished his milk. “Are there any cookies?”
    She got out some cookies for him and refilled his glass. He looked up and caught her gaze. “We are not exactly a romantic duo, are we?” he asked humorously.
    Susan’s face suddenly lit with laughter. “No, we’re not.” She laid her hand on the pronounced curve of her stomach.
    His eyes followed her hand. “You are carrying my child. You’ve fed me and listened to me.” His dark eyes held twin devils in their depths. “The rest can wait,” he said.
    Susan felt her breath catch in her throat and her body tensed. Then he leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Come,” he said. “It’s late and I’ve kept you up too long.” She started to tidy up and he made an impatient gesture. “Leave it. Maria will clean up in the morning.” He held the kitchen door for her. “Your job, querida ” he said as they went up the stairs, “is to take good care of my son.”
     

Chapter Four
     
    Susan’s baby was born on the day the Yankees won the American League Pennant. Ricardo took her to the hospital at five in the afternoon and then left for the stadium. She didn’t see him again until five in the morning, after the baby had been born.
    It had been a long, painful and lonely labor. There were two other women in the labor room with her and both had been panting and puffing in great Lamaze style with supportive husbands at their sides. Susan had suffered in silence and alone.
    Ricardo had never even suggested that he might be present when the baby was born. The thought, she had come to realize, simply never crossed his mind. Childbirth, in his view, was woman’s work. After two months she had come to learn a few things about the man she had married and one thing had become increasingly clear. He was not a liberated male.
    He must have been waiting at the hospital, though, because he came into see her as soon as she was brought back from the delivery room. He came across to the bed immediately and picked up her hand. “How are you feeling, querida ?” he asked softly.
    “Tired.” She gazed up at him gravely. His hair was tousled and the shadow of his beard was dark and rough. He looked tired, too, she thought.
    “It took a long time,” he said.
    “You’re telling me,” she answered, and at that he smiled at her, not the quick irrepressible grin that so beguiled strangers but a slow, warm, intimate smile that lit his extraordinary eyes as if from within. Her own face softened and for a brief