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If I remembered correctly, Bella had never liked the truck—she always wanted Granda’s Bentley. Bringing a farm truck to the airport was a deliberate slight, and I wiped my pleasure from my face, sniffing in disapproval. I was about to reach for the stack of euros Bella had given me when my newfound nemesis forestalled me, giving both the men a healthy tip as they loaded the expensive luggage into the back of the truck. It smelled of hay and manure, two scents I was used to from New Hampshire, ones I remembered from the olive groves. The Prada certainly wasn’t used to such undignified treatment, and beneath my feigned hauteur, it amused me. For some reason, the damned luggage even brought out my intermittent inferiority complex, and I’d developed a strong dislike for it. Riding in the back of a farm truck was a fitting comeuppance.
“What’s so amusing?” the man said.
I glanced up at him. He was unlocking the truck, and I automatically reached for the passenger side door, then stopped. It was a king cab—wouldn’t Bella expect to sit in the back seat, being chauffeured?
“You wouldn’t get it,” I said, hesitating. He’d probably think I’d gone crazy, imbuing luggage with personality. Then again, everything belonging to Bella seemed to have a certain air.
“Open the damned door, Bella,” he said. “Don’t think for a minute I’m coming around to do it for you.”
I opened the passenger door. Not that I wanted to cozy up to the irascible creature, but climbing into the back seemed needlessly petty.
The front seat was littered with papers, notebooks, tools. I was wearing a gorgeous pale gray suit, and I immediately got a dirt stain on my arm, a grease mark on one thigh, and my pantyhose shredded. The Bella-Barbie I’d become was made for more careful treatment.
“Fasten your seatbelt.”
I gave him a cool glance, perfectly calibrated to show my disdain for his behavior. “How long to Mariposa?”
“You act like you’ve never been there before. You know how long it takes.”
I didn’t show any reaction. After all, he was right, I had been there before, many times. “I haven’t been here for a while, and I usually arrive in more dignified vehicles. I don’t imagine this thing goes sixty miles an hour.”
Another sidelong glance. “You started measuring things in miles, Bella? When did you start spending time in the States? Last time I heard, you were living it up on the Riviera.”
Shit. I cast a worried glance at the truck, then smiled. “This is an American truck. The speedometer is in miles, not kilometers.”
He said nothing for a moment, then started the truck. It rumbled beneath me, a pleasant sort of vibration, and then I shut that thought out completely. I wasn’t going to be thinking about vibration while I sat next to this man. He slammed it into gear, and we were off, the tires squealing beneath us.
I reached out a hand to steady myself—the ancient seatbelt had seen better days. “You know, I never could manage to peel out like that. I’m impressed that you still remember how at your advanced age. Most boys outgrow their love of burnt rubber.”
He laughed, and some of the hostility faded for a moment. “You know perfectly well you had it down to a fine art. Your exits are almost as good as your entrances.”
Driving in Spain isn’t quite as terrifying as driving through the streets of Paris or Rome, but it was close. My companion clearly knew what he was doing, dodging cars, delivery trucks, carts, and chatting pedestrians with effortless ease, all the while I gripped my seat, a serene smile grimly plastered to my face while I tried not to scream. We were both silent as he left the city, but I didn’t relax. This man’s arrival at the airport was nothing less than an ambush, and I simply had to wait for him to make the first attack.
He waited until we were out on the high road that led along the coast before speaking. “Why are you here, Bella?” he said in a rough voice. It was an attractive one, low and musical, if it weren’t tight with tension.
I kept my gaze fixed on the countryside. “You know why. I’m here to see my grandfather.”
“You’ve kept away for five years. Why now?”
Jesus, why now? Wasn’t it obvious? Or had Bella been lying to me? “He’s not going to live forever.”
“He’s not going to make it through the summer,” the man said flatly.
“So maybe I wanted to say goodbye.”
“And maybe you wanted to make sure you were still in the will. Trust you to keep your eye on the prize.”
That was a surprise. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be?” I countered.
“You tell me.”
God, he was making me want to scream. Every time I tried to pump him for information, he simply turned it back on me. I had absolutely no idea who he was, though I expected I ought to know. He certainly bore no resemblance to anyone I remembered from my childhood.
It was time to go All Bella on his ass. “I don’t see any reason to discuss this with a farmhand,” I said dismissively.
Another quick look, his forehead furrowed. “At least I earn my keep,” he said after a moment.
I glanced over at him. He was wearing sunglasses against the brilliance of the midday light, shielding at least part of his face, but the twist to his mouth was expressive enough. He had no use for Isabella Whitehead, and I wondered why.
