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He drummed his fist on the table. “I’ll never understand how women think. Refugio is making a rolled roast with the most delicious mushroom and onion stuffing, and I don’t want to ruin dinner. Let’s talk strategy on the way home tomorrow morning.”
She slanted a glance his way. “Promise not to leave me at the side of the freeway.”
“You’re safe. Manuel wouldn’t allow it.”
“It would look really bad in the tabloids.”
“There’s that concern too.” He held out his hand. “Let me brush your hair.”
She scooted her chair closer to his. They were using charm and humor rather than face a difficult issue, but every time he slammed a door on her, metaphorically speaking, she had the right to kick it open.
Libby wore her new aqua-and-black skirt with an aqua top for dinner. Santos’s place was set at the head of the table and hers was on the right as it had been last night. After the horse adventure Friday afternoon, she’d thought they’d just sleep together, but Santos had had more in mind. She’d not objected at all, although the coming night didn’t look nearly as promising.
Refugio had two young helpers who served dinner, and the stuffed roast was as excellent as Santos had promised. “The roast is so tender. Everything is delicious here. Salad greens fresh from the garden, and these carrots are the best I’ve ever eaten. Do the men eat this well?”
Santos rested his fork on his plate and blotted his mouth with his napkin. “They eat very well, but sautéed carrots don’t appeal to them.”
“I understand. They’d expect a carrot to be tossed into a stew.”
“That’s exactly how Refugio sneaks the vegetables into his menus.”
They’d come to a truce that afternoon, but she still felt uneasy. “Do Spanish women expect men to make all the decisions?”
He cocked a brow. “Leave it for tomorrow, Libby.”
She shrugged. “I’m just trying to know you better, not make a point.”
He refilled her wineglass. “I’ve no idea what most Spanish women think. Some apparently don’t think at all. I once heard a man complain his wife did too much thinking, so maybe he didn’t do enough. The people here can’t be all that different from everyone in America.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Maybe, but we have a little more than two centuries as a country, and our people are a wonderful blend of cultures. Spain must have a thousand years of simply being Spanish.”
“Much more. The Romans arrived in 218 BC, but they weren’t the first people here. The true natives go back to 800,000 BC.” He watched her lashes nearly touch her brows. “Why do you look so surprised? I paid attention in school. You must have heard of Ferdinand and Isabel. They united Spain and sent Columbus to the New World.”
“In 1492,” she murmured between bites. “Even if we start counting with them, that’s more than five hundred years.”
“What is your point, even if you wer
en’t making one? That we’re hampered by centuries of burdensome traditions and our women are all trapped in their kitchens with a dozen noisy children hanging on to their aprons?”
She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. He was so handsome with an angry fire lighting his eyes she could barely recall what they were discussing. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” she commented softly.
“You haven’t,” he replied, but his expression wasn’t forgiving. “Just don’t bring up the Inquisition, because I won’t accept the blame for the cruel insanity of it.”
“I hadn’t even thought of it. I have this ridiculous notion that men and women should be able to discuss their opinions without anyone getting angry or hurt. I must learn how to do it. My father can raise an argument to an art form, but that’s another kind of talent.”
He swallowed the last bite on his plate. “I don’t like to argue.”
“Neither do I.” She wondered if while growing up he hadn’t heard too many furious arguments between his father and his succession of wives. It must have been terrifying to have his home repeatedly disrupted. She reached for his hand. “Do you want the rest of my dinner?”
He looked surprised by her question, then laughed and reached for her plate. “Yes, thank you. Now let me tell you about this pony I had when I was barely old enough to stay on his back.”
She sat back and listened. He was a wonderful storyteller and used amusing detail to keep her entertained. He was attempting to distract her, which was rather sweet. But tomorrow, she intended to convince him her way was best.
As they got ready to leave, Anita Lujan gave them heartier hugs than she had on their arrival and whispered in Libby’s ear, “Come back often.”
“I’d love to. Thank you for everything.” Manuel had already loaded their luggage into the SUV, and she walked beside Santos toward it. “Would you rather sit in the front?”
“Then I’d have to turn around to press my side. I’ll ride in the back with you.”
