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Francesca’s gaze snapped to Marcos as the woman laughed. He seemed perfectly normal again. Had she imagined the pain and anguish in his demeanor? The loneliness?
“Darling, I have said not a word that wasn’t true,” Vina replied, rising and kissing him on both cheeks. “And I was just about to tell your lovely new wife that I hope you will take the time to have a few children of your own. We need more men like you, Marcos.”
“Gracias, señora,” Marcos said while Francesca’s head began to swim. He reached down and took her hand in his. If he noticed it was clammy, he did not react. “But we are taking time to get to know each other first. Perhaps later.”
“Of course, of course.” She suddenly waved at someone across the room. “Esteban needs me, darling. I’ll write a check for the foundation, and I’ll see you soon, yes? Bring your beautiful esposa to dinner.”
Francesca couldn’t look at him as he dropped into the chair Vina had vacated. Children? She’d wanted Marcos’s children once. And tonight, hearing him speak so passionately about the lost children in the streets, she couldn’t help but think that Vina was right. He did deserve children of his own.
Several people came by to speak with Marcos. Francesca sat there like a good wife, smiling and speaking with those who spoke to her, though her thoughts were far away. When Marcos eventually touched her shoulder, she jerked.
He frowned down at her. She hadn’t even been aware he’d stood.
“If you are ready, we can leave,” Marcos said.
“Yes, of course,” she said, allowing him to help her up. “But shouldn’t you stay to speak with the donors?”
He picked up her shawl and wrapped it around her. “The Foundation has a staff, querida. They are quite capable of handling the donations now that I’ve made the speech. And I’ve been speaking with people for the last half hour.”
“How long have you been doing this, Marcos? I don’t remember you ever speaking of this charity before.”
He cupped her elbow and steered her toward the lobby. “The Reclaim Our Children Foundation is almost eight years old. I started it as soon as I regained Navarre Industries.”
“How did you learn about these children?” she asked as they stopped under the portico to wait for their limousine. “I’m ashamed to say I had no idea this kind of thing went on in such a modern country.”
He didn’t speak at first and she wondered if he’d heard her. She looked up at him, surprised at the stark look on his face. He cared deeply for these children, she realized. And perhaps she was wrong to ask questions. Clearly, it was a painful subject for him.
“You don’t have to—” she began.
“I learned about them firsthand, querida,” he said, slicing her off in mid-sentence with his harsh words. “Because I was one of them.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHY HAD HE told her what he’d never told anyone? His fiction had always been that he’d been sent to live with relatives. In the space of a moment, he’d told her the ugly truth.
Marcos poured a whiskey as soon as they were ensconced in the back seat of the limo and took a long drink. Francesca sat beside him, silent as the grave. She hadn’t said anything since he’d spoken those ill-advised words. Not that she’d had any time. As soon as the words left his mouth, the car had arrived.
Now they were on their way, gliding down the drive and toward the street.
“I’m sorry,” she said very softly. Marcos tilted the crystal tumbler back and drained it. Exactly what he did not want from anyone: pity.
“It was a long time ago,” he bit out. “Forget it.”
She let out an annoyed sigh. “That’s your solution for everything, isn’t it? Forget it.”
“There is no point in dwelling on the past.”
“But you can’t forget it, obviously, or you wouldn’t be so angry!”
He rounded on her, ready to lash her with words—except she’d finally let those tears fall. The ones she’d gulped back for Jacques Fortier were now sliding down her cheeks for him.
“Francesca,” he said on a heavy sigh, “it’s not important. The past is the past.”
“But how did this happen, Marcos? What happened to your parents, and why didn’t your uncle take care of you once they were gone?”
“Ah Dios,” he breathed. What on earth had happened to his usual good sense in those few moments when he’d blurted out the truth? He didn’t like talking about his past, yet he’d just told her one of the darkest secrets of his life. Not the darkest, certainly, but one of them.
He poured another drink and took a sip. Beside him, Francesca used the shawl to wipe away her tears. He handed her a cocktail napkin.
