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She sat up straighter. She was wearing her favorite summer dress, a loose garment that flowed to her ankles. She thought it was feminine and pretty. “My wardrobe didn’t seem to be a problem last night.”
“Because we bought you a gown.”
“I wasn’t talking about that.”
“Ah,” he said. “Clothes, in that instance, are irrelevant. But you are beautiful, Francesca, and you need to wear clothes that show your gorgeous body.”
“I like this dress,” she said militantly.
“It belongs to someone two sizes larger.”
She stared at him for a long minute. She’d had this dress for a few years—and she’d worn it when she was twenty pounds heavier. That he knew it was for someone bigger surprised her. And embarrassed her. She grabbed the handle and ripped open the door.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s go. But we’re only getting a few things.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Francesca marched into the first store, her dignity sorely bruised. But the shopping wasn’t as excruciating as she expected. Marcos stayed out of it, mostly, but the shop girls refused to let her take a wrong turn. When she chose a garment that was a little too big or loose, they steered her toward something else. By the time they got back into the car, more than two hours had passed.
She hadn’t selected much, but it seemed as if the boxes and bags had somehow multiplied on their way out to the car. She hadn’t wanted to accept any more from him than she already had—the jewels last night still stunned her, but she knew that even if he’d bought them with her in mind, he had not bought them for her—yet she’d had to acknowledge she might feel more confident meeting his sister if she were dressed a bit more elegantly.
In spite of the new cream linen dress she’d changed into at the last store, Francesca began to panic as the car moved through the sycamore-studded landscape. They were getting closer and closer to meeting Magdalena and her new baby. When they finally turned in at a sprawling Spanish-style villa south of town, Francesca had to remind herself not to wipe her sweaty palms on her new dress.
As the car rolled down the drive, she braced herself for whatever would come next. She expected children to scamper out of the huge carved wooden double doors, a man and woman to linger with smiles on their faces and a baby in their arms as they welcomed Marcos to their home.
And her, of course. But what would his sister think of her? Especially if she couldn’t look at the woman for fear of losing control of her rioting emotions?
She’d thought s
he’d put it behind her. The fear, the loss, the reality of what had been taken from her. She could not change the past, could not reclaim what had been stolen. There was only the future.
Yet the prospect of spending time with a happy family terrified her.
A happy family.
As the car came to a halt, Francesca watched the door to the villa, gathering her strength and preparing for the ordeal of meeting Marcos’s family. No one emerged, and Marcos exited the car. The chauffeur came around and opened her door. She stepped out of the car, shading her eyes against the setting sun. The air was warmer than in Buenos Aires, and fragrant with the scent of an orchard nearby.
Plums perhaps?
Finally, the doors opened and a small man dressed in black pants and a white shirt hurried over to Marcos. The two exchanged words in Spanish, and then the man was grasping a suitcase and yelling instructions to the youngsters who came running from the interior.
Their luggage disappeared as Francesca stood there blinking at the scurrying children. Teenagers, actually.
“They work here,” Marcos said, as if sensing her confusion. “For me.”
“But I thought this was your sister’s home …”
“Magdalena and her family have their own winery.”
“This is your home?” She tilted her head back, taking in the Spanish portico, the stucco and wood beams, and felt a relief she hadn’t expected flood her senses.
“Sí. This is the Bodega Navarre. We grow olives, plums, and grapes here. The children help make the oil, wine, and jellies. They sell it to tourists and …”
Francesca ceased listening. A buzzing started in her ears and wouldn’t stop. Marcos employed the kids that he wanted to save from the streets. He’d said he didn’t do enough, yet he did more than he’d told her. He’d talked of hiring the kids, teaching them a trade, giving them something meaningful to do while they were schooled properly. She thought he meant through the Foundation, not that he personally did this.
In his home, with his money.
Oh God.
