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Marcos smiled, so at ease for a moment that Francesca had trouble believing this was the same man who had violent nightmares. “We will cope.”
Ingrid nodded. “I’ll send Isabelle back with his food.”
“Bueno.”
The woman and girl left, and Marcos sat down with Armando on his lap. Francesca’s heart had stopped beating minutes ago. Now, it lurched forward painfully as the boy gabbled nonsense and reached for the hot plate a waiter had set in front of Marcos.
“No, little one,” Marcos said. “Be patient.”
Francesca tried to concentrate on the food as it was being delivered. The scent of the steaks was divine. Besides steaks—bife di lomo, served with a chimichurri sauce—there were steaming vegetables, fragrant rice, and hot empanadas.
Someone brought an extra fork. Marcos put a little bit of rice on it and, once he tested it for heat, fed it to the boy. Isabelle returned with a plate of cut up steak and vegetables and set it near Marcos.
“You are a
natural with children,” Francesca managed as she cut into her own steak, her heart throbbing so painfully it was a wonder she could still speak. The little boy in Marcos’s lap was adorable, with silky black curls, a bow mouth, and the smoothest olive skin she’d ever seen. When he looked up at her, long eyelashes framed dark eyes that watched her so solemnly.
What would her baby have looked like? Her little girl. She dropped the fork and pressed a hand to her mouth. She’d only just found out her baby was a girl a couple of weeks before the robbery.
Marcos was watching her, his brows drawing low. “What is wrong, Francesca? Something does not agree with you?”
She shook her head, swallowed. Forced her shaking hand to pick up the fork and knife again. “It’s nothing.”
“I seem to recall you taking me to task for saying this very thing. Are you quite sure?”
She forced a smile. “I’m quite sure it’s nothing I wish to talk about.” She nodded at the little boy. “Armando is hungry.”
“Do you wish to feed him?”
Francesca shook her head. Her food was a lump of sawdust in her stomach. “Let’s not disrupt him when he’s so happy with you.”
Marcos fed the child another bite of steak. “Do children frighten you?”
“A bit,” she said. “I don’t know a thing about babies.”
“I think you would be a good mother, Francesca.”
Her pulse throbbed. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you have a kind heart. When you love someone, you love with your whole being. If you would go to such lengths for an old man you care about, what would you not do for your own child?”
Francesca put her napkin on the table. It was as if Marcos could see into her soul—and she didn’t like the feeling one bit. She felt raw, exposed, as if he knew more about her than anyone ever had. Coming here had been a mistake. Except she hadn’t had a choice, had she? To save Jacques, she’d made a deal with the devil. She just hadn’t expected the payment to be so brutal.
“I’m afraid I didn’t sleep so well last night,” she said, standing. “I feel a headache coming on, so I think I’ll go lie down.”
Marcos looked concerned. “But you have not eaten. Surely that will help.”
“I’m not very hungry after all.”
Francesca didn’t wait for a reply as she turned away. She simply couldn’t look at the man and child any longer, at how natural they looked together. Marcos was meant to be a father, but she was not the woman who could give that to him.
And that knowledge hurt far more now than it would have only a few days ago.
Francesca couldn’t sleep. She’d spent the evening in her room, watching the small television, flipping through magazines, and trying to read a book. She’d been starving after a few hours, but just when she was ready to leave her room in search of food, a girl arrived with a tray. Sent by Señor Navarre, she’d said. Francesca had thanked her and taken the tray to her bed, where she finished everything on the plate and tried not to think about the fact that Marcos had been considerate enough to send her food.
Now, Francesca climbed from bed and pushed back the curtains. The waxing moon was in the gibbous phase, not quite full yet, slanting down over the vineyard and illuminating the rows. She dragged on a pair of jeans, a light sweater, and her tennis shoes. It was late, but a walk in the brisk air would do her a world of good right now.
The night was quiet as she emerged from the darkened house. A light burned in one window. Someone else couldn’t sleep, or maybe they were afraid of the dark. She wondered about Armando, about his mother Ana Luis. Perhaps the little boy couldn’t sleep, and Ana was trying to soothe him. He was truly an adorable child. He had the dark curls that she imagined a child of Marcos’s might have. A pang of regret shafted through her at the thought.
