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What he did was amazing, and yet he beat himself up so badly over the ones he lost. She didn’t understand it. “And what would happen to them if you did not do this, Marcos?”
He looked solemn. “Drugs, prostitution, gangs, death. Even war,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
One word stood out. “War?”
“Sí. There is much unrest in parts of Latin America. Guerilla warfare against what one perceives to be society’s oppressors can be an attractive option for some.”
Her heart began to pound. “I had no idea.” She thought of the scar on his abdomen, of the way he dreamed so violently. Could he have gotten scarred like that on the streets? Or was it a product of warfare? Suddenly, she had to know the truth. “Is that what happened to you?”
His eyes seemed so hard, so cold, as if his emotions had frozen solid. “Do you really wish to know? Do you think you can save me if only you know what drives me? That the love of a good woman will keep me from reliving the nightmare?”
He was so defensive that she knew she must be right. And it saddened her. Made her ache for the boy he’d been, the young man who’d suffered so much. He hid it away inside, and it was killing him.
But he couldn’t see it.
“Yes, Marcos, I do want to know. But I imagine no one can save you except yourself.”
The food arrived before he could reply. Marcos let Ingrid’s daughter take the baby and put him in the play pen. His little eyes had begun to droop, and soon he was curled up asleep with his thumb in his mouth.
The moment was gone, so she didn’t expect Marcus would answer her now. He surprised her when he did. He looked pensive, a bit lost, as if it wasn’t quite his choice to speak but as though he couldn’t stop himself.
“I am not accustomed to talking about this with anyone,” Marcos said once Ingrid and Isabelle had gone. “But yes, I was a guerilla fighter, Francesca. I saw battle, I saw despair and evil and the worst a man can do to another man.”
“I’m sure you did what you had to do,” she said softly, trying not to let the tears mounding behind her eyes fall. He would not appreciate any show of pity.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, his food untouched. “I have always done what I thought I had to do to survive. I can’t apologize for any of it, but I wish it had been different.”
“I think I understand why you hated your uncle so much now. And why the Corazón del Diablo is so important to you.” She leaned forward suddenly, grabbed his wrist where it lay on the table. His reaction was immediate. He jerked his arm away so quickly she found herself grasping air and wondering what she’d done wrong.
“Don’t ever do that,” he ground out.
She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. She thought back to how he’d reacted so violently in Buenos Aires when she’d gone to wake him and grabbed his wrist before he could accidentally hit her in his sleep. What was it about his wrists? She wanted to ask him, but she did not. She’d already intruded enough on his memories.
“I was just going to say that I think you are too hard on yourself, that you push yourself too much and don’t take the time to realize all the good you’ve done. You take the failures much harder than you celebrate the successes.”
Marcos shoved a hand through his hair, swearing softly. She opened his wounds wide and didn’t even know it. And she cut so close to the truth that it threatened to crumble all his defensive walls. He was accustomed to success, maybe so much so that he took it for granted.
“You are right,” he said carefully. “I do take the failures personally. Especially the kids. But when I fail them, I lose more than money or prestige. I lose entire lives.”
“But you also save lives.”
He picked up his cup of café con leche and took a drink. Dios, he needed the caffeine. So much was changing, and so rapidly. He’d brought Francesca to Argentina to punish her for taking the Corazón del Diablo, and to cement his possession of it. He’d not brought her here to let her worm her way beneath his defenses. She saw through him, saw to the heart of him in a way no one else seemed to do.
Why was that? Because she paid attention? Because she was more perceptive than others? Or because she’d known him in the past and had years to consider his personality?
H
e did not know, but he didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way his perception of her was forced to undergo a shift from old beliefs to newer ones.
Yet he knew that if his choices were to put her on a plane this afternoon, or to have her in his bed later tonight, having her in his bed would win the battle. One night with her, and he was addicted to the rush he felt when he made love to her.
The feeling was temporary, he knew that from experience, but it was damned inconvenient as well. Still, he intended to make the most of it while this arrangement lasted.
Even if she did get under his skin with her too-sharp perception and pointed questions.
“Yes, the Foundation saves lives. I am happy with this, but I will be happier when we are no longer needed. I’m not sure we will ever see that day.”
“No, perhaps not,” she said. “But you will never cease working to make it so. Of that I’m certain.”
