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“You feel it’s wise to leave the country so soon after your father’s death?”
“It’s what he wanted.”Well, it’s what he would have wanted, if he’d been close to his aunt.
“Who’s traveling with you?”
“I’m traveling alone,” I say confidently, having practiced this response in my head many times. Someone, even if it was only David the vineyard manager, was sure to ask.
“Alone?” He sits taller in the chair, white-knuckling the narrow, upholstered arms. “Have you ever traveled anywhere alone? Have you even been to the market without a shadow?”
No, I haven’t.Still, he’s insufferable.
“I would ordinarily travel with Isabel. But she’s moving to be closer to her husband’s family. They have a young daughter and feel it would be best to raise her farther outside the city.”
“I don’t give a damn about Isabel,” he snaps. “She doesn’t look like she could protect herself, let alone you. I’m talking about trained men. Guards.”
I’m not sure how to respond.
You should have kept your mouth shut and let him find out when everyone else did—after you were safely out of the country.
I don’t know what made me think I could manipulate him like I’m a covert spy for the Portuguese Security Intelligence Service.This was a huge mistake.
“I’m taking a direct flight, and my aunt’s friend is meeting me at the airport,” I tell him carefully. “I wasn’t planning on taking any guards. No one will know me there, so I thought it would be safe. But you make a good point. I’ll reconsider my plans.”
Hopefully that’s enough to placate him.
“I’m surprised you’re not concerned with what people will say about a woman traveling alone, considering you were too afraid to close the damn door in your own house.”
He’s testing.Stay strong.
I look directly into his eyes. “I understand that the Canadians aren’t as concerned with unchaperoned women as we are in Porto.”
His nostrils flare, and he snarls like an angry dog as he stands. “You seem to be coping fine.”
I stand too, still wondering why he came, but thrilled to bealmostrid of him.
As we cross the room, he stops and lifts the photo of my mother and me off my father’s desk.
While he gazes at it, I bristle. It takes great effort not to yank it out of his hand so he doesn’t dirty my mother with any more Huntsman DNA.
“How old were you when this was taken?”
His voice is whisper quiet, almost reverent, and I relax a bit.
“Five.”
“Were you a dancer?”
I shake my head, lulled by something in his voice. “No. The white leotard and purple tutu was my favorite outfit. It had tiny beads that sparkled. I wore it as often as my mother allowed.”
Why did I share that special memory with him? Why?
He squeezes my wrist in a gesture that feels intimate and overwhelming—strangely comforting and completely out of character. It’s quick, and there’s no time to wrest my arm away before it’s over.
Antonio places the photograph back in its spot behind the little heart and turns toward the door without sparing me another glance.
The silence is thick and chewy, and there’s a noticeable shift in his demeanor before we reach the door. It’s like the sudden wind change that occurs before a storm, sending animals scurrying for shelter. Not an innocent cloudburst, but a brutal storm with vicious winds and grapefruit-size hail that destroys everything in its wake.
It’s coming. I feel it. But it’s too late to hide.
