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A woman was waiting just inside. She was in her late fifties, elegant and sombrely dressed. She had Marco’s dark eyes.
Strangely, there was a look of intense joy in them, and restrained excitement in how she reached out for Marco and clasped his jaw in her hand.
“Darling, they said you were done at the police station with your fiancée. Is it true?”
She was glowing. Beaming now. Eyes bright with a happy tear or two.
Marco rolled his eyes. He gently pushed her hand away from his face. “I should have known. Jacob?”
She nodded. “He got a call immediately when it happened from his people at the station.”
She looked past me, as if I wasn’t there, in the direction of the now closed front door. She turned back to him, her eyes quizzical.
“Where is she?”
He hesitated for a moment, as if pondering what to say to her. Then he put his hand on the small of my back, pushed me gently towards his mother.
Her eyes scanned my skimpy and now rumpled dress, my bare legs and the far too high heels the club insisted we wear. She looked a little annoyed, and quizzical. And then blanched when she saw the brightly sparkling diamond ring on my finger.
She turned to him sharply. “You can’t be serious! What about Maya?”
It felt like a fist clenched in my stomach. Jealousy.
He shrugged. “What about Maya?” he repeated mildly.
He took my hand and led me down the corridor, my heels clicking loudly on what looked like real marble tiles. We passed a beautiful flower arrangement in a crystal vase on an antique side table. A huge gilded mirror on the wall. Oil painted landscapes. Such a stunning home, the kind dad had always dreamed of making for me and Mom.
It was nothing like I had expected for a man like Marco. Did he really live here?
His mother followed us. “Don’t walk away from me. Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Not now, mamma,” he said firmly. “My fiancée and I need to talk. Ah, I didn’t introduce you, did I? Forgive me. This is Beth…?” He cast me a questioning look.
“Bethany Woodstock,” I murmured.
“You’re engaged to a girl whose surname you don’t even know?” she said sharply.
He chuckled. “I’m sure she told me. I just forgot.”
My cheeks burned furiously. He was already leading me up an elaborate curved staircase. She stayed at the bottom, seeming aware that he wasn’t in the mood to talk.
“Marcelo, I would like an explanation please. Come down when you are ready.” She walked away, elegant shoes clicking quietly.
“Where are we going?” I whispered.
“I’m taking you to your room,” he said.
I glared at him. “I’m not staying here. My mother is ill. She will be expecting me home. And she’s had a bad day already. She needs me.”
He shrugged, as if this didn’t matter. “I’ll get it taken care of.”
I snatched my hand away from his, sick of this farce of being his fiancée. “What the hell was that about with your mother? Why did you lie to her?”
He hustled me into a bedroom and shut the door firmly behind himself. The ambience was dark, masculine. I knew immediately it was his room.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep to the story?” he demanded.
“Even with your family?” I was incredulous.
