One Night: Latin Heat. Эбби Грин

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      Looking at it, a lump rose in my throat. “Look what she wrote.”

      Alejandro looked at the card, and smiled. “Yes.”

      “She’s already accepted me in the family. Just like that?”

      “Just like that.” He made me a plate with a little of everything, and poured me a glass of sparkling water, then red wine.

      “Wine for lunch?” I said doubtfully.

      “It’s from my vineyard by the coast. You should try it.”

      “All right,” I sighed. I took a sip, then said in amazement, “It’s delicious.”

      “You sound surprised.”

      “Is there anything you’re not good at?” I said a little sulkily. He smiled.

      Then the smile fled from his handsome face. His dark eyes turned hollow, even bleak.

      “Keeping promises,” he said.

      The blow was so sudden and unexpected that it felt like an anvil hitting the softest part of my belly. The moment I’d let my defenses down, he’d spoken with such unprovoked cruelty it took my breath away. Reminding me.

      Did you lie to me in the past? Or will you lie to me in the future?

      Take your pick.

      “Oh,” I breathed, dropping my fork with a clang against the twenty-four-karat-gold-rimmed china plate.

      He’d done me a favor reminding me, I told myself savagely. I couldn’t start believing the pretense. I couldn’t start thinking we were actually a family. That we were actually in love. I couldn’t surrender!

      And yet...

      “Are you enjoying yourself, dear?” I looked up to see Maurine smiling down at me from the other side of the table, with chubby Miguel still smiling in her arms. “I hope you see something you like!”

      “I do,” I replied automatically, then realized to my horror that the exact moment I’d spoken the words I’d been looking at Alejandro. Quickly, I looked down at my plate. “What’s this?” I asked, looking at one of the dishes, some kind of meat with leeks and carrots.

      “Pato a la Sevillana, a specialty of the area. Slow-cooked duck roasted in sherry and vegetables.”

      I took a bite. It was delicious. “And this?”

      “Rabo de toro. Another classic dish of Andalucía. Vegetables, slowly braised with sherry and bay leaf.”

      Bull’s tail? I tasted it. Not bad. I tried the fresh papayas and mangoes, the albóndigas, the fried-potato-and-ham croquetas. I smiled. “Delicioso!”

      “Muy bien,” Maurine sighed happily, then turned on her grandson, tossing her chic, white hair. “Though you don’t deserve lunch. I should let you get fast food at a drive-through in Seville!” She hitched her great-grandbaby higher on her hip against her pinafore apron. “I cannot believe you got married without inviting me to the wedding! My only family! After I waited thirty-five years to see you get married! After the way you used to make me bite my nails over those wretched skinny, self-centered women you used to cavort with!”

      “At least I didn’t marry one of them, eh, Abuela? Do I not get credit for that?”

      “Yes,” she sighed. “On that, you did well.”

      The two of them smiled at each other, and I had the sudden image of what it must have been like for him to be raised by Maurine in this enormous castle. Alejandro had lost his parents even younger than I’d lost mine. My father had died of a stroke, my mother six months later of illness. But Alejandro had lost both parents in a car crash when he was only twelve. He’d also lost his best friend, Miguel, whom he’d thought of as a brother, and even their housekeeper.

      My smile suddenly faltered. All this time, I’d moaned and whimpered so much about my own difficult childhood. But Alejandro had barely hinted aloud about his. A very masculine reticence, but enough to make me writhe with shame. No wonder Alejandro had been so determined that our Miguel, his only child, should come back to Spain, his home, and meet his grandmother, his only family, who’d raised him and loved him.

      Even though she didn’t seem to be one hundred percent loving him right now.

      “But still.” His grandmother’s chin was wobbling. “All I asked was that you let me attend the wedding. It was my one and only chance to see you get married and I...”

      “It was the worst wedding ever,” I heard myself blurt out.

      Both of them turned to face me. She looked amazed. He looked faintly strangled, as if he were afraid of what I might say next.

      “It was just the two of us—” I shook my head “—along with the priest and some stranger as witness. There was no cake. No flowers. You didn’t miss anything, Maurine!”

      “Call me Abuela, dear,” she said faintly. Her gaze softened as she looked at me. Whatever anger she was now lavishing on Alejandro clearly did not extend to me. She blinked with a frown, tilting her head. “You didn’t have any flowers? Not one?”

      “It’s not entirely his fault,” I said apologetically. “We felt we should get married immediately, without too much fuss, because of...” I glanced at our baby in her arms.

      “Ah.” A look of understanding filled her eyes. “Yes, of course.”

      “The legal part is done, but Alejandro was just saying on the drive that he wished we could have a reception, a party of some kind, to introduce me to his neighbors and friends. I mean, he did tell a few people in Madrid that we were engaged—” I looked at Alejandro beneath my lashes “—but that’s not the same as celebrating with neighbors and family.”