Return to Mariposa

Chapter 12

Granda was already sitting up in his massive bed when I went to see him the next morning, a mountain of pillows behind him.

“I wondered when you were going to find the time to come visit me,” he grumbled. “Isn’t that ostensibly why you’re here in Spain?”

Ignoring his complaint, I kissed his papery cheek. “I thought I’d have my second cup of coffee with you,” I said, glancing over at the carafe on a side table.

“Decaffeinated swill,” he grumbled.

“I agree, but it’s better than nothing.” I poured myself a cup and moved to sit by his bed. He eyed me suspiciously.

“What do you want from me, Bella?” he said, and those faded blue eyes were a lot sharper than anyone of his age should have. “Why did you come back to Mariposa?”

“You were sick,” I said.

“I’m dying. That’s never brought you home before.”

“How long have you been dying? Five years? Ten years?”

“Saucy minx. The moment we’re born, we start dying, but I’ll have you know you’re not going to have long to wait for your inheritance. My whole damned body is giving in. I’m ninety-four, damn it. I should live to one hundred, but that’s not going to happen. At least I’ll live long enough to see you married to my grandson.”

“Marcus has already been here,” I said, more a statement than a question.

“He has. What made you come to your senses? Afraid I wasn’t going to leave you any money if you didn’t?”

That was Granda. “I don’t want your money,” I said, one truth in all the lies I’ve been telling.

He let out a hoot of laughter that devolved into a coughing fit that wracked his frail body, and I jumped up in alarm, looking for a way to call the nurse who looked after him, but he waved his hand at me while he slowly regained his composure.

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “For a dying man, that is. Can’t think of a better way to go, dying of laughter. We both know you don’t have a pot to piss in, and you have a great fondness for your jet-set lifestyle.”

“I have a greater fondness for you, Granda,” I said firmly, the truth for once, and I was certain Bella would feel the same way.

“Bullshit,” he said. “If you’ll pardon my French. But I’m forgetting—you’ve seen the error of your ways and you’re marrying Marcus, as you should. You know—I would have thought you’d choose Ian.”

It was my turn for a strangled laugh. “Ian the Wretch? Why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him. Even worse, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. How does he feel about your marriage plans?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Happy, I suppose,” I stammered. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. What was Granda telling me? I didn’t need him to be feeding my crackpot fantasies.

“Far be it for me to interfere,” said the interfering old man. “Just so long as you marry one of them, then your inheritance is safe.”

“I’m not marrying... I didn’t get engaged to Marcus because you’re blackmailing me into it,” I said.

“Hmmph. Women love Marcus. You always did have a stupid crush on him when you were a girl. I thought you might have grown out of that, but I’m glad you haven’t.”

If anyone had had a crush, it was Marcus, following Bella around like a dazed puppy, but I didn’t bother to correct the cantankerous old man. “Are we just going to sit here fighting?” I asked, channeling some of Bella’s sass. Quiet little Kitty would never be so brash. “Because I can get a better cup of coffee elsewhere.”

“I’ll behave,” he said unexpectedly. “Just tell me about your travels. You must have broken it off with that gangster you were seeing.”

That was a shock, and doubtless more of Granda’s hyperbole. “He wasn’t a gangster,” I said instinctively, wondering what the hell Bella had gotten me into this time.

“He runs half the drugs out of Marseilles and you know it. But you were always blinded by a pretty face. It that over with?”

“Of course.” Bella had said nothing about her current involvements, but she’d always had a powerful sense of self-preservation. I couldn’t imagine her risking everything for a handsome man. “I’d hardly get engaged to Marcus if I were involved with someone else, would I?”

“You tell me,” Granda said. “So, when’s the wedding?”

“There’s no hurry,” I said calmly.

“There’s every hurry!” he snapped. “I’m dying. I want to make sure everything’s settled before I shuffle off this mortal coil. That’s Hamlet, you know.”

“To be or not to be, yes, I know,” I replied, letting some of my own irritation loose. “I’m perfectly familiar with the classics.”

“Since when? You went to that girl’s school for idiots in Switzerland, and then wasted your time and my money in attempting the Cordon Bleu, dropping it when you grew bored.”

“They wanted me to butcher a cow,” I said, which seemed reasonable enough for a legendary cooking school. “I declined.”

“I don’t think you’ve read a book since you were a teenager, not even a trashy romance.”

Considering that among my twelve boxes of books was a goodly selection of romances, I said nothing. “Everyone knows Hamlet,” I said finally, but Granda didn’t look convinced.

“When’s the wedding?” he demanded again.

“Marcus and I haven’t talked about it yet. Next year, some time.”

Granda shook his head. “Your fiancé was here before you. He’s agreed to next week.”

“No,” I said immediately, panicked. “I want a big wedding, with a white dress, and lots of guests and champagne.”

“And the glitterati of the world. Yes, I’m sure you do, though I would think the white dress would be a bit of a stretch. That’s easy enough—you’ll have a legal ceremony next week, followed by a religious ceremony the following year. Plenty of people do that—I have no objections.”

I looked at the old man calmly arranging my life. “I do.”

“Get over them!” he snapped.

“Are you terrorizing Bella again, Granda?” came Ian’s drawling voice from the doorway.

“Nothing can terrorize Bella,” Granda grumbled. “Tell her she has to marry Marcus next week.”

Ian strolled into the room, looking snarky and bad-tempered, his rough work clothes a far cry from Marcus’s pale linen. It was only natural that I liked a man who actually did something, not Eurotrash...

“I won’t tell her any such thing. She’ll marry my brother when she’s ready to—you’ve bullied her enough already.”

Granda looked affronted. “Me, a bully? If anyone’s a bully it’s Bella, taunting me with my fondest dreams and then holding out.”

“Too bad, old man. I’m on Bella’s side on this one. I don’t think she and Marcus are the perfect match you do. Give them some time to make sure they’ll do well together.”

“I don’t care if they do well together!” Granda’s voice was rising in both pitch and volume. “I want my inheritance secured. I didn’t work all my life just to lose everything.”

“You’ll be dead,” Ian said heartlessly. “You’ll have lost everything already. You can’t take it with you, remember?”

“My legacy...”

“I’ll be here. The olive groves will continue.”

“Then why don’t you marry Bella? I swear I think you’re the better match.”

“She turned me down,” he said lightly, glancing over at me. “Didn’t you, my pet?”

I controlled my instinctive glower. “If you don’t leave me alone, I won’t marry anyone.”

“Not even your gangster boyfriend?”

“What gangster boyfriend?” Ian demanded, amused. “How did I miss this?”

“Because you don’t pay any attention to gossip,” Granda snapped. “She’s been cozying up to Stephano Sierra for the last year.”

All amusement dropped from Ian’s face. “Sierra is no joke.”

“I wasn’t kidding. When have you known your little cousin to be sensible? Do you see why I want her tied up with one of you? Better than floating face down in some garbage-ridden canal.”

“Good God!” I protested. “I’ll have you know I’m smarter in my choices than you think. And that’s an awfully precise way to go. Which canal?”

“The same one his last girlfriend was found in,” Granda said triumphantly. “Did you break it off or did he?”

“It was mutual,” I said, hoping I was right. “He has nothing to do with anything.”

“Then marry Marcus next week.”

“No!” We were glaring at each other, until I finally noticed that Granda was struggling for breath despite his flashing eyes.

“Calm down, the two of you,” Ian said in a bored tone. “I’m taking Bella away from you, Granda, so you can both work on your tempers. I must say, Bella, I don’t remember you being so argumentative.”

I hadn’t been. Neither had Bella, so I was relatively safe at this point. She’d always managed to manipulate to get her own way I managed an edgy smile. “Sorry, Granda.”

“We can talk about this later,” he said, waving a fragile hand in dismissal, and I bit back my demurral. Not even for Granda would I go through a fake wedding. If I’d had any sense, I would have said yes to Ian, just to watch him squirm.

A moment later, I was ushered out of the sickroom, Ian’s hand on my arm. “It’s not good to rile the old man up like that,” he said evenly.

“It’s not good to expect me to get married to suit his whims,” I replied.

“You already agreed to it. Why the delay?”

I looked up at him, knowing he had no idea that it was Kitty looking at him through the green-tinted contact lenses. Wondering what he would feel if he knew. Disgust, most likely.

The words came out of my mouth...not Bella’s...as I looked deep into his eyes. “Do you want me to marry him?”

The hallway was quiet, the silence almost another person with us, and I saw him hesitate, saw the sudden intensity in his dark eyes. He had loved Bella, long, long ago. Maybe he still had some of that jealousy left behind.

And then the moment passed. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. You and my brother are made for each other—you’ll make gorgeous children. And I learned long ago not to covet my brother’s belongings.”

“I don’t belong to him.” I said quietly, firmly.

“Sure you do, Bella. You belong wherever the grass is greenest, and trust me, so does Marcus. Neither of you will have to face any kind of adversity, everything will go your way. I hope you’re very happy together.”

It was a perfect exit line and he made full use of it, walking away so quickly I couldn’t even come up with a response until he was out of sight.

I spent the rest of the day avoiding Marcus, who seemed determined to get me alone in a corner. Keeping away from him was easy enough—I simply walked in the olive groves, breathing in the deep rich smell of the earth, the sweetness of the trees, the fresh breeze carrying the scent of salt up from the deep blue ocean far below.

In the cities, Spain had moved away from the mandatory siesta, but at Mariposa and the small town of Santa Maria de Fe, the old ways ruled, and I stretched my afternoon nap to a solid four hours, determined to resist if anyone came to roust me out of my comfortable perch. I had a blisteringly sexual historical romance to read, a stack of fashion magazines that Bella insisted I carry and which interested me not one whit. It would have been a perfect time to get some work done, but of course I hadn’t dared bring any of Katharine Whitehead’s academic work. Settling into my comfortable bed, I dove into the story of Kit and Bryony, only to find their searing kisses were making me uncommonly edgy. Once they got into bed, I had to throw the book across the room. Instead of golden-haired Kit I kept picturing Ian, imaging his hands, his mouth...

No, fashion magazines were a safer choice. The clothes were exquisitely beautiful, the sort of thing Bella would wear, the sort of thing I was wearing. I wanted my worn jeans and T-shirts.

At last I slept, and I awoke with a start, the room pitch-black with only the very faintest glow lighting the inky darkness. Moving to the window, I could see the acres and acres of olive groves covering the hills around Mariposa, and far away, I could see past the white buildings of the small town to the dark blue of the night-time sea. Fumbling for my iPhone, I groaned when I saw the time. It was almost nine o’clock, and dinner would be ready unless Mary Alice had once again ordained that it would be early.

Shoving myself from the bed, I stripped off the rumpled linen sundress and went looking for something more appropriate. I took the fastest shower on record, throwing on one of the simple silk dresses that had cost a fortune. I twisted my hair into a knot at the base of my neck and scrambled downstairs.

There was only one place set in the huge dining room, and I viewed it with relief and annoyance. At least I wouldn’t be fighting off Marcus’s advances this evening, and I wouldn’t have to think about anyone else. The moment I entered the vast room, Maldonado appeared, ushering me in and holding my chair for me, pouring me a glass of Spanish wine with silent deference before disappearing back into the kitchens. I looked around, down the long expanse of empty table, and a weight settled over me.

I scooped up my plate and headed upstairs, arriving at Granda’s room a little breathless and a little annoyed. Neither of those were improved when I pushed open the door and saw Ian seated by Granda’s side.

“Bella!” Granda greeted me cheerfully enough. “Come to join us for dinner?”

I glanced at the empty dishes on the tray. “Apparently, I’m too late.” I took the seat on the opposite side of the bed, carefully not meeting Ian’s dark, cynical eyes. “Where’s Marcus?”

Granda looked torn between approval and annoyance. “Where, indeed? He’s gone off someplace, I don’t know where, and a hell of a time for him to go, right before the wedding.”

Before I could protest, Ian slid in smoothly. “I sent him, Granda. The Finacci account is in jeopardy, and you know how good Marcus is at soothing ruffled feathers.”

“The Finaccis? They’re one of our oldest customers—why would they have ruffled feathers?” He paused for a moment, and annoyance crossed his face. “Stupid question—of course it was you.”

“Finacci wanted a ridiculous price. I simply told him no. I was very polite, but I managed to rile him anyway.”

“I’ve seen your attempts at being polite.” Granda gave a ghost of a laugh. “What price did he want?”

Ian mentioned a number, though I had no idea whether it was bad or good. Granda frowned. “Serves him right then. What’s Marcus going to do?”

“What Marcus does best—flirt and flatter until Finacci is begging to pay us more. My brother is a consummate charmer—how else would he have won his beautiful bride?”

I was so tempted to drop my plate onto his lap, but I simply nodded. “So true,” I murmured.

“Which part—that’s he a charmer or that you’re beautiful?” Ian said.

“Both. I don’t take credit for my looks—it’s a fluke of nature, and I just count my blessings,” I said airily. In fact, it was Bella’s hard work that turned me into a stunner—beneath the designer clothes lurked Cinderella, plain old Podge, minus a few pounds, minus the glasses.

“You know what you should do,” Granda said suddenly. “You should take Bella out on the town. It would teach Marcus a lesson not to leave his fiancée alone.”

“Hardly. I sent him away—if I turned around and poached his fiancée, he would be rightfully pissed.”

“It’s because you sent him away that you should take her. You know Bella has an insatiable craving for nightlife. Take her dancing down at the taberna. We can’t have our Bella growing bored.”

Ian gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right,” he said. “Unless ‘our’ Bella has changed her ways and would now prefer a quiet night at home.”

That screwed me, and I wondered if he knew. If I claimed I’d rather stay home at night, I’d be adding more fuel to the fire of his suspicions. But if I went out with him...

He was watching me, too closely, and I tossed back my head in a patented Bella gesture. “You’re not my idea of a perfect date.”

“Neither are you. Take your choice—come down to Max’s Taberna for a bit of nightlife or curl up with a fashion magazine.”

He knew Bella far too well, even down to her choice of reading material. It was a challenge, one I’d be stupid to accept. But then, I hadn’t been making overly bright choices for quite a while.

“Max’s Taberna sounds wonderful,” I said, flashing Ian a defiant smile. “How soon do you want to leave?”

“How soon can you be ready?” He countered my bluff, but I simply preened.

“Half an hour.” I rose and gave Granda a kiss on his paper-soft cheek. “See you in the morning.”

“Indeed.” But the old man looked pleased. I wasn’t quite sure why—as far as he was concerned, I was successfully tied to his older grandson. There was no need to throw me at the younger one who’d always despised the woman I was pretending to be.

“I’ll have the car waiting,” Ian said.

Bella’s wardrobe didn’t include anything for dancing at the taberna, and the best I could find was a form-fitting dress that clung a little too closely to my curves. It was cut too low in the front, but I yanked it up, hoping my breasts would hold it there, grabbed a sweater and some gold hoop earrings, and made it downstairs in twenty minutes.

Of course, Ian was already waiting. He barely glanced at me, and I told myself his lack of reaction was a relief. After all, I knew what I looked like in the mirror, and it was good enough for me.

He, of course, was looking gorgeous in black pants and a shirt rolled up at the elbows, and I remember Max’s Taberna was more working class than high society. I was overdressed, but it was too late to do anything about it.

He flew down the mountain at his usual breakneck speed, and I slid back in my seat, occasionally tugging at my neckline to make sure I was properly demure. He said nothing, which was just fine with me—I had nothing to say to him.

It was a busy night at Max’s—cars were parked haphazardly all around the low white building, and music and light poured forth with all the energy and gaiety of the Spanish people I loved so well. I could feel my pulse quicken as I climbed from the car, and I gave my neckline one last tug.

“Enough,” Ian said in sudden disgust, and a moment later I found myself pushed against the car. “That fucking dress is not a turtleneck no matter how much you pull at it. You’ve got glorious boobs, but I think I can restrain myself.” He yanked the dress into place, showing a great deal of cleavage, and it took everything I had to keep from quickly covering myself like a nervous virgin. Fuck him. I straightened my back and looked him in the eye.

“You can keep your hands off my glorious boobs, thank you very much.”

He gave a long-suffering smile. “Your boobs don’t interest me,” he said flatly.

“Liar. You wouldn’t have called them glorious.”

“Well, I figured since you put out so much money on enhancing them that I ought to be properly appreciative. They’d look great on anyone.”

I contented myself with a snort of disgust, turning my back on him as I headed toward the crowded entrance.

I’d lost track of the days, and I suddenly realized it was Saturday night, time for everyone to kick up their heels. The bar was jammed with people, the dance floor crowded with gyrating couples, but somehow Ian managed to secure us a table, a beer for him and a bottle of soda for me before turning and talking to seemingly everyone there, everyone except me. It didn’t improve my mood to see that he was universally liked and respected. In return, I danced with anyone who asked me, moving on the dance floor with sinuous grace, knowing he was watching me. I never caught his eye, but every time I glanced in his direction, he was looking at me as I moved.

I was feeling beautiful, sexual, powerful, and I was besieged with so many partners I barely paid attention to them. This was what it was like to be Bella—to be the center of attention, to be glorious, to be wanted, wanted by every man in the place except the one man I wanted. I whirled from partner to partner, finally sitting one out at the table.

I reached for his bottle of beer but he moved it out of my way. “No alcohol, remember,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I said airily. “I haven’t had a headache all day.”

“I don’t want to end up carrying you out of here,” he growled.

“That’s all right. If you don’t want to, I’ll find someone who does.” Nailed it, I thought. That was exactly what Bella would say.

Flashing him a brilliant, triumphant smile, I left the table, only to find myself in the arms of a stranger, and I danced into the crowd.

I glanced up at the man. He was very handsome, and I should flaunt him, but there was something about him that made me uneasy. I tried to loosen his hold but got nowhere, and I cast a worried glance toward Ian, who was deep in conversation with a pretty girl. Of course he was.

“You are so beautiful,” the man said in my ear. I ignored it, as I’d ignored all the other blandishments. He’d pulled me tight against his body, and he smelled like fish and garlic. “I don’t know which I want to fuck more, your pussy or your ass.”

I jerked, trying to pull away at his crude words, but his grip was iron-hard, as his voice went on in my ear, telling me the things he was going to do to me. I tried to stop dancing, but he moved me, dragging me over the crowded floor, and no one noticed my struggles, my distress. And then came the coup de grace.

“We’ve done it all before, Bella, and you’ve gone down on my prick like a hoover. I’m going to make you do it all again, with me, with my men, before I kill you.”