CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SIX
M IA WOKE SLOWLY to sunlight, her whole body aching as if she’d taken a physical battering. She felt as if she had, emotionally at least. Yesterday had been...intense. She closed her eyes as the memories washed over her of their blazing argument; the sobs she’d tried to keep in; the guilt she still felt that she hadn’t been able to bear explaining to Santos. All of it together felt like too much to process, and she had no idea at all where they stood with each other. Yet somehow they were going to Greece.
When Santos had suggested heading to his villa—something else she hadn’t known about—Mia had agreed in a moment of weakness or maybe strength; she wasn’t actually sure which. She was tired of fighting, of running, and she had no money, no energy or no hope. Maybe a few days in a private villa, away from all the stresses and strains, would be a good thing. She hadn’t let herself hope it could actually repair their marriage, although Santos seemed to think it would.
‘This will be good for us,’ he’d told her, his hands still resting on her shoulders. ‘This could be exactly what we need.’
As if a holiday would sort everything out. Well, at least it would be a rest, Mia thought wearily. But she wasn’t ready for round two of picking apart the past. Talking about her miscarriage as much as they had had been hard enough, and there was still so much that hadn’t been said. She feared Santos would never truly understand how she could both have not wanted the baby and been saddened by the loss. Mia falling pregnant just two weeks after their wedding had not been in either of their plans. But birth control had failed, as it did sometimes and, improbably, Santos had been delighted—Mia very much less so.
‘But Mia...’ He’d looked confused, even hurt, when she’d seemed decidedly less than thrilled with the results of the test, staring at the two blazing pink lines. ‘It’s a baby. A ni?o ! Or ni?a . Either way...’ The smile he’d given her had been endearingly crooked, his eyes warm with excitement and love—or what she’d thought was love. How could it have been love, considering what had happened later and how quick he’d been to blame her? ‘Our child.’ He’d taken her hands in his. ‘I know it’s soon, very soon, but I am pleased. And excited. I’ve always wanted a family.’
And then he’d registered the look of misery on her face, perhaps had felt how icy her hands were in his, and he’d frowned. ‘What’s...what’s wrong?’
‘Santos, I...’ Even then she hadn’t wanted to admit it, but why hadn’t he been able to understand? They’d known each other for a month . ‘I’m not... I’m not ready to have a baby.’
He’d grinned at a problem easily solved. ‘It’s a good thing then that it takes nine months for one to grow! You’ll be ready by then.’
‘No, I won’t be.’ Her voice had been flat, and his grin had vanished, replaced by something far worse than a frown. That had been the first time of many she’d seen his narrow-eyed look, the way his mouth both pursed up and turned down.
‘So...what are you saying?’ His voice had been dangerously soft.
‘I... I don’t know,’ she’d admitted helplessly. ‘I’m just... I’m not ready.’ Although in truth she hadn’t known if she’d ever be ready. What could she possibly know about being a good mother, considering her own upbringing? Yet she hadn’t wanted to explain that to Santos. He wouldn’t have understood; he’d have dismissed her concerns and insisted it would all be fine. She’d known that already. ‘This wasn’t in our plan...’ she’d tried again. Not that they’d had much of a plan, getting married so precipitously. They’d both just been carried along on a tide of feeling, of desire and joy. But she’d been only twenty-six years old, and they’d been married for a matter of weeks . It surely hadn’t been what either of them wanted.
He’d stared at her for a long moment while she’d looked back miserably, the pregnancy test still held in her hand. She’d only taken it because her period was usually like clockwork but she hadn’t actually thought ...
‘I hope,’ he’d told her in that same ominous voice, ‘That you are not suggesting what it sounds like you are suggesting. Because this is my baby as much as it is yours, Mia. No matter what you think about such things, I do not believe you have the right to take away my child, my flesh and blood.’ His voice had thrummed with anger, his body with tension.
‘If you’re talking about me having an abortion,’ Mia had replied, her voice trembling, ‘Then, no; I’m not thinking that.’ She’d still been reeling from shock. ‘I don’t... I don’t know what I want, Santos. I just... I didn’t want this.’
If she’d hoped he would be understanding of her uneasy ambivalence, he hadn’t been. His tone had been flat as he’d turned away from her. ‘Well, this is a child we created together,’ he’d said. ‘And this is what we are dealing with now.’
It had been the end of the conversation.
With a sigh, Mia swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gazed out through the porthole at the aquamarine sea, its surface dancing with sunlight. She was so lucky, she told herself. She was on a multi-million-pound yacht with a man who wanted to be married to her, who had professed to being committed to making their marriage work. If she stayed with him, she’d never want for anything materially again. Emotionally it would be another matter, but even so, maybe she needed to start counting her blessings—think about what she did have, rather than what she didn’t.
The need to protect herself was deeply ingrained; she’d had too many years of her mother’s determined indifference and sometimes wilful neglect not to be cautious with her own battered heart. Mia had long ago learned to be wary and guarded with strangers; it came with the territory of a wandering lifestyle, first with her mother, and then chosen as an adult because it was all she’d been ever known. Her own guardedness had made her initial response to Santos all the more surprising. She’d trusted him from the start—against her better judgement, perhaps, but not against her instinct. She truly believed Santos was a good man at his core. Yes, he could be intractable, intransigent, stubborn . He could also be arrogant, autocratic and bossy. But she had her own faults that he’d had to deal with. If they really were both committed, maybe they could make their marriage work. At least, they could try.
And yet Mia wasn’t even sure where to begin...or if she could. Did she really have that emotional resilience after everything? Running—and keeping on running—felt safer. Maybe stronger too, even if she knew it really wasn’t.
With a sigh, she rose from the bed and went to shower and dress. All she could do, she told herself, was take this— them —one day at a time.
Twenty minutes later she left her cabin below deck and headed up to find Santos. It was a beautiful summer’s day, the air soft and balmy, the sky a hazy blue fleeced with puffy white clouds. She found Santos at the helm of the yacht, the breeze ruffling his dark hair, his eyes hidden by a pair of aviator sunglasses. He was wearing white linen trousers and a loose button-down shirt in navy, his skin like burnished bronze against the fabric, his whole body seeming both relaxed and in control. He smiled when he saw her, his teeth gleaming in his tanned face.
‘Sleep well?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ She’d been so exhausted by everything that had happened that she’d practically fallen into a coma the second her head had touched the pillow. She pulled her thin cardigan around herself as the breeze buffeted her. ‘What’s the plan now, exactly?’
‘We’re on track to sail to Amorgos, where I have the villa.’
‘I didn’t know you owned a Greek villa.’
He shrugged easily. ‘I don’t suppose I ever had occasion to mention it.’
‘How many properties do you have, besides the estate in Seville?’ she asked out of simple curiosity. As someone who had never owned any property at all, never mind a villa or an entire estate, the idea of having several was utterly alien to her. Sometimes, when she was with Santos, she forgot how wealthy he was...until something like this reminded her. They were worlds apart—galaxies.
Santos frowned in thought as he considered her question. ‘Hmm...let’s see. The villa on Amorgos, an apartment in Madrid—mainly for work and my mother’s shopping trips—a place in the Caribbean and a ski chalet in Klosters.’ He smiled and spread his hands. ‘That’s it.’
‘That’s it.’ Mia let out a little laugh as she shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine having that many houses. I can’t even imagine having one.’
He frowned. ‘Not even one?’
That had slipped out without her meaning it to. In their five months together, Mia hadn’t told him very much at all about her tempestuous childhood and upbringing. She’d kept the details vague, simply saying she’d grown up with a single mum and that they’d ‘moved around a bit’. Such an innocuous term for a childhood that had been at best unsettling and at worse truly dangerous...something she tried not to think about too much. It had been hard enough never to have known her father, to feel her mother hadn’t wanted her, but to feel as though everyone else was out to get her as well... Mia hadn’t wanted to dwell on it.
Neither had she wanted Santos feeling sorry for her, and she still didn’t now. But if this whole ‘let’s work on our marriage’ thing was indeed going to work, then maybe she needed to be honest. At least, a little honest. She wasn’t ready to tell him everything; she already knew that for sure.
‘We never owned a house or an apartment or anything like that,’ she told him. ‘My mother liked to move around a lot.’
‘Yes, I remember you saying something like that,’ he replied thoughtfully. He left the helm, putting his hand on the small of her back to guide her to an L-shaped sofa in the shade of a pergola. Someone had left a jug of fruit punch and several glasses on the coffee table, and he poured them both some. ‘How much is a lot?’ he asked as he handed her a glass.
Mia took it with a murmured thanks and curled up in one corner of the sofa. So, they were going to do this ‘let’s get to know each other for real’ thing now. Why did it make her feel so edgy? This was what she’d wanted, or at least what she’d said she’d wanted—them opening up to each other. Or at least, Santos opening up to her. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she felt like reciprocating. She wasn’t used to it, because keeping her emotions close to her chest was a way of staying safe. But surely she could talk about the ancient history of her childhood without it hurting too much?
‘A lot was a lot,’ she told him frankly. ‘Sometimes every few months.’ Or even every few weeks, depending on what events had led them to leave...again. ‘My mum didn’t let any moss grow on her rolling stone, shall we say.’ To put it mildly.
‘Still, that sounds rather disruptive.’ Santos cocked his head, his gaze sweeping over her. ‘Did you enjoy that much moving around?’
Mia shrugged. ‘I didn’t know anything different, I guess.’ And it was what she’d chosen for herself as an adult—moving from place to place, never getting close or caring too much. As much as she longed for something more, she wasn’t sure she knew how to be any different. Maybe that was another reason why their marriage hadn’t worked.
And yet, with Santos she’d felt safe for the very first time in her life. She’d felt as if she’d found somewhere—and with someone —she wanted to stay.
‘Still.’ Santos took a sip of his punch, his dark gaze tracking her over the rim of his glass. ‘I imagine it must have been quite difficult to have to make new friends so often.’
Mia let out a hollow little laugh. ‘Well, after a while you stop trying. Good thing I’ve always liked my own company.’
He was silent for a moment, absorbing that. Mia felt she was revealing more than she’d meant to, and she didn’t even know what it was. What did Santos think about her unorthodox childhood, about the way it had shaped her? What did she ?
‘Where is your mother now?’ he asked and she felt a little splinter of shock that he didn’t even know this about her. How was it that in their admittedly brief marriage they hadn’t covered this stuff?
Because you didn’t want to talk about it. You still don’t.
‘She died when I was seventeen,’ Mia told him. ‘Cancer. She never went to the doctor, so it wasn’t caught in time. In the end, it was pretty quick.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Santos said quietly. ‘I know how hard it is to lose a parent.’
Mia knew he’d lost his father when he’d been just a bit older, although, like her, he hadn’t seemed to want to talk about it...and she hadn’t asked. When someone didn’t want to be asked many questions, they tended not to ask questions of others.
‘I think you were probably closer to your father than I was to my mother. It didn’t hurt as much as you might think.’ Her mother had never really been interested in her as a person, never mind as a daughter.
He frowned. ‘Even so, a parent is still a formative person in your life. My father was in mine.’ The slight pause he gave was the perfect opportunity for Mia to jump in and ask a question, but he continued before she could think of what exactly she wanted to say—or summon the courage to say it. ‘Still, that’s very young to be left all on your own. What did you do? Did you have any relatives to take you in, support you?’
Mia took a sip of her drink, mainly to stall for time. She really didn’t want his pity, and yet she feared she would get it when she told him, which was probably why she never had. ‘No, there wasn’t anyone like that,’ she replied, trying to keep her tone brisk and matter of fact. ‘But you know, it was fine. I was working by then, anyway. I left school when my mum got sick. I was able to support myself.’
She’d waitressed in a diner and rented a room in a shabby house outside New York City. It had been a lonely existence, sordid and small, and she’d moved on as soon as she’d saved enough for a plane ticket. She hadn’t looked back—had never looked back.
Santos, predictably, looked horrified. ‘But you were only seventeen! A child...’
‘Did you think of yourself as a child at that age?’ Mia challenged, and Santos fell silent. ‘Besides, a hundred years ago, or even fifty, sixteen-year-olds got married and had babies,’ Mia replied, and then wished she hadn’t brought it all up. ‘All I’m saying is,’ she said quickly, ‘Sometimes you have to grow up fast, and that can be okay. I was fine.’ Her voice came out a little too stridently, and she feared he didn’t actually believe her. There was the pity in the softening of his eyes, the downturn of his mouth.
Mia gritted her teeth. She didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for herself, and especially not Santos. Yes, her childhood had been hard, harder even than she’d told him, and she hadn’t grown up with the kind of privilege and wealth he had, but she’d been fine , darn it. She’d made her way; she’d had friends in every place she’d lived, she’d never truly suffered and, in the end, she’d come out all the stronger. Hadn’t she?
‘I’m not saying it wasn’t tough sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘But I survived—thrived, even,’ she added, in something of a challenge. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you.’
Santos kept his body relaxed as he leaned back against the sofa. ‘All right,’ he said easily. ‘Let’s talk about me.’
Mia looked surprised by his instant acquiescence and he supposed she would be. It wasn’t his usual way, but he was trying to be different, better. And, he realised, she needed a break from the deep dive into her childhood. No matter how much Mia insisted she was absolutely fine, Santos suspected that kind of turbulent upbringing had to have left scars.
Besides, he could talk about himself now, because he’d had a lot of time last night to think about all the things she’d said, about how he hadn’t shared his feelings, and he’d acknowledged the truth of that—he hadn’t. He’d been taught not to; taught that a strong man, an Aguila, kept control over those flimsy, ephemeral emotions. And he wasn’t about to start emoting big-time now, but he could at least be a little honest. He could try.
‘What is it you want to know?’ he asked pleasantly while Mia tried not to gape at him. He almost smiled; he found he enjoyed confounding her. She’d put him in something of a box and he was breaking out. He was trying ...and maybe it wasn’t going to be as hard as he’d thought it would be.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I know you grew up on the Aguila estate, and that you went to boarding school in Barcelona, and your father died when you were twenty-one.’ Yes, he’d told her all that, with very sparing details. ‘But I guess I don’t know how you felt about any of it,’ she continued slowly. ‘Were you close to your father?’
‘Yes,’ Santos replied quickly, automatically, before he’d even thought about it. He pictured his father’s autocratic features—those heavy eyebrows, hooded eyes, the Roman nose and tense jaw. Whenever he pictured his father, it was with his characteristically stern expression. He’d admired his father, revered him, even, but had they actually been close ?
It was, Santos realised, a question he wasn’t sure he could answer and that made him feel...uneasy, wrong-footed. One question in, and already this was starting to feel harder than he’d hoped.
‘He was a man of incredible strength and integrity,’ he continued after a moment. ‘I always hoped to follow in his footsteps.’
‘Hoped?’ Mia repeated. She’d tucked her legs up under her and she was resting her chin in her hand, her hair loose and wavy about her shoulders, its auburn strands glinting in the sunlight, her freckles standing out on her nose. ‘Do you not think you have?’
‘I suppose the verdict is still out,’ Santos replied with a small smile. He was thirty-four, fifteen years younger than his father when he’d died. He’d done his best to live as a man of his word. He’d improved the Aguila estates and managed its many investments and property interests with honesty and integrity. But did he feel as good, as strong, a man as his father? No, he realised, he did not. He didn’t think he ever would, and he wasn’t sure he could even say why...only that it was deep-seated, ingrained and certain.
‘You’ve been in charge of the Aguila estate for, what, thirteen years?’ Mia raised her golden eyebrows. ‘Why is the verdict still out?’
Santos shrugged, discomfited. ‘I don’t know. I suppose because I still don’t feel like I’ve lived up to his standard.’ This was far more honest than he’d ever been before with anyone, and it was harder than he’d thought—a lot harder. ‘Maybe I’ll always feel that way,’ he said lightly. ‘Maybe every child feels that way about a parent who was...a large presence in their life. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’ For some reason, he felt as if this meant-to-be careless remark revealed even more about him. Maybe they should stop talking about their pasts.
‘Do you like managing the estate?’ Mia asked. ‘I mean, do you enjoy it?’
‘Yes,’ Santos said again, just as quickly as before. ‘It’s...in my blood. I can’t imagine not doing it.’ Which was true enough. As the only Aguila son, he’d been born to it, brought up to it and instructed every day about what it meant.
‘That doesn’t really answer the question,’ Mia pointed out with a small, wry smile.
He nodded in acknowledgement, conceding her point. ‘I do enjoy it,’ he replied after a moment. ‘Not every bit, every minute—because a lot of management work is nothing more than tedious administration—but safeguarding something, nurturing it, watching it grow...’
He thought of the estate: the main house nearly six hundred years old; its walls steeped in history; the orange and olive groves that stretched almost all the way to the Sierra de las Nievas... But he didn’t always like thinking about that: the tragic scene he hadn’t been able to prevent happening in that shadowy space; the tart smell of Seville orange sharpening the air as his father had gasped for breath, his arms outstretched towards Santos as he’d begged him to help him live...
Santos pushed the thought away, as he always did, because he could not bear to remember.
‘All that, I love,’ he told Mia firmly. ‘And the estate workers...from the families who have harvested the oranges and olives for generations to the staff who work in the house...feel like my family. I have a responsibility to them...one I take very seriously.’
Mia was silent for a moment, her expression pensive. ‘We’re even more different than I thought we were,’ she finally said, reflectively. Santos’s heart sank even as irritation spiked through him. That was her take-away?
‘You’ve had all these people surround you, people who you view as family,’ she elaborated, her gaze still pensive and distant. ‘And you’ve been rooted in one place, so much so that it’s become an integral part of you. Whereas I’ve never been in a place long enough to call it home, and I don’t have any family at all.’ She spoke matter-of-factly, without any self-pity, and Santos was pretty sure she didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. The differences in their backgrounds were indeed stark, but that didn’t mean they were insurmountable. He hoped that wasn’t what she was implying.
‘I suppose,’ he said after a moment, ‘There are advantages and disadvantages to both. You had a kind of freedom I could never even dream of.’
She smiled faintly, her eyebrows lifting. ‘Would you dream of it?’
It was an intrusive question, and one that made him stiffen defensively, although he kept his voice mild. ‘Yes, on occasion, as I imagine most people do.’
She nodded, still looking thoughtful. ‘So, if I had freedom...what did you have?’
‘Security, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘And...a sense of belonging. Of knowing who you are.’ He’d certainly always known that. He was an Aguila, a man of his word, in control of his destiny and his world. A man who did not succumb to emotion or weakness, who shouldered responsibility with ease as a glad burden.
And yet he’d thrown that all away, recklessly but also with joy, when he’d married Mia. He’d enjoyed it, a fact which brought him shame and confusion, but which he still didn’t regret. He might be an Aguila, but he wanted Mia. And somehow both of those things had to work together. He would make sure that they did.
An emotion flickered across her face, but Santos couldn’t tell what it was. She drained her drink and placed the empty glass on the coffee table. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she said as she leaned back against the sofa. The closed-off look on her face made him decide not to press. They’d shared a lot already, and maybe it was enough for now.
‘So,’ she asked after a moment, her tone turning determinedly bright, ‘When do we get to Amorgos?’
‘We’re just off the coast of Barcelona now,’ he told her. ‘And it’s another two days’ sailing to the Cyclades. But before then...’
He paused, feeling hesitant, although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because last night, whether she’d wanted to or not, Mia had shown him how fragile she truly was. Fragile, and yet also wonderfully strong. But he felt the need as well as the desire to treat her tenderly, as well as giving her agency and choice, even in matters as small as this.
‘I thought perhaps we could stop in Barcelona,’ he suggested. ‘And do some shopping. You’ve only got that back pack you brought with you, and as it happens I didn’t pack for a significant time away. We could stay in the city for a few days and then head to Amorgos after, if that’s agreeable to you?’
Mia considered the matter, her head tilted thoughtfully to one side. ‘I feel bad, buying more clothes when I have a whole wardrobe back in Seville.’
None of which she’d taken with her. He’d bought them for her gladly, wanting to shower her with presents, but she’d barely worn any of the clothes or jewels. He hadn’t quite clocked that until now. Why hadn’t she? Santos decided it wasn’t a question for just then.
‘Unfortunately, your clothes are in Seville and not here,’ he replied lightly. ‘And I imagine you could do with a few more items, as could I. Besides...’ He kept his voice light, even a little suggestive. ‘It could be fun.’
Their gazes met and held, memory unspooling between them in a long, lovely, golden thread. Memories of all they’d shared together, physically and, yes, emotionally, because making love with Mia had felt emotional. Spiritual, even, if it wasn’t too crazy to think that way, their bodies joined, their hearts and minds as well.
And two nights in a five-star hotel in Barcelona sharing a bedroom...a bed ...well, yes, Santos thought that could be very fun indeed. It had been a long time since they’d so much as kissed—months...since before the miscarriage, even. Things had become tense when Mia had clearly been less than pleased about her pregnancy. Santos had hoped she’d come round, but the pregnancy had ended before she’d got the chance...and made everything worse between them.
Looking at Mia now, seeing the way her eyes darkened and her lips parted, her breath coming out in a soft, unsteady sigh, Santos wanted that part of their marriage back again—badly. Because that part had always worked exceedingly well...and maybe it would even help to heal the other parts too.
Mia kept his gaze as she answered, forming the words slowly, with clear deliberation. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, a small smile curving her lips, and Santos’s blood surged. ‘That would be...fun.’