The Latin Lover's Secret Child. Jane Porter
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Dante’s head lifted and his cynical gaze clashed with Lucio’s. Lucio didn’t blink. He’d pledged himself to Anabella five years ago, three years before they married. His love had nothing to do with a ceremony and a piece of paper.
He loved Anabella simply because she existed.
“She’s never been happy living with you,” Dante said at last. “It’s the idea of you she loves. Not the reality.”
It’s the idea she loves. Not the reality. The words repeated in Lucio’s brain. He held still, flinching inwardly as the words sank in.
Dante’s assessment was harsh, sharp, and his words wounded. But Lucio kept the hurt from his expression. “I will call you with updates,” he said evenly. He wouldn’t say more than he already had. “I promise to phone the moment she begins to improve.”
“But otherwise you’re telling me to stay home?”
Lucio managed the briefest of smiles. “I’m asking you to give Ana time.”
After Dante left, Lucio stepped into the kitchen and requested that dinner be served in the small study downstairs instead of carried to Anabella’s room. Then Lucio headed upstairs to check on his wife.
“He’s gone?” Anabella asked hopefully as Lucio entered the room. She was sitting on the foot of her bed, wrapped up in a thick bath towel, her wet hair slicked back from her beautiful face.
Lucio felt a craving to touch her, and he suppressed the craving just as quickly as it flared. “He’s returning to Buenos Aires. He’s going home and back to work.”
“Good. I don’t like him!”
“Ana, you adore him.” He stared down at her, arms folded over his chest and for a moment he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. What if she never did improve? What if she never regained her memories? Never regained her independence? What then?
But Lucio wouldn’t think that far. No reason to go there yet. He reminded himself that she was young and strong and intelligent. Of course she’d improve. They’d just have to take it slowly. They’d have to be patient.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said, trying hard to make it sound as if everything was normal, that everything would eventually be normal. “Except you’re still wearing a towel.”
“You don’t think it’s romantic?”
“Not unless you’re the matching bath mat.”
He was rewarded with a laugh. Grinning, Ana slid off the edge of the bed. “Actually, I did want to dress but I couldn’t find my clothes. Do you know where Dante put my suitcase?”
Lucio cocked his head a little. Was she serious? “They’re in your closet, Ana.”
“Where’s my closet?”
“There. In your room.”
“Show me.”
He walked her to the massive walk-in closet across from her en suite bath. Flicking on the closet light he gestured to the rods of hanging clothes and the long wall lined with shoe boxes. “This is your closet.”
Ana peered in. Her brow furrowed as she scanned the racks of suits, dresses, long evening gowns. “Very funny. Now where are my clothes? My shirts, my shoes, my jeans?”
It hit him all over again.
She didn’t know. She didn’t recognize anything here, didn’t realize that she wasn’t Anabella the teenager but Anabella the woman. The last five years hadn’t happened yet…at least, not in her mind.
He looked down at her, his chest tight with wildly contradictory emotions. This was going to be so difficult. He didn’t know how to deal with her…interact with her. He’d come to think of her as remote, sophisticated, self-contained but right now she was as bubbly and effervescent as a bottle of sparkling wine.
Again he told himself not to look ahead, not to think too much. All he could do was take life with Anabella one step at a time. He had to deal with one crisis before facing the next. And right now the girl wanted clean jeans.
In the bottom drawer of the dresser in her room he found old clothes that Anabella didn’t wear anymore, but clothes she hadn’t discarded, either.
Ana beamed. “Thank you.” She grabbed a pair of jeans and an old cropped sweatshirt once a bright cherry red but through repeated washings had faded to brick. “I’ll be ready in just a second. Should I meet you downstairs?”
He agreed and when she appeared fifteen minutes later she was dressed, her hair blow-dried, eye lashes thickened with mascara and lips darkened with a soft rosy lip gloss. “Better?” she teased.
“Much,” Lucio nodded.
He wanted to smile at her but he couldn’t. He was feeling so much, remembering so much. She exuded sweetness and spice, innocence and bravado. This was the Anabella he’d fallen in love with. This was the one he couldn’t imagine living without.
But feeling this much was dangerous. He couldn’t let his emotions get the upper hand and he clamped down hard on all the chaotic, turbulent feelings rushing through him. What Anabella needed now was practical, rational support. She needed him calm. She needed him to remain firmly in control.
“We’ll be eating in here,” he said, steering her into the library. “I thought we could eat by the fire. It seemed cozy.”
She blushed. “And intimate.”
Intimate. Right. Not exactly the mood he was going for. But he let Anna’s comment slide, focused instead on putting her at ease. It’d been a month since she sat at a real table for a meal, and Lucio hoped that this dinner together would be a first step for her on the road to recovery.
Neither said much during dinner but Ana ate nearly everything on her plate. It was a simple, traditional Argentine meal—grilled beef, pommes frites, green salad. “Thank God,” she said, curling up in her wing chair, legs under her. “Real food again.”
He was curious about her memory, about the past month and exactly what and how much she recalled. “What were you eating before?”
Ana shrugged. Smiled. Her teeth flashed white. “Isn’t that odd? I don’t remember. So it must not have been anything good, or I’d know, right?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
She laughed. “And what’s another?”
His gut tightened and he watched the light from the fire dance and flicker across her expressive face. He loved her laugh, loved her when she was feisty and playful. When she teased him like this, he wanted to pull her onto his lap, into his arms, and keep her there forever.
Suddenly her expression grew somber and she dropped the French fry she’d been nibbling. “Lucio—”
“Yes, negrita?”
She blushed at the endearment. She’d always loved being his. “We’re still going to get married, aren’t we?” Her blush deepened. She seemed to be struggling with the words. “You do still want to marry me, don’t you?”
So much innocence. Such a return to girlish dreams. For a moment he didn’t know how to answer her. And then he thought, answer her honestly. Be truthful. She deserved that much. “Of course I want to marry you.”
Her lips curved and her green eyes shone warm, soft, as though she were glowing from the inside out. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s do it soon. I want to do it soon.” She leaned forward. “How about tomorrow?”
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