by Dani Collins
“Let me know when you need an interior designer,” one said at one point.
“We have to find a house first. That’s proving a challenge,” Poppy admitted with genuine frustration.
Twenty minutes of sharing her wish list later, the woman offered a lead on a property that was farther up the coast from Cesar’s villa. It wasn’t officially on the market, but rumor had it the family needed the money and would accept the right offer.
Rico made a few discreet inquiries and they viewed it the next day.
“I asked Mother if she knew anything about it. She said to be careful when we open the closets,” Rico told her as they stepped from the car.
“Skeletons?” Poppy asked, but her smile wasn’t only amusement. Despite the clear signs of age and neglect, a covetous joy rang through her as she took in the stone house, instantly falling in love with the tiled roof and cobbled walkway and darling gated courtyard where she imagined Lily safely playing for hours.
Arches down the side formed a breezeway that wrapped around both levels then overlooked the pool—which needed repair and filling—but it offered a view of the Med that rivaled Cesar and Sorcha’s.
Inside, the rooms were desperate for updating. Rico went a step further and said, “This floor plan should be completely reconfigured.”
“When are they moving out?” she asked, looking at the furniture draped in sheets.
“They’ve already taken what they want. We would buy it as is. Mother will know which collectors to call to get rid of most of this.”
The scope of the project was enormous, but Poppy was strangely undaunted. In fact, as she discovered a spiral staircase, she excitedly scooted up it. The small rooftop patio looked in every direction for miles and doubled as a sheltered place for intimate dining, utterly charming her.
“We could build out this direction,” Rico said, firmly holding on to Lily as he leaned to see off the side. “Perhaps put a guest cottage at the edge of the orange grove.”
There were other fruit trees along with a flower garden and a plot off the kitchen for a small vegetable garden, something Poppy’s grandparents had always had when she’d been young. It became too much for all of them in later years, but the idea of Lily eating fresh strawberries gave Poppy such a sense of nostalgia and homecoming, she had to swallow a cry of excitement.
“Everything is pollinated by the bee hives in the lower corner,” Rico informed her, referring to some notes on his phone. “Apparently we would have our own honey.”
Poppy blinked. “Why do I love the idea of keeping bees?”
“I don’t know, but I’m intrigued, too.”
As they walked out a lower door to view the hives, Rico nodded meaningfully at an exterior door. “Wine cellar.”
She knew what he was driving at and shook her head, not wanting to get her hopes up. It was too perfect already. “You’d need it for wine, wouldn’t you?”
They entered a big, dim room filled with nearly empty racks. While he glanced at the labels on the handful of bottles left behind, she explored the rear of the cellar, discovering a narrow, windowless room with a low ceiling. A few shelves held empty glass canning jars, suggesting it was a root cellar. A bare bulb was the only light.
Poppy was overwhelmed by what seemed like her birthday, Christmas and every other wish-making day come true. She began arranging her future darkroom. The tubs would go there, the enlarger there. She might cry, she wanted this so badly.
“Am I wrong or is this everything we want?” Rico was carrying Lily and followed Poppy into the narrow room.
This was everything she could ever wish for herself and her daughter. The only thing she could want after this was her husband’s heart.
Her own took an unsteady tumble as she realized how deeply she was yearning for that when every other part of their marriage was slotting into place.
Then he slid his free arm around Poppy and scooped her in for a quick kiss, sending her emotions spinning in another direction.
“Well done.”
“We haven’t seen the bees yet,” she pointed out, wobbling between delirious happiness and intense longing. She worried often that his feelings toward her were still very superficial, but if he was willing to give her this—not just the castle above it, but the space to explore the creativity inside her—surely that meant he cared for her on a deeper level?
“By all means, let’s go see the bees,” Rico said magnanimously, oblivious to her conflict. “If there are birds to go with them, I’m sold.”
“Your daddy thinks he’s funny,” she told Lily, trying to hide her insecurities.
“Da.” Lily poked him in the cheek.
“Dada, yes.” He caught her hand in his big one and kissed the point of her tiny finger. “You’re as smart as your mama, aren’t you?” He kissed Poppy again. “Yes?”
She shakily nodded.
Rico called to make an offer before they left. A week later, Poppy added meetings with interior designers and landscape contractors to her already busy weeks.
Even with those small successes, she was hideously nervous when she finished dressing for the Montero gala. It was an annual event, one that Sorcha and Rico’s mother hosted on alternate years. Sorcha had told her what she had spent on her own gown and said, “Match it. This is your debut as a Montero.” Then she had sent her favorite designer to the penthouse to consult with Poppy.
Poppy turned in the mirror, feeling like the biggest fraud in the world. Who was that woman? Had she gone too demure? The gown had a high neck and cap sleeves, but the fitted bodice accentuated her curves. The top was a very dramatic gold satin with a floral pattern in carmine and saffron and chestnut. The skirt was an A-line in crimson silk that moved like pouring paint, graceful and luxurious, following her in a small train even after she put on five-inch heels.
Her final touch was an art deco bracelet the stylist had recommended. Poppy, neophyte that she was, hadn’t realized the stones were genuine sapphires and topaz and the gold twenty-four karat until the woman had looked up from her phone with excitement.
“Your husband signed off on it. He does want to make a statement, doesn’t he?”
Poppy had smiled wanly, head swimming at what she’d accidentally bought.
She felt light-headed now as she walked out to the lounge, wondering what he would make of all of this, especially her hair. It had been straightened to within an inch of its life, then a slip of gold ribbon woven through a waterfall braid around her crown.
Rico paused with his drink halfway to his mouth.
She wrinkled her nose and took a slow turn, corkscrewing the skirt around her. Super sophisticated, Poppy. Don’t try that again. She gave it a small ruffle to straighten it then stood tall, facing him again.
He hadn’t moved.
“What’s wrong?” She started searching for the flaw.
“Absolutely nothing.” He set aside his drink and came to her, lifted the hand with the bracelet. “You look stunning.”
“Really? Thank you. You look really nice, too.” A tuxedo, for heaven’s sake. She covered her racing heart. “Are we solving an international crime this evening?”
* * *
Someone was definitely targeting his heart. Rico almost said it, but it was too close to the truth.
She looked up at him and he read the sensual awareness that was always there between them, ready to be stoked into flame. There was a glow from deeper within her, too. One that was wide and bright and hot, like the sun about to rise behind the mountains and pierce through him.
It was beautiful, making him catch his breath in a strange anticipation, but he made himself break eye contact and move them out the door.
He was still trying to find the middle ground between providing Poppy the supportive attention she craved and maintaining some sort of governance over himself. He recalled chiding h
is brother once for having affection for Sorcha. You don’t want to admit you have a weakness where she’s concerned.
It was a weakness. Not only of character. It was a vulnerability that could be exploited so he steeled himself against allowing his affections to run too deep.
Even so, he found himself eager to show her off. He’d never been one of those men who wore a woman like a badge of virility, but apparently, he was capable of being that guy.
The pride swelling his chest and straining the buttons of his pleated shirt wasn’t really about how Poppy made him look, though. Hell yes, he stood taller when he escorted her into the marquise behind Cesar’s villa. But he stuck close to her not to be seen with her, or even to protect her—which he would in a heartbeat if anyone stepped out of line.
No, he was enjoying watching the way her confidence was blossoming. He couldn’t change his world to make it easier for her to fit into it, but seeing her grow more comfortable with these trappings pleased him. Eased him.
She smiled and greeted couples she had already met and calmly ignored the occasional sideways glance from people still digesting the gossip that Rico Montero had married the mother of his love child.
She even showed less anxiety when they caught up with his parents, exchanging air kisses with his mother and speaking with genuine enthusiasm about the new house. She had clearly been studying at Sorcha’s knee because she then asked his mother, “Would you have time next week to review the floor plan with me? Sorcha assures me I’ll need the space for entertaining, but I don’t want the front room to feel like a barn.”
“Email my assistant. I’m sure she can find an hour for you.”
It sounded like a slight, but the fact his mother was willing to make time for her was a glowing compliment.
“You’re building a darkroom,” Rico’s father said.
“Yes.” Poppy faltered briefly with surprise, then tried her newfound strategy on him. “I wondered if you could advise me on where best to source the chemicals?”
“Your husband can do that.”
Rico bit back a sigh. He held Poppy’s elbow cradled in his palm and lightly caressed her inner arm while saying, “It’s not always clear whether my father is genuinely interested or merely being polite.” Be polite, he transmitted with a hard look into his father’s profile.
“Rico,” his mother murmured, her own stern expression reminding him they were all aware of his father’s limitations. And they were in public.
“I am interested.” Rico’s father frowned, being misinterpreted. “Keep me apprised of your progress,” he ordered Poppy. “I’d like to observe the process when you’re up to full function. La Reina, I’ve seen people we ought to speak to.”
“Of course.” They melted into the crowd.
“Wow,” Poppy said as they moved away. She slapped a bright smile on her face, but he saw through to the woman who felt ground into the dust.
“This is why the house you found us is so perfect.” He stroked her bare arms. “It’s even farther away from them than this one.”
Her hurt faded and her mouth twitched. “That’s not nice.”
“No. And you don’t realize it, but he was being as nice as he gets. His asking to observe you is quite the commendation.”
“Really?” She dipped her chin, skeptical.
“Mmm-hmm. If I cared about scoring points with my parents, I would be high-fiving you right now.”
“We could dance instead,” Poppy suggested. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Except he’d just recalled the steps he was taking that, as far as scoring points with his parents went, would wipe him to below zero in their books. He would owe future favors. That was the cost of giving in to base feelings like passion and infatuation.
So he wouldn’t.
“Let’s dance,” he murmured and drew her onto the floor.
CHAPTER NINE
POPPY WAS FALLING for Rico. Really falling. This wasn’t the secret crush of a maid for a man who hadn’t even noticed her. It wasn’t the sexual infatuation of a woman whose husband left her weak with satisfaction every night. It wasn’t even the tender affinity of shared love for their daughter, although what she was feeling had its roots in all of those things.
This was the kind of regard her grandparents had felt for each other. She knew because she began doing the sorts of little things for Rico that they used to do for one another. If he tried a particular brandy while they were out, and liked it, she asked the housekeeper to order some in. When discussing the decor of his home office in the new house, she had the designer track down a signed print of his favorite racecar driver, now retired but still revered.
And when she had an appointment to spend the morning looking at photography equipment, she impulsively called Rico’s assistant and asked if her husband had plans for lunch. He was pronounced available so she booked herself as his date and made a reservation, dropping in to surprise him.
His PA, a handsome man about her age whom she was meeting in person for the first time, rose to greet her. He looked startled. Alarmed. Maybe even appalled.
“Senora Montero. You’re early.” He smoothed his expression to a warm and welcoming smile. “I’m Anton. So good to meet you. Why don’t I show you around while Senor Montero finishes his meeting?”
Poppy might be a country girl at heart, but she knew a slick city hustle when she was the victim of one. She balked, heart going into free fall. All her optimistic belief that she and Rico were making progress in their marriage disintegrated. One dread-filled question escaped her.
“Who is he with?”
Before Anton could spit out a suitable prevarication, the door to Rico’s office cracked. He came out with an older couple. Everyone wore somber expressions.
Rico’s face tightened with regret when he saw her. Anton offered a pinched smile of apology. He moved quickly to the closet where the older woman’s light coat had been hung.
The older couple both stiffened, clearly recognizing her while Poppy’s brain scrambled and somehow made the connection that they must be Faustina’s parents.
The brief anguish she had suffered mildewed into horror. Rico wasn’t meeting some Other Woman. She was that reviled creature.
How did one act in such a profoundly uncomfortable moment? What should she say? All she could conjure was the truth.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she admitted to Rico, voice thick with apology. “I didn’t realize you would be tied up.” She thought she might be sick.
Rico introduced her to the Cabreras. Neither put out their hand to shake so Poppy kept her own clutched over her purse, nodding and managing a small smile that wasn’t returned.
“The woman you ‘dated very briefly when your engagement was interrupted,’” Faustina’s mother said with a dead look in her eye.
“I’m very sorry,” Poppy choked, reminding herself that they had lost their only child and would hurt forever because of it.
“I’m sure you are,” Senora Cabrera said bitterly. “Despite gaining all the prestige and wealth my daughter brought to this marriage. What do you bring except cheap notoriety and a bastard conceived in adultery?”
Poppy gasped and stumbled slightly as Rico scooped her close, pressing her to stand more behind him than beside him.
“The hypocrisy is mine. Don’t take your anger out on Poppy.” His tone was so dark and dangerous, she curled a fist into the fabric of his jacket in a useless effort to restrain him, fearing he would physically attack them. “Leave innocent babies out of this altogether.”
A profound silence, then Senora Cabrera sniffed with affront. Her husband clenched his teeth so hard, Poppy could have sworn she heard them crunching like hard candy behind the flat line of his lips.
“I’ve given you some options,” Rico continued in a marginally more civilized voice. “Let me know how you’d like
to proceed.”
“Options,” Senor Cabrera spat. “None that are worth accepting. This is hell,” he told Rico forcefully. “You have sent us to hell, Rico. I hope you’re happy.”
The older man whirled and jerked his head at his wife. She hurried after him. Anton trotted to catch up and escort them to the elevator while Rico swore quietly and viciously as he strode back into his office.
Poppy followed on apprehensive feet, quietly closing the door and pressing her back against it. She watched him pour a drink.
“I am so sorry. Anton didn’t tell me they would be here or I wouldn’t have come. I asked him not to tell you I was dropping in. This is all my fault.”
“I knew you were coming.” He threw back a full shot. “I thought we would be finished an hour ago. It went long—you were early. Bad timing.” He poured a second. “Do you want one?”
“It was that bad?” She wondered how many he’d had before talking to the older couple. Maybe she ought to make some espresso with that machine behind the bar.
“It was difficult.” He poured two glasses and brought them to the low table where melting ice water and full cups of coffee sat next to untouched plates of biscotti. He set the fresh glasses into the mix and threw himself into an armchair.
She lowered herself to the sofa, briefly taking in the classic decor of the office with its bookshelves and antique desk. A younger version of Senor Cabrera looked down in judgment from a frame on the wall. She felt utterly helpless. Deserving of blame, yet Rico wasn’t casting any, just slouching there, brooding.
“What sort of options did you give them?” She hated to ask, sensing by their animosity his suggestions hadn’t been well received.
“I told them I was stepping down.”
“From being president?” A jolt went through her. It was the last thing she had expected. “Why?”