by Amy Ayers
Just then two women, both in starched hospital whites, came into the room. The older of the two spoke, “Good afternoon, Mr. Medina.”
“Hello, Rosalyn.”
Her eyes took in Max clinging to Marco’s shoulder, then she glanced at Senna, giving her a warm smile. Senna liked her instantly.
“You brought visitors. He’ll be so happy to see them.”
“Rosalyn, this is Senna Callas.” Before Senna could move, the woman leaned in and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. Her buoyant temperament warmed the room, and Senna was certain Marco’s father must appreciate her caring personality. “Senna, this is my father’s main caregiver.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosalyn.” She nodded and turned her attention back to Marco.
“And who is this handsome little man?”
“This is our son, Max.”
Max took his cue and flashed Rosalyn a dimpled, slobbery smile.
Her hand flew to her throat. “Dios mio, Mr. Medina, he looks just like you.”
Marco explained. “Rosalyn has been with our family for a long time—”
“So I would know.” She smiled and winked. “And if this little tresor is anything like his father was, you two are in for an adventure.”
Senna made a mental note to follow up with Rosalyn on that comment at some point.
“But I don’t want to keep you from your father. He’s very excited to meet you both. I had Cook bring up some tea, and I’ll come back in soon to give him his medications.” Senna marveled at her capable, no-nonsense demeanor. But it was equally apparent that she cared deeply for her patient and his well-being. Senna hoped her grandmother was getting the same type of attention. It reminded her she needed to call Blue Haven and check in.
“Come,” Rosalyn waived them forward toward another set of double doors. They entered smaller, more intimate sitting room. A large picture window dominated the far otherwise cosy space and an overstuffed couch sat in the direct path of the afternoon’s waning light.
A handsome older gentleman reclined in a large cushioned chair. He was still, save for his honey-colored eyes. Those eyes glanced at Marco then locked on Max cooing in his father’s arms.
His expression was set, almost fixed, the majority of the facial muscles frozen into place. But his eyes were bright, and regardless of his body’s betrayal, Senna could tell his mind remained sharp.
Marco handed Max to Senna and then walked swiftly toward his father. “Papi,” he said with genuine affection, kissing both of his cheeks. Massimo’s hand twitched, like it ached to return the affectionate touch. One hand snaked up slowly and grasped Marco’s.
“Papi, I’d like to introduce you to two people who are very important to me.” Marco turned and waved Senna toward him.
“This is Senna Callas.”
Massimo turned slowly, and a smile stole across his face. “Ahhh. Bella, Marco.”
Senna smiled back. This was definitely Marco’s father. Stroke or not, the man was a flirt.
“Encantat de conèixer-te, Senyor Medina.” Senna’s Catalan wasn’t as strong as her Spanish, but it was getting there.
“The pleasure is…mine, encanto.” He spoke the words slowly but with energy behind them. It was clear the stroke had taken some of his physicality, but it didn’t stop him from engaging with those around him.
She sat in one of the adjoining chairs and turned Max around so he sat in her lap facing Massimo. She glanced up at Marco, knowing that he would want to be the one to introduce Max to his grandfather. He was looking at the two of them, and Senna felt a frisson of fire zip up and down her spine. His look was hungry, possessive. Mine, it said. And Senna’s breath caught in her throat under such intense scrutiny.
Marco shook his head and took Max from Senna’s lap, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of Massimo. “This, Papi, this is Maximillian Marco Medina.” Max clapped his hands together and then made a grab for Marco’s nose.
Even though many of the individual nerves that made up Massimo’s facial expressions didn’t work, he still managed to bestow a look of joy on his son and grandson. Senna took in the tableau and wished she had a camera to capture the moment. Three generations of Medina men sat in front of her.
This is what Marco means when he talks about family. This palpable yet intangible feeling of being a part of something greater than oneself, something that had existed long before one’s birth and will remain even after one’s death.
Senna loved her grandmother and missed her mother, even as damaged and broken as she was before she died. But to her, family was always wrapped up in shouldering burdens she was too young to carry. Seeing Marco with his father and son showed her how beautiful the connection between family members could be. How pure it was, how simple.
She felt like an outsider.
Marco was telling Massimo all about Max, playing proud papa and showing him off. Max was playing his part with well-timed squeals and hand clapping. Senna watched the scene unfold, gasping when Massimo tentatively reached for Max’s chubby cheek and connected, stroking it slowly with a clumsy thumb.
Massimo turned his rheumy gaze toward Senna, and their eyes locked. “Moltes gràcies, Senna. He is perfect.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she simply nodded.
…
After their visit with Massimo, Senna took Max back to the nursery so Marco could have some time alone with his father. Marco had arrived in Senna’s rooms to escort her down to dinner.
“My father likes you, Senna.”
She emerged from her closet with her dress half zipped. Time to make Marco useful. “I like him, too,” she responded, slipping on her impossibly high heels. “Zip?” She turned her back toward Marco.
He closed the gap between them with only a couple of his long strides. His hands settled on her waist and then moved upward slowly, taking a roundabout path to the zipper.
His breath warmed her neck as his deft fingers slowly pulled the zipper of her dress upward. She had a flash of him pulling the zipper in the opposite direction and let out a soft gasp.
She turned around to face him. His hands rested lightly on her waist and a smile stole across his face, a slow, sexy grin that sent a delicious shiver straight to her core. His voice, just a shade over a whisper said, “You look so beautiful tonight.”
His fitted black dress shirt pulled deliciously over his chest, and Senna had to restrain herself from exploring the vast expanse of muscle.
“Marco,” she said as her hands settled around his narrow waist. “What are we doing?”
“Well, right now I’m fighting the desire to tear that beautiful dress right off you and spend many hours exploring your perfect, ripe body.”
Senna’s voice caught in her throat. Not one word of that sounded like a bad idea. It should. Part of her, a part she was desperately trying to ignore, reminded her: stolen kisses were fun, but not nearly as satisfying as being naked and alone with Marco could be.
He’s getting married. You have no business thinking of him that way.
Marco must have taken her gasp for permission. His hands came up, exploring the side of her body, coming to rest on her rib cage, and his thumbs gently stroked the sides of her breasts. He leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, then with more and more urgency.
Swept away in the electric sensations zipping through her body, she returned his kiss with matching intensity. His strong embrace brought them closer, and she could feel his excitement throbbing hot and insistent against her belly.
Skipping dinner altogether for a feast of their own sounded like a fabulous idea.
A loud claxon blaring from the vicinity of Marco’s suit pocket startled them both, and they broke apart quickly. She was sure he cursed softly in some mix of European languages.
This man is a sneaky, stealthy kisser. She wanted to be upset by his advances. She wanted to react like a sane person and get out of the way when an engaged man pulled her into a gentle embrace complete with hungry k
isses. I’m only human.
“Yes?” Marco’s voice sounded agitated with the caller.
Senna heard muffled sounds on the other end, but the intensity of the caller’s tone was unmistakeable.
“Fine. Give me five minutes and I’ll dial in.” He shoved his phone back in his pocket, his flirty expression now replaced with a furrowed brow and anxious pursed lips.
“There’s an emergency with one of our supply chains in eastern Asia. I need to dial in to a video conference and get it handled. Marcellus is already on the call.”
Senna nodded. She was no stranger to the rigors of his position at Medina Enterprises. In fact, she was surprised he’d been able to devote as much time to her as he had. Marcellus must really be doing most of the heavy lifting. She didn’t envy that responsibility.
“Okay, no problem. I’ll just wait for you to be done.”
“No, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your opportunity to eat.” Even with a corporate crisis hanging over his head he couldn’t help teasing her about her love of food. Charming.
“You go down to dinner and I’ll join you as soon as I can. This shouldn’t take long.”
Senna nodded automatically. “Sure, that’s fine.” The idea of sitting alone with Marco’s family sipping chilled soup and nibbling on crudité was daunting.
Marco was steering her out the door before something caused him to stop in his tracks. “Brynn is probably down there as well. She’s been hovering ever since you arrived.”
Senna swallowed hard. “Fine. We’re all adults.” Well, I am anyway.
“Thank you, princesa. See you soon.”
And with that she was alone in the hallway. Gathering up her courage, she headed toward the stairs.
How bad could this be?
…
I don’t think this could be any worse.
That wasn’t true. She could have fallen down the stairs and broken her legs. But even then she’d be in an ambulance on the way to the hospital with a boatload of painkillers. She could make a case for that being better.
Dinner was set on a large patio overlooking one of the many opulent flower gardens that enclosed the estate. Each succulent bloom perfumed the evening air and kissed the passing breeze with its scent. Mila had joined them, along with Ezme, Brynn, and thankfully, Matteo, who was entertaining them with tales of his last supply drop deep in the Amazon.
Everyone was being pleasant. Kind even. But Senna felt self-conscious, like they all knew that she was an imposter from the wrong part of Miami trying to play dress-up with the help of Prada and Jimmy Choo. Senna smoothed her skirt out of nervous habit.
“Well, this is nice, isn’t it?” Brynn sipped at her wine and gave Senna a wan smile like she actually meant what she said.
Even Ezme seemed to be warming up to her after their initial bumpy start. “Marco tells me that Max is teething, poor thing. I remember those days. We had nannies, of course, but babies tend to want their mothers when they’re not feeling well.”
“Madame Marchande is certainly helping.”
Brynn jumped in. “I’m sorry you’ve been so alone up to this point. I’m afraid that may be mostly my fault.” Awkward silence hung in the air. Marco had told Senna about how her contact attempts had been filtered by Brynn in the course of doing her job. She didn’t completely let Marco off the hook, of course, but the sentiments from Brynn were appreciated.
“It’s understandable, Brynn.”
Why is she being so nice to me? She tried to put herself in Brynn’s shoes and found that if the situation were reversed, she wasn’t so sure how she’d react. Finding out the person you were being forced to marry now had a son? She wasn’t sure how gracious she’d be.
Two waiters appeared and delivered their first course. Mila, probably sensing the thick tension, launched into an amusing story about one of the horses. Nobody was really listening, but it was better than silence. She finished, and Ezme rewarded her with a quiet, “That’s nice, dear.” Senna got the impression Mila could have been reading from an encyclopedia on peasant farming practices of the fifteenth century and Ezme would have given her the same response. It was pretty clear Ezme’s attention was focused elsewhere.
“How are the wedding plans coming, Brynn? Did you set an appointment with Lourdes for your final gown fitting?” Ezme’s choice of topic did nothing to put Senna at ease.
“Not yet.” Brynn’s answer was short and clipped. She took another sip of her wine and seemed to study her plate.
Ezme’s eyes flicked over to Senna. “Senna, I assume you’ll stay for the nuptials? I’m sure Marco wants his son there.”
Brynn answered for her. “Ezme, we haven’t even set a date yet. It won’t be for several months anyway. Senna can’t disrupt her life that long.”
Ezme laughed, a short derisive sound. “Brynn, it won’t be months, good heavens. I’ve already discussed it at length with your father. Three weeks—”
“Three weeks?” Brynn seemed genuinely alarmed. “Ezme, that’s impossible.”
“Nonsense, dear. It’s perfectly possible. You just have to know the right people. And we, of course, do.”
Senna watched as Brynn swallowed hard. “That’s news to me. He hadn’t shared that timeline with me yet.”
“We both thought you’d be excited. I mean, you aren’t getting any younger, and it’s about time Marco settled down.”
Brynn was silent. She didn’t know Brynn very well, but she could tell the speedy timeline had thrown her. Was that because of her? Because of Max? All she knew for sure was that Brynn didn’t look any more comfortable discussing her wedding than Senna did.
As far as staying for a prolonged period of time, Senna hadn’t thought that far ahead. Could she stay here for the next few weeks? She felt like she should be generous and make Max available. Marco was his father, after all. He had the right to have him present at such an important event.
But there was the matter of Marco’s caresses, his kisses. As much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she didn’t want them to stop. But that was off the table. Any chemistry between the two of them needed to be tamped out. A finger of flame extinguished before it threatened to engulf them both.
“Senna? It’s up to you, you know.” God bless Mila for giving her the chance to opt out.
Her eyes came back into focus, and she realized everyone was staring at her, waiting for her to answer. What was the question? Oh right.
“Perhaps,” she muttered under her breath. “I wasn’t even planning to come here to begin with, but I told Marco I would stay for a week so Max could meet his family. I haven’t planned any further ahead than that.”
The tension was palpable. Mila attacked her cucumber soup with a renewed fervor and Matteo carefully and meticulously peeled the label off of his bottle of artisanal craft beer like he was defusing a nuclear warhead. Am I missing something?
Slowly Brynn took a long pull from her wineglass, her eyes locked on Senna’s, and that was when she saw it. Doubt. Dread. This was not a joyous occasion for Brynn. She wasn’t just a bride with cold feet. Brynn was a bride who didn’t want to be a bride at all. Finally, she glanced away.
“You’re right, Ezme. Please forgive me. We, uh, have to finalize my bouquet, don’t we?”
The rest of the dinner was full of talk about gardenias, tulips, and various exotic lilies and whether their scents would clash with her perfume. At some point Matteo slipped a bottle of beer like his own in front of her. He sat back down an pointed to his own bottle, no longer bearing a label, and Senna smiled slowly, and set to work methodically peeling her own. It beat listening to Ezme and Brynn prattle on about a wedding she couldn’t imagine sitting through. Marco owed her. And more than that. She wanted some answers.
Chapter Ten
Later that night, after getting Max bathed and put to sleep, Senna curled up in a silky bathrobe and sipped a cup of tea in her room. She’d opened one of the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to the small balcon
y outside and moved one of the overstuffed chairs to the doorway. She had a great view of the night sky, and the late summer breeze wafted in, caressing her skin tenderly as it meandered by.
She hadn’t seen Marco or heard from him since before dinner. She had no desire to repeat another tense meal anytime soon without him present. For not the first time she marveled at the nonchalant attitude this family seemed to have about marriage. It was clear to Senna now more than ever that Brynn was as much of a pawn of her father’s as Marco was to his own. The idea that neither party wanted to be married, and yet were going through with it anyway, confounded her. Which was why she was sitting there, sipping tea, trying to figure out her next step. And also why her bedroom door was locked.
She closed her eyes and took in another lungful of perfumed night air. Her reverie was cut short by the rattling of her doorknob and Marco’s deep voice letting loose a string of creative curses.
She sipped her tea smugly. And then she almost spilled it all over herself when the heavy oak door swung inward and slammed against the wall behind it with a loud thump.
She stood up and whirled around, suddenly face-to-face with the person who had dropped her smack dab in the middle of this strange family soap opera.
“Marco, I distinctly remember locking that door. And in case you didn’t know what that means, I don’t want to see you. Do I need to say it in another language?”
He spoke like he hadn’t even heard her words. And maybe he hadn’t.
“Senna, I just spoke to Mila. She said dinner was uncomfortable. I’m so sorry I was delayed.”
“You’re sorry. That’s great. I’m sorry, too. About a lot of things.” The words tumbled out before she could censor herself.
And just like that all of her frustration and anger bubbled up and began to spill over. She shook her head and took a deep breath. He had to understand what this was doing to her.
“When it’s just you. When it’s just me. Everything works, everything makes sense. But I can’t handle…that.” She waved her arms in the general direction of the door. “Brynn, your mother… They are trying, I can tell. And they’re being so nice. Not only do I feel like a stranger, but I feel out of place, even out of time. Every time I turn around some other piece of this puzzle falls into place, and yet I’m still the outsider.”