He watched her kick off her sandals—her toenails were a ruby red—and twine her long legs together.
“So yes,” he murmured. “A 160-year-old vineyard is one of our newer ones.”
She closed her eyes as she enjoyed the breeze under the tree. “It’s so weird that you have queens and saints and drunken rebels in your background. My history only goes as far back as the shoulder of the country road I was born on.”
“You weren’t born in a hospital?” Mateo asked, quietly setting aside his glass. He stretched out, too, facing her with his head on his hand, separated by a couple feet of plaid blanket.
With her long, dark lashes still resting against her pale cheeks, she shook her head.
“Mama had to wait and see if Bo and Hope were going to get back together.” She lifted her glass and opened her eyes and Mateo watched them stutter wide when she saw him echoing her position. She pulled her glass of wine against her chest. “They did, in case you were wondering.”
He smiled softly. “Your mother watched soap operas. My parents acted them out on a daily basis. Trust me, there are worse things than country roads. Castles get crowded with the demands of queens and saints and drunken rebels.”
“And the demands of your people,” she added. He liked the way she watched him, relaxed in the shade. “I assume the call that we ‘Plantan las vidas’ yesterday had nothing to do with planting vines?”
He smiled at her arched brow, at the memory of the joyous chant of his people at the airport.
“It’s one of our fables,” he said. He shoved his free hand into his hair, pushed it back from his face. He loved this story. “It’s said that one of our early queens couldn’t get pregnant. The king and queen were known for their modesty, their temperate natures, their obedience to duty, and night after night, with the room dark and the queen’s thighs politely spread, the king would perform his duty in their royal bed.”
Head still in his hand, Mateo watched the soft flush of color on her cheeks. “But nothing happened. The king and queen loved each other in their own quiet, temperate way. But they were aging; he needed an heir and she wanted a child. So they began to fight. At first, it was just quiet bickering in the bed chamber. But soon, they began to have loud, heaving rows in the dining hall and throne room and village plaza. Their fights were so loud and endless that they echoed throughout the Monte and no one could find peace.”
He loved her soft, engaged smile, the intensity of being held in her eyes.
“Finally, the worst fight ever, a roaring match that cracked the church bell and shook the snow off the Picos, rolled the king and queen out the castle and right into the vineyard rows. The servants were afraid to follow them because no one wanted to witness regicide. The couple’s screams were swallowed up as they disappeared into the leaves and for the first time in months, the Monte was quiet. The people’s ears stopped bleeding, but not a soul could breathe—everyone quaked at what would happen to the Monte without their king or queen or heir to lead them. People waited at the edge of the vineyard, torches in hand, throughout the night.”
He stopped, reached for the glass that she still held against her chest so that he could take a sip of it. No one milked the dramatic pause better than a Spaniard. She watched him with absorbed interest. “In the morning, the exhausted, terrified townsfolk roused when they heard the vines rustle. They held their breaths to see who emerged, who survived. It was their king...with his arm around his queen. The men immediately turned around when they realized the queen’s dress had been torn in indelicate places. The women rushed to her side. But shirtless and shoeless, with twigs in his hair and mud coating his back, the king shooed them away, and swung his grinning, giggling wife into his arms and carried her into the castle. Nine months later, she gave him twin sons, an heir and a spare. And from that day on, the people knew that if their once-staid king said he was going to ‘Plantar las vides,’ as he chased his once-timid queen into the vineyards, another prince or princess would soon be on the way.”
Roxanne tugged on her bottom lip with her top teeth, her eyes dreamy in the cool shade, the knot of her hair drooping heavily near her hand.
“You’re going to be wonderful at telling bedtime stories to our daughter,” she said, surprising him.
He’d never, not once, thought about telling that story to his child, about how he would pass it along the way Titi had shared it with him. For the first time in twenty-nine years of existence, he had a vision of it, of leaning back against the pillows, a little boy or girl tucked up against him, looking out at the vines from his child’s bedroom window and sharing all the stories the Monte had stored up in its thousand-year history. It was his duty to tell the tales, and that child would tell them to their children and then to their children and then to their children, the fire of Roxanne racing through their veins alongside their Esperanza blood.
Our daughter, she’d said.
Mateo fought twin impulses: to run away and to pounce on her. Only the hesitation in her voice, her eyes lowered to his chest, kept him from doing either. “We might need to try it in the vineyard if something doesn’t happen soon,” she said quietly.
He pulled closer so he could smooth his hand over her shoulder. “Does it bother you that you’re not pregnant yet?”
She rolled onto her back and looked up at him, her body beautiful against the red plaid blanket, her hair a soft rope coming loose from its knot. “There’s still time,” she said, softly licking her lips so they shined.
He wanted her to say that it hadn’t bothered her. He wanted her to be glad she wasn’t pregnant yet. He wanted her to want him for months and months more. If it was up to Mateo, he wouldn’t impregnate his “friend” until the last day of the contract.
Mateo dropped to his elbow, hovering over her. She didn’t look away. He lifted his hand and stroked his thumb across her silken cheek, over her lush lips. Her tongue touched his thumb like a kitten’s lick. He began to lean close to her.
The sound of voices in the leaves stopped him. He looked at Roxanne. She blinked back, realizing where they were and what they were about to do.
He rolled away and onto his knees just as the voices broke through the clearing.
“Entonces si las vides necesitan mas agua podemos...” Carmen Louisa, his friend and grower overseeing the test vineyard, stopped talking when she saw Mateo lurch to his feet and Roxanne push up to sitting. Carmen Louisa smiled wide, pushing her chin-length caramel-colored hair behind her ear as the two crew guys looked anywhere but at Mateo.
“I’m sorry, Príncipe,” Carmen Louisa said in Spanish as she strode to them in jeans and worn Blundstones, the guys trailing behind her. Mateo helped Roxanne to her feet. “We didn’t know you were here.”
“And if you’d known we were here?” Mateo asked, taking her into his arms and kissing both cheeks.
She kissed his cheek with a smack. “We would have approached more quietly.”
“Joder,” Mateo cursed comically as he pushed her back from him. “Roxanne Medina, I’d like to introduce you to one of our most talented and impertinent growers, Carmen Louisa de Vega. Carmen Louisa, my wife and savior, Roxanne Medina.”
Carmen Louisa pulled a stiff Roxanne into her arms and kissed her on the cheek as well. “It is a pleasure, Alteza.” Mateo also introduced Roxanne to the crew guys who restrained themselves from Carmen Louisa’s enthusiasm and then excused themselves to do some pruning in the vineyard.
Roxanne smiled at Carmen Louisa. “Are you a neighbor of Mateo’s?” she asked.
“Sí, my family’s vineyard is next door to the Castillo.”
“I understand I have you to thank for much of his...expertise.” Although Roxanne’s expression didn’t change, Carmen Louisa’s did, her smile stuttering, her eyes going wide and then shooting to Mateo.
Confused, Mateo didn’t get it—and then he realized he needed to return immed
iately to El Castillo to commit fratricide. His sister must have told Roxanne about that summer, that long hot summer as an eighteen-year-old that he spent in Carmen Louisa’s bed. She’d been thirty, unmarried, and wise enough to say “no” when Mateo had tried to keep something going after that summer. Now the woman was just a dear friend.
But he understood what Roxanne saw: Carmen Louisa, now in her early forties, was beautiful, strong, and athletic in her white button-up shirt, faded jeans, and work boots. She’d lost none of the appeal she’d had when Mateo lusted her after her; she was perhaps even more appealing now with her confidence, her wisdom, the humor and understanding that never left her light brown eyes with their feather of lines. Mateo simply didn’t lust after her anymore. But Roxanne knew exactly who this chic, gorgeous, confident woman was and knew what she’d meant and done to Mateo.
“Sí, señora.” Carmen Louisa took a step closer to Roxanne and looked her in the eyes. Carmen Louisa had a few inches over his wife. “But that was a very long time ago.”
“And now?” Roxanne asked.
Mateo stayed silent, cautious, ready to step in if...if what? Did he really think his brilliant billionaire CEO wife was going to claw his former lover’s eyes out? Over him? Questions knocked around his brain: Why did she care, if their relationship was temporary? Why was she staking her claim if they were only “friends”? He resisted letting a very male, primal sensation puff out his chest.
“Now, Mateo is my friend, my prince...” Carmen Louisa nodded at the vines. “My boss.” Her expression sobered. “And the one person I believe can bring the Monte back from ruin.”
“With your help, it seems,” Roxanne said, her shoulders relaxing.
“And others,” Carmen Louisa said. “Not all of us have lost faith.”
That caught Mateo’s attention. “What? Who has lost faith?”
Carmen Louisa’s brows quirked as her light eyes settled on him. “This comes as a surprise to you?”
“Why would they lose faith?” he huffed.
Her mouth slowly fell open, no words coming out as her fists settled on her hips. Finally, she said, “Because you’re never here. Because they haven’t seen you in months.” “Months” popped out of her mouth sharply. “Because your father buys furs for porn stars and your mother drips Tiffany diamonds while trash is piling up outside your people’s homes. And where is their prince?”
“I... That was a hiccup that I solved,” he said.
“You solved it!?” Carmen Louisa’s eyes went wide and angry. “Were you here, loading the stinking, dripping bags into your truck? No, I did that. Your growers did that. Your growers who tell the townspeople, ‘No, your príncipe loves you. No, the príncipe will be here any day.’”
He was astonished by her mocking voice. “I organized it,” he said, furious. How dare she! In front of Roxanne. “I got the funding that would have lasted us until we could get the vines planted if my father hadn’t...”
“Funding?!” Carmen Louisa’s outburst startled a couple of birds from the top of the tree. “Funding does not build faith. Faith is built by seeing you. Trust is built by being here.”
“I can’t be here all the time,” he said around gritted teeth. He felt like he was suffering whiplash, the quick emotional turn from his contentment with Roxanne to this from-out-of-nowhere attack from Carmen Louisa. “They have to see the blood dripping from my vein to know that I’m bleeding it for the Monte?”
She flung out her arms and scoffed at him. She actually scoffed at her friend and her prince.
“I’ve never heard you sound more like your father.”
The gut punch left him stunned and sickened. His most-trusted friend had been keeping her opinions to herself during the month that they’d been working together to shepherd his test vineyard through the growing season.
“What good does your ‘blood’ do as we watch the children get frustrated at the Monte’s careless decline? As we watch them decide that a life lived anywhere else is better than a life in the Monte?”
“I’m trying to fix it.”
“How? By proving to them that life is better lived someplace else?” She straightened and looked out to the vines for the calm they provided. “If you hadn’t come back for the growing season and only sent those twigs for your Tempranillo, joder, maybe I would have packed my bags, too.”
The weight of shame bent his head, had him staring at the dirt. “It’s not my Tempranillo. It’s our Tempranillo, to save the Monte.” He heard the petulance in his voice. “Of course I was coming back.”
“Of course?” she echoed. “Was it the growing season that brought you here? Or the surveyors barging into everyone’s fields?”
Mateo didn’t raise his eyes. He’d had a hazy plan to return for some part of the growing season. At least a week or two. But with Roxanne and his work at the lab and...well, his sister had talked about taking classes at UC Davis...and the crew here was so dependable....
Carmen Louisa’s voice was almost too quiet to be heard over the breeze. “When the threat of your father’s latest scheme goes away, will you go away, too?”
“Is that what everyone thinks?”
“They don’t know what to think. You finally brought your bride to see us. And that is good.” Mateo resisted looking at “his bride.” Christ, what must be going through her head? “But your father is still in control. And that is bad. You hate him more than you love the Monte.”
Mateo wanted to howl. “That’s bullshit.”
“You know your father and mother are still demanding the same tithe while all of our services have declined and people’s incomes have shrunk?”
“I can’t stop my parents from—”
“You don’t even try!” Although he wouldn’t look at her, Carmen Louisa couldn’t be stopped. “You let your hatred for him keep you away. You let your disgust for him make you silent. You keep your distance and ignore your responsibilities.” Every word was a cut, stabbing far deeper than his parents could. “Mateo, I believe in you. I know you have the ganas. I’m sorry to say this to you, I am, but you have to hear it: You’re a good man and a bad prince.”
“That’s enough.” Roxanne’s voice was soft but implacable.
“But he needs to...”
“I know.” Mateo kept his eyes on the dirt between his boots as she spoke. “But that’s about all the honesty anyone can handle. He needs a break.”
“Vale, señora.”
Steeped in shame, turning his back on his friend and his wife to walk to the car, Mateo took a second from his misery to recognize that it was the first time he heard Roxanne sound like a queen.
April: Day Two
Part Three
They had other appointments that day, people he’d promised to bring his wife to meet, dinner with the town’s alcalde and council at the local tavern, and they kept all of them. The art of faking it was one of the first skills Mateo learned. But he had nothing left by the time they returned to his home that evening. He felt as drained as a flat balloon.
He walked straight into his great room and poured himself and Roxanne a bad-idea amount of bourbon. He handed her a glass as she passed him to settle into a nearby chair, but he stayed standing, leaning back against the bar. Best not to be too far away from the alcohol.
He took a long deep drink then pressed the glass against his gut. Kept his eyes on the amber light shining in it. “Do you think I’m a bad prince?”
“Never.” Her simple, instant answer helped him draw his first deep breath in hours.
He raised his eyes to look at her. She’d pulled off her sandals and curled into the oversized chair like a cat. Her glass was in her lap, but she hadn’t drunk from it, if her soft, velvety lips were any indication. She looked back at him steadily.
“But you do think I’ve let my father...push me away from this place. You said as much last n
ight.”
She smiled gently, paused as if gathering her thoughts first. “I...don’t think your father cares where you are. Just as long as you stay in line or out of his way. You have made it easier on him by living on a different continent.”
Mateo stared at her open, calm, nonjudgmental face. “Fuck,” he breathed. He raised the glass and emptied it. Clutched it back against his stomach. “I’m the last one to figure out how badly I’ve fucked up, aren’t I?”
Roxanne’s beautiful blue eyes, eyes he’d seen snap with anger and sneer with superiority and flash in moments of lust-driven delight, softened with sadness for him. She looked young and vulnerable and endless, like an ocean of understanding and forgiveness that would wash him clean. Without taking his eyes off of her, he carefully put down his empty glass and stepped toward her.
Roxanne dropped her legs to the floor and stood, putting the chair between them. She put her full glass down on a nearby table and said to it, “I’m exhausted. I’m going to take a shower and turn in early.”
When she glanced up at him, her eyes were timid. Almost scared. It was the first time he’d ever seen them that way. She turned from him, and Mateo watched her hurry to her room.
He leaned to touch her glass and stroked where her lips had never been. He picked it up and finished it in deep thirsty gulps.
But this tepid replacement for her cleansing kiss couldn’t burn away the reality: he’d become everything he feared being.
He was weak, selfish, unworthy, self-absorbed. Everything he’d wanted to avoid—his father manipulating him, his kingdom falling victim to his father’s greed—he’d let happen. His ideals had been dust in the face of his spinelessness. He’d abandoned his people to his father’s dictates, and now they’d lost all hope that he could save them.
Lush Money (Filthy Rich) Page 17