Page 74 of Bound Enemies
Santiago’s gaze is direct. ‘Yes. Turned my mother and me out on the street. She found some peace in the bottom of a wine bottle and I found mine in physics.’
I want to believe he’s lying to me, but I know a little of Santiago now and I know how he hates a lie. He wouldn’t lie about this. What he’s just said about Antonio’s behaviour also rings true. He was a man who held grudges, and would fly into a rage over the slightest little thing. He was never awful to me—perhaps age had mellowed him—but I can see him doing exactly what Santiago said. Especially as a younger man.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, hearing how pathetic the words are but not knowing what else to say. ‘That must have been terrible.’
‘Why are you sorry?’ The muscle in Santiago’s jaw ticks again, anger flickering in his eyes, though I realise that this time it’s not directed at me. ‘It’s not your fault. He never forgave me, did you know that? He shut me out. Left me and Mother without a penny. I tried to mend fences with him over the years, but he refused to answer any of my calls, or emails or texts.’
My chest tightens unexpectedly. Because beneath the fury in the words I can hear something else. Pain. ‘You loved him,’ I say without thinking. ‘Didn’t you?’
Chapter Twelve
Santiago
The observation is sharp, a scalpel sliding into my flesh, and for a moment all I can do is sit there and stare at Beatrix. She’s looking at me as if she knows me, as if all the emotions I cut from my heart years ago are still there. Even that most pathetic of all feelings: love.
Perhaps once, I loved him. Perhaps once, I thought him the greatest man who ever lived, and I wanted to be just like him. And perhaps once, he loved me in return. But I also told the truth once, and he held it against me forever.
Since then any love I once had for him curdled like sour milk, turning into a thin and bitter liquid that left a bad taste in my mouth. A taste easily got rid of with a couple of glasses of good Scotch.
But I don’t want to talk about Antonio. She somehow led me into a conversation about him, asking questions that I had to give her the truth about. There’s no sugar-coating her late husband’s behaviour and I won’t do it.
Of more pressing concern is her insistence on becoming my wife.
Marriage, like children, hasn’t been on my radar, since it requires a level of emotional commitment that I’m not willing to give. It certainly only made my mother’s life miserable. Then there’s the fact that Beatrix is my father’s widow, and I want nothing that was his.
Still, that conscience of mine kept whispering that what she was saying was correct, that she shouldn’t be vilified for wanting some legal protection if she’s to live with me here.
You didn’t like the idea of her marrying someone else, either.
I shouldn’t have said that about her never marrying another man, not so insistently. But the primitive man in me wouldn’t be quiet. The thought of her choosing someone elseagainis not something I can bear, not before I’ve had my fill of her. Shehasto remain mine if she’s going to be in my bed, there’s no other option for me, and if a marriage vow will keep her at my side until we’re done, then why not?
When we get tired of each other, we can separate, and what happens with our child we’ll discuss then, since I’m not wedded to the idea of a family in the traditional sense. My mother and I were better off alone in the long run anyway.
‘I don’t want to talk about my father,’ I say bluntly. ‘The issue of a marriage is more pressing.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Really? You seemed as if you didn’t want to talk about that either.’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say. ‘The idea has some…merit.’
A flush of colour stains her cheekbones, and she takes another sip of her tea. ‘If it would make you more comfortable with the idea, we could draw up some kind of contract. I mean, if you want a prenup, I’ll sign it.’
A flicker of irritation goes through me. Does she think my discomfort with the idea of marriage is solely about money? That a prenup would make me feel ‘comfortable’?
‘This is not about my comfort,’ I say, a little too sharply. ‘A legal marriage will be for yours.’
She puts her cup down on the table, and leans back in her chair, regarding me. ‘Why not yours? Is your comfort not important?’
It’s an odd question, and one that sets me off balance, since I’ve never given much thought to my comfort or otherwise.
‘I’m perfectly comfortable already,’ I say curtly.
‘Are you?’ Her level gaze is strangely piercing. ‘Is that why you’re so angry all the time?’
Oh, she sees you. She sees you all too well.
My irritation turns into anger. I want to deny it, tell her she’s wrong, but…
That would be a lie, wouldn’t it? And aren’t you always honest with yourself?
