Her heart wasn’t going to survive this experience. She already knew he was decent, that he cared for people and used his money for good. She’d thought she was safe to like him again.
But this. This.
She couldn’t forget why she was here. Marcos Navarre simply wanted her for the Corazón del Diablo. It didn’t matter if he was kind to orphans, or if he took care of needy children, or if he had nightmares that she didn’t under stand.
This was about the necklace, and his ownership of it, nothing else. He might realize that she wore clothes that didn’t fit, but that didn’t mean he cared for her. She’d been in Argentina for three days and she was already questioning her beliefs. How on earth would she survive for three months?
“Francesca.”
She shook herself when he repeated her name. “Yes, sorry, just thinking.”
He held out his arm. “Come inside. Ingrid will have prepared an amazing meal, and you must surely be hungry by now.”
She was surprised to realize that her stomach was growling. “I am, yes.”
Marcos showed her to a room, left her to freshen up, and said he would meet her in fifteen minutes outside her door. After a quick brush of her hair and a swipe of fresh lip-gloss, she emerged to find Marcos waiting for her. Her heart tumbled into her toes, then soared to the top of her head. He looked delicious, of course. He wore faded jeans and he’d loosely rolled the sleeves of his white cotton shirt. He’d also exchanged his polished loafers for a pair of flip-flops.
She thought he would take her to the dining room, but instead he showed her outside, to the covered veranda, where a table had been set up with linens, crystal, silver and china. Instead of a single rose, a spray of wild flowers bloomed in a vase in the center of the table.
Beyond the veranda, the cobbled terrace gave way to a manicured lawn that flowed naturally into the vineyard beyond. Vines twisted along the fences that lined each row. The back of the house faced west, so that beyond the vines she could see the snowy peaks of the Andes.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Sí.” Marcos pulled her chair out for her. “I love to come here, when I can get away.”
Once they were seated, a young man arrived with a bottle of wine. Marcos tested the small splash he was given, then nodded and said something in Spanish. The boy grinned and poured a full measure into Marcos’s glass before coming to pour for her.
When he was gone again, Marcos lifted the glass and held it up to the light. “It is a Malbec,” he said. “The grapes originally came from France, but they like Argentina better.”
He sipped and closed his eyes. She watched the slide of his throat as he swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry as she sipped her own wine. She closed her eyes too, more to block out the sight of Marcos drinking than because she thought it would add to the experience.
The wine was fruity and full-bodied: plummy, with flavors of spice, currant, and vanilla.
“It’s delicious,” she said. “Do you make this here?”
He nodded. “We have a vintner on staff. The wine is mostly for Navarre Industries, though we sell some to the tourists.”
“Why did you say you don’t do enough for the kids? I can’t imagine that anyone could do more.”
He shrugged, but she knew the gesture was anything but light. “You have seen what I am up against. There are more kids every day who find themselves in the streets, begging, doing drugs, selling their bodies. Many have families to return to at the end of the day, families who live in shacks and who need the income they produce. Others have nowhere to go. The Foundation has better luck with them, but we try to reach them all.”
“I think you’re doing a wonderful job, Marcos …”
The words died in her throat as a black haired toddler came running out of the nearest door on chubby legs, a girl chasing him as he giggled and screamed. Marcos was on his feet in an instant, scooping the child into his arms before he could get away. The girl, a golden blonde creature who looked no more than twelve, stood with her head bowed and her hands behind her back.
“Señor Navarre,” a tall, blonde woman who must be the girl’s mother said as she hurried out of the house, “please forgive me. I turned my back for two seconds, and he was gone. Isabelle was trying to catch him for me.”
Marcos smiled at the toddler who was clinging to him and giggling. “It’s not a problem, Ingrid. And who is this little one?”
The woman wiped her hands on an apron as she came forward. “He belongs to Ana Luis, one of the new girls here. His name is Armando.”
“Ah, I see.” Armando’s eyes grew wide as the food began to arrive. He bounced up and down in Marcos’s arms. Marcos laughed. “Perhaps he is hungry, yes?”
“I was just about to feed him, as soon as I finished frosting the cakes.”
“Go finish. He can stay with us for a while.”
“He will disrupt your lovely dinner, señor.”