I tested the snail with my tongue, but all I tasted was the flavoring. “I’ll have a little,” I conceded.
Cristiano eyed me as he poured Sauvignon Blanc into my glass. “I chose this meal for a reason.”
“To rattle me?” I asked, mimicking his earlier accusation.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “No. It’s a tribute to your mother, actually.”
I froze with the tiny fork in front of my mouth. Hearing anyone talk about her was enough to catch my attention, but walks down memory lane were few and far between. Diego hadn’t known her very well, and Papá could be stingy where emotions were involved. Cristiano was one person with actual memories who I’d never been able to talk to about her. “What?”
“The meal I had prepared for you tonight is one Bianca made for me once, start to finish, after a trip to Paris with your father. I had snails at your house—imagine the reactions of my brother and the others at the ranch when I told them that.”
I could only imagine. Diego had often shared rice and beans from a community vat. “Was I there?”
“Yes, but you were too young to remember.”
Sadness tugged at my heart as I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”
“There’s probably a lot you don’t.”
As much as I wanted to hate Cristiano and anything to do with him, the food before me took on new meaning. I put it in my mouth and chewed, and though the gelatinous consistency was unnerving, it wasn’t nearly as gross as I’d thought. With warm butter and garlic, it resembled seafood.
“Imported from California,” Cristiano murmured. “Like my young bride. I look forward to teaching you about the world.”
I had to stop from warning him his arrogance was showing. Perhaps the women he normally dated weren’t very worldly, but he knew my parents had liked to travel. “I’ve been places,” I said smartly. “And I’ve spent more time than you in North America. I can show you some things, too.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” His gaze darkened. “But I have fourteen years on you—and believe me, I intend to use them.”
Fourteen years, several countries, and likely countless women in his repertoire. How was I the one who’d ended up here? “Do you have other wives?”
His eyes nearly fell out of his head before he bellowed a laugh. He seemed more and more relaxed as the night went on—more than I’d ever seen him. Was it the wine, or something more? “That would make me a polygamist,” he said.
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
His smile faded instantly, and he blinked his gaze toward the pool a few moments. “Fear not. You are my one and only,” he said and cocked his head as I glanced at my plate. “You look disappointed to hear that. Do you want me to keep other women?”
“I’m sure it doesn’t matter what I want,” I said. “You didn’t come to bed until, like, three or four this morning I think. When you left the room, you were suitably . . .” And without warning, I lost my breath remembering the ravenous way he’d trapped my body, whispered in my ear, and probed the aching spot between my legs. He must have gone to see another woman—and how had he treated her? With the same hot and cold regard? Had he pretended she was me? Had he wished she was? “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where you were,” I finished.
“And where was I?”
“Is there a brothel in this ‘town’?”
“I don’t pay for sex.”
“Maybe Jazmín then,” I said. “She’s beautiful, and very loyal to you, it seems.”
Cristiano rubbed his jaw, watching me. “I must say . . . if you’re wading into the waters of jealousy, I quite like it. I like it very much.”
“Jealousy?” I mocked. “That a man who would rape me probably raped someone else instead?”
“Jealousy,” he said in a corrective tone, “of a woman who doesn’t want her husband with anyone else. Even if she doesn’t want him.”
I picked up my drink and took a sip that half drained it. “A tribute to my mother,” I said, shaking my head into the wineglass. “What a crock of shit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I think you made all that up about my mom to toy with me.”
The pocket of his light shirt lit up with a call. When he made no move to answer it, I said, “Your phone is ringing.”
Fisker stepped onto the patio with our next dish. “Duck confit,” he announced, delivering an aromatic, beautifully presented duck leg with caramelized apples in front of me.
Cristiano sat back in his seat, his eyes suddenly glued to me as he reached into his pocket and appeared to send the call to voicemail. “Don’t wait for me,” he said. “Go on.”
I started to say it was impolite to eat until he’d also been served—but who cared about manners at a time like this? Politeness was almost a form of capitulation, of following rules set by someone with more authority than me. I picked up my fork and knife and took a bite.