stiffened. “What about Dante?”
His voice had hardened, the tone turning cold. He didn’t like Dante. “This is about Dante.”
“Yes.”
This was about Dante.
Zoe rushed from beneath his arm, fled to the far side of the red marble bathroom.
This was about Dante. He’d kidnapped her to hurt Dante. He’d done this to make Dante suffer.
But she adored Dante. He was the big brother she’d never had. He’d saved their farm, fallen in love with Daisy, had taken care of their father. Dante was the answer to the Collingsworths’s prayers.
She felt sick, and cold again, deeply cold, as though fear and pain had settled all the way into the marrow of her bones. Pointing to the door, Zoe ordered Lazaro out. “Go.”
He slowly stood, rising to his full height. In the dimmed light his cheekbones looked like angular slashes above his full mouth. His broken nose shadowed his blunt chin. “Someday you will understand.”
“I will never understand. Dante is a good man. He’s the most generous man I know.”
“You don’t know the full story.”
“Get out.” She turned her back on him, wrapped her arms across her chest.
He crossed to the door. “No matter what happens, I will keep my promise to you.”
In the bath Zoe soaped and scrubbed, feeling sullied after the trip, the abduction, the kiss. She didn’t understand how she could feel so many intensely conflicting emotions. She was afraid of Lazaro Herrera and yet intrigued.
Toweling off, Zoe knew she had to act to get word to Dante and Daisy, knew time was of the essence. She’d look for that phone as soon as she could.
Dry and wrapped in a robe, she faced the open closet in her adjoining bedroom. Someone had unpacked for her. She couldn’t imagine it was Lazaro.
Zoe didn’t like feeling naked in this strange house and dressed quickly, putting on comfortable jeans and a well-washed yellow sweatshirt. She’d just started to put on socks and sneakers when a knock sounded at the door.
Opening the door, Zoe discovered a tiny old woman, no taller than five feet, with gray-streaked hair and an extremely wrinkled olive-complexioned face. “Hello.”
“¡Vamanos!” The unsmiling old woman crossed her hands over her stomach. Her voice sounded sharp. “La cena.”
Definitely not a warm welcome. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Zoe answered slowly in English. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
“La cena. La comida.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
The older woman exhaled noisily, tossed up her hands. “¿Que dice?”
“I…I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“¿Que?”
“Señor Herrera. Ask Señor Herrera, sí?”
The elderly woman muttered something beneath her breath and stalked off. She made it halfway down the hall before turning around.
With short, curt gestures she motioned to her mouth, and opened and shut her mouth in an exaggerated chewing motion. “La comida. La cena. La cena.”
Understanding dawned. “La cena.” Food, dinner, Zoe finally got it. But that didn’t mean she was going to rush on out and eat. Who wanted to be invited to dinner like that?
Zoe shut her door and it slammed closed far harder than she intended. Wincing, she climbed on her bed, grabbed a pillow and buried her face in the pillow where she let out a muffled scream of frustration.
This was a nightmare.
She couldn’t stay here. Nothing made sense. Everything was off kilter, from the brandy to the marble bathroom to the kiss. She felt lost…confused.
Her door banged open less than two minutes after she’d slammed it shut.
“¡Por Dios! What happened?” Lazaro demanded from the doorway. “I’ve never seen Luz so upset.”
“Luz?”
“My housekeeper.” He braced his hands on his hips, indignation written all over his hard, dark features. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing.”
“Yet clearly you’ve offended her.”
Zoe mashed the pillow between her hands, squeezing the pillow into a ball. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“No. She said you spit in her face and slammed the door. I heard the door slam, too.”
Zoe flushed. “I didn’t spit. I wouldn’t spit. That’s rude.” She swallowed hard. “And I didn’t mean to slam the door. It closed harder than I expected.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, his mouth compressed. He seemed to be considering her, the situation, Luz’s version of events. “Que joda,” he ground out after a moment.
“What did you say?”
“I said, what a nuisance. You don’t want dinner, fine. Stay in your room. But I’m not going to send special trays to you. There is a dining room in this house, and a very nice antique table with matching chairs. If you want to go to bed hungry, that’s your choice. If you want to eat, you know where I—and the food—will be.”
He knew she wouldn’t join him for dinner and he didn’t have dinner held. It didn’t bother him eating alone in the elegant dining room, either. He almost always ate alone, and had ever since his mother died when he was seven.
He used to think it was poverty that killed her. The two of them were always hungry, and despite the fact that she worked every job she could secure, there never seemed to be enough money to get them off the streets.
Luz entered the dining room, reached for his plate, saw that he’d barely made a dent in his dinner. “Not hungry?” she asked sharply, her wrinkled brow doubly lined with concern.
Luz had befriended his mother before she died. Luz had been poorer than his mother, too, and yet she had fire, and a fierce spirit which made her fight back against those who would oppress her. She’d tried to teach his young mother, Sabana, to stand up to the aristocratic Galváns but his mother was terrified of the powerful Galván family.
“I’ll have coffee and something light later,” he said, leaning back so she could clear his place.
Luz held the plate in her hands. “Who is she, the girl?”
“A friend of a friend.”
Luz made a rough clucking sound. “The truth.”
“It’s
