breath, forcing himself to suppress his anger towards the Galváns. His marriage might be over, but it didn’t change his feelings. Married or divorced, in his mind, Anabella would always be his wife. To death do us part, and he’d meant it. “I’ll be home tomorrow morning.”
But on the plane that night, stretched out in the leather lounge chair in the first class cabin, Lucio’s thoughts were tangled. His emotions even more jangled.
He tried to picture Anabella ill. He couldn’t. His Ana was tough. Physically, mentally, emotionally. She was as spirited and independent as they came. Nothing touched her. Nothing fazed her.
Ironically, it was her strength that had allowed the divorce to happen in the first place.
She’d been the one who pushed. He’d fought the divorce, fought her, for months, refusing to let go. But his refusal only pushed her further away. Her anger gave way to tears, and then the tears gave way to silence.
They stopped speaking. Stopped being in the same room at the same time. Stopped all communication.
He remembered asking her what she wanted for her birthday and she faced him across the long dinner table, he at one end, she at the other, and she very politely said, “A divorce, please.”
And in that calm voice, and that quiet moment, he agreed.
Later when they sat down to sign the papers, he’d hesitated. But tears welled up in her eyes, and she stretched a hand out across the table, entreating, Let me go, Lucio. We’re both so miserable. Please just let me go.
He caught her hands in his and saw the tears in her beautiful eyes, the quiver of her full passionate mouth and felt hell close round him.
It was over.
Silently he signed his name, dated the document and walked away without another word.
But he hadn’t really walked away, he thought now, leaning his head back against the wide leather seat. He’d been ignoring the truth, denying the truth, unable to handle the fact that Ana could so easily dispose of him, of them.
Eyes burning, Lucio swallowed the rush of hurt.
You were wrong, Anabella, he thought, eyes closed, chest livid with pain. I might have been miserable at times, but I never wanted out. Your love might have died. But I will always love you.
The commercial jet landed in Chile early the next morning, where Lucio took a connecting flight, arriving in Mendoza just after ten. A car was waiting for him, and the driver—one of Lucio’s own—didn’t offer any information and Lucio didn’t ask.
Mendoza had only been home for four years. Lucio had bought the vineyard, villa and business with one cashier’s check. He’d known nothing about the winery business at the time. He just knew it was respectable and respectable was what Ana’s family demanded.
But now as the chauffeur wove on and off the highway towards the villa nestled in the foothills, Lucio couldn’t help reflecting that Ana had loved the gaucho, not the vintner.
The black town car drove through ornate iron gates tipped in gold, and turned down a long private lane leading to an elegant two-story villa, the smooth plaster walls a wash of soft apricot paint. It might be wine country Argentina, but the house was all Tuscany. The original owners had been Italian. The wood beams, hardwood floor, roof tiles all imported from Italy.
With the morning sun casting a warm rosy glow across the front of the one-hundred-year-old villa with the tall cypress trees and the plaster arch flanking the front door, the house looked magical.
Lucio felt a pang of loss. This is the place he’d brought Ana as his new bride. This is the place he’d thought they’d finally make their home.
Nothing ever worked out as one hoped, did it?
“Shall I bring your bags in, Senor?” The chauffeur’s respectful voice interrupted Lucio’s painful thoughts.
Lucio shook off his dark mood, stepped from the car, and adjusted the collar on his black leather traveling coat. He’d do what he’d have to do. “No, Renaldo. I’ll be staying at my apartment downtown.”
Suddenly there was a shout from upstairs. He heard his name called. Once, twice, and Lucio turned to look up at the second floor of the villa. The windows were open to welcome the freshness of the morning. He searched the windows for a glimpse of Anabella but saw nothing.
Seconds later the front door burst open and suddenly she was there, on the doorstep, breathless from the dash down the stairs.
“Lucio,” Anabella cried, green eyes bright. “You’re home!”
CHAPTER TWO
FOR a long moment Lucio could think of nothing to say. It felt as if his brain had stopped functioning altogether and he simply stared at Anabella, amazed to see her downstairs, at the door.
The doctor had made her sound ill—fragile—but she practically glowed, her skin luminous and her green eyes bright like Colombian emeralds. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She was barefoot and wearing snug jeans, a crisp white blouse, and her long glossy black hair hung loose. “Now that you’re here.”
Now that you’re here.
Her soft, husky voice burrowed deep inside his heart. She sounded so glad to see him, so unlike the Anabella he’d last seen eight weeks ago, just hours before she left on her big shopping trip to Asia.
That Anabella, the antiques buyer, had been dressed immaculately in a black suit, high black heels, her red leather suitcases stacked at the door.
She’d stood on the doorstep of the villa for a long silent moment looking at him before smiling faintly. “Well, this is it,” she said, her cool smile not reaching her intense green eyes.
“Is it?”
Her head tipped, giving him a flash of her black hair smoothed into a sophisticated French twist. “I think so.”
“And you get to make all the decisions?” He shot back, regretting that he’d driven to the house to say goodbye, regretting that he couldn’t even contain his temper.
He knew she hated his temper. She hated the unresolved issues still simmering between them. Her cool smile slowly faded. “No, Lucio, I didn’t make all the decisions. We made them together.” And pulling on her black leather traveling gloves, she headed for her car, her head high, her slender back straight.
And that’s how he’d remembered her. Cool, elegant, an ice maiden. But that wasn’t the woman before him now.
“Where have you been, Lucio?” Ana’s voice sounded uncertain and her unblinking eyes held his.
“On a trip.”
Her uncertain smile faded, as did some of the joy from her eyes. “You said you’d never leave me.”
He frowned, puzzled. “We agreed—”
“To be together,” she interrupted fiercely, finishing the sentence for him. And her expression darkened
