Waves of hatred and fury radiate from Reyes, nearly overwhelming me.
“I never meant to hurt you, Reyes.” Throat aching with tears, I push away from the headboard and crawl to the foot of the bed. “I could barely look you in the eye when you came back to our hotel room that day. Every time I thought about breaking your heart, I wanted to curl up and die. Letting you go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I’ve been lost without you ever since. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. I just hope someday you can forgive—”
He strides quickly to the bed, shoving both hands into my hair and crushing his mouth to mine.
I melt into him with a grateful sob, letting my tears flow.
He kisses me with searing hunger, like a drowning man surfacing from the abyss.
“God, Emerson,” he breathes raggedly against my mouth. “All these fucking years . . . You should have told me the truth. I never would have let you go.”
“I know.” I pull back to cradle his face in my hands. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I had to protect you, even knowing that you would hate me for the rest of your life.”
His eyes are fierce on my face. “I love you. I always have, and I always fucking will.”
My heart soars as more tears spill down my cheeks.
He thumbs them away and brushes the pad of his thumb over my lips, then presses his forehead against mine.
“You were right about me,” he confesses, low and rough. “I came here because of you. More than anything else, I wanted answers from you. Because I never got over you, Em, and if there was the slightest chance that you felt the same, I had to find out once and for all.”
His words sink straight into my soul, bringing fresh tears to my eyes. Tears of joy and relief.
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” I whisper.
He angles his mouth over mine, kissing me hard and possessively. I cling to him, plunging my hands into the thick silk of his hair and kissing him back with everything I have.
I don’t realize he’s lowering me to the bed until my body sinks into the mattress. I stare up at his face as he turns off the lamp, pulls the covers up over us and gathers me protectively in his arms.
I nestle into his chest, drinking in the smell of him. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Same, baby. Same.” His lips brush my temple. “You’ve had a long week. Try to get some sleep.”
I haven’t slept much in days, and I don’t expect that to change tonight. But wrapped in Reyes’s arms and unburdened by the weight of past secrets, I soon feel myself slipping into the warm cocoon of sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Five
REYES
Long after emerson drifts off, I lay awake watching her sleep while replaying everything she told me.
I’m consumed by hatred and rage. So much rage my blood boils with it.
I want to kill Silvio Sartori.
I want to hunt him down and tear him limb from fucking limb. I want to beat his face to a bloody pulp and smash every bone in his skull. I want to gut him from throat to stomach and make him watch as I slowly rip out his intestines. I want to sneer in his face and spit on him as the life drains out of his eyes.
After what he did to Emerson and me, he deserves nothing less than a brutally violent send-off.
I regret every fucking minute I spent hating Emerson and blaming her for my misery. It was never her fault. She was forced to make an impossible choice. A choice that put my well-being above her happiness. She was trying to protect me from her father’s unspeakable cruelty.
Because she loved me.
I clench my jaw, my gut twisting with anguished fury. So many years have been wasted. So much time has been lost. And for what?
Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
I’ve driven myself crazy the past eight years wondering what went wrong between Emerson and me. Now that I finally know the truth, I feel even more cheated than before.
And Emerson . . . God.
She made the ultimate sacrifice for me. While I was consumed with resenting her and thinking the worst of her, she was nursing a broken heart.
I tenderly stroke her hair, watching her sleeping face. “I’m sorry,” I whisper in the moonlit darkness. “I can’t change the past. I can’t get back the years that bastard stole from us. But one way or another, I’m going to make this right.”
I wake up early, before the sun rises.
Emerson’s body is curled against mine, soft and warm.
Careful not to wake her, I slip quietly out of bed and creep into the bathroom to shower and get dressed. When I come out, Emerson is still sleeping soundly. Her lips are parted, her hair fanned out across the pillow like flames.
Hit by a fierce surge of protectiveness, I lean down and brush a kiss over her forehead. She stirs and sighs a little, but doesn’t wake up.
Smiling softly, I grab my phone and head downstairs to make some calls while I whip up a batch of banana pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon.
When everything is ready, I carry the food and drinks outside to the terrace and set them on the dining table.
Yesterday my housekeeper picked some flowers from the garden and arranged them in a vase. I use the pretty bouquet as a centerpiece for the table.
Just as I head back inside to retrieve Emerson, she walks into the kitchen.
She’s wearing a black Renegades T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts, clothes left behind from her previous stay. Her hair is twisted into two long braids that spill down her shoulders. The style makes her look as fresh-faced and innocent as the girl who stole my heart all those years ago.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hi.” She smiles a little shyly. “So this is where you snuck off to.”
“Yup. You found me.” I walk up to her, lift her chin with my finger and kiss her on the lips, feeling her breath catch.
Pulling away, I look deeply into her eyes and whisper, “You okay?”
“I think so,” she whispers back, searching my face. “What about you?”
“Getting there.” I smile and take her hand. “Breakfast is ready. Let’s eat.”
I lead her outside to the terrace. When she sees the food and flowers set out on the table, she beams with pleasure.
I pull out a chair for her, bending to kiss the top of her head. She smiles up at me with such adoration that I feel fifty feet tall.
As I take my seat across from her, she eyes the food appreciatively. “Everything looks and smells delicious.”
“It is,” I confirm, placing two pancakes on her plate and four on mine. “You missed dinner last night, so you should be good and hungry.”
“I am, actual— Oh, my God,” she cries, a delighted smile lighting up her face. “Are these banana pancakes?”
“They are.” I smile at her. “I remember how much you loved my mom’s banana pancakes.”
Her expression softens. “Oh, Reyes . . .”
Her tender, sentimental smile has my throat tightening with raw emotion. Glancing away, I add scrambled eggs and bacon to her side plate and say gruffly, “Dig in before it gets cold.”
“Yes, sir.” She pours syrup over her pancakes, picks up her fork and takes a bite. “Mmm,” she moans in appreciation. “Just as yummy as I remember.”
I grin. “And you said I didn’t pay attention during her cooking lessons.”
“I stand corrected.” Emerson eats another bite with a happy sigh that widens my grin.
I’ve always loved her healthy appetite. There’s nothing more unsatisfying than taking a woman to dinner and watching her peck at her meal, more concerned with counting calories than enjoying the culinary experience. I never had that problem with Emerson. Add that to the long list of things I missed about her.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, watching each other across the table as we soak up the rain-washed morning sunshine.
When she finishes her mimosa, I pour more orange juice into h
er glass and top it off with champagne.
“I’m taking you to Spain,” I casually announce. “We leave tonight.”
She freezes with her glass in midair. “Spain?”
“Sí.” I set my fork down on my empty plate and lean back in my seat. “I was going to take you this summer, but why wait? You’ve got a lot going on here. Now would be a good time to get away. We can visit my family, tour the winery, do some sightseeing and hit the beach for a week.”
She stares at me almost longingly. “That sounds absolutely amazing . . . .”
When her voice trails off uncertainly, I narrow my eyes. “Why do I hear a ‘but’ in there? Are you worried about missing work?”
She shakes her head, setting her glass down. “Both of my bosses told me to take some time off. It wasn’t optional,” she adds wryly.
“Excellent. Then it’s settled.”
She bites her lip, toying with the stem of her glass.
I frown. “What’s the problem? I thought you wanted to visit Spain and see the winery.”
“I do. Very much. It’s just that . . . well, your family . . .”
“What about them?”
“The last time I saw them was at our high school graduation . . . two weeks after I broke up with you.” She looks down guiltily. “When I went over to congratulate you after the ceremony, you were understandably cold and distant. Your family was there. They know how much I hurt you.” She lifts her eyes to mine. “What if they don’t want to see me, Reyes? You certainly can’t expect them to roll out the welcome mat.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I tell her.
“How can I not? They probably hate my guts.”
“They don’t hate your guts.”
“But—”
“Listen to me.” I lean across the table, placing my hand over hers. “I called my grandmother as soon as I woke up. She was out taking her Sunday afternoon walk through the vineyard, and I told her we were coming to see her. After she stopped squealing into the phone, I told her the whole story about your father.”
“You did?” Emerson stares at me. “Wh–what did she say?”
“She was outraged, of course. She couldn’t believe any father could be so cruel, and she had more than a few choice words for the bastard.” My hand tightens on Emerson’s as renewed fury twists in my gut. “She’s heartbroken for you, Em. For both of us. She doesn’t hold you responsible for what happened. If anything, she loves you even more for the incredible sacrifice you made for me.”
Emerson’s eyes mist with tears. She blinks them away and smiles softly. “I’ve always loved and admired Àvia Jimena. I used to wish she and Avi Nicolau were my grandparents.”
“I know, baby. I remember.” I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles one by one before lacing our fingers together. “Greer’s fueling up the jet, and Bruno will drive us to the airport. We can swing by your place to grab more clothes. Or, if you want to avoid reporters, you can just pack the clothes you have here, and I’ll buy you whatever you need when we get to Spain.”
Her green eyes glimmer at me. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“I have.” I look her directly in the eye. “I need to get us out of the country, Em. The sooner the better.”
She pales a little. “What do you mean?”
I hold her gaze, my voice deadly serious. “I spent half the night fantasizing about a hundred gruesome ways to punish your father for what he did to us. When I woke up this morning, I almost called my uncle to ask him to get me past your father’s security detail.” I pause, watching Emerson’s eyes widen in alarm. “If I don’t put some distance between him and me, there’s a very good chance I’ll end up killing him with my bare hands.”
Emerson visibly gulps. “Oh.”
“Exactly.”
She observes my menacing expression and swallows again, then picks up her mimosa and takes a long sip.
“So what’s it gonna be?” I growl impatiently.
She sets her glass down, rises from the table and comes around to sit on my lap. I stare up at her as she wreathes her arms around my neck and lowers her face to mine.
“I love you,” she whispers feelingly. “Nothing would make me happier than running off to Spain with you.”
My lips brush hers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes twinkle. “I mean, since it’s a matter of life and death, how could I possibly refuse?”
We arrive at the private airport as night falls.
Greer is flying us to Spain aboard one of his luxury corporate jets, an Embraer Lineage 1000E with Knox Air emblazoned in blue letters across the fuselage.
As Bruno hands off our luggage to Greer’s crew members, we start up the stairway to the plane. Greer stands on the top step waiting to greet us, a huge grin stretched across his face.
“Hello there, gorgeous.” He takes Emerson’s hand and raises it to his lips, kissing the back of it. “Welcome aboard Knox Air.”
“Thank you, Greer,” she says smilingly. “It’s good to see you again.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he drawls, giving her an appreciative once-over that has my eyes narrowing. “You’re looking good, Emerson. Been a long time since we saw each other.”
“It has. Eight years.” She motions to the sparkling white plane. “Congratulations on your successful company.”
“Thanks, darlin’. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that hard work and stubbornness don’t pay off.” He grins and makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Go on in and make yourself comfortable. Cocktails will be served shortly, followed by dinner.” He winks. “You and loverboy are in good hands.”
Emerson grins. “Never doubted it.”
As she disappears inside the plane, Greer grabs me in a one-armed hug and exclaims triumphantly, “Holy shit, man! It’s so fucking good to see you two back together.”
“It definitely feels good.” I haven’t given him the lowdown on Emerson’s father yet. Every rehashing of the story makes me angrier, so I figured I’d better hold off telling one more person until I’ve put several thousand miles between me and Silvio Sartori.
“You lucky son of a gun.” Greer grins broadly and claps his hand on my shoulder. “Looks like you just might get your happy ending after all, huh?”
I smile quietly. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
EMERSON
Catalonia, Spain
Monday, April 13
After a nine-hour flight, we arrive at the bustling main airport in Barcelona. Because of the six-hour time zone difference, it’s eight a.m. local time.
Reyes rented a Range Rover for the week. After stowing our luggage, he helps me up into the passenger seat while Greer stretches out in the back, pulls his baseball cap down over his face and promptly dozes off.
During the long flight, I was too amped up to take more than a few cat naps. Like an overexcited kid on her first trip to Disneyland, I peppered Reyes with questions about his family’s winery. He indulged my curiosity with warm affection, stroking my cheek or toying with my hair as he answered my questions. While he napped, I pored over blog articles and magazine spreads featuring Bodegas Galindo.
Located less than an hour from Barcelona, the family-owned vineyard and winery is considered one of the best in the Penedès region. Founded in 1904, the company is helmed by widowed matriarch Jimena Olivares, who took over operations after her husband died. Even before then, she had spearheaded numerous product launches and introduced innovative winemaking techniques, establishing herself as a visionary vintner in her own right.
The morning sun warms my face as we drive out of the city and into the countryside. I stare out the window, admiring a breathtaking vista of rolling hills and green valleys stretching to the distant horizon. Flanked by the Pyrenees mountains and the Mediterranean Sea, Catalonia is absolutely stunning.
Reyes negotiates the winding roads with ease, pointing out the remains of castles a
nd stone towers scattered across the landscape.
“I’ll give you a tour of the winery tomorrow,” he says. “On Wednesday we can venture out and do some sightseeing.”
I beam at him. “I’d love that.”
“So would I,” Greer drawls from the backseat. “I always meet so many beautiful women when I come here.”
Reyes shakes his head at me. “We’ll leave him behind.”
Greer chuckles. “I heard that.”
I turn in my seat to grin at him. “I thought you were taking a nap, Captain.”
“Not anymore.” There’s a devilish gleam in his eyes. “I noticed that you and loverboy didn’t take advantage of the bed on the plane. No need to be shy on my account. I know you’re both dying to—”
“Shut up, Knox,” Reyes growls.
Greer throws back his head with a rumbling shout of laughter. He’s every bit as mischievous as I remember. He’s also hotter than hell with a mess of dark hair, deep blue eyes and tatted biceps. God help any woman who tries to tame him.
I wind my hair into a topknot, getting it off my neck as I smile at Reyes. “Just to refresh my memory, your family speaks mainly Catalan, right?”
“Right,” he confirms. “Catalan is their first language. But they’re also fluent in English, as you remember. And, of course, they also speak castellano—”
“Castellano?”
“Spanish.” He slants me a teasing smile. “In other words, no one will be confused or offended if you start rambling in Spanish.”
I laugh. “As if.”
He wags his head at me. “I don’t understand how someone can grow up in New Mexico and never learn Spanish. It’s not as if you can’t grasp other languages. You speak Gaelic and Italian.”
“Because my parents are Irish and Italian,” I grumble, scowling at him. “Faccia a culo.”
Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1) Page 24
