legs and threw her short arms around his neck, peppering his clean-shaven face with kisses.
Ilda caught the bemused expression on Pipe’s face as he hugged Arlo in return, as though—even though it had been more than three years since Arlo had prematurely entered their world—he still couldn’t quite believe she was his to care for, his to protect, his to love.
Her lungs seized, and she drew her hands beneath the table, where no one would notice them shaking. Her skin burned where he’d touched her, an indictment of her behavior yesterday. Behavior that should, by any definition, constitute infidelity, the conflict roiling within threatening to rip her apart.
This was all Casey Faraday’s fault. He was the reason she’d lost her appetite, sat mired in unsettling guilt and too confused over the metric ton of unanticipated truth bombs that had been dropped over the past twenty-four hours. If she thought too hard, she could feel her identity and the careful life she’d built start to disappear. She feared that, should she glance down, she might witness her fingers fade away. It seemed logical to her, that her physical body would reflect her loss of self.
So Ilda clung to what she knew in the here and now, and the shaky foundation she’d laid brick by tenuous brick with Pipe since their shared tragedy, followed so soon by Arlo’s painful, joyful birth. “I’m finalizing the menu for the dinner party. Do you have any requests before I talk to the chef?” she asked, reaching for a pitcher of grapefruit juice and pouring herself a small glass.
“So long as there’s torta de natas for dessert, I’ll be happy.” He clucked his tongue at Arlo, steadying her with both hands as she devoted single-minded focus to his hair, stubby fingers attempting to twist and braid the once neatly combed strands.
Ilda watched the two of them together with a painful knot beneath her sternum. He sat there so casually, this man the world vilified, and let his niñita do whatever the hell she wanted, uncaring who noticed his obvious doting. No better father, she told herself, more assertively than usual. Her baby girl had won the lottery when it came to papas. “I’m nervous about this dinner, Felipe.” Ilda shifted her gaze to the pretty pink grapefruit juice in the cut-crystal tumbler, swirling the liquid with restless fingers.
“Nothing to be nervous about, querida .” Pipe reached for the mobile phone next to his coffee mug, tapping at the screen, scrolling with his thumb, his mind clearly already on his workday. “I’m going to bring peace to Medellín. This dinner is the first step.”
It might be the first step, but it was a dangerous one. Pipe had invited the leaders of the Orras cartel to the hacienda a few days from now for what could only be described as détente. Magnanimous of him, which was obviously the point, but Ilda wasn’t so forgiving. The rival cartel was responsible for Théa’s death—they’d killed in cold blood, on the side of the road.
The thought of Ciro Orras and his merry band of thugs sitting around her supper table, eating the dishes she’d planned, thanking her for passing the butter dish...it made her sick. It made her tremble in her seat, her skin prickling in nauseating waves, because there was every chance in the world that she would have to smile politely at the bastard who pulled the trigger on Théa.
But Pipe had demanded this dinner, and Ilda’s presence as its hostess, and Pipe’s word was law. Not only at the hacienda, but in this city.
He glanced up from his phone to spear her with a searching look. Whatever he saw on her face softened his expression, and he set the mobile aside. “Trust me, Ilda. I know what’s best for us. This is how we finally move past our grief.”
For a moment, her heart softened. Pipe had suffered as deep a loss as Ilda with Théa’s murder four years ago. Their engagement had been Colombia’s fairy-tale romance, for all that the prince of the
Ilda caught the bemused expression on Pipe’s face as he hugged Arlo in return, as though—even though it had been more than three years since Arlo had prematurely entered their world—he still couldn’t quite believe she was his to care for, his to protect, his to love.
Her lungs seized, and she drew her hands beneath the table, where no one would notice them shaking. Her skin burned where he’d touched her, an indictment of her behavior yesterday. Behavior that should, by any definition, constitute infidelity, the conflict roiling within threatening to rip her apart.
This was all Casey Faraday’s fault. He was the reason she’d lost her appetite, sat mired in unsettling guilt and too confused over the metric ton of unanticipated truth bombs that had been dropped over the past twenty-four hours. If she thought too hard, she could feel her identity and the careful life she’d built start to disappear. She feared that, should she glance down, she might witness her fingers fade away. It seemed logical to her, that her physical body would reflect her loss of self.
So Ilda clung to what she knew in the here and now, and the shaky foundation she’d laid brick by tenuous brick with Pipe since their shared tragedy, followed so soon by Arlo’s painful, joyful birth. “I’m finalizing the menu for the dinner party. Do you have any requests before I talk to the chef?” she asked, reaching for a pitcher of grapefruit juice and pouring herself a small glass.
“So long as there’s torta de natas for dessert, I’ll be happy.” He clucked his tongue at Arlo, steadying her with both hands as she devoted single-minded focus to his hair, stubby fingers attempting to twist and braid the once neatly combed strands.
Ilda watched the two of them together with a painful knot beneath her sternum. He sat there so casually, this man the world vilified, and let his niñita do whatever the hell she wanted, uncaring who noticed his obvious doting. No better father, she told herself, more assertively than usual. Her baby girl had won the lottery when it came to papas. “I’m nervous about this dinner, Felipe.” Ilda shifted her gaze to the pretty pink grapefruit juice in the cut-crystal tumbler, swirling the liquid with restless fingers.
“Nothing to be nervous about, querida .” Pipe reached for the mobile phone next to his coffee mug, tapping at the screen, scrolling with his thumb, his mind clearly already on his workday. “I’m going to bring peace to Medellín. This dinner is the first step.”
It might be the first step, but it was a dangerous one. Pipe had invited the leaders of the Orras cartel to the hacienda a few days from now for what could only be described as détente. Magnanimous of him, which was obviously the point, but Ilda wasn’t so forgiving. The rival cartel was responsible for Théa’s death—they’d killed in cold blood, on the side of the road.
The thought of Ciro Orras and his merry band of thugs sitting around her supper table, eating the dishes she’d planned, thanking her for passing the butter dish...it made her sick. It made her tremble in her seat, her skin prickling in nauseating waves, because there was every chance in the world that she would have to smile politely at the bastard who pulled the trigger on Théa.
But Pipe had demanded this dinner, and Ilda’s presence as its hostess, and Pipe’s word was law. Not only at the hacienda, but in this city.
He glanced up from his phone to spear her with a searching look. Whatever he saw on her face softened his expression, and he set the mobile aside. “Trust me, Ilda. I know what’s best for us. This is how we finally move past our grief.”
For a moment, her heart softened. Pipe had suffered as deep a loss as Ilda with Théa’s murder four years ago. Their engagement had been Colombia’s fairy-tale romance, for all that the prince of the
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