A Game of Vows

A look from Eduardo made her burn. Everywhere.

She’d lived with him before, though, and nothing had happened between them. There was no reason to think she couldn’t keep a handle on it this time.

She turned her face away from him, the night air hitting her cheek, feeling especially cold with the loss of his skin against hers.

He cupped her chin with his thumb and forefinger, turning her face so that she had to look at him. “You can’t act like my touch offends you.”

“I’m not,” she said, holding her breath as she took a step closer to him, as she slid her hand down his arm and laced her fingers with his. “See?”

She was sure he could hear her heart pounding, was certain he knew just how he was affecting her. Except … he wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t poised to give her a witty comeback, or make fun of her.

“You seem so different,” she said, following him to where the valet was standing. He ignored her statement and gave his keys to the young man in the black vest, speaking to him in Spanish, his focus determinedly off Hannah, even while he held on to her hand.

He tightened his grip on her as they walked on the cobblestones, to the front of the restaurant. It was an old building, brick, the exterior showing the age and character of Barcelona. But inside, it had been transformed. Sleek, sophisticated and smelling nearly as strongly of money as it did of paella, it was exactly the kind of place she’d imagined Eduardo would like.

It was exactly the kind of place she liked.

A man dressed all in black was waiting at the front. His face lit with recognition when Eduardo walked in. “Señor Vega, a table for you and your guest?”

“Sí,” he said. “This is Señora Vega, my wife. She’s come back to Barcelona. I’m very … pleased to see her.” He turned to the side, brushing her hair off her face. Heat sparked, from there down through her body. She tried to keep smiling.

The man cocked his head to the side, clearly pleased to be let in on such exclusive news. “Bienvenido a Barcelona, señora. We’re glad to have you back.”

She could feel Eduardo’s gaze on her, feel his hold tighten on her waist. She forced her smile wider. “I’m very glad to be back.”

“Bien. Right this way.”

He led them to a table in the back of the room, white and glossy, with bright red bench seats on either side of it. There was a stark white curtain shielding part of the seating area from view, giving an air of seclusion and luxury.

Eduardo spoke to their host in Spanish for a moment before the other man left and Eduardo swept the curtain aside, holding it open for her. She looked at him, the smile still glued on her face. “Thank you.”

Back when they’d been married, they might have gone to a place like this late on a Saturday night. And everyone inside would know Eduardo. Would clamor for his attention. And she would play her part, smiling and nodding while mentally trying to decide what appetizer to get.

There was none of that tonight. If people had looked at them, it had been subtle. And no one spoke to Eduardo. No one stopped to ask about business. Or where the next big party was. Or which nightclub was opening soon.

She looked behind them and saw that people were staring. Trying to be covert, but not doing a good job. Their expressions weren’t welcoming. They looked … They looked either afraid or like they were looking at a car crash and she couldn’t figure out why.

“You play your part very well,” Eduardo said, not paying any attention to the other diners, “but then, you always did.”

“I know,” she said. She played every part well. A girl from the Southern United States with bad grades, a thick-as-molasses accent and a total lack of sophistication had to work hard to fit in with the university crowd in Barcelona. But she’d done it.

She’d dropped most of her accent, studied twice as hard as anyone else, and perfected an expression of boredom that carried her through posh events and busy cities without ever looking like the country mouse she was.

It was only when she was alone that she gave herself freedom to luxuriate in comfortable sheets and room service, and all of the other things her new life had opened up to her.

“And you’re never modest, which, I confess, I quite like,” he said. “Why should you be? You’ve achieved a great a deal. And you’ve done it on your own.”

“Is this the part where you try and make friends with me?” she asked.

He laughed, a sort of strained, forced sound, nothing like the laugh he’d once had. It had been joyous, easy. Now he sounded out of practice. “Don’t be silly, why would I do that?”

“No reason, I suppose. You never did try to be my friend. Just my fake husband.”

“Your real husband,” he corrected. “Ours just hasn’t been a traditional marriage.”

“Uh, no. Starting with you calling me into your office one day and telling me you knew all my secrets and that, unless I wanted them spilled, I would do just as you asked me.”

A waiter came by and Eduardo ordered a pre fixe meal. Hannah read the description in the gilded menu and her stomach cramped with hunger. She was thin—she always had been—but it had more to do with her metabolism than watching her diet. Food was very important to her.

When the waiter had gone, she studied Eduardo’s face again. “Why did you do that? Why did you think it would be so … funny to marry me?”

He shook his head. “Very hard to say at this point in time. Everything was a joke to me. And I felt manipulated. I resented my father’s heavy hand in my life and I thought I would play his game against him.”

“And you used me.”

He met her eyes, unflinching. “I did.”

“Why?”

He looked down, a strange expression on his face. “Because I could. Because I was Eduardo Vega. Everything, and everyone, in my life existed to please me. My father wanted to see me be a man. He wanted to see me assume control. Find a wife, a family to care for. To give of myself instead of just take. I thought him a foolish, backward old man.”

“So you married someone you knew he would find unsuitable.”

“I did.” He looked up at her. “I would not do so now.”

She studied him more closely, the hardened lines on his face, the weariness in his eyes. “You seem different,” she said, finally voicing it.

“How so?” he asked.

“Older.”

“I am older.”

“But more than five years older,” she said, looking at the lines around his mouth. Mostly though, it was the endless darkness in his eyes.

“You flatter me.”

“You know I would never flatter you, Eduardo. I would never flatter anyone.”

A strange expression crossed his face. “No, you wouldn’t. But I suppose, ironically, that proves you an honest person in your way.”

“I suppose.” She looked down at the table. “Has your father’s death been hard on you?”

“Of course. And for my mother it has been … nearly unendurable. She has loved him, only him, since she was a teenager. She’s heartbroken.”

Hannah frowned, picturing Carmela Vega. She had been such a sweet, solid presence. She’d invited Eduardo and Hannah to dinner every Sunday night during their marriage. She’d forced Hannah to know them. To love them.

More people that Hannah had hurt in order to protect herself.