Page 183 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

Santos kept his body relaxed as he leaned back against the sofa. ‘All right,’ he said easily. ‘Let’s talk about me.’

Mia looked surprised by his instant acquiescence and he supposed she would be. It wasn’t his usual way, but he was trying to be different, better. And, he realised, she needed a break from the deep dive into her childhood. No matter how much Mia insisted she was absolutely fine, Santos suspected that kind of turbulent upbringing had to have left scars.

Besides, he could talk about himself now, because he’d had a lot of time last night to think about all the things she’d said, about how he hadn’t shared his feelings, and he’d acknowledged the truth of that—he hadn’t. He’d been taught not to; taught that a strong man, an Aguila, kept control over those flimsy, ephemeral emotions. And he wasn’t about to start emoting big-time now, but he could at least be a little honest. He could try.

‘What is it you want to know?’ he asked pleasantly while Mia tried not to gape at him. He almost smiled; he found he enjoyed confounding her. She’d put him in something of a box and he was breaking out. He wastrying...and maybe it wasn’t going to be as hard as he’d thought it would be.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I know you grew up on the Aguila estate, and that you went to boarding school in Barcelona, and your father died when you were twenty-one.’ Yes, he’d told her all that, with very sparing details. ‘But I guess I don’t know how youfeltabout any of it,’ she continued slowly. ‘Were you close to your father?’

‘Yes,’ Santos replied quickly, automatically, before he’d even thought about it. He pictured his father’s autocratic features—those heavy eyebrows, hooded eyes, the Roman nose and tense jaw. Whenever he pictured his father, it was with his characteristically stern expression. He’d admired his father, revered him, even, but had they actually beenclose?

It was, Santos realised, a question he wasn’t sure he could answer and that made him feel...uneasy, wrong-footed. One question in, and already this was starting to feel harder than he’d hoped.

‘He was a man of incredible strength and integrity,’ he continued after a moment. ‘I always hoped to follow in his footsteps.’

‘Hoped?’ Mia repeated. She’d tucked her legs up under her and she was resting her chin in her hand, her hair loose and wavy about her shoulders, its auburn strands glinting in the sunlight, her freckles standing out on her nose. ‘Do you not think you have?’

‘I suppose the verdict is still out,’ Santos replied with a small smile. He was thirty-four, fifteen years younger than his father when he’d died. He’d done his best to live as a man of his word. He’d improved the Aguila estates and managed its many investments and property interests with honesty and integrity. But did he feel as good, as strong, a man as his father? No, he realised, he did not. He didn’t think he ever would, and he wasn’t sure he could even say why...only that it was deep-seated, ingrained and certain.

‘You’ve been in charge of the Aguila estate for, what, thirteen years?’ Mia raised her golden eyebrows. ‘Why is the verdict still out?’

Santos shrugged, discomfited. ‘I don’t know. I suppose because I still don’t feel like I’ve lived up to his standard.’ This was far more honest than he’d ever been before with anyone, and it was harder than he’d thought—a lot harder. ‘Maybe I’ll always feel that way,’ he said lightly. ‘Maybe every child feels that way about a parent who was...a large presence in their life. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’ For some reason, he felt as if this meant-to-be careless remark revealed even more about him. Maybe they should stop talking about their pasts.

‘Do youlikemanaging the estate?’ Mia asked. ‘I mean, do you enjoy it?’

‘Yes,’ Santos said again, just as quickly as before. ‘It’s...in my blood. I can’t imagine not doing it.’ Which was true enough. As the only Aguila son, he’d been born to it, brought up to it and instructed every day about what it meant.

‘That doesn’t really answer the question,’ Mia pointed out with a small, wry smile.

He nodded in acknowledgement, conceding her point. ‘I do enjoy it,’ he replied after a moment. ‘Not every bit, every minute—because a lot of management work is nothing more than tedious administration—but safeguarding something, nurturing it, watching it grow...’

He thought of the estate: the main house nearly six hundred years old; its walls steeped in history; the orange and olive groves that stretched almost all the way to the Sierra de las Nievas... But he didn’t always like thinking about that: the tragic scene he hadn’t been able to prevent happening in that shadowy space; the tart smell of Seville orange sharpening the air as his father had gasped for breath, his arms outstretched towards Santos as he’d begged him to help him live...

Santos pushed the thought away, as he always did, because he could not bear to remember.

‘All that, I love,’ he told Mia firmly. ‘And the estate workers...from the families who have harvested the oranges and olives for generations to the staff who work in the house...feel like my family. I have a responsibility to them...one I take very seriously.’

Mia was silent for a moment, her expression pensive. ‘We’re even more different than I thought we were,’ she finally said, reflectively. Santos’s heart sank even as irritation spiked through him.Thatwas her take-away?

‘You’ve had all these people surround you, people who you view as family,’ she elaborated, her gaze still pensive and distant. ‘And you’ve been rooted in one place, so much so that it’s become an integral part of you. Whereas I’ve never been in a place long enough to call it home, and I don’t have any family at all.’ She spoke matter-of-factly, without any self-pity, and Santos was pretty sure she didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. The differences in their backgrounds were indeed stark, but that didn’t mean they were insurmountable. He hoped that wasn’t what she was implying.

‘I suppose,’ he said after a moment, ‘There are advantages and disadvantages to both. You had a kind of freedom I could never even dream of.’

She smiled faintly, her eyebrows lifting. ‘Would you dream of it?’

It was an intrusive question, and one that made him stiffen defensively, although he kept his voice mild. ‘Yes, on occasion, as I imagine most people do.’

She nodded, still looking thoughtful. ‘So, if I had freedom...what did you have?’

‘Security, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘And...a sense of belonging. Of knowing who you are.’ He’d certainly always known that. He was an Aguila, a man of his word, in control of his destiny and his world. A man who did not succumb to emotion or weakness, who shouldered responsibility with ease as a glad burden.

And yet he’d thrown that all away, recklessly but also with joy, when he’d married Mia. He’d enjoyed it, a fact which brought him shame and confusion, but which he still didn’t regret. He might be an Aguila, but he wanted Mia. And somehow both of those things had to work together. He would make sure that they did.

An emotion flickered across her face, but Santos couldn’t tell what it was. She drained her drink and placed the empty glass on the coffee table. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she said as she leaned back against the sofa. The closed-off look on her face made him decide not to press. They’d shared a lot already, and maybe it was enough for now.

‘So,’ she asked after a moment, her tone turning determinedly bright, ‘When do we get to Amorgos?’

‘We’re just off the coast of Barcelona now,’ he told her. ‘And it’s another two days’ sailing to the Cyclades. But before then...’

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