“What happened to that kitten?” I ask, bracing myself. I’m prepared to hear another horror story, but Ana just shrugs in response.
“It grew up in the house,” she says, gently squeezing my arm before taking her hand away. “Julian kept it as his pet, named it Lola. He and his father had a fight about that—the older Señor hated animals—but by then Julian was old enough, and tough enough, to stand up to his father. Nobody dared to touch the little creature for as long as it was under Julian’s protection. When he left for America, he took the cat with him. As far as I know, it lived a nice long life and passed away from old age.”
“Oh.” Some of my tension fades. “That’s good. Not good that Julian lost his pet, I mean, but that it lived for a long time.”
“Yes. It’s good indeed. And you know, Nora, the way he looked at that kitten . . .” She trails off, gazing at me with a strange smile.
“What?” I ask warily.
“He looks at you like that sometimes. With that same kind of tenderness. He might not always show it, but he treasures you, Nora. In his own way, he loves you. I truly believe that.”
I press my lips together, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to flood my eyes again. “Why are you telling me this, Ana?” I ask when I’m certain I can speak without breaking down. “Why did you come out here?”
“Because Julian is the closest thing I have to a son,” she says softly. “And because I want him to be happy. I want both of you to be happy. I don’t know if this changes anything for you, but I thought you should know a little more about your husband.” Reaching out, she squeezes my hand and then walks back inside the house, leaving me standing by the railing, even more confused and heartsick than before.
* * *
I don’t join Julian in the office that afternoon. Instead I lock myself in the library and work on the paper, trying not to think about my husband and how much I want to be sitting by his side. I know that just being near him would make me feel better, that his presence alone would help with my hurt and anger, but some masochistic impulse keeps me away. I don’t know what I’m trying to prove to myself, but I’m determined to keep my distance for at least a few hours.
Of course, there’s no avoiding him at dinner.
“You didn’t come today,” he observes, watching me as Ana ladles us some mushroom soup for an appetizer. “Why not?”
I shrug, ignoring the imploring look Ana gives me before going back to the kitchen. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
Julian frowns. “You’re sick?”
“No, just a bit under the weather. Plus I had a paper to finish and some lectures to catch up on.”
“Is that right?” He stares at me, his eyebrows drawn together. Leaning forward, he asks softly, “Are you sulking, my pet?”
“No, Julian,” I reply as sweetly as I can, dipping my spoon in the soup. “Sulking would imply that I’m mad at something you did. But I don’t get to be mad, do I? You can do whatever you want to me, and I’m supposed to just accept it, right?” And taking a sip of the richly flavored soup, I give him a saccharine smile, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at my response. I know I’m tugging on a tiger’s tail, but I don’t want a sweet, gentle Julian tonight. It’s too misleading, too unsettling for my peace of mind.
To my frustration, he doesn’t take the bait. Whatever anger I managed to provoke is short-lived, and in the next moment, he leans back, a slow, sexy smile teasing at the corners of his lips. “Are you trying to guilt me, baby? Surely you know by now that I’m beyond that kind of emotion.”
“Of course you are.” I meant the words to sound bitter, but they come out breathless instead. Even now, he has the power to make my senses whirl and spin with nothing more than a smile.
He grins, knowing full well how he affects me, and dips his own spoon into the soup. “Just eat, Nora. You can show me how mad you are in the bedroom, I promise.” And with that tantalizing threat, he begins consuming his soup, leaving me no choice but to follow his lead.
As we eat, Julian peppers me with questions about my classes and how my online program is going so far. He seems genuinely interested in what I have to say, and I soon find myself talking to him about my difficulties with Calculus—has a more boring subject ever been invented?—and discussing the pros and cons of taking a Humanities course next semester. I’m sure he must find my concerns amusing—after all, it’s just school—but if he does, he doesn’t show it. Instead he makes me feel like I’m talking to a friend, or maybe a trusted advisor.
That’s one of the things that make Julian so irresistible: his ability to listen, to make me feel important to him. I don’t know if he does it on purpose, but there are few things more seductive than having someone’s undivided attention—and I always have that with Julian. I’ve had it since day one. Evil kidnapper or not, he’s always made me feel wanted and desired, like I’m the center of his world.
Like I genuinely matter.
As the dinner continues, Ana’s story plays over and over in my mind, making me viciously glad that Juan Esguerra is dead. How could a father do that to his son? What kind of monster would purposefully try to mold his child into a killer? I picture twelve-year-old Julian standing up to that brute for a defenseless kitten, and I feel an unwitting flash of pride at my husband’s courage. I have a feeling keeping that pet against his father’s wishes had been far from easy.