Page 7 of Reckless Woman

“Oh God, would you?” Eve looks pathetically grateful as I rise up on all fours to stretch out my back and swing my legs off the side of the lounger. “Sofía’s on the mainland until late afternoon and I move with all the speed of a truck on a sharp incline these days…Ugh, I look like one, too,” she adds in disgust, blowing out her cheeks.

“No you don’t, you look beautiful,” I say firmly. Eve has embraced her second pregnancy like everything else in life: quietly, thoughtfully, and with more grit and determination than an advancing army.

I reach for the pale green chiffon sarong and tuck it around my black bikini. Meanwhile, the wailing is growing in tempo. Ella will be shattering glass soon.

“Where’s the nursery again?”

“First floor. Next to mine and Dante’s room. If she doesn’t stop crying, I’ll crawl up the steps like a giant slug and rescue you.”

“Chill,” I say with a smile. “I’ve got this covered.”

Padding into the living area, I allow the calm and light of Santiago’s mansion to envelop me like a greeting. I may have a long list of issues with the man who owns this place, but I’d never fault his taste: white walls, white tiles, stark black furniture lines and colorful explosions of modern art reveal a sharp eye and some serious fucking blood money.

When I’m here on the island, I stay with Joseph in a separate wing of this great white house that clings to the side of a mountain. Sometimes, when I’m out for an early morning jog along the beach, I look up and feel my steps falter. In those moments, it resembles Eve and I—and how we’re desperately clinging to the last few morals we have left.

Like the rest of the house, Ella’s nursery is impeccably designed. While the walls are white, there are soft feminine touches in grays and pinks that are definitely Eve’s influence.

The most violent colors are coming from the little girl herself. Barely a year and a half old, and looking pretty darn cross about it, her cheeks and her arms are flushed red with heat and indignation.

“Hush, Ella Bella,” I soothe. “I have all the hugs right here.”

Scooping up her little body from the bed, along with her soft brown teddy bear, I hold her close to me, savoring the warm weight of something more precious than gold in my arms.

“Did you have bad dreams?” I whisper into her damp forehead, absorbing the last of her hiccuping sobs into my bare chest as I sway gently from side to side, doing something so instinctive I’m not even aware of the movement until my knees start aching.

Settling into the nursing chair next to the window, I pick up a book lying on the table and start to read to her, curling my contentment around every word.

Sliding her pink thumb into her mouth, Ella gazes up at me with dazzlingly blue eyes that are all Eve’s and hair as black as her father’s soul.

So trusting.

So innocent.

If you screw this up, Santiago, I’ll kill you myself.

He’s already the reason I missed out on the first year of her life.

“I’ll make it up to you, Ella Bella,” I whisper, pressing my promise to the top of her head. “I’ll always be here for you, and your mom and, whoever else is growing inside her.”

For the next few minutes, I read, and she smiles. Her rapt silence is the sweetest melody, lulling me into a kind of peace I’ve never felt before. Unlike Eve, I never had this big life plan before the underworld crushed it with a swinging fist. She always wanted to be a reporter. In turn, I’ve been a coasting pinball with no damn direction, traveling from one job to the next—waitress, bartender, animal shelter volunteer…finding enjoyment in all of them, but no real satisfaction in any.

But this…this—

“Anna.”

I turn to find Joseph standing in the doorway to the nursery. His gaze ricochets from me to Ella. I watch his expression catch fire before it’s sliding into his usual apathy.

There was a declaration once, made by a pool in Colombia, when he turned words into treasure and made me believe in love and life again. Since then, there’s been nothing, so I’ve learned to grab hold of these brief glimpses. I’ve learned to interpret his feelings in the blink of an eye. I’ve developed a patience I never thought I was capable of as I wait for him to open up to me again.

He wants this.

He hates that he wants this.

Does he hate it because he doesn’t want it withme?

Rising shakily to my feet, I transfer the little girl to her bed and tuck a loose sheet around her and her brown teddy bear.

“She’s just fallen back to sleep,” I whisper, tiptoeing toward him and then beckoning him out into the hallway. “What are you doing here?”