tale of wrongful imprisonment and revenge, but another book caught her eye. This one had “Photos” emblazoned on the spine.
What sort of photos would a man like Alejandro find important enough to keep in an album? Bullfighting ones, no doubt. Curious, she pulled the book from the shelf and placed it on the desk in front of her.
She opened the cover—and sank onto Alejandro’s chair, her knees no longer strong enough to hold her up. A little girl smiled back at her. A beautiful, black-haired child with grey eyes and a smile so familiar it hurt to see it.
But to see it in a toddler?
His child. Without a doubt, this girl was Alejandro’s child. She had his smile, his eyes, the stubborn tilt of his chin. When he appeared in a picture with her, the resemblance was unmistakable. Tears sprang to Rebecca’s eyes. Why? She wiped at them furiously, flipping pages until she came to a photo that made her heart stop. Alejandro holding the little girl on a beach. He was healthy and tan, his smile glowing as he gazed at his daughter. The girl stared at whoever took the photo, a finger in her mouth, her eyes wide.
Rebecca chewed absently on a knuckle. My God, he’d had a child after she’d gone back to America. He’d married the woman and had a beautiful little girl with her. Jealousy speared Rebecca like a poisoned barb. You have no right, she told herself. You left.
But she’d had to go. He’d been engaged.
He said he wasn’t, a voice whispered. You gave him no chance to prove it.
She shook her head. If he hadn’t been engaged, why did he go through with it? You didn’t marry someone and have a child with her if you weren’t committed somehow.
Rebecca forced herself to flip more pages. It was mostly the little girl, though her mother appeared in a couple. Never smiling, this woman. Never looking anything other than irritated.
A nanny, perhaps?
But no, the little girl had her mother’s bone structure. Rebecca turned the pages faster. She could almost be glad that Alejandro had a sour-faced wife. If not for the little girl who was probably tugged between divorced parents even now. No child deserved to have parents who disliked each other.
At least her own parents had been in love, even if her father had never been home long enough to pay any attention to a disappointing girl-child who craved his affection and approval. Her mother, who was addicted to shopping and socializing, often left Rebecca in the care of a nanny. She’d been a lonely, lonely child.
An awkward child, too. People had told her she was pretty, but she’d never felt pretty. Her entire sense of self-esteem had been badly damaged by her parents when she’d been young. She wasn’t certain it had ever fully recovered, though she’d hid her doubts well the older she got. But the lonely child had turned into a lonely adult. She swiped a hand beneath her nose, sniffed back her tears. Get over it.
There was no sense in dwelling on the past. It couldn’t be fixed. All she could control was the present—and apparently she couldn’t control that very well because look at where she was and what had happened.
She turned the pages a little more quickly, pushing away any self-pity. There was no time for it. Not if she wanted to get herself out of this mess. On the last page of the album was an official-looking document, but it was in Spanish and she couldn’t read it. Certificate de defunción. What did that mean?
“What are you doing in here?”
Rebecca jumped, her head whipping up at the angry demand. She’d been so focused she hadn’t heard him come in. She slapped the album closed a little too hard, a guilty reaction at being caught.
Alejandro strode into the room and snatched the album from the desk. “You are never to touch this again, comprende? Cristo!” He spun from her and disappeared through the door.
She sat in stunned silence. She’d invaded his privacy. She’d expected him to rail at her and throw her out on her ear. She had not expected him to storm away in a towering rage. She shot to her feet, intending to get back to her room before he returned.
But she’d waited too long. Alejandro loomed in the entry, anger rolling off him in waves.
“You dare to go through my things? After what you did the last time?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She hadn’t meant to