Page 7 of It Takes Three To Tango

“I don’t know it, but contextually, I guess you were being a bit rude towards Florencio, and he was mock offended.”

“That’s exactly it. Well done. It translates as ‘how rude.’”

His warm smile is genuine and causes the corners of his eyes to crease slightly. He repeats the phrase. “Que maleducado. I like that.”

He says it a few more times quietly to himself, as if committing it to memory, before taking another drink. “You say your cousin owns a vineyard?”

“My mother’s family is from the Rioja region, so most of her family is involved in the wine industry. My grandfather owns one of the largest vineyards in the area, and it’s been in the family for a long time. My cousin didn’t want to sit around and just wait for his legacy, he actually had an interest in cultivating grapes and making his own wine. He set up his own vineyard in Navarre. He studied the area carefully, trying to find the right terroir. That’s the combination of altitude, the soil, the correct side of the mountain so it gets enough sun, and all the environmental factors that affect the grapes.” Rafe nods in understanding. I guess he knows something about wine if he’s already familiar with the term. “It makes for very good wine,” I conclude.

“It does.” Rafe takes another drink as if to agree with his point.

“Your family’s vineyard though, which one is it?” Rafe leans forward a little, his eyes shining in interest.

“Castillo Otero.”

He sits back, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. “You’re part of the Otero wine family?”

I shrug. I’m not that close to the maternal side of the family. I find them too caught up in their own success, toohaughty for me—overbearing and annoying. My mother felt the same, which is why she moved away to Gran Canaria as soon as she could. It’s also why my cousin wanted to set up on his own. He’s the only one I can stand for any length of time and is the closest I have to a brother.

“I feel I should apologise.” Rafe’s mouth forms into a slight grimace. I can’t imagine what he means.

“I wrote a book a few years ago. Although it was mostly set in England, it was based on the wine industry, so there were elements of Spanish vineyards. The Otero family... your family was one of the ones I studied. I might have formed some characters on them. I’m not sure I was wholly complimentary.” His face creases, and he looks like he might have painted them all as devils, which, to be fair, wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

“Well, if you made them self-centred narcissists who think of profit above all else, then you’d not be far wrong,” I reply blithely.

Florencio emits a loud snort, nearly spitting out his wine.

We both turn to look at him.

“Sorry,” he says when he’s recovered. “I thought you were talking about my family there for a minute.”

I’m suddenly curious about the witty Argentinian.

“So what brings you to Barna?” I ask Florencio, using the familiar term for Barcelona. His face, sunny one minute, clouds slightly.

“My father sent me.” He says it so flatly I’m not sure if he’s joking or not.

“He can do that?”

“Were we not just talking about families?” he huffs. “If your father is Antonio Delgado he can.”

Ah, even I’ve heard of him and his media empire. Florencio might not have been far wrong if he was comparing the behaviour of our families.

“Why did he send you?” Rafe asks. “For business?”

Florencio snorts again. “Like he’d trust me with anything like that.” He reaches for his glass again, twirling the stem in his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is cold and expressionless. “No. My father heard his aunt is unwell and probably won’t live too much longer. An aunt he hasn’t seen for thirty years or more. He decided now was the time her family should visit and that family should be me. He dressed it up to be because I would be the most suitable. What he really meant was that because everyone else is part of his business, I was the one who could be spared. It didn’t matter what I was doing. I was given four hours’ notice to get on a plane.” He lets out a long breath as if he’d needed to get it off his chest.

“Well, is it not good that she has some family with her?” Rafe says quietly.

“Oh, please!” Florencio exclaims. “My father doesn’t care about that. He is her only family, but all he cares about is that she isn’t leaving his inheritance to a cat shelter.” He takes a deep swallow of wine as if he needs to wash a bad taste out of his mouth.

“And is she?” Rafe’s mouth quirks at the corners slightly and Florencio shrugs.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. She can do what she likes with her money. My father doesn’t need it. She’s not at all what I expected from the stories I’ve been told of her. I wish I’d met her sooner, before she became sick.”

This time, when I lock up after they’ve gone, I’m not plagued by memories. There’s no anticipation of thembarrelling into me and being forced to relive them all again. Tonight, my head is calm and I feel at ease, something I haven’t felt in a long time. So long that it almost feels unfamiliar, and it takes me a moment to identify it. I realise I’ve enjoyed the last hour, talking to Rafe and Florencio. Rafe is smart and interesting, surprising me with his knowledge of my maternal family. Florencio is witty and doesn’t take himself too seriously, though I feel there’s a lot more to the pretty guy than he lets on. Pretty? I’m not sure where that came from, but I have to concede that Florencio isverypretty. He has dark eyes and lashes coupled with a stunning set of cheekbones above a wide mouth and a ready smile. Rafe’s beauty is earthier, with his soft brown curls and amber eyes. I don’t even know why I’m thinking of them like this. I have no right to, and I usually barely notice how anyone looks—I certainly haven’t for a long time. They’re just interesting, friendly guys. That’s it. Neither of them live here, so at some point, sooner or later, they’ll head off back to their own countries. I might as well enjoy their company while I can.

I run some water into the washbasin, ignoring the even louder grumbling from the plumbing, and stare into the mirror on the wall. There’s an old guy looking back at me. When did I get old? When did I start showing some grey hairs? Tiredness adds creases to skin that was once smooth. With my thick brows and heavy jawline, I’m not pretty—never have been, though I’ve been called handsome. Valery said I was as rugged as the rocks at Guayedra beach back on Gran Canaria. But now, in contrast to Rafe and Florencio, I look old, tired, and heavy. Nothing appealing that anyone would be interested in. I must be ten or fifteen years older than either of them. I don’t even know why these thoughts are coming to me. Why am I even allowing them to surface? Valery’s voice comes back to me. It’s a memory that doesn’tget played in the normal sequence because I’ve never allowed it to, never wanted it.

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