The snapshot image of how Queen Valentina would react if she could see her now added a feral grin to the happiness she was already feeling.
When she’d finally deigned to answer her mother’s call several days ago, the woman had screamed that Sofia would rather be a “grubby laborer” working at a winery in America than taking the tour of the continent that she had arranged for her. As if the grubby labor of winegrowing wasn’t the source of the woman’s wealth. As if touring the continent still was a cherry-popping experience for a girl born in the era of the Internet and transatlantic flight.
Sofia had actually considered forgoing the job to go on a rare trip with her mother. She’d thought—for a brief, foolish second—that perhaps her mother was interested in getting to know her now that she was an adult. Then she discovered that her mother had also invited a Portuguese infanta and her wealthy and powerful uncle.
Queen Valentina just wanted to use Sofia for convenient cover as she lured another man between her legs.
When Sofia realized the whole trip had been a ruse, that the woman had never wanted to spend time with her, she’d grabbed the first train to Madrid, gotten her first tattoo, showed it off to the first paparazzo, and then taken the first plane she could to the United States.
The only thing she regretted, she thought as the urgent beat of a hand drum filled her ears and the last of the tartrates fell to her brush, was that she hadn’t been there to see her mother’s reaction when the blood-red “The Queen is Dead” inscription on her forearm appeared all over European tabloids.
A finger tapped Sofia’s shoulder.
She whirled around, holding the long-handled brush like weapon, and would have clobbered the tall boy if he hadn’t blocked it with a thick forearm. He grabbed the broom handle, pulled it down, then immediately let go, mouthing urgent words as he raised his hands—big, big hands—palm up in front of him. His thick, dark hair fell into his face and framed his cheekbones, hard jaw, intense eyes, and full bottom lip. He was tall, really tall, with broad, muscular shoulders in a black T-shirt.
The frenetic, Celtic-like rhythm of her favorite Galician band rose to a crescendo.
She yanked her headphones out of her ears and pulled the broom handle closer to her.
“Whoa, whoa, sorry,” he said, shoving his hair out of his face while he kept the other palm up to her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her heart pounded. But after a lifetime of being on the defense, she knew it wasn’t because of fear.
“Who are you?” she scowled. “What are you doing in here?”
The 3,500-gallon tank was only six feet across; he backed up, but could only move a couple feet away. She still had to look up at him, still felt covered in his shadow.
“My uncle, Justin, he wanted me to check on you,” he said, voice low and a little scratchy.
Ah, so this was the owner’s nephew. Aish. The student-workers who came back harvest after harvest had repeated his name breathlessly over the last week while they waited for his arrival. He apparently sprinkled excitement, hijinks, and orgasms wherever he went.
“Justin said you’d volunteered to clean some tanks, but when you didn’t show up for dinner he got worried.” His eyes narrowed at her, eyelashes black and thick. “You know you shouldn’t be inside here too long.”
Carbon dioxide gases could build up inside tanks and asphyxiate the people cleaning them. Sofia had been a sidekick to winegrowers and winemakers her whole life and knew the hazards. At his assessment that she was some amateur, she relaxed the handle and settled it against the bottom of the tank.
“I might not be the great Aish Salinger, but I know how to stay safe in the tanks.” She cocked a hip as Aish lowered his hands. “I tested the atmosphere levels before I got in, I’ve got airflow—” She jerked her head up to the open top hatch. “And I’m keeping track of the time I’ve stayed in here.” She watched him bite into his plump bottom lip, watched a dimple try to appear in his firm cheek. “Why didn’t you just knock on the tank and stick your head in? You didn’t have to frighten the mierda out of me.”
“I tried,” he said, finally letting that dimple dig in. He pushed a hank of hair behind his ear. His smile was wide and easy as he looked down at her. “You couldn’t hear me. What’re you listening to?”
Tinny sound still came out of the headphones looped around her neck. “Milladoiro,” she said. He was so tall. There was something about looking up at him, about being the recipient of that smile and the focus of those dark eyes that made her a little breathless. Maybe the oxygen was getting thinner than she realized. “They’re a Galician folk band.”
“Oh.” His eyes watched her mouth. Had he moved closer? “Can I listen?”
She nodded, and he did move closer as she leaned the broom handle against the side of the tank and handed him her earbud. She felt a flare as their fingertips brushed. He stooped down to put it in his ear. With a lack of self-consciousness she’d never
