So which one was it: Did he really like me or did he want to fall in my good graces so I would sell him my property?

He shut the drawer. “Did you ever wonder how Don Armand acquired such a big cacao plantation?”

His question was not only unexpected but also carried a smack of resentment.

“No,” I said. “I was so small when he left Spain that I never questioned how he made his fortune.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Well, you will find the answers inside a locked drawer in his study.”

“The drawer?” I recalled. I’d tried to open it. “And where’s the key?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he took it to his grave.”

“In that case, why don’t you just tell me what’s in there?” I didn’t feel like looking all over the house for the mysterious key.

“No, I’ve already said enough. Maybe too much.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Don Martin! The bolones are ready,” Mayra said.

I collected my things. Before I put my disguise on, Martin said, “I hope it’s not long before I see you without that beard again.”

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 33

There was something wrong with me. How could I be attracted to another man so soon after my husband’s passing?

It was immoral. It was vile.

But I couldn’t help it. Martin appealed to me on an animalistic level. I’d never been as attracted to Cristóbal as I was to Martin—even during the early stages of our courtship. There was no comparison between the bleak intimacy and lackluster companionship of my eight years of marriage and the physical sensations Martin was provoking in me as we sat together at the dining table.

While eating Mayra’s bolones—exquisite fried balls of plantain filled with cheese—I tried my best to ignore the tingle in my stomach, the way my hands were positioned in relation to Martin’s, his solicitous demeanor. When had he cared about whether I needed more salt or if I wanted to try some ají sauce? In the past, he’d only cared about filling our glasses with alcohol to the rim. Why couldn’t I go back to the ease I’d felt before when I was near him? Why couldn’t I concentrate on whatever he was saying?

Because I couldn’t go back in time. Martin had seen me naked. He knew I was a woman. Now he looked at me differently. His tone had also changed. He knew things about me that nobody else in this country did.

Pay attention. Focus.

He was telling me a story about his high school days. Something about him and his classmates fixing a graduation lunch for their teachers—a group of somber Salesians with hefty appetites—and frying frog legs for them instead of chicken.

I grimaced. “Did you get caught?”