“I can tell him on my own,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be here.”
“We’re a team,” I said.
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” I said, rising on my tiptoes. I pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
He held my hand. “Together, then.”
Whit opened the bedroom door and stepped through. If the sitting area was a mess, the state of my uncle’s bedroom was a catastrophe. Clothes were strewn everywhere, his boots had been flung near the window, and scores of books were scattered on the bed. Several empty mugs lined the windowsill, and there was a plate of uneaten toast on the nightstand. I grimaced and made a mental note to tidy up the space.
“Oh, good. You left your tickets on the table. They’re in an envelope over there. Have you packed yet?” my uncle asked, focused on a stack ofpapers in his lap. He hadn’t shaved in days, giving him the look of a surly grizzly bear. He wore striped pajamas that were faded, the cuffs frayed. It looked like something my mother would have given him. She liked to look after him because he would never do so himself. At the thought of her, fury rose like a billowing sand cloud. I couldn’t think of her without remembering Elvira.
I shoved Lourdes far from my mind.
Whit opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.
“As I’ve told you, I’m staying in Egypt.”
“And as I’ve repeatedly toldyou,” my uncle said, lifting his gaze to meet mine. He threw the pile of papers off to the side, and the sheets fanned in every direction, a few falling off the bed. “I’m your guardian, and you’ll do as I say. I would prefer not to send another coffin back to Argentina.” He opened his mouth to say more but froze. His attention had drifted down to our clasped hands. All the color left his face, leaving him stark pale. His expression turned to astonished rage. “Whitford.”
“We have news,” Whit said, and for once he wasn’t smiling or winking. His manner had the seriousness of a man walking through a cemetery, grave and respectful.
“Step away from her.”
Whit tightened his hold. My uncle registered the movement and swung the bedding away, feet coming down hard on the rug. He stood, swaying slightly, but then stumbled around the bed.
“No, don’t—” I exclaimed.
Whit maneuvered me behind him as Tío Ricardo raised his fist. Whit didn’t try to stop the hit—I heard the loud smack as my uncle punched my husband in the face. Whit staggered, and it took both of my hands to keep him upright.
“What have you done?” Ricardo boomed. “You promised me you wouldn’t—”
“He made me a promise, too,” I said.
“Inez,” Whit warned, wiping the blood from his lip. “Not yet—”
Ricardo’s hazel eyes widened. “Carajo,” he said just as I trilled, “We’re married!”
The words boomed like cannon fire, exploding all around us. I was amazed the walls didn’t tremble, that the floors didn’t crack.
“No,” Ricardo said, dropping onto the bed. “No.”
Anger radiated off him in strong waves. He launched to his feet, one hand raised—but Whit sidestepped and used my uncle’s momentum to whirl him around and away from us.
“It’s done,” Whit said.
“It isn’t,” Tío Ricardo spat out. “I’ll have it annulled.”
“Too late,” I said cheerfully. “I’m ruined.”
“Inez.” Whit groaned. “Bloody hell.”
Tío Ricardo swung around, his eyes wild. “You’re lying—another one of your tricks!” He came toward me, hands outstretched as if he wanted to throttle me.
But Whit stepped between us. “You can yell at me,” he said quietly. “You can be disappointed, feel betrayed. But you do not raise your voice at my wife. If you want someone to battle, you battle with me, Ricardo.”
“I’ll send for a doctor,” he said, jabbing his index finger in my direction. “See that I won’t! You’re bluffing.”
