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Fighting a reluctant smile, John went to the sideboard and began to sort through the implements on a round silver tray. “What kind of hat?” he asked.

“A new fashion called the Conquistador.”

“No, don’t buy that one.” He used a small knife to cut the wax seal from the bottle and twisted the silver corkscrew into the cork.

“Really? Why not?”

“I’m not fond of Conquistadors,” he said.

“Do you mean the hat or the explorers?”

“Both.” Deftly he drew the cork from the bottle and checked it for taint. “To start with, no human head is improved by topping it with an upside-down cooking pot.”

“The hat isn’t an exact copy of the actual metal helmets,” Reina protested, laughing.

“The public has a romantic notion of Conquistadors,” John said wryly. “But the people whose lands they conquered so brutally had a different perspective.” He held a small glass up to the lamplight, saw a film of dust, and reached for a linen napkin to polish it.

“Oh.” A short silence. “I’m terribly sorry. I should have considered the historical context before speaking.” Reina sounded so contrite that John turned to glance at her in surprise.

“It happened three hundred years ago,” he said. “Hardly your fault.” He poured a glass of wine and brought it to her. “I wasn’t criticizing—I beg your pardon if it seemed otherwise.”

Reina relaxed visibly. “You don’t hold it against the Spanish, then?”

“Of course not. Every country has war and cruelty in its history.” He paused. “I happen to be part Spanish, in fact.”

“You are?” A smile blossomed on her face.

“A small part. Probably the equivalent of a toe.”

She accepted the glass from him and raised it in a toast. “To your Spanish toe.”

John tensed as he waited for the inevitable questions to follow. “Where are you from? . . . Yes, but where really? . . . What are you?”

But Reina only took a sip of wine and picked up her fork to hunt for radishes in her salad.

The silence thickened until finally he had to break it. “You’re not going to ask about the rest?”

She glanced up from the salad. “The rest of what?”

Was she mocking him?

“My ancestry,” John replied curtly. “My origins.”

“I hadn’t planned to,” Reina said, looking puzzled. “Should I?”

“No,” he said instantly. Wondering if that had come out with too much force, he repeated it softly. “No.”

Damn it. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut?

The room was quiet except for the snapping fire in the hearth.

Reina stared at him, her golden-brown eyes lucid and light-filled. He realized she was contemplating what he’d said, analyzing and drawing conclusions. Probably the wrong ones.

But then she stunned him with a gentle question. “Do people often want to play that particular guessing game with you?”

John couldn’t reply. He only stood there feeling raw and open, like a tree that had just been split by lightning.

Reading the answer in his face, Reina said simply, “We won’t do that, then.” She paused. “Whatever went into the making of you, the result is splendid. That’s all that matters.”