The Spaniard's Inconvenient Wife (11 page)

What she felt for Ramón was so different. It was rooted deep in her heart, part of her lifeblood, her soul. She couldn’t root it out and still live. Without him she would be nothing, and there would be no future for her.

At that realisation her footsteps had faltered, slowed. She hadn’t known if she could go any further. Her legs had felt unsteady beneath her, her knees had shaken. A cold shudder of panic had run down her spine and if she had had the strength she would have turned tail and run—right out of the church.

But in that moment Ramón had turned and looked at her.

He had done more. He had walked towards her, his hand held out. He had taken her fingers in his, hard and strong, and infinitely comforting and warm.

‘My scarlet woman!’ he had said. ‘My beautiful scarlet woman.’

It wasn’t much, perhaps. It certainly wasn’t everything
she was dreaming of. It was no powerful, ardent declaration of love. But then she had never expected that. And when she compared those words, spoken in a deep, husky voice, with the ring of total commitment behind them, with the flowery, over-the-top, insincere flattery that Carlos had used on her, she knew which she infinitely preferred. Which she believed in most.

When he had smiled at her, she had felt she would go anywhere with him. If she had doubted before, now she knew she really loved him, rather than just being in love with him.

And Ramón?

She knew why he was marrying her. They were starting out on their life together for all the wrong reasons—financial, not emotional. It was a marriage of convenience, but that didn’t mean it had to stay that way. It was also a marriage of passion—intense, physical passion, and as long as they had that, they had something that would hold them together.

And if she couldn’t work on that, then she was an idiot.

‘As long as this lasts, we’ll stay together,’ Ramón had said. ‘Until we all get what we want.’

Well, he already had what he wanted financially—or he would have by the end of today. But he wanted her as well, he had made that so blazingly clear. His hunger for her was the ace she held in her hand. As long as he wanted her, they would stay together.

And as long as they stayed together, there was always a chance that he would come to feel more for her than just the ardent passion he openly acknowledged. She’d make sure she kept that passion alive. She’d feed it, watch it grow, pray it chained him to her in fetters of burning need.

It was enough to start with; she could only pray that,
given time, and the kindness of fate, it would turn into something much more.

That was the thought that kept her going throughout the long ceremony, the reception afterwards. She could do nothing now, but tonight, when they were alone together in the villa overlooking the sea on the Costa Brava that Juan Alcolar had loaned them for the first night of their honeymoon, she would start to forge those chains in the heat and hunger of their marriage bed.

It could work; she knew it could.

It would work! It had to.

Because if it didn’t, then this marriage was going nowhere. If she couldn’t change the desire that Ramón felt for her into something deeper, stronger, then one day, inevitably, without love to sustain it, that desire would fade and there would be nothing left. Then she would lose him. He would turn and walk away from her for ever.

But before then, she had time. And she was going to use that time in the best way that she could.

Starting with tonight.

T
HANK
God that things were almost over, Ramón told himself in fervent relief.

If he had to spend another hour—another moment—making polite conversation, accepting congratulations, smiling acknowledgement of jokes in dubious taste about loss of freedom, the prospect of the wedding night to come, then he would explode.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed the reception—he had— at the start. He’d enjoyed being with his family, dancing with Estrella, with Cassie, with Mercedes, and ultimately with Estrella again. But enough was enough. He had had more than enough of socialising, being on show.

He wanted to be alone—with his wife—in private.

His wife.

Looking across the huge ballroom, he saw where Estrella, resplendent in that stunning scarlet gown, was standing, laughing at something Mercedes had said to her. With her head thrown back, her dark eyes, and a wash of colour tinting her cheeks, she looked nothing like the pale, apprehensive slip of a creature who had appeared in the church earlier today. The brave, resolute Estrella who had been determined to show defiance, but who had been unable to hide her uncertainty at the last minute.

‘She looks wonderful, doesn’t she?’

His father had appeared at his side, wineglass in his hand. His deep brown eyes were fixed on Estrella too, but there was something in them that caught Ramón’s attention, made him look more closely.

Juan Alcolar’s voice had been faintly husky and his eyes had an unusual gleam in them that in another man might have looked suspiciously like the glisten of tears.

Or they would have been if his father was the sort of man who betrayed his emotions, Ramón told himself. In fact the truth about Juan was the exact opposite. He rarely, if ever, let anyone in, not even his family. Not his sons, anyway; Mercedes could always charm him into a very different mood. It had been that way ever since they had first met, on that day, so many years before, when Ramón had marched into Juan Alcolar’s office and demanded to know if what he had learned was the truth, if in fact Juan was his father and not the recently deceased Reuben Dario, the man whose son he had always believed he was.

‘She reminds me of Honoria.’

Ramón turned his head sharply in shock, unable to believe what he was hearing. Honoria had been Juan’s legal wife; the mother of Joaquin and Mercedes. He was surprised to find that his father would talk of her now, when he had never done so before.

‘Did she look like Estrella?’ he managed carefully.

‘A lot.’

Juan drank deeply from the wine in his glass as if nerving himself to go on.

‘Don’t make the mistakes that I did, Ramón.’

‘Mistakes?’

Ramón knew his voice had sharpened, wondered if it would drive his father back into his normal reticent silence, but still Juan seemed prepared to open up a little.

‘I loved two women very dearly,’ he said. ‘And lost them both.’

‘My mother…’

His father nodded sombrely.

‘I adored Marguerite, but I was young—stupid. I said I
didn’t want commitment or marriage and I broke her heart. That’s why she married Reuben Dario.’

Why now? Ramón asked himself. Why, for perhaps only the second time in his life, had his father actually brought his mother into the conversation, even referring to her by name?

‘But you saw her again.’

His own tone was rough, raw-edged.

‘Just the once. We met by chance years later—I was married too by then, to Honoria, and Joaquin was almost two…’

His sigh was deep, dragged up from the depths of his heart.

‘Nothing had changed. She was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen—the woman of my dreams. And she was lost, lonely. She and Dario had never been able to have children and her marriage was on the rocks. I’m not proud of what happened. We spent one week together while Reuben was away in America. One wonderful week. But we both knew it couldn’t last. Neither of us could live with the guilt—the thought of what we were doing to others. So we parted.’

The last of the wine in his glass was emptied, the muscles in his throat working hard to swallow.

‘You were born nine months later.’

‘And my mother had died before I was two months old.’

He had no memory of her. Only the image of her face in photographs he had seen.

‘But you soon forgot her,’ he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Soon had someone else. Alex is only a year younger than me.’

‘No!’ his father put in, rough and raw. ‘It wasn’t like that. I went completely off the rails—I didn’t know—didn’t care what I was doing. On a business trip to England, there was a woman—the housekeeper in a place I visited. She looked
just like your mother—like Marguerite when we first met. I got very drunk—it was a one-night stand. I didn’t even know she was ever pregnant. Not until Alex turned up.’

‘Then who?’

Estrella had finished her conversation and she was looking around the room, searching for someone. As he watched she caught sight of him, smiled in a way that made his head spin, and headed in his direction.

‘Who was the other woman I loved? Who do you think? Honoria—my wife—Joaquin and Mercedes’ mother.’

‘But I always understood that that was an arranged marriage.’

‘It was—to start with. I didn’t realise what I had.’

‘Then it’s Joaquin you should be talking to about this.’

‘I did—on his wedding day. He was the one who asked me to tell you too.’

‘He did?’

Estrella was coming closer. Another couple of moments and she would be with them. Just looking at her made it almost impossible to concentrate.

‘You’re so much like me, Ramón. Joaquin knows that too. We both want you to be happy.’

‘I am…’

Suddenly he wished he had a glass of wine too. His throat seemed to have dried painfully, making it impossible to get the last word out.

‘What mistakes?’ he growled, his eyes on the beautiful, scarlet figure of his wife.

‘I didn’t give enough.’ His father hadn’t needed him to elaborate, explain what he meant. ‘I had what I wanted, but I didn’t give any of them the commitment they needed until it was too late.’

‘Well, you’ve no need to worry…’

Hastily he let the muttered assurance die as Estrella came
to his side, sliding a hand into his arm just as she had in the church. Just the feel of her soft touch made his heart kick, and the scent of her perfume in his nostrils sent his senses rushing into overdrive.

‘No need to worry about what?’ she asked with quiet curiosity.

‘To worry about us,’ Ramón answered hastily, unsure whether Juan might say something awkward. ‘My father thought we should be leaving so that we aren’t making the drive to the villa in the middle of the night.’

Looking down into her upturned face, he touched one fingertip to her cheek, smoothed it over the lush shape of her mouth.

‘And I think so too.’ His voice deepened, became thick and husky. ‘It’s time we began our married life together.’

‘I agree.’

Something in her voice, her smile, made desire clutch at him and he knew that unless they were alone together soon he would go completely crazy with need. It was a relief to hear Estrella add the words, ‘I only have to change into something more suitable for travelling and I’m all yours.’

All yours! Oh, God, did she know what those words, the tone she used, did to him? He was willing to bet that she did and just knowing that brought his pulse rate up, tightening the knots of tension inside another notch.

If he hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t been in his sight all day, he would have sworn that something had happened to her. Something that had changed her subtly, but dramatically, made her into a very different person.

‘Go and get changed then,’ he managed huskily.

Then, because he couldn’t resist it, he dropped a kiss onto that soft, inviting mouth, taking it hard and fast. Hard because of the force of the feelings welling up inside him, and
fast because he didn’t believe he could stop at a kiss, if he lingered.

Especially when she responded so instantly, so wonderfully, so fully, her mouth opening under his, the tip of her tongue sliding out and tracing along the soft line of his inner lip, making him want to groan out loud in uncontrolled hunger.

Somehow he reined himself in, managed to resist the temptation, taking only the one, lingering kiss before he lifted his head again and looked deep into the wide, smoky jet pools of her eyes.

‘But don’t take long about it. I’ll be waiting…’

It was both a warning and a promise and he knew that she had taken it that way when those huge eyes widened even further and her sharp white teeth suddenly dug into the pink flesh of her lower lip.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear to see her hurt or damaged in any way, even when it was only this tiny, self-inflicted pain.

‘Don’t,’ he murmured, and when she froze, staring at him, he bent and kissed away the small indentations, soothing them with his tongue.

‘Don’t…’ he said again, against her lips, hearing her swiftly indrawn breath, feeling it on his own mouth.

‘No,’ she said in sighing acquiescence.

The erotic sparks that flashed between them were electric, crackling in the air, so that he was sure his father and anyone else nearby must see them. He had to get her out of here, get himself out with her before they gave into the blazing, carnal impulses that throbbed through his body.

Reluctantly, he tore his mouth from hers. It was either that or…

No! He mustn’t think.

‘Go and get changed, Señora Dario,’ he commanded. ‘And be quick about it.’

The sparkle in her eyes, the curve of her soft mouth were almost his undoing, but at least she stepped back a pace or two from him, giving him space to breathe, before she swept him a low, courtly, but clearly mocking curtsey.

‘Of course, señor. As my husband commands.’

Witch! She knew just what she was doing, knew what effect she was having on him. He was torn between the need for a long drink to ease his parched mouth and throat and the total impossibility of looking anywhere but at the lithe movement of her body, the sway of her neat buttocks under the scarlet silk as she walked away from him. Watching her won out, as she obviously realised it would, and the moments when she mounted the stairs, heading for the room where her going-away outfit was laid out, was pure torture, an exercise in the sort of self-control that he’d never known he possessed.

He couldn’t drag his eyes away until she reached a turn in the wide, curving staircase and, following it, disappeared from view. As she did so Ramón closed his eyes, holding the image inside his mind, projecting it onto the screen of his eyelids, preserving just for a moment longer. All he could think of was the moment that he would get her on her own with him, when he could peel off whatever she had decided to wear to go on honeymoon, reveal that perfect bottom to his hungry eyes and hands…his lips…

Commitment—hell, yes he was committed to this woman. He was trapped, a prisoner, and there was no way that he could get free. His father need have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

‘Señor Dario—Ramón.’ A voice at his side spoke, breaking into the sensual reverie—a voice he recognised, frowning.

‘Don Alfredo?’

Reluctantly he forced his eyes open, looking straight into the cold, hooded gaze of his brand-new father-in-law.

‘We have some business to finish, I believe.’

‘Now?’

With an effort he crushed back the exclamation of annoyance and impatience that almost escaped him. Of course now. He had insisted on it himself. They would finalise the deal on the day he married Estrella, and then he wanted to hear no more about it.

‘Of course. Do you have the papers?’

‘Right here.’

The older man touched the breast pocket of his morning suit.

‘And there is a room just there…’

He indicated with a wave of his hand.

‘Where we have been assured we can have complete privacy.’

‘All right, then.’

Ramón pushed both his hands through his hair, struggling to adjust his thoughts, drag them back to business mode and away from the darkly sensual path they still wanted to follow.

‘Let’s get this over with.’

Estrella hummed to herself as she slipped out of the tight-fitting scarlet dress and placed it on a silk-covered, padded hanger. A song from
West Side Story
kept playing over and over inside her head, its words reflecting exactly the way she felt.

She did feel pretty. So, so pretty—and stunning—and entrancing. How could she feel anything else, when she had seen the way that Ramón had looked at her, seen the barely restrained passion that had darkened his eyes, felt it in his kiss?

She might not yet be able to carol that she was loved by someone pretty wonderful, but she felt a whole new rush of hope, of optimism, of certainty that everything really, truly, had a chance of turning out all right.

Hugging herself tightly round the waist, she danced around the huge, luxurious bedroom, unable to contain her delight any more. She had to give it physical expression, spinning round and round in a wild, exhilarated circle until she collapsed in dizzied exhaustion on the silken coverlet of the enormous bed.

She would make Ramón love her, she vowed. She could do it! She really could.

But not if she lay here for much longer, she realised, pushing herself upwards in a rush and studying her reflection in the mirror. Professionally applied before her departure for the church, her make-up had lasted wonderfully. Perhaps if she just darkened her eye shadow a little— glossed her lips…

The repairs took only moments, and slipping into the elegant cream trouser suit with a tiny, black self-embroidered camisole top underneath was soon done. High-heeled sandals on her feet—and…

No.

She stilled the hand that she had raised to her hair, deciding against her original plan of removing the pins that held the elaborate style in place, combing out the orange blossom flowers and letting her black locks hang loose. Far better to leave it the way it was. It would be cooler, less trouble, on the journey, and when they reached the villa, then she would ask Ramón to help her let down the style. She knew how he loved to tangle his fingers in her hair, sensed intuitively that he would love the slow, gradual unpinning, the way that the loosened locks would tumble about
her face, her shoulders. He could comb his fingers through it, kissing her at intervals…