Читать книгу Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8 - Шантель Шоу, Chantelle Shaw - Страница 21

ANTONIO STARED AT the document and reread the contents for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was a simple feasibility study, the kind of thing he usually ate for breakfast, but on this night his mind simply wouldn’t focus.

His eyes drifted to the clock above his desk: it was into the small hours of the morning and he was still seething over their argument. Over her intractability, yes, but also over his own actions. And something else niggled at the back of his mind—the way her eyes had flooded with emotions he couldn’t quite unravel. It had made him want, more than anything, to understand her.

He’d organised the party out of a desire to smooth her transition into his life. Where the hell had that concern come from?

Why had he bothered?

True, she was pregnant with his baby, but had that fact completely erased all others? She was a diSalvo, and their family rivalry wasn’t likely to be forgotten easily. Not with a party, not with a baby, not with anything.

His attempts to pretend otherwise were futile. He was better to focus on what they had, and what they were, and forget anything else.

She was a beautiful woman and their chemistry was off the charts. If she chose to join him in bed, then so be it. He wasn’t going to lose sleep over her choice there. Their kiss, though, forced its way into his consciousness and his arousal strained against his jeans. She had wanted him then, and he had wanted her. Pleasure had been within reach. Only she’d pushed him away, as though the heat that flamed between them wasn’t going to demand an answer at some point.

And it would: the call of their bodies was too strong to resist. But he would bide his time and let the desire between them swamp her, drive her to the point of madness, and then he would be there, when she was so desperate for his touch that she couldn’t think straight.

And in the meantime nothing would be allowed to derail his reasons for marrying her. He wanted Prim’Aqua. He wanted the men who’d hurt his father to pay—and his marriage would bring that about, one way or another.

He kicked back in his chair, his fingers interlocking behind his head as he closed his eyes.

And saw Amelia, her huge blue eyes accusing in her face, her lips pulled downwards, a look of bewilderment on her expression.

She’d hate him, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Nothing could be allowed to alter his course. Nothing, and no one...not even the woman who was carrying his baby. She’d made it obvious she didn’t welcome his involvement in her life, and didn’t want his help. So let her be, he told himself. Let her find her feet, have her breathing room and space.

What the hell did he care?

* * *

Three weeks into their marriage and Amelia would have given her left arm for some civil conversation. It wasn’t exactly that her husband was uncivil, he was perfectly polite, but the easy rapport they’d established on that first day had completely evaporated. So too the sexual tension that had threatened to unzip her completely.

They hadn’t shared a meal together either. He’d made a point of explaining his absences—he was working on a big deal and needed to be in his office late. It made sense for her to eat without him, he’d explained, giving her the number for the woman who prepared his meals so she could order whatever she wanted.

But three weeks into their marriage and she knew she had to speak to him. She’d tried to organise things herself but, with her limited language and no car at her disposal, she was hampered in a way she found utterly frustrating.

He worked late into the evening, not returning to the house until almost eleven o’clock. But, unlike previous nights, when she’d been in her own room, either fast asleep or pretending to be, Amelia was awake when he returned, dressed, sipping a cup of chamomile tea.

He clearly wasn’t expecting it, if the look on his face was anything to go by. And he looked...tired. She only had a moment to glimpse that before he flattened his face of any emotion and looked at her with mild curiosity. As though she were a creature who’d wandered into his home, a unicorn or narwhal, utterly mystical and somewhat novel.

‘Amelia? I thought you’d be asleep.’

‘I need to speak with you,’ she said softly, then cleared her throat. Her body screamed at his closeness, her lips throbbed and a drum began to beat low down in her abdomen, demanding attention.

‘Oh?’ He moved deeper into the sitting area, placing a document wallet down on the front hallstand. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Not really.’

‘Good.’ He expelled a breath, a sound which might have been one of relief or impatience. But she ignored it. This was important.

‘I need your help.’

That had his attention. His eyes narrowed and he strode closer. ‘You are sure everything is okay? The baby...?’

‘The baby’s fine, so far as I know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m twelve weeks into the pregnancy,’ she said. ‘I remember the doctor I saw in England telling me I’d need a scan around now. And some other tests. Only I don’t speak Spanish and I have no idea where to go. I’ve tried to use online translation to find somewhere but it’s pretty impossible, to be honest. And anyway I don’t have a car here, though I guess I could get a taxi—but where would I get a taxi to?’

He stared at her, his expression shifting from confusion to something else, an anger that was self-inflicted. ‘Of course,’ he said, and his frown deepened. ‘I’m sorry to say that hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘Why would it?’ she asked shyly. ‘It’s not like you’ve had a baby before. This is all new to both of us.’

He frowned. ‘Still, it’s not exactly rocket science.’

‘The doctor in England referred me to a clinic in London. Obviously that’s not much good here.’

He turned away from her, striding towards the panoramic windows. His hands were on his hips and his back moved with the increased pace of his breathing.

‘I have many cars. You are welcome to drive any of them.’

She frowned, following the thread of conversation. His cars were all fast, expensive, sleek and powerful. She shook her head gently. ‘I’d prefer to buy something myself, something that’s not got the horsepower of a wild beast beneath the bonnet. Except I don’t even know where to do that.’

He turned to face her, his expression grim. ‘Fine. We’ll buy you a new car.’

‘I can buy myself a new car,’ she chided softly. ‘I just need your help to...do that.’

‘Fine.’ Frustration zapped in the air between them, like lightning hitting a river.

‘Thank you.’ She cleared her throat and tried to break the silence with a smile. It felt strange on her lips—she hadn’t smiled in a long time. Not since leaving England?

His eyes flashed in warning. ‘Don’t thank me for this, Amelia. I should have thought of it. I am truly sorry I overlooked all these practicalities—it’s not like me to overlook anything. You must have felt like my prisoner here, after all.’

‘It’s fine. I’ve been reading, and swimming, and...’ Her words petered out as he took a step closer, and then her breath grew heavy and her eyes swept shut.

‘It is not fine,’ he said simply, his accent thick. ‘Please accept my apology.’

What she would have preferred was an apology for his absence.

‘Fine, apology accepted,’ she agreed unevenly. ‘Now, about the appointment. I’ve been searching online and I think I’ve found a good obstetrics clinic.’ She held her phone out to him and he took it, but his eyes remained locked to hers.

The air between them was charged and yet she was powerless to look away. Her eyes were held to his by an invisible magnetism, too strong to ignore. ‘I just can’t read the reviews,’ she said, the words husky.

He held her phone but didn’t look at it. ‘How are you feeling?’ The question was husky, drawn from the depths of his soul.

She blinked, but didn’t shift her gaze.

‘I...’ Of their own accord, her hands lifted to her stomach and, as always, her heart lifted at the thought of the life that was growing there. ‘Good.’

Now their eyes parted as his moved briefly to her gesture, and then his free hand was lifting like hers, moving over her stomach slowly.

Surprise was in his eyes, surprise and wonderment. He curved his palm over the very faint hint of roundness, and when he spoke it was with a voice thickened by emotion. ‘Are you well?’

Inexplicable tears formed in Amelia’s eyes. She tried to blink them back, but one escaped unbidden and slid down her cheek.

Irritated by it, she grimaced. It was just that she’d been so lonely, and seeing him now, feeling him touch her stomach and feel the life that was growing there—how could she not be affected?

‘I’m fine.’ The words were slightly uneven.

He nodded slowly, then dropped his hand and, finally, the spell was broken. He turned to her phone, scanning the page she’d shown him, and nodding curtly. ‘It looks fine. I will make enquiries in the morning and organise an appointment.’

‘Thank you.’ She turned on her heel, ready to leave the room, her brain unable to supply anything else to say.

But he forestalled her with a softly voiced, ‘Would you like something to drink? A cup of tea?’

Her eyes swept shut and she was glad she had her back to him, so that he wouldn’t see the complex knot of emotions that passed over her face.

‘I haven’t eaten,’ he said. ‘Join me.’

It was a simple invitation, spontaneously given, but it set off a cascade effect in Amelia. She’d missed him. Not him, per se, so much as a person to speak to, and laugh with. Or maybe it was all him—Antonio Herrera, the man who seemed to breathe life into her dreams and torment her sleeping body with memories of his touch.

Temptation was the devil and she knew she needed to fight it. To fight the desire to lean into him and ask him to hold her tight, to have him smile at her as he had that first night—even if she knew it would be a lie.

‘I’m tired,’ she said, turning to face him for a brief moment, heat warming her body, memories making her ache for the past. ‘I... I think I’ll just go to bed.’

* * *

She had looked tired, he admitted to himself, staring out at the shimmering surface of the pool, Scotch cradled in the palm of his hand. The moon was high overhead, casting a silver light over the water.

He’d spent the last three weeks holed up in his office, working late, yes, but also actively avoiding his wife.

Avoiding her enormous blue eyes that showed him the galaxy, avoiding the softness of her body, the addictive properties of her smile. He’d been avoiding her and tonight he fully understood why.

One look at her and he knew he’d run in front of a freight train to protect her and the baby that was growing inside her. One word from her and he was at risk of turning his back on everything he’d worked towards.

One word and he could almost genuinely forget his hatred for her family. It wasn’t personal. It had nothing to do with Amelia. It was the baby; that was all. Some ancient, ingrained primal instinct was firing inside him, demanding he fulfil his duty and keep her and the baby safe and well. Even if that made him willing to surrender his own needs.

Weakness was foreign to him, and it sure as hell wasn’t welcome. She wore his ring; she carried his baby, but she was still a diSalvo—and he couldn’t forget that.

He shut his eyes and tried not to think of his wife. He forced his mind to erase her image momentarily, and replace it with the image of his father. He brought to mind painful memories that he generally chose to disregard, memories of his father’s stress and grief and the first time Antonio had confronted Carlo with what he’d done, and Carlo had laughed in Antonio’s face. Carlo had made an enemy that day—and Antonio knew he’d never be able to forget that.

Forgiveness might have been divine, but it was nowhere on Antonio’s radar.

* * *

‘Seriously, though, was the helicopter really necessary?’ Amelia asked as the chief of the obstetrics wing of the Hospital Internacional de Madrid exited the exam room for a moment.

The room was dark, the lights off, a heavy blackout curtain blotting out all of Spain’s sunshine. Medical devices surrounded them, casting a very soft glow—one that was almost eerie.

He tilted her a sardonic glance. ‘Of course. I wanted to see how long it would take to get here in an emergency.’

And, despite the fact she’d told herself she would remain distant from him, she found herself rolling her eyes teasingly. ‘A car would suffice.’

‘You never know,’ he said, and he was serious now, his eyes showing a strength that made her tummy flip and flop.

‘Mr and Mrs Herrera.’ Dr López returned, a kindly smile on his face. He must have been in his sixties, with steel-grey hair and a lined face, and his experience gave Amelia confidence. ‘I have this,’ he said, holding up a bottle. ‘It will feel cold at first, okay?’

Amelia nodded, lying back on the narrow bed.

Dr López pushed Amelia’s shirt up, right to the ridge of her bra, and he wiggled the waistband of her skirt lower, exposing her gently rounded stomach. The gel he applied was ice-cold but it wasn’t unpleasant, given the heat and humidity of the day.

Once he’d finished, he smiled reassuringly and moved to the other side of the bed. ‘Let us take a look.’

Amelia was inexplicably nervous and, almost as though he understood that, Antonio reached out and curved his hand over hers, squeezing her fingers in his. She blinked up at him and a throb of strong emotion passed between them. She wrenched her gaze away, hating that her hormones made her so close to tears at present.

Dr López pressed the ultrasound wand to her belly, firmly enough that she was slightly uncomfortable, and now she squeezed Antonio’s hand.

‘Okay?’ he asked huskily.

‘Yeah,’ she whispered.

‘The baby is playing hide and seek,’ the doctor reassured them both. ‘Just a minute.’

Amelia held her breath, waiting—tense, nervous, anxious, delirious with every emotion she could imagine.

‘And you have not been unwell?’ Dr López asked, his expression infuriatingly blank.

Amelia swallowed. ‘No. I mean, I’ve been a little sick sometimes.’

‘Good.’ He nodded, and Amelia relaxed. Beside her, though, she was aware of tension emanating from Antonio that caused her heart to twist in her chest.

‘You can see here your baby—’ Dr Lopez pointed to the screen ‘—lying on its back, see?’

‘Whoa...’ Amelia blinked, tears filling her eyes now, and Antonio squeezed her hand tight ‘...that’s our baby.’ She blinked up at her husband and the sight of him, still as a rock, his own eyes suspiciously moist, made everything hurt.

‘Yes, looking quite happy, you’d have to say.’

Their baby was still so tiny, just a blip on the screen, but already her heart was bursting with love and total vulnerability.

‘You will need to come back in a month or so,’ Dr López said, pushing the screen away and handing Amelia a soft towel. She wiped her stomach clean of gel and then placed a hand over her belly.

‘And this is my card, with my personal number,’ he addressed Antonio.

Her husband took the card with a curt nod. No gratitude, nothing to express that the chief of the hospital giving his private number to a patient was anything unusual. Because he was used to that kind of treatment. Doors opened for Antonio. He got what he wanted, when he wanted it.

‘If you have any concerns at any time, you may call,’ Dr Lopez continued. ‘Otherwise, I’ll see you in another month.’

He pulled some small square pieces of paper from beneath the screen and handed them to Amelia. Fresh tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the grainy first photographs of her baby.

And then, slowly, she looked at Antonio and bit down on her lip. Because, whatever doubts she’d had about this marriage, whatever had come before, in that moment—she had none. No doubts, no reservations, no regrets. She reached for his hand and squeezed it, her smile brighter than a thousand suns.

‘Can you believe it?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Not even for a moment.’ He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and then leaned down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, so close to the corner of her lips that a small nudge of her face in that direction would have connected lips to lips. But she stayed still, her eyes blinking closed as she breathed him in.

‘Shall we go for lunch, Mrs Herrera?’

Right on cue, her stomach gave a low grumble and she nodded slowly. ‘That sounds like a fine idea.’

* * *

Just a little way from the Parque del Retiro, down a small side street with brightly coloured buildings on either side, lined with large trees and small colourful shrubs, was a restaurant so exclusive there was no visible name. Just a black door—easily missed unless you knew where you were going—showed the entrance.

Antonio pressed a hand in the small of Amelia’s back, the touch purely civil—it was a gesture that wouldn’t have been out of place between colleagues, yet it was like a match being sparked low in her abdomen, and tiny flames burned in every single nerve ending. He pressed a button and a minute later a waiter appeared, wearing jeans and a white shirt, with a butcher’s apron tied around his waist. He addressed them in rapid-fire Spanish, so Antonio responded in English.

‘For two, on the terrace.’

‘Immediately,’ the waiter said, switching effortlessly to Amelia’s native language.

The small door opened into a huge room, so light and airy it was like being in the countryside. Windows that should have looked out onto the street had been screened with green, creating the illusion of being in a garden paradise, and the ceilings were at least three storeys high.

There was a lift at the back and the waiter pressed a button, waiting beside them for it to arrive. Once the doors had opened, he held the doors then reached inside to press a button, before nodding and spinning on his heel.

The lift ascended swiftly—it took only seconds—and then they were on a terrace that exceeded all of Amelia’s expectations. It overlooked the park, showing verdant rolling hills in one direction, and large trees grew in huge pots, jasmine scrambled over a pergola and the tables were placed haphazardly—scattered at random, so that no one table was near another.

It was perfect—private, intimate and clearly exclusive without being off-putting.

‘Ah, Mr Herrera.’ Another waiter appeared, this one a little older, with his dark hair thinning at the temples, his eyes holding Antonio’s before transferring to Amelia. ‘Lovely of you to join us again.’

Amelia ignored the instant surge of jealousy at that—because of course Antonio had frequented this restaurant before, and presumably not alone. It was the perfect place to bring a date—hadn’t she just been thinking so? She straightened her spine, telling herself she didn’t—couldn’t, shouldn’t—care.

‘This way, please.’ The waiter smiled at Amelia and then guided them to a table right at the edge of the terrace. Here, the fragrance of jasmine was exquisite and a nearby citrus tree in a pot was in blossom, so there was a faint humming of feeding bees, their pollen collectors glistening yellow in the afternoon light. The sun was high in the sky yet it wasn’t unbearably warm. Amelia took the seat Antonio had held out for her, letting her gaze chase the details of the view.

For the first time, she felt a kernel of excitement for this—her new city. There was so much to explore, so much to learn!

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said after a moment, her breath fast.

He looked towards the park, and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. She transferred her attention from the park to Antonio, marvelling at how easy it was to forget just how intensely attractive he was.

‘Yes.’ He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. ‘When I was a boy,’ he said, turning to look at her and smiling an easy, companionable smile, ‘my father used to take me there, almost every weekend.’

‘Really? What for?’

‘Football,’ he said with a shrug so his shirt drew across his shoulders and she bit down on her lip to remind herself not to stare. ‘And puppets.’

‘Puppets?’

A waiter appeared with some sparkling water, placing it on the table before them.

‘Puppets,’ Antonio agreed, once they were alone again. ‘There are puppet shows on, all the time, and I used to love them.’

Her heart turned over in her chest at this unexpected detail from his childhood—so mundane, so regular, and completely perfect.

‘You’re surprised?’ he prompted, despite the fact she’d said nothing—and she knew it was because he could read her more easily with each day that passed.

‘I’m...yes,’ she said on a curt nod. ‘I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you don’t strike me as a man who was ever really a boy,’ she said, and then wrinkled her nose on a small laugh, which he echoed.

‘You think I was born like this?’

‘No.’ She rolled her eyes, her smile not fading. ‘I guess you must have physically been a boy at some point. But one that played and had fun?’

He wiggled his brows. ‘I assure you, I was both those things.’

‘You weren’t determined to take over the world, even at six?’

‘Perhaps a little,’ he said, lifting his hand, his forefinger and thumb pressed close together.

The waiter returned, brandishing menus, and Antonio took them without looking in the waiter’s direction.

‘Thank you,’ Amelia murmured, flying the flag of civility for both of them.

‘And you?’ Antonio pushed, after the waiter had left. ‘Was your childhood full of fun?’

Amelia bristled. ‘I’m sure you know the answer to that.’ She reached for her water, sipping it, turning back to the view. Inexplicably, her heart was racing.

‘I have an impression,’ he agreed with an air of relaxation. ‘But you have not told me specifics.’

‘With good reason.’ She tilted a small smile at him. ‘I don’t like to speak about it.’

Speculation glowed in the depths of his eyes, eyes that were—at times—dark black, and now showed specks of amber and caramel. ‘Then make an exception on this occasion. For me.’