Читать книгу Bride in a Gilded Cage - Эбби Грин - Страница 8

Nearly three years later

THAT KISS… Rafael had given up trying to figure out why the kiss he’d shared with Isobel Miller that night had impacted upon him far more than he’d let on at the time. It still had an uncomfortable habit of sneaking into his thoughts with annoying and vivid frequency.

He could remember going back out to his car, where his mistress had been waiting, and dropping her home with some pathetic excuse—an unprecedented situation. But it hadn’t just been the kiss that had turned his head, made him stop to think about the marriage in a new light. It had been the way she’d stood up to him—something no one before or since had done. It had made him believe that the prospect of their arranged marriage might not be the prison sentence he’d always anticipated it to be. He’d hidden his reaction that night, but the heat between them had been fierce and elemental—to the point that in the last six months not one woman had made it into his bed. The memory of his future wife and the reality of her rapidly approaching twenty-first birthday had rendered him all but impotent.

With irritation mounting at this acknowledgement of the power she seemed to hold over him so effortlessly, Rafael studied the photograph on the desk before him. It was of Isobel, running across a busy street in Paris, arm in arm with a handsome young man. Even though Rafael knew already that the man in question was her dance partner, and gay, it didn’t stop the surge of hot anger in his belly. It was as if Isobel was mocking him.

To compound this feeling, Isobel was smiling broadly, with clearly not a care in the world, eyes sparkling with humour and beauty. Rafael’s gut tightened. He’d been right, but even he had underestimated the full force of Isobel’s beauty. The hint of teenage puppy fat had disappeared, to reveal the exquisite bone structure of her face. She’d had her hair cut short—very short—and while Rafael didn’t ordinarily find short hair attractive, on Isobel it highlighted those huge eyes and the delicate lines of her jaw and neck, making her look both incredibly seductive and innocent.

Something that felt absurdly like regret rushed through Rafael as he acknowledged that there could be no way Isobel was still the blushing virgin he’d encountered on the night of her eighteenth birthday. It would be impossible. But he didn’t know why regret was surfacing, when he’d never had any desire to bed a virgin and had more or less instructed Isobel to become a woman.

Rafael’s mouth firmed. Well, she’d done that, and then some. She’d left Buenos Aires within weeks of their meeting and gone to Paris, where she’d been making a living teaching Argentine Tango dance classes. She hadn’t used her extensive and expensive British education to carve out a high-profile career or social existence, and as a result had gone unnoticed as far as the tabloids were concerned. As time had passed Rafael had had to admit to a growing sense of respect. The periodic reports that he received showed that she was living in the most basic of accommodation, and struggling to survive just like anyone else.

He knew she was receiving no hand-outs from her parents because they had nothing to give. Their finances were in a sorry state after years of bad judgments and investments. They had come to him some weeks before, and he had assured them that he fully intended to go through with the marriage and instructed them to leave all the arrangements up to him. Their relief had been palpable.

Rafael turned around in his chair and looked out of the window at the view of Plaza de Mayo, the business hub of Buenos Aires. He rested his chin on steepled fingers. Within minutes of meeting Isobel that night she’d effectively blasted apart any misconception he’d had about her character. Clearly she was not cut of the same cloth as other girls in her peer group, and her actions since then had only confirmed that.

A sense of anticipation coiled in his belly. The time had come to bring his fiancée home and get married. She looked far too carefree and happy in the photograph he’d just received. And the memory of that kiss was too tantalisingly erotic.

Exactly as his solicitor had warned, and as he knew himself, his business was starting to suffer. Clients and colleagues were growing nervous, thinking that his single status translated to his being less than reliable on all fronts. He was more often than not in social situations the only single man. He never thought he’d say it, but he could now see the advantages that his marriage had to offer—not the least of which was the prospect of a stunningly beautiful wife on his arm and in his bed.

This was a business decision, pure and simple, and would be a marriage of convenience like a thousand others in his city.

‘That’s right, Lucille, keep bringing your feet back together. Marc, watch your embrace. It needs to be much firmer—you’re not giving Lucille enough support…’

Isobel adjusted the couple who had just danced past her and watched as they set off again, her eyes automatically going to the other dancers in her tango class, assessing their progress.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t distract her from the humiliating fact that since she’d left Buenos Aires, a few weeks after the fateful night of her eighteenth birthday, she hadn’t managed to get through one day without thinking about Don Rafael Ortega Romero. Or seeing his devastating face and body in her mind’s eye.

She’d done everything she could to try and block out his words and what had passed between them. That kiss. Even now she got hot just thinking about it. And, despite living in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, with men asking her out regularly, she’d yet to come close to experiencing anything like she had with Rafael that night.

If she went on a date, at some point she’d begin to compare her date’s lovemaking to Rafael’s kiss, or how it had felt to be in his arms, and a coldness would lodge in her chest and make her push him back. It was as if Rafael had put some kind of spell on her that night, and she hated him for it.

The back of her neck prickled then, as if thinking about him might conjure him up, and she shook off the feeling with an effort that dismayed her. This year, for the first time, she’d stopped jumping at every sudden movement, or when someone tapped her on the shoulder. From the moment she’d got off the plane in Paris she’d been expecting to see Rafael. Expecting him to haul her back to Buenos Aires, incensed that she had run away.

Isobel shook her head now, disgusted with herself all over again. Why hadn’t she been able to erase the memory of that kiss three years ago? She was disgusted too because never in a million years had she ever wanted to be in thrall to someone like him. Arrogant and rich, taking everything for granted.

A small voice pointed out that her judgment of him was purely superficial, but Isobel disregarded it. She knew very well the kind of world he came from, because she came from it, too. And nothing could dissuade her from believing that he would be as amoral and greedy as the next billionaire, whose sole focus was keeping up appearances and making money. It had been there in his arrogant stance that night of her eighteenth birthday, when he’d come to look her over like a brood mare he was considering buying.

As time had worn on she’d almost started to believe that perhaps she’d dreamt it—perhaps Rafael hadn’t really meant it when he’d insisted that they would be married. But just weeks ago she’d felt a cold finger of fear touch her spine when her mother had been far too genial on the phone during one of their sporadic calls.

Her parents had fought her decision to go to Paris, but Isobel had insisted, and since then relations had been strained. When Isobel’s mother had sounded so uncharacteristically upbeat, Isobel had had a strong suspicion that they knew something she didn’t. Had Rafael been in touch with them? Had he reassured them that he and Isobel would be married? She couldn’t ignore the fact that it was two weeks from her twenty-first birthday. Her belly clenched into a knot of tension.

The song playing through the speakers came to an end and Isobel welcomed the distraction. She clapped her hands together and faced her students, lamenting again the fact that her regular partner, José, was ill and couldn’t be there to teach with her.

‘We’re almost done, but I’ll show you how we can put all these steps together in a sequence. Now, I just need a volunteer…’

Isobel looked around the group and groaned inwardly. None of the men was really good enough to do a demo. But just as she was about to select the best of the bunch, she noticed that everyone’s attention had gone over her head to something behind her, where the door to the studio was. The tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck again, and with a nearly overwhelming sense of foreboding she turned around.

Rafael had to curb the violence of the reaction in his body when Isobel turned to face him. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. Even though he’d had regular updates on her activities, and photographs, it hadn’t prepared him to see her in the flesh, up close, with her light scent suffusing the air.

She was dressed in black knee-length leggings and a tank top, showing off the slender gracefulness of her dancer’s physique. She wore special dance shoes, which were obviously more practical for teaching a class than the requisite high heels, but already Rafael was imagining her feet encased in silver or gold, slim high heels elongating those gorgeous legs.

Just as he’d seen in the photograph, her short hair made her delicate features stand out, made her more luminously beautiful. Her eyes were the same: huge pools of dark brown velvet, their lashes long and dark. She was exquisite. His blood got hot, and as he watched every ounce of colour drained from her face completely.

Isobel felt the urge to reach out and hold on to something concrete. Don Rafael Ortega Romero stood just feet away from her, dwarfing her tiny studio. For an awful second she wondered if she was in fact imagining him standing there, if she was experiencing some kind of hallucination brought on by thinking about him…But then he spoke.

‘I think I could be of assistance to you, if you need a dance partner…?’

Isobel felt paralysed. She couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. She was dimly aware of her students looking curiously from her to Rafael.

‘To demonstrate the steps?’ Rafael prompted, as if she might be having trouble understanding him. As if it was entirely normal that he’d just turned up in her place of work, on the other side of the world.

Isobel saw Rafael take off his dark jacket, revealing a white shirt and dark trousers. She felt a ripple of unmistakable feminine interest spike behind her and it seemed to break her out of the shock threatening to suck her under.

Taking control, she put out a hand. ‘No, it’s fine—really, I’ll use…’ She looked around and thought wildly for a second, but this was the beginners’ class. Her eyes rested on Marc, but he went red and gave her a tortured look. Her heart sank. She couldn’t do it to him. She looked back at Rafael, who was standing there looking smug with arms crossed.

‘Do you know how to dance tango?’ Isobel asked, feeling as if she’d been dropped into some surreal world. She didn’t even think she was breathing.

Rafael smiled arrogantly. ‘I’m Argentinian—of course I know how to tango. I’ve been dancing since my grandmother used to sneak my brother and I into milongas when we were younger.’

Isobel was stunned into speechlessness, and only the presence of curious eyes forced her to pretend insouciance, to shrug lightly and turn round to start the music. With shaking fingers she chose a song, and the strains of Carlos Di Sarli wound through the studio. Numb with shock, she turned back to face Rafael, who was now standing in front of her with a quirked brow.

‘What are we doing?’

‘Ochos and sacadas.’

He nodded. Isobel couldn’t delay any longer, or the song would be over and her students would be wondering who this enigmatic stranger was and why she was acting so weirdly. She walked forward and into his arms. He took her hand and settled an arm across her back, and Isobel closed her eyes in a moment of desperation; his touch was having an explosive effect on her insides.

On the balls of her feet, she moved so that she leant into him fully, and then expertly Rafael started to dance, twisting and turning Isobel in a series of moves to demonstrate the steps she’d mentioned.

Isobel dimly recognised in some rational part of her brain that he danced like a professional. Her natural dance ability and instinct took over as she recognised his lead and followed him. She unconsciously let him take more of her weight. The steps became more complex. For the first time in her life, despite dancing with many partners, tango suddenly felt sexy, and she wished he wasn’t holding her so close. Her head was turned in the same direction as his, tucked perfectly just below his jaw. They fitted perfectly.

She was aware of Rafael’s steel band of support across her back, her right hand held high by his. She was aware of his arm under her shoulder, her hand spread across his back. She could feel the muscles bunch and move as he danced, and only the fact that she was such an experienced dancer stopped her from tripping over her own feet.

It was a long moment before Isobel realised that the music had stopped and they weren’t dancing any more. With a jerky move she pulled herself free of Rafael’s arms and stood apart, none too steady. She felt hot in the face. Her students were looking at her with slightly open-mouthed expressions that Isobel couldn’t and didn’t want to decipher.

She got caught up in a flurry of goodbyes and thank yous, was touched when some of her students presented her with small gifts, but through it all she felt as if she were on a tightrope of tension, acutely aware of the man who lounged nonchalantly just feet away, waiting for her.

Was it time? Had he come to bring her home? She was very much afraid she was about to find out.

Isobel walked back into the studio after changing in the tiny bathroom next door. Her heart kicked to see that Rafael was still there. He hadn’t been some bizarre hallucination. She felt self-conscious and shabby in an ancient knee-length sundress. It had been unbearably hot even by early morning that day, and she’d thrown on the coolest thing that came to hand. Next to the stunning perfection of Rafael she felt like a bag lady.

Her pulse sped up when she saw Rafael turn from where he’d been looking out of the window over the street below. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes looked her up and down, their expression shuttered.

He gestured towards where a couple of gift-wrapped boxes sat by her things. ‘Do your students know that it’s your birthday in two weeks?’

Isobel looked at Rafael, panic resounding through her in waves. He’d come for her.

‘It’s nearly three years to the day since we met, Isobel, do you remember?’

Her mouth felt numb. She’d gone icy cold. She deliberately ignored what he said. ‘They’re not birthday gifts. I’m shutting down for August as everyone in Paris goes on their holidays. Some students bring me small gifts to say thank you.’

Rafael just looked at her with that intent gaze. In a bid to put some space between them and turn her back to him, Isobel went over to her things and started to pack up her iPod and speakers, putting it all into a small backpack. Her brain had seized.

When everything was packed away she turned around and took a deep breath, steeling herself. Her belly went into a tight knot of apprehension. ‘Why are you here, Mr Romero?’

His dark eyes speared her to the spot. ‘You know very well why I’m here. And it’s not Mr Romero. It’s Rafael.’

Isobel’s hand clenched on her bag. Even now, when he’d confirmed why he’d come, she tried to deny it to herself—fool herself into thinking that she still had some sort of choice. ‘I’m not prepared to just—’

He cut her off. ‘We’re not going to discuss this here and now. I’ll have my car pick you up from your apartment at 7:00 p.m. and bring you to my hotel.’

Isobel nearly fainted to think that he was just snapping his fingers and expecting her to fall in behind him. Hysteria wasn’t far from her voice. ‘How do you know I don’t have plans? That I don’t have friends I’ve arranged to meet somewhere? If you think you can just come here and pluck me out of my life like this—’

Rafael stepped close, and Isobel fought strenuously not to move back a pace. His eyes roved over her face, making her skin prickle.

‘You’ve known very well this day was coming, and you can’t say I haven’t left you alone to enjoy your independence. I’ve booked a table for dinner this evening and you will join me.’

While Isobel was still absorbing her shock at his implacable arrogance, he’d somehow taken her bag off her shoulder and with a hand on her elbow was escorting her from the studio. He’d taken her keys and was locking up behind them, as if he did it all the time.

Once they stepped out into the street, the languorous city heat did little to break Isobel from her inertia. Rafael calmly handed her back her keys and bag and indicated a sleek car parked by the kerb. ‘I won’t offer you a lift, as I know you live just a block away from here, but my car will be waiting for you at seven.’

He reached out and trailed a finger down Isobel’s cheek to her jaw. It left a line of fire in its wake, making her breath hitch, shocking her out of the inertia holding her in its grip. He’d done exactly the same thing that night three years before.

‘Don’t try anything silly, Isobel, or I’ll just come for you myself.’

And then, speechless, Isobel just watched as Don Rafael Ortega Romero got into the back of the car and it pulled away and disappeared into the traffic.

Isobel was still in a state of shock three hours later. She looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror that lay against a wall in the tiny space the landlord euphemistically called a bedroom. She’d found the mirror one day in a nearby skip and carried it home.

She knew well the kind of man Rafael was. The world he came from was a place where people didn’t say no to him, so she knew his threat was not an empty one. He wouldn’t stand for being stood up. A disturbing frisson of something she didn’t want to name went through her belly and she quashed it. She hated the fact that she seemed to be caught up in wondering about what Rafael thought of her now.

In a moment of weakness about a year ago she’d done a Google search on him, to see where he was, what he was doing, and she’d seen a picture of him at a premiere in Los Angeles with a veritable glamazon of a woman on his arm. All long, luscious limbs and flowing red hair. The kind of woman Isobel didn’t think she could ever hope to imitate.

She looked at her hair critically; she’d had it cut when she’d come to Paris on an impulse. It had felt like something rebellious, something cathartic, to distract her from the fact that she couldn’t escape her fate. Sometimes now, though, she longed for length again—something to hide behind. She’d felt acutely exposed today under Rafael’s gaze.

She gave herself a last, dismissive look, collected her bag and went down to wait for the car. It was only in the car on the way to Rafael’s hotel that Isobel realised that not once since she’d seen Rafael again that afternoon had the thought occurred to her to try and run or escape.

Rafael sat in the lobby of the Plaza Athénée hotel and waited for Isobel. It was one of the grandest hotels in Paris, but Rafael didn’t notice the trappings of wealth around him, the expensive scents of the women there as they passed by with unconcealed looks of interest in his direction.

A coil of delicious tension snaked through his body—a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He remembered the moment in that study three years before, when Isobel had stood up to him, taking him by surprise, and he recognised the same sense of anticipation.

He saw his car pull up outside the main door and stood, grimacing slightly when he felt that tight coil of tension move southwards. With ruthless control he called his body to heel. And then the minute he saw Isobel’s silhouette emerge from the car that control was blasted to smithereens.

She passed two men as she walked in the main entrance, and Rafael saw how they both turned to look. He was no better, with his eyes glued to the graceful curve of her body. She wore the unmistakable signs of her breeding unconsciously; her dress was most likely chainstore, and nothing more than plain and black…but it could have been a Dior creation the way it hugged her torso and clung softly to her slim thighs, flaring out slightly at the knee. His eyes dropped to see her feet encased in silver high-heeled sandals and his desire escalated. With a burst of pique at his uncontrollable hormones, he went to intercept her.

Isobel tried not to be intimidated by the plush luxury of the iconic Paris hotel. It was a long time since she’d been somewhere so opulent, and she found it a little overpowering now. If she’d felt like a bag lady earlier, now she felt as if she might be mistaken for a cleaner.

She went towards the reception desk, with the intention of getting them to inform Rafael that she was here. She was not expecting the great man to be waiting himself. But just then something tall and dark caught her eye. She turned to see Rafael, in a coal-black suit and white shirt, striding across the marble lobby towards her. Isobel quailed inwardly. He looked angry, a glower transforming his features as he came closer and closer. She felt a hot rush of sensation when she remembered the tango they’d danced earlier and how closely he’d held her.

He came to a stop just inches away, and Isobel was more nervous than she cared to admit, reacting testily to his obvious irritation. ‘There’s no need to look like you’re about to take my head off. I’m only too happy to turn around and go home.’

For a second she saw Rafael battle with something, and then the glower was gone, replaced by a smile so gorgeous and charming that she was sorry she’d said anything. He put a disturbingly warm hand on her elbow.

‘Come through to the bar. We’ll have an aperitif before dinner.’

Isobel had no choice but to follow him. His hand was like a steel brand on her elbow, and heat radiated up her arm. No other man had ever had such a viscerally intense physical reaction on her body. To her relief when they walked into the bar he let her go, so they could sit down at a table. The décor was a sophisticated mix of modern and antique, the lighting was low and the tones of conversation around them reverentially hushed. Soft piano music played in the background.

She’d dreaded this moment of seeing Rafael again for three years, and yet now that it was here it didn’t feel as if it was dread making her belly tighten…

A bowing waiter materialised, as if from thin air, and Rafael looked at Isobel. She felt flustered and hot. ‘I’ll…just have a sparkling water, please.’

Rafael just looked at her, before glancing at the waiter and saying, ‘A shot of whisky. No ice. Thank you.’

The waiter walked away and Rafael settled back into his chair, long legs stretched out under the table. Isobel’s usual sense of co-ordination and grace had deserted her somewhere back in the lobby. She felt as tightly wound as a spring and sat straight, legs tucked under her chair, as far away from his as she could get.

The corner of his mouth tipped up in a small smile and her chest literally ached for a second.

‘I have to admit it, Isobel, you’ve surprised me and proved me wrong.’

She schooled her body and mind’s traitorous responses and replied tightly, ‘I wasn’t aware that I was doing anything with you in mind.’

His smile grew. ‘You threw down the gauntlet when you left Buenos Aires.’

‘I also told you that I never wanted to see you again.’

He smiled. ‘Well, you knew that wasn’t going to happen.’

Isobel felt the colour leaching from her face like a physical reaction, draining all the way down to her feet. No escape.

He continued. ‘I’ve kept tabs on you, and believe me, if I’d thought it necessary I would have come for you a lot sooner.’ He shrugged minutely and almost smirked. ‘But it would appear that your closest association has been with your gay dance partner, so I wasn’t too worried.’

Heat flooded Isobel’s cheeks at his ‘I would have come for you a lot sooner.’ ‘You had me followed?’

Rafael shrugged again, and grimaced delicately. ‘I wouldn’t say followed, per se, I merely had access to your movements. After all, you are essentially my fiancée.’

Fury raced through Isobel, and she seized the opportunity to feel righteous, with something concrete to be angry about. ‘You had me followed, and that is unacceptable.’

She stood up, but in an instant Rafael was standing, too, dwarfing her across the table. His face wasn’t remotely charming now.

‘Sit down, Isobel. I will not allow you to use something so flimsy as an excuse to walk out of here just because I make you feel nervous.’

Shock upon shock reverberated through her. Isobel’s jaw felt sore from clenching it. She felt as transparent as a glass screen, but lied, ‘You don’t make me nervous. And I’m not going to stay unless you apologise for having me followed.’

Tension crackled between them. Rafael’s eyes glowed, a dark and almost black-brown, and Isobel had a sudden flash of memory, back to when he’d kissed her and she’d seen flecks of green in their depths. She felt weak.

Rafael struggled not to kick the low table out of the way and haul her into his arms, crush her mutinous mouth under his. Two spots of colour were in her cheeks, standing out against the pallor that lingered, evidence of her discomfiture.

Easily, because it cost him nothing, he said, ‘I apologise. Now sit down.’ When she didn’t move straight away he bit out, ‘Please.’

Finally she sat, and an enticing scent teased his nostrils—her scent. Rafael sat, too, and shifted in his seat so he could be comfortable—which was a challenge when his body seemed determined to respond to rogue hormones and not logic. Sexual frustration was not a state he’d ever known until the last six months, and right now it was screaming through his veins.

The waiter came back and put down their drinks. Isobel reached for her water and lifted it to take a big gulp, but just before she did she saw Rafael’s glass lifted, too, towards her. He raised a brow.

She blushed, embarrassed, and clinked her glass to his faintly.

‘To your health.’

She mumbled something incoherent, her eyes glued to his as they both took a sip. The sparkling fizzy water burst down her throat and brought her back to some sort of reality.

‘So tell me,’ he drawled, ‘how has it been for you living in Paris?’

Isobel looked at him, and he could see her bite her lower lip. He wanted to reach across and take her chin between his fingers, kiss that spot. She looked down and up again, something fleeting crossing her face, before she asked in a strangled voice, ‘You want to talk about my life here in Paris?’

Rafael sat forward, elbows on his knees, intent on this woman in a way he hadn’t felt about any woman in a very long time. ‘That’s exactly what I want.’

Isobel sneaked a glance at Rafael. Tension had been gradually building in her body since they’d moved into the plush and opulent dining room, lit with a thousand glinting lights from intricately heavy chandeliers. A waiter came and unobtrusively cleared their empty plates. If asked, she knew she wouldn’t remember what they’d eaten, delicious though it had been. Rafael lifted the white wine bottle and gestured to Isobel. She’d only had a few sips from her glass. She shook her head quickly.

Rafael refilled his own glass and shot her a look. ‘You don’t drink?’

Isobel grimaced slightly. ‘I don’t have the head for it.’ Desperation mounted inside her as she watched him take a lazy sip. She couldn’t believe that there was no way out of the situation, and in that moment something else struck her—a feeling of guilt at knowing that he had once tried to forge his own path, marry for love, and it had been destroyed, all because of this legal agreement.

Isobel leant forward. ‘Mr Romero…’ she faltered. ‘That is, Rafael…you can’t want to marry me. Neither one of us wants this. Is there no other way we can salvage the agreement without marrying?’

Rafael leant forward, too, putting down his glass. His face was hard, his voice arctic. ‘No, Isobel, there is no other way. And you’re quite wrong. I do want this marriage. The sooner you come to terms with the fact that we are getting married, the better. If we were to try and get out of this agreement the legalities would tie up any monies from the estate for the foreseeable future—a situation your parents really cannot afford. And, as I’ve told you before, I’m not about to jeopardise one of my most valuable assets.’