Читать книгу His Suitable Bride: Rafael's Suitable Bride / The Spaniard's Marriage Bargain / Cordero's Forced Bride - Эбби Грин, Kate Walker - Страница 10

IN ALL good movies, the dashing man proposed on bended knee, flourishing an antique engagement ring, which magically always fitted the blushing bride-to-be. Sometimes the ring was concealed in a fortune cookie, which had always got Cristina wondering what might happen if it were to be accidentally swallowed.

She decided that it was probably much better to actually choose the engagement ring together and, Rafael being Rafael, the minute she had accepted his marriage proposal he took charge.

He knew exactly which jewellers to visit, as he had used them himself in the past. Cristina wondered what, exactly, he had bought from them, but she kept that uneasy question to herself, happy to go along with the flow. Despite owning some valuable pieces of jewellery herself, most of which were pointlessly locked in bank vaults, Cristina was not a jewellery person. Rings and necklaces might look fine on her sisters, but she personally found that they got in the way of normal day-to-day activities, like gardening or playing sports. How on earth could she coach football with a tiara on her head or a string of pearls wrapped around her neck?

‘We’ll try and stay away from the flamboyant pieces, in that case,’ Rafael had told her. But when, two days later, they found themselves in the exclusive jewellery shop, Cristina watched in dismay as drawers of rings with diamonds the size of oranges were pulled out.

‘You know, I could always get it from one of Dad’s shops in Italy,’ she said faintly, staring down at something that glittered so much she felt she might need to fetch her sunglasses out of her handbag.

‘Nonsense. What’s wrong with the selection here?’

‘Remember what I said about not really liking rings with diamonds the size of rocks?’ She picked out one of the smaller pieces and held it up. It was a good diamond, but it was still a very large diamond. The man clucking around them had discreetly positioned himself to one side and Cristina turned to Rafael awkwardly.

‘We could always go for something really cheap and cheerful,’ she joked. ‘That way, when I get knocked football coaching, it won’t matter too much if it falls off.’

Rafael frowned. ‘What do you mean, when you get knocked football coaching?’

‘It happens.’ Cristina broke it to him in a teasing voice. ‘Running around on a muddy playing field with a bunch of teenagers trying to score a goal. Sometimes they don’t see me on the sidelines shouting instructions. Or maybe they do.’ She laughed, expecting him to laugh back with her, but instead his ebony brows were knitted into a frown. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, slotting the ring back into its velvet niche and signalling for the proprietor to take the case away.

‘Why would you be football coaching?’ Rafael asked with genuine puzzlement in his voice.

‘Ah.’ Cristina was beginning to understand. She turned to the proprietor with a smile. ‘We’re going to go away for a bit and think about which ring is right for us,’ she said. ‘Rafael, shall we go and grab something to eat and we can discuss this?’

‘What’s there to discuss? There must be a ring in this shop that you like, Cristina.’

‘Come on.’ She placed her small hand on his arm and guided him out of the shop into the bright sunlight outside. A sunny Saturday in London was not the most relaxing place on the face of the earth to be. The streets were overflowing with people, tourists snapping pictures, young girls frantically trying to shop, people scurrying to destinations unknown, and all of them in a terrible rush from the looks of it.

Across the street was a coffee shop, one of those newfangled ones that sold fancy coffees with long names and over sized prices, along with paninis, baguettes and tiny salads in eco-friendly packaging.

‘Look, Rafael,’ she opened, when they had finally emerged from the queue and were sitting in front of their tall paper cups of coffee. ‘There’s something we need to talk about.’ She took a careful sip of her latte and thought about what she was going to say. This was something she had never considered when she had joyfully accepted his proposal of marriage. Rafael was all Italian, and his way of looking at marriage had been through the eyes of a man who could see no reason for his wife to work. Not only could he more than afford to keep her in whatever style she so desired, but that would be his right and his duty. It would make no difference that she could more than afford to keep herself in whatever style she chose. He was Italian, and that would be the way things would work.

She took a deep breath. ‘I love what I do, Rafael. I came over here so that I could open my flower shop and try and fulfil some of my ambitions. I know that, next to yours, you probably find my ambitions a little limp, but there’s no way I am going to give up everything I’ve worked for the minute there’s a ring on my finger.’

Rafael frowned. ‘I see no reason for my wife to go out to work,’ he said heavily.

‘That’s a very Victorian point of view. This is the twenty-first century. Women go out to work. They don’t stay indoors doing the cooking and cleaning and laundry and waiting for their husbands to come through the front door at the end of the day.’ She thought that Anthea would have been very proud of that little speech. Of course, compared to her friend, she was alarmingly old-fashioned, but Rafael. Rafael … was a positive dinosaur.

‘I’m not asking you to do the cooking and cleaning and laundry,’ he now pointed out. ‘I have my own chef, and someone comes in twice a week to do the cleaning and laundry. Actually, it won’t be a problem if she comes in every day. I’m sure she would be more than amenable if she’s offered enough money.’

‘And what would I do all day?’ Cristina asked, knowing that she should be angry with him for his out-dated attitude, but warmly aware that there was a note of possessiveness behind it that thrilled her to death.

Rafael shrugged. ‘Whatever women who don’t go out to work do all day.’ He wouldn’t go into too many details on that one. His dearest ex-wife had managed to pack in a surprising amount in her days. Unlike Cristina, she had been more than happy to ditch her job and begin the arduous marital task of running through vast sums of money. Along the way—and seemingly immune to the stunningly obvious piece of logic which states that a man must work in order to earn—she had grown bored with a husband who was always at work, bored with random spending, and had taken to distributing her favours elsewhere, on men who’d flattered her ego and filled the increasing absences of her husband.

Ironically Cristina, who came with money of her own and didn’t have a need to work, was the one now insinuating that he was something from the Dark Ages because he wanted a wife at home.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Cristina told him. ‘I’ve never just stayed at home and done nothing.’

‘What do your sisters do?’

‘Rafael, they both have children and very busy lives. Frankie does a lot of charity stuff, organising events, and they both play tennis and golf.’

Rafael tried and failed to picture Cristina playing tennis, followed by tea with a select group of friends. She wasn’t a tennis-playing kind of person.

‘I’m going to keep running the flower shop,’ she stated firmly. ‘And I’m also going to carry on with the football coaching when the season begins towards the end of the year. And I might just have my first commission to landscape a garden in July. So, before we get married and I disappoint you, I might as well say that I won’t be giving up my various jobs.’

‘I don’t feel comfortable having a wife who’s running all over London working for other people.’

Cristina, knowing exactly the way his mind was working, released a small sigh. ‘I won’t be running all over London working for other people,’ she told him mildly.

‘Landscape jobs?’

‘One possible landscape job.’

‘You’ll be all over the country. Sourcing baby conifers and spring bulbs.’

Cristina laughed out loud. ‘You don’t know the first thing about gardening, do you?

‘Why on earth would I?’

‘Well, I can assure you, a lot of it will be in the layout and design, and I really won’t need to trek the length and breadth of the country to get whatever plants I may need.’

Rafael, having pretty much banked on an obedient and traditional wife, looked in some consternation at the stubborn set of her mouth. She might be sweetly undemanding, but it was obvious that she was capable of digging those sweetly undemanding heels in. He mentally conceded defeat in this particular area which, he had to admit, was not a particularly important area.

If she wanted to play at the flower-shop business, then so be it. The football coaching, or any other coaching for that matter, could simply be seen as a form of exercise, similar to going to the gym once a week. And, well, a landscape job … one that might or might not materialise … what was the use in getting stressed over that?

Also—and he came to the conclusion that this was of greater importance—what had his ex done in the absence of any job or hobby or overriding interest? The devil worked on idle hands.

All things considered, it might be a better thing for Cristina to potter around her flower shop and sketch layouts for other people’s gardens.

He smiled magnanimously at her. ‘You’re right,’ he said grandly. ‘I’ve been brought up with the outmoded concept of the wife at home tending the fires.’

‘While the caveman does the hunting,’ she agreed, relieved that this minor difficulty had been surmounted. ‘And I won’t be needing a chef to do the cooking,’ she continued. ‘Although a cleaner might be useful now and again.’

‘No, the chef is definitely redundant after that meal you cooked for me a couple of days ago.’ He grinned at her. Cristina wondered whether he knew just how sexy he looked when he smiled like that, when the harsh angles of his face were softened and his eyes looked hot and lazy. ‘I particularly enjoyed the dessert,’ he added wickedly. ‘What would you call it?’

‘Ssh!’ Cristina looked around her, blushing. He might think that because he viewed the rest of the world with royal indifference that it, likewise, was royally indifferent to him. Not so. Even in a heaving London coffee shop, he still managed to be the centre of attention, and Cristina was sure that a number of the women had deliberately decided to enjoy their coffees inside instead of taking them out. Rafael Rocchi made very fetching scenery.

‘I can’t believe you can be shy when you think—’

‘That it’s time to go!’ She stood up, bright red, aware that a couple of women too close for comfort were listening with interest to their exchange.

‘Of course. The ring. And then—’ he stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped back, allowing her to precede him through the door ‘—I think a visit to the country might be in order. My mother will be over the moon.’

Cristina was blissfully happy on the drive up to the Lake District. It was hard to imagine that months ago she had undertaken exactly the same drive in her little Mini. Who ever would have thought that, with summer breaking through the cool spring days, she would now be making the same trip in Rafael’s Bentley with a glorious, exciting future stretching out in front of her with the man she adored?

Three weeks ago they had finally chosen the engagement ring and she looked surreptitiously now at her finger where it sparkled, a tangible reminder that this wasn’t all some weird dream from which she would eventually awaken.

He had refused to indulge her whimsy for something cheap and cheerful. Having been surrounded by jewellery all her life, she would have liked to discard the formality of something really expensive, but that, he had informed her, was inappropriate.

‘My wife will wear the best,’ he had said to her, squashing all thoughts of rebellion.

The diamond wasn’t the size of a boulder, but it would never pass unnoticed. Utterly impractical for her line of work, but what was a loving relationship if not about compromises? And hadn’t he compromised when it had come to her work?

Her parents had been overjoyed at the news of her engagement. In fact, like a rider pulling back on the reins of a runaway horse, Cristina had had to halt the tide of plans, which had included an elaborate engagement party in Italy, similar to the extravaganza which both her sisters had enjoyed. That had been their choice, but it wasn’t hers. She remembered both parties as confusingly big affairs at which she had clung to the sidelines, sipping non-alcoholic drinks and wondering when she could slip away to her bedroom so that she could catch up on the reality TV show she had been obliged to miss.

It was already seven in the evening by the time they finally made it to Maria’s country house. Cristina had spent much of the trip dozing, much to Rafael’s amusement. He had never been known to send a woman to sleep, and he found that he rather missed her chatter, having become accustomed to her random remarks about perfectly ordinary things and perfectly dull-looking people. Sometimes in the past few weeks, when his day had been particularly gruelling, he had picked up the phone knowing that her good-natured, irrepressible small talk would soothe and entertain him.

‘We’re here,’ he said, turning to her as he pulled into the drive and killed his engine. In a minute his mother would be outside, and he very much looked forward to a weekend spent without that insidious message being passed to him in silent but pointed waves that it was time for him to find himself a good wife and settle down. He had taken her advice and, hats off to his mother, he felt perfectly contented with his decision.

‘Was I asleep?’ Cristina asked, yawning.

‘Asleep and snoring.’

‘I wasn’t!’ She shot up into a sitting position and looked at him in horror, but grinned when she saw the expression on his face.

Rafael kissed her swiftly on the mouth. ‘That’s about all we’ll be getting,’ he murmured. ‘At least while my mother has her beady eyes on us. She’s never been one to approve of public displays of affection. I might just have to creep into your bedroom tonight under cover of darkness.’ He glanced towards the front door and, as it was still shut, he slipped his hand under her shirt. No bra.

He touched one pert nipple with his thumb and felt her quicken and melt under the caress. Did he have time for more? He would have liked to shove that shirt up and fasten his mouth to that sweetly ripened, throbbing bud, would have liked to have her sink further down the plush leather seat so that he could ravish her in the cool, expensive elegance of his car.

Unfortunately …

He withdrew his hand with marked reluctance and took a few deep, steadying breaths because his body was already slamming into response. ‘We’d better go inside,’ he growled. ‘Or else I’ll be sorely tempted to reverse back down the drive and head for the nearest lay-by. Which wouldn’t exactly be cool, now, would it?’

‘Especially not when your mother’s waving at us from the downstairs bay window.’

She smiled as Rafael jerked back and pushed open his car door, leaving her to try and calm her body’s tempestuous reaction to his fondling. Making out in a car was strictly for teenagers, she had always thought. Definitely not cool when it came to adults. But if Maria hadn’t appeared just then, and if he had driven his Bentley to the nearest lay-by, then she would have happily let him have his way with her.

Her skin prickled at the thought of them in his car, his head buried between her thighs, nuzzling at her breasts, claiming her mouth …

She’d never thought that she would see the day when she would need a cold shower, but that seemed to be the effect he had on her. One glance, a fleeting touch, and she melted like a candle over an open flame.

As Rafael had predicted—and she would have been surprised otherwise—they had been put in separate bedrooms, with the very long distance of hall and corridor between them. Maria belonged to that generation of adults, just as her parents did, who would never have contemplated their offspring sharing a bedroom with their current partner, even if the partner in question was sporting a very expensive engagement ring on her finger. No; the only ring that would have led to a king-sized bed prepared for two was of the wedding variety.

But on Cloud Nine, which was currently Cristina’s address, it was of little importance. She had the rest of her life to enjoy getting to know the man she was going to marry. A couple of nights under the same roof but in separate beds was not going to be unduly stressful.

She was also looking forward to getting to know Maria a little better as well. And she was pleased that they were going to be staying in, enjoying a home-cooked meal, instead of going to a restaurant.

‘Of course,’ she confided as she guiltily tucked into a second helping of Maria’s exceptional home-made lasagne, ‘I really shouldn’t be indulging in this.’ She sighed. ‘Too much cheese. Very bad for the figure.’ There was also tiramisu for dessert. Cristina had spied it sitting temptingly in the fridge earlier on and, ruthlessly honest as she was with her own eating habits, she’d known that she would be indulging. Then there had been the wine. Very dry and very cold and very drinkable. She had had three glasses and was feeling pleasantly relaxed. The conversation had flowed, with Rafael at his most witty and charming, Maria had chatted about incidents in her youthful past that had featured her friends and Cristina’s parents, and it was all so very comfortable that she’d had to pinch herself a couple of times just to make sure that this was really happening.

‘Nonsense,’ Maria laughed. ‘You have a real figure.’ She wagged one finger warningly. ‘Men don’t like this stick-insect woman,’ she said, smiling. ‘A real man likes a woman with some substance!’

Rafael was laughing as he left the dining room carrying an armful of plates and Maria turned to Cristina and said fondly, ‘I cannot tell you how pleased I am that that son of mine finally listened to what I told him.’

‘What’s that?’

Maria covered Cristina’s hand with her own and gave it a little squeeze of affection.

‘About settling down. I told him that he would become a sad, lonely old man if he didn’t find himself a suitable wife, and for once he listened to what I had to say! And, I must say,’ she added with a hint of complacency in her voice, ‘I couldn’t have picked a better daughter-in-law myself! Now, my dear—’ she stood up and yawned ‘—I am going to leave you two young things … dessert in the fridge … old lady like me …’

Cristina heard Maria’s voice as just a background whisper barely audible above the roaring in her ears. Yes, yes, yes … She was nodding as if her mind wasn’t exploding, agreeing with Maria that indeed she would have some of the tiramisu, that she knew where her bedroom was, that she shouldn’t be too late up because there were plans to go to the market the following day … sunshine predicted … another warm one …

Five minutes ago she had heard Rafael doing domestic things in the kitchen and she had felt utterly and completely happy. Now she wanted to lock the dining room door, shut him out until she could assimilate what Maria had said—those casual, throwaway words about finding a suitable wife.

Cristina remembered that surreal feeling she had had, that a man like Rafael, so supremely eligible, could ever have managed to be attracted to her. He had made her feel sexy and desirable, but really and truly, when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see the sort of woman she would have associated with him. And now, in the stillness of the dining room, all of Anthea’s warnings came flooding back to her, washing away her happiness like footprints on a beach.

She felt the sting of tears prick behind her eyes, and she wanted to duck down under the table and hide until she could sneak away from the house, back to the safety of her own apartment, where she might be able to get her chaotic thoughts back into some sort of order.

Rafael had never once told her that he loved her, but like a fool, she hadn’t let that stand in the way of believing that he did, that he must, because why else would he have asked her to marry him?

She cast her fevered mind back to his proposal. She had laughed at herself at the time for expecting something romantic, and had simply accepted that he wasn’t the romantic type—not the sort to kneel and slip the antique ring on her finger, not the sort to wax lyrical about having her for his wife.

She heard the sound of his approaching footsteps and looked up from where she was sitting in frozen silence. He had a tea cloth slung over one shoulder, the picture of the domestic man. But looks, as she now knew, could be deceiving. Rafael was no more domestic than a jungle animal, although he was willing to dabble if he had to.

Rafael paused at the door to the dining room, his antennae picking up something, although he wasn’t sure what. He frowned and slowly began clearing the rest of the dishes from the table, expecting her to stand up and give him a hand. She normally did this sort of stuff. She didn’t. Instead she remained where she was, staring down at the remnants of the food, as if looking for the table to provide answers to some internal question.

‘What’s the matter?’ Rafael asked, relegating any disquiet to the back of his mind. He swung round to stand behind her and then he leaned forward and kissed the side of her neck. His mother was safely tucked up in her bed, and the thought of having the place to themselves made him feel horny. Being at his mother’s house, knowing that he had done the one thing in the world guaranteed to make her happy, was as rewarding as he had anticipated. His mother heartily approved of Cristina, and he had been spared those prickly conversations about his future which he had always found frustrating.

‘All is quiet on the western front,’ he murmured seductively into her ear, but where she once would have squirmed with pleasure Cristina now pulled away slightly and twisted around to face him.

‘I … I don’t feel comfortable, not when we’re here in your mother’s house …’

‘Now who’s being the dinosaur?’ Rafael teased her. ‘My mother has retired early for a reason. She may not openly condone us sleeping together, but she isn’t a fool.’ But that little ripple of disquiet showed its teeth once again.

It took all of her will power not to succumb to his massive charm. Or for that matter to her treacherous body, which was doing its own thing, ignoring what her head was telling it to do. She stood up and did a funny little side step out of his embrace, then she began clearing the rest of the plates, eyes averted.

Rafael followed her into the kitchen where he had made a rudimentary attempt to load the dishwasher, but unsurprisingly, had only managed to stick in the plates and cutlery, leaving all things difficult piled up in the sink.

‘I’ll finish these off,’ Cristina said quietly, looking at the pile of dirty dishes instead of at him. ‘You can head up to bed. You must be exhausted after all that driving.’

‘I like it when you look at me when you talk,’ Rafael drawled. ‘Or are you in one of those mysterious moods which women seem prone to?’

Cristina felt an unaccustomed surge of rage rush through her, and she gritted her teeth together to suppress the awful desire to shout at him.

‘You should know about women and their mysterious moods,’ she muttered violently instead, and she felt Rafael still behind her.

‘Meaning …?’ He rested his hands on her shoulders and swivelled her around so that she was forced to at least face his direction, although she cravenly kept her eyes pinned to the flag-tiled kitchen floor.

Cristina took a deep breath and dived straight in. What choice did she have? She could continue making mysterious and bitter asides, but the truth was that sooner or later she would have to confront the issue and, who knew? Maybe she had misinterpreted Maria, or misheard. She had a fleeting moment’s peace of mind at the thought of that, of a perfectly harmless, innocent remark having been taken out of context and cruelly magnified into something suspicious.

‘Your mother and I were having a little chat while you were in the kitchen.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘It’s just that she said … Well, she mentioned something in passing that I need to talk to you about.’

‘I can think of better things to do than talk.’

‘I know I’m probably being over-imaginative …’

Rafael resigned himself to one of those conversations in which, he knew, only ten percent of his mind would actively participate. It would probably involve wedding preparations or something equally tedious and, whilst he would dearly have liked to distract her, he could tell from the stubborn angle of her head that this was important to her and he shrugged, dropping the tea cloth on the counter.

‘Okay. Do you want some of that dessert in the fridge?’

Cristina thought of Maria’s description of her, fondly intentioned but unwittingly cutting. A real woman. Cristina didn’t particularly want to be a real woman. Right now, she would happily have settled for Barbie-doll status, because, despite what Maria had said, men weren’t attracted to real women. How could she have been so blind as to imagine that Rafael was seriously attracted to her? She was a novelty at the moment, and he was probably making the best of a bad job in sleeping with the woman he had more or less been set up to marry. Just thinking about it now made her head swim and her legs feel weak.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Now I really am concerned.’

‘This is serious, Rafael,’ Cristina said more sharply than she was accustomed to, and he frowned at her. She could see him trying to work out what was going on and she realised, belatedly, how transparently predictable she had been—always thrilled to see him, always ready to make love, always sunny natured because that was her temperament. He had beckoned, and like someone in a trance she had walked towards him, never asking all those questions which she now realised she should have been asking.

Frankly, she had been clueless.

‘Could we go into the sitting room?’ she asked.

‘As you wish.’

Cristina nodded and led the way. It was a grand house, but many of the rooms downstairs were shut up because Maria, on her own, really only occupied the kitchen, the cosy den which she used as her office, the sitting room and her bedroom. In summer, she said that she liked nothing better than her garden room at the back, from which she could contemplate the beauty of nature. Consequently, those rooms which were used all year round were cluttered and cosy and quite different from the remainder of the house.

With the foundations of her fairy-tale future disappearing like a puff of smoke in a high wind, Cristina was piecing together all those missing jigsaw pieces which she had cheerfully ignored. For instance, she thought bitterly, how odd had it been that after only three months he had proposed marriage—a man accustomed to single life in the fast lane, surrounded by the most beautiful women in the world, sought after, courted, desired? How was it that he had suddenly decided to wave goodbye to all of that in a matter of a few seconds, so to speak, because she, plump, gauche and nothing stunning in the looks department, had come along?

‘You were saying?’

Cristina, lost in her thoughts, had almost forgotten what she had been saying. She focused her eyes on the man sitting next to her on the sofa and blinked.

‘I was saying that your mother … Maria said something and I need you to clarify.’

‘Get to the point, Cristina.’

Was he being understandably impatient because she was waffling, or were these just the signs of arrogance which she had conveniently chosen to overlook but which had been there all along?

‘She said that she was really happy … that you had decided to finally settle down.’

‘And so she is. Are we going somewhere with this or is it just the circles thing?’

‘She said that she had spoken to you … told you that it was time that you found a suitable wife.’ Bitterness had crept into her voice, and Rafael’s face darkened. ‘I need to find out what this is all about, Rafael,’ she pursued doggedly. ‘Finding a suitable wife. Is that what this is all about?’ The words were wrenched out of her and spoken straight from the heart.

‘You’re beginning to sound hysterical, Cristina, and I don’t do hysterics.’

‘I’m not being hysterical. I’m just asking you to tell me the truth, whether you were put up to this.’

‘I don’t think I like that expression,’ Rafael said, his lean, handsome face taut.

‘Well, I can’t think of another one to use. Your mother said that she told you that it was time to find a suitable wife and, lo and behold, here I am!’

‘You seem to have a problem with that term and I don’t understand why.’ The relaxing weekend Rafael had anticipated seemed to be going rapidly pear-shaped and he was at a loss to explain why. Cristina, so obliging for the past few months, was now asking questions which he personally found unnecessary, and standing her ground. Why? She should have been pleased that he considered her a suitable wife! He had already been through a wife who had been totally unsuitable. What higher compliment than to be chosen for her suitability?

Cristina’s hope that she had somehow misinterpreted Maria’s remark crumbled into ashes.

‘Yes, my mother suggested that it was time I settled down and I agreed with her.’ He gave a casual, elegant shrug. ‘Where is the problem in that? There comes a moment in every man’s life when he must weigh the advantages of playing hard against the peace of tying the knot.’

Cristina had a mental image of a pair of scales with ‘Fun and Frolics’ on one side and herself, ‘Giant Knot’, on the other. No love to be seen and, without love, how long before ‘Giant Knot’ lost its appeal? Would he then expect to resume his fun and frolics, with the added bonus of having Giant Knot at home raising children, cooking meals and waiting for him to return?

‘So this would be a bit like a business transaction, in other words?’

‘Why do you insist on using such emotive language?’ Rafael enquired impatiently.

Cristina turned away, the sting of tears making her blink rapidly, willing herself not to cry because she was pretty sure that he probably didn’t do crying along with hysterics.

‘It’s not going to work.’ She wriggled the engagement ring from her finger, turned back to him and silently held out her hand with the ring in her palm. ‘The diamond was too big anyway. How could I do football coaching or my flowers wearing it?’ She forced herself to smile in the face of his stony expression. ‘I should have seen that as a sign. We couldn’t even agree on the ring.’