Читать книгу Postcards From Madrid - Линн Грэхем, Lynne Graham - Страница 12

LATER that morning, Sophie saw the limousine first. Antonio swung out and unfolded to his full intimidating height and she had eyes only for him. Immaculate in appearance and stunningly handsome, he was wearing a formal charcoal-grey suit teamed with a white shirt and a blue silk tie. Dragging her enthralled attention from him, she smoothed damp palms down over her most presentable T-shirt.

She was so nervous she started talking before she even had the door properly open. ‘A friend is looking after Lydia for me…I thought we could talk on the beach… It’s a lovely day.’

Lovely? Antonio thought the sky was cloudy, the wind rather strong and the temperature distinctly on the cool side. But then even at its best the British climate could not compete with the sun-drenched heat of his own country, he conceded ruefully.

‘We would have more privacy indoors,’ he suggested.

Sophie tensed. ‘I don’t want you to see where I live,’ she admitted.

Antonio raised a bemused brow. ‘Por qué…why?’

Sophie began walking along the path that led down to the strand. ‘After that crack you made about poverty, I just wouldn’t feel comfortable entertaining you in my home. It may not be much but I like it. Why should I have to put up with you acting like I’m living in a hovel?’

‘I hope I would not be so rude,’ Antonio drawled flatly.

‘Well, you were yesterday,’ Sophie could not resist telling him. ‘On the beach, we’ll be equal.’

Antonio was not dressed for the beach. He wondered if that was supposed to be part of the great levelling exercise or if she was secretly hoping that he would freak out when he got sand on his shoes. He watched her race to the edge of the water like an eager child, her every movement fired with mercurial energy. Beautiful to look at, but almost impossible to handle. She was unpredictable, hot-tempered, impulsive, wildly emotional: she was driving him mad. The proposition he was about to outline, however, would restore the status quo. She would become much more amenable to his guidance when she was living in Spain…

‘I’ve worked out a compromise since we talked last night,’ Antonio imparted in his smooth honeyed drawl.

‘Oh…?’ Her spirits lifted by the bright reflection of the sun on the sea, Sophie pinned hopeful eyes to his bold bronzed profile.

‘You can move to Spain.’

‘No way!’ Sophie gasped in disconcertion.

‘Try not to interrupt me.’ Dark golden eyes levelled on her mutinous face. ‘Lydia will have to live at the castillo with me, but I own many properties nearby. Finding you accommodation would not be a problem and it would be free. You could see the child whenever you liked and she would find it easier to adapt to her new home if you were there to provide support.’

Sophie folded her arms with a jerk. She could not believe his nerve. ‘So I give up my life here, move abroad and live in limbo on your property like some charity case. Thanks, but no, thanks! I’m not unreasonable. I’m happy to share Lydia with you but I refuse to hand her over to you lock, stock, and barrel. I mean, what are you planning to do with her?’

‘Engage childcare professionals to take care of her every need.’

Her green eyes flamed. ‘That really says it all, doesn’t it? Why can’t you just be honest? You haven’t the slightest personal interest in your brother’s child. You think it’s your duty to give her a home, but you resent it—’

‘That is not true.’ But there was enough of a grain of truth in that accusation to flick Antonio on the raw.

‘You’ll never love Lydia the way I do because you’re always going to see her as a burden!’

‘You’re wrong,’ Antonio incised almost fiercely.

‘Of course you will. She’s not your baby and you didn’t ask for her and you’re not that fussed about kids anyway…and if you get married Lydia’s likely to be as popular as rat poison with your wife!’

‘I have no intention of getting married—’

Adrenalin pounding through her veins, Sophie stalked over to him to look up at him, her eyes bright with conviction. ‘But she needs a mother, Antonio. Not people you pay to wash and feed her.’

‘I’m not ready for marriage.’

‘Then let Lydia and I alone and send us the occasional postcard!’ Sophie advised thinly, her temper rising at her inability to gain an emotional reaction from him. ‘You’re too selfish to take charge of a baby. You’ll neglect her. You’ll be too busy wheeling and dealing at the office and socialising with your harem of women to make time for her!’

Brilliant eyes shimmering into a hot golden blaze, Antonio closed long fingers round Sophie’s wrist to urge her closer. ‘Harem?’ he prompted with subdued mockery.

Angry, mortified colour burnished Sophie’s cheeks. ‘Pablo used to tell Belinda all about your exploits with your string of women.’

‘Pablo would have known nothing. We were not close. I did not confide in him. But while I may not talk of my conquests I’m not ashamed of my sex life. Did you think I would be?’ Arrogant dark head high, Antonio gazed down at her, lush black lashes semi-screening his disturbingly intent gaze.

‘I don’t give two hoots about your flippin’ sex life!’ Sophie flung in affronted denial, her cheeks burning.

‘I think you do…’ Antonio breathed soft and low, the dark timbre of his deep, rich drawl feathering down her slender spine like a hurricane warning. ‘I think that nearly three years ago I was too much of a gentleman for your tastes—’

‘Gentleman is not a word I would label you with,’ Sophie cut in unevenly, a hunger she could not suppress licking up in her pelvis and freezing her where she stood bare inches from him. Every inch of her was taut and screaming with so powerful an awareness of her own body that she felt light-headed. All she needed from him was one kiss, she was telling herself. One kiss just to see what all the fuss was about and she was convinced that he would be as much of a disappointment as every other guy she had kissed. But in Antonio’s case, it would be a glorious, wonderful disappointment that would for ever banish her unease around him.

‘But, whatever the label, you’re still hot for me, mi cielo,’ Antonio murmured huskily.

Sophie trembled. ‘Curious…’ she admitted in a breath of sound, her throat dry and tight.

Antonio never kissed women in public. He gazed down at her, his attention welded to the darkened emerald of her expectant eyes and the ruby allure of her luscious, parted lips. He lifted a hand to close his fingers into her curls, learning that her hair felt soft as silk and picturing the rebellious golden-toffee waves spread across his pillows. Thought had nothing to do with what happened next.

His mouth touched hers; she stopped breathing. He brushed her lips light as a butterfly and then slowly deepened the pressure. She was torn by delight and impatience and a mortifying desire to grab him with both hands. Tantalised beyond bearing, she leant towards him, wildly conscious of the aching heaviness of her breasts below her T-shirt, the swelling sensitivity of the rosy crowns abraded by the rough cotton. She knew she wanted his mouth there too and the very thought shocked her rigid, but she could no more pull back from him and temptation than she could have stemmed the tide.

‘Antonio…’ she whispered.

‘I don’t want this…’ Antonio growled, but he went back for more of it all the same.

Passion banished restraint as he used his tongue to delve deep into the moist interior of her mouth. That invasive tactic had the most extraordinary effect on Sophie. The taste and feel of him drove her wild. An excitement close to the edge of pain shot like flame through her slender length. She shivered violently and locked her arms round his neck, kissing him back with unconditional fervour. The heat and strength of his lean, powerful body hard against her softer curves left her breathless and gasping.

In an abrupt movement, Antonio wrenched himself back from her. Stunning eyes a scorching gold, he was breathing heavily. For a split second, Sophie was lost in a time slip, still craving that intoxicating tide of sensation. Then self-preservation kicked in and she spun away, digging shaking hands into the pockets of her jeans and dragging in oxygen in a greedy gulp. He was dynamite. She hadn’t wanted to find that out. But equally quickly it dawned on her that the attraction was not one-sided, as she had once naïvely believed.

Her body felt electrified and deprived, but her mind was racing. A wicked sense of triumph put her embarrassment to flight. Antonio Rocha, Marqués de Salazar might think that he was vastly superior to her in every way, but he still fancied her. Whoopee! Yay! She was tempted to dance round the beach and sing. In one fell swoop, in the space of one revealing kiss, almost three years of believing that she had made an outsize fool of herself in Spain had been wiped out. Antonio was more into tattoos than he was ever likely to admit.

The silence stretched like an endless cavern where light never shone.

Feeling indecently smug and ashamed of herself, Sophie veiled her sparkling eyes and reflected dizzily that she had never imagined a kiss could be that volatile.

‘We were talking about you taking up residence in Spain,’ Antonio reminded her drily.

He sounded so cool and calm that her buoyant mood deflated as if he had stuck a pin in her. All right, maybe he was only a teensy weensy bit attracted to her. It took enormous effort for her to recapture her ability to concentrate. ‘Spain…that idea’s not on,’ she countered in a flat undertone. ‘We’d be in your country and Lydia would be in your home and I wouldn’t have any rights. You would be making all the decisions about her. You could easily change your mind about allowing me to see her—’

‘You would have to trust me.’

‘I don’t,’ Sophie confided without hesitation. ‘I’d have too much to lose. And I just know you’ll get married and that would change everything—’

‘I am not about to get married. What is this obsession?’

Sophie was unimpressed. She shot him a sidelong glance. Her heartbeat speeded up. He really was breathtakingly handsome. ‘Now or five years from now, what difference would it make to me? I’d still be powerless and no wife of yours is likely to allow me to stick my oar in where Lydia’s concerned. Your wife would have far more say in her upbringing than I would ever have—’

‘Por favor Dios… I enjoy my freedom. I won’t take a wife for at least ten years!’

‘I just want to be with Lydia. That’s all that I want,’ Sophie stressed with pained dignity. ‘I love her…you don’t. I mean…maybe you’re always going to look at her and remember your brother. Don’t tell me that he was your favourite person!’

His strong jaw line squared at that inflammatory statement. But he was no hypocrite. As she spun away to hide the tears burning her eyes he tugged her back round to face him, his every move redolent of the confidence that powered him. ‘Come back to my hotel with me for lunch…’

Suddenly shy of him again, terrifyingly sensitive to the intimate tone of his accented voice, Sophie coloured. ‘You’re not thinking of food.’

Antonio gave her a hard, devastating smile that was quite unrepentant. ‘You’re so direct—’

His lack of self-consciousness infuriated her and her whole face stiffened. ‘I imagine I’d disappoint you.’

‘I don’t think so.’ His stunning dark, deep-set eyes flared reflective gold.

‘Purely as a point of speculation, how much would you give up to be with Lydia all the time?’

Her smooth brow pleated. ‘I’d do anything for that.’

The silence eddied around her like a dangerous current.

Antonio surveyed her without expression. ‘If you had constant access to Lydia and security, would you be prepared to do everything I asked in return for that privilege?’

‘Short of crime, yes,’ she agreed urgently, but her bewilderment was growing. ‘Why are you asking me that?’

‘If Lydia needs a mother twenty-four seven, then I should marry. But I like my life as it is. That’s the problem,’ Antonio admitted with a candour he had never employed with a woman before.

‘That you don’t want a wife?’

‘If I opted for a marriage of convenience instead the problem would vanish. That kind of marriage might last between five and ten years max before ending in an amicable divorce.’

Sophie was hanging on his every word but she was totally confused. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I think there’s a possibility that we could reach a mutually beneficial agreement,’ Antonio murmured thoughtfully. ‘The wife I choose would have to know the score. I would expect to retain my freedom to come and go as and when I liked and with whom I pleased.’

‘You’re talking about a fake marriage?’ Sophie pressed uncertainly. ‘Are you suggesting that you and me—?’

‘You would gain Lydia and financial security and my life would continue as normal. That would be the deal.’

Green eyes huge, she stared up at him, transfixed by the concept of marrying him. ‘The deal? But—’

‘You’d be insane to turn me down,’ Antonio asserted, examining the arrangement from every angle and more and more impressed by his own creative ingenuity.

He believed that it was as close to perfect as a solution could be. Even so it would only be a temporary solution and he would have to have a watertight pre-nuptial contract drawn up. Sophie, however, would have no illusions as to the nature of their agreement. She would make her home on his country estate and take full charge of their niece and his conscience could be easy. As soon as he had learned that Sophie was infertile, he had known that it would be indescribably cruel to deprive her of Lydia. But only by marrying Sophie would he be able to watch over the child’s interests without being unduly troubled by further responsibility.

His grandmother, however, might well be aghast when Sophie, with her poor background and education, became his bride, but Doña Ernesta was a strong woman and she would get over her disappointment. The rest of the family and his friends would be shocked as well. Always an individual, he decided he could live with that. In any case he was finally willing to recall just how many people had been charmed by Sophie’s vivacity when they had met her in Spain. Doña Ernesta would very probably take charge of her and teach her anything she needed to know. His grandparent would also benefit from having full access to Pablo’s daughter without the burden of having to worry about the quality of the child’s care.

Sophie stared up at Antonio in unconcealed wonderment. He was asking her to marry him so that he could offer her a home with Lydia in Spain. It certainly would be a marriage of convenience, she thought breathlessly, for she could not imagine two people with less in common. Yet it was also a very practical answer to the problem of Lydia’s future welfare. Even so, she was still amazed that he should be willing to marry her for Lydia’s sake and that he should have come up with that idea quite so quickly.

‘Dios mio! Say yes and let’s get off the beach,’ Antonio urged with masculine impatience.

Sophie blinked. ‘You can’t just throw something like that at me and expect—?’

Antonio dealt her a bold look of challenge. ‘Why shouldn’t I expect an immediate positive response? You’re cleaning floors to put food on the table. You live in a home with wheels under it and it’s so shabby you won’t let me see it. I have offered you a ticket out of hell.’

Sophie reddened and shifted worriedly off one foot onto the other. ‘It’s not that simple…this isn’t hell—’

In the cool breeze, Antonio suppressed a shiver: he was freezing. He looked out at the grey sea under the grey sky and then down at the even duller shingle below his feet. ‘It is by my standards.’

‘But you’re rich and spoilt—’

‘Wouldn’t you like to be rich and spoilt too?’ Antonio murmured smooth as silk, planting a lean brown hand to her narrow back to gently press her back towards the path.

‘I can’t imagine being rich…but I think I’d like being spoilt,’ Sophie confided tightly. ‘Is this a joke? Or are you serious?’

‘If you can accept a marriage that has a finish date in sight and a husband who is a free agent, I’m serious.’

A husband who was a free agent was a contradiction in terms, Sophie reflected abstractedly. Her head was buzzing with too many thoughts at once. She was astonished, fearful, excited, distrustful and confused all at one and the same time. But she had not been exaggerating when she had said that there was nothing she would not do to be with Lydia.

Marry Antonio? Learn how to be a demure wife? Overlook his infidelity? Her gut reactions warned her that that was wrong and absolutely against her own principles. But then she reminded herself that Antonio was not suggesting a normal marriage. She could scarcely apply the usual moral standards to an arrangement that he had referred to as a ‘deal.’ A wholly self-centred deal calculated to cause the least possible interference with his enjoyment of his life, she conceded ruefully. But how could she blame him for that? His lack of interest in being a proper parent to Lydia was the only reason he was willing to make it possible for Sophie to continue filling that role for their niece’s benefit.

‘You have until tonight to decide your answer. I’ll send the limo to pick you up and bring you back to my hotel for dinner.’ Having reached the top of the path, Antonio was already signalling his chauffeur to indicate his readiness to depart.

Sophie could not help recalling the heady few minutes on the beach when Antonio had awarded her his full attention. That kiss had rocked her world. Now his spectacular dark golden eyes were cool and distant again. His indifference was a slap in the face, a rejection as much as an acknowledgement that their kiss had not been equally special on his terms. In comparison, Sophie was all too well aware that for her the kiss had been seriously addictive stuff. Just thinking about that wicked blaze of excitement made her feel incredibly hot and quivery and very unwilling to look at him.

‘What time?’ she asked, striving to match his cool with her own.

‘Eight.’

‘I don’t have anything fancy to wear,’ she warned him.

‘It’s not a problem. We’ll dine in my suite.’

Sophie got the message. Unless she could present what he deemed to be an acceptable image, she would not be seen in public. Or was she being over-sensitive? Even a little unfair? After all, she would have Lydia with her, and if the baby became sleepy Antonio’s suite would be quieter than a public restaurant. She watched him smile, spring into his opulent limousine and depart. It was the sort of throwaway smile he might have given anybody. She was conscious of a deep-seated need to see him smile and know it was just for her.

That evening, and only half an hour late—which was really good going for Sophie in terms of promptness—she travelled up in the lift to Antonio’s suite. She had Lydia cradled by one arm on her hip. ‘Now remember…lots of smiles. You’ve got to make the running with Antonio and sell yourself,’ she instructed the baby gazing up at her with trusting brown eyes. ‘He’s sensitive to screams, so you have to take the fear out of fathering for him. If you cry again, he’s going to avoid you like the plague…okay?’

A middle-aged guy dressed like a waiter ushered her into the suite.

‘Is Antonio in?’ Sophie asked nervously and the man responded in what might have been Spanish with an apologetic shake of his head.

She hovered in the centre of the fabulous reception room, shook her head when a sofa was indicated and did so again when the drinks cabinet was spread invitingly wide. A communicating door opened and Antonio appeared. Relief and tension struggled inside her. ‘I thought maybe you were out.’

In one skimming glance Antonio took in the unexpected presence of the baby and settled his attention on Sophie. In a shabby cord jacket with a fur-trimmed hood and black trousers ornamented with an embarrassment of zips, she looked painfully young. Her sudden vivacious smile lit up her heart-shaped face and for a split second he forgot what he was about to say and simply stared.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t available when you arrived,’ Antonio responded, his recovery almost immediate while on another level he sought to solve the riddle of her appeal. ‘I was taking a call. Did Maureo offer you a drink?’

‘Is that his name? I didn’t want anything. It’s nice of you not to say anything about me being late.’

‘I have a great respect for punctuality,’ Antonio sliced back softly.

‘We’re going to have a problem,’ Sophie forecast with unblemished good humour. ‘I try really hard to be on time, but things tend to hold me up. Everywhere I go I’m always running against the clock—’

‘Better organisation will improve that.’

Sophie wondered if he had any idea how hard it was to organise a baby.

‘Maureo would like to take your coat,’ Antonio explained as the older man hovered nearby.

‘Would you like to hold Lydia?’ Sophie asked brightly, ignoring the tautening of his spectacular bone structure and moving closer to helpfully tug up his arm and pass her niece deftly into his grasp. ‘Smile and talk to her…she loves people.’

Antonio marvelled at how little Lydia seemed to weigh. He could not recall ever taking a close look at a baby before. With her soft fluff of curls, creamy skin and big brown eyes, she was really quite pretty, he decided in surprise. He could see no resemblance to Pablo. His mobile phone rang. The baby jerked, her face screwing up as she loosed a plaintive howl of fright. Antonio stuffed Lydia back into Sophie’s arms with unconcealed haste.

‘Perdón…’ He took his call.

Sophie soothed Lydia and interpreted Maureo’s gestures to take a seat at the table by the window. Antonio was talking in a foreign language, moving his hands to accentuate certain points with a confidence that she found irresistibly attractive. His lean, darkly handsome features were intent with concentration. Some day, Sophie thought fiercely, I want him to look at me like that. Like I’m important and interesting. In shock at that lowering aspiration that had come out of nowhere at her, she froze. Shame-faced, she cleared her mind and refused to think about it again. She would marry Antonio because that was the price of keeping Lydia. That, she assured herself firmly, was the only reason she had for marrying him. Only a real idiot would get romantic ideas about a guy who said he wanted to be a free agent.

Maureo reappeared toting a highchair for Lydia. Thanking him warmly, she strapped her niece in and put some toys on the tray to keep her occupied.

‘You’re a very busy guy,’ Sophie remarked brittlely when Antonio sat down opposite and the first course had arrived.

‘Invariably.’

‘Well, like you forecast, I’m about to say yes to the deal. But I have a couple of conditions to make,’ Sophie told him while she opened the small container she had brought with her, put some finger foods on her side plate and set them down in front of Lydia.

‘Conditions?’

‘I want to have a proper wedding,’ Sophie advanced uncomfortably. ‘Nothing fancy, just us and the witnesses with a few frills…a dress and some photos to make us look like a real couple. I don’t want Lydia to know this is a deal and not an ordinary marriage.’

‘She’s six months old,’ Antonio murmured drily.

‘But she won’t always be. I don’t ever want her to know that I had to marry you to keep her because that would make her feel bad—’

‘Why should it?’

‘I remember how I felt knowing I was just a burden to the grown-ups who looked after me.’ Sophie set a feeding cup down on the tray of the highchair, her delicate profile taut. ‘So, what do you think?’

Antonio recognised that he had not thought through every angle. He had no plans to go public with an announcement that he was making a marriage of convenience. Consequently, he would have no choice but to act out a charade of normality. Appearances mattered little to him, but to the majority of his family appearances were everything. ‘The frills aren’t a problem but I would like the wedding to be quiet and discreet. What other conditions?’

Sophie worried at her full lower lip with her teeth before speaking. ‘Just one… I want you to promise me that you’ll try to be a father to Lydia.’

Antonio flung back his arrogant dark head and dealt her a searing look of indignation. ‘Who are you to address me on such a subject?’

Sophie was very pale but she persisted. ‘This is just a deal for you. You’ve made that clear. But you’re still likely to be the only father Lydia ever has.’

‘The deal is between you and I only. My niece’s position in my life is unassailable,’ Antonio spelt out with cold clarity. ‘I will naturally make every effort to fulfil a paternal role.’

The main course arrived in the tense silence that followed.

‘I will not apologise. You were offensive,’ Antonio drawled when Maureo had departed again.

Watching Antonio look challenged as Lydia grizzled because she was over tired, Sophie tried not to wonder when his parenting efforts would begin.

‘I have certain conditions too,’ Antonio affirmed. ‘Before the wedding can take place you will have to sign a pre-nuptial agreement.’

Unexpectedly Sophie grinned. ‘Like a Hollywood star?’ she prompted in visible excitement. ‘Are you really that rich? Crazy!’

‘The agreement will specify financial arrangements and—’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah… Do we have to talk about that now?’ Lifting Lydia down onto her lap to soothe her fractious whimpers, Sophie ate her meal with a fork in one hand, quite unconscious of Antonio’s amazement at her dexterity. He watched his niece’s eyes drift shut in contentment and marvelled at Sophie’s remarkable control over a baby whom he considered to be as volatile as dynamite. He congratulated himself on having made a very wise decision: Sophie was worth five nannies.

‘We can leave any discussion of the terms of the prenup to our lawyers.’

‘I don’t have any—’

‘You must engage one for independent advice.’

Sophie wasn’t listening. She gazed across the table at Antonio, dazzled by the stunning symmetry of his lean bronzed face, and her eyes took on a dreamy cast. ‘What do you want me to wear for the wedding?’ she asked softly.

‘I have no wish to be rude,’ Antonio confided silkily, ‘but why should I have an opinion on what you might wear?’

The mental soap bubble in which Sophie was floating her make-believe world burst with a bang that hurt and humiliated. Her face went pink and hot.

‘You blush like a schoolgirl,’ Antonio mocked.

‘Fancy that!’ she tossed back and pushed away her plate, all appetite ebbing.

Sophie was really annoyed with herself for that brief flight of foolishness. If Antonio had decided he needed to deliver a reality check, she could hardly blame him. After all, why would he be interested in how she dressed for their fake wedding? Why had she even asked that stupid, stupid question?

‘So, apart from what’s already been agreed, what are the rules of this deal?’ Sophie enquired briskly.

‘Mutual respect and cooperation, querida.’ Antonio signalled Maureo and the wineglasses were topped up for a toast.

Sophie interpreted his objective without difficulty. She might fancy Antonio Rocha rotten, but at his most basic she understood his expectations as clearly as if he had voiced them: she was to respect him and strive unceasingly to fit in with all his wishes, reasonable and otherwise. He was noble, he was rich and he was successful and she was poor and illegitimate and lived in a home with wheels under it. Equality could not exist in such diversity. Antonio exuded the proud benevolence of a male convinced he was making a hugely generous sacrifice for which she ought to be undyingly grateful.

Soft, full mouth set mutinously taut, Sophie dropped a kiss down onto Lydia’s little drooping head and rejoiced in the baby’s soft, trusting weight against her. Her pride might be stinging, but she had to be more sensible and less sensitive, she scolded herself. If Antonio ensured that she and Lydia had a comfortable home and a secure future, he did deserve her gratitude.