Читать книгу Rafael's Contract Bride - Nina Milne - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

AS CORA WALKED through the beauty of the flowering vines curiosity swirled with anticipation. Over lunch presumably Rafael would outline the role he had in mind for her, and she had to concede he’d played his hand well.

The vineyard had enticed her with its scents and its atmosphere, and in the glorious heat of the Spanish sun it would be hard to refuse whatever he offered. But she would—because she knew with deep-seated certainty that whatever Rafael offered there would be a catch—a veritable tangle of strings attached. As the saying went, there was no such thing as a free lunch—let alone a lunch you were being paid thousands to eat.

Plus—she might as well be honest—it wasn’t only the vineyard that exerted heady temptation. It was Rafael himself. Her prejudices against Rafael Martinez seemed to be in the process of disintegration. After her harangue on the plane about his lifestyle the very last thing she had expected was what she’d seen on the vineyard tour.

Rafael took his wine seriously—he’d spoken of the grapes with passion and a deep knowledge—and it was also clear that he had ethics and environmental morals she couldn’t fault.

But, be that as it might, it didn’t alter the fact that Rafael Martinez was dangerous. Because there had been moments when her heart had skipped a beat and his proximity had made her shiver despite the heat of the Mediterranean sun. Made her believe that all those beautiful glamorous women might well count themselves lucky.

The thought made her blood simmer. How could she, of all people, be at even the smallest risk of attraction? Rafael was like both her siblings—he only dallied with the beautiful and all he touched turned to gold. Cora was ordinary and average and went pink in the sunshine. Plus, she disapproved of his lifestyle, for heaven’s sake.

As they approached the cool white villa a small plump woman bustled towards them, a beaming smile on her face as she surveyed Cora, and burst into a stream of voluble Spanish.

‘This is María—Tomás’s wife,’ Rafael said.

Cora returned the smile, though a sudden hint of wariness made her hackles rise as María continued to speak, gestured to Cora, and then wagged her finger at Rafael, whose tautened jaw surely indicated a smidgeon of tension?

‘Is everything OK?’ Cora asked.

‘Yes. María seems to feel that you are probably a bit hot and uncomfortable in a suit and is giving me a hard time for not telling you I was bringing you to Spain. She would like to give you a dress.’

Another torrent of Spanish.

‘María says you mustn’t worry. It is not her clothes she is offering.’

María chuckled and waved her hands.

‘She says once she was as slim as you, but that the years have not been good to her.’

Cora shook her head. ‘Tell her I am more scrawny than slim, and that if I look half as good as her in twenty years I will be a happy woman.’

‘Her daughter owns a clothes store in Laguardia and there is some of her stock here. María insists you change so you can eat the lunch she has prepared in comfort.’

‘Um...’ Cora looked down at her suit. ‘It feels a bit unprofessional to change, but I don’t want María to think I don’t appreciate her kindness.’

And she was hot, and it would be a relief to clear her head of all foolish thoughts of attraction and temptation.

‘Come, come.’

The plump woman gestured and Cora followed her into the welcome cool of the whitewashed villa.

María smiled at her, a smile that took away the disapproval indicated by a wag of her finger as she gestured at Cora’s suit. ‘Not right,’ she said. ‘Un dia especial.’

Cora frowned. A special day? Was that what María meant?

The question was forgotten as María led her into a small bedroom, opened a large wardrobe and pulled out a brand-new dress. ‘Perfecto,’ she announced, in a tone that brooked no denial.

Though denial flooded Cora’s system. The T-shirt-style dress was vividly patterned with a butterfly motif. Bright, bold and eye-catching, it represented everything Cora avoided in her wardrobe.

‘Um...’

María beamed. ‘Perfecto,’ she repeated. ‘Rafael. He love.’

The thumbs-up sign that accompanied the words did little to assuage Cora’s sense of panic. Clearly María had grasped the wrong end of the stick. But how could she vault the language barrier and explain that really Rafael’s opinion of the dress meant less than nothing? That she was here on a strictly professional footing?

What really mattered right now was the fact that she could not wear the dress. It was the sort of dress that Kaitlin would pull off, no problem—but Kaitlin would look good in a bin bag. The point was the dress did not constitute ‘professional’.

But as she looked at María’s beaming face Cora managed to manufacture a smile and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

No need to panic, she told herself as María left the room. How bad could it be?

Ten minutes later Cora had the answer. Pretty darn bad. Self-consciousness swamped her, along with a dose of discomfort in the knowledge that there was way more of her on show than she felt the world deserved to see.

The door opened and María bustled in. ‘Bella!’ She handed over a pair of jewelled flip-flops and a sun hat and gestured for Cora to follow her.

Minutes later they approached a paved mosaic courtyard, dappled with sun and shadow and awash with the smell of flowering grapes, the aromatic smell of spices and the tang of olives.

Cora’s legs gave a sudden wobble as Rafael rose from a wooden chair and any last vestige of confidence soared away. No man had the right to look so good. His rolled up shirtsleeves exposed tanned forearms that made the breath hitch in her throat, and as her gaze travelled up his body her eyes drank in the breadth of his chest, the column of his throat, and the sheer arrogant strength of his features.

María said something and then turned to walk away. From somewhere Cora found her voice and a smile and said, ‘Gracias,’ before turning back to Rafael. From somewhere she found the courage to stand tall, not to tug the hem of the wretched dress down.

Something flashed across his dark eyes: surprise and a flicker of heat that made her heart thud against her ribcage.

‘That looks way more comfortable,’ he said eventually.

Comfortable? She must have imagined that flicker—of course she had. She was not Rafael’s type and best she remembered that she didn’t even want to be.

‘It is,’ she said coolly, and headed to the table—at least once she was sitting down the dress would be less obvious.

But before she could take a seat her gaze alighted on the table and she came to a halt. Crystal glasses gleamed, and a cut-glass vase of beautifully arranged flowers sat next to a silver wine cooler amidst an array of dishes that smelt to die for. This didn’t look like a business lunch—and it didn’t feel like a business lunch.

But what else could it be? Maybe this was the billionaire version. But María’s words echoed in her brain. ‘Un dia especial.’

‘This looks incredible.’

‘I asked María to produce some regional specialities. We have piquillo peppers, wood-roasted and then dipped in batter and fried. Plus the same peppers stuffed with lamb. And white asparagus, whose shoots never see sunlight—which makes them incredibly tender. And one of my favourites—patatas riojanas—cooked with chorizo and smoky paprika. And chuletas a la riojana—perfectly grilled lamb chops over vine cuttings.’

A special meal for a special day?

‘Is this how you usually entertain your business guests?’

‘No. I don’t usually give my business guests lunch here.’

‘So who do you entertain here?’

‘No one. I don’t bring my dates here either.’

‘So why me? Why have you brought me here?’

Wrapping one arm round her waist, she tried to subdue the prickle of apprehension as she awaited his answer.

* * *

Crunch time, and a small droplet of moisture beaded his neck as he surveyed Cora’s body language. Doubt whispered as he considered his own. He had not anticipated an attraction factor. In all the times he’d seen Cora at Cavershams he’d noticed her, been intrigued by the itch of memory that told him he’d seen her before, but there hadn’t been any hint of attraction.

Instead he’d written her off as cold, aloof, and set on avoiding him. And once he’d figured out her identity he had assumed she didn’t like him because of her social position—that she was a snob.

But now... Well, now for some bizarre reason his body was more than aware of her. Because it turned out that Cora Derwent wasn’t cold or aloof or a snob. There was a feistiness to her, countered by the sense of her vulnerability, and he’d felt a tug of attraction even when she’d been hidden beneath that hideous blue trouser suit.

Now that she was clothed in a dress that showed off long legs and curves in all the right places his libido was paying close attention. Which was not good.

Especially as she was waiting for an answer to the million-dollar question.

‘Well, why don’t you sit down and I can explain. Have an olive. And a glass of wine.’

For a moment he wasn’t sure that she’d comply, and before she sat her eyes narrowed. ‘OK. But eating your food does not mean I will agree to anything.’

‘Understood.’

He poured the pale golden wine for them and then settled back on the wooden chair. ‘OK. Here goes.’

Cora speared an olive. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘So, I’ve explained how the wine business sucked me in—and I now own four vineyards across Rioja. You also know that Ethan and I have set up a Martinez-Caversham venture which will offer vineyard holidays. As part of that venture I want to buy another vineyard, which is owned by Don Carlos de Guzman, the fifteenth Duque de Aiza—it would link my vineyards beautifully and it is for sale. I arranged a meeting, but...’

His skin grew clammy as he recalled the churning of hope, anger and anticipation. He had even wondered if the old man would somehow recognise him—even though he’d known it would have been impossible for his grandfather to have kept tabs on him. His mother had changed their surnames and gone to ground.

‘Unfortunately the Duque is...’ A stubborn old man and my paternal grandfather—although he doesn’t know it. Yet. ‘Unwilling to sell it to the likes of me.’

Rafael kept his voice even, though it was hard. Each word stuck in his craw. But he didn’t want Cora to garner even a glimmer of the truth. Though really there was no risk of that. Who would believe that Rafael Martinez was the illegitimate grandson of the Duque de Aiza? He’d had difficulty believing it himself. But there had been no disputing the facts in the letter his mother had left with a solicitor, to be given to him on his thirtieth birthday. The phrases were etched on his brain as if his mother had been alive to read them to him herself.

Cora frowned, confusion evident in the crease on her brow and the expression in her bright blue eyes. ‘I don’t understand...’

Careful, Martinez. Stick to facts and keep emotions off the table.

‘Don Carlos doesn’t approve of my background or my lifestyle, so I need to change his mind.’

And he was pretty sure his marriage into the crème de la crème of British aristocracy would do exactly that.

He sipped his wine, savoured its silkiness. ‘That’s where you come in.’

‘Me? I don’t see how I can help.’

There was a faint hint of trepidation in her voice and he saw her hand tighten round the stem of the glass.

‘I’m an administrator.’

‘You’re more than that, Cora.’ Rafael kept his voice even, gentle—he didn’t know why Cora was hiding her identity, and he didn’t want to spook her, but... ‘You’re Lady Cora Derwent.’

Her turquoise eyes widened and the sudden vulnerability in them smote him. For a second he thought she’d push her chair back and run, but instead she sat immobile.

‘How long have you known?’ she asked eventually.

‘You looked vaguely familiar—I’ve got a good memory for faces.’

Probably because he had spent so many years studying them—always wondering if that person was his father, or related to him in some way. He’d constructed so many fantasies as a child, each more farfetched than the last, and yet none had been as out there as the truth.

‘Then, when I was trying to figure out a way to persuade Don Carlos to reconsider my credentials, something clicked in my brain and I remembered that I had seen you years ago at some party. I knew exactly who you were. After that it was easy to make sure.’

Cora inhaled a deep breath. Her face was still leeched of colour but she managed a shrug. ‘OK. Fine. I’m Lady Cora Derwent.’

Her voice was tight, but he could hear the supressed hurt mixed with a tangible anger.

‘I still don’t see how that helps you. I’m a lady, not a magician. I can’t convince Don Carlos that your lifestyle is moral and upright. It wouldn’t wash—the Duque de Aiza won’t listen to me. I don’t even get why you would want him to. Why not tell him to shove his stupid hidebound ideas? I wouldn’t have the nerve, but I’m pretty sure that you do.’

‘An enticing option, but that wouldn’t get me the vineyard.’

‘Surely there are other vineyards?’

‘True. But not that many are for sale—plus, the Duque de Aiza made it more than clear that he would consider selling to the right sort of person.’ With the right sort of blood. The supreme irony had nearly made him laugh out loud. ‘Let’s say this is the optimum vineyard, and therefore I am prepared to go the extra mile to get it.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ The scrape of her chair on the terracotta mosaic indicated that as far as she was concerned this lunch was over.

‘Wait. You haven’t even heard what I want you to do. Or what the salary is.’

Her blue eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not for sale, Rafael, and neither is my title.’

‘Do you agree with Don Carlos?’

For a second he thought she would fling the wine at him.

‘Of course I don’t. In fact I can’t stand the man.’

‘So you know him?’

‘My family knows him. I went to his grandson’s wedding a year or two back. Alvaro.’

Rafael froze—it took every ounce of his iron control to keep his face neutral, to keep the questions from spewing forth. Cora had met Alvaro—his half-brother—and Juanita his half-sister. She might have spoken with Ramon. His father. No—the heir to a Spanish dukedom wasn’t his father in any way that counted. The man had abandoned him without mercy.

He blinked, suddenly aware of Cora’s eyes on him, a look of assessment in their turquoise depths.

Cool it, Rafael. Focus on Cora.

‘So if you can’t stand him why won’t you help me? Help the Martinez-Caversham venture? This vineyard is important.’

‘I really don’t see what I could do even if I wanted to help. Truly, he won’t listen to me.’

Rafael inhaled deeply and said the words he had never in his wildest dreams thought he would utter. ‘I want you to marry me.’