by Pennza, Amy
“Perfectly clear. As long as you realize I have zero plans to make this easy for you.”
“I expect nothing less,” he said without hesitation.
Well, then. As long as that was straight between them. She shrugged out of his hold and entered the office, where a short man in judge’s robes waited, a slim leather folder tucked in his arms.
He smiled at Catalina and stepped forward, one hand outstretched. “Ms. Salvatierra? I’m Sam Fuller, the magistrate judge.” He glanced at Juan. “I’ll be performing the ceremony.”
Ceremony. The word rang through her like a bell, its shock so powerful she stared at him a moment too long.
Juan put a hand on the small of her back and gave her a gentle nudge forward.
She took the magistrate’s hand. “Actually, it’s Catalina Ortega.”
The magistrate nodded, his smile kind. “Ah, yes. Juan mentioned that.” He gestured to a large desk behind him. “However, you listed Salvatierra on your immigration forms, so that’s your legal name in the United States.”
She hadn’t listed anything on those forms. Juan’s mother handled everything. But the magistrate was correct. Her driver’s license said Salvatierra. Growing up in Texas, it had been easier to stick with the same name as the rest of the family. She’d only started using Ortega in an attempt to appease Juan. After today, she’d be a Salvatierra in truth. How would he explain their relationship to his friends? His colleagues at work?
She shot him a look, but he was ushering Smith and Ashley into the office.
Catalina’s heart skipped a beat. “We’re doing this here?” She looked at the magistrate. “Now?”
“Yes,” he said with an apologetic expression. “Unfortunately, it’s nothing too fancy. But I promise it’s just as legal and binding as a church wedding.”
Right. Because she was definitely concerned about this being legal and binding.
“Now,” the magistrate said, “if you and Juan will face each other, we’ll get started.”
“One moment,” Juan said. He grabbed his briefcase from a nearby chair, set it on the desk, and popped it open.
Sweat prickled Catalina’s back, and her stomach flip-flopped. He wasn’t going to take out that ridiculous list of names, was he? One final, tangible warning of what awaited her if she got cold feet or made a scene?
But he withdrew a small bouquet of roses…familiar roses. The stems were shorter, and they were wrapped in brown twine instead of plastic, but they were the same flowers she’d set aside in the drugstore. The clerk had been delighted she spoke Spanish, and he’d told her to finish her shopping while he selected the best blooms from the display on the counter. After her tussle with Juan, she’d left without them.
“You forgot these,” he said, holding out the bouquet.
She took it and, without thinking, wrapped both hands around the stems and held the flowers at her waist. Funny how that happened—like every woman was born knowing exactly how to position a bridal bouquet. The twine was a definite improvement over the plastic, the thick, brown cord giving the flowers a rustic, yet elegant feel. Had he done this himself? An image appeared in her head—Juan standing over a kitchenette sink in his office, snipping roses with a big pair of scissors. She touched the edge of a bloom, its petals soft against her fingertip.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She looked up and found him staring at her, his expression inscrutable.
“Con gusto.” With pleasure.
The prickling heat moved over her shoulders and up her nape. She swallowed as the scent of roses swirled around her.
Without taking his gaze off her, Juan told the magistrate, “You can begin.”
“All right,” the magistrate said. He motioned for Smith and Ashley to pair off, Smith next to Juan, Ashley by Catalina.
The first few moments passed in a blur. Catalina had a vague notion of the magistrate reading from his folder, saying something about gathering to celebrate the joining of two people in a lifelong commitment. Then he spoke about entering into the union freely and without reservation.
At some point, he must have asked a question, because Juan said, “I have” in a low voice. Then the magistrate gave Catalina an expectant look.
“Oh.” She clutched the flowers in a tighter grip. “Um, I have.”
The magistrate nodded and turned to Juan. “Will you, Juan Hector Salvatierra, take this woman to be your wedded wife? Will you love and comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her as long as you both shall live?”
“I will,” Juan said. Through everything, his gaze never wavered from hers.
Her heart fluttered. It’s an arrangement. It’s not real. The vows were pretty, but they were the same words people said at every wedding. The magistrate had probably printed them off the internet.
Then it was her turn. The magistrate looked down at his open folder. “Will you, Catalina Ana Salvatierra, take this man to be your wedded husband? Will you love and comfort him, honor and obey him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him as long as you both shall live?”
It was like someone hit the brakes on a fast-moving car. The blurry, vague atmosphere disappeared like smoke. Catalina swung her head toward the magistrate. “Excuse me?”
He looked up. “Yes?” His smile faded a little…and now there was something else, too.
Apprehension.
“You just said obey.” She looked at Juan. “He put ‘obey’ in my vows.”
Juan’s gaze was steady. “I put it there.”
She ground her teeth together. In her peripheral vision, Ashley shifted. At Juan’s side, Smith looked ready to groan.
Catalina unclenched her jaw. How could she phrase her response without swearing or clawing Juan’s eyes out? She took a deep breath. “No one says that anymore.”
There. That was downright impressive.
“It’s a traditional wedding vow,” Juan said. “And, if you remember, we agreed to a traditional marriage.”
The “model wife” thing again. Ashley’s heels weren’t quite as tall as the Louboutins, so she had to tip her head back to glare into Juan’s eyes. “We didn’t agree to anything.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, but we did.”
Four little words. In just four words, he reminded her of all the ways he’d trapped her. Do this, his gaze said, or watch him expose her clients and ruin their lives. Do this, or expect a battle for the inheritance Arturo left her. Do this, and don’t even think about contacting Rafe.
Apparently, her acquiescence to the marriage wasn’t enough. Oh no. He wanted obedience, too.
Because of course he did. She tightened her grip around the roses. What would happen if she shoved them in his face and stomped out of the office?
He’d probably just haul her back, but his shocked expression—however fleeting—would be worth it.
He glanced at the flowers, and a knowing look entered his eyes.
The magistrate cleared his throat. “Um…should I give you two a minute alone?”
“No,” Juan said, not taking his eyes off Catalina. “That’s not necessary.”
It was as if the whole room held its breath, waiting to see what she would do. Except what could she do? As far as options went, hers sucked. And they all ended the same way, because Juan wasn’t letting her leave without finishing the damn ceremony. He didn’t even have to say it. The look in his eyes was more than a promise. It was a guarantee.
But that didn’t mean she had to give in without a fight. Juan might hold all the power, with his Ivy League law degree and network of connections, but she wasn’t powerless. She had her brain and her voice.
Brazen it out.
Mustering as much sarcasm as possible, she said, “It’s fine. Keep the vow as it is. Since I won’t honor you, and I certainly don’t love you, I guess I can give you obey.”
The magistrate coughed, which came out more like a choking so
und.
Juan gave him a passive look.
“Sorry,” the magistrate muttered.
“Let’s finish up.”
If the first part of the ceremony passed in a dreamy blur, the second half took place under the harsh, glaring light of reality. The magistrate repeated Catalina’s portion of the vow, to which she gave a begrudging “I will.” Then, without any further vows or fanfare, Juan pulled a plain, silver wedding band from his pocket and slid it on her finger.
The magistrate closed his folder and looked between them. “By the authority vested in me by the State of Texas, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
You may kiss the bride. The words jumped into her mind. That’s what people said at this point in the ceremony. It was in every wedding movie and television show ever made.
Except the magistrate simply turned, grabbed a pen from his desk, and scribbled his name at the bottom of a document. When he swung back around, he looked at Juan.
“I’ll walk this over to the clerk’s office now.”
Juan shook his hand. “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” The magistrate nodded at Catalina, then hurried from the room, his black robes flapping around his ankles.
Smith walked over and pulled her into a hug. “Poor guy’s probably worried you’ll tackle him and rip that paper out of his hands,” he said at her ear.
“Can you blame me?” she murmured. Over his shoulder, Juan closed and latched his briefcase, his broad shoulders straining under his suit jacket.
Smith released her. Voice low, he said, “They’re just words, Cat.”
“That’s not the point,” she said, her blood heating. Juan turned around, briefcase in hand, and she clamped her mouth shut. Smith wasn’t the enemy. That distinction belonged to Juan.
Husband.
He was her husband now—and one she just vowed to obey. Her heart rate picked up speed.
Smith was right. They were just words. Juan couldn’t make her do anything.
Except marry him.
Yeah, that one was kind of a big deal.
Ashley gave her a quick hug and stepped back. She glanced at Juan, concern in her eyes. “I’ll call you,” she told Catalina. She shot another look at Juan, then seemed to arrive at some sort of decision, because she met Catalina’s gaze and, in a more determined tone, said, “I’m in the city two or three times a week for rehearsals. We can meet for lunch.”
Catalina’s heart swelled. “I’d like that.”
Smith clasped Juan’s hand, then tugged him forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “Felicidades, brother,” Smith said. Congratulations. “You’ve outmaneuvered Rafe.” He sighed and muttered, “Let’s hope it doesn’t backfire.”
Juan walked Smith and Ashley to the door. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Smith and Ashley both gave Catalina a little wave, then left the office, their footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Catalina’s anxiety spiked. They were just going to leave her here? Alone with Juan? For a second, she almost called out, asking them to stay…except that was ridiculous. She was an adult—a married adult.
Her stomach knotted.
Juan turned from the door. “I’ll take you home.”
“Home?” To her apartment? Little tendrils of hope pushed through the anxiety.
He walked past her, and she turned as he retrieved his briefcase from the desk. When he faced her, he said, “My home, here in the city.”
It took everything she had not to let her shoulders slump. If she started off by letting him see her defeated, she’d give him an invitation to treat her like a doormat.
Brazen. Brazen it out.
She smiled. “Of course. Are you planning on carrying me over the threshold?”
He didn’t return her smile. Instead, his gaze was steady as it dipped to her left hand, where she held the roses at her side.
He looked up, and now his gaze wasn’t just steady.
It burned.
“If you wish,” he said. “Just as long as that ring stays on your finger.”
She tried to pull her eyes from his—and failed.
Voice soft, he added, “Unlike the last one.”
7
Her legs were a damn distraction.
For what felt like the hundredth time, Juan forced his eyes back on the road as he maneuvered the Porsche through downtown San Antonio’s lunchtime traffic. The Panamera handled like a dream, but its sleek lines and tight curves were made for the open road—not the mundane concrete grid of pedestrian crosswalks and bus lanes.
Speaking of tight curves…
His gaze wandered to the right, where Catalina sat with one smooth, tan thigh crossed over the other, the bouquet of roses tucked against her side. Sunlight poured through the windshield, turning her skin golden brown.
Perfección.
His groin tightened, and he was helpless against letting his eyes travel north, up her firm belly and generous breasts. The white lace was probably supposed to be demure—even modest—but the dress was no such thing on Catalina. Every peekaboo opening teased at the reveal of more golden skin, like the ripped edge of wrapping paper on a present.
She seemed oblivious to his regard, her gaze on the passing skyscrapers passing slowly outside her window. A heavy lock of chocolate brown hair fell over her shoulder, its curled end brushing her pebbled nipple.
A groan built in his chest. If he didn’t get himself under control, he was never going to survive this marriage.
Marriage.
Heaven help him, Catalina was his wife now.
He gripped the steering wheel, the leather braid digging into his skin. Now that his plan had fallen into place, he had to make sure it unfolded smoothly. That meant ensuring Catalina kept her word about not speaking to Rafe. If she opened that door even a few inches, his brother would find a way to tear it right off the hinges.
He sneaked another look, and the sunlight winked off her ring, flashing white-hot light across his vision.
Wife.
Sam Fuller’s eyes had just about bugged out of his head when Juan asked him to add “obey” to the wedding vows. Pencil in hand, he’d asked, “Are you sure your fiancée is going to be okay with this?”
Not a chance. But that was a risk Juan was willing to take. Because Catalina needed to know he was deadly serious about keeping her away from Rafe. Whether she admitted it or not, the inheritance put a target on her back. A vow of obedience might be a relic from another time, but if it helped? Even just a little bit? He’d take it.
And it had nothing to do with the primitive thrill that shot through him as she looked him in the eye and said the words, her plump lips frowning as she promised to obey him as her husband.
Ahead on the road, a traffic light switched from green to yellow to red in about ten seconds. Juan bit back a curse and braked. The Porsche’s engine growled low, as if complaining about being confined to something as ordinary and boring as city streets.
Catalina glanced at him, her lips pursed. “What about the Mercedes?”
He looked at her. “What about it?”
Irritation shone in her eyes. “How many cars do you have?”
“Three.”
She studied him a moment, then faced forward. “Must be nice.”
He made his voice light. “After the year is up, you’ll be able to afford as many cars as you like.”
She didn’t answer, but disdain flowed off her like a river.
Not a car aficionado, then. He smoothed a palm down the steering wheel. After he made his first million, one of the first things he bought was a sports car. It was a silly thing, really, not to mention impractical—a Ferrari coupe with a touchy throttle and far too much horsepower for the idiot twenty-six-year-old he’d been.
He liked to think the intervening eight years had given him more maturity, but the passage of time had done nothing to dampen his love for cars.
The Porsche’s engine purred undern
eath him, its hum sending a subtle vibration up his legs.
Lust, he thought, curling his hand around the wheel. He didn’t love cars. He lusted after them.
“I want to go to my apartment,” Catalina said suddenly, turning toward him.
“What?” He glanced between her and the light. The second he took his eye off it, the sucker was bound to switch to green.
“My apartment.” She said it slow and steady, like she was speaking to a child. “The place where I live and keep all my possessions.”
The light changed, and he eased the car forward. He shook his head. “You can’t go back there.”
“Why not?”
“You can bet Rafe has it watched.” Now he looked at her. “It’s probably bugged, too.”
She folded her arms and stared out the windshield. “I’ve never met anyone as paranoid as you.”
“It’s not paranoia…” Dios, her breasts were magnificent. With her arms tight underneath her chest, the plump swells thrust against the lace. The hard peaks of her nipples were just visible—twin points that drew his gaze like a lodestone. Her black cocktail dress hadn’t allowed for a bra. That probably meant she wasn’t wearing one now…
“What is it, then?”
He jerked his gaze to her face. “Um…” He cleared his throat and focused on the road, changing lanes as they approached his building. “Caution. Only a fool would assume Rafe doesn’t have eyes and ears in the States. He keeps tabs on everything and everyone that touches his interests.”
“A family trait,” she muttered.
He turned into his building’s parking garage, plunging the car into shadow as the concrete structure blocked the sun. “Well,” he said, “you don’t have to worry about me tracking you down anymore.” He pulled into his reserved spot, shut off the car, and looked at her. “Now that we’re living together, I’ll always know where you are.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” She licked her lips, a little frown between her brows. “I still need to go to my own place. I have things there I want. My clothes, my computer—”
“I can get you whatever you need.”