‘And what of my work?’ She couldn’t resist asking, though she’d already made her peace with the sense of leaving her job sooner rather than later.
‘You are going to have to stop working at some point,’ he said with infuriating logic—as though six months was the same as six days! ‘Why not now?’
‘Because I love my job,’ she said, aware that she was being stubborn purely for the sake of it. She expelled a sigh and ran a hand through her hair, not noticing the way his eyes followed the simple gesture as though transfixed. ‘But I will think about it.’
His eyes glowed. ‘Good. Then it is done.’
Amelia blinked rapidly. ‘What’s done?’
He walked away from her, towards his desk, and retrieved something, then a moment later was standing in front of her. ‘Our engagement.’ He reached for her hand and she was too shell-shocked to react. He put something in it and she looked down to see a small velvet box. She flipped it open on autopilot and couldn’t help the small sound of admiration that escaped her lips at the sight of the ring.
An enormous turquoise gem, square-shaped, sat in the centre and it was surrounded by sparkling white diamonds on each side, so that it glistened and shone. The band was platinum and there were delicate swirls on either side.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said with a frown, because it was so much lovelier and more elegant than she would have credited Antonio with choosing.
He made a gruff noise of agreement then slid it onto her finger. They both stared down at it, and she was mesmerised by the sight of it on her finger.
‘It was my grandmother’s,’ he said after a moment. ‘She had eyes like yours.’
Amelia blinked at this reference to his forebear, as it reminded her obliquely of the feud that lay between them.
She didn’t want to think about it in that moment. It was hardly a romantic marriage proposal, but it was still a proposal and she would have preferred it not to be tainted by talk of the animosity that flowed between their families.
‘Thank you.’ She frowned. It was hardly an appropriate sentiment—he’d blackmailed her into this marriage, no two ways about it.
‘I’ve had the papers drawn and a judge has offered a special dispensation. Our marriage can take place within a week. I presume that’s long enough for you to wrap things up in England?’
‘You make it sound like finishing a meal, not resigning my job and shutting up my house.’
‘I know it is more complex than that, and yet I would prefer to be married as soon as possible.’ And with a sigh, and as though the words were being dragged from him against his will, ‘If your employer requires more notice, then I suppose you could return once we are married. We could stay in your house for a time, if we must.’
‘Gee, great,’ she said with an upward shift of her eyes. ‘Seeing as you’re clearly so willing...’
He interrupted her, his words spoken with the same strength as a blade of steel. ‘I am willing to do what it takes to make you my wife.’
She swallowed, the intensity of his statement almost robbing her of breath. This was about possession, she reminded herself, nothing more. Possession, ownership, control. He wanted their baby: she came with it.
She couldn’t have said why the thought was unpalatable to her. ‘Do you just have engagement rings sitting in your desk drawer on the off-chance a woman might drop by?’
His eyes smouldered when they met hers. ‘I got it from the family vault the day after you left Madrid.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I knew you’d be back.’
She made a groaning noise in acknowledgement of that. ‘What if you’d been wrong?’
He caught her hand and ran his fingertips lightly over the ring. ‘Then I would have come to England and helped you see sense,’ he said, the words simple, light, and yet a shiver of anticipation and adrenalin coursed through her veins.
Was she seeing sense? Or had she moved into the realm of insanity by agreeing to this?
Amelia couldn’t say: only time would tell.
* * *
Antonio stared at his desk, his expression brooding.
It was all laid out before him: the totality of his aggressive investment in diSalvo Industries, the way he’d been slowly, meticulously devaluing them, ruining them for the sake of destruction alone. Businesses that had little interest to him beyond one aspect: their ability to wound Carlo and Giacomo.
His fiancée’s family.
I can’t marry a man intent on destroying my family.
And yet she was, and he was. Destroying the diSalvos had obsessed him for so long, and now, since his father’s death, it had become his reason for being.
For so long, he had planned it: he would take what he could from them, and he would enjoy standing over them, seeing the shock on their faces when they realised how completely he’d masterminded their downfall.
He’d thought Prim’Aqua was the sum total of what he wanted, but now there was Amelia. Was it possible that in marrying her, creating a family with her, raising the child as the Herrera heir, he held the greatest key to destroying them?
Carlo hated Antonio—just as Antonio hated Carlo. So what would this child’s existence do to the diSalvos? His smile was one of dark pleasure. It would destroy them, that was what. They would possibly even believe that Antonio had planned it—the seduction, the pregnancy—planned it all. His grin spread. And wouldn’t that kill them? They’d hate it.
So much the better.
A light on his phone blinked, signalling a call, but he ignored it.
Amelia would be on a flight by now. His brows knitted into a gesture of silent disdain at her insistence that she fly commercial—yet again. To his disbelief, she hadn’t even booked first class.
It was clear that she was engaged in some kind of protest against her wealth and situation, but to ignore all the luxuries she had at her disposal, and then the luxuries that he could furnish her with, beggared belief.
Then again, didn’t everything about this situation?
Sleeping with her had been a mistake. A beautiful, heavenly mistake. Because, while the sex had been unforgettable, he’d returned to Madrid knowing he had to forget her. He had to put that misstep in the past and refocus his attention on his need to avenge the insults inflicted on his father.
And he’d been doing that, destroying the diSalvos and relishing his success.
But her pregnancy... He frowned, thinking of the unlikelihood of that. He was religious about using contraceptives. He was no monk. Sex was a part of his life, and he knew children weren’t on his wish list. But the second Amelia had dropped her bombshell he’d felt an explosion of protective instincts, a primal, all-encompassing need to do whatever he could for that child.
That it was a child he would be raising with a diSalvo was something he would have to accept.
That had nothing to do with business—what he and Amelia shared, the life they would make for their baby, was all personal.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I NOW PRONOUNCE you husband and wife.’
The words swum around Amelia’s mind, heavily accented, and ever so slightly like a death knell.
Only that was stupid and dramatic. She was no little lamb, being led to the slaughter. She’d chosen this marriage, and she had to remember that. She wasn’t a piece of detritus being drawn into an ocean’s current—she had gone to Antonio and told him of her pregnancy, and she had chosen to at least try to create a life with him.
A real life?
Anxiety gnawed at the edges of her stomach as she came to the crux of the question that was tormenting her.
What exactly did a ‘real’ marriage look like, to Antonio Herrera?
She barely knew him, she thought, sliding a sideways glance to the man beside her. He drove the car through the streets of Madrid with effort
less ease, the afternoon sunshine warm and golden, the powerful car eating up the distance between the utilitarian courthouse in which they’d said their vows and...
And what?
His home.
Another thing she had no idea about. Would it be a luxurious penthouse? A mansion? A yacht? Trepidation at the unquestionable glamour and luxury that awaited her had her remembering the life she’d fled, a life she’d sworn she’d never return to. Yet here she was: as far from her life as a primary school teacher as it was possible to be.
He wore a tuxedo and she wore a dress—simple, white, no lace, no pearls, no beading, no zips. The only concession to the fact it was a wedding was a little bouquet of white roses Antonio had presented her with when the limousine had brought her, straight from the airport, to the town hall. To any passers-by they might have even looked like a normal couple, sneaking off to quickly marry, happy at the prospect of the future that awaited them.
But this was far more like a business arrangement than anything else.
So who exactly had she got into bed with? No, not bed! Her cheeks infused with pink heat and she focused her gaze on the city streets as they passed.
He was ruthless, if his behaviour towards Carlo was anything to go by. But then, there were his charitable works—was that just an excuse, though, to soften his reputation as a hard-hearted bastard? Good PR work, the strings being pulled by an agency focused on rehabilitating his image rather than being motivated by any genuine social concern?
It was hard to believe Antonio particularly cared about his image, or how people might perceive him.
And it was better for her to believe that the man who would be a father to her child had good in his heart, somewhere.
I am not actually a bad person, he’d said, right before suggesting this marriage.
A marriage you agreed to, her memory pointed out sharply.
Her eyes dropped to her finger, and the rings she wore now. A simple diamond band accompanied the engagement ring, sparkling back at her encouragingly.
‘Having regrets?’ The words surprised her. They hadn’t spoken in at least thirty minutes, since leaving the town hall.
She angled her face towards his and wished she hadn’t when she found his eyes momentarily scanning her. Only for a scant few seconds, then his attention was claimed by the road, but it was enough. Heat seared her, expectation lurched in her gut and memories—oh, the memories! The way he’d kissed her, the way it had felt for his lips to press against hers, the urgency of their lovemaking, as though each had been waiting for the other all their lives. What madness had driven them into bed?
‘Because it is too late to change your mind, you know,’ he said, a tight smile stretching across his too-handsome face, the expression shoving more pleasurable thoughts from her mind.
‘Not at all.’
‘So you have been twisting your fingers to shreds because you are relaxed?’ he responded with scepticism.
Had she been? It was a nervous gesture she’d had since childhood: lacing her fingers over and over as worries tumbled through her mind. She’d thought she’d conquered it but old habits, apparently, died hard.
‘I’m thinking about our marriage,’ she said honestly. ‘And about the fact I know very little about my husband.’
He turned to face her again, slowing down at traffic lights.
‘And what I do know,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t like, at all.’
His expression was one of grim mockery. ‘I’m a big, bad Herrera,’ he pointed out. ‘Of course you do not like me.’
‘It has nothing to do with this ridiculous feud,’ she returned. ‘I had no idea about that when we slept together; I hadn’t even heard of you, except for an occasional mention in the papers.’ Her teeth dug into her lower lip. ‘This is all about your behaviour. To my brother, my father—your attitude to my family, and now me...’
‘And what is my attitude to you?’ he enquired, looking back at the road and easing the car into gear when the lights changed to green. The city had given way without her realising it, and now there was green on either side and he slowed as they approached a large gate. It flashed as the car neared and swung open, allowing Antonio to drive through.
She didn’t answer that. It was hard to pinpoint what was bothering her, when actually he hadn’t done anything but argue for this marriage. And she had understood his reasoning, had even agreed with him. But she knew why she’d done this—she wanted to give their baby everything she’d never had.
Why had he married her? Was it something so simple, and barbaric, as insisting that their child have his surname? He’d claimed that was a part of it, but what else was there?
Many possibilities came to mind; none of them relaxed her.
At the base of all her worries was the likelihood that Antonio saw this baby as yet another pawn in his war with her family, and there was worry there—worry that he might end up hurting the child. That her hopes for this baby having stability and love would be destroyed by his need for vengeance. And what would she do then?
A sigh escaped her lips without approval. She didn’t see the answering look of impatience that crossed his face: her attention was captured by the view they drove past.
On one side of the car, heavenly grass and enormous oak trees spread for miles, with a lake at the centre. On the other? Mansions. Enormous, palatial homes with tall fences, stretches of darkly tinted glass, infinity pools, landscaped lawns.
She knew the drill.
She compressed her lips, disapproval filling her body.
Of course he lived somewhere like this.
Only his house wasn’t one of the homes lined up in a fancy row, overlooking the park. His house was in the park. What she’d taken to be a public area was, in fact, part of Antonio’s garden. The house itself was like a twenty-first century palace—all white walls and blue glass, with sharp lines and bright flowers tumbling out of terracotta pots on the endless balconies.
It was beautiful, she admitted grudgingly to herself. ‘If you think we’re raising our child in this museum, you’re crazy,’ was what she said. And when he drew the car to a halt at the front of the mansion she continued to stare at it.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked, the words flattened of emotion.
‘Well, for one thing, look at the terraces. Do you have any idea how risky that is?’
His tone was curt. ‘Yes, if only there were some handy way to keep children off terraces. I don’t know, something flat that could be pulled to create a barrier. Something a bit like, oh, what’s the word for it...a door?’
She scowled. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’
He laughed then, a husky sound. ‘And pettiness doesn’t suit you. The house is fine, and you know it, so stop complaining for the sake of it and come and have a look.’
Only the fact he’d stepped out of the car and was coming around to her side had her pushing the door open and making a hasty exit before he could open the door for her. It was symbolic of the marriage she wanted—separate, but together. She nodded to herself at that description. It was perfect.
Marriage didn’t mean they had to know everything about one another. Courtesy, civility, distance.
That could work, right?
Only his look showed he knew exactly what she was doing and she was left with a sense of having acted childishly, and she hated that! Her fingers knotted together before she realised what she was doing.
‘The house itself is gated,’ he pointed out, ‘so there is little worry our children would find their way into the lake.’
‘Children?’ She stopped walking, pressing a flat hand against her stomach. ‘This is one baby, so far as we know.’
He shrugged. ‘So far.’
‘You mean...?’ She gaped. ‘We aren’t having more children.’
He gestured towards the hous
e. ‘Lots of rooms to fill...’
‘That’s a great reason to compound this situation,’ she muttered, to cover the way her heart had speeded up at the very idea of a big, happy, noisy family—with this man.
‘You want to give our child everything, don’t you? Does that not include siblings?’
She stared at him, her eyes sparking. ‘No.’ Not if it means sleeping with you again, she added inwardly, but her traitorous body surged at the very idea and she spun away from him to hide her reaction. The dress was a fine cotton and her nipples were hardening at the mere thought of being possessed by him once more.
‘We’ll see.’ He simply shrugged and the hand he placed at the small of her back might have been intended only to guide her forward, but her body was already on fire, her pulse racing, spurred on by memories of that night, so that she was electrified by the simple touch.
But pride held her steady; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how he affected her by jerking out of his reach.
‘The door opens with a code,’ he said, tapping in some numbers. ‘Raul will programme yours.’
‘Raul?’
‘Head of my security and operations.’
‘You have security?’
He shot her a look of impatience. ‘Yes, querida.’
‘What the heck does someone like you need a bodyguard for? You’re six and a half feet of muscle. Are you telling me you couldn’t defend yourself?’
His smile showed both amusement and something else, something darker and more dangerous, because it spoke of a desire in his bloodstream that answered her own.
She blinked it away.
‘Raul is not a bodyguard,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘His purview is the security of my properties, the safety of my staff, and protecting my cyber interests. He monitors the alarms, ensures staff are vetted appropriately. And he will oversee your protection as well, from now on.’
‘I don’t need protection.’
‘Amelia—’ He expelled a heavy breath, clicking the door shut behind them. It was impossible not to contrast this phenomenal space with the cosiness of Bumblebee Cottage. They were standing inside a door now, as they had been then but, instead of quaint lighting and pictures drawn by her students, here there was all white marble, high ceilings, crystal chandeliers and world-famous pieces of art hanging from the walls. Mondrian, Dali and—of course—Picasso. She stared at the bright modernist piece with a growing sense of awe.
Spaniard's Baby of Revenge Page 9