by India Grey
‘Sorry, sorry…’ Lily muttered, gripping her bouquet of slightly wilting roses in anguish. The director’s face softened as he peered through her veil and said quietly, ‘Look, are you OK under there? Perhaps you’d like to take a quick break? Grab something to eat?’
Lily shook her head. The wedding dress supplied by the couture arm of the company was already so tight it felt like some barbaric method of medieval torture, and a car was due to collect her in just a few hours to take her to the private airfield where Tristan’s jet would be waiting. Her stomach swooped at the thought. ‘No, really, I’m fine,’ she said determinedly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m ready now. Let’s do it again.’
The director gave her arm a quick squeeze and nodded at the bridegroom, who was leaning against the altar rail talking on his mobile to his boyfriend in Milan. Gathering up her papery silk skirts, Lily hurried back to the church doorway while the director clapped his hands to bring the congregation of extras back to order, hushing the musical babble of Italian conversation that had risen during the hiatus.
Beneath her veil Lily felt the heat of panic rise to her cheeks and breathed deeply, steadying herself against it as she smoothed a hand over the silk that stretched across her thickening midriff. Her heart twisted with primitive love as she thought of the baby inside her. That was why she was doing it. That was why she was shortly going to be getting on a plane and flying to a strange city to marry a man she didn’t know. She was giving her baby a father. A name. That had to be right, didn’t it?
‘OK, people, let’s take that again. And remember, Lily, you’re drifting on a cloud of bliss, darling. You’re in love and getting married to the man of your dreams! What could be better?’
If he loved me back, thought Lily sadly as she stepped forwards once more into the bright lights.
Tristan didn’t even glance at his father’s secretary as he stalked through her office and pushed open the tall double doors to Juan Carlos Romero de Losada’s inner sanctum. He was holding a piece of paper—a printout of the transactions made by the bank in the last week, which he’d been studying ahead of tomorrow’s meeting with the chancellors of some of Europe’s major banks—and as he threw it down on his father’s desk the secretary appeared at the door looking worried.
‘Señor, I am sorry—’
From behind the fortress of his enormous desk Juan Carlos held up a regal and perfectly manicured hand, the Romero signet ring glinting heavily on his little finger.
‘Please, Luisa, it is not your fault. My son has yet to learn some manners.’ Settling his face into a smooth smile, he turned his cold gaze on Tristan as the secretary retreated with obvious relief. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain what is so important that you neglect the most basic courtesy to my staff?’
Tristan’s face was set into a rigid mask of barely controlled anger. When he spoke it was through gritted teeth, his lips hardly moving.
‘You authorised a further loan to the Khazakismiri army. Last week. Another four million euros. Do you know who these people are? They’re terrorists, guerillas, who are responsible for mass genocide.’
Juan Carlos gave a minute shrug of his elegant shoulders. ‘Their generals are also very likely to form a large part of the cabinet of the next Khazakismiri government. This is business, Tristan. We cannot afford to be emotional.’
The word hit Tristan like an unexpected blow, reminding him so suddenly of Lily that he felt the air being knocked from his lungs.
I think you already are in touch with your emotions, she had said. And I think the emotion you’re most in touch with at the moment is fear.
She was wrong, he thought bitterly as he stared unflinchingly into the brutally handsome face of his father; the face that his own echoed so clearly. He knew fear. Fear was the element in which he had lived for the first eight years of his life, until boarding school had delivered him from it. Fear had coloured every day, so that he knew all its shades of blackness. Fear was being small, powerless, not in control, and he had made sure that he was as far removed from all those things as it was possible to be.
‘I’m not talking about emotion,’ he said icily. ‘I’m talking about ethics.’
‘Tristan, this is Spain’s oldest and most venerated bank, not some ramshackle, politically correct charity,’ Juan Carlos said silkily, and not for the first time Tristan wondered just how much his father knew about his double life. ‘Khazakismir is going through a turbulent time in its history at the moment, but it is an area that is potentially rich in natural gas and oil, and when things are more settled our investment will be richly rewarded. I have a duty to provide the best return for our investors.’
Tristan swore with quiet disgust. ‘And you think they would agree with that if they knew exactly what kind of atrocities their money was funding?’
‘We don’t have to burden them with moral dilemmas or complicated political issues. I think of myself as a father figure to our customers,’ Juan Carlos continued complacently. ‘I make decisions with their best interests at heart. It’s not always an easy role, or a comfortable one, but it is my duty. Just as your duty is to the family.’
Just the word ‘father’ coming from Juan Carlos’s lips made Tristan’s hands bunch into fists and adrenaline pulse through him. His eyes were drawn, as they always were whenever he had any cause to penetrate Juan Carlos’s private citadel, to the large silver-framed photograph that stood on the desk. To the casual observer it showed the Romero de Losada Montalvo family posing happily together on the steps of El Paraiso, but Tristan always suspected it was placed there, not so much to impress visitors, but to remind Tristan of the real nature and extent of his ‘duty’.
‘As if I could forget,’ said Tristan tonelessly, still looking at the picture.
The casual observer probably wouldn’t notice the person, standing shoulder to shoulder with Tristan, who had been cropped out of the picture. They would be far more likely to look at Nico, Juan Carlos’s youngest son, standing at the front, and remark on the openness of his expression, the infectious charm of his smile.
They would, of course, never suspect what it had cost his older brother to keep it there.
‘Bueno. Talking of which…’ Juan Carlos leaned back in his chair and looked at Tristan speculatively ‘…I am pleased to see that there haven’t been so many unfortunate photographs of you cavorting with unsuitable women in the press lately. I thought that when you gave up that pointless Oxford degree and came to work for the bank that you were ready to apply yourself to your duty as a Romero, but I have been bitterly disappointed by your conduct over the years. Perhaps at last you are beginning to take your responsibilities more seriously?’
Turning to leave, Tristan gave a short, ironic laugh. ‘You could say that.’
‘Not before time. You need to settle down, Tristan. I hope you’re not forgetting the reception tomorrow, after our meeting tomorrow with the European finance committee. Sofia Carranzo will be there. Such a charming girl.’
‘By which you mean wealthy, well-bred and Catholic,’ Tristan said scathingly.
Juan Carlos’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hardly need remind you of your duty to make a good marriage. Provide an heir.’
Tristan paused with his hand on the door. ‘No. As a matter of fact you don’t,’ he said quietly.
‘So you’ll be there?’ Juan Carlos pressed. ‘Good. I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll be there.’
As he passed Luisa on the way out Tristan smiled. In a funny way he was quite looking forward to it too.
The light of the short autumn afternoon was fading as the car wound its way through the traffic into the centre of Barcelona. Giving up on the book she had chosen for the journey—Cervantes’ Don Quixote—Lily sat back in her seat and stared out into the brightly lit shop fronts and cafés, trying to keep her breathing slow and even.
She had no idea where she was being taken, since the enquiries she had made in basic Spanish to the menacing-looking dri
ver who had hauled her bags into the back of the car had been met by a stone wall of silence. Despite the gloom he wore a pair of dark glasses and from beneath these an angry scar ran down his cheek to the corner of his unsmiling mouth.
Lily shivered. There was something intimidating, hostile, in his unresponsiveness that did nothing to dispel the nervous tension that had dogged her since she’d stepped into the plush interior of Tristan’s private jet in Rome. The fact that Tristan hadn’t bothered to come and meet her himself added a frisson of anger to the apprehension and terrible, treacherous excitement that churned inside her at the thought of seeing him again.
Pregnancy hormones, she told herself firmly. He’d made it quite clear in London what the terms of their marriage would be and she had taken the only option that left her with a shred of dignity. She couldn’t accept the alternative, but as the moment of meeting him drew closer she couldn’t think how she was going to live with her choice either…
The huge black car slid through streets that grew increasingly narrow, increasingly empty, and Lily twisted the diamond ring on her finger anxiously as she craned out into the gloom, searching for landmarks to give her a clue as to where they were. No one knew she was here, she thought as fear began to prickle at the back of her neck. Maybe the car wasn’t sent by Tristan at all, she thought with a thud of horror. Maybe she was being kidnapped by someone who had somehow learned that she was engaged to the heir to the Romero billions…Maybe Tristan was even now receiving a ransom note, demanding a huge sum for her safe release…
Folding her shaking hands protectively across her softly rounded stomach, Lily bit her lip, trying to stamp out the flare of panic that leapt inside her.
No matter how much the demand, the Marqués de Montesa could afford to pay it, she thought with an attempt at self-mockery. This was the man who went to parties by helicopter and sent five carat diamonds by post. But he doesn’t love me, whispered an unpleasant, persistent little voice in her head. That’s the flaw in the kidnapper’s plan. The baby and I are a problem, an inconvenience, and if I were to disappear…
The car stopped. Lily jumped, her eyes widening with alarm as she saw that they were in a narrow street squeezed between very high, very old buildings. Beside the car there was an archway, its mouth yawning blackly in the gloom. Her pulse went into overdrive. The taciturn chauffeur got out, his footsteps ringing on the stone flags, echoing off the tall walls around them, keeping time with the hammering of Lily’s heart as she sat, bolt upright and trembling, in the back of the car. A moment later he opened the door and stood back.
Lily gave a little gasp of terror as she glimpsed a man standing in the shadows of the archway. Instinct told her to get out of the car, that she might still have a chance to run for it, and she stumbled to her feet just as he stepped forward into the dying grey afternoon. He was tall, lean, powerfully built, but even in the gloom there was no mistaking the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the sensual mouth.
‘Tristan!’
The breath seemed to catch in her throat, so that the word came out as a strangled croak, and suddenly she was in his arms, burying her face in the hardness of his chest as relief flooded her. He smelled clean and warm and she breathed in the scent, waiting for the wild crashing of her heart to steady.
It didn’t.
From deep in the pit of her stomach she felt bolts of heat shoot along her nerve endings as his hands closed over her shoulders, firm and powerful.
‘What an unexpectedly enthusiastic welcome,’ he drawled with quiet mockery. ‘Do I take it you’ve reconsidered your decision about the nature of our marriage?’
‘No!’ she exclaimed, blushing hotly as she stepped away from him, folding her cashmere wrap tightly around her and hugging herself to stop the trembling that racked her body. ‘I’m just glad that it’s you and not some cold-blooded kidnapper with a gun and a ransom demand.’ Suddenly the fear of a moment ago felt suddenly silly and childish. ‘I didn’t know where we were going, and your driver wasn’t very forthcoming.’
‘Dimitri’s Russian. He doesn’t speak any English, or much Spanish.’ Tristan turned to him and spoke briefly in rapid, flawless Russian, which brought a flicker of a smile to Dimitri’s lugubrious features. ‘He’ll take care of your bags. We go on foot from here.’
Lily had to almost run to keep up with his long, rapid stride.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To church.’
‘Church? The church where we’re getting married?’
‘Of course.’
A shiver rippled down her spine, excitement mixed with apprehension as the reality of what they were doing edged a little closer. They were walking along a narrow street, just a passageway between ancient buildings, and Tristan was walking slightly ahead of her, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his black jacket, his collar turned up, demons at his back.
Just looking at him made Lily’s legs feel weak.
Another stone archway blocked out the remains of the light for a moment, and then suddenly they were in an open space again, a small square hemmed in on all sides by a jumble of ancient buildings, all crammed together as if supporting each other. In the centre stood a hexagonal fountain, and trees stretched their branches up to the pewter sky.
‘Oh!’ Lily stopped, looking around. Apart from a couple drinking coffee at one of the tables of the bar of the hotel in one corner, the square was empty. The only sound was the gentle trickle of water from the fountain, the soft crooning of pigeons. It was like stepping through a magic doorway, into another time.
Her gaze returned to where he stood beside a huge and ornately decorated doorway set into a wall of pockmarked stone and she smiled. ‘It’s lovely—so perfect and romantic.’
The words were met with a mocking twist of his mouth. ‘Romantic?’ he repeated sardonically, pushing open a small door set into the tall, imposing entrance. ‘I never really thought of it that way before.’
‘Really? You do surprise me,’ said Lily dryly, glancing up at him from under her lashes as she stepped through the door he held open for her. For a moment he scowled down at her, and then he gave her a reluctant smile.
‘Don’t push your luck, Señorita Alexander,’ he murmured. ‘And remember what I said. If you play with fire…’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
Lily followed him into a cavernous space with a high domed ceiling. Her eye was immediately drawn past the rows of wooden pews to the dramatic edifice that rose up behind the altar, of gilded and polished marble pillars supporting a row of angels with their magnificent wings unfurled, and life-sized saints in various attitudes of dramatic supplication. Wrapping her arms around herself Lily walked slowly forward, looking around, trying to imagine what it would be like on the day of their wedding…
Now the building was dimly lit and the pews were empty, apart from an elderly man sitting in the second row, head bent over his rosary beads, fingers working silently. At the back of the church a woman was threading long-stemmed red roses and sprays of gypsophila into an extravagant display of greenery on a tall stand, while a small girl played with the flowers at her feet.
Lily watched, noticing the absorption with which the girl held the flowers, the slight frown on her small face as she walked a couple of slow, solemn steps, and realised she was playing a game. She was pretending to be a bride, holding her bunch of flowers in front of her like a bouquet. Lily smiled, feeling a lump form in the back of her throat as unconsciously her hand moved to her stomach, moving over the almost imperceptible bump of her own child.
The past weeks had been exhausting and often joyless, the constant drag of morning sickness made worse by the fact there was no one to share it with, no one to confide in. But there were moments, like this one, when she was struck by the sheer miracle of what was happening inside her body, when the astonishing privilege of having a baby of her own to love and look after almost made her gasp out loud. And she knew in those moments that she would do anything at all
to protect it and to give it a safe and happy life.
‘Lily.’
She turned her head, and Tristan saw her soft smile fade slightly as she came to where he was standing with the priest. She had been looking at the child, he realised with a stabbing sensation in his chest. That was what had given her eyes that luminescence. When he spoke his voice was flinty.
‘If you’re ready, perhaps we could get on with what we came for.’
‘What we came for?’ She frowned.
Aware of the priest at his side, Tristan gave her a smooth, blank smile, hoping that she was sensible enough to detect the warning it contained. ‘Getting married, of course, querida.’
‘Now?’ Her eyes widened in shock and colour seeped into her pale cheeks. Grasping her firmly by the elbow, Tristan muttered a few apologetic words in Spanish to Father Angelico as he drew her to one side before she could say anything else that was likely to make the priest have second thoughts about conducting this highly unconventional wedding. It had taken considerable amounts of string-pulling and a more than generous donation to the church fund to silence Father Angelico’s doubts about officiating at the secret marriage between the son of one of Spain’s most important families and a socially insignificant English non-Catholic girl. Any sign of further irregularity in the circumstances might force him to reconsider.
‘Yes, now,’ he said, carefully keeping his tone level. ‘Or have you changed your mind?’
Her eyes were the dark grey of the English sky before a storm, but whether clouded by anger or by hurt he couldn’t tell. ‘No, of course not. I just thought…I mean, I wanted—’
‘What? A designer dress and a dozen small bridesmaids?’ he mocked.
Lily looked down with a sad, self-deprecating smile. ‘You make it sound so outrageous. I knew it was going to be a quiet wedding, but I thought that maybe some members of your family could be there, and Scarlet and Tom…’