“Your wedding dress!” she repeated. “Oh, yes! Please! I might never get a chance to pick one for myself. I’ll soon be one of those spinster professors you hear about. And you know Daisy, she’ll never trust a man enough to marry him. So you have to let us live vicariously through you. You have to!”
Blinking back tears, Tamsin nodded, realizing she wouldn’t have to pick out her dress alone after all. “Thank you for coming to find me.”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” Daisy, who’d had a far more difficult childhood than Bianca and had never owned a pair of rose-colored glasses in her life, leaned back against the leather seat. “Bianca insisted on coming to Madrid, and I figured I’d better come along to make sure she didn’t lose her purse, her passport and her virtue to the first smooth-talking Spaniard she met.”
Bianca started to protest and all three women were laughing by the time they arrived at the bridal designer’s atelier. Once they arrived, Reyes remained at the front to guard the door while they were whisked inside and seated on an ultra-plush sofa for their private appointment. Assistants brought them champagne, sandwiches and strawberries dipped in chocolate while models showed them a selection of dresses. An hour later, they were on their second bottle of champagne, and Tamsin was having a wonderful time.
“That one,” Daisy said with a loud snicker, pointing at the ugliest, poofiest one covered with the most bows. Even the model looked embarrassed to be wearing it.
“No, that one,” Bianca said dreamily, gazing at a sleek shift in white satin, worn by a model with hair black as her own covered by a long gauzy veil.
But Tamsin knew her dress the instant she saw it. She said in Spanish to the designer, “I’d like to try that one please, señora.”
Her friends gasped when she came out of the dressing room a few minutes later.
“Oh, Tamsin,” Bianca whispered, tears in her eyes. “You look like an angel.”
“Not bad,” Daisy said approvingly.
Tamsin looked at herself in the three-way mirror and caught her breath. At last, something was exactly just the way she’d dreamed it would be as a girl.
The strapless white ball gown had a sweetheart neckline, a tight corset waist and voluminous skirts with embroidered French silk draped over an ocean of tulle. With the slender tiara of diamonds and veil, she looked like a princess from a fairy tale.
She knew immediately that she was not leaving the designer’s shop without this dress.
“You even fit into the sample size. Maybe they’ll give you a discount.”
“I don’t need a discount, Daiz,” Tamsin said absently, still staring at herself in the mirror.
Daisy lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Last I heard, you’d lost your trust fund.”
“That’s not a problem any more.” Tamsin moved from side to side, watching the way the light danced off the voluminous fabric of her skirts. “Marcos has more money than he can spend.”
Her friend paused. “But that’s not why you’re marrying him, right?”
“Of course it’s not!” Bianca protested loyally. “She’s marrying him for the only good reason you marry anyone.”
Daisy tilted her head at Tamsin, frowning. “You’re pregnant?”
“No!” she replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m not pregnant.” At least, she hoped she wasn’t. Maybe she’d better say it again, just to make sure the universe was listening. “I’m definitely not pregnant. And I don’t care about his money. I’m marrying him because …”
Because I need to get custody of my sister, she intended to say. But as she opened her mouth to speak the words, a barrage of images went through her mind. Of Marcos kissing her on the dance floor of the club on the Calle Orense. Of the boyish, dreaming expression on his face while he slept. The hard look in his eyes when he offered to die for her in the forest. His wild shout of laughter when she’d gunned her motorcycle to pass him on the Gran Via.
Marcos fierce, Marcos angry, Marcos laughing. The sensual look in his eyes when he pulled her into his arms, first thing in the morning, and kissed her until she thought she’d die of joy.
Tamsin sat down abruptly in a phoof of tulle and French silk. “… Because I love him,” she said slowly. “Oh, my God. I love him.”
“Of course you do,” Bianca said comfortingly.
But Daisy’s eyes met her own. “What’s wrong, Tamsin?”
Tamsin put her face in her hands. “It was supposed to be a marriage of convenience,” she whispered. “But I’ve fallen for him. I can’t believe I’m so stupid.”
In a sharp movement, Daisy turned to the designer’s two assistants, still hovering near the door. “Go away,” she snapped. “We’ll call you when we need more champagne.” But when she turned back to Tamsin, her voice was kind. “A marriage of convenience? For money? Were things that bad?”
“Yes. No.” She rubbed her temples. “Sheldon was neglecting Nicole. As Marcos’s wife, I can get custody. I can give my sister a home, give her the life she deserves. But I never expected …”
“To fall in love?”
Tamsin nodded miserably.
“Don’t be sad. It’s a good thing!” Bianca exclaimed. “You love him, he loves you, and you’ll both be happy for the rest of your lives. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, if he loved me. But he doesn’t. And he won’t. He’s got his own plans that have nothing to do with me.”
“Are you sure?” Daisy asked.
She remembered Marcos’s face when he’d said, There can be no future relationship between us. The way he pushed her away whenever she got too close. The way he’d so cavalierly canceled their break on the Costa Blanca without explanation the day before. And, worst of all, the dead, hard look in his eyes when he’d said, I’m not giving up my revenge for you or anyone.
“I’m sure,” she said quietly.
“Don’t be silly.” Bianca patted her shoulder. “Of course it will work out. Just give him time. No one could help but love you, Tamsin. Once you’re married, he’ll forget about those other plans and fall for you like a ton of bricks. You’ll see. It’ll all work out wonderfully.”
Tamsin wiped her eyes with the edge of her veil, wanting nothing more than to believe her. “Do you think so?”
“You’re wrong, Bianca.” Daisy’s tense face turned to Tamsin. “If you love him and he doesn’t love you, marrying him would be a disaster. It’ll kill you. You can’t go through with this, Tamsin. You can’t.” She pulled off Tamsin’s veil and leaned forward urgently. “Run away. Trust me. Run as fast as you can.”
Tamsin thought of Daisy’s words when she was back at Marcos’s flat, after she’d dropped her friends at the airport. She stared down at the dream wedding dress that she’d taken home with her in spite of all of Daisy’s warnings. She ran her hand softly along the tulle and draped edges of gathered silk. She thought she’d cast aside her girlish romantic dreams long ago, but now she wanted so badly for them to come true she could barely breathe.
Whose view of life did she believe? Bianca’s? Or Daisy’s?
In the past, she would have said Daisy, hands down.
But that was before. Before she refound her long-lost illusions. Before she’d fallen head over heels in love.
Should she marry Marcos?
Tamsin looked down at the wedding dress spread across Marcos’s bed. A moment later she was wearing it again, walking barefoot up and down the hallway. She put on the veil and looked at herself in the mirror. She closed her eyes, imagining that she was walking down the aisle. Marcos was standing at the altar, and his eyes were bright and alive with love …
“¡Dios mío!” she heard him say hoarsely.
Whirling around, she saw Marcos standing in the doorway.
Her cheeks went hot. “Stop!” She held up her hand. “Wait!” She tried to run for the hall, out of his sight. “You’re not supposed to see me before our wedding day. It’s bad luck—”
His laptop bag dropped to the floor with a loud bang
as he raced towards her. The door was barely closed behind him before he caught her. He kissed her face through the veil, then pulled back the translucent fabric.
“Tamsin, you’re driving me crazy,” he whispered against her cheek. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you? And to come back here and see you like this—”
He kissed her again savagely, bruising her lips with the force of his desire. She wrapped her arms around him as he picked her up in his arms. As he carried her into the bedroom, her train dragged on the floor behind him, and layers of her tulle skirt floated around her as she pressed her face against his chest.
Her heart started to pound from more than desire. She wanted to tell him.
He carried her to the bed and set her down on the high mattress. He pulled off his coat and then his tie, looking down at her with dark smoldering eyes—and all she could think was that she loved him.
Unbuttoning his cuffs, he removed his shirt, revealing his tanned muscular chest with the trail of black hair that descended beneath his tailored pants—and all she could think was that she loved him.
He pulled off the rest of his clothes, standing in front of her naked, and put one knee on the bed, reaching for her—and all she could think was that she loved him.
He pushed up her voluminous tulle skirts, lowering himself beneath them. She couldn’t see him over her skirts, but she could feel his breath, his lips, his mouth tracing the inside of her naked thighs. He slowly stretched her wide and took a long, languorous taste of her, making her back arch and her breasts strain against the tight corset boning of her silk bodice.
She wanted him, but more: she was trembling from the effort of not speaking the words. But she couldn’t say them. It would destroy everything between them. He didn’t love her back, and he never would.
But that was a blessing. Wasn’t it? If he loved her, and couldn’t change his vindictive nature, a life with him would not only destroy her, but their children. She couldn’t recreate her own horrible childhood for another generation.
I don’t love him, she tried to tell herself. It’s just infatuation. Meaningless. Not love …
His large hands caressed her thighs as he moved up her body. He kissed her neck, running his hands through her hair. She could feel him between her legs, demanding entrance, and her legs spread of their own accord.
“A condom,” she gasped at the last minute.
He shook his head, cursing himself under his breath as he reached into the end table. “Forgive me,” he said in a low voice. “I lose my reason when I’m with you.”
He had the same effect on her. She watched his face, loving every detail. His Roman nose, his high cheekbones, even the tiny lines between his eyebrows. He was making love to her in her wedding dress. She swallowed, feeling as if her body was going to explode from wanting him and her heart was going to stop beating if she didn’t tell him she loved him.
Marcos had missed her.
He wanted to tell her, but the words caught in his throat. He’d gone to Agadir to try to get evidence against Aziz. After today, he would have it. Sheldon was flying to Madrid right now. But that wasn’t why Marcos had rushed back from Agadir after one sleepless night in which he’d neither eaten nor slept.
He’d been consumed with thoughts of Tamsin.
Now, as he held her in his arms, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. As if he’d nearly lost his most prized possession, his fortune, or his dearest friend.
He looked down at her. Her flame-red hair was spread across his pillow, twisted back with diamonds and a gauzy veil. Seeing her in the wedding dress, with her full breasts thrust upwards in the corset and her waist tiny enough to span with his hands, had been a shock to his system. Seeing her now, stretched across his enormous bed, her eyes smoldering up at him with an intoxicating mix of lust and innocence and mystery, was enough to make him lose all pretense of being a civilized man. His whole body was raging with the primitive need to possess her, own her, mark her as his.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes as dark as a summer storm.
“I … you …” She paused, then bit her lip. “You’re mussing up my wedding dress.”
He ran his hands down her bodice, impatient to feel her breasts, her belly, her smooth skin beneath. “It’s in my way.”
“The zipper is—”
Before she could even finish the sentence, he’d torn the front of the dress in half, leaving the silk in shreds. He took her breasts in his hands. She gasped in indignation, then pleasure.
“I’ll buy you a new dress,” he said hoarsely as he kissed down her neck. God, he’d missed her so much, had missed touching her, had missed hearing her voice. How was it possible that, after just one night without her, he’d felt like a man dying of thirst in the desert? “A dozen new dresses, as many as you want.”
“A dozen?” She gave a strained laugh, a sexy sound from low in her throat. “How many times do you intend to marry me?”
He looked down at her, naked beneath him.
“Just once,” he told her seriously, but realized to his shock that he no longer had thoughts of divorce.
He had no intention of letting her go. Ever.
He wanted to keep her with him always.
He tried to push the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t allow himself to need her. It wasn’t good for a man to need anyone. At any moment, she might leave him. She might return to London. She might fall in love with another man.
She might skid her car one rainy night and die.
And he’d be crushed. Helpless. Just like before.
No. He wouldn’t let himself think of it.
Closing his eyes, he sheathed himself and thrust himself inside her, filling her completely. She cried out with pleasure. He held himself still, savoring the moment. Holding her like this, his whole being felt illuminated with joy. He felt drunk. Intoxicated. She made him forget everything but how much he needed her …
His eyes flew open. She was becoming too important to him. Too necessary to his happiness in every way. He had to end this. He had to let her go, no matter what it cost him. He had to set her free before something horrible happened, like …
“I love you,” she whispered.
He drew back from her with an intake of breath. She was looking at him with her heart shining in her eyes.
“No,” he said harshly. “Not in private. Save the sentimental rubbish for when reporters can hear us.”
Her face froze. “But I mean it, Marcos. Somehow it’s become true. I love you—”
“Stop saying that!” He pulled away from her entirely, grabbing her by the arms and forcing her up in bed. “It’s not me you love. It’s this.”
He put his hand between her legs, making her gasp as he fingered her, stroking her tight nub in quick, featherlike movements until she was writhing beneath his touch.
“Please,” she panted. “Please listen—”
Ignoring her, he yanked her hands over her head, holding tightly on to her wrists, pushing her back against the headboard. He spread her legs before he thrust into her. Leaning forward, he bit one nipple, sucking hard. She twisted her head from side to side, moaning and bucking her hips. He only slammed into her harder with every thrust.
She gasped out, “Marcos, I lo—”
He covered her mouth with his own before she could finish. He rode her harder and harder, almost hoping that he would hurt her, that she would realize what a beast he was and change her mind and they could go back to how it had been before.
Instead, he felt her shake and quiver and gasp in his arms. Her hips met his with every thrust and, as she came, he couldn’t stop her from crying out, “I love you!”
She loved him.
Just the thought shocked him to his core. He didn’t want to hurt her. Not Tamsin. She was the first person in twenty years to make him laugh, to make him feel joy, to remind him of the good in the world. He’d die before he hurt her. He wanted to keep her safe always. Even if it meant saving her f
rom a man like him.
Without finishing, he abruptly pulled away from her. He went to the door and grabbed his robe, which he carelessly tossed at her.
“Get dressed,” he said tersely. “You’re going.”
She blinked at him, struggling to sit up in the tattered remnants of the destroyed wedding dress. “Going?” she repeated in a daze. “Going where?”
“London.” He rapidly pulled on his clothes. He couldn’t let himself touch her ever again. For her own good, he had to forget about her. Forget the soft touch of her skin, the joy in her laugh, the glow in her eyes. Forget he had ever known her.
“London?” The tormented expression on her face nearly killed him.
He steeled his heart. “To join your sister. The wedding’s off.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TAMSIN felt sick.
She watched Marcos reach into his wardrobe and pull a crisply tailored shirt over his muscled torso. Why hadn’t she just kept quiet about loving him? Three minutes ago, he’d been ravishing her in her wedding dress, making her scream with pleasure. Now he wouldn’t even look at her. Fastest end to a marriage in history, she thought dully.
But she’d known it would happen if she told him she loved him. She’d said it in a foolish hope that he might return her feelings and somehow change for her, forgetting his vindictive plans.
And also because, well, she just hadn’t been able to keep herself from blurting it out. She’d never been in love before. But she was already learning how much love could hurt.
Morosely, she looked around the elegant spartan bedroom. Looked at the white goosedown comforter tossed back against the large black lacquer bedframe. The fireplace was also black. Everything in his room was black and white. No room for color. No room for gray.
“You’re canceling our wedding because of what I said?”
He finally looked at her as he buttoned up his shirt. “Yes.”
Her throat hurt. “But we have to get married. My sister—”
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