The Doctor's Marriage for a Month

by Annie O'Neil

  Isla rushed over to help unload Carmela. She took the bag, and Carmela crossed to the wooden chest and placed the box on top.

  “Erm...this isn’t mine.”

  She winced apologetically. This was so weird. Worse than being caught at a boyfriend’s house by his parents wearing nothing but her bra and panties. Not that it had ever happened to her, because she was incredibly cautious in that department, but she was pretty sure this was what it would have felt like.

  Carmela, however, seemed completely unfazed. As if mystery brides were always showing up unannounced and in need of protection.

  The thought made her blood boil. She could have got herself out this mess her own way, given half a chance!

  No, you couldn’t. You needed him.

  “These are some things Señor Vasquez thought you might need.” Carmela looked at Isla with more than casual interest. “Can I get you anything?”

  Nineteen different responses crowded in her throat. Her father, for one. Her old life. Her patient roster. Her cozy little home by a very different sea, where a half-eaten packet of biscuits lay in her favorite tin alongside the hot chocolate. She could definitely do without Kyle. Or any boyfriends/fiancés/love interests for the foreseeable future. But...

  She swallowed them all down and felt a pang of discomfort in her gut as they landed.

  Did she really want those things? Or was this crazy scenario something she’d needed for a bit longer than she cared to admit? A chance to challenge herself to become the woman she’d always wanted to be? Fierce. Independent. Worthy of being loved.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. Everything’s perfect.”

  “He’s a good man, you know,” Carmela said.

  There was no need to ask who she was speaking about. A prickle of tears began to tease at the back of Isla’s nose. She nodded her head. She knew that. She owed Diego a debt she could never repay. The debt of her life.

  How soon would she owe him the debt of her freedom?

  Carmela gave her arm a gentle squeeze. One that said, I’m here for you if you need me.

  “Diego will see you in the courtyard in an hour’s time. Perhaps some rest will help.”

  Like the ever-obedient child she’d crafted herself into, Isla sat down on the bed as Carmela left the room. Exhaustion hit her like a speeding train the moment the kind woman gently closed the door behind her. The bedding was unbelievably soft to the touch. If she lay down for just one sleepy second...

  * * *

  Diego stayed for a moment. He knew he shouldn’t. That watching someone sleep might be seen as intrusive, but... Dios mio, the woman’s beauty clawed at heart.

  And she wasn’t just anyone. She was his wife.

  In name only, idiota!

  A shot of unease curdled his relief at finally being home.

  Axl Cruz was hardly high on the scale of globally feared gangsters. He’d barely register as a tiny dot on Interpol’s radar. But here on El Valderon... Diego’s hand automatically moved to his chest. The emotional scars upon his heart were traces of just how close to the bone Axl Cruz and his so-called “mischief-making” could cut. The man had to be stopped.

  He pulled a light blue throw from the end of the bed, put it and over Isla’s shoulders. She didn’t deserve any of this. Nor did her father, for that matter. But Isla was a true innocent. He reached out, giving in to the urge to sweep an errant curl away from her face. She shifted and put her fingers alongside his. Squeezed them as if she knew he was there to help, gave a soft sigh, then curled her hands together over her heart.

  He knew then and there that he would do everything in his power to protect her. To help her. And then he would let her go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ISLA BLINKED HER eyes open and wondered how the room had gone from being filled with the warm glow of filtered sunlight to cozy and gently lit by a standing lamp in the corner. She examined the blue blanket that was wrapped around her and tried to remember covering herself with it. Unsuccessfully.

  She bolted upright, suddenly remembering where she was and from whom she was meant to be nailing down some actual facts.

  She squinted toward the French windows as her brain registered that the sun was slipping below the horizon. She must have been asleep for hours, and she was meant to be insisting that Diego take her to an embassy. If there even were any. This country was so isolated. Its government so new.

  “The walls have ears, amorcita.”

  It was what he’d said when she’d starting flinging insults about Axl Cruz, after they’d finished operating on his son. Not her finest moment, but...

  She rose and immediately realized that a shower was going to be essential before she went anywhere or did anything. She went to her bag and pulled out her lone skirt and T-shirt.

  Filthy.

  She hadn’t yet figured out where the laundry facilities were at the turtle sanctuary...ugh. At least she had clean underwear. She’d been thorough in that department.

  She glanced out the window at the setting sun. Her father should be landing any time now.

  Home.

  How cruel that her father should finally be there while she was stuck here in this—Well... She’d landed on her feet in terms of enforced captivity.

  Her eyes slid across to the large box. She lifted the lid and gasped as she saw a pile of clothes.

  There were lovely light cotton and linen tops. Some with pretty flower patterns. Some richly colored in shades of blue and green. Pedal-pushers and cropped trousers in neutral colors. A couple of swingy shift dresses she would never in her wildest dreams have had the courage to buy herself.

  She held one up to her shoulders and stepped in front of the long mirror in the bathroom.

  She actually sighed at how pretty it looked. How pretty she looked. And she just about never thought of herself as pretty. She’d wear it tonight. Only because she wouldn’t ever be wearing it again, seeing as she would be putting her foot down and insisting they sort out this insane situation and get her back home with her father, where she belonged.

  One luxuriously satisfying shower later and she gave herself a final glimpse in the mirror.

  She was surprised to see how vital she looked. How alive. The color green Diego had chosen—or whoever he’d asked to choose for him had chosen—suited her fair skin and dark auburn hair to perfection. The wrap-around dress was form-fitting, but not so much that she felt she needed to suck in her tummy or worry about any strange bulges that might have appeared on her thighs after a bit of over-indulgent chocolate consumption the night she’d found out that she had been cuckolded.

  She’d never felt more humiliated in her life. Or more furious.

  Reluctantly, she conceded that maybe her ex had had a point. She’d been so set on her vision of how the future had to be that she had forgotten how to be spontaneous. Her drive and ambition to become an emergency medicine specialist had been channeled into her girlhood dream of playing Happy Families in Loch Craggen.

  But what if her family’s version of Happy Families was actually what it was? Everyone free to pursue their dreams?

  She shook her head. Too much to think about. Tonight she had to quiz Diego.

  She took a quick glance in the mirror again and gave her hair a stern warning not to go feral in the warm sea air. She needed to be at her persuasive best tonight, and if that involved employing her disturbingly under-utilized feminine wiles, then...

  She caught the flash of her ring in the mirror. The ring that had come just before the exchange of vows that had come just before the most passionate kiss she’d ever had in her life.

  Her tummy flipped and little bits of her tingled that she hadn’t realize could tingle.

  Crikey.

  She was going to have to pretend Diego looked like a frog when she spoke to him.

  Frogs turn into princes. An
d princes turn into Beasts.

  Reminding herself that she was an immensely sensible woman with a very clear agenda—departure—she walked to the outdoor patio, to find Diego looking towards the sea into the embers of daylight.

  “Ah! Isla. Are you feeling well rested? A bit more relaxed?”

  She was feeling something, all right, but she wasn’t sure it was relaxed.

  The golden remains of the sun highlighted his warm, caramel-colored skin and the shiny black of his hair—still a bit wild and disheveled, even though his change of clothes and freshly shaved face indicated that he’d showered. She caught her fingers in their first full-on act of betrayal. They were itching to touch his hair. Touch him.

  Which was why turning around and leaving when she felt him all but devouring her with his eyes was the wisest course of action.

  She pulled herself up short.

  “Would Señora Vasquez like a glass of wine?”

  Isla stared at Carmela, wondering how on earth she’d appeared on the seaside patio without so much as a whisper of a noise.

  “Isla, please. Por favor. Please call me Isla.” She tried to add a message with her eyes... Could you also rescue me from this sexy man? My husband?

  “Si, señora. Would you like a glass of wine? Or some sangria?”

  Her throat was scratchy and dry. “Sangria would be lovely,” she croaked.

  She glanced back at Diego and saw he was still looking at her through eyes cast down at half-mast. He wasn’t judging—he was assessing. And when his lifted his gaze to meet hers she saw an insatiable hunger in them.

  Why had she worn the dress? She should have worn the pedal-pushers and the one long-sleeved top she’d found in the treasure trove of new clothes.

  He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again they were cool. Completely absent was the heat she was certain she’d seen burning bright in them not milliseconds ago. Ice-cold. As if she were little more than someone he was obliged to greet when they passed one another in the street.

  “I trust you slept well?”

  It was a simple enough question. Yet she found she was standing there like a mute idiot.

  How stark a reminder did she need that Diego was someone who played by a different set of rules? Rules that knew justice wasn’t always found at the bottom of a judge’s gavel.

  She dropped her gaze to his mouth. A mouth that could be cruel at the flip of a coin. And ridiculously sensual if it was crashing down on a woman’s mouth and claiming her as his own. For example...

  Well, she was simply going to have to ignore his mouth. And his hair. And every other damn attractive thing about him.

  “Are you all right, Isla?”

  Diego had the cheek to switch moods again. Act as if he cared. Well, he could just bloody carry on trying. She was immune to him and his chameleon nature.

  She crossed her arms and nodded. Sure. She was A-Okay. Wasn’t every woman who had just gone through one of the most traumatic events of her life and then found herself married and captive in an absolutely perfect hacienda by the sea?

  He crossed to her and led her to a nearby oak bench, piled abundantly with peacock-colored pillows and cushions.

  “Here. Take a seat. Carmela will be back with your drink soon. Would you like some water?”

  He lifted a jug weighted with water, the cool beads of perspiration on the outside of the dark blue glass indicating it was icy cold. She had half a mind to grab it and pour it on top of herself. Or him. But all she could do was nod, silently thanking the heavens that he didn’t know what was going on in her brain.

  One glass of water later she had knocked some proper Scottish common sense back into herself.

  “So...” She sat primly on the edge of the bench, which was all but begging her to lean back into its pile of cushions with a sigh and a smile. “I suppose we have a fair amount of territory to cover...”

  Diego lifted one of his eyebrows, amusement dancing through his eyes. “That’s one way to put it.”

  He glanced into the house, then took a seat on a deep armchair catty-corner to her. His knees nearly touched hers. She shifted in the opposite direction. If they were going to do this, he was going to have to respect her personal space!

  “Right.” She gave her lap a little pat with her hands. “I suppose you could start by telling me who you really are.”

  “Are we talking on an existential level or just bare bones facts?”

  Diego enjoyed watching Isla’s hackles fly up and then swiftly, as she clocked his dry tone, seeing her frown straighten into a ha-ha, very funny smirk. A swell of pride that he’d eased the tension in those two little furrows between her eyebrows needled his resolve to keep this entire conversation as neutral as possible.

  “Facts will do perfectly well, thank you very much.” She gave a curt nod.

  She was adorable when she was being prim. But he wouldn’t belittle her by more teasing. Heaven knew, the woman had been through more than enough over the past twenty-four hours. But by God he was tempted. Her smile was far more rewarding than her frown.

  “Ahora. Shall I start at the beginning? Or are you happy if I give you a quick overview and then you can ask questions from there?”

  “Quick overview,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Don’t you want any time to think about that?”

  She shot him a look.

  There went his vow not to tease her anymore. He quite liked it—seeing the flash of frustration, the quick dawning of recognition, the sharp wit whirling away behind those blue eyes of hers, the smile that brought out a tiny dimple in her left cheek.

  “Right—”

  He stopped as Carmela slid cool drinks onto the tiled table between them and left the semi-enclosed patio area as silently as she’d appeared. He swore the woman must have been a trained ninja in a past life. And a Michelin-starred chef. He made a quick mental note to ask her to cook one or two of his favorites for Isla. He’d love to see her reaction to them.

  He pulled his eyes away from Isla’s lips as they parted to draw in a cool draught of the sangria and forced himself to start speaking again. This wasn’t business. But it most distinctly wasn’t—couldn’t be—pleasure. Not only would he feel as if he was taking advantage of Isla, he’d be breaking a seven-year vow to avenge his brother’s death with the one thing Axl Cruz would loathe: peace.

  “Fifteen years ago the government of El Valderon changed. But the new government has struggled to hold on to power.”

  “What is the biggest problem?”

  “It needs a strong leader who can guide the country away from its colonial past. The rich are still rich and the poor are still for the most part very poor.”

  He watched as Isla’s eyes scanned the beautifully appointed courtyard. This place oozed old money. After his parents’ marriage had fallen to pieces, in the wake of Nico’s death, he’d quietly taken the reins and turned most of his family’s enterprises into more community friendly affairs. Fairtrade. Co-ops.

  But there were a lot of hurdles yet to cross before they were truly egalitarian. And not everyone was happy with his plan to employ known Noche Blanca members.

  Memories ran long and deep on El Valderon. It would take generations before the Vasquez name wasn’t accompanied by a sneer. Over the past few hundred years they had done much more harm than good.

  Isla was looking at him. Silently. Expectantly.

  “I don’t think I need to say which side of the coin my family were on.”

  “The gold-plated one?” Isla asked with a glint in her eye.

  He nodded.

  “Well, lucky me.” She didn’t sound as though she felt lucky. “Landing the island’s most eligible bachelor.”

  He barked out a laugh. It was obvious she was trying to be narky. Funnily enough, it felt refreshing to have someone not treati
ng him like royalty.

  “Suffice it to say that when we go out tomorrow you will be on the receiving end of—”

  “Wait a minute,” Isla cut in sharply. “What do you mean, when we go out tomorrow? I thought I’d be holed up like Rapunzel or Briar Rose for the next thirty days.”

  All signs of humor dropped from his face as he leant forward, elbows on knees, and looked her straight in the eye. “I know what happened last night might seem a million miles away—”

  “On the contrary,” she bridled. “It’s all still feeling very real! This time last night I was destined for spinsterhood and a life of giving unwelcome lectures on the merits of a low-fat diet for the rest of my life, all the while wondering if my father was dead or alive.”

  There was a lot of information there. Spinsterhood? Fear for her father? Had she suspected he was somewhere dangerous? What had prompted her to come if she knew it was dangerous?

  You would’ve faced a firing squad if it would have saved Nico.

  He wasn’t going to touch on her love-life. Too personal. That, and he didn’t really like the idea of Isla with another man. He went for as neutral a comment as he could.

  “He’s a bit of an eco-warrior, your father.”

  Her eyebrows shot up as high as they would go. “That’s putting it mildly. He’s like a one-man army. If my mother hadn’t—” She clapped her hand over her mouth, shook her head, then reached for her glass and took another long drink.

  Had her eyes filled up? Whatever had happened with her mother, she didn’t want to talk about it. Fair enough. Mothers was a complicated topic for him too.

  His mother managed to appear here at the hacienda once a year at best. Usually with the pretense of giving him a surprise birthday party, though the dates never actually coincided. He knew as well as she did that grown men didn’t really need their mothers to throw them birthday parties. And she never refused the transfer he always put into whatever international bank account she accidentally-on-purpose mentioned “in passing.”

  “Are you in touch with her? Your mother?” he asked Isla.