A Scandalous Midnight in Madrid
Page 16
‘I can’t accept that,’ she exclaimed as she looked at the ring.
‘You can,’ he told her.
‘Okay, I will,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with laughter and love. ‘One palacio, a partnership in a business and now a diamond ring... I could get used to this sort of thing.’
‘You’re going to have to,’ he said. ‘Always and for ever, Sadie,’ he murmured, kissing her palm before slipping the sparkling diamond ring on her ring finger.
As he sprang to his feet, he became aware that a crowd had gathered, and everyone was cheering. ‘Always and for ever,’ Sadie repeated in a whisper as he drew the woman he loved into his arms for a kiss.
EPILOGUE
PEOPLE ACROSS THE world hailed the marriage between Sadie Montgomery and Alejandro, Duque de Alegon as the most romantic wedding of the year. At Sadie’s wish, the celebration was held in Alejandro’s private chapel deep in the Sierra Nevada, rather than in Madrid. His power and magnetism were such that, when the invitations went out, politicians, royals and celebrities alike simply shrugged and packed their bags for an unusual wedding in the mountains between an aristocratic Spanish duke, whom the press had dubbed the Gypsy King, and a girl from a small town, who would have no immediate family at the wedding. But Sadie had invited all the friends she had made since meeting Alejandro, and, of course, Chef Sorollo, the man who had played such an important part in her life and who would continue to do so, took a leading role. Sadie wanted the people she cared about to join her on this happiest of days.
The choir was sublime, the ceremony was magical, and everyone agreed that the bride’s dress, with its overlay of finest Swiss lace, was the most ravishing bridal gown they’d ever seen. With a demure neckline, three-quarter sleeves, and a subtle skirt that fell to the ground in elegant waves of silk, it was designed to be removed easily, so the bride could change for the evening without much trouble. Or so Alejandro would have no trouble removing it, Sadie thought as she smiled a secret smile. A most fabulous tulle veil billowed for twenty feet behind her and was secured with an Alegon family diamond tiara that glittered and flashed at the slightest movement of her head. Alejandro had requested that Sadie wear her hair loose, so it cascaded to her waist in a fiery mane of glossy red waves.
She walked up the aisle on the arm of Chef Sorollo, with Annalisa, Marissa and Maria as her attendants. The bride was so radiant with happiness that everyone applauded. The chapel was full of the most exquisitely scented blooms. After the formal ceremony, a party in the evening would be a feast of flamenco at a real flamenco camp, to honour the noble Duke’s heritage. An air of excitement had gripped all the guests since the moment the invitations went out, for while the wedding itself would be stately and gracious, as befitted a Spanish grandee, the evening party promised to be very different.
When Sadie reached Alejandro’s side in the chapel, he turned to exclaim, ‘You’re so beautiful. You look incredible. And I love you so much...’
Sadie was beyond words as she stared into Alejandro’s eyes. He was off-the-scale handsome in a sharp black uniform that set off his darkly glittering saturnine glamour to perfection. A sash to denote his rank, made of ruby-red silk, ran diagonally across the impressive width of his muscular chest, and was secured on his breast by a fabulous glittering jewel. Sadie had to remind herself that this man was the father of her child, and, improbable though it might seem, he loved her unconditionally.
She was mesmerised by Alejandro, by his compelling presence, and the beauty of his eyes when he dipped his head to confide something in her ear.
‘I’ll have you in half an hour,’ he whispered.
‘Alejandro!’ she whispered back while the choir’s voices rose in a solemn anthem. ‘How am I supposed to concentrate on the ceremony now?’
‘You’re not,’ he said, with a shrug and a smile that quirked his firm, sensuous lips. ‘Just remember to say “I do” at the appropriate moment.’
‘But, half an hour?’ Sadie queried as the congregation settled down.
‘It will take that long for everyone to be seated for the wedding breakfast,’ Alejandro explained with a nonchalant shrug, ‘during which time the bride and groom will be otherwise occupied, though we will join our guests later.’
‘Okay,’ she whispered, silencing him. ‘I don’t need to hear that now.’
Fortunately, they were called upon to pay attention to the service, though Alejandro’s faint smile suggested he hadn’t forgotten his promise, that when everyone else was enjoying a welcoming glass of champagne, the bride and groom would be enjoying each other.
What a striking couple they made, people said as the swarthy Duke, so tall and stern, left the chapel with his tiny, spirited bride to find horses waiting for them outside. Now she noticed that he was wearing tight black breeches beneath his formal jacket. Still laughing at her surprise, he sprang into the saddle and, reaching down, he brought her in front of him. Deftly arranging the yards of tulle and silk, he shortened the reins and they were off. Cheers echoed behind them as Alejandro held her close.
‘We’ve got a head start on our guests,’ he exulted, ‘so that gives us even longer than I imagined, and I intend to make full use of every extra second.’
Within a few short minutes, or so it seemed to Sadie, he reined in beside a familiar caravan. ‘Your bed awaits, Duquesa.’
And so did her lover, Sadie thought, breathless with excitement as Alejandro bounded up the steps.
* * *
The bride and groom were extremely late for their party. The flamenco dancers were already well into their performance, but the moment that Alejandro appeared hand in hand with his bride, a hush fell over the assembled guests.
‘Your Majesties, lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ Alejandro announced, ‘May I introduce my beautiful bride...?’
A collective sigh of surprise and appreciation rose amongst the guests as they took in the sight of the imperious Spanish Duke, backed by a blazing campfire, dressed all in black with a sash around his waist, his swarthy face as proud as any gypsy king, and his young bride, her glorious auburn hair flying free as she danced in his arms wearing a pure white flamenco gown.
‘Dance,’ Alejandro invited their awestruck audience, once he and Sadie had finished the traditional first dance. They retired from the dance floor to a thunder of applause. ‘And may the heart of old Spain guide your footsteps,’ he called out as he led his bride away.
‘As it guided mine,’ Sadie said as she stared at Alejandro.
‘We were always meant to be together,’ he said. ‘It was merely a matter of time before you accepted the inevitable.’
‘And you accepted that you can’t have everything your own way,’ she countered.
‘I can have you any way I want.’
‘You might be right where that’s concerned,’ Sadie agreed, shooting a smile at Alejandro. This was one occasion when she had no intention of entering into a heated discussion with him, as there were far more important things for them to do.
* * *
If you enjoyed A Scandalous Midnight in Madrid by Susan Stephens you’re sure to enjoy the other stories in our Passion in Paradise miniseries!
Wedding Night Reunion in Greece
by Annie West
His Shock Marriage in Greece
by Jane Porter
And why not explore these other Susan Stephens stories?
The Sheikh’s Shock Child
Pregnant by the Desert King
Available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Untamed Billionaire’s Innocent Bride by Caitlin Crews.
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Untamed Billionaire’s Innocent Bride
by Caitlin Crews
CHAPTER ONE
LAUREN ISADORA CLARKE was a Londoner, born and bred.
She did not care for the bucolic British countryside, all that monotonous green with hedges this way and that, making it impossible to get anywhere. She preferred the city, with all its transportation options endlessly available—and if all else failed, the ability to walk briskly from one point to the next. Lauren prized punctuality. And she could do without stiff, uncomfortable footwear with soles outfitted to look like tire tread.
She was not a hiker or a rambler or whatever those alarmingly red-cheeked, jolly hockey-sticks sorts called themselves as they brayed about in fleece and clunky, sensible shoes. She found nothing at all entertaining in huffing up inclines only to slide right back down them, usually covered in the mud that accompanied all the rain that made England’s greenest hills that color in the first place. Miles and miles of tramping about for the dubious pleasure of “taking in air” did not appeal to her and never had.
Lauren liked concrete, bricks, the glorious Tube and abundant takeaways on every corner, thank you. The very notion of the deep, dark woods made her break out in hives.
Yet, here she was, marching along what the local innkeeper had optimistically called a road—it was little better than a footpath, if that—in the middle of the resolutely thick forests of Hungary.
Hive-free thus far, should she wish to count her blessings.
But Lauren was rather more focused on her grievances today.
First and foremost, her shoes were not now and never had been sensible. Lauren did not believe in the cult of sensible shoes. Her life was eminently sensible. She kept her finances in order, paid her bills on time, if not early, and dedicated herself to performing her duties as personal assistant to the very wealthy and powerful president and CEO of Combe Industries at a level of consistent excellence she liked to think made her indispensable.
Her shoes were impractical, fanciful creations that reminded her that she was a woman—which came in handy on the days her boss treated her as rather more of an uppity appliance. One that he liked to have function all on its own, apparently, and without any oversight or aid.
“My mother gave away a child before she married my father,” Matteo Combe, her boss, had told her one fine day several weeks back in his usual grave tone.
Lauren, like everyone else who had been in the vicinity of a tabloid in a checkout line over the past forty years, knew all about her boss’s parents. And she knew more than most, having spent the bulk of her career working for Matteo. Beautiful, beloved Alexandrina San Giacomo, aristocratic and indulged, had defied reason and her snooty Venetian heritage when she’d married rich but decidedly unpolished Eddie Combe, whose ancestors had carved their way out of the mills of Northern England—often with their fists. Their love story had caused scandals, their turbulent marriage had been the subject of endless speculation and their deaths within weeks of each other had caused even more commotion.
But there had never been the faintest whisper of an illegitimate son.
Lauren had not needed to be told that once this came out—and it would, because things like this always came out eventually—it wouldn’t be whispers they’d have to be worried about. It would be the all-out baying of the tabloid wolves.
“I want you to find him,” Matteo had told her, as if he was asking her to fetch him a coffee. “I cannot begin to imagine what his situation is, but I need him media-ready and, if at all possible, compliant.”
“Your long-lost brother. Whom you have never met. Who may, for all you know, loathe you and your mother and all other things San Giacomo on principle alone. This is who you think might decide to comply with your wishes.”
“I have faith in you,” Matteo had replied.
And Lauren had excused that insanity almost in that same instant, because the man had so much on his plate. His parents had died, one after the next. His fluffy-headed younger sister had gone and gotten herself pregnant, a state of affairs that had caused Matteo to take a swing at the father of her baby. A perfectly reasonable reaction, to Lauren’s mind—but unfortunately, Matteo had taken said swing at his father’s funeral.
The punch he’d landed on Prince Ares of Atilia had been endlessly photographed and videoed by the assorted paparazzi and not a few of the guests, and the company’s board of directors had taken it as an opportunity to move against him. Matteo had been forced to subject himself to an anger management specialist who was no ally, and it was entirely possible the board would succeed in removing him should the specialist’s report be unflattering.
Of course, Lauren excused him.
“Do you ever not excuse him?” her flatmate Mary had asked idly without looking up from her mobile while Lauren had dashed about on her way out the morning she’d left London.
“He’s an important and very busy man, Mary.”
“As you are always on hand to remind us.”
The only reason Lauren hadn’t leaped into that fray, she told herself now as she stormed along the dirt path toward God knew where, was because good flatmates were hard to find, and Mary’s obsession with keeping in touch with her thirty thousand best friends in all corners of the globe on all forms of social media at all times meant she spent most of her time locked in her room obsessing over photo filters and silly voices. Which left the flat to Lauren on the odd occasions she was actually there to enjoy it.
Besides, a small voice inside her that she would have listed as a grievance if she allowed herself to acknowledge it, she wasn’t wrong, was she?
But Lauren was here to carry out Matteo’s wishes, not question her allegiance to him.
Today her pair of typically frothy heels—with studs and spikes and a dash of whimsy because she didn’t own a pair of sensible shoes appropriate for mud and woods and never would—were making this unplanned trek through the Hungarian woods even more unpleasant than she’d imagined it would be, and Lauren’s imagination was quite vivid. She glared down at her feet, pulled her red wrap tighter around her, thought a few unkind thoughts about her boss she would never utter out loud and kept to the path.
The correct Dominik James had not been easy to find.
There had been almost no information to go on aside from what few details Matteo’s mother had provided in her will. Lauren had started with the solicitor who had put Alexandrina’s last will and testament together, a canny old man better used to handling the affairs of aristocrats than entertaining the questions of staff. He had peered at her over glasses she wasn’t entirely convinced he needed, straight down his nose as he’d assured her that had there been any more pertinent information, he would have included it.
While Matteo was off tending to his anger management sessions with the future of Combe Industries hanging in the balance, Lauren had launched herself into a research frenzy. The facts were distressingly simple. Alexandrina, heiress to the great San Giacomo fortune, known throughout the world as yet another poor little rich girl, had become pregnant when she was barely fifteen, thanks to a decidedly unsuitable older boy she shouldn’t have met in the first place. The family had discovered her pregnancy when she’d been unable to keep hiding it and had transferred her from the convent school she had been attending to one significantly more draconian.
The baby had been born in the summer when Alexandrina was sixteen, spirited away by the church, and Alexandrina had returned to her society life come fall as if nothing had happened. As far as Lauren could tell, she had never mentioned her first son again until she’d made provisions for him in her will.
To my firstborn son, Dominik James, taken from me when I was little more than a child myself, I leave one third of my fortune and worldly goods.
The name itself was a clue. James, it turned out, was an Anglicized version of Giacomo. Lauren tracked all the Dominik Jameses of a certain age she could find, eventually settling on two possibilities. The first she’d dismissed after she found his notably non–San Giacomo DNA profile on one of those ancestry websites. Which left only the other.
The remaining Dominik James had been raised in a series of Catholic orphanages in Italy before running off to Spain. There he’d spent his adolescence, moving from village to village in a manner Lauren could only describe as itinerant. He had joined the Italian Army in his twenties, then disappeared after his discharge. He’d emerged recently to do a stint at university, but had thereafter receded from public view once more.
It had taken some doing, but Lauren had laboriously tracked him down into this gnarled, remote stretch of Hungarian forest—which Matteo had informed her, after all her work, was the single notation made in the paper version of Alexandrina’s will found among Matteo’s father’s possessions.