Carrying the Spaniard's Child

by Jennie Lucas

  “You are now, because of that ring on your finger.” He gave her a slow, seductive smile. “As for the rest of what you’ll need to learn, I’ll teach as we go. It will get easier.”

  “How?” She was almost near tears. “How is this ever going to work?”

  Reaching out, Santiago ran his hands down her arms, making her shiver with sudden awareness and desire as they stood in the shadowy bedroom.

  “I’ll show you,” he whispered, drawing her to the enormous bed. “Starting with this.”

  And he kissed her.

  * * *

  Golden sunlight poured in through the high windows when Belle woke up the next morning. For a moment, she just stretched languorously in bed. She still felt him all over her body. Remembering last night curled her toes.

  Then her smile faded as she realized she was waking up in New York just as she had in Texas: alone. His side of the bed was empty.

  Last night, he’d made love to her so passionately he’d made all her fears disappear. She’d been lost in the sensuality of his body against hers. She’d felt need so hot and intense it burned everything else away.

  But in the morning, reality felt as cold as his side of the bed.

  Belle looked at the clock. It was ten in the morning. She sat up, eyes wide. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late. Even in the earliest stages of pregnancy, when she’d been exhausted, she’d worked the early shift, forcing herself to get up at five on dark, cold winter mornings. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept till ten. It felt sinful.

  Rising from the bed, still naked as she’d slept, she stretched her arms and toes, and felt the baby kick inside her. She rubbed her belly, murmuring happily, “Good morning, baby.”

  Going to the en suite bathroom, she took a long, warm shower. Her meager belongings from her suitcases had already been unpacked. She wondered if it had been the butler or the maid who’d unpacked her clothes last night, when Santiago was giving her the house tour. She hoped it was the young maid. She felt uncomfortable at the thought of the supercilious butler looking down his nose at her simple clothing, all purchased from discount stores and washed many times.

  “The servants think what I pay them to think,” Santiago had told her grandly yesterday.

  But Belle’s own experience said otherwise. As a waitress, she’d been paid to serve breakfast and refill coffee; her opinion had always been her own. Her tart temper had gotten her in trouble more than once. Belle always believed in being polite, but that was different than letting a bully walk all over you.

  “I have no interest in a silent doormat as a wife,” he’d told her.

  It was obviously true in bed. It was also true that in some ways, he made her feel stronger, braver and like she could really be herself, without pretending. But if Santiago thought Belle could ever be some kind of high society trophy wife, he’d soon realize his mistake. She was just afraid she’d humiliate all of them in the process.

  After brushing out her wet hair, she pulled on a clean T-shirt and pair of shorts. They were getting too tight around her belly. Maybe a new wardrobe wasn’t the worst idea, she thought. Brushing her teeth, she glanced at herself in the mirror. And heaven knew a stylist couldn’t hurt. It would have to be a brave stylist, though, to want to take her on.

  Ignoring the elevator—it seemed so pretentious—she went down the gleaming back stairs. She was just grateful Santiago had given her a house tour, or she’d have gotten totally lost. Approaching the kitchen, she heard a woman laugh.

  “He can’t be serious. We’re really expected to follow her orders? That nobody? It’s humiliating.”

  Sucking in her breath, Belle stopped outside the kitchen door, listening.

  “Humiliating or not, we’ll have to take her orders. At least for now.” The butler’s voice was scornful. “However ridiculous they might be. Who knows what she might want?”

  A different woman said, “A stripper pole?”

  “Silver bowls full of pork rinds,” the other suggested.

  “But Mr. Velazquez has chosen her as his bride,” the butler intoned, “so we must pretend to obey her for as long as the marriage lasts. But do not worry. Once the brat is born, she’ll soon be kicked to the curb. Mr. Velazquez is seeing his lawyer today, hopefully drawing up an ironclad prenup...”

  Belle must have made some noise, because the butler’s voice suddenly cut off. A second later, to her horror, his head peered around the door. Her own cheeks were aflame at being caught eavesdropping.

  But Jones didn’t look ashamed. If anything, his expression was smug, even as he said politely, “Ah, good morning, Miss Langtry. Would you care for some breakfast?”

  Belle had no idea how to react. He knew she’d overheard, but wasn’t remotely sorry. The butler was in charge here, not her, no matter what Santiago had said. Suddenly not the least bit hungry, she blurted out the first thing she thought of—the morning special she’d served at the diner. “Um...scrambled eggs and toast would be lovely... Maybe a little orange juice...”

  “Of course, madam.”

  But as she walked forward with hunched shoulders, he blocked her from the kitchen, and gestured smoothly down the hall. “We will serve you in the dining room, Miss Langtry. There are newspapers and juice and coffee already set out. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  Comfortable was the last thing she felt as she ate alone at the end of a long table that would have seated twenty. Huge vases of fresh flowers made her nose itch, and she didn’t find the Financial Times enough company to block out the memory of the staff’s cruel words.

  “Who knows what she might want?”

  “A stripper’s pole?”

  “Silver bowls full of pork rinds?”

  “She’ll soon be kicked to the curb... Mr. Velazquez is seeing his lawyer today.”

  Santiago hadn’t told her what his plans were today. He hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d just made love to her hot and hard in the night, then disappeared before dawn. Like always.

  Was he really with his lawyer right now, devising some kind of ironclad prenuptial agreement?

  Of course he was, she thought bitterly. He wouldn’t trust her, ever. That was what their marriage would be, in spite of all his fine words about friendship and partnership. It would be a business arrangement, based on a contract, where even the people running her own home despised her.

  This mansion wasn’t home, she thought with despair, looking up at the soaring chandeliers, the high ceilings of the dining room. She didn’t belong here. She rubbed her belly. Neither did her baby.

  She missed her brothers. She missed Letty, who was in Greece with her family. She missed her old friends back in Bluebell. Most of all, she missed having control over her life.

  Why would any woman want to get pregnant by a billionaire, if it meant you’d always feel like an outsider? Would even her own child, raised in this environment, someday despise her?

  Jones served her breakfast on a silver tray, then departed with a sweeping bow. But Belle saw his smirk. She managed to eat a few bites, but it all tasted like ash in her mouth. She was relieved when Kip, the muscular, tattooed bodyguard, appeared in the doorway.

  “Ready to go, Miss Langtry? Ivan has already pulled around the car.”

  Belle had dreaded the thought of the appointment with that famous personal stylist, but at that moment hell itself sounded preferable to remaining in this enormous, empty house, filled with employees who scorned her. She got up from the breakfast table so quickly that Kip’s eyes widened to see a pregnant woman move so fast.

  But later that afternoon, when Belle finally returned to the house, she felt worse, not better. She’d been poked and prodded, manicured and, most of all, criticized. Her awful hair! Her awful clothes! Her ragged cuticles! The famous stylist had cried out in sh
ock and agony, right in front of Belle, and sent her assistants scurrying. They seemed to think Belle was a rock, incapable of thinking or feeling, just the brute clay from which they, the long-suffering artists, would sculpt and construct their art.

  Ten different assistants had worked on her at the stylist’s private salon, which the stylist herself, the famous owner of the establishment, called her atelier.

  Belle had never cared much about her appearance. She’d always had more important things to think about, like raising her little brothers and putting food on the table. So she’d tried to remain patient and silent as they picked out a wardrobe and hairstyle appropriate to her station as a rich man’s wife.

  Seven hours later, as Kip finally carried out her new wardrobe to the waiting car, the famous stylist had showed Belle a mirror. “What do you think?”

  She’d sucked in her breath. Her dark hair was now perfectly straight, gleaming down her shoulders. Her face felt raw from the facials, shellacked with expensive lotions and makeup, including lipstick and mascara. Her pregnant shape was draped in a severely chic black shift dress, black capelet, her hips thrust forward by uncomfortably high heels.

  Startled by the stranger in the mirror, Belle replied timidly, “I don’t recognize myself.”

  To which the famously pretentious personal stylist responded with a laugh, “Then my job is done.”

  Now, Belle trudged into the brownstone mansion feeling ridiculous in the jaunty black capelet.

  Tomorrow she was supposed to meet with the wedding planner. She could only imagine how that would go. Santiago had already mentioned an engagement party he meant to hold in two weeks, “after you’ve gotten a chance to get comfortable.” Comfortable?

  She felt sick with worry.

  Belle saw the maid and the cook as she walked wearily into the house. The two women elbowed each other as they saw her new chic appearance.

  “You look nice, ma’am,” the maid said meekly. Belle wondered if she was mocking her.

  “Thank you,” she said flatly, and went up to the third floor bedroom suite to take a nap. The same maid knocked on the door a few hours later.

  “Mr. Velazquez is home, miss. He’s requesting that you join him downstairs for dinner.”

  Groggily, Belle smoothed down her dress and hair from her nap, then went down to the dining room.

  Santiago’s dark eyes widened when he saw her. Rising from the table, he came forward to kiss her.

  “You look very elegant,” he said, helping her into her chair. Sitting beside her, he smiled. “Who is queen of society now?”

  He didn’t seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm or her absence of appetite for dinner. But there was one thing he noticed fast enough. When he took her upstairs to bed and kissed her, she didn’t respond. He frowned. “What is it?”

  “It’s this makeup,” she improvised. “It feels like a Halloween mask over my face.”

  He stared at her, then gave her a slow-rising grin. “I can solve that.”

  He pulled her into the shower, turned on the water, and scrubbed the day off her until she felt almost like herself again. It was only then, when her skin was pink and warm with steam, as she stood in front of him with her baby bump and pregnancy-swollen breasts, that she felt like she could breathe again, and started returning his kisses.

  “That’s better,” he whispered appreciatively and kissed her in the shower until her knees were weak. Turning off the water, he gently toweled her off and pulled her onto the bed, their bodies still hot and wet. Lying down, he lifted her over him and put his hand gently on her cheek.

  “You’re in charge,” he whispered, and she was. It was ecstasy. It was glory. Their souls seemed to spark together into fire, as well as their bodies. When they were together in bed, she could forget all her fears. She felt nothing but pleasure. She was his. He was hers.

  But when Belle woke up in the morning, she was alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TWO WEEKS LATER, Santiago came home from his forty-floor skyscraper in Midtown with a scowl on his face.

  His company, Velazquez International, had spent two weeks in negotiations, trying and failing to nail down the acquisition of a Canadian hotel chain. He’d offered them an excellent price, but they continued to hold out—not for more money, but for his promise that he’d keep all their employees and stores intact. Santiago scowled, narrowing his eyes. What fool would promise such a thing? But now, because of their stubbornness, he was going to be late for his own engagement party. And no deal had been struck.

  That was what was making him tense, he told himself. The business deal. Running late.

  It had nothing to do with the thought of giving Belle the prenuptial agreement tucked into his briefcase.

  Rushing up the stone steps of his brownstone, he ground his teeth. The wedding was planned for early September, just a month away, just a few weeks before her due date. Of course the agreement had to be signed. He was a billionaire. Belle had nothing. Without a prenuptial agreement, he’d be risking half his fortune from the moment he said “I do.”

  But his scowl deepened as he entered his Upper East Side mansion, lavish with flowers and additional hired serving staff, awaiting the first guest for their engagement party, when he would introduce his future bride to New York society. He took the elevator to the third floor, then stopped when he saw Belle.

  She was looking into a full-length mirror as she put on diamond earrings, wearing a sleek black dress, her dark hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Her face was perfectly made up, and the diamond earrings he’d given her yesterday sparkled as brightly as the ten-carat engagement ring on her finger. But as she turned to him, he saw that beneath the dramatic black sweep of her lashes and red ruby lips, her creamy caramel skin was pale.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  She gave him a trembling smile. “I was starting to worry you might make me host this party alone.”

  “Of course not.” Dropping his briefcase, he kissed her, stroking her soft cheek. He searched her gaze. “You look beautiful.”

  “I’m glad. So maybe the pain is worth it.”

  “Pain?” he said, surprised.

  She held out her foot, shod in a sexy black stiletto heel. “And you should see my underwear,” she said wryly.

  “I’d like to.”

  She returned his grin, then sighed. “At least the baby is comfortable. All the clothes are loose around my waist.” She glanced down at the briefcase. “So when are you going to spring it on me?”

  His hand stilled. “What?”

  “The prenuptial agreement.”

  He blinked. How had she known?

  Of course she knew, he chided himself. Belle was intuitive and smart. “You know it’s necessary.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  She didn’t argue. Didn’t complain. She just looked at him, her dark eyes like big pools in her wan, pale face. And he felt like a cad. That irritated him even more. Turning away, he changed his clothes, pulling on his tuxedo.

  “Santiago, am I a trophy wife?” she asked suddenly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I met some other brides while waiting for my appointment with the wedding planner yesterday. They told me all about the life of a trophy wife. They made it sound like being an indentured servant.” She looked at the closet. “I already have the uniform. Shift dresses in black and beige.”

  He felt irritated as he sat down on the bed to put on his Italian leather shoes. “I didn’t tell you to only wear black and beige.”

  “No, but the stylist did. And she insisted I must always wear stilettos, to be taller. They’re like torture devices...” She peered down at her feet, then looked up with a sigh. “I’ll sorry. I’m doing my best. I’m just afraid I’ll fail you,” she said in a sma
ll voice. “That I can’t be what you need, or ever fit into your world—”

  “Fit in?” He looked up from tying his shoes. “I wasn’t born in this world either, Belle. Growing up in Madrid, I had nothing. And I’ve learned the hard way there’s only one way to fit into a world that doesn’t want you. By force. You have to make it impossible for them to ignore you.”

  She stared at him for a moment, and he wished he hadn’t brought up his own childhood. He was relieved when she shook her head. “Force? I can’t even force our wedding planner to consider any of my ideas. Our wedding is going to be awful.”

  “Awful?”

  Belle rolled her eyes. “She called it ‘postmodern’. I’m to hold a cactus instead of a bouquet, and instead of a white wedding cake, we’ll be serving our guests gold-dusted foam.”

  “Really.”

  “When I told her I didn’t want to hold a cactus in my bare hands and just wanted a wildflower bouquet and a regular wedding cake, the woman laughed and patted me on the head. She patted me on the head,” she repeated for emphasis.

  Santiago gave a low laugh. “Querida, her weddings might be unconventional, but she is the best, and I told her I want you to have the most spectacular wedding of the season...”

  “Spectacular means wasting millions of dollars on stupid stuff we don’t want, to impress people we don’t even like?”

  “You said you want to fit in. A big wedding is a show of power.”

  “She won’t even let me invite my brothers. She said it was because she didn’t think a plumber and a fireman would be comfortable at such a formal event, but I think she was just afraid they wouldn’t fit in with her décor!”

  Not letting Belle invite her little brothers? He was willing to accept cactus and gold foam, but excluding beloved family members was unacceptable. Santiago frowned as he finished putting on his tie. “I’ll talk to her.” Rising to his feet, he held out his arm. “Shall we go downstairs?”

  He felt her hands shake a little as they wrapped around the arm of his jacket, heard the sudden catch of her breath. “So many guests are coming tonight...”