Kitabı oku: «The Spaniard's Marriage Bargain»
‘Sandro…about what just—’
‘Firstly, don’t call me Sandro. I don’t like it.’
‘But I thought you liked it before, when we were—’
Isandro laughed harshly. ‘Before you deserted this marriage? Before you walked away from Zac? Well, that was then; this is now.’
Familiar pain lashed Rowan inwardly. ‘But what about… what about what just happened…?’ She hated the uncertainty in her voice, and was scrabbling to find covers to pull around her in protection.
Isandro started to walk away, his tall, lean and powerful body a vision in perfection. Gleaming golden skin stretched over hard muscles. He turned at the door.
‘That’s the second thing. We just slept together, that’s all. It means nothing. And Rowan?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘This time I’ll expect you to be willing when I want you, for however long I want you. Perhaps you’ll be a better mistress than you were a wife.’
Abby Green worked for twelve years in the film industry. The glamour of four a.m. starts, dealing with precious egos, the mucky fields, driving rain…all became too much. After stumbling across a guide to writing romance, she took it as a sign and saw her way out, capitalising on her long-time love for romance books. Now she is very happy to sit in her nice warm house while others are out in the rain and muck! She lives and works in Dublin.
THE SPANIARD’S MARRIAGE BARGAIN
BY
ABBY GREEN
THE SPANIARD’S MARRIAGE BARGAIN
MILLS & BOON
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This is for Dr Larry Bacon, Dr Louise Campbell
and Dr Jim Holden, with much thanks.
This is also especially for The Inspiring Ladies of the
fledgling Women’s Writers Circle in Scariff in County
Clare, and even more especially for Ruth McMahon—
who is soul sister, friend, guru and wise woman.
CHAPTER ONE
ROWAN CARMICHAEL faltered slightly as she stepped into the minimalist lobby of the small boutique hotel. She hadn’t realised it was so exclusive. Even though she was well dressed, well enough to look as if she belonged here, she felt as though everyone must surely be able to see under her skin to the very heart of her, that beat so unsteadily. It had been so long since she’d been in a place like this. Another lifetime, another woman. She should have picked a more down-at-heel hotel. This kind of hushed luxuriousness reminded her of too much and made the skin on the back of her neck prickle.
She was completely oblivious to the several appreciative looks she drew, with her dark red hair and flawless creamy skin, which contrasted with her ever so slightly awkward grace as she moved.
Her expressive full mouth tightened as she looked for a seat, willing herself not to let the rising panic overwhelm her. She couldn’t think of the past now. It was gone, and with it—Her step faltered again as a slicing pain ripped through her, stunning her with its intensity, with its rawness, its newness… even though it was old. And she felt old—a lot older than her twenty-seven years.
She found an empty seat and sank into gratefully. Within moments a waiter had come to take her order for Earl Grey tea. She sat back and crossed her legs, taking a deep breath. She had to get it together. Had to be in control and above all calm.
She would have to discuss with a solicitor in less than ten minutes how she could best contact the husband she’d walked away from two years ago…and her baby. That slicing pain gripped her again, and she was made aware of how tenuous her control was. She needed time to gather herself. Perhaps she’d been silly, scheduling the appointment so soon; she was literally just off the train. This was the first time she’d been out in public again in two years. In the busy, heaving metropolis of London. Somewhere she’d truly never expected to be ever again.
No. She couldn’t think like that. She’d be fine. After all, hadn’t she been through so much worse?
This was the first day of the rest of her life. A new page, a new chapter.
A new beginning. And perhaps… A tiny alien bird of hope fluttered in her chest. Perhaps another chance at happiness? Even though in truth she’d had precious little happiness in her life so far…
Just then her attention was taken by a little boy, who was running and fell headlong at her feet on the marble floor. With instinctive and unquestioning swiftness Rowan was out of her seat and bending to lift the boy gently, her hands under his arms, a reassuring smile on her face.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart. I don’t think you’ve really hurt yourself, have you? You look like a very brave boy.’
He stood unsteadily on chubby legs, his face veering between crying and not crying, a lip wobbling. He was adorable. Dark blond hair, olive skin and huge eyes…they were the colour of violets. Unusual and distinctive.
Too unusual and distinctive.
Shock slammed into Rowan like a punch in the gut. They were, in fact, the exact unique shade of violet that looked back at her in her own mirror every day. With that thought came a surge of something so instinctive, so primal, so inexplicable Rowan felt the world flip over and right itself again at an angle.
She held onto the boy. He’d obviously decided against crying, and looked at her guilelessly, his mouth cracking into a huge grin, showing tiny baby teeth. He rubbed his forehead and babbled something unintelligible, but she didn’t hear him. The shock was so intense that she couldn’t breathe.
This couldn’t be him…couldn’t be.
Had she dreamt of this moment for so long that she was hallucinating?
That was it. And perhaps arriving back like this was too much. Perhaps… But as she looked into his face, those eyes, she knew rationally it couldn’t be possible. Yet her heart told another story, every instinct clamouring loudly.
She started to feel slightly desperate. Was this going to happen every time she saw a boy his age? Surely someone had to see her, had to know? Had to take him away from her—because she didn’t think she would be able to move ever again. Or let him go.
Black-shod feet had appeared behind the boy. A man. There was a blur of movement and she had a sense of his size, his magnetism, even just in that quick moment as he bent down to pick the little boy up. His scent washed over her. It was familiar. Her heart had already stopped beating. Blood froze in her veins. Her hands dropped.
A coolly cultivated deep voice came from far above her head. The man spoke with a slight accent that was barely noticeable ‘…need eyes in the back of your head, they move so fast…’
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, or seeing. He was tall, so tall that even when Rowan stood fully—she didn’t know how—he towered over her own not inconsiderable height. He was so sinfully handsome that her brain seized—exactly the way it had when she had seen him for the first time.
Nearly three years ago.
This couldn’t be happening. This was too, too cruel. Life couldn’t be this harsh. And yet she knew well that it could.
He was still talking. And then abruptly he stopped, and the warm smile faded. Dark blond brows drew together over piercingly light blue eyes. The colour of blue ice. They pierced all the way through to Rowan’s heart and soul, ripping her open, laying her bare to the myriad expressions crossing his face: the shock of recognition, disbelief…and then something much more potent. Disgust, anger…hatred. Rejection.
Rowan felt her mouth move as if to speak. But nothing came out. Everything seemed to hurtle around them in fast forward, but they were cocooned in an invisible bubble. Suspended in time. She looked at the little boy held high in his arms, and that was her downfall. She felt as if her heart would explode. It was all too much. She had one coherent thought before she slid into a dead faint at her husband’s feet: my baby.
Isandro Vicario Salazar stood at the window of the bedroom in the suite that he’d carried Rowan upstairs to just a short time before. He looked at the distinctive telecom tower in the near distance, the bumper-to-bumper traffic in the streets down below, and saw none of it. His eyes were narrowed.
Rowan Carmichael. Rowan Salazar. His wife.
His mouth twisted into an even thinner line. His errant wife. The wife who had walked out on him and abandoned her own baby just hours after the birth because she hadn’t been ready to deal with it. A drumbeat of rage, barely contained, beat under the surface of his skin. In his blood. Stunning him with its force. That day he’d left her to rest after the birth, and returned some hours later—only to find her gone. He’d not laid eyes on her from that moment to this. He still reeled with the shock of seeing her. He reeled with the torrent of emotions that seeing her had evoked within him—emotions he’d suppressed long ago, that day, when she’d revealed her true nature and had shown him how unbelievably duped he had allowed himself to become. But not a hint of his inner emotions showed on his face even now.
A faint sound from the bed made him tense, and slowly he turned around.
Rowan waited a moment before opening her eyes. It was something she’d got used to in the past couple of years. A moment before reality rushed in, a moment to take stock, do a body-check, feel the sensations, feel if there was pain present…feel if she was well. But this time, as the muted sounds of car horns and traffic came from just outside, albeit a long way down, she tensed. The previous moments rushed back. The last thing she cared about right now was physical pain or if she felt well.
Her eyes flew open and there he was. It hadn’t been a mirage. Her husband stood with his back to the window, hands deep in pockets of what she knew would be superbly crafted bespoke Italian cloth. Like his shirt and his jacket. The clothes moulded to his form, hugging every hard contour, emphasising every part of his tall, broad-shouldered and powerful body. Exactly how she remembered…but even more devastating in the flesh.
She knew on some level that it was the cushion of shock that allowed her to be so coolly objective. He was, if anything, even more handsome. Although in fairness handsome was too trite a word, too pretty. He was altogether too male for a word like handsome. And he was right here in front of her, living, breathing…not a figment of her imagination. The exquisite pain of seeing him again when she knew well what he must think of her was mercifully not allowed to penetrate too deeply.
‘So…’ he drawled with a sardonic edge, ‘you were obviously shocked to run into me. Surprising, really, considering this is my hotel.’
Rowan felt the numbness fade, the protective shock starting to shatter. His hotel? Since when had he owned a hotel in London? Even though he’d had to do a lot of business here, he’d never hidden his antipathy for the place. And how had she unwittingly chosen this hotel…out of a million others?
She’d quite literally come back and walked directly into the lion’s den—like an industrious ant following the scent of a familiar pheromone.
How had she got up here to this room?
And then she remembered. It was too joyful and painful to bear, slicing through the shock and opening a raw wound. Her baby, her son…she’d seen him, held him. It had been him. She hadn’t conjured him up. That knowledge was still too much for her to cope with fully; she knew that. Her brain would be close to going into meltdown if she focused on what had just happened too intensely.
‘Did I…did I frighten him?’ Her voice felt scratchy.
The cold flash of sheer disgust that crossed her husband’s face was like a slap. If she’d had any doubts about his reaction they were laughably quashed now.
‘No. If you had I wouldn’t be here right now.’
The protective tone in his voice was unmistakable. Rowan pushed herself up to sit on the side of the bed. Her head still felt light, as if stuffed with cotton wool. Warily she looked up at Isandro. It almost physically hurt to see him like this after all this time. She’d dreamed of this moment for so long…but of course she had to concede that never in her imaginings had she fooled herself into believing that Isandro would be pleased to see her. That had been confined to her fantasies.
‘Did you call him Zacarías?’ she asked with a husky catch. Her eye was drawn to a muscle clenching in his jaw. But his curt, tight voice brought her eyes back to his.
‘Zac. Yes.’
‘After your grandfather…’
A look of disdain flashed across his face. ‘Please let’s not pretend that you actually care.’
Rowan winced, her face paling. She’d known exactly what she might expect when she confronted Isandro, but she just hadn’t expected it so soon. She’d wanted to be in control, to have the chance to explain, be ready… Who was she kidding? In that moment she felt like she’d never be ready to explain.
‘Your lover was sent on his way.’
Rowan had been in the act of standing, and promptly sat back down again. Isandro watched her coolly, but he felt anything but cool inside. It was taking all his self-control not to walk over, haul her up and demand…what? He shook inwardly with the force of the emotions running through him. The strongest of which felt suspiciously and awfully like jealousy. But he told himself it was only his pride that he cared about, that this vortex threatening to consume him couldn’t possibly be linked into feelings. He’d learnt that lesson two years ago.
‘My what?’ She looked at Isandro incredulously. Now she really felt removed from reality.
‘Your lover,’ he spat out. ‘The man you had come to meet. No doubt you have a room booked here somewhere? Is this how you’ve spent the last couple of years? In a debauched world tour of hotel rooms with insignificant men? Is this what you meant when you said you weren’t ready to deal with marriage and motherhood?’
Insignificant men?
Rowan’s head throbbed, and she put a hand to her temple, struggling to make sense of what he said. And then it hit her as a benign, friendly face swam into her mind’s eye. She looked up at him again, her eyes wide. ‘You must be talking about David Fairclough. He’s my solicitor. I was due to meet him downstairs, just when…just when…’
Isandro snorted contemptuously. ‘A likely story. You really wanted to rub my nose in it, didn’t you?’
Rowan barely heard what he was saying. She finally found the strength to stand, her hands balled into fists at her sides. ‘It is true. I was meeting him…’ She faltered. She really hadn’t planned on it happening this way, but there was nothing she could do now. She hitched up her chin. ‘I was meeting him to discuss how best to contact you and talk about seeing my son.’
Isandro crossed his arms across his chest, making him look even more powerful, formidable. He blocked the light coming in from the window behind him and it made a shiver run down Rowan’s spine.
‘I can tell you right now that that is not going to happen.’ His whole stance screamed rejection of her claim.
Panic coursed through Rowan. She stepped forward jerkily. ‘But I have a right to see my child, no matter what’s happened. You can’t stop me.’ To her utter chagrin her throat tightened with tears. She fought to control herself. She couldn’t fall apart—not here, like this. She needed to be strong.
‘I can and I will.’ Isandro was icy and controlled. She shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but he cut in ruthlessly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d forgotten till today that it was a boy you had, you left so fast.’
Rowan’s mouth closed, and the pain that lanced through her was raw and overwhelming. Her voice sounded thready to her ears. ‘I… Of course I knew he was a boy. I’ve thought of nothing else but him every day since—’
Isandro took two quick strides and gripped Rowan’s arm painfully. ‘Enough!’
She took a sharp breath to disguise the pain. This was far worse than she had anticipated. She couldn’t afford to forget that this man wielded a power that was on a par with the world’s most prominent politicians. Would telling him what had really happened make him see…make him understand? She’d hoped it would, with the cushion of distance between them. The lingering rawness made her feel as though a layer of skin had been stripped from her body. The truth would lay her bare completely, but right now, having met her son when she’d truly believed she’d never see him again, shock was making her reckless.
‘Isandro. Please, I can tell you what happened. Maybe then you’ll understand—’
He cut her off harshly. ‘Understand? Understand?’
His face was so close that she could see the fine lines spreading from the corners of his eyes, could see his skin, golden and taut over those high cheekbones. She held herself rigid, would not give in to her body’s demand to allow herself to really acknowledge what his proximity was doing to her. How could she when he was looking at her with such unbridled hatred, making her feel confused and inarticulate?
Scorn dripped from every syllable of his every word. ‘I know what happened. You left a note…remember? There is not one thing, not one word, not one lame story you could dream up to excuse what you did that day. You took away an innocent baby’s most important source of nourishment and love. Security. There is no one and nothing on the planet that could absolve you of that crime. You gave up your right to be a mother to him when you walked away, just hours after he was born.’
And you gave up the right to be my wife…
The words, unspoken, hung heavy in the air.
Rowan’s inarticulate explanation died on her lips. His stark, cruel words resounded in her head. For a short, blissfully deceptive moment she felt no reaction to them, was numbed, and then like poison-tipped arrows they joined with the ever-present debilitating guilt and sank deep, deep into her heart, robbing her of words, of any explanation she might give.
He was right. She couldn’t say a word. Not right now anyway. How could she expect him to understand that which she had barely come to terms with herself? That which she’d only just very painfully started to forgive herself for? She had walked away from her own newborn baby. Had she really thought that telling him her reasons might absolve her? She didn’t deserve that.
Her control was close to breaking, but she knew she couldn’t afford to crumble now. She had to face the consequences of her actions, not seek absolution. She dredged up some much needed strength and pulled away from his iron grip jerkily.
Isandro watched her dispassionately. She backed away farther, her hand going to rub her arm where he had gripped it. His anger was cooling to a contained icy rage. She turned away for a moment, offering him her back, and his eyes flicked down. In her smart suit and high-necked blouse he could see for the first time that she was slimmer than she had been. The short jacket and straight skirt didn’t hide much. Desire burned low and insistent in his belly, even though everything in him rebelled at his unwanted response. She’d always been slim, but there was an unmistakable fragility to the lines of her body now that hadn’t been there before.
He hated to think it, and quashed it almost immediately, but was there also a vulnerability? Her Titian hair had been long before, down her back, but now it was much shorter, exposing the line of her elegant neck. She still had that quintessential upper class deportment that couldn’t be faked. She’d been his access into a world notoriously hard to break into for outsiders: the upper echelons of the English banking system, an ancient and tightly guarded group of the super-wealthy elite.
With what had been an extremely uncharacteristic failing to read another person, she had been the first person ever he’d so badly misjudged. Monumentally. Catastrophically.
She turned around to face him again and her eyes were flashing, taking him by surprise. But then his resolve hardened. This was the real woman he had married. But unaccountably, even as he thought that, his eye was involuntarily drawn to the crest of her breasts, pushing against the fine silk of the blouse. He felt his body tighten even more in response to their fullness, felt sensual tension flooding his veins. His reaction was so unwarranted that it momentarily stunned him. And then she spoke, cutting through the haze in his brain. He told himself it had to be shock.
‘Whether you like it or not, I have rights. Any court in the world will recognise that. Whatever I did, I will be allowed to see my son. Eventually.’ Her voice was clipped, her breeding coming through with every well-enunciated syllable, taking Isandro’s mind off the unpalatable reactions in his body.
Rowan watched his reaction warily. He mustn’t know what it was costing her to stand here and speak to him like this. She felt as if she was back in elocution class. But it was the only way she was clinging onto that flimsy control.
Isandro’s face was a stony mask of non-reaction as he took her by surprise, starting to walk away. ‘You will remain in this room for now. If you attempt to leave there is a bodyguard outside this door who will bring you back inside.’ All he knew was that he had to put some distance between them, take stock of what had just happened.
Rowan watched incredulously as his long powerful strides took him towards the door. Belatedly she went after him, stumbling a little. ‘Wait—where are you going? We haven’t finished discussing this.’
He turned at the door and the cold force of his gaze stopped her in her tracks. ‘Oh, yes—we have. For now. Just remember this: you deserted your son and left him with me. I can make this easy or very, very hard. It’s up to you.’
When he opened the door, Rowan saw the great big hulking shape of a bodyguard just outside and heard a small voice chatter excitedly. ‘Papa—Papa!’
The door closed and she felt the bed at the back of her legs behind her. Hearing that small voice was too much. Her legs crumpled and she slid to the ground. For a long time she sat like that, with her legs tucked under her, stunned by everything. It was only after a few minutes that she realised her cheeks were wet with tears, and she held a fist to her chest as if she could soothe the pain in her heart.
Eventually Rowan got up and went into the bathroom, where she splashed some water on her face. Towelling herself dry, she studied her reflection. Her face was white, her eyes huge. She looked and felt like a deer caught in the headlights. She needed to look in control, not half shocked out of her wits and terrified. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed her bag on the bed. Isandro must have picked it up from where it had fallen when she’d fainted. She wished she had some makeup, but she didn’t have a thing—makeup had been the last thing on her mind for a long time.
She went back into the bedroom and tried pinching her cheeks to restore some colour. Standing at the window, looking out on the view that Isandro had seen only a short time before, she held her body tense. She still couldn’t believe how the fates had brought them together. It was laughable. She’d chosen this hotel primarily because it was close to St Pancras, where she’d gotten off the train from Paris, and because her solicitor’s office was uncomfortably close to Isandro’s London offices. It had been under A on the internet, for Alhambra Hotel. But in the end she would have been safer meeting David Fairclough at his office.
She felt a fleeting moment of ironic humour. She’d counted on being able to gather all her information, had banked on the fact that Isandro would most likely be in Spain. They would contact him by letter to let him know of her wishes, her intentions to get to know her son… But instead here they were. The chance to explain in depth her reasons for leaving that day by the luxury of a letter was gone. Faced with Isandro’s virulent anger, she knew he was in no mood to listen—possibly for some time. And now he believed that he’d caught her in the midst of an afternoon tryst. The worst possible start to any kind of meeting.
And then there was her son. Her baby. Zac. He was so beautiful. Rowan put a hand to the curtain, gripping it tight as she felt weakness flood her, her legs turning to jelly.
Meeting Isandro again was something she’d been somewhat prepared for. But how did you prepare to meet the child you thought you’d never see ever again? Every step of that walk away from him was etched into her memory like a searing brand. She’d woken from nightmares reliving that walk almost every night for the past two years. Her bruised and battered heart beat unsteadily against her chest. That indescribable pain and the lingering joy of seeing him all swirled together, making her feel like crying and laughing at the same time.
Rowan heard the door open behind her. Her hand tightened on the curtain before she released it from her grip. She took a deep breath and turned around. Isandro. His face was so harsh and austere that Rowan sucked in a breath. He hated her. She could feel it tangibly as he came and stood in front of her, head back, looking down at her with heavy-lidded disgust. His blue eyes were like shards of ice.
‘I have some business to attend to here in the hotel. You are by all means free to go if you wish.’
Her mind and heart seized in a painful spasm at his volte face. The thought of being so close to her son and being sent away now was wrenching and unbearable.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I came back to London to get in touch with you. Believe what you want, but I had no idea you owned this hotel. I’m not leaving now until you agree for me to see Zac.’
His mouth tightened with unmistakable displeasure. He obviously hadn’t expected that. But there was also something she couldn’t put her finger on. A hint of resignation? Did he realise that he couldn’t just dismiss her?
‘Very well. In that case you will remain in this room tonight, and tomorrow morning we may discuss things.’
Rowan looked at him sceptically. She’d expected more of a fight. Why wasn’t he flinging her out on the steps? He was playing with her, a master tactician.
‘No need to look so suspicious, Rowan. You are, after all, my wife—are you not? Naturally I am overjoyed to see you again.’
With a mocking look on his face he backed away before turning and leaving the room. When an outer door shut too, Rowan knew that she was finally quite alone. Hesitantly she opened the door into the outer part of the suite and looked around. Her suitcase had also been transported upstairs. Breathing a little easier for the first time in hours, Rowan went to a couch and sat down. Half distracted, she felt something underneath her and plucked it out. It was a furry toy animal.
Zac. With a shaking hand she brought it close to her face and breathed deep. The well of emotion was rising to consume her again and she couldn’t keep it back. Clutching the small teddy, Rowan curled up on the couch and gave in to the storm.
Much later that night Isandro found himself at the door of the suite just down the hall from his own private rooms. What was he doing here? He opened the door and stepped in. The light was dim, the curtains still open, and it was only as he walked towards the bedroom that he saw the shape on the sofa.
His heart fell. Why couldn’t she have just disappeared?
He knew damn well why.
She was back to get everything her greedy little hands could carry. No doubt including his son. Look at her. He almost laughed out loud when he saw Zac’s toy clenched in one hand, close to her face. She’d come back from whatever rock she’d been hiding under, like an actress poised in the wings of the stage, ready to make her entrance.
Yet, much to his dismay, faced with her benign sleeping form, Isandro was helpless against a rush of memories. The first time he’d seen her across a packed function room where he’d come to meet Alistair Carmichael. Rowan’s father had been a man in dire straits, about to become publicly bankrupt unless Isandro agreed to a mutually beneficial deal. Carmichael had known that Isandro wanted in, and Isandro had known Carmichael needed saving from public humiliation and ruination. In the middle of it all had been Rowan. Part of the deal.
He’d seen her across that crowded room and, like an old cliché, their eyes had met. He’d felt a little poleaxed by their intense shade of dark violet-blue, their seriousness, when so many women looked at him with another expression entirely.
She’d been unbelievably gauche-looking—too gauche, in fact, and he now knew for a fact that it had all been an act. Then he’d spotted her father by her side and he’d put two and two together. This was the daughter the old man wanted to marry off. Carmichael had baited him with the fact that if she married she’d come into her mother’s sizeable inheritance.
He had let Carmichael believe that he might want a bride who came with a dowry, suspecting that the banker had designs on much of his daughter’s inheritance himself. Isandro had had no need for the dowry, of course. But what he had needed, much more importantly, was another level of acceptance. Social acceptance. Without a bona fide English society wife, his taking control of Carmichael’s chair at the bank would be for ever frowned upon. He’d be as socially ostracised as a beggar on the streets. However, if it was a merger of two great families—one Spanish, with links to the formidable banking industry there, the other English—then that was a different story. Acceptance would be immediate, and would consolidate his control over banking in Europe.
