Spaniard's Baby of Revenge

by Clare Connelly

  And then, slowly, she looked at Antonio and bit down on her lip. Because, whatever doubts she’d had about this marriage, whatever had come before, in that moment—she had none. No doubts, no reservations, no regrets. She reached for his hand and squeezed it, her smile brighter than a thousand suns.

  ‘Can you believe it?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Not even for a moment.’ He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and then leaned down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, so close to the corner of her lips that a small nudge of her face in that direction would have connected lips to lips. But she stayed still, her eyes blinking closed as she breathed him in.

  ‘Shall we go for lunch, Mrs Herrera?’

  Right on cue, her stomach gave a low grumble and she nodded slowly. ‘That sounds like a fine idea.’

  * * *

  Just a little way from the Parque del Retiro, down a small side street with brightly coloured buildings on either side, lined with large trees and small colourful shrubs, was a restaurant so exclusive there was no visible name. Just a black door—easily missed unless you knew where you were going—showed the entrance.

  Antonio pressed a hand in the small of Amelia’s back, the touch purely civil—it was a gesture that wouldn’t have been out of place between colleagues, yet it was like a match being sparked low in her abdomen, and tiny flames burned in every single nerve ending. He pressed a button and a minute later a waiter appeared, wearing jeans and a white shirt, with a butcher’s apron tied around his waist. He addressed them in rapid-fire Spanish, so Antonio responded in English.

  ‘For two, on the terrace.’

  ‘Immediately,’ the waiter said, switching effortlessly to Amelia’s native language.

  The small door opened into a huge room, so light and airy it was like being in the countryside. Windows that should have looked out onto the street had been screened with green, creating the illusion of being in a garden paradise, and the ceilings were at least three storeys high.

  There was a lift at the back and the waiter pressed a button, waiting beside them for it to arrive. Once the doors had opened, he held the doors then reached inside to press a button, before nodding and spinning on his heel.

  The lift ascended swiftly—it took only seconds—and then they were on a terrace that exceeded all of Amelia’s expectations. It overlooked the park, showing verdant rolling hills in one direction, and large trees grew in huge pots, jasmine scrambled over a pergola and the tables were placed haphazardly—scattered at random, so that no one table was near another.

  It was perfect—private, intimate and clearly exclusive without being off-putting.

  ‘Ah, Mr Herrera.’ Another waiter appeared, this one a little older, with his dark hair thinning at the temples, his eyes holding Antonio’s before transferring to Amelia. ‘Lovely of you to join us again.’

  Amelia ignored the instant surge of jealousy at that—because of course Antonio had frequented this restaurant before, and presumably not alone. It was the perfect place to bring a date—hadn’t she just been thinking so? She straightened her spine, telling herself she didn’t—couldn’t, shouldn’t—care.

  ‘This way, please.’ The waiter smiled at Amelia and then guided them to a table right at the edge of the terrace. Here, the fragrance of jasmine was exquisite and a nearby citrus tree in a pot was in blossom, so there was a faint humming of feeding bees, their pollen collectors glistening yellow in the afternoon light. The sun was high in the sky yet it wasn’t unbearably warm. Amelia took the seat Antonio had held out for her, letting her gaze chase the details of the view.

  For the first time, she felt a kernel of excitement for this—her new city. There was so much to explore, so much to learn!

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said after a moment, her breath fast.

  He looked towards the park, and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. She transferred her attention from the park to Antonio, marvelling at how easy it was to forget just how intensely attractive he was.

  ‘Yes.’ He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. ‘When I was a boy,’ he said, turning to look at her and smiling an easy, companionable smile, ‘my father used to take me there, almost every weekend.’

  ‘Really? What for?’

  ‘Football,’ he said with a shrug so his shirt drew across his shoulders and she bit down on her lip to remind herself not to stare. ‘And puppets.’

  ‘Puppets?’

  A waiter appeared with some sparkling water, placing it on the table before them.

  ‘Puppets,’ Antonio agreed, once they were alone again. ‘There are puppet shows on, all the time, and I used to love them.’

  Her heart turned over in her chest at this unexpected detail from his childhood—so mundane, so regular, and completely perfect.

  ‘You’re surprised?’ he prompted, despite the fact she’d said nothing—and she knew it was because he could read her more easily with each day that passed.

  ‘I’m...yes,’ she said on a curt nod. ‘I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you don’t strike me as a man who was ever really a boy,’ she said, and then wrinkled her nose on a small laugh, which he echoed.

  ‘You think I was born like this?’

  ‘No.’ She rolled her eyes, her smile not fading. ‘I guess you must have physically been a boy at some point. But one that played and had fun?’

  He wiggled his brows. ‘I assure you, I was both those things.’

  ‘You weren’t determined to take over the world, even at six?’

  ‘Perhaps a little,’ he said, lifting his hand, his forefinger and thumb pressed close together.

  The waiter returned, brandishing menus, and Antonio took them without looking in the waiter’s direction.

  ‘Thank you,’ Amelia murmured, flying the flag of civility for both of them.

  ‘And you?’ Antonio pushed, after the waiter had left. ‘Was your childhood full of fun?’

  Amelia bristled. ‘I’m sure you know the answer to that.’ She reached for her water, sipping it, turning back to the view. Inexplicably, her heart was racing.

  ‘I have an impression,’ he agreed with an air of relaxation. ‘But you have not told me specifics.’

  ‘With good reason.’ She tilted a small smile at him. ‘I don’t like to speak about it.’

  Speculation glowed in the depths of his eyes, eyes that were—at times—dark black, and now showed specks of amber and caramel. ‘Then make an exception on this occasion. For me.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HE WATCHED AS she considered those words, wondering at the sense of reserve she wore like a cloak. It hadn’t been there on the night in her cottage, when she’d brandished a meat cleaver and made him laugh, despite the seriousness of his business with the diSalvo family. Was it him that unsettled her?

  The nature of their marriage?

  Inwardly he cringed—how could it be anything else? Blackmailing someone into marriage was hardly a way to encourage closeness. Yet here they sat, husband and wife—as much an enigma to one another as the day they’d first met.

  ‘I think,’ she said, and he didn’t realise until then that he’d been holding his breath, waiting for her to speak and half believing she wouldn’t, ‘some people would characterise it as fun.’ She wrinkled her nose and his gut twisted, hard. He made an effort not to move, to appear natural, but it was as though he was hyper aware of every movement he made, every movement she made.

  ‘But not you?’ he asked, the words low and husky.

  ‘No.’ Her eyes met his and there was that thread of defiance, a whip of strength, that made his body arc up in immediate response. ‘Not me.’ She smiled, a tight smile, as she reached for her water glass, sipping from it slowly, her eyes landing on the view beyond them. ‘I think the novelty of freedom is exactly that—a novelty. As a child I was always afraid.�
�� She cleared her throat, and said no more.

  So he prompted, ‘Afraid of what?’

  ‘What my mother would do.’

  As though screws were being turned in every joint, his body tightened. ‘She hurt you?’

  ‘Oh, God, no.’ She spun back toward him, her eyes enormous, and he could see so much of the famed supermodel in his wife’s face that he wondered if they were alike in ways other than the physical. ‘My mother was the kindest person you could ever meet. Too kind.’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’

  Amelia’s frown was instantaneous but it was as though a storm cloud was moving in front of the sun. ‘Modelling is a hard business. You can never be the prettiest, the skinniest, the best. She spent her life trying.’ Amelia shook her head. ‘She was a “good-time girl”—that was her reputation anyway, and it came to define her. She could never grow out of it, never shake it free. As I’ve got older, I’ve come to realise that she was living in fear, that she was afraid people wouldn’t like her any more if she wasn’t always the life and soul of the party.’

  ‘I’m sorry if she lived with that fear.’

  ‘I am too.’ Amelia swallowed. ‘But I spent a long time being angry with her.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, though he had his own reasons for feeling anger towards her too.

  ‘She shouldn’t have kept me,’ she said with a wry twist of her lips. ‘I used to wish she’d put me up for adoption, you know.’

  Sadness for the young Amelia flooded him—a surprising reaction, and not entirely welcome. ‘Why were you afraid of her, then?’ He reframed their conversation to her original statement.

  ‘Because she was erratic, and almost always drunk or high. She’d invite random people back to whatever hotel we were living in at the time. I can’t even tell you how often I woke up and found she’d left the hotplate on or taps running.’

  Oh, Cristo.

  Tears sparkled on Amelia’s lashes, making her eyes shine like the ocean on a sun-filled day but, instead of letting them roll down her cheeks, she ground her teeth together, her expression almost mutinous. ‘New boyfriends every few weeks—some of them creepy or not very nice, some of them fun but bad for her. I resented them all.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I hated them all. I hated them for taking her away from me. She was never a great mum, but at least when she was single, she’d try. Not very hard.’ She frowned. ‘Or maybe she did try hard and she just wasn’t wired that way.’

  And—he couldn’t help himself—he reached out, pressing his hand over hers and squeezing it. ‘And yet you turned out okay,’ he said, the praise too faint, too light, but he wasn’t sure what else he could offer.

  She wrinkled her nose again and shrugged. ‘I had examples of everything I didn’t want to become. It was odd, growing up that way. Lots of people might think fame is aspirational, but oh, how I hated it.’ She shook her head. ‘Photographers going through our trash, Mum being in those gossipy magazines every time she got dumped or stumbled out of a nightclub. When I was old enough, I did my best to protect her from it, but there was only so much I could do.’

  ‘You must have still been a child, even then.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You were only twelve when she died...’

  ‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘But I think having a mother like mine forces you to grow up a lot sooner.’

  With a visible effort to clear her thoughts, she stretched an uneven smile across her beautiful face. ‘So that’s my story. What of yours?’

  He didn’t want to stop talking about her—having opened Pandora’s Box, he wanted all the secrets, all the mysteries. ‘Far less interesting,’ he promised.

  ‘I doubt that.’

  The waiter appeared and they ordered—a simple lunch, vegetarian for Amelia and seafood for Antonio—and then they were alone once more.

  ‘Your mother died when you were young?’ she prompted.

  Antonio expelled a breath, wondering if it was impolite to discuss such a thing with a pregnant woman. ‘In childbirth,’ he said at length—there was no way to sugar-coat it. ‘But from very rare complications.’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t realised,’ she said, looking away from him. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘As I said, it was extremely rare.’

  ‘I’m not worried about myself,’ she rushed to assure him, angling her face to his, and now she turned her hand upside down, capturing his and lacing their fingers together, templing them on the table.

  She looked at their interwoven fingers as she spoke—it was an intoxicating contradiction—his fingers so tanned and long, hers fair and small, with the wedding ring he’d given her sparkling back at him. ‘But how awful, that she never got a chance to know you. To be a mother. And she must have been so excited.’

  That had him arching a brow. ‘Are you excited?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  He laughed then. ‘No. I’m curious.’

  ‘Of course I’m excited!’ Her free hand curved over her stomach and his eyes followed the betraying gesture with curiosity. ‘Aren’t you?’

  It was an excellent question. At no point had he stopped to analyse his feelings. He had discovered her pregnancy and known only that he had to make her his, and that the baby would be raised a Herrera, right here in Spain.

  ‘I’m...’

  ‘Yes?’ She blinked at him, a smile tickling the corners of her lips, as though she were trying to suppress it—and failing.

  ‘I’m curious.’

  She burst out laughing. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Well, is it going to be like you, or like me?’ he said, uncharacteristically sheepish. ‘A boy, a girl, tall, short, with blue eyes that shine like the Aegean? Or dark like mine?’

  She sighed. ‘And isn’t that...exciting? I mean, we have no idea about any of this, and yet this is our baby! No matter what, they’ll be part me, part you. I can’t wait to meet them.’

  Her excitement was contagious and he found himself nodding, trying to fathom what their baby would be like. Their food arrived and she pulled her hand from his—he regretted the separation, and wondered at that. But for weeks he’d kept his distance and then, after last night and the magic of seeing their baby’s heartbeat on the screen, suddenly, he didn’t want to keep his distance any longer.

  ‘And you were close to your dad, obviously,’ she murmured, bringing the conversation back to something calmer and more grounded in the present. ‘I mean, the park, the puppets, football...’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘We were close. I idolised him.’

  Her eyes were speculative, loaded with questions she didn’t voice. She was tentative in a way he couldn’t stand. They’d been sharing so much of themselves a moment ago, he didn’t want her to withdraw from him again. ‘You look like you wanted to ask me something,’ he said softly, and her eyes widened with surprise.

  She nodded gently. ‘Is he...?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, unprepared for the rush of emotion that filled him. ‘He’s dead.’ He frowned. ‘Saying that is strange. I haven’t...talked about him in the past tense yet.’ A frown stretched across his handsome face. ‘My father was an incredibly dynamic man—larger than life. I still find myself forgetting that he is gone sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She speared a small tomato and lifted it to her lips. ‘You must miss him a lot.’

  ‘Yes.’ He reclined in his chair, taking in the view, his expression unknowingly sombre. ‘When your brother set out to destroy Herrera Incorporated, it was very hard on my father. He’d spent his life building the company up, making it bigger and better than it had been under his father, and to have that in jeopardy—’ He turned back to face her and for a moment he recalled she was a diSalvo, and he remembered all the reasons he had for keeping her at a distance.

  But then she sighed, a soft, small noise,
and she was so sympathetic that he couldn’t throw her in the same box as her brother and father. She was different—lacking the killer instincts that had brought his father to his knees.

  ‘I imagine that must have been very difficult for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he drawled, and at her look of pain he grimaced, making an effort to soften his expression. ‘The markets were weak and confidence was low. His investors deserted him—he was left with barely anything.’

  ‘But you rebuilt it,’ she said.

  His nod was short.

  ‘That must have taken an incredible amount of work.’

  He shrugged laconically. ‘It’s what I’m good at.’

  Her smile was just a shiver across her lips. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I needed him to know that Herrera Incorporated was valuable again. It’s more than a business, hermosa. This is a birthright. A legacy. No one wants to leave something worse than when they inherited. But my father...’ he said, breaking off, not quite sure why he felt so free to confide in Amelia when he generally made a point of holding his private matters close to his chest. But she waited patiently, her enormous eyes promising him discretion, encouraging him to finish his sentence. ‘He was a gentleman,’ he went on, smiling as he surrendered to the memory. ‘He believed in honour and decency. He came from a time when a man’s handshake truly was as good as his word—and a word between decent people meant more than a contract. It was naïve, in hindsight, but it’s how he’d always done business. It was easy for your brother to target him.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The despair almost killed him.’

  She blanched visibly. ‘You couldn’t do anything to stop it?’

  ‘Not at the time. My father didn’t realise what was happening until it was too late. Their plan was ruthless, meticulous and executed with brilliance. Within the space of a fortnight, he’d lost almost everything.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently, her eyes showing the sincerity of her words. ‘I wish...that hadn’t happened.’