‘Rowan?’
Isandro was looking at her, and it wasn’t his usual impatient look. It was something different. Assessing. Speculative.
‘I couldn’t leave. I’ll just sit out here and wait, if that’s okay?’
Isandro willed down the concern rippling through him. She was in shock. Of that there was no doubt. But it was a shock so deep and raw that he’d never seen anything like it.
‘Will you be okay if I leave you for a second?’
Rowan nodded, and watched as he put her hands back in her lap and walked away. She felt like calling out after him. But just as swiftly he returned and put a steaming hot cup of tea into her hands, encouraging her to drink. The tea burnt its way down her throat into her stomach and warmed her.
As he watched the colour slowly come back into her cheeks, Isandro remembered coming out onto his balcony and seeing her with her head tipped back, eyes closed … there had been something intangibly vulnerable about the lines of her body. Then he remembered the way he’d felt when he’d come to stand in front of her. All that had been on his mind was that he’d wanted to kiss her. How could he think of that at a time like this?
‘How did you know what was wrong with him?’
Rowan looked at Isandro warily. ‘I read about febrile convulsions in one of my baby books while I was pregnant.’
His eyes speared her, intensely blue against the white background. ‘You read about it in a book?’
She nodded. ‘They’re not uncommon in children his age.’
Isandro stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘And yet not I nor María knew what to do—and I am his father and she is his nanny. Dammit, that woman was meant to be the best of the best—trained to deal with anything.’
Rowan rushed automatically to María’s defence. ‘It’s all very well to know something in theory, but when you’re faced with a child in a convulsion, turning blue … She knew what it was, Isandro, she just got a shock.’
‘And yet with no training you knew exactly what to do.’
Silence hung heavy and awkward. What could she say? Sorry? She looked down at the ground and saw Isandro’s feet come into her line of vision. She suddenly felt tired.
‘I never said thank you.’
She looked up and shook her head, hiding her shock at his apology. ‘You don’t have to. I’m just glad I could help.’
And I couldn’t. The words reverberated in Isandro’s head. He’d never felt so impotent in all his life, never so much at a loss. He’d had to let someone else take control, and it had almost killed him.
Rowan could feel him looking at her. What was he thinking?
He stretched out a hand. ‘Come on.’
She looked up. His face was inscrutable. She stood up and let him take her by the elbow. He steered her into Zac’s room, where he lay sleeping, and made her sit down in the comfy chair in the corner. He took the upright chair beside Zac. She started to protest but he shushed her.
And in the half-light of the hospital room, with her son’s chest rising and falling easily, Rowan let herself relax … She fought it for a long time, her eyes going from father to son, but finally she slept …
Back at the house the next day, María appeared, still looking shaken and shamefaced as she greeted them and took Zac for his morning nap.
Isandro looked at Rowan. ‘You should get some rest. You can’t have slept well on that chair.’
And what about you? she wanted to ask. But he’d already gone to follow María and check on Zac.
He didn’t go into the office those first couple of days after the weekend, clearly still shaken by the experience. Rowan was aware of a subtle softening in his treatment of her, but knew it was far too dangerous to allow any feeling of complacency to creep in.
It was the evening of the first day that Isandro had returned to work. He’d just taken a shower and now strode towards the dining room doors for dinner, knowing that Rowan would be sitting beyond them. Inarticulate rage twinned with something much more disturbing beat in his chest. All day he’d felt a black mood engulfing him, distracting him from his work.
In the last couple of days he’d been feeling so many things, and that fear … the awful bone-numbing terror he’d felt when he’d seen Zac so defenceless … was still potent. And Rowan—the woman who had deserted them—was the one who’d been there, fulfilling her role as mother for all the world as if she’d never left, making Isandro feel blurred and ambiguous.
He came close to the door. She was dangerous. He had to remember that, despite her heroics. She had the power to do so much more harm this time. To Zac. To him. Isandro’s eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned. She didn’t have any power over him, it was Zac he thought of. Not himself. But still the black cloud enveloped him a little more suffocatingly as he opened the door, only to come face to face with his wife on her way out. Her eyes widened, looking up into his, scrambling his thoughts and making the rage burn more fiercely.
Rowan stared up at her husband, the breath still knocked out of her after the suddenness of his arrival. He was looking effortlessly gorgeous in a white shirt, black trousers, his hair still wet from the shower. His scent enveloped her … she fought for breath.
‘Sorry … I was just … I didn’t know if you were …’ She cursed herself and started again, drawing herself up straight. Immediately she knew all was not well as he glowered down at her, and couldn’t begin to wonder what had precipitated it. ‘I was just going to tell Julia I’d eat in the kitchen as I thought it would only be me for dinner …’ She wished she had something to cling onto—and then her eyes slid treacherously to his broad chest, just inches away, and she felt heat flood her cheeks.
Finally he broke the spell and moved past her, gracefully, stealthily. And he drawled, ‘There’s no-one else here, Rowan … Who are you trying to impress?’
Rowan ignored him, and the silly pain in her chest at this evidence of his filthy humour. Like this he was very dangerous. She turned to follow him back into the room. ‘Well, as you’re here, I’ll stay.’
He swept an arm out as he sat down. ‘Oh please—don’t stay on my account. By all means go and eat in the kitchen if you want.’
But just when she would have taken him at his word and left, she heard the door, and Julia arrived with the soup. Rowan knew it would be futile to get into a big long explanation of why she wanted to eat in the kitchen, and she didn’t want to embarrass the other woman, so she sat down and busied herself with her napkin.
For the past couple of days Isandro had been somewhat civil, but that civility had obviously run its course. She avoided his eye and they ate their soup in oppressive silence. Rowan was quite tempted to just pick up her bowl and leave the room, but she was also determined not to show how he affected her.
Julia returned with the main dish, and a bottle of red wine to go along with the beef. Rowan accepted a glass and speared a morsel of the succulent meat. It almost melted on her tongue, and it had been so long since she had had anything so exquisite that she closed her eyes for a second, unconsciously savouring the taste.
When she opened them again she caught Isandro staring at her with a hard look.
‘The beef is delicious.’ She knew she sounded defensive.
‘It’s just beef.’
Rowan took a swift sip of wine. That too begged to be savoured but she stopped herself. They continued to eat in silence, and Rowan did her best not to be aware of his lean brown hands, big but graceful, as he handled his silverware. She saw him take his fork into his left hand to eat and remembered that he was left-handed. She wondered absently if Zac might have inherited that trait.
When they were finished, Isandro put his napkin down by his plate and leaned forward, cradling his wine glass in one big hand. Rowan instinctively sat back into her chair. She couldn’t help but look at him. She knew her eyes were growing big and round, but couldn’t help it. He filled her vision like nothing else she’d ever experienced. She felt as if he could see righ
t through her. As if they’d gone back in time and it was one of the first times she’d seen him all over again.
Isandro watched her intently, and in that moment he felt inexplicably like pushing her, goading her into revealing … something. Anything. Something that would make things easier for him to understand? He quashed the annoying voice, and asked, ‘Why did your father want to marry you off so badly that he made you a part of the deal?’
Rowan’s mind seized. This was the last thing she’d expected to hear. ‘Why on earth do you want to talk about that now?’
Isandro shrugged negligently, dangerously. ‘Call it making conversation.’
Rowan stifled a reply. If she made a fuss, he’d know that this was a sensitive subject for her. He was playing with her like a cat toying with a mouse, that was all. In keeping with this weird mood he was in.
She affected a shrug, much like his, and willed Julia to return. Anything to break this up and change the subject. ‘I thought you knew why.’
Isandro waved a hand. ‘Well, for your inheritance, I believed. But as he never made any play to get it after we got married I could never figure out why.’
Rowan was genuinely surprised. ‘You thought my father wanted my inheritance?’
Isandro’s gaze narrowed. ‘Didn’t he? He was going bankrupt. I thought he saw you as his ticket out of lifelong debt. That he was offering you up for marriage for that reason.’
Rowan’s head swirled, and she put a hand to it. He had deduced that?
As if reading her thoughts, he added, ‘It was obvious there was little affection lost between you, Rowan. Anyone could have seen that.’
She glared at him. This was getting far too close for comfort. Her own secret humiliation open for scrutiny. The fact that she’d been unwanted. Unloved. Tolerated. By her only family.
Rowan lifted her glass of wine, her hand trembling slightly, and took another sip. He was being too invasive, and yet she couldn’t escape that intense regard. He would settle for nothing less than blood. This was the price she was expected to pay for wanting to be here. For leaving in the first place.
‘There’s something you obviously weren’t aware of.’
He inclined his head, taking a slow sip of wine. ‘Go on.’
Tension spiralled through Rowan. ‘The truth is that my father was sick. No one knew how bad it was apart from me and his cardiologist. He had a degenerative and inoperable heart condition. It’s why he lost control of his business and work. Why he looked for someone to bail him out. He wanted to save face before he died.’ She shrugged minutely. ‘As for me—he just wanted to see me married to a suitable husband. He had no interest in the money.’
Isandro was frowning. ‘I had no idea he was ill. But why was it so important to see you married?’
Rowan could feel anger rising. Was he intent on humiliating her completely? She deliberately kept her voice as light as possible to hide the long-buried pain.
‘Because he’d made a promise to my mother on her deathbed that he’d see me married to someone worthy so I’d safely inherit her fortune.’ Rowan’s lips thinned in self-deprecation. She’d gone inwards. ‘I don’t think he’d counted on it taking so long. He knew he was dying, and he needed to ensure Carmichael’s safety, my inheritance. You came along and effectively killed two birds with one stone for him.’
Isandro’s eyes narrowed sharply on her tense face, at her staccato words.
She smiled tightly, looking up at him briefly before looking down again, white fingers playing with her napkin. ‘No doubt you were well aware that I was groomed from birth to be the perfect wife. I went to finishing school. I speak five languages. I can converse on topics as diverse as the possible extinction of the mountain gorilla in Rwanda and the theory of the butterfly effect.’ She gave a little laugh then, as if revealing herself cost her nothing. ‘When I was eighteen my father threw away the bi-focals I’d worn since I was nine and made me get laser eye surgery. All the better to make me a more appealing wife.’
For a long moment Isandro said nothing, and Rowan realised that her breath was coming jerkily, as if she’d just been running. And then he said softly, ‘Perhaps he could see how beautiful they are.’
Rowan’s heart flipped in her chest and she sent him a quick shocked look, for a second catching his eye. He coloured slightly, as if he too was shocked at his words, but then that scarily cool mask was back in place and he diverted his attention to filling his wine glass again. He was making her feel thoroughly confused. Acting so mercurial. Moody.
‘So why didn’t you get married before?’
Had what he’d just said about her eyes been her imagination? She shook her head faintly. ‘I don’t know …’
But she knew well. She thought of the men she’d been introduced to over the years. Insipid. Boring. The minute she’d seen Isandro she’d known him. She’d felt something deep within her spring to life, as if she’d been asleep until that moment. She hadn’t believed it when her father had said he was interested in being introduced to her. But then she hadn’t realised the extent of his interest in her as a trophy wife. More fool her.
That first time they’d had dinner she’d got to the restaurant before him and had sat facing away from the door. She’d cursed herself, but had been too self-conscious to get up and move. She’d waited like that, with her back so straight and tense it might have cracked, and then she had felt him. She could remember closing her eyes for that split second just before he’d come into her line of vision, and then he’d surprised her by asking, ‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
She’d looked up, and he’d been smiling down at her. A half mocking smile that had been so confident, so seductive, so sure of himself. She’d blushed from that moment right through the whole meal, but amazingly the ice had been broken with his self-deprecating introduction. She’d always felt slightly guilty after he’d proposed, as if they were so completely mismatched that she’d surely taken him away from a far worthier, more soignée woman. And she’d never had to nerve to ask him why he hadn’t married before …
She certainly didn’t have the nerve to ask him that now, but she wanted his focus off her as to why she might have agreed to marry him. Her inheritance had never been important to her, and if he guessed that …
‘You married me to get your foot in the English banking door. Tell me, has it worked?’ She hated being reminded of a time in her life when all she’d been was a commodity to be passed off, because her father was doing no more than ticking the boxes before he died.
Isandro was calm and implacable, infuriating her with his coolness. ‘Yes. You could say that,’ he answered equably. ‘I now control a majority share in the biggest bank in England.’
She darted him a look. ‘You must be happy, then. You got what you wanted.’
He shrugged and drained his wine glass. ‘Happy? I wouldn’t say happy, exactly, Rowan. Satisfied, perhaps. Can you say that your frittering away of your own inheritance in these last two years has made you happy?’
And just like that she was brought back to the present with a mighty bump. She shook her head, not really seeing him any more. ‘No. I can’t say it has.’
There was a bleakness in her tone that was unmistakable. But she missed Isandro’s quick glance.
Julia came in then, with coffee and dessert. Rowan thanked her for the beautiful dinner and waited till she had left. Then she put down her napkin shakily and stood up.
‘I’m feeling quite tired now. I think I’ll go to bed.’ She felt raw and open inside. Flayed.
Isandro grabbed her wrist as she went to leave. She took a deep breath and willed the emotion out of her eyes as she turned to look down. She even managed to raise a nonchalant brow in question, even though her pulse beat crazily against his hand. She prayed he wouldn’t notice.
‘Tell me. Is that why you left, Rowan? Because you wanted to escape the box your father had put you in?’
No … The word ached to come out but she couldn’t let
it. Not yet. It was still too much to share. Especially when he was in such a dangerous mood.
So she tossed her head slightly and saw a flare of something—anger?—in Isandro’s eyes. ‘Yes. That’s why I left.’
He gripped her hand a little harder. His mouth thinned. ‘You expect me to believe that you were just a poor little rich girl, Rowan? A poor little sheltered rich girl, who ran away at the first opportunity.?’
‘Yes,’ she said wildly—anything just to get away from him.
‘Well, I hope it was worth it, Rowan …’
It was …
She tore her eyes from his with a will she hadn’t known she possessed, and snatched her hand back. She ran from the room, all pretence of insouciance gone. Once outside she walked blindly through the house and out to the garden, where she gulped in the night air. He was so right and yet so wrong. She had been exactly that. A poor, gauche little rich girl. Unbelievably naïve. Her father had done all he could to make her a biddable wife; he just hadn’t counted on her chronic shyness and innate lack of grace and style thwarting his efforts.
And she hadn’t run away at the first opportunity. She’d fallen stupidly in love at the first opportunity. With a man who had made her dreams of love look like a silly garish cartoon, complete with love hearts and flowers.
CHAPTER SIX
ISANDRO poured himself another glass of wine and his hand wasn’t completely steady. What on earth had compelled him to rake up old ground? He’d never cared before why Rowan had married him. She just had—she’d been willing, part of a package. She’d appeared to be refreshingly unlike the other women of that society, which was why he’d decided to marry her as opposed to any other.
He’d clearly stated the terms of their marriage, and had thought he would be doing her a favour by making sure her father didn’t get his hands on her inheritance. But he’d died soon after the wedding, and if what she’d just said was true he’d never planned on doing her out of it anyway. That bugged him now. He wasn’t used to reading people wrong. His mouth thinned. And yet what had his wife turned out to be? He slugged back a gulp of wine. A monumental thorn in his side …
His Suitable Bride Page 24
