‘He said we’ve done it.’ Gabe grinned.
‘Done what?’
‘Outgrown our childhoods.’ And for a second he frowned, but it was the work of an instant, then he was her Gabe once more, self-assured, arrogant, perfect.
She lifted onto tiptoe and kissed his lips softly. She would spend the rest of her life trying to erase the pain of his upbringing. Starting now.
‘I sometimes find it hard to imagine Noah ever being like you described. He’s so strong, like you.’
‘He’d been badly hurt,’ Gabe said quietly. ‘And often. There aren’t many people who could weather what he did…’
Gabe and Abby looked towards their friends, studying their obvious intimacy, their perfect partnership. Ivy was nearby, dancing with another friend of Gabe’s, standing on the man’s shoes, laughing at the jokes he was telling.
‘Holly is glowing,’ Abby murmured, tilting her head to look at her friend. She danced close to Noah, and she smiled at them. Noah was so like Gabe. Despite the fact they weren’t biologically related, there was a similar spirit to both men. A strength and honour that ran through both. Little wonder they’d found one another and clung on in the midst of everything they’d lost.
‘She is.’ He nodded.
‘I’m pleased for them. Another baby will certainly keep Ivy busy.’
‘And save Raf from her mothering,’ Gabe agreed with a laugh.
Abby grinned. He was right. Ivy adored Raf and spent most of their time together chasing after him, ‘helping’ him in every way.
‘She’ll be a great big sister,’ Abby said thoughtfully.
‘True.’
‘And Raf? Do you think he’ll make a good big brother?’
‘I have no doubt he would.’ He stared at her, a frown on his face as he tried to interpret her meaning. ‘You’d like another baby?’
‘Yes. In fact…’
He stopped dancing, holding her close. ‘You’re pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re pregnant!’ His face wore a mask of such pleasure that Abby felt her eyes moisten once more. Happy tears seemed to be all she had left these days.
‘I’m twelve weeks. I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t tell you. I wanted it to be your Christmas present.’
‘Mind? It’s the best Christmas gift you could have arranged.’
‘Well, you helped with the arrangement,’ she pointed out with a blush.
Gabe laughed, his eyes shining with passion, but then he sobered, pressing his finger to her chin and lifting her face so their eyes latched. ‘I’m going to be with you this time, Abby. I’m going to be by your side for everything.’
She placed her head against his chest so she could hear the solid, reliable beating of his heart and there was truth in every drum.
‘I’m going to be with you for it all, and for every day afterwards, my beautiful, irreplaceable tempesta. And all the Christmases of our lives.’
She smiled and swept her eyes shut, wondering if when she opened them again this would all turn out to be a dream. For how could reality be so utterly perfect? She blinked and he was there. So were their friends. Everybody as happy as before, everything as perfect as she could wish.
Outside the castle, snow began to drift downwards—the icing on the cake of their perfect Christmas miracle.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed Bound by Their Christmas Baby look out for the first instalment in Clare Connelly’s
Christmas Seductions duet!
The Season to Sin
Available in Harlequin Dare
Keep reading for an excerpt from An Innocent, A Seduction, A Secret by Abby Green.
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Feel the heat this holiday season with a sexy duet by Clare Connelly!
Christmas Seductions
When seduction leads to diamond rings…
Billionaire foster brothers, and business partners, Gabe Arantini and Noah Moore have no intention of settling down anytime soon—they’re notorious bachelors and they intend to keep it that way. That is until they each meet their match!
As they embark on forbidden Christmas seductions they find for the first time they’ve met their match! With the festivities in the air, could these two bachelors change their ways, starting with a diamond ring for their ladies?
Find out what happens in Gabe’s story in
Bound by Their Christmas Baby
Available in Harlequin Presents
And don’t miss Noah’s story in
The Season to Sin
Available in Harlequin Dare
An Innocent, A Seduction, A Secret
by Abby Green
CHAPTER ONE
‘JUST A COUPLE more questions, if I may, Mr Rivas?’
Sebastio Rivas gritted his teeth but forced himself to smile. ‘Of course.’
The words of his solicitor and chief advisor rang in his ears.
‘I know you hate this, Sebastio, but since your father died a year ago you’re now the face of Rivas Bank and everyone wants a piece of you. You’re going to have to do a certain amount of letting the media in...and the public. They want to meet the man who has single-handedly turned one of the world’s most debt-ridden institutions back into a respected and successful bank.’
His smile must have been scary, because the journalist from one of the world’s leading financial broadsheets was looking at him nervously.
Sebastio’s suit felt constricting, his tie too tight. It was at moments like this that he longed most for his past—to be wearing the colours of his country, with fourteen teammates behind him and nothing but the reverent hush of a vast rugby stadium as everyone waited with bated breath to see if he could deliver the ball over the bar.
He missed the simplicity of working with a team with one aim in mind. Winning. Being the best they could be. Coming together in a fluid cohesive unit that was unstoppable. He’d never come across that amazing feeling of solidarity again.
Because you ruined it.
The journalist cleared his throat, bringing Sebastio back into the present moment—which was just as well because he had no desire to take a trip down that memory lane today.
The journalist apparently couldn’t read Sebastio’s mind, because he said blithely, ‘Your life is very different now from the world you inhabited before—that of a professional athlete playing international rugby for your country. You never showed any interest in ban
king until a few years ago, and yet your transition has been successful, to say the least. You have returned Rivas Bank to profitability within mere months of your father’s death.’
Sebastio’s eyes narrowed warningly but the young man stared him down. Maybe he wasn’t so nervous after all. Sebastio had to concede that of course there was no way he wasn’t going to be asked to explore this avenue. He had been one of the most celebrated athletes of his generation, captaining Argentina against the world’s best teams, beating them again and again, ushering in a golden era for Argentinian rugby.
He was very tempted to cut the interview short, but knew he couldn’t, so he forced that smile again and said coolly, ‘I’ve always been interested in banking. The Rivas family were one of the first to open a bank in the Americas, so it’s been in my blood for many generations.’
‘And yet the Rivas bank fell into something of a decline in recent times.’
Sebastio’s smile turned even more forced. ‘That is true. However, that decline is in the past now.’
Sebastio didn’t need to be reminded of what had precipitated that decline. He’d lived it. Witnessed it all too closely. It had come about for many reasons—the main one being Sebastio’s parents’ very high-profile and scandalous divorce. Scandalous because of the flagrant infidelities on both sides. And because of the life of excess exposed by the court case. Not to mention the vicious custody battle over eight-year-old Sebastio.
When the dust had settled, and Sebastio’s father had been granted primary custody of Sebastio, he’d proceeded to drink and gamble his way through what had been left of the family wealth and profits from the bank.
Admittedly Sebastio hadn’t done much to help when, as the only son and heir, he’d turned his back on his inheritance to play rugby professionally—which had had as much to do with rebelling against his family as it had to do with his love of the sport.
Thanks to his glamorous background, good looks and sporting prowess, and his aversion to commitment, he’d developed a reputation as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. And one of the world’s most notorious playboys.
When Sebastio had stepped away from the rugby field, however, the bank had convened an emergency meeting, in order to appeal to him to reconsider taking up his position on the board. And once he’d realised how many thousands of lives were supported directly and indirectly through the bank—how many lives his father had been playing roulette with—he’d had no choice but to take his place and regain control of the sinking ship.
He’d already had enough guilt on his conscience to last him a lifetime. He hadn’t needed the added guilt of watching thousands of lives decimated, thanks to his father’s weaknesses.
He’d spent the last three years assuming more and more responsibility as his father had entered into a decline brought on largely through self-destruction and bitterness. Hugo Rivas had never really got over the fact that the most beautiful woman in Argentina had wanted to divorce him.
People said of Sebastio’s stratospheric success that his innate ability to understand the intricacies of finance and manage a financial institution was genetic, but he considered it merely fortuitous.
The journalist’s voice cut into his circling thoughts. ‘You walked away from rugby after the tragic car accident involving Victor Sanchez and his wife. How much of a part did the accident play in your move back into the family business? And are you still in touch with Victor Sanchez?’
The question had the effect of a small but devastating bomb inside Sebastio. He had never spoken about the catastrophic accident that had claimed two lives, ruined a third and blighted his own for ever. And he certainly wasn’t about to start.
He stood up smoothly, buttoning his jacket as he did so. ‘If that’s all... I have a meeting to attend.’
The journalist stood up too, with a wry smile, and held out his hand. ‘I hope you don’t blame me for trying, Mr Rivas. My editor would never forgive me if I didn’t ask the question everyone wants answered most.’
Sebastio took the journalist’s hand and squeezed it firmly enough to make the man’s eyes water slightly. He bared his teeth in another cordial smile. ‘You can ask all you want—not that I’ll ever answer.’
He turned and walked out, trying to ignore the beat of anger pulsing in his blood that a stranger had opened this Pandora’s box of unwelcome memories. Memories of the worst night of his life.
The screeching tangle of metal on metal and the smell of leaking petrol was still vivid enough to make Sebastio break out in a cold sweat. And the image of his friend’s wife, thrown from the car and lying at an unnatural angle on the road, blood pooling around her head.
His mouth was a grim line as he pulled on his coat and exited the exclusive hotel in London’s Knightsbridge. He was thousands of miles from Buenos Aires and yet the past wouldn’t leave him in peace.
You don’t deserve it.
The line of his mouth got tighter. He didn’t deserve peace. So maybe he owed the journalist something for reminding him of that.
He saw his driver jump out of his waiting car and rush around to open the door and that feeling of constriction was back. He said, ‘It’s okay, Nick. I’m going to walk back to the office.’
The suited man inclined his head. ‘Very well, sir. Nice day for it.’
Was it a nice day for it? Sebastio watched as the driver pulled out smoothly into the snarl of London traffic. He supposed that yes, it was a nice day. It was one of those rare English winter days—bright and clear and dry. Frost was in the air, but not on the ground yet. Christmas was around the corner and the decorations were up in earnest.
Sebastio passed women in expensive furs and men in bespoke suits and overcoats, much like his own.
He pulled up his collar against the chill and was oblivious to the appreciative looks he drew from a group of women standing outside a shop. He crossed the street, avoiding a particularly garish Christmas tree surrounded by singers in period costume belting out tuneless carols.
He loathed Christmas for too many reasons to count, and for the past three years had escaped it by going to parts of the world where Christmas wasn’t celebrated so much. One year he’d gone to Africa, another year to India. Last year he’d spent it in Bangkok.
That first year—after the accident had happened—Christmas had been a blur of grief, guilt and pain so acute that Sebastio hadn’t been sure he would come out the other side.
But he had. And this year he was here in London, in the hub of Christmas mania. Because the truth was that he didn’t deserve a free pass to escape. And, more pertinently because the Rivas bank had just opened its European headquarters here. He had been advised to make the most of the festive season by hosting a series of important social functions which would secure his place in English and European society.
It had even been suggested that he should decorate his house, where he was intending hosting these seasonal social functions, but the thought of being surrounded by trees and baubles and blinking lights made him feel so claustrophobic that he’d tuned out that particular advice.
He was passing the windows of one of the most famous department stores in the world now, and an ornate sign hung in the window, in front of red velvet drapes.
The famous Marrotts festive windows
will be revealed this weekend!
Happy Christmas!
A couple of small children were trying to peer in between a small gap in the curtains, giggling before being led away by their parents.
Sebastio felt a shaft of pain so intense that he almost stopped dead in the street. If not for the accident, Victor and Maya’s daughter would now be...
He shook his head to dislodge the thought and instinctively moved away from the main thoroughfare, ducking down a side street. He cursed the reporter again for having precipitated this avalanche of memories.
At that moment Sebasti
o turned his head and realised he was passing another of those famous windows, but this time the red velvet drapes were partially open.
He came to a reluctant standstill on the quiet pavement as the scene in the window snagged his attention. It was a magical fairy forest, with branches opening into hidden worlds and little faces and eyes peeping out. Fairies, goblins...
In spite of himself, Sebastio was momentarily captivated. It was Christmassy, but...not. It tugged on a memory deep in the recesses of his mind. An uncomfortable reminder that he hadn’t always hated Christmas.
He’d had an English grandmother, and his parents had used to leave Sebastio with her every Christmas while they went on holiday. Those Christmases had been magical. His grandmother had taken him to West End shows. They’d decorated the house, watched movies, played games. All the things he’d never done with his parents because they had been too busy either having affairs, fighting or indulging in lavish reunion holidays.
Sebastio had used to dread their return, and he could remember one year clinging to his grandmother in tears, his father pulling him away roughly...
His grandmother had died not long after that, and they hadn’t even come back to England for her funeral. Sometimes Sebastio had wondered if he’d made it up. So starved of affection by his parents that he’d concocted a benevolent loving grandmother like some pathetic fairytale...
As time had passed it had seemed more and more like a fantasy because no subsequent Christmas had ever been like those idyllic ones he remembered. And so he’d blocked them out and convinced himself that he hated Christmas, because he knew he would never experience anything close to that magic again and to want it was a weakness.
He saw movement, and followed it to see a woman standing at one side of the display. She had her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side as she looked up to where a young man was hanging a glittering star on the branch of a tree. They must still be dressing the window.
She shouldn’t have snagged his attention. She had her back to him and she was dressed in plain black trousers, a long-sleeved black top and flat shoes. He saw her shake her head, her shining cap of short hair glinting auburn in the lights. Then she bent down and picked up something else—another decoration—and handed it up to the man on the stepladder. As she reached up, her top rode high to reveal a taut pale belly and slim waist.
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