‘Smile!’ his new wife ordered, and the word shocked him out of his gloomy thoughts.
She was smiling.
Looking so radiant—so beautiful—his heart stopped beating.
‘Look how Ella is enjoying all of this,’ Caroline added, pointing to their daughter with her basket of rose petals, strewing them down the aisle ahead of them. ‘If we’re not careful she’s going to grow into a right little miss with Carlos and Antoinette doting on her so much.’
‘Can a child have too much love?’ Jorge asked, although watching his daughter’s antics had brought a smile to his face.
‘I suppose not,’ Caroline agreed, ‘as long as she doesn’t take advantage of it.’
‘We’ll see she doesn’t,’ Jorge assured her, and felt his worries and concerns drop from his shoulders. They were marrying for Ella and the shared responsibility of silly things, like seeing she wasn’t spoiled by too much attention, was surely more important than love. He and Caroline would be good in bed—their mutual enjoyment a given, not only from past experience but from what he now thought of, in capital letters, as The Library Kiss!
Yes, things would be okay, and now he really smiled.
‘Ella is going to fall asleep in her ice cream,’ Caroline whispered to Jorge when the speeches were made and the toasts were done and tiredness was making her think she, too, might fall asleep at the table.
‘We will take her up to bed, then retire ourselves. Papá will excuse us.’
Retire ourselves. How civilised it sounded, yet Caroline’s skin prickled at the words, goose-bumps forming in the most unlikely places.
She glanced towards Carlos, who nodded in reply to her unspoken question, and as Jorge lifted Ella, her ruffles crushed and her face wreathed in chocolate ice cream, Caroline rose, said goodnight to the guests who’d come to share their dinner, and followed him upstairs.
Bath, teeth, bed, story, say goodnight to moon and stars, then she and Jorge were alone, standing in the doorway of Ella’s room, their child already asleep.
‘Come,’ Jorge said, his voice a husky whisper. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her past the door of the room where she’d been sleeping, to his suite of rooms further along the corridor.
Inside he unpinned the comb that had held her mantilla in place and set the old lace carefully down on the top of a heavy wooden dresser.
‘You looked so beautiful I could barely breathe,’ he said, and Caroline, feeling the tension tightening in her body, knew she had to break it somehow or shatter into pieces herself.
‘You polished up okay yourself,’ she said lightly, kicking off her shoes, then bending to lift her skirt to undo the clasps that had held her stockings in place.
Had she lifted her skirt too far that Jorge stepped towards her?
‘A suspender belt? You wore a suspender belt?’ Awed was the only way to describe his voice.
‘I suppose a pair of garters would be more symbolic but I thought—’
He stopped her with a kiss.
‘No more talk,’ he commanded when they could both breathe again.
Jorge turned her around to get at the million tiny buttons running down the back of the silky gown and with fumbling fingers began the task of undoing them, easing the gown, as it opened, first off her shoulders, then letting it slide to her waist, fighting the last buttons until eventually it slid down over her hips, leaving her standing in a pool of white silk, a lacy bra, matching lacy panties and a frothy confection of a suspender belt, white strips of satin ribbon running down to the top of lacy-topped stockings.
He walked around to see her from the front and shook his head.
‘I have always known you were beautiful, but now you steal my breath, my mind, my—’
He stopped himself before the word ‘heart’ erupted from his lips, substituting ‘power of words’.
She stepped out of the puddle of white froth, bending to lift it, giving him a tantalising glimpse of thigh, before she spread the gown over the mantilla on the dresser.
His body was burning with such desire he knew he was likely to make a fool of himself if he touched her, so he simply looked, watching as she sat down on the bed and now slid off the stockings.
He should be doing that!
He moved, turning on a bedside light, dimming it, then turning off the main light so although she shone in the gloom of the darkened room, he felt less embarrassed about his own body—about the scars she had yet to see.
He knew it was pride that bothered him—foolish pride—yet Caroline had loved his body—his old body—so how would she feel? How would she react?
Could he go through with this?
Other women had seen the scars, one had even seemed to be turned on by them in some macabre way, but.
He tried to rationalise his fears which came down to.
What?
Losing her?
She was made of sterner stuff.
Yet fear and, yes, stupid pride still held him in their thrall.
Now she unclipped the suspender belt and tossed it lightly onto a chair, then stood up and came towards him.
‘Fair’s fair,’ she said, and moved close enough to pull his bow-tie undone, removing it, then starting on his shirt buttons, her fingers sliding into the opening of his shirt, undoing the cuff links, finally easing it off his shoulders, not pausing to gaze at the ravages the explosion had left on his body, calmly undoing his belt now, sliding down his zip.
‘You will have to do some of this yourself and as it’s been a very long day, I would really like a shower before we go to bed.’
She pressed a kiss on his lips.
‘Can I leave you to get naked on your own?’ she teased, and as if he wasn’t hard enough his groin tightened even further—agonising.
He’d shower in the guest bathroom. Sex in the shower was all very well, but this first time—this new first time—with Caroline—well, she deserved a bed. They both deserved a bed.
He wasn’t sure of the logic of this, but his mind was racing around like a rat in a maze so logic didn’t stand a chance. He’d shower, put on a nightshirt—Antoinette had produced a new silk one as a pre-wedding gift. Had she guessed how apprehensive he was about leaping the hurdle of a ‘real’ marriage?
Or had Antoinette, who’d bathed his injured, battered body, thought he should wear it for Caroline’s sake?
Not that he didn’t want to wear it—appearing naked in front of Caroline would break down the last of his carefully erected barriers and fear of her revulsion tamed his lust.
But Caroline had said get naked, so wouldn’t she expect to find him that way, not in a nightshirt, even if it was silk?
The rat kept running into walls, hopelessly trying to learn the escape route. Once Caroline would have laughed if he’d told her about the rat in his head—would she now?
He had no idea—no idea how to begin to think it through, think anything through.
‘You’re not naked!’
She was back!
She couldn’t be back.
And she wasn’t naked, though she might as well have been for he could see right through the diaphanous gown she was wearing to the pale, slim, shapely body beneath—the body that had haunted his dreams for four years.
It came to Caroline, standing there, feeling foolish in the nightdress Antoinette had given her—a nightdress Caroline suspected had long lain in Antoinette’s hope chest until hope had faded into sadness—that Jorge was even more uptight than she was about the night ahead of them.
‘Beautiful gown,’ he murmured, but the words rough as if his throat was dry, his mouth devoid of moisture.
She grinned at him.
‘Antoinette took one look at my banana pyjama pants and took over my night-time wardrobe,’ she said, coming closer to where her husband stood. He looked so incredibly foolish with his shirt half-off and his trousers around his knees that it was all she could do not to laugh.
She kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘Go have a shower,’ she told him. ‘You’ll feel much better. You know this isn’t a regular wedding night. You’re under no pressure to perform. Just shower and come to bed.’
CHAPTER NINE
HE CAME to bed, a silk nightshirt covering his body, and slid in beside her, turning off the bedside light. Caroline wanted to protest, to strip off her gown and his so they’d be naked together, but through the silk she felt the damage to the skin on his torso—damage she’d carefully not looked at as she’d unbuttoned his shirt.
Tears filled her eyes, a bone-deep sadness descending on her. That Jorge, whom she’d loved more than life itself, should shield his scarred body from her. That he did not trust her to love him, scars and all, or even accept him as a lover, scars and all, seemed so overwhelmingly sad she couldn’t help but cry.
Had he heard her sniff or felt the tears on her cheeks that he put his arms around her and held her to him, patting her shoulder, whispering to her in Spanish? Although her Spanish seemed to have deserted her because she didn’t understand the words.
‘It is all right,’ he finally said in English. ‘We married for our daughter, nothing more, so I do not expect more of you. We can share the bed without sex, or I will sleep on the couch tonight and tomorrow make arrangements for us to have separate rooms. This is a suite, there’s another bedroom right next door. My father knows I sleep badly. He will accept the separate rooms.’
The spate of tears had passed. She’d lived with sadness before, she could do it again. Besides, now there was a diversion for her thoughts. Held close against Jorge’s body, the heated desire that had been building since they’d kissed in the library flared back to life.
Yet he was talking so dispassionately about them not having sex, she could hardly insist on it.
Maybe he didn’t want to.
Too bad?
Wasn’t she entitled to a say?
She moved against him, experimentally.
Felt him stiffen then his body responding.
Whether he wanted it to or not?
Caroline decided she didn’t care. She shifted so she could kiss his lips, moving her mouth against his until she felt his response.
‘It would be a pity to not use the foreplay of the tango, surely,’ she murmured, and his kiss deepened, his tongue probing into her mouth so she was tasting him, feeling his heat.
She slid her hands beneath his nightshirt, feeling the soft silk ruffle upwards as her fingers splayed against his body. Smooth skin, rough skin—she could feel both but this was Jorge and it didn’t matter. Brushing her fingers across his nipples, she felt his response, hardness pressed against her belly. His kisses slithered down her neck, licks and kisses, teasing her nerve endings, causing a shivery excitement in her skin.
Now she was trembling against him and through the fine silk of her gown his mouth found her breasts, teasing first one nipple then the other, teasing, teasing, the rasp of the silk intensifying the sensation. His hands wandered lower, not through silk but under it, finding her moist and ready for him, so ready she gasped as he touched her and trembled some more.
She reached for him and guided him into her body, rising to meet him, opening to him, so full of love it was hard to hold back the words she longed to say.
But love could be a burden—and didn’t he have enough burdens to carry?
He was moving deep inside her now, and as she moved with him her thoughts were consumed by feeling, by the need and hunger and the race towards fulfilment.
‘Slow!’ he ordered, and though she wondered at his restraint—was the man made of steel?—she slowed her movements, letting him take control, driving their pace, teasing her towards orgasm then drawing back, until she flung all caution to the winds and moved again, her turn to take control as she worked towards the final moment when her body imploded, reverberations travelling to the tips of her toes, again and again until he cried out, too, and slumped against her, so she held his weight and blinked away more tears.
Different tears this time. Tears of joy that once again she was holding Jorge. That once again that had been joined in love.
Love?
Where had that come from?
It wasn’t love, it was attraction—the magnet with opposing poles.
As her mind got back into gear, the argument began.
You don’t need love, one side said.
And sex without it? queried the other.
Didn’t it count that she loved him? the first voice cried.
Not really, said the killjoy.
For his part, Jorge seemed unbothered by questions of love. By questions of anything judging by the soft, not-exactly-snoring but definitely snuffling sounds coming from him. He had rolled over on his side and gone straight to sleep.
Once they would have held each other and talked—really talked—but thinking about that time was a sure way to bring the stupid tears on again and she’d cried enough for Jorge. She turned so her back was to him and tried to sleep herself but the distraction of his body, so close, made sleep impossible.
It wasn’t going to work. For all he’d been the one to insist on a ‘real’ marriage—as if!—he’d obviously been reluctant to consummate it, first standing there half-undressed, later wearing his nightshirt to bed. Her heart ached at the thought that he feared her revulsion when she saw his scars. Surely they’d been close enough for him to know—
Go to sleep.
Ordering sleep didn’t work and after another fruitless hour, lying motionless because she was unwilling to toss and turn fearing she’d wake him, she got out of bed, slipped on a robe that matched her nightgown—a second gift from Antoinette—and walked quietly out of the room, down the corridor to check on Ella.
The little girl was curled into one corner of the big four-poster and it took only seconds for Caroline to slip in beside her. Surely here, away from Jorge, she would sleep.
He knew before he was fully awake that she was gone. How had he slept so deeply that he didn’t hear her depart, he who slept in snatches of restless stupor these days? Jorge rolled over and felt the space beside him. The sheets were cold so she’d been gone for some time.
He thought back to the tears she’d shed and cursed himself for putting her in this situation. She’d agreed to marry him for his father’s sake, but he’d been the one to push the physical side of their union.
Why?
What had prompted him?
Surely more than the fact that his body ached for her and had since the day he’d cut her from his life, unwilling to burden her with a permanent invalid, yet perversely, in the present, he’d pushed for a ‘real’ marriage, then panicked when she’d suggested he get naked, afraid of what she’d think of the scarred shadow of the man she’d known.
Was it his obvious reluctance that had caused her tears?
His stupid pride in wearing that ridiculous nightshirt?
Or had she seen enough of his scarred body to be repulsed?
The rat was back in the maze.
And his wife was gone!
Knowing his father would accept it if neither of them appeared for breakfast but deciding he’d make the effort anyway, Jorge climbed out of bed, showered, shaved and dressed, then, knowing there’d be wondering looks and questions if he appeared alone, went in search of his wife.
She was wearing a robe over the beautiful nightgown but it didn’t conceal much more than the gown did and his body leapt in response to the pale shape of her beneath the layers of silk. Memories of the passion they’d shared the previous night—hard, heated sex—had desire stirring again.
Hardly appropriate thoughts in front of their child, who was bouncing up and down and making it very difficult for Caroline to drag a wide comb through the tangled curls.
‘I’m ready for breakfast, Hor-hay,’ Ella announced, ‘but Ablito says I can call you Papá. Do you want me to call you that?’
Papá!
Jorge felt as if his heart might break in two, while his throat
tightened, making speech impossible.
He nodded at the little girl, who gave a cry of delight and flung herself into his arms, chanting, ‘Papá, Papá, Papá!’ in shrill, excited tones.
‘I’ll take her down to breakfast?’ he asked Caroline as Ella’s little arms fastened around his neck.
Caroline, still kneeling where she’d been while she’d dressed Ella and struggled to tame her hair, nodded.
‘And you?’ Jorge continued. ‘Would you like something sent up?’
Something like a miracle? Caroline thought, though what kind of miracle she needed she wasn’t sure.
Maybe the kind that turned back time—turned it back four years to before the accident so they could change the way their lives had played out.
Aloud she said, ‘No, I’ll be down in a few minutes,’ and she rose to her feet, aware of Jorge’s eyes on her—aware he was trying to read her thoughts.
But if she couldn’t work out what she was thinking, what hope did he have?
Jorge left the house after breakfast, something about an appointment muttered into the air above Carlos’s and Caroline’s heads.
‘I will take you and Ella to look at the kindergarten,’ Carlos told Caroline.
So, the honeymoon is over, she thought, sadness welling inside her once again as she thought of what might have been. In spite of all the fuss of the big wedding, nothing had changed.
And everything had changed.
The day played out, Ella delighted with the kindergarten and seemingly unconcerned that the children all chattered at her in Spanish, although, Caroline realised as she heard her daughter answer, Ella was picking it up amazingly quickly.
‘Do you wish to leave her here today to have a little play, perhaps until siesta time—one o’clock?’
Caroline asked Ella what she thought, although she read the answer in her daughter’s excited face before Ella said, ‘Oh, yes, please, Mummy.’
‘I’ll walk back to the house from here,’ Caroline told Carlos, knowing he’d already given up a lot of his time to plan the wedding.
‘You are sure?’ he asked, his eyes searching her face as if the question might mean something more.
Melting the Argentine Doctor's Heart / Small Town Marriage Miracle Page 13
