Bought Bride For The Argentinian (Conveniently Wed!)

by Sharon Kendrick

  EPILOGUE

  ‘AND I AM very proud to declare this riding centre open,’ Emily said. Her Spanish was now almost fluent again—but she guessed that was the beauty of having undergone an intensive course to brush up on the beautiful language she’d once excelled at.

  There was a thunder of applause as the great and the good of Argentina greeted her declaration with prolonged applause and the children in the front few rows wriggled impatiently, eager to get out and start riding some of the fine horses which were waiting for them in the stables. Emily smiled as she sat down in her chair in the front row and waited for her husband to speak.

  Today was the official opening of the riding school for disadvantaged children which she and Alej had established—right next to his brand-new polo school, which was situated just outside Buenos Aires. It was probably the single most rewarding thing Emily had ever been involved with and when she’d mentioned this to Alej, he’d told her he felt exactly the same. In fact, he was planning to involve himself with both schemes on a fairly regular basis, allowing his business empire to be run by the top people he had on his payroll, until the day came when he had a son or daughter of his own to take over when the time came, if they wanted to.

  ‘You were great today,’ Alej murmured once the celebrations were finally concluded and they were settled in the car which was taking them home.

  Emily looked across at him, and smiled, thinking how stunning he looked in that charcoal-grey suit, with the top two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a glimpse of olive skin.

  ‘So were you,’ she breathed.

  ‘Querida, do you think we’ll ever get bored with this mutual lovefest?’ he drawled.

  A glow of satisfaction rippled through her as she shook her head. ‘Not in this lifetime.’

  They were heading for Alej’s estancia, to that simple stone-and-wood building by green pastures and a silver river, which had felt like home from the first time she’d seen it and still did. They had settled in Argentina as soon as they could, after the night Alej had turned up in London—wet from the rain and his face filled with something like vulnerability—before declaring his love for her. Emily had sold her small apartment and given the proceeds to the new riding school, so that it was as much her venture as Alej’s. She’d also sold her share in the business to Sophie, who was proving a super-efficient replacement.

  ‘A little too efficient,’ Emily had confided ruefully to Marybeth, just before she’d left for her new life. ‘You won’t miss me at all.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll miss you, all right,’ Marybeth had said, her voice sounding suddenly choked. ‘But I’m coming out to stay with you after Christmas, don’t forget.’

  ‘As if. I’m laying on some Argentinian hunks specially for you!’

  With Alej’s arm around her shoulders, the journey to the estancia was smooth and surprisingly fast and once they had dismissed the chauffeur, it was just the two of them—with a free evening ahead. And once she’d been outside to check on Joya, Emily returned happily to the house.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ she questioned.

  ‘Guess,’ said Alej softly as he began to unbutton her dress.

  She nuzzled at his neck and nipped the lobe of his ear like a tiny animal and he laughed and carried her upstairs, despite her protests. ‘You won’t always be able to carry me, you know!’ she exclaimed as he proceeded to lay her down on the bed.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ he vowed as he continued to undress her.

  Emily didn’t bother correcting him. At least, not then, when she was so involved in helping him out of his own clothes, and her heart was thundering by the time she felt his naked skin against hers. But as he stroked her body with his usual rapt and detailed fascination, his fingers halted in their slow circumference of her breast, and he frowned.

  ‘Something is different about you, querida.’

  Did he know her so well? She guessed he did. But she simply smiled and said nothing.

  His brow creased with concentration as his fingertip circled the other breast. ‘Are you?’ he persisted, and the expression on his face when she nodded was one she would carry in her heart for the rest of her days.

  ‘Sí,’ she whispered. ‘I’m having your baby, Alej.’

  She could see his throat constrict. ‘How far gone are you?’

  ‘Just six weeks. But we were so busy with the move that I didn’t notice at first.’

  His gaze was much brighter than usual as he brought his mouth down to brush over hers, his deep sigh of contentment warm against her. ‘Te amo,’ he said, somehow both fierce and gentle, all at the same time. ‘Te amo, Emily.’

  And when he entered her, with breathtaking eroticism and infinite tenderness, Emily cried out with love and with joy and, very soon, with fulfilment.

  For a long time afterwards she lay there trembling in his arms, her head pillowed on the rapid rise and fall of his chest, while he stroked her hair.

  ‘It happened sooner than I thought,’ she said reflectively.

  He gave a low laugh. ‘Judging by the amount of times we’ve been having sex, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.’

  ‘But we might not have been able to have children at all,’ she ventured.

  ‘Then we would have adopted. Or fostered.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was still thoughtful. ‘But I still think we’ve been very lucky.’

  His fingers tangled in the silken tumble of her hair, Alej looked up at the ceiling. Yes, she was right. Very lucky—that he had followed his instincts and sought her out, and that both their hearts had been big enough to forgive and to try again.

  With his wife’s gentle persuasion he had managed to forgive his mother for what she had done, and to let all the bad memories go. Because one day he wanted to tell his children about a woman who had sometimes sung when she was planting vegetables and who made the best yerba maté of anyone he knew. Because nobody was all bad, he’d realised—just as nobody was all good. The only faint shadow in his life was his lack of success in locating his sibling, but at least now he had discovered a name.

  Lucas.

  Lucas.

  His heart clenched. Strange to think he had a brother. That someone, somewhere in the world shared his gene pool.

  ‘Shall I get us something to drink?’ asked Emily, her soft voice breaking into his thoughts.

  He shook his head. ‘You will do no such thing. From now on I will be waiting on you hand and foot, bella.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid, Alej,’ she scolded softly.

  ‘No, you are my wife and the mother of my child.’ He turned her face towards him. ‘My beautiful Emily, who has taught me the meaning of love.’

  ‘As you have me,’ she said shakily. ‘Just as you’ve taught me so much else besides. About acceptance and forgiveness. About strength in the face of adversity. And I love you too, Alej. I love you so very much.’

  His arms tightened around her and the pounding of his heart threatened to deafen him. And as the setting sun turned the river into a ribbon of bright coral, Alej tilted Emily’s chin so he could kiss her again.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed Bought Bride for the Argentinian by Sharon Kendrick look out for the second instalment in the Legendary Argentinian Billionaires duet, The Argentinian’s Baby of Scandal, coming soon!

  And why not explore these other Conveniently Wed! stories?

  Crown Prince’s Bought Bride

  by Maya Blake

  Chosen as the Sheikh’s Royal Bride

  by Jennie Lucas

  Penniless Virgin to Sicilian’s Bride

  by Melanie Milburne

  Untamed Billionaire’s Innocent Bride

  by Caitlin Crews

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  Demanding His Hidden Heir

  by Jackie Ashenden

  CHAPTER ONE

  ENZO CARDINALI WAS not a man who appreciated parties. They were, in his opinion, nothing more than an excuse for people to waste time talking about trivialities while drinking themselves insensible and generally behaving badly.

  He was not a fan of trivialities or bad behaviour either.

  He stood in the corner of Henry St George’s lavishly appointed drawing room, watching all the gorgeously attired people in it laugh and bray and talk nonsense to each other, nursing the same tumbler of Scotch he’d been holding for the past hour, impatient and not a little irritable.

  The house party he’d been invited to had gone on for what seemed like an eternity and he was done with it. He’d been done with it the moment he’d arrived. His usual state of being, in other words.

  He had no tolerance for waiting and, since other people didn’t move at the speed he did, it felt as if waiting was all he did. Which made him constantly irritable.

  Dante, his brother, had often told him he needed to cultivate a little patience, but Enzo didn’t see why he should. He hadn’t been put on this earth to make other people comfortable and, if they couldn’t keep up with him, that was their problem. Of course, that then made it his problem and that was the part he didn’t like.

  He should have had Dante handle the particular bit of business he was in England for, but at the last minute he’d decided it was too important to let his laid-back brother handle it and so here he was. At a weekend-long house party at St George’s extensive stately home deep in the Cotswolds.

  St George was a rich industrialist with deep pockets and a taste for old-fashioned parties, during which he conducted most of his business. A state of affairs with which Enzo was not particularly happy. However, he was putting up with it because St George also owned an island just off the coast of Naples that Enzo was desperate to get his hands on.

  So far the party had been useful, in that he was halfway to convincing the old man to sell the island to him, and now all he needed was to close the deal.

  Except St George was baulking—for what reason, Enzo didn’t know, nor did he care. What he cared about was having to exert himself and make nice, something that didn’t come easy to him, in order to close the deal this weekend.

  Across the room St George’s white head bent as he leaned down to listen to a woman at his elbow. He was apparently a popular host and many of London’s business elite jockeyed to get invites to his house parties.

  Enzo shifted restlessly on his feet. Dio, this was interminable. He’d been waiting for an opportune moment to corner St George and present him with a final offer, but the man was constantly surrounded by people.

  Dante had warned Enzo to be polite about it, but maybe his brother could go to hell.

  Enzo wanted that island, Isola Sacra. It was the closest thing to Monte Santa Maria he’d come across, the tiny island kingdom in the Adriatic that had once been his home before his father, the king, had made one petty power play too many and parliament had decided it had had enough of royalty, declaring itself a republic and politely inviting the royal family to leave. For good.

  The Cardinalis had found a place for themselves on mainland Italy, in Milan, but it had never felt like home to Enzo. He’d been fifteen when they’d left Monte Santa Maria and he’d felt rootless ever since.

  Once, he’d been heir to a kingdom. Now, he had nothing.

  Well, nothing except a multi-billion-dollar property development company, but that wasn’t quite the same.

  It was a home he wanted. And, since he could never go back to the one he’d had, he needed to find himself another somewhere else.

  The guests in the drawing room swirled, the laughter and noise putting him on edge, making him feel even more restless.

  St George was still talking to that woman and Enzo decided that, if he hadn’t finished talking to her in another couple of minutes, he was going to go over there and make St George an offer regardless of politeness. His brother’s advice be damned.

  He wasn’t a stateless fifteen-year-old boy cowering in an apartment in Milan any more. He was the CEO of a billion-dollar company with offices in cities around the globe.

  He might not have a country, but as far as the business world was concerned he was still a king.

  Across the room the door opened suddenly, the movement catching Enzo’s attention, and a small child peered round it, scanning the room with wide eyes.

  Enzo frowned. What was a child doing up at this time of night? It was nearly eleven p.m.

  The child—a small boy—took a step into the room, looking around uncertainly. He wore blue pyjamas and his black hair was spiked up. There was something familiar about him. Something that Enzo couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  The boy had to be St George’s young son—a surprise late-in-life baby, since St George was in his early sixties. He’d married a woman around half his age four years ago and her subsequent pregnancy so soon after the wedding had caused a minor sensation.

  Not that Enzo had ever been particularly interested in gossip, and why he remembered it now was anyone’s guess.

  But still. There was something about that boy.

  The child took another few steps into the room, his eyes wide. They were an unusual colour. Gold. Like new-minted coins.

  The familiarity tugged harder at Enzo. There weren’t many people with eyes that colour, not so clear and startling. In fact, he only knew of two: his father and himself. Golden eyes were a Cardinali family trait and in Monte Santa Maria they’d traditionally been a sign of royalty.

  Strange that this child should have them too, though obviously a coincidence.

  There was another movement by the door and it opened wider this time, another figure standing in the doorway. A woman.

  She wasn’t dressed in high-end couture like the other guests, just a simple pair of jeans and a loose dark blue T-shirt. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in a messy bun, and it was as red as a fire against a twilight sky.

  The tug of familiarity became a pull, deep and hard.

  Her hair lying soft across his chest, a silken rope between his fingers as he’d pulled her towards him. Red as that hot mouth he’d kissed...

  The woman scanned the room, giving him a good look at her face. High forehead and a sharp nose, a pointed, determined little chin. Freckles across her equally sharp cheekbones. Freckles tha
t she’d fussed about in the tropical sun. Freckles scattered like gold dust across the luscious curves of her breasts, and he’d kissed every single one...

  No. It couldn’t be.

  She gave the room another scan and then, as inevitably as the sun rising, her gaze met his and he found himself staring into eyes the colour of storm clouds and ice, a pure, clear grey that belied the passion that burned inside her.

  A passion he’d tasted for more hours than he cared to count.

  A passion he’d never felt before or since.

  A passion that had gone as cold as ashes the morning he’d woken up in the villa to find she’d gone.

  Four years ago, on an island in the Caribbean, at his brother’s new resort, he’d met a woman.

  A woman with red hair and freckles who’d turned him inside out. Who’d made him so hungry he hadn’t been able to think straight.

  Who’d made him forget, just for a couple of days, the constant ache in his heart for what he’d lost.

  And who’d left him without even a goodbye.

  Her gaze went wide as it met his, blanking with shock, and he knew instantly that, yes, it was her. The red-headed, passionate woman he’d had a two-day fling with four years ago.

  He’d tried to forget her. Dio, he’d even convinced himself that he had.

  But as she stared at him with those wide grey eyes, and he felt the burn of a sudden physical hunger, he knew that he’d been lying to himself.

  He hadn’t forgotten. Not the passion that had consumed them or the sense of homecoming that had come over him when she’d put her arms around him.

  Or the fury when he’d woken up two days later, alone. His bed empty. His sheets cold.

  The fury hit him again now, a hard punch to his gut, twisting with the hunger to become something so intense and volatile he could hardly breathe through it.