by Abby Green
A couple of hours later, astride a huge horse, with a widebrimmed gaucho hat on her head, following Rafael, she knew nice didn’t do it justice.
Isobel couldn’t help a burgeoning feeling of something scarily like joy from expanding her chest. And pride to know that everything in sight had belonged to her grandmother and was now partly hers again…Paris and the life she’d led there seemed like a far distant memory.
An assertion gripped her: she belonged here. It rushed through her blood, stunning in its intensity. Up till now she’d never had that feeling.
The pampas stretched out around her, and the Sierras Chicas rose majestically in the distance. A lump, unbidden, constricted her throat. Just then Rafael stopped his horse and looked back. He sat with easy grace in his saddle, lean and awe-inspiring. Faded jeans moulded to hard thigh muscles. Isobel gripped her reins hard. She’d been avoiding looking at him ever since she’d watched him swing all too lithely into his saddle.
He smiled. ‘Do you want to give these boys their heads?’
Isobel just nodded, incapable of speech, and followed Rafael’s lead as he spurred his horse into a trot, and then faster, into a full-on gallop. She could feel her own mount bristle and move restlessly, and, taking a deep breath, she urged her horse on until he too was cutting through the wind like a bullet.
It was exhilarating. Isobel hadn’t ridden like this in years—bent low over her horse’s back, feeling as though they were joined as one. She even pulled past Rafael, and felt a helpless gurgle of delighted laughter break out. But of course he didn’t let her beat him for long, effortlessly catching up and taking hold of her reins to slow them both down.
When she got her breath back Isobel could see outbuildings, and Rafael explained that they were training grounds for the polo horses. A man on horseback came to meet them, and Rafael introduced him as Miguel Cortez, head trainer.
By the time the sun was setting that evening Isobel’s head was spinning—but not in that sickly way it had the first day. It was buzzing with information. She’d found out that they hosted two world-class polo events there every year, and she’d looked at the plans Rafael had made to expand the grounds even further.
It was truly staggering. If her grandmother’s estate had consisted of just the polo grounds, it would have been seriously impressive. But to know that the estate went on and included a livestock farm, and then an agricultural centre…
She shook her head now, trying to take it all in, looking into the distance. She felt Rafael come to stand beside her, and her body made its predictable response. She avoided looking at him; in this milieu, with his urbane surface stripped away, he was far too devastating. Right now he was nothing like the person she’d built up in her head—the cruel and ruthless businessman who had no qualms about entering into a loveless marriage of convenience, almost welcoming it. Hadn’t he said that he was happy to be married to her? How was she supposed to fight that?
She felt unbearably confused. Up until now she’d always prided herself on being able to read people, but Rafael was proving to be quite the chameleon.
The pure joy she’d felt just a short while before made her too raw and exposed. As if she were betraying herself in some way. Her voice was husky. ‘Thank you for showing me this.’
She could feel him shrug a broad shoulder in response. ‘Like I keep saying, it’s half yours, Isobel. I’ve asked the helicopter to meet us and take us back to the house. Tomorrow I’ll show you the rest of the estate, and tomorrow night I’ve arranged for a barbecue at the house so that you can meet everyone.’
Isobel just nodded dumbly, her chest tight with conflicting emotions.
The following evening, back at the house, Isobel grimaced as she got out of the bath in her en suite bathroom. She ached all over from two days of being on horseback, but she couldn’t deny an inner sense of peace and satisfaction. Her mind shied away from thinking too much about Rafael, and how patient he’d been—showing her everything, explaining how it all worked.
When she looked at herself in the mirror a little later she grimaced. She’d put on clean jeans and a soft silk blouse. Not wanting to attract Rafael’s ire again, she opened up the first few buttons, having scary visions of him opening them for her if she buttoned up too much.
Her hair was still a little damp, but it would be dry within minutes. She emerged from her room and ran slap-bang into a wall of muscle. Rafael’s arms came to hers, steadying her. Isobel looked up and couldn’t move, her breath caught.
‘I was just coming for you.’
‘I know where the barbecue is, Rafael.’ Please move back—let me go, she begged silently.
Rafael moved back, but Isobel didn’t feel any safer.
‘All the estate workers have come up for the barbecue. Do you think we can put on a united front for one night?’
Isobel shrugged, feeling hot. ‘Of course. I mean…we are.’
He shook his head and folded his arms. ‘Not when you flinch every time I come near you or jump like a scalded cat every time I touch you. We’re meant to be on honeymoon, waking every morning in a tangle of bedsheets, limbs entwined and sated from passion spent.’
Isobel put out a hand, as if that might halt the flood of images his words had evoked like a lurid movie in her head. ‘Fine—whatever. I’ll pretend.’
He smiled smugly. ‘Good.’ He took her hand and Isobel fought not to jump, scowling when he said, sotto voce, ‘It really won’t be that hard.’
The following day, while Isobel waited in the Range Rover for Rafael to join her and drive them back to Buenos Aires, she closed her eyes with a feeling of desperation. Things were slipping out of her control completely. Last night she hadn’t slept a wink, her entire body tingling after an evening spent with Rafael glued to her side, holding her hand or snaking an arm around her waist, pulling her into him so tightly that she had felt her breasts pressing into his hard chest.
She’d felt as if she was in a permanent state of heat. Waves of it washing over her. And every time she’d tried to escape he’d merely teasingly pulled her back and pressed a kiss to her brow—or, worse, once to her mouth—sending her pulse rocketing to space. When he did that it was so hard to try and remember why she had to keep her distance and protect herself, and she was certain he knew exactly what he was doing. After the barbecue, when he’d insisted on leading her back to her room, the gloating smile on his face had told her he’d enjoyed every minute of it.
Now the insufferable man was striding towards the car and Isobel had to bring up every defence she had left just to be able to look him in the eye. But when he got in, he took out his phone saying, ‘I’m sorry—I’ve got to make this call.’
Isobel murmured something and felt a curious sensation of deflation. She half listened to a conversation that seemed to be with Rafael’s PA in Buenos Aires. It had something to do with the big deal he was working on in the States, and reminded Isobel of his ruthless business dealings. She’d forgotten.
When he was finished he cut off the connection and said, ‘I’m sorry about that. It was rude.’
Isobel shook her head, still feeling sick. ‘It’s fine. You’ve been away for a week. I can imagine there’s a backlog of work.’
She felt Rafael slide her a glance, and saw him notice the rosewood box she had cradled on her lap.
‘What’s that?’
Isobel’s hands tightened on it convulsively, as if protecting it. A little defensively she said, ‘The housekeeper told me it belonged to my grandmother. There’s something in it, but we couldn’t find the key, so I’m going to try and open it in BA.’ She sensed his curious look.
‘Isobel, it’s fine. It was your grandmother’s. It’s yours. You can do what you want with it.’
Isobel immediately felt wrong-footed and childish, and cursed herself. This man seemed to effortlessly bring out the worst in her, the most base part. She just said quietly, ‘Thank you.’
‘One of my assistants will be over this morning, with
some credit cards and bank account details.’
Rafael was draining a cup of coffee, clearly getting ready to go to work. They were having breakfast in the informal dining room the morning after returning from the estancia. Already Isobel felt as if Buenos Aires was too loud and harsh, and she longed for the peace and tranquillity of the Estancia Paradiso again.
Rafael was a million miles from the relaxed man she’d spent a week with. He was dressed in a pristine suit, shirt and tie. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back. The industrial dragon in his element—back to business and sorting out the undesirables.
‘But I have a bank account already,’ Isobel pointed out, not wanting at that moment to have anything to do with his money.
Rafael shook his head. ‘I’ve set up new ones for you. One of them holds the profit from the estancia—that’s yours now, too.’
Panic clawed at her again. Did the man have no morals? ‘But I can’t spend the profits of the estancia. Surely that should go back into maintenance or wages or something?’
Rafael smiled a little patronisingly. ‘It’s the profit after all the maintenance and wages are looked after.’
Isobel’s mind boggled. He hadn’t been joking when he’d said it was a thriving business. ‘Oh.’ She looked at him. ‘And what am I supposed to do now?’
He put his cup down. ‘I told you already, Isobel, I’m not some gaoler. You can do what you want. Go shopping, meet friends, set up a charity for unwanted designer clothes—the world’s your oyster now.’ He stood up and loomed large over her. ‘Why don’t you take a few days to figure out how to spend your money? Go on a shopping spree. I can’t imagine any woman turning that opportunity down.’
After a long week of disturbing and far too ambiguous emotions where this man was concerned, Isobel welcomed the rush of anger at this evidence of his sheer arrogance and his dismissive tone. She was back on ground she knew and understood.
She stood, too, and threw down her napkin. ‘I have a room bigger than my entire apartment in Paris full of clothes upstairs. I have a vault full of jewellery. What on earth could I possibly want to buy? I’ve never shopped on the Avenida Alvear, and I’m not going to start now.’
And then, as if an internal demon had taken over, she couldn’t stop. ‘I’m used to going out to cafés for coffee with friends, talking about real issues. I’m used to doing my own shopping, not having it delivered to the house to be unpacked by a maid. I’m used to making my own meals, not being presented with cordon bleu dinners cooked by a Michelin-starred chef.’ She finally stopped, breathing hard.
Rafael lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, a definite hint of irritation lacing his voice. ‘So go and find some kindred spirits and drink coffee all day, set the world to rights—or knock yourself out with grocery shopping. Or bake a cake. I really don’t care, Isobel. This is your life now. You’d better get used to it.’
He turned to leave the room, took a few long steps, and then turned back, eyes flashing dangerously. ‘And this is the other part of it—one of the primary functions of this marriage—be ready to go out to the opera at seven this evening. It’s going to be our first public outing as a married couple.’
That evening Isobel was waiting, still seething. She’d seethed all day, and it had been made worse because she was very afraid that her anger had a lot to do with feeling betrayed by Rafael’s morphing back to arrogant tycoon after showing her another side to him at the estancia, a more relaxed and charming side. The side of him which should have had her running for cover but which had seduced her all too easily, making her forget who he was.
Juanita, who was still as cool to Isobel as ever, saw her in the main reception room and huffed past the door. Isobel heard footsteps descend the main stairs and stood, then hurriedly sat down again, not wanting Rafael to see her so eager.
He came and filled the doorway, adjusting the cufflinks of his shirt. Dressed in a black tuxedo, he looked gorgeous.
He gestured with an imperious hand for Isobel to join him. Swallowing her anger, Isobel stood and walked over stiffly, trying to remain unmoved by his slow up and down appraisal.
He looked into her eyes as she came to stand before him. ‘Beautiful. You’re perfect, Isobel.’
‘Well, I hope so. Because I spent all day today picking out the perfect dress so that I could be your perfect wife, Rafael. After all, you’re sacrificing a hedonistic playboy existence for me, aren’t you?’
Rafael felt a lance of hurt, and it made rage curl through him. He would not let his own wife get to him. He hadn’t asked for or cared about anyone’s opinion in a long time, and he wasn’t about to start now. His uncharacteristic confession at the estancia would be the last time he explained himself to this woman.
His jaw clenched tightly and he snaked out a hand to take her chin and tip it up. ‘Exactly. And do you know what would make things even more perfect? You coming into my bed. This waiting is growing tedious. I think you’ve had all the space one person needs, and the sooner that sharp tongue of yours has its edges smoothed by passion the better. All this sexual frustration really doesn’t suit you—or me.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN THE back of his car Rafael shook with the effort it had taken not to haul Isobel into his arms in the house and kiss that mutinous mouth into submission. She was wearing a fulllength gown in off-white, softly ruched and flowing, with a swathe of material over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. The material clung to her small, firm breasts, clearly outlining their alluring shape.
That morning, the prospect of day-to-day life with Isobel had hit home, and it hadn’t been comfortable. He knew the sort of person she was: principled, and full of her own integrity. Of course she wasn’t going to just seamlessly blend into the round of coffee mornings and lunches and shopping that most high-society wives filled their days with. So why had it rankled and pushed his buttons so much when he’d never really cared one way or the other for that scene, either?
He was afraid to acknowledge the fact that on some level, after the week at the estancia, he’d thought he could push Isobel back to some safe place, and yet she’d just come at him in her usual fashion, challenging and biting and hissing. Demanding that he see her and not put her in a neat box where he wouldn’t have to deal with her. Which was exactly what he’d tried to do.
Isobel could feel waves of censure still emanating from Rafael, and felt acutely self-conscious in the fussy designer dress. She hitched up the strapless side, feeling too exposed, and nearly jumped a foot high when she felt Rafael’s warm hand come onto her knee, sending a bolt of sensation straight between her legs.
‘Stop fidgeting,’ he growled.
He took Isobel’s hand and lifted it up, forcing her gaze around his. She had to suck in a breath at the intensity in his dark eyes, and could see how his gaze moved down to her throat, where she could feel the beat of her traitorous pulse underneath her skin. A slow smile curved Rafael’s sensual mouth and, aghast at the liquid pooling of heat in her belly, Isobel finally managed to wrench her hand away.
Rafael let her go, but didn’t let her turn away from him. He brought a hand up to cup her jaw, the skin so silky-smooth and soft that he had to repress a groan of need. ‘Remember our truce. We’re in this together. We’ve both got something out of this.’
Her face in the dim light of the back of the car looked as if it was carved out of marble. ‘I’ll be the perfectly attentive wife, Rafael, don’t worry.’ And she jerked her chin out of his hand and looked away again.
In the interval of the performance Isobel went to the powder room—as much to escape Rafael for a few minutes as to repair her non-existent make-up. It was happening again. He was using the excuse of being in public and putting on a front to touch her at every opportunity and her nerves were shredding fast.
To her relief the powder room was empty, and she splashed some water on her face. She heard someone come in and only half looked up, but froze when she saw a stunningly beautiful woman looking stra
ight at her. As she watched, she saw the woman lock the door behind her so no one else could come in.
Isobel didn’t feel fear, she just felt bemused. She stood up and shook her hands out, wiped at her face with a towel.
‘So how does it feel to know you’ve married the most elusive bachelor in Argentina?’
A foreboding chill crawled down Isobel’s spine as she met the woman’s dark slumberous eyes in the mirror. ‘I’m sorry—do I know you?’
The woman came closer, to stand before the mirror, admiring her own reflection. Isobel moved back, but had to admit she was gorgeous. Long midnight-black hair, sultry feline features and a body that was poured seductively into a gold lamé dress. It was a bit too obvious for Isobel’s tastes, but…
‘I’m Rafael’s ex-fiancée.’ She turned around and held out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Isobel’s throat went dry as she wondered for a sickening moment how she had not recognised her. And how had Rafael let a temptress like this walk away from him? She was everything Isobel wasn’t, and Isobel was too stunned to castigate herself for thinking like that.
Isobel ignored her hand and sidled towards the door. The first bell rang for people to go back to their seats and she breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’d better get back. Rafael will be wondering where I am.’
The other woman crossed her arms and her eyes went to cat-like slits. ‘So you got him in the end? You know, his arranged marriage to you was one of the things I used to show him how trapped he was.’ The woman’s full mouth went into a bitter line. ‘But then I was greedy, and when he lost everything it was too much of a risk to stick around. How could I know he’d make it all back and then some?’
Isobel’s brain throbbed. ‘Lost everything…?’ What was this woman talking about?
The woman laughed harshly and sent a scathing glance up and down. ‘Look at you. You’re not even wearing make-up. You could never have hoped to get Rafael without an arranged marriage. He’s only ever felt passion for one woman—me. Why do you think he was about to elope with me?’
