by Jennie Lucas
“It will be fine,” he said, but he understood why Belle was nervous. Their ‘impromptu engagement party’ had ballooned out of proportion. On August weekends, the city usually was so deserted he wouldn’t have been half-surprised to see tumbleweeds going down Fifth Avenue. But to his surprise, everyone they’d invited had instantly accepted. Not only that, but more had asked to come, even coming in from Connecticut and the Hamptons.
Everyone, it seemed, was curious to see the pregnant Texas waitress who’d tamed the famous playboy Santiago Velazquez.
“Gossip has spread about me,” Belle said glumly.
“Ignore it.”
“The butler’s right, I’m nobody.”
“So was I, when I came to America at eighteen,” Santiago pointed out.
“That just adds to your glory,” she said grumpily. “Now you’re a self-made billionaire. I bet you’ve never failed at anything.”
That wasn’t true. Just five years ago, Santiago had failed in spectacular fashion.
But he wasn’t going to tell Belle about Nadia. Not now. Not ever.
Pushing the button for the elevator, he turned to her with a sudden frown. “What did you mean, the butler was right? Did he say something to you?”
Averting her eyes, she nodded. “I overheard the butler and cook and maid talking a couple weeks ago. They weren’t happy about having me as their mistress. Mr. Jones told them I was a nobody, but they should pretend to obey me until the brat was born, when you’d get rid of me.”
“What?”
“He knew I heard them talking, but wasn’t even sorry.” Lifting her gaze, she tried to smile. “It’s no big deal. I’ll get used to it.”
But Santiago’s jaw was tight with fury. That his own employees would dare to scorn his future wife, his unborn child, in his own house! His dark brows lowered like a thundercloud.
Once the elevator opened on the ground floor, he took Belle by the arm and led her down the hall, past all the extra hired staff who were setting out appetizers and flowers for the party.
In the kitchen, he found the butler busy with preparations for the meal, along with the two other live-in members of his staff—Mrs. Green, the cook, and Anna, the maid. The front doorbell rang, and the butler started to leave the kitchen.
“Jones, stay,” Santiago ordered harshly, then turned to one of the temporary waiters walking past with a tray. “Tell Kip he’s in charge of answering the door.”
“Kip?”
“The one with a tattoo on his neck.”
“Right.”
Santiago turned back to face his employees.
“What is it, Mr. Velazquez?” Anna said anxiously.
“I should be answering the door for your party guests, Mr. Velazquez,” Jones intoned.
Santiago looked at the three of them coldly.
“You are all fired.”
They stared at him in shock, their mouths agape.
“Pack up your things,” Santiago continued grimly. “I want you out of here in ten minutes.”
“But—my food for the party—” Mrs. Green stammered.
“What did we do?” Anna gasped.
“You told him to fire us.” The butler looked at Belle with venom in his eyes. “You just had to tattle, didn’t you?”
“I never meant for this to happen...” Belle looked at Santiago. She put an urgent hand on his shoulder. “Please. You don’t need to—”
But he moved his shoulder away. His fury was past listening as he stared at the three employees who’d dared to be rude to Belle. “This party is no longer your concern, and you now only have nine minutes left.”
The butler drew himself up contemptuously. “I’ll go. It would destroy my professional reputation to work for your wife, anyway. She doesn’t belong here!”
“You think your reputation would be destroyed?” Santiago said coldly. “See what happens if you ever speak rudely about Belle again to anyone.”
“Santiago,” Belle said, tugging on his sleeve desperately. “I don’t want anyone to lose their jobs. I just thought...”
“I should have known you’d rat us out, after you heard us talking that first day,” Jones snarled.
The plump cook whirled to Belle with a gasp. “You heard us?”
But Belle was staring at the butler, and so was Santiago. So was the maid.
Jones’s accent had slipped.
Suddenly Santiago knew why the butler had hated Belle on sight. She wasn’t the only one who felt out of place.
“You’re not even British,” Santiago said accusingly.
“Nope.” Jones yanked off the apron that had been over his suit and tie. “Born in New Jersey. I’m done with this butler stuff. No amount of money is worth this.” He looked at Belle. “You might be stuck here till he dumps you. But I’m not. Forget this. I’m going to go start a band.”
Throwing away his apron, he left.
Santiago looked at the two women. “Any last words?”
The young maid, Anna, turned to Belle, her cheeks red. “I’m sorry, Miss Langtry. I sneered at you about pork rinds because, well, I like them myself. But I eat them in secret. I didn’t want Mr. Jones to know... “
The cook stepped forward, abashed. “And I taunted you about the stripper pole, because, well—” the plump middle-aged woman’s cheeks reddened “—I was a stripper myself for a few months when I was young. It’s not something I’m proud of, but my baby’s father had abandoned us. I was desperate...” Turning to Santiago, she pulled off her cap. “That bit of employment wasn’t listed on my résumé. I understand if you don’t want me cooking for you no more. Especially after what I said. I’ll go.”
“Please don’t fire me,” Anna begged. “I need this job. I’m working my way through law school and the hours are hard to find. The wages, too.”
“It’s not your choice.” Santiago looked at Belle. “It’s my fiancée’s.”
Belle glanced at the two women. The younger of them was looking at her with pleading eyes, as the older stared woodenly at the floor with slumped shoulders.
“Please stay.” Her voice trembled slightly. “If you’re not too embarrassed to work for me...”
“Oh, no!” Anna exclaimed fervently. “How could I be embarrassed of you? I’m only ashamed of myself.”
“Me, too,” the cook said softly. Looking up, her soft blue eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”
Belle gave them a wobbly smile. “I know what it feels like to be pregnant and alone. No one would judge you badly for doing whatever it took to take care of your baby.” Glancing at Santiago out of the corner of her eye, she added, “In fact, you both get a raise.”
“What?” the women said joyfully.
“Of thirty percent!”
“What?” Santiago said, not so joyfully.
“A raise,” Belle repeated firmly, “as our household will be doing without a butler. Their extra responsibilities deserve it.”
She made a good point. Santiago scowled at her. And he had to admit to himself that having a butler, especially a sniffy one like Jones, hadn’t added much to the comfort of his home life.
“Fine,” he said grudgingly, then turned to the others. “Don’t give my bride reason to regret her generosity. There will be no second chance.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Back to your duties.”
“Right away!”
Mrs. Green scurried back to the enormous ovens, her plump face alarmed. “Oh, no—my salmon puffs!”
Taking Belle aside in the hallway, he growled, “Thirty percent?”
She lifted her chin. “They will be worth it.”
“Right. And here I thought the most expensive thing would be getting you a new wardrobe.”
“What about
this?” She smiled, lifting up the huge diamond ring on her left hand. “I can’t even imagine how much it cost.”
Try free, he thought. He cleared his throat, then brightened. “And your earrings.” Those, at least, had been specifically purchased for Belle.
She touched one of the diamonds dangling from her ears. “You could have bought me fake ones, you know. No one would have been able to tell the difference, least of all me. Big waste of money.”
“You really are terrible at being a gold digger.”
“I know,” she agreed. She looked down at her ring. “It’s beautiful, but it makes me feel guilty. This ring could have probably bought a car.”
When he’d bought it five years before, the amount he’d spent could actually have bought a house. But of course he’d bought it for a different woman, so Belle had nothing to feel guilty about. He was tempted to tell her, but kept his mouth shut. Somehow he thought this was one situation when no woman on earth, even an ardent environmentalist, would think highly of recycling.
The doorbell rang again, and he saw the seven-foot-tall Kip head for the front door. Flinging it open, Kip glared at an ambassador, who looked startled, and his skinny, bejeweled wife, who looked terrified.
“Oh, dear,” Belle sighed, following his gaze.
“I’m not sure Kip has the right skill set to be butler,” Santiago said, hiding a smile.
“Let’s go take over for him.”
He frowned at her. “Answer the door ourselves?”
“What, don’t you know how?” Giving him an impish smile, she took his hand. “Come on, Santiago. Let’s give ’em a big Texas welcome.”
Her hand was warm in his own, and as he looked down at the curve of her breasts revealed above the neckline of her gown, a flash of heat went through his body. “I thought you were afraid of society people.”
“I am.” She added with a rueful laugh, “But my mama always said there’s only one way to get through something that scares you, and that’s by doing it.”
Looking at the resolve in Belle’s beautiful face, at the gleam in her dark eyes and her half-parted ruby-red lips, Santiago was tempted to give her a counteroffer: that they throw all the guests out, lock the door, and make love right here, on the table between the flowers and the cream puffs.
Instead, as the doorbell rang again, Belle pulled him toward the door.
“I just fired Jones,” Santiago told Kip. “Make sure he doesn’t make off with the silver.”
“Yes, sir,” Kip said, looking relieved, and he fled.
Santiago stood beside Belle as they answered the door, welcoming all their illustrious, powerful guests. The people were all strangers to Belle, and yet she gave each of them a warm smile, as if she were truly glad to see them. Some of the guests seemed pleased, others slightly startled.
Santiago was enchanted.
Over the next few hours, as he watched Belle mingle at the party, he felt a mixture of pride and desire. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was breathtaking.
In that dress and those high heels, with her makeup and hair so glossy and sophisticated, she might have fit in perfectly, except for one thing.
She stood out.
Belle was the most beautiful woman there.
Only he knew the fear and insecurity she’d hidden inside. That somehow made him even prouder of her. Tonight he admired her courage and grace even more than he admired her beauty.
The house had been filled with bright-colored flowers, and the hors d’oeuvres, overseen by Mrs. Green, were exquisite. But not half as exquisite as Belle, feverishly bright-eyed and lovely. The party was a huge success.
Because of Belle, he thought. She was the star.
Later that evening, he watched her across the crowded ballroom, now smiling at three of the board members of the Canadian hotel chain. He’d invited them to the party in an offhand way, but he hadn’t really expected them to come. He watched as Belle smiled and said something that made all three men laugh uproariously.
Belle was as good at this as Nadia, he thought in astonishment. Maybe even better.
He’d met Nadia his first night at the orphanage in Madrid, when he was fourteen. She was blonde, beautiful, a year older, with hard violet eyes and a raspy laugh. He’d been immediately infatuated. When he told her he was breaking out to go live with his father, the Duke of Sangovia, she’d been awed. “Take me with you,” she’d begged, and he’d agreed.
Nadia had watched from the bushes as the palace guards tried phoning his father, then at the duke’s answer, turned on Santiago scornfully, setting the dogs on him. He’d run away from the snarling jaws and snapping teeth, staggering past the safety of the gate, to fall at her feet.
“No luck, huh?” Nadia had said, looking down at him coolly. She’d looked past the wrought-iron walls, ten feet tall, over the palm trees, toward the rooftops of the palace, barely visible from the gate. “Someday, I’ll live in a place like this.”
“I won’t.” Wiping blood from his face, Santiago had looked back at it with hatred, then slowly risen to his feet, ignoring the blood on his knees, the rips in his pants. “My house will be a million times better than this.” He’d looked at the beautiful blonde girl. “And you’ll be my wife.”
“Marry you?” She’d looked at him coolly. “I’m going to be a movie star. There’s no reason I’d marry you or anyone. Not unless you could give me something I can’t get for myself.” Her lovely face was thoughtful as she looked back toward the palace. “If you could make me a duchess....”
That was one thing Santiago could never do. He wasn’t the legitimate heir. He was just a bastard by-blow, whose father couldn’t be bothered to give him a home, a name, or even a single minute of his time. A sliver of pain went through him, overwhelmed by a wave of rage.
He would be better than his father. Better than his half brother. Better than all of them.
Lifting his chin, he’d said boldly, “Someday, I’ll be a billionaire. Then I’ll ask you. And you’ll say yes.”
Nadia had given a low, patronizing laugh. “A billionaire?” she’d said, putting out her cigarette. “Sure. Ask me then.”
He’d officially made his first billion by the time he was thirty. But too late. The day his company went public, he flew his private jet to Barcelona, where Nadia was filming her latest movie. He’d fallen to one knee and held out the ring, just as he’d imagined for half his life. And then he’d waited.
One never knew where one stood with Nadia. She knew how to charm with a glance, how to cut out someone’s heart with a smile. Sitting on her film set, looking beautiful as a queen, she’d fluttered her eyelashes mournfully.
“Oh, dear. I’m sorry. You’re too late. I just agreed to marry your brother.” She’d held out her left hand, showing off an exquisite antique ring. “I’m going to live in the Palacio de las Palmas and be a duchess someday. I can only do that if I marry the Duque de Sangovia’s legitimate heir. And that’s not you. Sorry.”
Strange to think that Nadia was living with his father and brother, Santiago thought, while he himself had never met either of them. Nadia had been married to his brother for five years now, and as she waited to be duchess she comforted herself with the title of marquesa, along with the other title given her by the European tabloids—“the Most Beautiful Woman in the World.”
“Hell of a girl you’ve got there.”
Coming out of his reverie, Santiago abruptly focused on the man speaking to him. It was Rob McVoy, the CEO of the Canadian family firm. “Thank you.”
“Any man who could make a woman like Belle love him must be trustworthy. So I changed my mind. We’ll take the chance.” He gave a brusque nod. “We agree to the deal.”
Santiago blinked in shock. “You do?”
The man clapped him on the shoulder. “Our lawyers will b
e in touch.”
Santiago stared after him in amazement. After weeks of stalled negotiations, accusations of double-dealing and an almost total lack of trust, the Canadians were suddenly willing to sell him their family company, just after spending twenty minutes talking to Belle?
He was still in shock hours later, when the appetizers and champagne were almost gone, the flowers starting to wilt and the last guests straggling out. Belle had already gone upstairs. As a pregnant woman, no one thought less of her for being tired, and they’d all said goodbye to her with fond, indulgent smiles. Santiago was amazed. How had she become so popular with so many, so fast?
Not with everyone, of course. Some of the trophy wives and girlfriends, some of the more shallow hedge fund billionaires, had indeed looked askance, and whispered behind their hands, smirking.
Everyone else had loved her.
Going to the third floor, Santiago found her in their bedroom, sitting on their bed, her shoes kicked off. His gaze swept over the curves of her breasts as she leaned over to rub her bare feet, wincing. “These shoes. Murder!”
Dropping his tuxedo jacket and tie to the floor, he sat beside her on the enormous bed. Pulling her feet into his lap, he started massaging them.
“That feels fantastic,” she murmured. Her eyes closed in pleasure as she leaned back against the pillows.
“Did you enjoy the party?” It took several moments for her to answer.
“Um. It was great.”
He stopped rubbing her feet. “How was it really?”
With a sigh, she opened her eyes.
“Fine?” she tried, and it was even less believable. He snorted.
“You really are the worst actress I’ve ever seen,” he observed. He started rubbing the arches of her feet, and she exhaled in pleasure.
“All right, it wasn’t easy. Those shoes are like instruments of death. And people kept talking about things I didn’t understand—effective altruism as related to overnight borrowing rates, for example...”
“Those aren’t at all related.”
She glared at him in irritation. “That’s exactly my point. I don’t know, and don’t care.” She yawned. “Then others started discussing the gallery show of an artist I never heard of. When I confessed as much, they were horrified and said you owned one of his paintings. Then they made me go take a look at it.”
