Having never experienced love as a child, he was simply incapable of it.
The realisation had brought with it a strange kind of relief, and left him free to pursue his emotionless liaisons without guilt. He was careful, considerate, always making it clear that there was no possibility of anything long term …
How naïve that carefulness seemed now.
With a small sigh she stirred, and he watched her forehead crease into a frown in the second before her eyes flickered open.
‘We’re home?’ she asked softly, sitting up and looking out of the window. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m so tired I could sleep on a clothes line most of the time at the moment.’ She bent to pick up her bag, then looked up at him hesitantly. ‘Would you like to come in for coffee?’
He felt his eyebrows lift and couldn’t keep the sardonic smile from his lips. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, coffee.’ She held his gaze. ‘I’m a hormonally unbalanced pregnant woman. You’re quite safe.’
‘I think,’ he said cruelly, ‘that’s what you said last time. I’ll pass on the coffee, but I need to get a copy of your birth certificate for the marriage licence. Do you have it?’
She nodded, not meeting his eyes.
Tristan took her overnight bag from the boot of the car while she went ahead of him up the short black and white chequered path. Opening the front door, she switched on a table lamp just inside the hallway and slipped off first one high-heeled sandal and then the other. The light from the lamp shone through the thin silk of her dress, clearly showing the outline of her endless legs.
It was a momentary snapshot, but it was of such pure, concentrated sexuality that Tristan felt the breath rush from his lungs as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
Slamming the boot of the car with unnecessary force, he followed her inside.
The interior of the flat surprised him. He had expected something modern, impersonal—a base for two career girls who spent their time either travelling or partying. What he found was a home filled with beautiful things. Interesting things that looked as if they’d been collected over time, with no regard for value or fashion.
Lily had her back to him and was looking through a drawer in a pretty rosewood desk in the corner of the sitting room. Leaning against the doorframe Tristan looked around. The faded velvet sofa was piled high with cushions in turquoise and raspberry-pink silk, and the walls were hung with a mixture of Victorian oils, modern advertising prints and photographs that demanded to be looked at more closely.
He gritted his teeth and turned his head away.
A grey cat slipped through the open front door and slunk between his feet, disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. Another two, smaller versions of the first, followed.
‘How many cats do you have?’ he asked, breaking the silence.
Lily turned around, a bundle of papers tied with a faded red ribbon in her hand.
‘Officially, none. I’m away too much, but there are lots of strays round here and I feed them whenever I can and keep an eye on them.’ She untied the ribbon and took a piece of paper from the top of the bundle. ‘That little grey one was just a baby herself when she had the kittens. I feel awful—I should have taken her to be spayed.’
She crossed the room and handed him a piece of paper. Tristan took it without looking at it, then, levering himself up from the doorframe, walked back down the hall, saying with cold sarcasm, ‘It’s a little ironic, given our current situation, that you’re worried about your failure to take responsibility for the contraception of the feline population, wouldn’t you say?’
She stopped in the doorway, her eyes downcast, running the length of tattered silk ribbon through her long fingers.
‘Yes, maybe.’
Her quiet acceptance sent an arrow of guilt and self-loathing shooting straight into his derelict heart, and he tensed against the acute and unfamiliar pain that flashed through him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said tersely. ‘That was unfair.’
‘No, you’re right.’ She shook her head, and looked up at him. She was smiling, but her eyes shimmered silver with unshed tears and Tristan felt as if someone had taken hold of the arrow in his heart and was trying to wrench it out. And failing.
Taking the ribbon from her, he took her left hand in his, scowling blackly down at it as he tied the faded silk around her ring finger.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I need to know your ring size.’
For a moment both of them looked down at her hand in his—pale as milk against the dark gold of his skin, her fingers slender and delicate in his powerful grip. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ she said in a low voice.
Tristan raised his head and forced himself to look at her. ‘What?’
‘Marry me.’
Her eyes were as gentle as smoke from an autumn bonfire. He slid the ribbon from her finger, unable to stop a bitter laugh escaping him. ‘Oh, but I do,’ he said bleakly, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘I do, you see, because although Romero men don’t do love, or … or fatherhood, there is something we’re very, very good at.’
‘And what’s that?’ she whispered.
‘Duty.’ He said the word as if it were a curse.
Lily nodded, biting her lip. ‘Is that what this is?’ she asked quietly. ‘Duty?’
‘Yes,’ he said flatly. ‘Duty. That’s all, and if that’s not enough for you it’s not too late to change your mind. But don’t fool yourself, Lily. Don’t think for a moment that you’re getting something you’re not, or that you can change me into some kind of new man who’s in touch with his emotions because—’
‘Ah, but I think you already are in touch with your emotions.’ Her voice was thoughtful, almost apologetic. She took a step forwards, so that she was close enough for him to smell the almond sweetness of her skin. Shock juddered through him as she laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. ‘And I think the emotion you’re most in touch with at the moment is fear.’
It was as if someone had taken a needle of pure adrenaline and stabbed it straight into a vein. Tristan felt heat pulse through his body, closely followed by an ice-cold wave of anger. Circling her wrist with his fingers, he jerked her hand off him, bringing it viciously down to her side so that she lost her balance and fell against him. Her head snapped back, so that she was looking up at him, her face flushed and her eyes blazing with defiance.
With desire.
Tristan felt the blood rush to his groin in instant, primitive response. They were both breathing very hard
‘Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you understand me, Lily,’ he said harshly. ‘I can assure you, you don’t. There’s only one … emotion … I’m in touch with.’
It was a singularly crass, Neanderthal thing to say, but she seemed to bring that side out in him, he thought viciously. He’d expected her to shrink away from the deliberate coarseness of his words. But she didn’t. With one hand still imprisoned in his iron grip, she raised the other and gently cupped his jaw.
‘I don’t believe that,’ she murmured.
Afterwards he couldn’t have said who made the first move, but suddenly their mouths had come together and her fingers were digging into his flesh as she gripped his arm, her breasts thrusting against his chest. They kissed with a savagery that was totally at odds with her gentleness, and which shattered his memories of the dreamy, languid night in the tower.
She was all things. Anything he wanted, everything he needed at just the moment he needed it most—even when he hardly knew it himself. Her mouth was hard and hungry on his now, meeting the brutal insistence of his kiss with a passion and a fury that matched his own.
But it was he who pulled away, thrusting her backwards and pulling himself upright as he reassembled the barriers of his self-control.
‘Then you’re fooling yourself,’ he said viciously, turning away so he didn’t have to confront the bewilderment in her eyes or the broken promise of her ripe,
reddened lips.
‘You’re confusing lust with something deep and significant. You’re a beautiful, desirable woman—hostias, I’ll make love to you a hundred times a day if you want me to, and I’ll love doing it. But I won’t love you. You have to understand that.’
She was leaning against the wall of the hallway, the back of her hand pressed against her reddened mouth. Above it her eyes were huge and luminous with emotion.
‘But what if I can’t live with that?’ she whispered.
‘Then I respect that. I won’t touch you. I’m not a monster.’ His tone hardened. ‘But I am a man. There’s only so much temptation I can stand. You have to be careful, Lily; if you play with fire, you’re going to get burned. It’s up to you to choose what sort of marriage this is going to be.’
‘A loveless marriage, or a loveless, sexless one.’ She made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. ‘That’s my choice?’
He sighed heavily. ‘Not entirely. You can also choose to leave me out of your life and the life of your child.’
Her face was half in shadow but he caught the glimmer of a single tear as it slid silently down her cheek. Her hand moved instinctively to her midriff and slowly she shook her head.
‘No. I want my baby to have a father, but I won’t prostitute myself for the privilege,’ she said dully.
Tristan shrugged helplessly. ‘OK. Your choice.’ Turning away, he began to walk back down the path to the car. ‘I’ll be in touch with travel details for Barcelona as soon as I have them.’
As he drove away he caught a glimpse of her, silhouetted in the light from the hallway, and felt guilt rise like acid in the back of his throat. Bracing his arms against the steering wheel, he swore tersely.
Why was she letting him do this to her?
He had offered her the only way out he could think of and she had stubbornly refused to take it. He had given her a chance to walk away, to live a normal life, and she wouldn’t go.
Why?
Pulling up at a red light, he noticed the folded paper on the seat next to him, and opened it up. ‘Lily Alexander,’ he read. ‘Birthplace—Brighton, England. Mother—Susannah Alexander. Father—unknown.’
So that was it, he thought with a despairing gust of laughter. That explained the fervour with which she’d spoken earlier. I won’t have my child growing up without a name. An identity, she’d said, as if having no father were the worst thing that could happen.
He dragged a hand across his face as the lights changed to green, and he accelerated away with unnecessary force. Her naiveté would have been almost endearing if it weren’t so dangerous.
Everyone was just a victim of their own past, he thought despairingly.
He wondered how long he could go on hiding how much of a victim he was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LILY walked down the aisle of the beautiful old church as if she were in a dream.
From behind the snowy tulle of her designer veil the world had taken on a soft-focus haze, so that she was barely aware of the anonymous smiling faces that turned towards her as she passed, the artistic posies tied onto the pew ends, the candles flickering in sconces on the pillars. She just had to concentrate on putting one expensive ivory satin-shod foot in front of the other … on suppressing the ever-present morning sickness … on making it down to the man who stood waiting at the altar with his back towards her.
As she gripped her bouquet of white roses and lily of the valley her diamond engagement ring bit into her finger, heavy and still unfamiliar. It had arrived a week ago, by courier, accompanied by a terse note giving details of her journey to Barcelona.
That was it.
No explanation, no additional words to strengthen the gossamer-fine threads that tied her to the remote, handsome stranger she was marrying. Nothing to reassure her that she was doing the right thing.
Oh, God, was she doing the right thing?
‘Cut!’
There was a palpable release of tension in the ‘congregation’ as the director of the perfume commercial stepped in front of her, making slashing motions with his arms. ‘Lily, darling, you’re walking towards your bridegroom, the love of your life, not your executioner! Some sense of joyous serenity, darling, please! This is supposed to be your wedding! The happiest day of a girl’s life!’
‘Sorry, sorry …’ Lily muttered, gripping her bouquet of slightly wilting roses in anguish. The director’s face softened as he peered through her veil and said quietly, ‘Look, are you OK under there? Perhaps you’d like to take a quick break? Grab something to eat?’
Lily shook her head. The wedding dress supplied by the couture arm of the company was already so tight it felt like some barbaric method of medieval torture, and a car was due to collect her in just a few hours to take her to the private airfield where Tristan’s jet would be waiting. Her stomach swooped at the thought. ‘No, really, I’m fine,’ she said determinedly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m ready now. Let’s do it again.’
The director gave her arm a quick squeeze and nodded at the bridegroom, who was leaning against the altar rail talking on his mobile to his boyfriend in Milan. Gathering up her papery silk skirts, Lily hurried back to the church doorway while the director clapped his hands to bring the congregation of extras back to order, hushing the musical babble of Italian conversation that had risen during the hiatus.
Beneath her veil Lily felt the heat of panic rise to her cheeks and breathed deeply, steadying herself against it as she smoothed a hand over the silk that stretched across her thickening midriff. Her heart twisted with primitive love as she thought of the baby inside her. That was why she was doing it. That was why she was shortly going to be getting on a plane and flying to a strange city to marry a man she didn’t know. She was giving her baby a father. A name. That had to be right, didn’t it?
‘OK, people, let’s take that again. And remember, Lily, you’re drifting on a cloud of bliss, darling. You’re in love and getting married to the man of your dreams! What could be better?’
If he loved me back, thought Lily sadly as she stepped forwards once more into the bright lights.
Tristan didn’t even glance at his father’s secretary as he stalked through her office and pushed open the tall double doors to Juan Carlos Romero de Losada’s inner sanctum. He was holding a piece of paper—a printout of the transactions made by the bank in the last week, which he’d been studying ahead of tomorrow’s meeting with the chancellors of some of Europe’s major banks—and as he threw it down on his father’s desk the secretary appeared at the door looking worried.
‘Señor, I am sorry—’
From behind the fortress of his enormous desk Juan Carlos held up a regal and perfectly manicured hand, the Romero signet ring glinting heavily on his little finger.
‘Please, Luisa, it is not your fault. My son has yet to learn some manners.’ Settling his face into a smooth smile, he turned his cold gaze on Tristan as the secretary retreated with obvious relief. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain what is so important that you neglect the most basic courtesy to my staff?’
Tristan’s face was set into a rigid mask of barely controlled anger. When he spoke it was through gritted teeth, his lips hardly moving.
‘You authorised a further loan to the Khazakismiri army. Last week. Another four million euros. Do you know who these people are? They’re terrorists, guerillas, who are responsible for mass genocide.’
Juan Carlos gave a minute shrug of his elegant shoulders. ‘Their generals are also very likely to form a large part of the cabinet of the next Khazakismiri government. This is business, Tristan. We cannot afford to be emotional.’
The word hit Tristan like an unexpected blow, reminding him so suddenly of Lily that he felt the air being knocked from his lungs.
I think you already are in touch with your emotions, she had said. And I think the emotion you’re most in touch with at the moment is fear.
She was wrong, he thought bitterly as he stared unflinchingly
into the brutally handsome face of his father; the face that his own echoed so clearly. He knew fear. Fear was the element in which he had lived for the first eight years of his life, until boarding school had delivered him from it. Fear had coloured every day, so that he knew all its shades of blackness. Fear was being small, powerless, not in control, and he had made sure that he was as far removed from all those things as it was possible to be.
‘I’m not talking about emotion,’ he said icily. ‘I’m talking about ethics.’
‘Tristan, this is Spain’s oldest and most venerated bank, not some ramshackle, politically correct charity,’ Juan Carlos said silkily, and not for the first time Tristan wondered just how much his father knew about his double life. ‘Khazakismir is going through a turbulent time in its history at the moment, but it is an area that is potentially rich in natural gas and oil, and when things are more settled our investment will be richly rewarded. I have a duty to provide the best return for our investors.’
Tristan swore with quiet disgust. ‘And you think they would agree with that if they knew exactly what kind of atrocities their money was funding?’
‘We don’t have to burden them with moral dilemmas or complicated political issues. I think of myself as a father figure to our customers,’ Juan Carlos continued complacently. ‘I make decisions with their best interests at heart. It’s not always an easy role, or a comfortable one, but it is my duty. Just as your duty is to the family.’
Just the word ‘father’ coming from Juan Carlos’s lips made Tristan’s hands bunch into fists and adrenaline pulse through him. His eyes were drawn, as they always were whenever he had any cause to penetrate Juan Carlos’s private citadel, to the large silver-framed photograph that stood on the desk. To the casual observer it showed the Romero de Losada Montalvo family posing happily together on the steps of El Paraiso, but Tristan always suspected it was placed there, not so much to impress visitors, but to remind Tristan of the real nature and extent of his ‘duty’.
Hot Nights with a Spaniard (Mills & Boon M&B) (Mills & Boon Special Releases) Page 22
