‘As if I could forget,’ said Tristan tonelessly, still looking at the picture.
The casual observer probably wouldn’t notice the person, standing shoulder to shoulder with Tristan, who had been cropped out of the picture. They would be far more likely to look at Nico, Juan Carlos’s youngest son, standing at the front, and remark on the openness of his expression, the infectious charm of his smile.
They would, of course, never suspect what it had cost his older brother to keep it there.
‘Bueno. Talking of which …’ Juan Carlos leaned back in his chair and looked at Tristan speculatively ‘… I am pleased to see that there haven’t been so many unfortunate photographs of you cavorting with unsuitable women in the press lately. I thought that when you gave up that pointless Oxford degree and came to work for the bank that you were ready to apply yourself to your duty as a Romero, but I have been bitterly disappointed by your conduct over the years. Perhaps at last you are beginning to take your responsibilities more seriously?’
Turning to leave, Tristan gave a short, ironic laugh. ‘You could say that.’
‘Not before time. You need to settle down, Tristan. I hope you’re not forgetting the reception tomorrow, after our meeting tomorrow with the European finance committee. Sofia Carranzo will be there. Such a charming girl.’
‘By which you mean wealthy, well-bred and Catholic,’ Tristan said scathingly.
Juan Carlos’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hardly need remind you of your duty to make a good marriage. Provide an heir.’
Tristan paused with his hand on the door. ‘No. As a matter of fact you don’t,’ he said quietly.
‘So you’ll be there?’ Juan Carlos pressed. ‘Good. I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll be there.’
As he passed Luisa on the way out Tristan smiled. In a funny way he was quite looking forward to it too.
The light of the short autumn afternoon was fading as the car wound its way through the traffic into the centre of Barcelona. Giving up on the book she had chosen for the journey—Cervantes’ Don Quixote—Lily sat back in her seat and stared out into the brightly lit shop fronts and cafés, trying to keep her breathing slow and even.
She had no idea where she was being taken, since the enquiries she had made in basic Spanish to the menacing-looking driver who had hauled her bags into the back of the car had been met by a stone wall of silence. Despite the gloom he wore a pair of dark glasses and from beneath these an angry scar ran down his cheek to the corner of his unsmiling mouth.
Lily shivered. There was something intimidating, hostile, in his unresponsiveness that did nothing to dispel the nervous tension that had dogged her since she’d stepped into the plush interior of Tristan’s private jet in Rome. The fact that Tristan hadn’t bothered to come and meet her himself added a frisson of anger to the apprehension and terrible, treacherous excitement that churned inside her at the thought of seeing him again.
Pregnancy hormones, she told herself firmly. He’d made it quite clear in London what the terms of their marriage would be and she had taken the only option that left her with a shred of dignity. She couldn’t accept the alternative, but as the moment of meeting him drew closer she couldn’t think how she was going to live with her choice either …
The huge black car slid through streets that grew increasingly narrow, increasingly empty, and Lily twisted the diamond ring on her finger anxiously as she craned out into the gloom, searching for landmarks to give her a clue as to where they were. No one knew she was here, she thought as fear began to prickle at the back of her neck. Maybe the car wasn’t sent by Tristan at all, she thought with a thud of horror. Maybe she was being kidnapped by someone who had somehow learned that she was engaged to the heir to the Romero billions … Maybe Tristan was even now receiving a ransom note, demanding a huge sum for her safe release …
Folding her shaking hands protectively across her softly rounded stomach, Lily bit her lip, trying to stamp out the flare of panic that leapt inside her.
No matter how much the demand, the Marqués de Montesa could afford to pay it, she thought with an attempt at self-mockery. This was the man who went to parties by helicopter and sent five carat diamonds by post. But he doesn’t love me, whispered an unpleasant, persistent little voice in her head. That’s the flaw in the kidnapper’s plan. The baby and I are a problem, an inconvenience, and if I were to disappear …
The car stopped. Lily jumped, her eyes widening with alarm as she saw that they were in a narrow street squeezed between very high, very old buildings. Beside the car there was an archway, its mouth yawning blackly in the gloom. Her pulse went into overdrive. The taciturn chauffeur got out, his footsteps ringing on the stone flags, echoing off the tall walls around them, keeping time with the hammering of Lily’s heart as she sat, bolt upright and trembling, in the back of the car. A moment later he opened the door and stood back.
Lily gave a little gasp of terror as she glimpsed a man standing in the shadows of the archway. Instinct told her to get out of the car, that she might still have a chance to run for it, and she stumbled to her feet just as he stepped forward into the dying grey afternoon. He was tall, lean, powerfully built, but even in the gloom there was no mistaking the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the sensual mouth.
‘Tristan!’
The breath seemed to catch in her throat, so that the word came out as a strangled croak, and suddenly she was in his arms, burying her face in the hardness of his chest as relief flooded her. He smelled clean and warm and she breathed in the scent, waiting for the wild crashing of her heart to steady.
It didn’t.
From deep in the pit of her stomach she felt bolts of heat shoot along her nerve endings as his hands closed over her shoulders, firm and powerful.
‘What an unexpectedly enthusiastic welcome,’ he drawled with quiet mockery. ‘Do I take it you’ve reconsidered your decision about the nature of our marriage?’
‘No!’ she exclaimed, blushing hotly as she stepped away from him, folding her cashmere wrap tightly around her and hugging herself to stop the trembling that racked her body. ‘I’m just glad that it’s you and not some cold-blooded kidnapper with a gun and a ransom demand.’ Suddenly the fear of a moment ago felt suddenly silly and childish. ‘I didn’t know where we were going, and your driver wasn’t very forthcoming.’
‘Dimitri’s Russian. He doesn’t speak any English, or much Spanish.’ Tristan turned to him and spoke briefly in rapid, flawless Russian, which brought a flicker of a smile to Dimitri’s lugubrious features. ‘He’ll take care of your bags. We go on foot from here.’
Lily had to almost run to keep up with his long, rapid stride.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To church.’
‘Church? The church where we’re getting married?’
‘Of course.’
A shiver rippled down her spine, excitement mixed with apprehension as the reality of what they were doing edged a little closer. They were walking along a narrow street, just a passageway between ancient buildings, and Tristan was walking slightly ahead of her, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his black jacket, his collar turned up, demons at his back.
Just looking at him made Lily’s legs feel weak.
Another stone archway blocked out the remains of the light for a moment, and then suddenly they were in an open space again, a small square hemmed in on all sides by a jumble of ancient buildings, all crammed together as if supporting each other. In the centre stood a hexagonal fountain, and trees stretched their branches up to the pewter sky.
‘Oh!’ Lily stopped, looking around. Apart from a couple drinking coffee at one of the tables of the bar of the hotel in one corner, the square was empty. The only sound was the gentle trickle of water from the fountain, the soft crooning of pigeons. It was like stepping through a magic doorway, into another time.
Her gaze returned to where he stood beside a huge and ornately decorated doorway set into a wall
of pockmarked stone and she smiled. ‘It’s lovely—so perfect and romantic.’
The words were met with a mocking twist of his mouth. ‘Romantic?’ he repeated sardonically, pushing open a small door set into the tall, imposing entrance. ‘I never really thought of it that way before.’
‘Really? You do surprise me,’ said Lily dryly, glancing up at him from under her lashes as she stepped through the door he held open for her. For a moment he scowled down at her, and then he gave her a reluctant smile.
‘Don’t push your luck, Señorita Alexander,’ he murmured. ‘And remember what I said. If you play with fire …’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
Lily followed him into a cavernous space with a high domed ceiling. Her eye was immediately drawn past the rows of wooden pews to the dramatic edifice that rose up behind the altar, of gilded and polished marble pillars supporting a row of angels with their magnificent wings unfurled, and life-sized saints in various attitudes of dramatic supplication. Wrapping her arms around herself Lily walked slowly forward, looking around, trying to imagine what it would be like on the day of their wedding …
Now the building was dimly lit and the pews were empty, apart from an elderly man sitting in the second row, head bent over his rosary beads, fingers working silently. At the back of the church a woman was threading long-stemmed red roses and sprays of gypsophila into an extravagant display of greenery on a tall stand, while a small girl played with the flowers at her feet.
Lily watched, noticing the absorption with which the girl held the flowers, the slight frown on her small face as she walked a couple of slow, solemn steps, and realised she was playing a game. She was pretending to be a bride, holding her bunch of flowers in front of her like a bouquet. Lily smiled, feeling a lump form in the back of her throat as unconsciously her hand moved to her stomach, moving over the almost imperceptible bump of her own child.
The past weeks had been exhausting and often joyless, the constant drag of morning sickness made worse by the fact there was no one to share it with, no one to confide in. But there were moments, like this one, when she was struck by the sheer miracle of what was happening inside her body, when the astonishing privilege of having a baby of her own to love and look after almost made her gasp out loud. And she knew in those moments that she would do anything at all to protect it and to give it a safe and happy life.
‘Lily.’
She turned her head, and Tristan saw her soft smile fade slightly as she came to where he was standing with the priest. She had been looking at the child, he realised with a stabbing sensation in his chest. That was what had given her eyes that luminescence. When he spoke his voice was flinty.
‘If you’re ready, perhaps we could get on with what we came for.’
‘What we came for?’ She frowned.
Aware of the priest at his side, Tristan gave her a smooth, blank smile, hoping that she was sensible enough to detect the warning it contained. ‘Getting married, of course, querida.’
‘Now?’ Her eyes widened in shock and colour seeped into her pale cheeks. Grasping her firmly by the elbow, Tristan muttered a few apologetic words in Spanish to Father Angelico as he drew her to one side before she could say anything else that was likely to make the priest have second thoughts about conducting this highly unconventional wedding. It had taken considerable amounts of string-pulling and a more than generous donation to the church fund to silence Father Angelico’s doubts about officiating at the secret marriage between the son of one of Spain’s most important families and a socially insignificant English non-Catholic girl. Any sign of further irregularity in the circumstances might force him to reconsider.
‘Yes, now,’ he said, carefully keeping his tone level. ‘Or have you changed your mind?’
Her eyes were the dark grey of the English sky before a storm, but whether clouded by anger or by hurt he couldn’t tell. ‘No, of course not. I just thought … I mean, I wanted—’
‘What? A designer dress and a dozen small bridesmaids?’ he mocked.
Lily looked down with a sad, self-deprecating smile. ‘You make it sound so outrageous. I knew it was going to be a quiet wedding, but I thought that maybe some members of your family could be there, and Scarlet and Tom …’
Tristan wanted to laugh out loud at the idea of Juan Carlos and Allegra sitting passively by and watching him marry this English nobody, but he managed to restrain himself. Taking hold of her chin between his fingers, he tilted her face up to his and spoke very softly.
‘It’s a business arrangement, remember? You know that, and I know that, but as far as Father Angelico is concerned we are two people so madly in love that we can’t wait to marry, so if you really do want to go ahead with this I suggest you play the part of the enthusiastic bride.’ He paused, dropping his voice even further, so that it was little more than a breathy caress. ‘But this is how this marriage will be, Lily. No grand romantic gestures, no epic emotions, and if you’re not absolutely sure you can accept that, then you walk out of here now.’
She said nothing, but her eyes stayed locked on his, opaque with emotions he couldn’t interpret, and the silence that wrapped itself around them as they stood close together in the huge, high space was filled with tension. He was aware of his heart beating hard, measuring the seconds while he waited for her to answer.
And then, very gently, she pulled away from him and took a step back.
And then another.
And another.
Tristan felt his stomach twist and the air momentarily leave his lungs as adrenalin hit his bloodstream. Lily had turned and was walking away from him, back up the aisle towards the door, and for a moment all he could think, focus on, was how beautiful she was with the lamplight glinting on her hair and making it shine like a halo of old gold in the incense-scented dimness of the church.
And then, of course, it hit him. What he was seeing. What she was doing.
Walking away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PAIN shot through Tristan from somewhere, and dimly he realised it was his jaw—that he was tensing it with the effort of not calling out to stop her. Spinning round he looked furiously up at the imposing altarpiece, waiting for the moment when he would hear the door at the other end of the church swing shut behind her, signifying that it was over and he could resume the normal course of his life. The women and the parties. The aloneness that he so cherished.
Didn’t he?
It didn’t come.
Stiffly he turned round.
Lily was standing in the shadows at the back of the church talking to the woman with the flowers. As he watched she laid a gentle hand on her arm and gestured to the child. The little girl had stopped playing and was looking shyly up at Lily, her expression almost awe-struck.
The mother smiled, nodded. Then Lily dropped to her knees in front of the little girl, smoothing her hair away from her face and gathering her straggling bunch of flowers into a neat posy, showing her how to hold them. The child’s small face glowed with pleasure and pride as Lily straightened up again and took her hand.
And suddenly he understood. She wasn’t walking out on him. She was doing this her way, with her own peculiar blend of stubborn, determined sweetness that made him feel exasperated and guilty by turns.
He felt the tension leave his body, and realised his hands were shaking slightly. Not with relief, he told himself harshly. Nothing so selfless. It was vindication, that was all. Pride. No woman had ever walked out on him yet, and the feeling was unfamiliar. The child’s mother, beaming with suppressed excitement, quickly extracted one of the long-stemmed roses from her arrangement and handed it to Lily. Tristan watched as she accepted it, and briefly embraced the woman before stepping forward with the little girl beside her.
She was going to be a fantastic mother.
The thought stole into his head uninvited, causing a wrenching sensation in the pit of his stomach. She had a natural instinct for love and kindness that would make up for his o
wn emotional sterility. And, he thought, watching her walk down the aisle towards him, an inner strength that meant she stood up to him. She lifted her head and her eyes found his. Soft as cashmere, shining with her quiet determination, they held him, and although he wanted to turn away, he found he couldn’t.
The priest cleared his throat, obviously eager to get the service under way, and Tristan moved slowly back towards him, his eyes not leaving Lily’s. She was close enough for him to see the darkness in the centre of the silver grey iris now, close enough to smell her milk-and-honey sweetness.
Close enough to touch.
His fingers burned with sudden need, and as the priest began to speak about the sanctity of marriage, his mind filled with a taunting kaleidoscope of images and memories that were wholly inappropriate for church: Lily in the field at Stowell, golden and beautiful with her dress blowing up around her bare brown legs; Lily naked in the tower, her skin silver in the moonlight, and the satin soft feel of it against his lips …
From that, had come this.
‘Señor Romero?’
They were all looking at him, he realised suddenly: the elderly priest, the little girl, and Lily. Waiting for him.
‘Lo siento. Sorry.’
Father Angelico looked at him sternly over the top of his glasses. ‘Repetid despues de mi. Yo, Tristan Leandro, te recibo a ti Lily, como esposa y me entrego a ti.’
Almost reluctantly Tristan took Lily’s hand in his. The diamond ring he had sent glittered on her finger, sending out sharp rainbows of light in the gloom, and he could suddenly see it was all wrong for her—too showy, too cold—just like the marriage she was about to submit herself to, he thought despairingly. Did she really know what she was getting into?
Of course she didn’t. She didn’t even understand the vows. He hesitated, and then said in English, ‘I, Tristan Leandro, take you, Lily, to be my wife.’
Hot Nights with a Spaniard (Mills & Boon M&B) (Mills & Boon Special Releases) Page 23
