‘Where did you go after you left?’ he asked quietly once all the tears had been purged.
‘I moved into Dad’s mobile home. He bought it when Mum kicked him out. He’d already gone off on his bike trip by then.’
‘Why didn’t you go to another family member or a friend?’
‘The rest of my family live by the coast a hundred miles away—my parents moved to the Midlands when they married. As for friends...’ She shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant. ‘I didn’t really have anyone I was close enough with to ask.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘What happens when the baby comes? Will you have anyone close by to help?’
‘No,’ she admitted with a sigh.
‘So when you go back to England you’re not going to have any emotional support?’
Becky closed her eyes and held back fresh tears at his accuracy. She’d done enough crying for one day. ‘I’ll cope.’
‘If you marry me you won’t have to cope. We can do it together.’
‘Not this again?’ She wriggled out of his hold and rolled onto her back.
‘There is no reason our marriage would be like your parents’.’
‘But we’d be doing it for the wrong reasons, the same as they did.’
‘And what are the right reasons?’
‘Love, fidelity and commitment,’ she said in as strong a voice as she could manage. ‘None of which you can offer me.’
He stared straight into her eyes. ‘If we marry, you will have my commitment as a husband.’
‘But no guarantee of fidelity.’ She couldn’t bring herself to mention love again, not when her heart had started thumping so erratically. ‘I would have to give up the career I’ve dedicated my life to before I’ve even started while you get to continue yours as if nothing’s changed, except you’d have a wife and baby tagging along.’
He breathed heavily through the tense silence that developed. ‘You do realise I want to be a father to our child?’
‘Yes, I do know that and I want it too.’
‘Then tell me how it’ll work if you’re living with it on the other side of the world from me? I never knew my real father and the man who adopted me never wanted me. I don’t want that for my child. My real father had no choice about raising me. God took that choice from him but I do have that choice and I’m going to take it. I want our child to know they’re loved and wanted by both their parents.’
‘You have a home in England. You could always base yourself there. It’s only twenty miles from where I’ll be working...’ She let her words hang and held her breath.
‘That’s impossible,’ he said shortly, shifting upright.
‘Why?’
‘You know why. I move from country to country with the polo seasons and on top of that I have my stables around the world and—’
‘I know the extent of your empire,’ she interrupted wearily. ‘I know how busy your life is, and we can argue all night over whose job should take priority and maybe we’d even come to an agreement, but one thing we won’t reach agreement on is marriage. You can be as involved in our child’s upbringing as you want but I’m sorry, I’m not going to throw away my career so I can stand on the sidelines cheering you on like one of your fawning groupies and lose my career and independence for someone who can’t be faithful. I’ve lost too much already.’
‘You don’t know that I won’t be faithful.’
‘And neither do you.’
‘I know I would never do anything to hurt or humiliate you. While we are together I am yours alone.’
Tightening the robe around her waist, Becky sat up and cupped his clenched jaw in her hands and looked him in the eye. ‘Then you can’t blame me for refusing to marry you or uprooting my life for you. Marriage should be a lifetime commitment. When you tell me you’ll be faithful only for as long as we’re together, that proves to me that you don’t trust yourself to sustain it for a lifetime.’
At the darkening of his features, she sighed and pressed a kiss to his taut lips. ‘It’s still early days for us. We’re still getting to know each other. We both want to make it work as best we can. Let that be enough.’
The darkness firing from his clear brown eyes softened. ‘Marriage is the only thing that will be enough for me, bomboncita. But you are right. It’s still early days for us. I have plenty of time to change your mind.’
Then, before she could refute his impossible arrogance, he’d pulled her into a kiss of such seductive passion that any protest melted under its heat.
Becky sat well back from the action on the polo field. The dogs were gazing at her with begging eyes for titbits of the picnic food she’d brought along. The ground beneath her bottom shook as eight ponies and riders thundered past.
Today was the Delgado team’s first practice of the Argentine season. From the noise, speed and aggression taking place on the field, the players were approaching it as if it were a competition game. As had been the case from the first game she’d watched, she only had eyes for Emiliano. He just looked so magnificent on the sleek Arabian horse—sorry, pony!—he was currently charging around on, and for a moment she visualised him as a warrior from bygone days leading the cavalry into war. If he’d been around in those bygone times, she had no doubt he would have been a natural warrior, leading from the front and commanding respect wherever he went.
She watched him now, riding furiously as he chased the comparatively tiny ball up the field, his mallet aimed and ready to strike, a member of the opposing team cantering alongside preparing to ride him off, but for the first time the tingles she usually experienced seeing his raw power in action were absent. For the first time, a nugget of fear had clutched at her heart and that fear was spreading.
The strictly enforced rules of polo were designed for the horses’ safety. She remembered a wife from an opposing team telling her that so long as the riders were properly taught and maintained their discipline the dangers were minimal.
For the first time Becky truly comprehended that minimal didn’t mean zero. Maybe it was the pregnancy working its hormonal magic on her but suddenly all she could see were the potential dangers of this chaotically exhilarating game.
Emiliano’s birth father had been a polo player. He’d died in a freak horse accident.
There was a great roar from the other spectators—only a couple of dozen or so stable staff, but loud enough to be mistaken for a dozen rowdy stag parties—and when she opened her eyes she hadn’t realised she’d closed she saw Emiliano had scored. There was little time to celebrate as one of the umpires signalled the end of the chukka and they all trooped off the field to change their ponies and Becky was able to refill lungs that had barely snatched a breath in seven minutes. When Emiliano rode past her, every female eye in the vicinity glued to him, and winked, she had to force her lips and cheeks to perform a smile but her heart was thundering as hard as the horses’ hooves.
Terrified as to why she should feel so frightened, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, hoping to have received another work email to distract her. They’d been coming thick and fast in recent days, preparing her for when she started. Right then, any kind of email would be welcome but her inbox was empty.
This must be why normal people used social media. It was easier to hide away from your thoughts with visual distractions.
The skills she’d adopted to distract herself from unwelcome thoughts were dismantling. Her fears had grown too great, crowding a head too full to cope. And now she had another to add to them. Emiliano being hurt. More than a fear. A poker of ice freezing her insides.
Impulse had her pressing her mum’s contact details and selecting the call button. It rang three times before going to voicemail.
Becky closed her eyes and listened to her mum’s chirpy voice telling her to leave a message.
‘Hi, Mum... It’s me. Please call me.
I miss you. I... I have something to tell you. It’s important. Please. I don’t want to tell you in a message. Call me back, please... I love you.’
When she disconnected the call, Rufus and Barney both had their heads on her lap and were gazing at her dolefully.
She rubbed both their heads and blinked back the threatening tears. ‘At least you two love me,’ she whispered, and wished Emiliano’s face didn’t immediately float through her mind at the mention of the word love.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BECKY CHECKED HER appearance for the hundredth time before leaving the room. Excitement laced her belly. She felt as if she could cha-cha down the wide corridors.
Emiliano had been so busy preparing for the forthcoming Argentine polo season that the only time they’d spent alone together in recent days had been in the bedroom. That morning, when he’d dragged himself out of bed after making love to her, he’d winked and told her he’d be taking her out for dinner that night.
She’d spent the day smiling at the irony that their first date should take place weeks after the conception of their child and refusing to think that the countdown to her return to England was speeding up. Only ten days left.
She’d deliberated for ages over what to wear. Their shopping trip for a dress for the party he was hosting—she couldn’t believe that was happening in two days; time really was flying by—had seen her wardrobe mushroom by far more than a single dress. She’d returned from that shopping trip to find box upon box of beautiful clothing, all of which had fitted perfectly and all of which suited her, laid out in their bedroom.
The personal shopper who’d helped her find the party dress had obviously been much busier than she’d credited, Emiliano every bit as sneaky and as wholeheartedly generous as she already knew he could be.
For their meal out, she’d eventually settled on a knee-length silver shift dress that sparkled under the movement of light and a pair of flat black ankle boots, and she hurried out of the room before she could change her mind again. She’d dithered so much about it, she wouldn’t be surprised to find the sun had risen in the intervening period never mind set.
The look on Emiliano’s face when she stepped into the living room made all the dillydallying worthwhile. He whistled, the gleam in his eyes making her blush.
‘You look good enough to eat,’ he murmured in an undertone when he reached her, setting off her second blush in as many seconds.
He could talk, she thought dizzily as she slipped her hand in his. The man could wear sackcloth and she’d still feel faint with longing. Seeing him dressed in navy trousers and a black shirt that stretched across his lean yet muscular body like a caress, his spicy cologne coiling into her airways, she could, quite frankly, eat him alive.
The dogs left in Paula’s care for the evening, they left the ranch in the waiting car.
The driver dropped them off at a corner of a huge plaza in Luján province and a quick stroll later they were inside a large, dark restaurant with a vibe that lent itself to intimacy despite the open kitchen where chefs could be seen working as in a hive over wall-length griddles.
A flustered waitress who clearly recognised Emiliano led them to a small round table near the corner of the room, close to a small stage and an even smaller dance floor. Just off the side of the stage was a tiny round table with a glass of red wine in the centre.
‘Does this place do entertainment?’ Becky asked.
He winked. ‘Wait and see.’
Their table was so small that there was no way to sit comfortably without their legs brushing, which was fine by Becky. Any excuse to touch Emiliano was fine by her, and she knew it was the same for him. How long this passion could be sustained was something she now refused to think about. She might have refused marriage but she’d committed herself to him. They had only ten days left until she returned to England and she didn’t want to waste them worrying about things beyond her control.
The waitress returned with their drinks. ‘Ready to order?’ she asked breathlessly, making gooey eyes at Emiliano.
Smothering the urge to throw her mocktail in the waitress’s face, Becky smiled brightly and got the waitress’s attention. ‘I would like the ham and cheese empanadas to start, then the two-hundred-and-fifty-gram sirloin with fries and salad and Portobello mushrooms on the side.’
She caught the amusement on Emiliano’s face before he gave his own order.
Alone again, he leaned forward. ‘Do I detect jealousy, bomboncita?’
‘Not at all,’ she lied airily. ‘I just think it’s mean to openly make eyes and flirt with someone who’s clearly taken.’
He stroked her hand and murmured, ‘So long as you know I only have eyes for you.’
‘I know.’ She smiled, and swallowed back the pang she always felt when she wondered how long that exclusivity would last.
He opened his mouth but whatever he’d been about to say was cut off by the buzzing of his phone.
‘I’ll turn it off,’ he said apologetically, then his eyes narrowed as he saw who’d messaged him. ‘Sorry, let me read this. It’s from Damián.’
He read quickly. A wide smile spread across his face.
‘Good news?’
He nodded. ‘Celeste’s been arrested.’ He put the phone back in his jacket pocket. ‘I know she’ll be released soon but at least the press were there to witness her humiliation. I can celebrate that.’ He raised his glass, smiled again and took a large drink.
‘You seem remarkably serene about your mother being a killer,’ she remarked, thinking back to the night he’d turned up at her door in such torment.
Emiliano laughed. ‘Not serene, bomboncita. Accepting. I admit it was a shock when I first learned what she’d done.’ And Becky was the only person in the world who knew how deeply it had affected him. ‘But after it sank in, it was no surprise. I’ve always known she’s capable of anything.’
‘But murder?’
‘Celeste’s world revolves around Celeste. She doesn’t do anything that isn’t for her own benefit. Take Damián’s conception. When she agreed to marry Eduardo, she agreed to give him a blood heir. As soon as that agreement was fulfilled, she got herself sterilised.’
He laughed at the disbelieving expression on Becky’s face. ‘You can’t be surprised that she has no maternal instincts. She upheld her side of the agreement and gave Eduardo a child, Damián, then washed her hands of the task of actually raising either of us. Being a hands-on mother was not part of their agreement.’
‘You sound as if you admire her,’ she said with a furrowed brow.
‘There was an honesty to their marriage I always admired,’ he mused. ‘They both knew where they stood. No lies.’
‘That must be where you get your honesty from,’ Becky said. That was one thing about Emiliano; he was always honest.
He grinned. ‘As long as that’s the only trait I inherited from her, I can live with that. But the more I think about her killing him, the more convinced I am that she felt my father had not upheld his end of their deal. She’d believed she would always have involvement in the Delgado Group. Giving control to Damián pushed her out of the sphere of influence and she refused to accept it. She is not a woman willing to accept no as an answer to anything.’
Another trait he’d inherited from her, Becky thought, but chose not to vocalise it.
‘Do you still want her to be involved in your life?’
‘No,’ he said without hesitation. ‘She’s poison. Literally. If anything, knowing I have a legitimate reason to cut her from my life is a relief. I see now that I was only ever a pawn she used for her own ends. Even when she talked me into working for the Delgado Group, it was for her benefit, not mine—she assumed I would spy on Damián for her.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. I told her to do her own dirty work.’
The breathless waitress brou
ght their first course to them and for a while they were both too busy eating to talk. Once the course had been cleared and fresh drinks given to them, Emiliano took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. ‘No more family talk tonight, okay? Let’s just enjoy the evening and each other’s company.’
‘That sounds good to me,’ she agreed softly. Becky always enjoyed his company, even during the times when she could throttle him.
She had another drink of her mocktail. The rush of feelings she had simply being with Emiliano meant she didn’t miss drinking alcohol. Being with him felt very much like being drunk.
When their main courses were brought to them, she inhaled the wonderful scents and cut into her juicy steak. The knife sank through the meat as if it were softened butter. She popped her fork into her mouth and for the breath of a moment forgot everything as her mouth filled with heaven.
Emiliano cut into his ribeye with the same unabashed appreciation. When he looked at her after taking his first huge bite, something in her belly moved, like an intense tug, a fist clenching simultaneously in her chest.
Was this what her mother had experienced with Anthony? With all the others that had come before him? Were these the heady feelings that had seen her believe the worst of her only child and cut her from her life?
But they’d agreed no more family talk so she pushed thoughts of her mother aside and relaxed into a conversation about the dogs, the subject they’d first bonded over all that time ago.
Becky had just taken the last spoonful of her ice cream dessert when a group of musicians suddenly appeared in the darkly lit room and climbed the three steps onto the stage beside them. ‘Is there going to be live music?’
He drained his glass of wine and smiled knowingly.
Pushing her empty bowl to one side, she shifted her chair next to Emiliano’s for a better view and laced her fingers through his.
She nodded at a man with what looked like an accordion in his arms. ‘Do you know what that is?’
‘It’s a bandoneon. A type of concertina.’
The Cost Of Claiming His Heir (The Delgado Inheritance, Book 2) Page 11
