Chapter Eight
Santiago
She’s the very picture of self-possession as she sits in the window seat, so very cool, so very calm.
The sunset casts rays of pink and orange light through the window, making her hair gleam like spun gold as it falls over her shoulders and making her skin seem almost pearlescent.
She looks like a stained-glass window, glowing with colour and light.
I want to tell her that yes, she should take her clothes off for me right now, but, since she’s expecting me to say that, I won’t. I can’t have her be so calm, not when I’m pushed to the limit.
The trip from Spain was long, and Beatrix sitting next to me in the helicopter the whole time was unbearable. She said nothing, while I tried to concentrate on a research report—‘tried’ being the operative word.
Science has always been my escape, where logic and facts rule.
It’s real, tangible, and when I’m working on my research, nothing else matters.
But I couldn’t concentrate on the report, no matter how hard I tried, because she was right there.
Smelling of flowers, her body radiating the kind of soft, feminine heat that I find utterly irresistible.
Every so often I’d find myself glancing at her, studying her undeniably beautiful face, wondering what was going on in that pretty head of hers, which is something I almost never think about, since I don’t care what goes on in other people’s heads.
It’s what they do that matters to me more than what they think.
But not with her. It’s maddening. I don’t understand why she’s different, since it’s not something I’ve ever thought about with any of my other lovers.
Perhaps it’s because she’ll be the mother of my child, and I need to know what kind of mother she’ll be.
Money is important to her—that’s why she married my father—and I could assume she’ll be just as mercenary about motherhood.
Then again, she was adamant that she wanted to keep the baby, going so far as to extract a promise that I wouldn’t take it away from her, so it’s clear she feels very strongly about it.
I admire that strength of feeling in her, as much as I hate to admit it.
A mother should feel strongly about her child.
Parents in general should put their child first, regardless of their own wants and needs.
I’m not here for anyone’s selfishness, not after my own upbringing, and my father’s masterclass in being a self-centred bastard is not something I’m going to emulate.
Yet how I’m going to raise my own child once it’s born is a question I’ll have to think about later, once the results of the test come back and I have all the facts at hand. For now, I have my father’s widow to manage.
She’s waiting for me to reply, her hands clasped in her lap, the very picture of serenity. But she’s not as serene as she likes to make out, not when her knuckles are so white.
My temper prowls, provoked by her apparent calm and sarcastic tone, so I don’t reply immediately, studying her instead, watching as the colour floods into her cheeks. ‘No, thank you,’ I say eventually, mimicking what she said about touching me back in Spain. ‘Perhaps later.’
Her gaze flickers and I feel a brief surge of triumph. Was she truly hoping I’d ask her to do that? How satisfying not to oblige her.
This petty war you have with her is pointless. What do you hope to accomplish by it? She lost her husband, she’s pregnant, and you’ve dragged her all the way to Paris purely for spite’s sake.
The thought comes without warning, a reminder from my largely atrophied conscience, and I have to turn abruptly away so she doesn’t see it, striding over to the mantelpiece instead.
I don’t normally regret my decisions. The only one I’ve ever regretted is the choice I made to tell my mother about my father’s affairs.
Considering the consequences of that choice both for her and me, I may have chosen differently if I’d spent more time thinking about it and less time being furious at my father for lying.
Since then, though, I’ve never let my emotions dictate my choices. I’ve always made them logically and after due consideration of the facts, and that’s why I brought Beatrix here to Paris.
I didn’t trust her word about the blood test, because she’s lied to me before, and I couldn’t leave her to complete it herself for that reason. And as for her grief over my father, I saw her eyes at the funeral. They were dry.
That comment was petty, though, and needlessly cruel.
I stare down at the ornate carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
It’s one of my mother’s favourite pieces.
I bought it for her when I got my first decent pay cheque after working in a lab in Madrid.
I had this room decorated just for her, but she’s never been in it.
She’s still in the rehab facility in Switzerland.
I haven’t told her anything about the child, or about Beatrix, and I won’t.
Not until she’s well enough to bear it, though I suspect she never will be.
Which is your fault.
No, none of that was my fault. She was the one who chose to heal her broken heart by drinking…
no one forced her. Besides, I was only a child at the time, and she wouldn’t listen to me when I told her to stop.
I even hid the gin bottles she kept buying, but she would always find them.
So why should I feel guilty? I don’t. And looking after her now isn’t about guilt, it’s about duty.
It’s true, though. I was being petty. I wanted to get at Beatrix because she gets at me, but that’s hardly a reason to be cruel for the sake of it.
Also, I can’t forget that she’s pregnant.
I’ve given no thought to how she might be feeling, pregnant and alone after my father’s death.
And that is my fault. While I’m gifted in physics and mathematics, I’m very bad when it comes to understanding other people’s feelings.
I have to work at it. Which means that, since her pregnancy is my responsibility, I should be working on understanding hers.
Restlessly, I pick up a small black figurine of a cat then put it down again. Apologies are difficult for me, since I’m wrong so rarely, and I’m finding it difficult now. ‘Do you need anything?’ I force myself to ask, trying to be conciliatory. ‘Some tea? Or perhaps something to eat?’
‘Do you really care what I need?’ Her voice behind me is cool. ‘After all, that didn’t seem to bother you when you dragged me away from the hacienda.’
Weren’t you supposed to be different from your father?
I grit my teeth. I am not him. Yes, I’m used to getting my way and yes, I don’t give the needs of others much consideration, but she should be the exception. She’s pregnant with my child, therefore her physical needs are important to the health of that child.
I turn around and meet her cool stare. ‘The health of my child is dependent on you, so yes, I care.’
This time there is no flickering in her gaze. She holds mine steadily and without flinching. ‘You care about the child, then? Interesting.’
A burst of defensive anger fills me, though I thrust it aside. It’s that biological imperative again, the primitive in me wanting to defend my ability to care, protect and defend my child.
‘Why should that be interesting?’ I ask, keeping my tone very neutral.
‘Because you seem to care very little for anything or anyone but yourself,’ she says, as if she hasn’t just fired a harpoon at me. As if the sharp barbs haven’t pierced the plates of my armour and sunk deep into my flesh.
However, she doesn’t know the vulnerability she’s just uncovered and I’m not going to show it to her. It’ll only give her more ammunition to use against me, so I thrust the anger away.
‘You would be wrong,’ I inform her coldly. ‘The health of my child is of the utmost importance.’
I move from the mantelpiece, pacing back over to the window seat where she’s sitting, only slightly appeased by the slight widening of her eyes at my approach.
I have to remember that. I have to remember that she’s not as cool and calm as she looks, that she’s just as much at the mercy of our chemistry as I am, and maybe it’s time to remind her.
Weren’t you not going to do what she expects?
I wasn’t. But now I’m thinking why not? instead.
‘Perhaps you’d rather take your clothes off.’ I fold my arms and stare down at her. ‘I wouldn’t object, of course.’
She doesn’t seem to find me staring a problem, her gaze steady. ‘Make up your mind, Mr Veracruz,’ she says, again with that tart emphasis on my title. ‘You wanted me in your bed; that was what you said. I’d just like to know when that will occur, so I can prepare myself.’
I need to stop reacting to her, yet I can’t help myself.
The cool challenge in the words slides under my skin, testing my already limited patience and my fraying temper.
‘Tell me, how exactly will you prepare yourself?’ I counter.
‘Will you lie there like a virgin sacrifice, thinking only of England?’
‘Too late for that,’ she says. ‘I’m no longer a virgin, thanks to you.’
For a second the statement sits between us, sharp-edged and bright, but I’m still wrestling with my temper to fully process it. Then I do, and surprise yawns wide inside me.
‘You were a virgin?’ I demand, trying to think back to that moment in the church, and whether she’d given me any inkling that she was still an innocent. I hadn’t given her previous sexual experience much thought at all, admittedly, though she was very clear she’d been with my father.
I’d think this another of her lies if not for the sudden and bright flush of colour blooming in her cheeks. ‘I mean, I didn’t—’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ I interrupt, holding on to my temper by the skin of my teeth. ‘Were you?’
Her pretty mouth tightens. ‘What does it matter to you?’
It shouldn’t. Virginity is a social construct that I should have no interest in, yet the primitive beast in me disagrees. It wants to be her first, her only.
‘I see. So you were, then,’ I say flatly, because if she wasn’t, she would have said so straight out. ‘Why the lies? Are you protecting my father or yourself?’
She’s still flushed, sparks of anger glittering in her eyes. She’s probably angry that she betrayed herself, but it’s too late for that now.
‘You assumed.’ Her chin lifts. ‘And I saw no reason to challenge your assumptions, since you seem so wedded to them.’
You did assume. And you know what they say about assumptions…
My temper heats, yet it’s myself I’m angry with. I’m not even sure why, because she’s right. I shouldn’t care about her virginity, not one iota. And yet…
You don’t like the way she sees right through you.
No, I don’t.
‘What about the lies concerning the baby?’ I demand. ‘Is anything that comes out of your mouth the truth?’
‘I wouldn’t have to lie if you weren’t such a complete bastard,’ she says hotly.
The brilliant sapphire blue of her eyes glitters with temper, and in the air around us tension gathers, crackling and sparking.
As ever, it’s fuelled by our mutual antipathy, and it pulls tighter and tighter, making it difficult for me to concentrate on anything else.
If I want to get anything real out of her, this tension needs to be gone. We need to sate it, and now, before we deal with anything else.
So I take another step towards the window seat, intruding on her personal space, my trousers brushing her knees. And all of a sudden the burning blue flame in her eyes darkens, flickering into violet.
‘If I’m such a complete bastard,’ I say in a low voice, ‘why do you want me so badly?’
Her pale throat moves as she swallows, her attention dropping to my mouth and back up again. ‘I don’t,’ she murmurs, and it sounds like a plea.
‘Prove it to me, then.’ I reach down, taking a handful of the fabric of her dress and slowly gathering it in my fist. ‘Tell me you don’t want me to touch you.
Tell me that you’re not desperate for me.
That you don’t crave me inside you.’ I pull more fabric up, baring her knees. ‘Tell me and make me believe it.’