Chapter Sixteen
Santiago
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling for a couple of moments, my brain, for a change, blissfully empty of thought.
I’m relaxed, sated, and feel better than I have for months, if not years.
A warm hand is resting on my stomach, golden hair lying across my chest, so I turn my head and there she is, fast asleep beside me.
My wife.
Things had the potential to be difficult when I bought her the ring yesterday, which Beatrix was clearly unhappy about.
But then she gave me her reasons for it and I won’t lie, I felt a measure of satisfaction that she didn’t wear my father’s engagement ring.
But I had to tell her the truth about why I wanted her to wear mine, that I was jealous of the smiles she gave so freely to everyone but me.
She liked my jealousy, though—that blush of hers gave her away, and certainly enough to get a promise from me to be faithful to her.
Not that it’s a problem in any case. No woman I’ve ever been with—and I’ve been with many—has ever given me the kind of pleasure she does, so it was nothing to tell her I wanted only her. It’s the truth, after all.
I prop myself up on my elbow, studying her sleeping face. The perfection of her mouth. The straight line of her nose. The arched golden brows. The pale, silky skin. Her other hand is tucked beneath her chin, and I can see the gleam of my wedding band around her finger.
Deep satisfaction stretches out inside me, the primitive man pleased at this display of my claim on her.
The unadorned white gold rings were a good choice, I could see that as soon as I showed them to her, and that she liked them pleases me.
Last night I staked my claim on her in other ways, leaving my marks on her pale skin, and now I ease the sheet down to her waist in order to admire them.
I had no idea that possessing her would make me feel this way, so self-satisfied and smug, and not a little triumphant, and, since she’s mine unequivocally, I allow myself to enjoy the feelings for a few moments.
So, now she’s yours, what’s next?
An interesting question. Obviously what’s next is the baby and we need to discuss our plans for its arrival. I have a room next to this one that is at present a guest room, but I’ll have it converted into the perfect nursery.
What about those things she asked of you yesterday?
Through the haze of satisfaction, something unwelcome shifts inside me, a nagging irritation.
It’s true I was annoyed when she asked for the details of our marriage going forward.
Mainly because all I could think about was the best way to get her home and into bed as quickly as possible.
I didn’t want to discuss the minutiae of what our lives would look like now we’re married, not then at least.
Now, though, I’m reflecting on the conversation, and I can see why those details would be important to her. She wants stability and certainty, and I understand that, especially since in her early life she had neither. She wants a home, too, and a family, and again, I understand.
Bringing her here to Paris has been very much about what I want, even if the marriage itself was her suggestion, and now she’s my wife, she’s my responsibility.
Which means it’s my duty to take care of her, provide her with what she needs, what she wants, and that, at least, I’m familiar with.
I’ve been providing for my own mother since I left school, after all, even if she gives me no thanks for it.
Beatrix makes a soft sound, giving a sensual little stretch in her sleep as she rolls onto her back, and the sheet falls away, exposing her full breasts and the marks of my mouth on her skin. My gaze roves further down her body, to the soft curve of her stomach where our baby lies.
Hunger begins to build inside me, and I’m getting hard again. I’d have thought that after the night we had together, and all the pleasure it involved, I wouldn’t be so hungry again or so soon, but I am.
I want to touch her, wake her with kisses before sinking inside her tight, wet heat, but I kept her up till the early hours of the morning, and she needs sleep. So instead I slip from the bed, pull on a pair of jeans, and leave the room.
Downstairs, I go into the kitchen, where Helene is bustling about, and arrange for a breakfast tray to be brought up to us. While she’s doing that, she says absently, ‘Oh, by the way, your mother phoned last night. I told her you weren’t to be disturbed.’
Fuck. Of course. My mother’s nightly call. I’d forgotten entirely about it, and I know my mother: she doesn’t like to be forgotten.
I’ll have to call her back, since if I don’t she gets upset, so, moving quietly, I retrieve my phone from the bedroom, then go back downstairs and outside to the terrace to make the call.
‘Where were you last night, Santiago?’ my mother demands immediately on answering. ‘You didn’t tell me you were out.’
‘It slipped my mind,’ I say levelly. ‘Hence me calling you now.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she says, sounding hurt. ‘I’m that easy to forget, am I?’
It’s always this way with Catelina. She wants attention, and gets wounded if she feels she’s not being given an adequate amount of it.
I’m eternally having to reassure her, which can be a long and involved task that requires patience.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ I point out mildly. ‘I had an…unexpected engagement.’
‘What engagement?’
And abruptly I’m confronted with my own insistence on the truth, and how, years ago, I made a promise to myself that I would never lie to her, not after my father lied to her so completely.
Yet once again I find myself in the position of having to give her a truth that will hurt, about Beatrix and me, and there’s no way around it. No way to soften it.
Then again, as she keeps telling me so eloquently, nothing I do ever makes her feel better, so I may as well just say it. She’ll find out at some point anyway.
‘There’s something I should tell you,’ I say, keeping my tone neutral. ‘I know you were hoping that I’d find a wife. And, well, I did.’
A shocked silence echoes down the other end of the phone.
‘That’s what I was doing yesterday,’ I go on. ‘I was getting married.’
‘Oh, Santiago,’ she says at last, her voice wavering. ‘I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.’
My heart feels painful, because of course this will not make her happy. Nothing I do for her ever does, and she never lets me forget it.
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ I say. ‘You don’t know who I married.’
‘Well, of course I don’t,’ she says irritably. ‘Especially since the last time we spoke, you gave no hint that you were even considering getting married.’
My patience frays, not so much at her, but at myself for drawing this out. The truth will upset her, but the sooner she knows, the sooner she can come to terms with it.
‘It’s Beatrix, Mother,’ I say. ‘And she’s expecting my child.’
Silence echoes down the phone, and I stare straight ahead, at the oak tree in front of me, the sound of the fountain filling the dead quiet.
‘Beatrix,’ my mother repeats, as if the name means nothing to her.
‘Father’s widow.’
Again there’s a silence and I can hear her breathing.
‘Her?’ she asks, shocked now. ‘You married her?’
‘She’s pregnant,’ I say, my tone flat. ‘We thought it best for the baby if we got married.’
My mother breathes faster now, working herself up into a state. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t believe you married her. You must know what that would do to me, Santiago! You must know!’
Every muscle in my body tenses, the sound of her hurt like a knife in my chest.
All you ever do is hurt her. You can’t help it.
I ignore the whisper in my head, harden my heart to the pain. I can do nothing for her now, just as I could do nothing for her then, only give her a truth she doesn’t want to hear. A reality that must be faced whether she likes it or not.
‘Yes, I do know.’ There’s nothing else I can say and sugarcoating it won’t help. It never does. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not!’ The sound of her betrayal echoes down the phone. ‘Why would you marry that…that…slut? Of all the women you’ve been with, why her?’
She’s getting angry, and she has a right to be. But I won’t have her calling Beatrix names. ‘Don’t call her that,’ I say warningly. ‘She’s my wife now and she’s carrying your grandchild, and I’m sorry, Mother. I really am. But that’s the reality.’
I wait for a response, but there isn’t one, because she’s ended the call.
Anger coils and knots in my gut, and it takes every ounce of will I have not to hurl the phone to the ground and watch it break into tiny pieces.
But I won’t, because that won’t help anything, just as calling her back won’t help anything.
She can’t see anything but her own pain, even though that initial betrayal was over twenty years ago now.
She’s blinded by it, wedded to her hurt the way my father was wedded to his anger, and nothing will change her mind. Especially not me.
A warm hand suddenly settles in the middle of my back, and I turn around to find Beatrix standing there.
Her golden hair is loose, and she’s wearing the white shirt I wore to our wedding, and nothing else.
Her blue eyes are luminous as they stare up into mine, though there’s a slight crease between her brows.
‘What was all that about?’ she asks, searching my face. ‘Are you okay?’
For a moment I can’t speak. She’s looking at me as if she’s worried about me, and her first question is about whether I’m okay, and I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that.
I can’t remember the last time anyone cared about my wellbeing enough to even ask…
certainly neither of my parents ever did.
‘Santiago?’ she asks softly when I don’t reply, the crease between her brows deepening.
I should pretend nothing’s wrong, that I’m not furious, that I’m okay. But again, the truth is important and I’m not a hypocrite.
It’ll probably hurt her, though.
Fuck. I don’t want to tell her what my mother thinks of her, or what she said about her. It seems that no matter what I do, the truth ends up hurting someone.
I reach for her, my palms settling on her hips as I pull her close, fitting her warm, silky body against mine. ‘What did you hear?’ I ask.
Colour flushes her cheeks. ‘I heard a little. I know, I shouldn’t have been listening.
I just woke up and you weren’t there, so I came to find you.
I heard your voice and followed it.’ She puts her hands on my bare chest, her palms warm, and for a change her touch eases my tension, sanding away the sharp edges of my anger.
It’s strange to be touched for comfort’s sake instead of for pleasure, yet it’s not unwelcome. It feels…good.
‘You don’t want to know,’ I murmur, sliding my hands over the rounded curves of her bare behind. I want her closer, I want as much of her warmth as I can get.
‘I do,’ she disagrees. ‘It wasn’t a good phone call, was it?’
It seems clear she won’t let this go, and, since not telling her would be hypocritical of me, I have no choice but to do so.
‘No, it was not,’ I say at last. ‘It was my mother. I speak to her every night, but last night I missed her call and she wanted to know why.’ I look down into Beatrix’s blue gaze.
‘I had to tell her that not only did I marry my father’s widow, but that she’s also expecting my child. ’