Chapter Seventeen
Beatrix
I lean into the warmth of Santiago’s hard, powerful body. He’s wearing only a pair of jeans, his magnificent chest bare, and it’s difficult to think when he’s half-naked like this. He’s all hard muscle and velvety skin, with a sprinkling of crisp black hair, and it’s incredibly distracting.
But this is important, so I force away my hunger for him.
I heard the hard note in his voice as I stepped out onto the terrace, saw the tension in his broad shoulders after he finished the call. His back was to me, but I knew from his posture that he was furious and so my first instinct was to go to him.
I didn’t think about it. I didn’t ask myself why it was important to touch him or to find out why he was so angry. I simply went to him and put my hand in the centre of his powerful back. And, when he turned around and saw me, pleasure flickered in his gaze, as if he was glad to find me there.
I’d decided yesterday not to press him about what kind of marriage we were going to have, accepting the physical pleasure he gave me last night instead, and glorying in it.
But reality is hitting me now, because marrying him will have wider implications for us, and we really need to decide what we do about them.
What will the world think of him marrying his stepmother? What will they think when our child is born? Does it matter? Does he care? Do I? And have I given him too much of myself as it is?
I care about what I’m seeing in his face now, though, as he finishes telling me about the phone call. There’s regret and anger, and beneath those a sharp pain that he probably thinks he’s hiding, but he isn’t. I can see it quite clearly.
‘She didn’t like that,’ I say and I don’t make it a question.
‘No,’ he says, more temper flickering in his eyes. ‘She did not. She’s very angry with me.’
His hands are cupping my rear, his fingertips pressing into my soft flesh and making my breath catch. I can’t believe I want him again so soon after everything we did last night, but, as it turns out, my desire for him seems to have no end.
But again, I can’t let sex distract me. This is too important.
I look up into his midnight eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, even though it feels like such a pointless comment.
‘It’s not your fault.’ His voice is flat. ‘She’s been holding on to my father’s betrayal of her for decades. And when he married you, that only reignited it for her. I knew she wouldn’t be happy knowing we were together and expecting a child, but she had to find out the truth some time.’
‘You don’t like upsetting her,’ I say, searching his face and seeing the truth.
His mouth tightens, his eyes shadowed. ‘The addiction issues she had were compounded by me telling her the truth about my father all those years ago. Now I’m giving her yet another truth she doesn’t want to hear.
So no, I don’t like upsetting her. I’m supposed to be caring for her, not hurting her. ’
I can’t stop staring up at him, because for the first time I catch a glimpse of the man who isn’t just the furious, spurned stepson, the passionate lover and the cold, rational scientist. I see a human being upset about hurting someone he cares about.
He loves her just as he loved his father.
My focus shifts, his face blurring, then becoming clear again as my reality alters to fit this new truth.
I know he’s passionate—I experience his passion every night after all—but outside the bedroom everything else is kept under tight lock and key.
Not now, though. His granite facade is cracking a little, and now I see a new facet of him.
That of a loving son. A man who cares, and who cares deeply.
It’s a vulnerability, this caring, and he’s showing it to me, and he probably doesn’t even understand the significance of it. But I do. I know.
He loved his parents, but they didn’t give him the same love in return, I’m sure of it. His father held a grudge for decades, reviling him at every opportunity, and perhaps his mother is the same. She’s shooting the messenger and the messenger is always him.
My chest feels tight and hollow, aching with a feeling I can’t quite place.
It’s not pity, it’s something else, something deeper.
It’s not fair that his father was so angry with him for so long that Antonio took his anger to the grave with him, denying Santiago any chance of a reconciliation.
And it’s not fair that he’s been taking care of his mother for so many years, only for her to give him back nothing but anger. It’s not fair and I hate that it isn’t.
‘If it’s not my fault, then it’s not your fault, either,’ I say, wanting to give him this at least. ‘You didn’t do any of this maliciously or to hurt her.’
‘I knew it would, though,’ he says, his black eyes full of even blacker shadows. ‘She was making good progress and this will put her back.’
‘You couldn’t have hidden it,’ I say. ‘Like you said, she would have found out at some point.’
A muscle flicks in his jaw. ‘Nothing is ever enough for her. Nothing I do was ever good enough for either of them.’
The words are a needle sliding under my skin, bringing hurt with it.
Because I know what it’s like to want to be good enough for someone.
I tried to be good enough for that foster family who wanted to adopt me and Lisa.
I tried so hard to be good, not throw any temper tantrums, and to obey their house rules, but in the end it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.
‘You’re doing what you can for her.’ I press my fingers against the warmth of his chest, wanting him to feel how much sympathy I have for him.
‘And what you’re doing is more than enough.
More than a lot of people would do, actually.
But her feelings aren’t your responsibility, Santiago.
Just as Antonio’s weren’t. They chose their own paths, and that’s on them, not you. ’
He stares down at me for a long moment, the shadows moving in his gaze. ‘If I hadn’t told them the truth, maybe they—’
‘No,’ I say fiercely, because he needs to understand this. ‘You can’t take responsibility for that, either. You were a child and you did what you thought was right. It’s not on you that your parents chose to blame you instead of taking responsibility for themselves.’
Santiago’s gaze bores into mine, a fierce heat glowing there all of a sudden. ‘Why are you being so…kind to me,’ he demands, ‘after everything I did to you?’
‘Because I know what it’s like to feel as if you’re not enough,’ I tell him, spreading my fingers out on his skin. ‘To question yourself. To try so hard for someone and it’s still not enough, and you don’t know what more you can do.’
For a moment, something springs between us. A current that for a change has nothing to do with chemistry or sex, and everything to do with mutual understanding. With knowing the experience the other person has had because you’ve been there too, and you feel the same way about it.
He doesn’t speak, only bends his head and kisses me suddenly and fiercely. A kiss that tells me he recognises this moment too, and wants it just as much as I do.
But before I can deepen the kiss, he lifts his mouth from mine, then releases me.
He steps back, the expression on his face unreadable.
‘This means we’ll need to talk about our marriage sooner rather than later,’ he says.
‘About all the things you mentioned yesterday. She’ll be coming to live here at some point and it’s best if we have all of that sorted out by then. ’
His abrupt withdrawal feels almost painful, but I ignore it. If he doesn’t want to talk more, then he doesn’t want to talk. I’m his wife, but not in the romantic sense. We don’t have that kind of relationship. Ours is practical, legal, and the fact that we’re sleeping together is by the by.
So why are you hurt, then?
I decide to ignore that thought, too.
‘Come,’ he says, moving past me. ‘Helene is preparing a tray. I’ll bring it up to the bedroom and we can discuss everything there.’
He’s gone hard, I can hear it in his voice. Perhaps he doesn’t like that he was so vulnerable with me, and now wants to pretend that moment never happened.
I want to challenge him on his abrupt withdrawal, but I can’t face it right now. I feel as if I’ve given too much of myself away to him already, and being hurt about this will only give him even more.
So, while he gets the tray, I go slowly back up to the bedroom.
I need to armour myself again, protect myself, not let him get to me so intensely that every little thing he does takes on a deeper meaning.
I’m not a teenage girl with her first crush.
I’m an adult woman, pregnant with my first child, and, while he’s my husband in a legal sense, he’s nothing more than that. I can’t let him be.
I move into the bedroom and go over to the bed, sitting down on it cross-legged to wait for him. What I need to think about is what I want out of this marriage. What sureties and certainties I can get for myself and for my child.
But what about him? What do you want from him?
I don’t want anything from him, nothing at all.
Yet as soon as I think that, it feels like a lie.
It’s almost as if I do want something from him, and not only pleasure.
I want more of that understanding we shared downstairs, more of that look in his eyes when he turned around and found me standing behind him. More of that sense of…connection.
I’ve never had that before, not with anyone, but there’s a reason for that. I never let my guard down, never let anyone in, because I don’t want to be vulnerable to anyone. I don’t have anyone to protect me, so I have to do it all myself.
But, as I told Santiago yesterday in the jewellery showroom, that makes for a lonely life, a bleak life.
And I’m tired of being lonely. I’m tired of being afraid.
I want a home and I want someone to share it with, I want to have a family, and the logical person to have that home and family with is Santiago.
I’ve told him more than I’ve ever told anyone about myself, and so far he’s been nothing but understanding. But…do I let my guard down even more? And if I do, where will it lead? Do I want the chance of a real relationship with this man I thought I hated?
I’m still thinking about it as he comes into the room, carrying a breakfast tray laden with all sorts of delicious things. Fresh croissants and jam and honey. A coffee pot. Glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.
He puts the tray down on the mattress next to me, then sits on the end of the bed. ‘Would you like honey on your croissant or jam?’ he asks, picking up one of the flaky pastries.
‘Jam, please,’ I say.
He begins preparing the croissant for me, but I can tell from the look on his face that he’s thinking about something else. And it’s not something that’s making him happy, not given the fury sparking and crackling off him even as his expression remains like granite.
‘I can spread my own jam,’ I offer, unsure of what to say.
‘No,’ he snaps. ‘I’m perfectly capable of preparing breakfast for my wife.’
‘Santiago,’ I say, and before I know what I’m doing I reach across to him and put my hands over his. ‘Stop.’
His sharp gaze comes to mine and I meet it head-on. ‘Tell me what the issue is,’ I say. ‘You’re still furious.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you,’ he retorts.
‘It does if we’re supposed to be having a discussion about our future.’
He pulls away from me, putting the torn croissant down on the tray.
His expression has hardened, his gaze sharp, glittering points of obsidian.
‘Perhaps a discussion is not the best idea now.’ He looks at me, his attention roving over my body to my bare legs and back up again, lingering on the button of his shirt that I did up half-heartedly.
‘Take off the shirt,’ he orders. ‘And lie down.’
I should do what he says. I don’t want to disturb the connection we’re starting to build between us, because it’s fragile.
But…regardless of where our marriage takes us, we’re going to have to deal with each other for the rest of our lives because of our child.
And I can’t let that be a one-way street.
I can’t let his fury stop me from having the discussions we need to have for our baby’s sake.
So I look him in the eye and lift my chin. ‘No,’ I say. ‘If you’re too angry to discuss this now, perhaps you should go away and deal with it. Then come back when you’re ready to have a civilised conversation.’