CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHT
M IA WAS UNDENIABLY OVERDRESSED , even for dinner in the Michelin-starred restaurant Santos had chosen for their evening meal, but she didn’t care because she felt beautiful and, more importantly, desirable. Together it was a very potent and heady mix. Hours later, she was still tingling from the heated look Santos had given her in the boutique when she’d come out of the dressing room wearing this gown. It was a look that had seemed to sizzle the air between them and remind her of just how good they’d been together.
One of the sales assistants had murmured laughingly as she’d helped Mia out of the dress, ‘ Se?or clearly only has eyes for his wife. Oh, la la! ’ She’d clucked her tongue, smiling and shaking her head, while Mia had blushed.
And Mia only had eyes for him, she thought. Whatever else was going on in their marriage, whatever else was out-and-out wrong, and maybe even impossible to fix, they still had that. And maybe that wasn’t a small thing. Maybe it was actually quite important, a way of connecting that didn’t require words that could be misconstrued, silences that felt oppressive and accusing. It was certainly exciting, anyway, and just now it felt just about all she could think about.
But first dinner, and in one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in all of Barcelona. Santos had reserved a table for two in its own private alcove on a rooftop terrace overlooking the city, sheltered from the other diners by velvet-draped partitions.
As the ma?tre d’ guided them to their table, Mia noticed other diners glancing at them in curiosity, which was understandable, considering she was dressed as if she were attending the Oscars. She didn’t care that she might appear a little ridiculous, though. She just liked the way Santos looked at her, with both heat and admiration in his eyes, every gaze lingering on her as if he were savouring the sight.
Still, the gown was a bit much... ‘I think I am a bit overdressed,’ she remarked wryly as she sat down.
‘I think you look perfect,’ Santos replied. He looked pretty perfect himself, in an expensively tailored navy suit jacket and trousers, his white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, the perfect foil for his bronze skin. His dark hair was brushed back from his face, the silver and gold links of his expensive watch glinting on his wrist. ‘As beautiful as you did the first time I saw you,’ he added, and Mia couldn’t help but let out a little laugh.
‘Really? Because, if I recall correctly, back then I was wearing a T-shirt and cut-off jeans.’
‘I know. And you looked beautiful to me.’
Mia shook her head slowly. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with these compliments; there’d been months of icy silences, of disapproval, hurt and guilt, so that she no longer felt as though she could trust the kind words that were coming out of Santos’s mouth. Yet maybe, for the first time since he’d come back into her life, she wanted to.
‘Why did you come up and talk to me that night, anyway?’ she asked. The more she had come to know Santos, the more she realised how utterly out of character for him it had been. He was as sensible and strait-laced as they came, considering every angle before he made a move, thinking through all the options, making sure he picked the wisest one.
And, as for marrying her after just two weeks, he might as well have had a personality transplant. Why had he done it? Did she really want to know? What if it wasn’t the reason she hoped it was?
‘I’m not really sure,’ he admitted. ‘A moment of...of madness, I suppose. Very unlike me, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.’
A moment of madness? Mia wasn’t sure how she felt about that. And yet, what had it been for her? A sense of slotting into place, of belonging in a way she never had before, right from the beginning. She’d jumped in with both feet and hadn’t let herself think about any repercussions because she’d wanted that—him—so badly.
Except it hadn’t turned out to be real...
‘I couldn’t help myself,’ Santos admitted, drawing Mia back into their conversation. ‘There was something about you, Mia...there still is. I was...utterly compelled.’ He let out a little laugh, shaking his head. ‘As fanciful as I know that sounds.’
‘And completely out of character,’ Mia added. ‘Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.’
‘It was out of character,’ Santos agreed with a nod. ‘But it felt right.’
But did it still feel right, Mia wondered, nearly six months on? And, even if something felt right, did that mean it actually was? Those differences between them were still there, and stark. Whether they were insurmountable remained to be seen.
A waiter came with their menus and, as Mia opened hers, she almost laughed. It was full of incomprehensible-sounding dishes, things she’d never heard of, never mind had: what was arepa, agrodolce, mochi or gurnard? She’d never heard of any of them, and it was a salient reminder of how different they really were.
Santos seemed to be taking the menu in his stride, perusing the offerings with lively interest while she just felt lost...and that was before she’d counted the forks. Six, in total, even more than his mother had had for those interminable dinners, along with knives and spoons. She hadn’t noticed them when they’d first sat down, but now she saw the table was covered in cutlery and it filled her with dread.
They’re just forks and knives , she told herself. They didn’t have to mean anything. And anyway, she thought she knew which one to use. Santos’s mother, Evalina, had murmured to her to start from the outside and work her way in. It had been a kindness, Mia realised, even if it had embarrassed her at the time, and Evalina’s tone had seemed a bit too pointed.
‘What is it?’ Santos asked, looking up from his menu with a frown. He seemed attuned to her moods in a way that was both gratifying and a little alarming. How could he sense what she was feeling about cutlery, for heaven’s sake, when he’d misunderstood so completely about something as important as their own child?
But she didn’t want to think that way, Mia reminded herself, not tonight. ‘I’m just wondering what to order,’ she admitted. ‘All of it looks incomprehensible.’
‘Yes, I have no idea what onglet is, and I can’t decide if it sounds tasty or not.’
‘You don’t know what it is?’ Mia asked in surprise, and Santos raised his eyebrows.
‘Is there a reason why I should?’
She shook her head slowly, bemused at how confounded she felt that her assumption about this very small thing had been wrong. ‘I don’t know... I just assumed you knew everything on the menu—that you’d had it all a million times before. Just like you know which fork to use.’ She glanced wryly down at the full array of silverware.
‘I just follow the golden rule,’ Santos told her. ‘Start from the outside and work your way in.’
Mia let out a little laugh. ‘That’s what your mother told me.’
‘That’s what she told me as well, so it must be right.’ He smiled at her, his face full of warmth, and her heart felt as if it were turning over. It was such a small thing—a matter of forks —and yet it felt much bigger. It felt as though the wryly wagging finger of providence was reminding her that they weren’t as different as she feared they might be.
Of course he knew what onglet was, just another word for a certain cut of steak, but Mia clearly didn’t know that, and Santos was desperate to put her at her ease. To reassure her that she belonged in this world, she belonged with him . A little white lie was certainly understandable, permissible, and he had been telling the truth when he’d said his mother had told him about the forks. It was sound advice and, with a pang, it had made him remember how lost Mia had looked at the dining-room table in Seville.
A bit, like how she looked now, he worried. He was acutely conscious of the way worry chased across her features like shadows. She kept trying to banish it but it kept coming back. What would it take to convince her they belonged together?
If you really do?
No, he didn’t want those doubts to settle in his mind, his heart, again. He’d banish that flock of cawing crows every time if he had to. They’d already addressed some of the issues, he reminded himself. They were working through things; they were getting there.
It doesn’t change the truth that she didn’t want your baby.
No, he wasn’t going to go there, Santos told himself. Not tonight, when Mia was looking so beautiful and, despite the worry flickering across her face, so happy. Not when all he wanted to do— still —was take her in his arms and kiss those softly parted lips. He would not let the doubts in. He certainly wouldn’t let them win, not tonight.
‘So,’ Mia asked, ‘Are you ordering the onglet then? Give it a try?’
Santos smiled, doing his best to banish the worries, the doubts, that maybe Mia was right and they were too different. Those differences could be overcome; they were being overcome already, tonight. ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘I think I will.’
They ate all five courses, washed down with wine, as the moon rose over the Mediterranean, washing the placid waters in silver. As the evening spooled out like a golden thread, Santos found himself relaxing, and he could tell that Mia was too from the way she tilted her head back as she laughed and the smiles that came far more often, and with ready ease. Several times she reached over and touched his hand—which he treasured—her fingers brushing his in a way that made every nerve tingle with anticipation.
As the hours passed, he found the easy languor of his mood being replaced by a far tauter, and more wonderful, expectation. Tonight... Tonight, they would be together.
It was nearing midnight by the time they left the restaurant; in typical Spanish style, the night seemed young, and many people were still dining. The streets were full of tourists and Spaniards alike as they headed out into the Old Town, everyone enjoying the sultry evening, the electric sense of possibility that buzzed through Barcelona. That buzzed through him.
As they strolled down the street back to the hotel, Santos took Mia’s hand, carelessly enough, twining his fingers through hers in a way that he hoped felt casual, natural. It certainly did to him, even if it also felt as if he’d put his fingers into an electrical socket, though pleasurably. Everything came pulsatingly alive. They didn’t speak as they walked along, but Santos felt that sense of expectation building inside him, a towering wave of need and desire.
He hoped Mia felt it too. He hoped she remembered, as he did, just how wonderful they’d been together physically right from the first; it had felt like the purest form of communication, needing no words. He wanted that again. He wanted it tonight —not just for the pleasure and satisfaction he was definitely anticipating, but for them , for their relationship. There were so many ways for them to connect, to solidify the closeness that was growing between them, including what he hoped would happen between them tonight.
They went into the hotel and took the private lift to the penthouse, neither of them speaking, their fingers still twined. As the lift soared higher, Santos felt everything in him tauten all the more with expectation, with hope as well as desire. This was going to happen. It needed to...
As the doors of the lift opened, Mia slipped her hand from his, strolling into the penthouse ahead of him. Santos followed, shedding his suit jacket, wanting to gauge her mood correctly. As much as he wanted her right now, as fiercely as the desire was roaring through his veins, he still needed Mia to feel what he was feeling. He didn’t want to have to convince her. Too much had happened between them already for that.
The rooms of the penthouse were lost in shadow as Mia walked through them, no more than a moonlit silhouette in the darkness. Santos could make out the tumble of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the swell of her breasts underneath the shimmering silk of her gown. She paused in front of the doors to the master bedroom, one slender hand resting on the frame, her back to him, revealing a golden expanse of flesh barely visible in the shadows.
Santos stood there, waiting, hoping... Should he say something, or should he wait for her to say it? If she said goodnight and closed the door, he thought it might just about kill him.
Mia turned so she was in profile, her lashes dropping down to her cheeks. She drew a breath. The very air between them seemed to quiver.
‘I think,’ she said softly, ‘I need help with my zip.’
Santos’s breath came out in a rugged shudder. ‘I believe I can manage that,’ he told her, his voice little more than a rasp. He came towards her slowly, his palms tingling in anticipation of touching her. He saw a small smile curve her lips and heat bloomed within him.
He stood behind her, close enough so he could feel the warmth of body, breathe in the scent that was uniquely, exquisitely her—almond and roses, sweetness and sunshine. The gown delved in a vee over her shoulder blades, the zip starting halfway down her spine. Santos’s fingers whispered over her skin as he reached for the zip. He heard and felt a shudder go through her as gently, languorously, he tugged the zip down, enjoying every protracted second of the experience.
It came easily, the soft fabric of her dress parting to reveal more smooth, golden flesh. He tugged the zip down to the small of her back, pausing while she waited, her body practically quivering in anticipation, and then tugged it the rest of the way down over the curve of her bottom. The straps slipped from her shoulders so the dress slid from her hips and barely covered her breasts.
Santos took another step towards her so he was right behind her, close enough that her bottom was brushing his thighs, causing an almost unbearable ache of desire to go through him. He rested his hands on her shoulders, keeping the gown in place...for now.
‘Do you need any more help?’ he asked, his voice barely a breath of sound that stirred the tendril of hair on the nape of her neck. He longed to press his lips there and savour the feel of her skin.
She swallowed, and he felt her tremble. When she spoke, her voice was soft, no more than a whisper. ‘I think I do.’
Slowly he pulled the dress down further so that it pooled about her waist. He bent his head to do what he’d been aching to do and pressed his lips to the warm, soft skin on the nape of her neck. A moan escaped her, soft and mewling.
Santos slipped his hands round her front and cupped her bare breasts. They felt exactly as he remembered, filling his hands with their warm, perfect weight. She let out a shuddering breath as she leaned back against him, arching her back to give him greater access, his thumbs tracing her nipples as she arched even further.
Then he slipped his hands from her breasts to her waist, pressing her even more firmly against him. She rocked her hips back against his, and now he was the one groaning with both need and pleasure. They’d barely begun and he didn’t know if he could take any more.
‘Santos...’ she murmured, and then she twisted to face him, her arms fumbling as they came around him. Then her lips found his and the kiss felt like a punch to the heart, a firework exploding in his brain, the first stars coming out in the night sky, shining in the darkness, reminding him of all that had been good about how they’d been together.
He deepened the kiss, his hands still on her hips, fastening her to him. Then they were stumbling backwards, laughing even as they continued to kiss, as what had been tender and intense became a blaze of passion and need.
Mia kicked the dress away, another breathless laugh escaping her as the gown lay crumpled and discarded on the floor.
‘That’s haute couture,’ she murmured as Santos filled his hands with her breasts again. ‘I should hang it up.’
‘All I wanted to do with that dress was take it off,’ he muttered as they fell back on the bed in a tangle of limbs. He swallowed Mia’s gurgle of laughter with another consuming kiss.
This , he thought as his mind hazed with both happiness and pleasure, was all he’d ever wanted. All he’d ever need.