The señora kept talking and Rodriguez translated when Carlotta didn’t understand.
“She wants to know when the wedding is,” he said, a question in his tone, as if he were wondering the same thing.
“Tell her we’re in no hurry.” Carlotta looked beyond Rodriguez and felt her heart sink into her stomach.
“I’m in a hurry,” he said, his voice hushed, his hand snaking around her waist, palm resting on her hip.
She cleared her throat. “Well, after my brother Alex gets married maybe …”
That set Señora Ramirez off into a flurry of excited chatter, about invitations and gowns and two royal weddings, how exciting! Her husband just stood next to her, his expression blank.
If Carlotta weren’t so overwhelmed, she would probably be fighting back laughter over the poor man’s plight. Her own parents were so suitably matched. Both so stoic and regal … well, stoic in public at least. She knew what it looked like when her father was angry. Angry beyond words.
Now she was wishing she’d taken the last passing server up on his offer of room-temperature champagne….
“Ah, bailar.” Señor Ramirez spoke for the first time as strains of classical music filled the ballroom.
“I think I am needed now,” Señora Ramirez said. “You should dance too.” She turned to her husband and the look of pure, undisguised love that passed between them made Carlotta feel like she’d been hit in the chest with a rock.
The way they looked at each other … it told her what she didn’t want to believe. That not everyone was cold in their marriage, like her parents. That not everyone lied, like Gabriel. That there was love and happiness.
It would just never belong to her.
You have Luca. That’s real love. Permanent love.
“Care to dance, princesa?” Rodriguez turned a devastating grin her direction.
No. She really, really didn’t. Because it brought back memories of another dance, on another night, and all of her weakness.
“Of course,” she said, offering the Ramirezes a smile for good measure.
Rodriguez kept his arm around her waist and they followed the older couple out onto the area in front of the stage that had been kept clear for dancing.
When they were out in the center of it, he pulled her in, clasping her hand in his. “Try not to look so much like you want to chew me out,” he said dryly, resting his cheek against hers.
She closed her eyes, sucking in a sharp breath, and just for one moment reveled in the feel of his hard body so close to hers. The light brush of stubble from his face. He was a man. So different from her. His body promised the kind of satisfaction that eluded her when she was by herself, more than a simple climax, but real, hot human touch. His scent would surround her, his heat.
She shivered as he moved in time to the music. Nothing sexy, nothing that should send tremors of arousal through her. It was just a dry, classical piece. But Rodriguez’s touch made it seem like more. It made the strains of the cello warm, made the music wind through her body, wrapping around her, as though she were a part of it. One of the instruments. And he was playing her.
She couldn’t even bring herself to care, she wanted to embrace it.
This wasn’t safe. This wasn’t controlled. And she didn’t care.
Because tonight she felt like a woman. And he was right, she had forgotten what that was like. She hadn’t seen the point in remembering. It was so much safer to get lost in the world of dinners at home and imaginary games with cuddle toys.
There was nothing safe about being in Rodriguez’s embrace. She’d discovered that earlier in the corridor when they’d kissed. When she’d all but attacked him, truth be told.
No, his embrace was danger. Delicious, dark, decadent, probably bad for her, but all the better for it. Part of her wondered what was wrong with her. The other part didn’t care. Not now. He was stealing control out of her hands. And she was letting him.
“Feeling warm?” he asked, his voice a whisper, his lips pressed against her earlobe.
“How did you know?”
“Because I am.”
“We might … step outside for a moment.” Bad idea, Carlotta. Very bad.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” A dark, glittering fire lit his eyes and she knew that it was the kind of bad idea that she’d had before, and yet, it felt different. She felt different. Not all glowy and wide-eyed, hoping for some kind of emotional revelation.
She just wanted him to touch her. Her only fear was that he wouldn’t.
He kept his arm locked around her waist and she led the way through the crowd, to the back of the ballroom and out onto the vast terrace. It was warm outside, ocean mist hanging thick in the heated air.
“The beaches in Santa Christobel are famous. And I don’t believe you’ve been yet,” he said, sliding his hand over her waist and to her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.
“It’s dark,” she said dryly.
“This is where I say something pithy about the moon reflecting off the water. Or where I would say something to that effect if I were toying with you.” He tightened his hold on her hand and halted his steps. Carlotta stopped and turned to him, studied his face, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. “But I’m not. The simple truth is, I have wanted to have you to myself from the moment I saw you in that dress. I’m luring you away from the crowd so I can get you alone.”
She sucked in a breath. “Are you planning on having your wicked way with me?” She’d meant to tease, but unfortunately her question sounded completely sincere and a little bit breathless.
“Is that what you want?”
“Why don’t we go down to the beach and … see the moon.”
“Sounds like a line. I should know.”
She shot him her deadliest glare, one that would have sent a lesser man running for cover. But there was nothing lesser about Rodriguez. And it was dark, so her look was probably completely wasted. “Rodriguez, this isn’t easy for me, can we just walk?”
“And not talk?”
“That would probably be best.” She didn’t want to think. She wanted … she didn’t want to think about what it was she wanted either, because there was nothing smart or good or self-controlled about what she wanted. It didn’t really matter if Rodriguez was the man she was supposed to marry. She didn’t have any of the feelings she should have for a future husband for him, she just … needed him.
The need was elemental. It wasn’t a pursuit of rebellion, it was physical. As necessary as breathing. Terrifying and foreign in its intensity, but far too compelling to walk away from.
“Then follow me.” He started walking again and she followed. He led her down a stone path that went from the house and disappeared into the thick, lush sand of the beach. “You might need to lose your shoes,” he said, looking down at the glittering high heels she was wearing.
“Right.”
He tightened his grip on her while she lifted one foot up and toed the first spiky shoe off, then the other. He picked them up off the sand, the feminine heels out of place in his large, square hands. “I don’t want you to lose them,” he said.
“Thanks.” She didn’t really care about the shoes. She couldn’t. She felt somehow outside of herself and more connected to her body’s physical needs than she’d ever been. Above and also deeply immersed in what was happening to her,