‘Can you believe it?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Not even for a moment.’ He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and then leaned down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, so close to the corner of her lips that a small nudge of her face in that direction would have connected lips to lips. But she stayed still, her eyes blinking closed as she breathed him in.
‘Shall we go for lunch, Mrs Herrera?’
Right on cue, her stomach gave a low grumble and she nodded slowly. ‘That sounds like a fine idea.’
* * *
Just a little way from the Parque del Retiro, down a small side street with brightly coloured buildings on either side, lined with large trees and small colourful shrubs, was a restaurant so exclusive there was no visible name. Just a black door—easily missed unless you knew where you were going—showed the entrance.
Antonio pressed a hand in the small of Amelia’s back, the touch purely civil—it was a gesture that wouldn’t have been out of place between colleagues, yet it was like a match being sparked low in her abdomen, and tiny flames burned in every single nerve ending. He pressed a button and a minute later a waiter appeared, wearing jeans and a white shirt, with a butcher’s apron tied around his waist. He addressed them in rapid-fire Spanish, so Antonio responded in English.
‘For two, on the terrace.’
‘Immediately,’ the waiter said, switching effortlessly to Amelia’s native language.
The small door opened into a huge room, so light and airy it was like being in the countryside. Windows that should have looked out onto the street had been screened with green, creating the illusion of being in a garden paradise, and the ceilings were at least three storeys high.
There was a lift at the back and the waiter pressed a button, waiting beside them for it to arrive. Once the doors had opened, he held the doors then reached inside to press a button, before nodding and spinning on his heel.
The lift ascended swiftly—it took only seconds—and then they were on a terrace that exceeded all of Amelia’s expectations. It overlooked the park, showing verdant rolling hills in one direction, and large trees grew in huge pots, jasmine scrambled over a pergola and the tables were placed haphazardly—scattered at random, so that no one table was near another.
It was perfect—private, intimate and clearly exclusive without being off-putting.
‘Ah, Mr Herrera.’ Another waiter appeared, this one a little older, with his dark hair thinning at the temples, his eyes holding Antonio’s before transferring to Amelia. ‘Lovely of you to join us again.’
Amelia ignored the instant surge of jealousy at that—because of course Antonio had frequented this restaurant before, and presumably not alone. It was the perfect place to bring a date—hadn’t she just been thinking so? She straightened her spine, telling herself she didn’t—couldn’t, shouldn’t—care.
‘This way, please.’ The waiter smiled at Amelia and then guided them to a table right at the edge of the terrace. Here, the fragrance of jasmine was exquisite and a nearby citrus tree in a pot was in blossom, so there was a faint humming of feeding bees, their pollen collectors glistening yellow in the afternoon light. The sun was high in the sky yet it wasn’t unbearably warm. Amelia took the seat Antonio had held out for her, letting her gaze chase the details of the view.
For the first time, she felt a kernel of excitement for this—her new city. There was so much to explore, so much to learn!
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said after a moment, her breath fast.
He looked towards the park, and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. She transferred her attention from the park to Antonio, marvelling at how easy it was to forget just how intensely attractive he was.
‘Yes.’ He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. ‘When I was a boy,’ he said, turning to look at her and smiling an easy, companionable smile, ‘my father used to take me there, almost every weekend.’
‘Really? What for?’
‘Football,’ he said with a shrug so his shirt drew across his shoulders and she bit down on her lip to remind herself not to stare. ‘And puppets.’
‘Puppets?’
A waiter appeared with some sparkling water, placing it on the table before them.
‘Puppets,’ Antonio agreed, once they were alone again. ‘There are puppet shows on, all the time, and I used to love them.’
Her heart turned over in her chest at this unexpected detail from his childhood—so mundane, so regular, and completely perfect.
‘You’re surprised?’ he prompted, despite the fact she’d said nothing—and she knew it was because he could read her more easily with each day that passed.
‘I’m...yes,’ she said on a curt nod. ‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you don’t strike me as a man who was ever really a boy,’ she said, and then wrinkled her nose on a small laugh, which he echoed.
‘You think I was born like this?’
‘No.’ She rolled her eyes, her smile not fading. ‘I guess you must have physically been a boy at some point. But one that played and had fun?’
He wiggled his brows. ‘I assure you, I was both those things.’
‘You weren’t determined to take over the world, even at six?’
‘Perhaps a little,’ he said, lifting his hand, his forefinger and thumb pressed close together.
The waiter returned, brandishing menus, and Antonio took them without looking in the waiter’s direction.
‘Thank you,’ Amelia murmured, flying the flag of civility for both of them.
‘And you?’ Antonio pushed, after the waiter had left. ‘Was your childhood full of fun?’
Amelia bristled. ‘I’m sure you know the answer to that.’ She reached for her water, sipping it, turning back to the view. Inexplicably, her heart was racing.
‘I have an impression,’ he agreed with an air of relaxation. ‘But you have not told me specifics.’
‘With good reason.’ She tilted a small smile at him. ‘I don’t like to speak about it.’
Speculation glowed in the depths of his eyes, eyes that were—at times—dark black, and now showed specks of amber and caramel. ‘Then make an exception on this occasion. For me.’
HE WATCHED AS she considered those words, wondering at the sense of reserve she wore like a cloak. It hadn’t been there on the night in her cottage, when she’d brandished a meat cleaver and made him laugh, despite the seriousness of his business with the diSalvo family. Was it him that unsettled her?
The nature of their marriage?
Inwardly he cringed—how could it be anything else? Blackmailing someone into marriage was hardly a way to encourage closeness. Yet here they sat, husband and wife—as much an enigma to one another as the day they’d first met.
‘I think,’ she said, and he didn’t realise until then that he’d been holding his breath, waiting for her to speak and half believing she wouldn’t, ‘some people would characterise it as fun.’ She wrinkled her nose and his gut twisted, hard. He made an effort not to move, to appear natural, but it was as though he was hyper aware of every movement he made, every movement she made.
‘But