My baby would not spend his childhood in and out of divorce courts, surrounded by pushy paparazzi, bewildered by the internecine battles of his parents. Instead, he would be safe and warm and surrounded by love. He would be happy.
It was all I had to cling to. All I had to live for.
My shoulders fell.
“No,” I whispered. “You win. I will marry you.”
“Now.”
“Fine! I hate you!”
He looked down at me, his expression sardonic. “Hate me, then. At least that I can believe. Far more than your so-called love. But you will be my wife. In every way.”
Yanking me into his arms, he kissed me, hard. But this time, there was nothing of tenderness, or even passion. Just a ruthless act of possession, showing me he owned me, a savage kiss hard enough to bruise.
Pulling me out of the cloakroom and outside into the warm Spanish night, he called for his driver. The paparazzi were long gone, and the street was quiet, even lonely.
Alejandro took me to the house of a local official, where with a quiet word a certificate of permission to marry was produced in record time. Then to a priest, in a large, empty church, so old and full of shadows it seemed half-haunted with the lost dreams of the dead.
And so Alejandro and I were wed, in that wan, barren church, with only flickers of candlelight and ghostly moonlight from the upper windows lighting the cold, pale marble. My pink ball gown of silk and embroidered flowers, which once seemed so beautiful, now hung on me like a shroud.
There was no wedding dress. No cake. No flowers. And no one, except the priest and his assistant called as witness, to wish us happiness.
Which was just as well, because as I looked at the savage face of my new husband as we left the church into the dark of night, I knew happiness was the one thing we’d never have.
* * *
Alejandro looked across the front seat of the car. “You’re going to have to talk to me at some point.”
I looked out the window at the passing scenery as we drove south into Andalucía. “No, I don’t, actually.”
“So you intend to ignore me forever?” he said drily.
I shrugged, still not looking at him. “Lots of married couples stop talking eventually. We might as well start now.”
We’d been alone in the car together for hours, but it felt like days. Alejandro was driving the expensive sports sedan, with Miguel in the baby seat behind us, cooing and batting at plush dangling toys. Three bodyguards and his usual driver were in the SUV following us. “I want some private time with my new bride,” Alejandro had told them with a wink, and they’d grinned.
But the reason he’d desired privacy wasn’t exactly the usual one for newlyweds. I’d given Alejandro the silent treatment since our ghastly wedding ceremony last night. Seething. It wasn’t natural for me to bite my tongue. I think he was waiting for me to explode.
He’d gotten me home by midnight as promised. The instant we returned to his Madrid penthouse I’d stalked into the bedroom where my baby slept, and though I couldn’t slam the door—too noisy—I’d locked it solidly behind me. Very childish, but I’d been afraid that once Mrs. Gutierrez left, he might demand his rights of the wedding night. Pulling on flannel pajamas, I’d stared at the door, just daring him to try.
But he hadn’t. About three in the morning, feeling foolish, I’d unlocked the door. But he never came, not even to apologize for his brutish behavior. There was no way I would have let him seduce me...but my nose was slightly out of joint that he hadn’t even bothered to try. Our marriage was only a few hours old, and he was already ignoring me?
I didn’t see him until this morning, when he was coming out of the guest bathroom next door, looking well rested and obviously straight out of the shower. His dark hair was wet, a low-slung towel wrapped around his bare hips and another towel hanging over his broad, naked shoulders.
I’d stopped flat in the hallway, unable to look away from the muscular planes of his bare chest, laced with dark hair, or the powerful lines of his body, to the slim hips barely covered by the clinging white terry cloth.
Alejandro had greeted me with a sensual smile. “Good morning, querida,” he’d purred, then lifting a wicked eyebrow as if he already knew the answer, he’d inquired, “I trust you slept well?”
But I was starting to get my revenge. His lips were now set in an annoyed line as he kept his eyes on the road, pressing on the gas of his very expensive, very fast sedan. “We are husband and wife now, Lena. You must accept that.”
“Oh, I do,” I assured him. “But we’re a husband and wife who happen to hate each other. So perhaps just not talking is best.”
Alejandro exhaled in irritation, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. I turned away, staring out wistfully at the scenery of Spain flying past us. In any other circumstance I would have been in awe at the magnificent view. The farmland and soft hills of central Spain were turning to a drier landscape. Lovely thick bushes of pink and white oleander flowers separated the highway, a vivid, wild, unexpected beauty, much like Spain itself.
Oleander. I shivered a little. So beautiful to the eyes. But so poisonous to the heart.
Just like Alejandro, I thought. I wouldn’t let him in. Husband or not, I’d never let him close to me. In any way.
We’d stopped only once since we left Madrid, to feed and change the baby, and to put gas in both cars. Alejandro offered to take a small detour and stop for lunch in Córdoba, to show me the famous cathedral that had once been a Great Mosque. But I’d refused. I didn’t want him doing me any favors. Though later I regretted it, because I heard a lot about the famous Mezquita.
As the car flew south, turning on a new road, I blinked in the bright sun flooding the windows. After weeks of rain in San Miguel, and London’s drizzle and overcast skies, the Spanish sun had come as advertised, with a wide blue horizon that held not a single cloud. The arid landscape suddenly reminded me of Mexico. Which reminded me of the freedom and independence I’d had so briefly.
And Edward.
I’ll be back for you, Lena.
“Stop it,” Alejandro growled.
I nearly jumped in the smooth leather seat. “What?”
“I can hear you. Thinking about him.”
“You can hear me thinking?”
“Stop,” he said quietly, giving me a hard sideways glance. “Or I will make you stop.”
“Make me—” I snorted derisively, then I looked at him, remembering his last ruthless kiss in the cloakroom. And the one before it, which had been even more dangerous. I remembered how it had felt, surrendering to his embrace, how it had made my whole body tremble with need.
“You’re such a jerk,” I muttered, folding my arms mutinously. “My thoughts are my own.”
“Not if they are of a man like St. Cyr. Thoughts lead to actions.”
“I told you, I don’t even like him anymore!”
He snorted. “And that is supposed to inspire trust? You’ve made it plain you did not wish to marry me. Perhaps you’re wishing now you took the other choice.”
I looked at him. “What other choice?”
“A war between us,” he said grimly. He was staring forward at the road, his jaw tight. “St. Cyr would be eager to help you with that.”
My arms unfolded. “No.” I frowned. “I don’t