Norah muttered evasively.
‘This way Lydia will find out about the Spanish side of her family and learn how to be really exclusive and up-market like…well, like some rich kid,’ Sophie pointed out. ‘She’s going to pick up all sorts of stuff I could never teach her. It’s what Belinda would have wanted for her—’
‘Yes, it probably is.’ Norah nodded thoughtfully. ‘Your sister did set great store by that sort of thing. I shouldn’t have kept on nagging at you. I can see that belonging to a rich family like Antonio’s will give Lydia a terrific start in life and opportunities that she would never get here.’
‘She deserves the best.’ Sophie was grateful that the older woman was finally thinking along the same lines and accepting her reasons for marrying Antonio. ‘That’s the only reason I’m doing this…for her.’
Forty minutes later, Sophie studied the crowd of people waiting outside the church with some surprise. Had a previous wedding started late and overrun its time? Oh, dear, she thought, Antonio would not like that. Well, they would just have to wait their turn. She checked her reflection to see that the tiny concoction of pink chiffon and feathers perched on top of her curls was still at the right angle. She smoothed nervous hands down over the fitted skirt of her dress, which was made of an exuberant fabric covered with big splashy roses. The limo driver pulled in right at the church steps and jumped out to open the door.
With Lydia in a carrier seat, Sophie climbed out. Noisy people shouting piercing questions and waving cameras surrounded her.
‘What’s your name?’ someone asked.
‘Friend of the bride’s?’ someone else shouted from the back.
‘She’s not a guest, she is the bride!’ Norah proclaimed sternly. ‘Now move and let us inside the church…we’ve got a baby here!’
‘Are you Sophie Cunningham?’ a voice demanded in astonishment.
Momentarily transfixed as she was by the sound of her name on a stranger’s lips, a nervous giggle escaped Sophie. Taking advantage of the gap that had appeared in the crush as Lydia’s presence was acknowledged, she hurried on up the steps and into the porch. The elderly priest greeted her warmly.
Norah took charge of Lydia. Sophie’s heart started beating very fast. She sucked in a steadying breath and took a peek down the aisle. Sunlight was pouring through the stained-glass windows and bathing the interior in beautiful jewelled streamers of rich colour. Antonio was at the altar, another smaller, slighter man standing to one side of him, probably the lawyer he had mentioned. She was more interested in staring at Antonio. Even in profile, he looked incredibly handsome. His formal dark suit and white shirt were exquisitely tailored to his tall, powerful frame. As usual he exuded the quiet, distinguished elegance that seemed so much a part of him.
When she drew level with him, she wanted so badly for him to acknowledge her arrival with a look, a smile, the merest touch, but nothing happened. He had phoned her several times over the past three weeks but the calls had been brief and businesslike. As the nuptial mass began she listened carefully to every word. Each of them made their responses, her voice uneven with a sense of the gravity of the occasion, his cool and firm. He slid a gold ring on her finger without betraying a hint of proper masculine hesitance.
Only with the greatest difficulty was Antonio restraining his ire. The paparazzi were encamped outside. The discreet event he had had organised had been blown wide open. His family avoided publicity like the plague. Who had talked? One of his own staff? A hotel employee? Someone attached to the church? Or his bride? He had expected Sophie to show up in a very frilly over-the-top long white dress complete with veil. In a funny sort of way that he was reluctant to analyse, he had been rather looking forward to seeing her in a wedding gown. Instead she was sporting the most extraordinarily inappropriate apparel. Her outrageously floral dress was flashy enough to stop rush-hour traffic. He studied her ridiculously tiny perky hat. He knew he was being punished for not giving her the advice she had asked for: it was his own fault.
‘Stop right there…’ Norah instructed, holding up her camera as the bride and groom turned away from the altar.
Antonio looked down into Sophie’s misty green eyes fringed by curling dark lashes. Her soft pink mouth was the same shade as the hat and it was amazing how well that particular colour became her, Antonio reflected grudgingly.
‘Sorry about this…but there’s times when you have to bite the bullet and just do what you have to do,’ Sophie whispered apologetically, gripping hold of his arms to stretch herself up to him. ‘Act like you’re going to kiss me…this one’s for the album I’m going to make for Lydia.’
Antonio closed long, lean fingers into the toffee-coloured curls tumbling down her spine, tugged her head back and brought his hungry mouth down hard on hers. In shock, she jerked against him and gasped as if she were being ravished. Even as pure lust leapt through him he wanted to laugh. It was time she accepted that he was a Rocha and like every Rocha right back to the sixteenth century: he didn’t take orders; he handed them out.
His tongue delved deep in a bold invasion. A piercing, unbearable sweetness shot through Sophie followed by a fierce wave of heat. Dizzy, she locked her arms round his neck to stay upright, and as he released her tingling lips she struggled to catch her breath against his shoulder. He set her back from him in the thrumming silence. Norah was staring wide-eyed. Crimson with embarrassment, Sophie stared into space, her mind blanked out by shock at her own wanton behaviour.
Impervious to that kind of discomfiture, Antonio introduced her very briefly to the lawyer, who, having acted as their second witness, was already making his departure. The official photographer, whose services had been arranged, awaited them in the church porch. At Antonio’s request he produced his driving licence as proof of his identity.
‘I’m sorry but the presence of the journalists outside means that a photographic session will not be possible,’ Antonio imparted gravely. ‘That will not, of course, make any difference to your remuneration.’
Emerging from her fog of self-loathing over that kiss, Sophie exclaimed, ‘But you can’t cancel the photographs!’
‘I can do whatever I like, mi rica.’ His quiet tone audible only to her ears, Antonio gazed down at her with grim dark eyes. ‘If you’re responsible for that rabble of reporters out there, you’re likely to be very disappointed by the coverage they gain of our wedding. We’re leaving now by the rear exit.’
‘Those people are newspaper reporters?’ Sophie was bewildered by his speech. ‘Why are you suggesting that I might have something to do with them being here?’
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ Antonio informed her at a pitch that would have frozen volcanic lava in its tracks.
Sophie thought that perhaps she had misunderstood what he had said and returned to her main source of concern. ‘You can’t just cancel the photos!’
‘Might I suggest,’ the photographer dared in a deferential murmur, ‘That a change of location would suffice?’
Considerably more interested in heading direct to the airport and his flight home to Spain and normality, Antonio set his even white teeth together at that unwelcome suggestion.
‘Look,’ Sophie said urgently, ‘Let me go out and tell those reporters to get lost!’
Seriously taken aback by that suggestion, Antonio studied his bride. She might be five feet nothing in height, but there
