the diSalvos and relishing his success.
But her pregnancy... He frowned, thinking of the unlikelihood of that. He was religious about using contraceptives. He was no monk. Sex was a part of his life, and he knew children weren’t on his wish list. But the second Amelia had dropped her bombshell he’d felt an explosion of protective instincts, a primal, all-encompassing need to do whatever he could for that child.
That it was a child he would be raising with a diSalvo was something he would have to accept.
That had nothing to do with business—what he and Amelia shared, the life they would make for their baby, was all personal.
‘I NOW PRONOUNCE you husband and wife.’
The words swum around Amelia’s mind, heavily accented, and ever so slightly like a death knell.
Only that was stupid and dramatic. She was no little lamb, being led to the slaughter. She’d chosen this marriage, and she had to remember that. She wasn’t a piece of detritus being drawn into an ocean’s current—she had gone to Antonio and told him of her pregnancy, and she had chosen to at least try to create a life with him.
A real life?
Anxiety gnawed at the edges of her stomach as she came to the crux of the question that was tormenting her.
What exactly did a ‘real’ marriage look like, to Antonio Herrera?
She barely knew him, she thought, sliding a sideways glance to the man beside her. He drove the car through the streets of Madrid with effortless ease, the afternoon sunshine warm and golden, the powerful car eating up the distance between the utilitarian courthouse in which they’d said their vows and...
And what?
His home.
Another thing she had no idea about. Would it be a luxurious penthouse? A mansion? A yacht? Trepidation at the unquestionable glamour and luxury that awaited her had her remembering the life she’d fled, a life she’d sworn she’d never return to. Yet here she was: as far from her life as a primary school teacher as it was possible to be.
He wore a tuxedo and she wore a dress—simple, white, no lace, no pearls, no beading, no zips. The only concession to the fact it was a wedding was a little bouquet of white roses Antonio had presented her with when the limousine had brought her, straight from the airport, to the town hall. To any passers-by they might have even looked like a normal couple, sneaking off to quickly marry, happy at the prospect of the future that awaited them.
But this was far more like a business arrangement than anything else.
So who exactly had she got into bed with? No, not bed! Her cheeks infused with pink heat and she focused her gaze on the city streets as they passed.
He was ruthless, if his behaviour towards Carlo was anything to go by. But then, there were his charitable works—was that just an excuse, though, to soften his reputation as a hard-hearted bastard? Good PR work, the strings being pulled by an agency focused on rehabilitating his image rather than being motivated by any genuine social concern?
It was hard to believe Antonio particularly cared about his image, or how people might perceive him.
And it was better for her to believe that the man who would be a father to her child had good in his heart, somewhere.
I am not actually a bad person, he’d said, right before suggesting this marriage.
A marriage you agreed to, her memory pointed out sharply.
Her eyes dropped to her finger, and the rings she wore now. A simple diamond band accompanied the engagement ring, sparkling back at her encouragingly.
‘Having regrets?’ The words surprised her. They hadn’t spoken in at least thirty minutes, since leaving the town hall.
She angled her face towards his and wished she hadn’t when she found his eyes momentarily scanning her. Only for a scant few seconds, then his attention was claimed by the road, but it was enough. Heat seared her, expectation lurched in her gut and memories—oh, the memories! The way he’d kissed her, the way it had felt for his lips to press against hers, the urgency of their lovemaking, as though each had been waiting for the other all their lives. What madness had driven them into bed?
‘Because it is too late to change your mind, you know,’ he said, a tight smile stretching across his too-handsome face, the expression shoving more pleasurable thoughts from her mind.
‘Not at all.’
‘So you have been twisting your fingers to shreds because you are relaxed?’ he responded with scepticism.
Had she been? It was a nervous gesture she’d had since childhood: lacing her fingers over and over as worries tumbled through her mind. She’d thought she’d conquered it but old habits, apparently, died hard.
‘I’m thinking about our marriage,’ she said honestly. ‘And about the fact I know very little about my husband.’
He turned to face her again, slowing down at traffic lights.
‘And what I do know,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t like, at all.’
His expression was one of grim mockery. ‘I’m a big, bad Herrera,’ he pointed out. ‘Of course you do not like me.’
‘It has nothing to do with this ridiculous feud,’ she returned. ‘I had no idea about that when we slept together; I hadn’t even heard of you, except for an occasional mention in the papers.’ Her teeth dug into her lower lip. ‘This is all about your behaviour. To my brother, my father—your attitude to my family, and now me...’
‘And what is my attitude to you?’ he enquired, looking back at the road and easing the car into gear when the lights changed to green. The city had given way without her realising it, and now there was green on either side and he slowed as they approached a large gate. It flashed as the car neared and swung open, allowing Antonio to drive through.
She didn’t answer that. It was hard to pinpoint what was bothering her, when actually he hadn’t done anything but argue for this marriage. And she had understood his reasoning, had even agreed with him. But she knew why she’d done this—she wanted to give their baby everything she’d never had.
Why had he married her? Was it something so simple, and barbaric, as insisting that their child have his surname? He’d claimed that was a part of it, but what else was there?
Many possibilities came to mind; none of them relaxed her.
At the base of all her worries was the likelihood that Antonio saw this baby as yet another pawn in his war with her family, and there was worry there—worry that he might end up hurting the child. That her hopes for this baby having stability and love would be destroyed by his need for vengeance. And what would she do then?
A sigh escaped her lips without approval. She didn’t see the answering look of impatience that crossed his face: her attention was captured by the view they drove past.
On
