fences, stretches of darkly tinted glass, infinity pools, landscaped lawns.
She knew the drill.
She compressed her lips, disapproval filling her body.
Of course he lived somewhere like this.
Only his house wasn’t one of the homes lined up in a fancy row, overlooking the park. His house was in the park. What she’d taken to be a public area was, in fact, part of Antonio’s garden. The house itself was like a twenty-first century palace—all white walls and blue glass, with sharp lines and bright flowers tumbling out of terracotta pots on the endless balconies.
It was beautiful, she admitted grudgingly to herself. ‘If you think we’re raising our child in this museum, you’re crazy,’ was what she said. And when he drew the car to a halt at the front of the mansion she continued to stare at it.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked, the words flattened of emotion.
‘Well, for one thing, look at the terraces. Do you have any idea how risky that is?’
His tone was curt. ‘Yes, if only there were some handy way to keep children off terraces. I don’t know, something flat that could be pulled to create a barrier. Something a bit like, oh, what’s the word for it...a door?’
She scowled. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’
He laughed then, a husky sound. ‘And pettiness doesn’t suit you. The house is fine, and you know it, so stop complaining for the sake of it and come and have a look.’
Only the fact he’d stepped out of the car and was coming around to her side had her pushing the door open and making a hasty exit before he could open the door for her. It was symbolic of the marriage she wanted—separate, but together. She nodded to herself at that description. It was perfect.
Marriage didn’t mean they had to know everything about one another. Courtesy, civility, distance.
That could work, right?
Only his look showed he knew exactly what she was doing and she was left with a sense of having acted childishly, and she hated that! Her fingers knotted together before she realised what she was doing.
‘The house itself is gated,’ he pointed out, ‘so there is little worry our children would find their way into the lake.’
‘Children?’ She stopped walking, pressing a flat hand against her stomach. ‘This is one baby, so far as we know.’
He shrugged. ‘So far.’
‘You mean...?’ She gaped. ‘We aren’t having more children.’
He gestured towards the house. ‘Lots of rooms to fill...’
‘That’s a great reason to compound this situation,’ she muttered, to cover the way her heart had speeded up at the very idea of a big, happy, noisy family—with this man.
‘You want to give our child everything, don’t you? Does that not include siblings?’
She stared at him, her eyes sparking. ‘No.’ Not if it means sleeping with you again, she added inwardly, but her traitorous body surged at the very idea and she spun away from him to hide her reaction. The dress was a fine cotton and her nipples were hardening at the mere thought of being possessed by him once more.
‘We’ll see.’ He simply shrugged and the hand he placed at the small of her back might have been intended only to guide her forward, but her body was already on fire, her pulse racing, spurred on by memories of that night, so that she was electrified by the simple touch.
But pride held her steady; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how he affected her by jerking out of his reach.
‘The door opens with a code,’ he said, tapping in some numbers. ‘Raul will programme yours.’
‘Raul?’
‘Head of my security and operations.’
‘You have security?’
He shot her a look of impatience. ‘Yes, querida.’
‘What the heck does someone like you need a bodyguard for? You’re six and a half feet of muscle. Are you telling me you couldn’t defend yourself?’
His smile showed both amusement and something else, something darker and more dangerous, because it spoke of a desire in his bloodstream that answered her own.
She blinked it away.
‘Raul is not a bodyguard,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘His purview is the security of my properties, the safety of my staff, and protecting my cyber interests. He monitors the alarms, ensures staff are vetted appropriately. And he will oversee your protection as well, from now on.’
‘I don’t need protection.’
‘Amelia—’ He expelled a heavy breath, clicking the door shut behind them. It was impossible not to contrast this phenomenal space with the cosiness of Bumblebee Cottage. They were standing inside a door now, as they had been then but, instead of quaint lighting and pictures drawn by her students, here there was all white marble, high ceilings, crystal chandeliers and world-famous pieces of art hanging from the walls. Mondrian, Dali and—of course—Picasso. She stared at the bright modernist piece with a growing sense of awe.
‘Amelia?’ he repeated. ‘Are you okay?’
She blinked, her nausea nothing to do with the baby in that moment so much as the enormity of what she’d done. Marriage to Antonio was one thing, but until she’d stepped into his lavish home and been confronted with the sight of millions of pounds’ worth of artwork within the hallway alone, she hadn’t completely grasped what she was doing: the world she was moving back into.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Just hot.’ And it was a hot day, stiflingly so, but the house itself was perfectly climate controlled. Other urges were responsible for the heat that ran rampant through her veins...
‘Come, have a seat,’ he urged, gesturing deeper into the house. Three steps led down into a sunken living space that showed views of the park they’d driven alongside. The windows were floor to ceiling and several of them slid to open completely, so that the enormous terrace beyond could become a part of this room with ease.
The sofas were white leather, large and soft. She sank into one and wished she hadn’t because it was comfortable and she didn’t want to be at ease. She needed to keep her wits about her.
Antonio disappeared, then returned a moment later with a bottle of ice-cold water. ‘Drink this,’ he said, handing it to her.
‘Yes, sir,’ she couldn’t resist clipping back, diminishing his act of concern to one of dictatorialism.
He crouched down in front of her and, God help her, her eyes fell to his powerful haunches and the way the fabric of his trousers strained across them. He’d discarded his jacket somewhere, presumably in the kitchen or wherever he’d pulled the water bottle from, so her eyes roamed upwards, to the flat tightness of his stomach and, finally, up to his face. He was watching her but his expression
