Postcards From Madrid: Married by Arrangement / Valdez's Bartered Bride / The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride. Chantelle Shaw
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she was conscious only of the spectacular power of his gaze. His concern for her sent a sudden dangerous flare of happiness winging through her slight frame. The faint citrusy aroma of the shaving lotion he used flared her nostrils. She wanted to drink the scent in like a drug, for it was already wonderfully familiar to her. Something tightened low in her pelvis and an awareness so acute it hurt seemed to make every inch of her feel unbearably sensitive. She wanted to lean closer to him, retain that fleeting physical contact of his fingers against her throat. But she rebelled against her weakness and literally forced herself back for him with a brittle smile fixed to her flushed face. ‘Right, so if I’m to make myself at home, I’ll have a bath before the food arrives,’ she framed not quite steadily. ‘So first you’d better tell me where Lydia is, because I want to check she’s OK without me.’
For a split second, Antonio was very taut as he mastered the raw hunger that had leapt as high as a burning brand in him. All it had taken was her proximity and that reference to a bath and his imagination had gone crazy. His gleaming gaze veiled while he fought an outrageous desire to simply grab her like a Neanderthal cave dweller. Lust had never controlled him to such an extent that he almost forgot who he was. Exhilarated by the very power of that sensation, he suspended all rational thought on the issue.
It was sex, just sex, nothing to get worked up about. She was amazingly sexy and the very fact that she didn’t even seem to appreciate the strength of her own attraction only added to her appeal. He could not recall when he had last been with a woman capable of walking past a mirror without looking in it. Not to mention one so devoted to a baby’s interests that her own needs took second billing.
Sophie peeped in on Lydia, who was blissfully asleep in a large cot. Her niece was being watched over by what appeared to be a good half of the female staff. A little while later, her concern laid to rest, Sophie sank into the warm, scented water of the sunken bath that had so captured her interest. She rested her head back against the built-in pillow and surveyed the other luxurious fittings with impressed-to-death eyes. She could see that the misery of being married to Antonio was going to be alleviated by certain small consolations. So, she couldn’t have him and other women were going to have him…but, she rushed to remind herself, she had Lydia, a bath to die for and at least the promise of food. On the downside this was her wedding night and she was alone? So what was new about being alone, she asked herself, struggling not to give way to self-pity. Unhappily she was all too well aware that Antonio would never have left a princess alone…
Thoroughly refreshed, Sophie emerged from the bathroom with a white towel knotted round her and a riot of tousled curls falling round her shoulders. Her nose twitched at the faint enticing aroma in the air and she followed it.
Antonio was standing by the balcony doors in the sitting room.
‘Oh!’ Sophie jerked to a disconcerted halt a few feet from the table that was now set with sparkling glasses and cutlery and the catering trolley standing by. ‘Did you bring the food?’
Antonio was immediately aware that he was staring. With her blonde hair in damp disarray, her fair skin pink and only a towel screening her slim curves between breast and knee, she looked incredibly appealing. ‘No…I’m here to dine with you.’
Sophie stared back at him in surprise.
‘If we’re hoping to pretend that this is a normal relationship, we can’t spend our wedding night in different rooms,’ Antonio pointed out.
‘Oh, right…yeah,’ Sophie mumbled, appreciating that he was only joining her because he had no choice in the matter. That meant that his presence was nothing to get thrilled about. ‘I’d better get dressed, then.’
Antonio resisted a schoolboyish urge to tell her that he thought she looked great just as she was and countered with studied casualness, ‘A robe will do.’
‘I don’t have one and it’s too warm for my jeans. I don’t have much else yet—’
‘Just stay as you are,’ Antonio suggested huskily.
The simmering tension in the air danced along her nerve endings. He had changed as well, into black chinos, which accentuated his long, powerful legs, and a casual but very elegant blue open-necked shirt. He managed to look impossibly sophisticated and gorgeous.
‘You don’t look as stuffy as you usually do!’ Sophie exclaimed before she could think better of such frankness.
Faint colour demarcated the spectacular cheekbones that gave his lean bronzed face such intense power and beauty of line. Stuffy? His keen intellect threw up every possible meaning and none was complimentary. It was a word he associated with some of his more stodgy relatives, the ones boringly trapped in convention and habit. Was that how he seemed to her? Stuffy? She was seven years younger than he was. Was it such a gap?
‘We should eat,’ Antonio murmured flatly, determined not to react to what he knew had been a thoughtless remark.
Sophie knew she had offended. ‘It’s just the way you talk and the suits… I’m not used to businessmen and I guess all of them wear suits—’
‘What way do I talk?’ Antonio discovered that he could not silence that question as he spun out a chair for her to sit down.
‘I really didn’t mean to suggest anything critical,’ Sophie muttered anxiously, sitting down on the very edge of the upholstered antique dining chair. ‘You’ve got fantastic manners and of course you can’t help being formal… I mean you’re a marquis—’
‘And stuffy,’ Antonio breathed and shrugged, the ultimate gesture of Mediterranean cool, but that word she had used had been etched like acid into his soul. ‘Let’s eat.’
Sophie leapt up to examine the contents of the trolley and exclaimed in delight at the sight of the barbecued ribs, pizza and French fries. A multitude of other options was also available. ‘You have an in-house take-away?’
‘I wanted you to have food you felt comfortable with.’
‘I eat loads of more healthy things too, but Norah wouldn’t have had a clue about that. To be honest, Norah and Matt eat stuff like this most of the time. I only like it occasionally.’ As she spoke Sophie was scooping up cushions and throws and piling them on the carpet in an untidy heap. Then she flung open the balcony doors on the cooling night air.
In a trice the superbly elegant room became disorganised and yet more full of life. It dawned on Antonio that sitting at a table when the hard wooden floor was available might be deemed stuffy. While Sophie emptied the trolley and knelt down among the cushions to arrange containers and plates in the style of an impromptu indoor picnic, he uncorked the champagne and filled the flutes. She ate without cutlery, licking her fingertips clean like a delicate cat. She tore a strip off the pizza, tipped her head back and bit off tiny pieces. Never until that moment had it occurred to him that watching a woman eat could be a sensual experience. He was absolutely fascinated.
‘What would you like to talk about?’ she asked cheerfully, flopping back against the piled-up pillows to finish her champagne.
‘My stuffy good manners prevented me from asking how you and your sister came to have different fathers,’ Antonio admitted.
Sophie tensed, but tried to laugh off her discomfiture. ‘Oh, that’s no big deal. Belinda’s father was married to our mother, Isabel. He was an oil executive and he wasn’t home much. Isabel met my father when he was painting their house—’
‘He was an artist?’
‘He painted walls, not pictures,’ Sophie told him thinly. ‘Well, he got her pregnant with me and she left her husband for him…’
‘And?’ Antonio prompted as the silence dragged.
‘My father was no great catch and Isabel soon realised her mistake. When I was a month old, she went back to her husband and left me behind with Dad.’
‘That must have been hard for your father—’
‘Dad would do just about anything for