CHAPTER FOUR

      I’M NOT GOING to lie. A private jet makes travel easier. Especially with a baby. We had a quick flight from London to Madrid. No standing in lines, no fighting for overhead space. And I felt much better than I had on the last flight. I was well slept, showered. My hair was brushed until it tumbled over my shoulders. I’d even put on a little mascara. Arriving in Madrid in my new soft pink blouse and form-fitting jeans, I felt almost pretty.

      “Where’s your diamond handbag?” Alejandro teased as we left the jet, going down the steps to the tarmac of the private airport, followed by his men carrying our luggage. “Don’t you like it?”

      I bit my lip. “Well...”

      He put his hand on his heart, as if it had been stabbed with grief. “You don’t!”

      “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’ll still use it. I was needing a new diaper bag.”

      He gave a low laugh, then sobered, his dark eyes resting on mine as he said softly, “I’ll have to see if I can find some other gift to please you more.”

      I shivered at his glance, then looked out the window of the SUV. He’s not trying to seduce me, I repeated silently to myself. He’s not. He’s just trying to lure me into a loveless marriage of convenience—don’t fall for it, don’t...

      Madrid was beautiful, an elegant, formal city with its nineteenth-century architecture, spreading regally across the banks of the Manzanares River. All the gray clouds of San Miguel and London seemed a million miles away. Here, the August sky was bright blue, and the Spanish sun burning hot.

      Alejandro’s driver took us to his penthouse apartment near the Prado, the bodyguards and luggage following in the car behind. We arrived at the flat, which took the entire top floor, and were answered at the door by a middle-aged woman who seemed far too young to be his grandmother. He quickly introduced her as his longtime housekeeper, the only paid staff at the penthouse, Mrs. Gutierrez, who lived on a floor below.

      Alejandro walked us around the enormous apartment, with its stark contemporary furnishings and enormous windows overlooking the city. “What do you think?”

      “It’s beautiful,” I said slowly, “but so cold. You can hardly tell anyone lives here.” Shivering, I cuddled my warm baby close. “You must not stay here much.”

      He blinked. “More blunt honesty.”

      “Was I rude?”

      “I can take it.” He shifted his weight, then clawed back his thick, dark hair. I wondered what it would feel like to... No! I stopped the thought cold. Oblivious of my inner struggle, he continued with a sigh, “My company is headquartered here. I am in Madrid all the time.”

      “Oh,” I said, looking at all the sharp edges of the furniture, all the glass and chrome. “Um. Well. It’s very—masculine.”

      He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Perhaps it needs a woman’s touch.”

      In my current frame of mind, I wondered if he was talking about more than his apartment. My cheeks went hot and I cleared my throat. “I’m surprised your grandmother isn’t here. She sounded so keen to meet her great-grandson.”

      “You’ll meet her tomorrow. I have an event tonight in Madrid, and Abuela doesn’t like to leave her roses, or all the people who count on her at the castle.”

      “The castle?”

      “Rohares, near Seville. Where the Dukes of Alzacar have lived for four hundred years.”

      “Cold and drafty,” I sighed.

      “Exactamente.” He gave me a sideways glance, seeming to hide a smile. “I can hardly wait for you to see it.”

      “Yeah,” I grumbled. “How many rooms?”

      “I lose count,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking. But at least such a large building would create more space between us. Even this large penthouse felt too...close, when we were together. Every glance, every word, made me more attracted. It was dangerous.

      As soon as his grandmother met the baby, I told myself firmly, I’d be out of this country and away from Alejandro. We’d come to some agreement over custody. Preferably one that involved Miguel living with me in Mexico.

      Although it would be a shame to separate my son from a father who loved him, just because I was afraid of being hurt....

      I pushed the thought away. “You said something about an event tonight?”

      “A celebration—a ball, really. Hosted by my company. Starts in—” he glanced at his platinum watch and said calmly “—twenty minutes.”

      Thank heavens! I wouldn’t have to spend the evening with him, trying desperately not to feel tempted! With real relief, I said, “Go and have a good time. We’ll be fine. I’ll tuck Miguel into bed and maybe read a book until...”

      But he was already shaking his head. “Leave you alone with our son, giving you the opportunity to run away again? No.”

      “Why do you think I’d run away?”

      “Why would I think you wouldn’t?”

      “You could post your bodyguards at the door,” I suggested.

      “You’d charm them and escape.”

      He thought I was charming? For an instant I felt flattered. Then I folded my arms. “You could just decide to trust me.”

      “I will trust you.” He tilted his head, looking down at me with amusement. “As soon as you marry me.”

      “Never going to happen, and believe me, after this momentary madness—or whatever it is—passes, you’ll thank me.”

      “Fine,” he sighed, plunking down on the soft sofa in front of a wide-screen TV and a window with a view of the city. He reached for the remote control. “Shall we see if there are any good movies on tonight? Maybe order takeaway?”

      I stared at him, my lips parted. “You can’t miss your own party.”

      He