Bride in a Gilded Cage (2 page)

Sensing some aspect of the man she might appeal to, she said, ‘But you don’t want to marry me. Can’t you just give us what we’re due for the
estancia
and we can be done with this arrangement?’

Before Rafael’s very eyes Isobel Miller was changing. His first impression of her as a girl hadn’t been entirely fair. She just looked incredibly young. But now he could see that she had an inherent maturity, a worldliness he wouldn’t have expected. His eyes compelled hers to his, holding them. He shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that simple.’

Rafael found his thoughts scattering as he became increasingly transfixed by her. Up close, she was even paler than he’d first thought. Brown hair with a hint of russet shone in the dim light of the study. It was caught up in a fussy chignon that did nothing for her face, which still held some teenage plumpness. But her eyes…he found himself caught by them. They were huge and brown, like dark velvet, with long lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks.

He could see in an instant that once her teenage plumpness disappeared she’d have the potential to emerge as a true beauty. Disturbingly, he felt a rush of blood to his groin.

Why was he just staring at her like that? Isobel spoke
again, with more than a hint of desperation in her voice. ‘
Why
is it not that simple?’

She was unaware of the hopelessly pleading look on her face, and didn’t see how Rafael’s jaw tightened in response. He took a step closer, and now Isobel felt even more threatened. Rafael Romero at a distance was truly intimidating, but close, like this, he was altogether overwhelming. She found it hard to breathe.

‘I am not going to risk losing the
estancia
by trying to negotiate a way out of the agreement. And the fact is I will need a wife. Why would I turn my back on one so conveniently provided?’

His eyes dropped in a leisurely appraisal of Isobel’s body, making her heat up so that her face felt brick-red by the time their eyes met again.

‘You’re not what I expected,’ he said, almost musingly.

‘Well, you’re
exactly
what I expected,’ Isobel threw back, feeling more and more threatened.

Rafael arched a brow. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I? You’re quite the little firebrand, aren’t you?’

Isobel hitched up her chin. ‘If by that you mean I’ve got a mind of my own and I’m not afraid to use it then, yes, I am a firebrand. And if you think I’m going to meekly agree to a marriage of convenience with you then you’re sorely mistaken. I’ve no desire to commit myself to a life of purgatory as some billionaire playboy’s convenient wife.’

Isobel felt even hotter, and hoped the dim light was hiding her reaction. The way he was looking at her was so…assessing. Too assessing. As if he saw something that she’d never been aware of—herself as a woman. Immediately something liquid and illicit pooled in her belly and down lower. She fought not to squirm. She wanted to look away, anywhere but into those dark, hypnotic eyes, but she couldn’t.

The futility of their circumstances washed over her. His enigmatic silence was sending her tension levels into orbit. ‘You can’t seriously tell me you’re happy to marry me.’

His mouth was grim, hard. His eyes weren’t assessing any more; they were hard and black. ‘On the contrary, Isobel, I came here tonight to see my future bride for myself, expecting to meet a vacuous spoilt brat, but you’ve confounded my expectations—and, believe me, not many people surprise me these days.’

Isobel went cold inside. ‘I don’t want to confound your expectations.’

‘Tough,’ Rafael said easily. ‘You have. I will admit that the prospect of this marriage has held little appeal for me, but my attitude is changing by the second. My eventual need to marry was never in doubt, and after my near-fatal brush with matrimony, let’s just say that a marriage of convenience is the only type of marriage I’d contemplate.’

His gaze flicked down and up again, and his mouth softened, making Isobel quiver inwardly.

‘While I’ve no desire to take a child bride into my bed, I can see that with a little more maturity you might well become a woman I can make a life with.’

Now Isobel was fierce, some innate feminine pride surging upwards, along with the sheer panic his words engendered. ‘I’m
not
a child.’

Rafael arched a brow. ‘No? Then what are you—a woman?’ He shook his head and said cruelly, ‘You’re not a woman yet,
querida,
and you’re certainly not ready for my bed.’

White-hot anger and something scarily like hurt made Isobel spit out, ‘By all appearances your bed is far too busy anyway. I don’t think I’d like to share it with every social climber in Buenos Aires.’

Rafael looked stunned for a moment, and then livid. ‘Why, you little—’ He reached out and put his hands on Isobel’s arms, pulling her into his chest.

She couldn’t gasp, couldn’t breathe. Eyes opening wide, she saw Rafael’s head descend and that unbelievably sensuous mouth come closer and closer. She let out a strangled gasp before everything went black and
hot
and Rafael’s mouth closed over hers. He tasted of whisky and danger—an altogether intoxicatingly adult mix.

The boys she’d kissed in England could never have prepared her for this sensual onslaught.

Sheer shock kept Isobel immobilised for a long moment. Too long. Because suddenly all she was aware of was how hard Rafael’s chest felt against hers, how it made her breasts tingle and swell against her dress.

His mouth was hard and ruthless, punishing her and expertly seeking a response so that he could humiliate her some more. Isobel knew in some distant part of her brain exactly what was happening, but that part of her brain seemed to be disconnected from her body and her mouth.

She found her hands clinging to the lapels of his jacket—clinging because her legs had turned to jelly. When Rafael’s mouth moved away for one second Isobel heard a mewl of distress come from her throat as she blindly sought and found Rafael’s mouth again.

His hands moved—one down her back, the other to the back of her head. She could feel him loosen her hair, so that it fell around her shoulders. Her world was reduced to delicious insanity. This man and his arms and his mouth on hers. So hot and demanding, like nothing she’d ever known or imagined. The touch and slide of his tongue against hers made her legs clench together to stop the pulse throbbing between
them. Liquid heat was spreading outwards from the very core of her being…and Isobel had no hope of clawing back rationality or any pretence that Rafael wasn’t blowing her mind to pieces. Her inexperience rendered her helpless.

He
was the one to eventually pull back. Isobel opened heavy eyes, her breath coming hard and fast. Heart thumping. She felt hot and sweaty and desperately disorientated. As if her inner being had just shifted on some level and been reorganised. She felt as if he’d branded her.

Rafael carefully made sure she was standing, and then dropped his hands and moved back. Humiliation rose swiftly. Isobel couldn’t look at him. Face burning, she sat in the chair beside her. She couldn’t even pretend she was unaffected. It would be the most obvious lie in the world.

Rafael paced a few feet away, all his coiled energy reaching out and making Isobel want to curl up and hide.

He stopped pacing, and his voice had a rough edge that had Isobel’s pulse skittering again. ‘Like I said, you’re not ready for me, Isobel. But in three years, when we’re due to marry, I’ve no doubt you will be.’

He sounded almost surprised, and Isobel looked up—then wished she hadn’t when she saw he was so close, looking down at her. Before she could escape he was reaching down and putting those big hands on her arms to lift her to her feet. She trembled all over.

He tipped up her chin with a finger, his eyes roving over her face as if he was inspecting her all over again. ‘Marriage between us is inevitable, and I do believe that perhaps we can make a good one. We’ve got as good a chance as anyone in this city facing a marriage like this. Any reluctance I may have once felt is fading fast.’

He was talking as if she weren’t even there, almost musing
to himself. Isobel stood stiffly and gathered all of her courage. ‘I won’t marry you.’

Grimly, Rafael’s eyes caught Isobel’s, and the force of rejection in his body at her words surprised him. ‘You don’t have a choice. Our futures are bound together. Like I said before, I’ve no intention of jeopardising my ownership of the
estancia,
not for anything—and certainly not for a convenient bride I intend to make full use of.’

His mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘You should be counting yourself lucky that you have some time to get used to the prospect. When we do marry, Isobel, you will be my wife and by my side in every sense of the word.’

Hysteria rose within Isobel at the thought that he believed she would become the kind of woman he could marry. Never. The thought of living in Buenos Aires with the prospect of marriage to Rafael hanging over her head felt like a prison sentence.

She shook her head, felt the slip and slide of her hair over the sensitised skin of her shoulders. ‘No. I’ mgoing to leave. Get away from here. I won’t marry you. I
won’t.
I’d prefer to die.’

A cynical look crossed his face. ‘No need to be so dramatic, Isobel. When we marry we’ll simply be joining the thousands of others before us who’ve had to marry for convenience and inheritance.’ His eyes flicked down and back up. ‘With a little time you will mature into a woman I can take into my bed as my wife…’

Sheer hurt winded Isobel. She still hadn’t fully processed the effect of that kiss, but Rafael had proved his sensual dominance over her with effortless ease. And her very obvious lack of effect on
him.

The sheer threat of what Rafael said made Isobel forget everything rational, all the reasons why she didn’t have much choice in this matter. ‘I’m not scared of a legal agreement. It’s
not
my
fault that my grandfather was forced to sell the
estancia
to your family. I won’t pay for his choices with a marriage of convenience to someone I despise.’

Her fists were clenched, nails scoring grooves in her palms.

Rafael stepped back, dropping his hands, and conversely that made her feel slightly bereft.

He smiled minutely, and that seemed to make the floor tilt underneath her.
‘Despise
is a strong word when you barely know me, little one. Run away all you want, but I’ll know exactly where you are and what you’re doing—every single moment. You’re a Buenos Aires princess, Isobel. Your life is here. You wouldn’t survive for two minutes outside your protected environment in the real world. And I really wouldn’t advise you to do anything rash like elope—either to escape your fate or for love…’

His voice turned bitter. ‘I’ll save you the heartache now. It wouldn’t work out, and my team of lawyers would see to it that your family never sees the money they’re due if you pull a stunt like that. It’s a considerable amount of money, and I can guarantee you that your family’s very survival in this society revolves around getting it—especially if their finances continue on the downward spiral they appear to be on.’

‘I hate you,’ Isobel said shakily. ‘I hope I never lay eyes on you again.’

Rafael reached out and trailed a finger down Isobel’s cheek. ‘Oh, but you will, Isobel, you can count on that. We’re going to have a long and happy life together in the not too distant future.’

Nearly three years later

T
HAT KISS
…
Rafael had given up trying to figure out why the kiss he’d shared with Isobel Miller that night had impacted upon him far more than he’d let on at the time. It still had an uncomfortable habit of sneaking into his thoughts with annoying and vivid frequency.

He could remember going back out to his car, where his mistress had been waiting, and dropping her home with some pathetic excuse—an unprecedented situation. But it hadn’t just been the kiss that had turned his head, made him stop to think about the marriage in a new light. It had been the way she’d stood up to him—something no one before or since had done. It had made him believe that the prospect of their arranged marriage might not be the prison sentence he’d always anticipated it to be. He’d hidden his reaction that night, but the heat between them had been fierce and elemental—to the point that in the last six months not one woman had made it into his bed. The memory of his future wife and the reality of her rapidly approaching twenty-first birthday had rendered him all but impotent.

With irritation mounting at this acknowledgement of the
power she seemed to hold over him so effortlessly, Rafael studied the photograph on the desk before him. It was of Isobel, running across a busy street in Paris, arm in arm with a handsome young man. Even though Rafael knew already that the man in question was her dance partner, and gay, it didn’t stop the surge of hot anger in his belly. It was as if Isobel was mocking him.

To compound this feeling, Isobel was smiling broadly, with clearly not a care in the world, eyes sparkling with humour and
beauty.
Rafael’s gut tightened. He’d been right, but even he had underestimated the full force of Isobel’s beauty. The hint of teenage puppy fat had disappeared, to reveal the exquisite bone structure of her face. She’d had her hair cut short—very short—and while Rafael didn’t ordinarily find short hair attractive, on Isobel it highlighted those huge eyes and the delicate lines of her jaw and neck, making her look both incredibly seductive and innocent.

Something that felt absurdly like regret rushed through Rafael as he acknowledged that there could be no way Isobel was still the blushing virgin he’d encountered on the night of her eighteenth birthday. It would be impossible. But he didn’t know why regret was surfacing, when he’d never had any desire to bed a virgin and had more or less
instructed
Isobel to become a woman.

Rafael’s mouth firmed. Well, she’d done that, and then some. She’d left Buenos Aires within weeks of their meeting and gone to Paris, where she’d been making a living teaching Argentine Tango dance classes. She hadn’t used her extensive and expensive British education to carve out a high-profile career or social existence, and as a result had gone unnoticed as far as the tabloids were concerned. As time had passed Rafael had had to admit to a growing sense of respect. The
periodic reports that he received showed that she was living in the most basic of accommodation, and struggling to survive just like anyone else.

He knew she was receiving no hand-outs from her parents because they had nothing to give. Their finances were in a sorry state after years of bad judgments and investments. They had come to him some weeks before, and he had assured them that he fully intended to go through with the marriage and instructed them to leave all the arrangements up to him. Their relief had been palpable.

Rafael turned around in his chair and looked out of the window at the view of Plaza de Mayo, the business hub of Buenos Aires. He rested his chin on steepled fingers. Within minutes of meeting Isobel that night she’d effectively blasted apart any misconception he’d had about her character. Clearly she was not cut of the same cloth as other girls in her peer group, and her actions since then had only confirmed that.

A sense of anticipation coiled in his belly. The time had come to bring his fiancée home and get married. She looked far too carefree and happy in the photograph he’d just received. And the memory of that kiss was too tantalisingly erotic.

Exactly as his solicitor had warned, and as he knew himself, his business was starting to suffer. Clients and colleagues were growing nervous, thinking that his single status translated to his being less than reliable on all fronts. He was more often than not in social situations the only single man. He never thought he’d say it, but he could now see the advantages that his marriage had to offer—not the least of which was the prospect of a stunningly beautiful wife on his arm and in his bed.

This was a business decision, pure and simple, and would be a marriage of convenience like a thousand others in his city.

‘That’s right, Lucille, keep bringing your feet back together. Marc, watch your embrace. It needs to be much firmer—you’re not giving Lucille enough support…’

Isobel adjusted the couple who had just danced past her and watched as they set off again, her eyes automatically going to the other dancers in her tango class, assessing their progress.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t distract her from the humiliating fact that since she’d left Buenos Aires, a few weeks after the fateful night of her eighteenth birthday, she hadn’t managed to get through one day without thinking about Don Rafael Ortega Romero. Or seeing his devastating face and body in her mind’s eye.

She’d done everything she could to try and block out his words and what had passed between them.
That kiss.
Even now she got hot just thinking about it. And, despite living in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, with men asking her out regularly, she’d yet to come close to experiencing anything like she had with Rafael that night.

If she went on a date, at some point she’d begin to compare her date’s lovemaking to Rafael’s kiss, or how it had felt to be in his arms, and a coldness would lodge in her chest and make her push him back. It was as if Rafael had put some kind of spell on her that night, and she hated him for it.

The back of her neck prickled then, as if thinking about him might conjure him up, and she shook off the feeling with an effort that dismayed her. This year, for the first time, she’d stopped jumping at every sudden movement, or when someone tapped her on the shoulder. From the moment she’d got off the plane in Paris she’d been expecting to see Rafael. Expecting him to haul her back to Buenos Aires, incensed that she had run away.

Isobel shook her head now, disgusted with herself all over
again.
Why
hadn’t she been able to erase the memory of that kiss three years ago? She was disgusted too because never in a million years had she ever wanted to be in thrall to someone like him. Arrogant and rich, taking everything for granted.

A small voice pointed out that her judgment of him was purely superficial, but Isobel disregarded it. She knew very well the kind of world he came from, because she came from it, too. And nothing could dissuade her from believing that he would be as amoral and greedy as the next billionaire, whose sole focus was keeping up appearances and making money. It had been there in his arrogant stance that night of her eighteenth birthday, when he’d come to look her over like a brood mare he was considering buying.

As time had worn on she’d almost started to believe that perhaps she’d dreamt it—perhaps Rafael hadn’t really meant it when he’d insisted that they would be married. But just weeks ago she’d felt a cold finger of fear touch her spine when her mother had been far too genial on the phone during one of their sporadic calls.

Her parents had fought her decision to go to Paris, but Isobel had insisted, and since then relations had been strained. When Isobel’s mother had sounded so uncharacteristically upbeat, Isobel had had a strong suspicion that they knew something she didn’t. Had Rafael been in touch with them? Had he reassured them that he and Isobel would be married? She couldn’t ignore the fact that it was two weeks from her twenty-first birthday. Her belly clenched into a knot of tension.

The song playing through the speakers came to an end and Isobel welcomed the distraction. She clapped her hands together and faced her students, lamenting again the fact that her regular partner, José, was ill and couldn’t be there to teach with her.

‘We’re almost done, but I’ll show you how we can put
all these steps together in a sequence. Now, I just need a volunteer…’

Isobel looked around the group and groaned inwardly. None of the men was really good enough to do a demo. But just as she was about to select the best of the bunch, she noticed that everyone’s attention had gone over her head to something behind her, where the door to the studio was. The tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck again, and with a nearly overwhelming sense of foreboding she turned around.

Rafael had to curb the violence of the reaction in his body when Isobel turned to face him. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. Even though he’d had regular updates on her activities, and photographs, it hadn’t prepared him to see her in the flesh, up close, with her light scent suffusing the air.

She was dressed in black knee-length leggings and a tank top, showing off the slender gracefulness of her dancer’s physique. She wore special dance shoes, which were obviously more practical for teaching a class than the requisite high heels, but already Rafael was imagining her feet encased in silver or gold, slim high heels elongating those gorgeous legs.

Just as he’d seen in the photograph, her short hair made her delicate features stand out, made her more luminously beautiful. Her eyes were the same: huge pools of dark brown velvet, their lashes long and dark. She was exquisite. His blood got hot, and as he watched every ounce of colour drained from her face completely.

Isobel felt the urge to reach out and hold on to something concrete. Don Rafael Ortega Romero stood just feet away from her, dwarfing her tiny studio. For an awful second she wondered if she was in fact imagining him standing there, if
she was experiencing some kind of hallucination brought on by thinking about him…But then he spoke.

‘I think I could be of assistance to you, if you need a dance partner…?’

Isobel felt paralysed. She couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. She was dimly aware of her students looking curiously from her to Rafael.

‘To demonstrate the steps?’ Rafael prompted, as if she might be having trouble understanding him. As if it was entirely normal that he’d just turned up in her place of work, on the other side of the world.

Isobel saw Rafael take off his dark jacket, revealing a white shirt and dark trousers. She felt a ripple of unmistakable feminine interest spike behind her and it seemed to break her out of the shock threatening to suck her under.

Taking control, she put out a hand. ‘No, it’s fine—really, I’ll use…’ She looked around and thought wildly for a second, but this was the beginners’ class. Her eyes rested on Marc, but he went red and gave her a tortured look. Her heart sank. She couldn’t do it to him. She looked back at Rafael, who was standing there looking smug with arms crossed.

‘Do you know how to dance tango?’ Isobel asked, feeling as if she’d been dropped into some surreal world. She didn’t even think she was breathing.

Rafael smiled arrogantly. ‘I’m Argentinian—of course I know how to tango. I’ve been dancing since my grandmother used to sneak my brother and I into
milongas
when we were younger.’

Isobel was stunned into speechlessness, and only the presence of curious eyes forced her to pretend insouciance, to shrug lightly and turn round to start the music. With shaking fingers she chose a song, and the strains of Carlos Di Sarli wound through the studio. Numb with shock, she turned back
to face Rafael, who was now standing in front of her with a quirked brow.

‘What are we doing?’

‘Ochos
and
sacadas.’

He nodded. Isobel couldn’t delay any longer, or the song would be over and her students would be wondering who this enigmatic stranger was and why she was acting so weirdly. She walked forward and into his arms. He took her hand and settled an arm across her back, and Isobel closed her eyes in a moment of desperation; his touch was having an explosive effect on her insides.

On the balls of her feet, she moved so that she leant into him fully, and then expertly Rafael started to dance, twisting and turning Isobel in a series of moves to demonstrate the steps she’d mentioned.

Isobel dimly recognised in some rational part of her brain that he danced like a professional. Her natural dance ability and instinct took over as she recognised his lead and followed him. She unconsciously let him take more of her weight. The steps became more complex. For the first time in her life, despite dancing with many partners, tango suddenly felt
sexy,
and she wished he wasn’t holding her so close. Her head was turned in the same direction as his, tucked perfectly just below his jaw. They
fitted
perfectly.

She was aware of Rafael’s steel band of support across her back, her right hand held high by his. She was aware of his arm under her shoulder, her hand spread across his back. She could feel the muscles bunch and move as he danced, and only the fact that she was such an experienced dancer stopped her from tripping over her own feet.

It was a long moment before Isobel realised that the music had stopped and they weren’t dancing any more. With a jerky
move she pulled herself free of Rafael’s arms and stood apart, none too steady. She felt hot in the face. Her students were looking at her with slightly open-mouthed expressions that Isobel couldn’t and didn’t want to decipher.

She got caught up in a flurry of goodbyes and thank yous, was touched when some of her students presented her with small gifts, but through it all she felt as if she were on a tightrope of tension, acutely aware of the man who lounged nonchalantly just feet away, waiting for her.

Was it time? Had he come to bring her home?
She was very much afraid she was about to find out.

Isobel walked back into the studio after changing in the tiny bathroom next door. Her heart kicked to see that Rafael was still there. He hadn’t been some bizarre hallucination. She felt self-conscious and shabby in an ancient knee-length sundress. It had been unbearably hot even by early morning that day, and she’d thrown on the coolest thing that came to hand. Next to the stunning perfection of Rafael she felt like a bag lady.