Melting the Argentine Doctor's Heart / Small Town Marriage Miracle (13 page)

‘Te quiero, mi hija.’
He whispered the words of love—words she wouldn’t understand—into the soft curls and rocked her in his arms until she grew heavy with sleep.

T
HEY
drove south to Buenos Aires ten days later, Caroline more nervous than she’d been in the taxi on the way to the clinic to face Jorge in the first place. How he felt was anybody’s guess, for he’d shut himself away from her again over their remaining days at the clinic, keeping busy anywhere but where she was. In return, she’d busied herself, helping nurse the man who’d lost his foot, accompanying the nurse when she visited people deep into the warren of lanes, seeing more of the settlement beyond the clinic and learning more of the people it served.

‘Does your father know you are bringing us?’ she asked Jorge as they eased off the freeway and onto more congested city streets—Buenos Aires streets.

‘He knows I bring guests,’ Jorge told her, then resumed his concentration on the road, weaving through the traffic as if their lives depended on reaching their destination in the shortest possible time.

Realising he must be as nervous as she was, perhaps more so—
Hi, Dad, here’s my old lover who turned up with a daughter for me!
—she turned her attention to the
scenery. She knew from the guide book she’d read on the first long flight that Buenos Aires was laid out in a grid pattern in very even squares, with plenty of green spaces marked.

‘This is one of our biggest big
plazas.’

Was
he starting to read her mind?

Huge trees provided shade throughout the area, statues presiding beneath them, spray from fountains catching the sunlight, people parading, many with
mate
gourds, ornately decorated in silver, people sipping as they walked.

‘I want some
mate,’
Ella announced, and Caroline, who’d thought her daughter was dozing, looked at her in surprise.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked, turning again to see Ella nod.

‘Hor-hay makes it nice for me.’

Caroline knew Jorge had been spending a lot of time with Ella, and she, Caroline, had deliberately kept out of the way so the pair of them could begin to bond, but sharing
mate
—he never did that with her, not after that first day.

She gave an inward groan and assured herself she couldn’t possibly be jealous of her daughter, but the niggle she felt could hardly be anything else.

Except perhaps longing, for that was what she felt every time she looked at Jorge, a longing she knew would remain just that—the ache of yearning, unspoken and unrequited.

‘You will have some when we reach the house.’

Jorge answered Ella, turning briefly towards his
daughter. The little girl nodded again, obviously content with the reply.

But the simple phrase ‘when we reach the house’ had restarted the butterflies that were cavorting in Caroline’s stomach. She knew Jorge was apprehensive about introducing them to his father, but as he hadn’t explained why, she kept imagining the worst possible scenarios.

His father might hate foreigners.

He might hate children. No, it couldn’t be that. From things Jorge had said, Carlos would adore a grandchild. Was Jorge worried his father might make too much of a fuss of Ella?

Or maybe he had someone picked out for Jorge to marry and the sudden arrival of a three-year-old daughter would spoil his plans.

Marriages were still arranged in many countries, mostly for business reasons. As Caroline’s turbulent imagination raced ahead, she saw the man’s business ruined, his life in tatters.

‘We are here.’

Jorge had driven in through the wrought-iron gates held open by urns containing cascades of vibrant petunias. A longish drive, poplar lined, then a wide, rambling house of creamy stucco, carved wooden railings on the sandstone patio that stretched along the front, huge timber doors with ornate metal hinges and clasps, heavy timber beams holding up the red-tiled roof that overhung the patio, which was lined with neatly clipped trees in pots.

Olive trees? Something with fine, silvery leaves at any rate.

Her worries were forgotten—or, if not forgotten, shelved for the moment.

‘What a magic place,’ Caroline breathed. ‘The building looks as if it grew here among the plants and bushes.’

‘It is a popular style of architecture, old Spanish. There is another patio along the back, hidden from the street.’

He stopped the car, and turned towards her.

‘But I told you that four years ago, no? Back when I promised to bring you to my home.’

There was no joy in his voice. In fact, he spoke as if the memory hurt him, while what lay ahead—the actual introduction to his father—was something to be faced with the strongest apprehension.

She reached out to touch him, but only very lightly, and only on the shoulder.

‘Lighten up,’ she ordered. ‘It’s not as if you’re going to the gallows. I can’t believe your father won’t be pleased to know he has a granddaughter, so surely this should be a happy occasion.’

‘You don’t know my father,’ Jorge responded, still obviously sunk in gloom.

‘You think he won’t be pleased?’ Caroline demanded.

Jorge shook his head.

Her panic returned but before she could question the headshake he was out of the car and striding up the steps.

Caroline unstrapped Ella from her car seat and followed, though more slowly. Jorge had reached the
landing at the top, and, as if someone had been spying from inside, the front doors opened as he reached them. A tall, imperious-looking woman in a black dress was holding one of the big doors, but the bulky man behind her soon pushed forward, enveloping Jorge in his arms, tears in his voice as he welcomed his son home.

Caroline walked more slowly—tentatively—up the steps, Ella in her arms. Jorge was talking now, his words too fast for Caroline to follow, although she heard enough to know he was explaining his visitors.

Then the cry
‘Mi nieta?
’—the words loud with disbelief—the Spanish phrase for ‘My granddaughter', repeated more huskily as the man came towards Caroline, but with eyes only for Ella.

Jorge was there before him, taking Ella from Caroline, talking quietly to her.

‘This is your
abuelo,
your grandfather, Ella. Abuelito is a good name to call him—can you say that?’

‘Ablito,’ Ella, ever game to try a word, repeated.

‘That will do, my princess,’ the old man said, reaching out and cupping his hand to Ella’s cheek. ‘We will take time to get to know each other. You can call me Ablito and I will call you Princesa, okay?’

‘I’m
not a princess,’ Ella told him. ‘I’m just a little girl.’

‘You will be my princess,’ her grandfather told her, and Caroline, although things could not have gone better, felt a sense of doom descend upon her.

Somehow they all got through the afternoon and early evening, being shown to rooms, exploring the house, trying new foods—eating ice cream to die for—and
finally, when Ella was tucked into bed, Caroline sat with Carlos and Jorge on the patio behind the house, admiring the soft lights in the formally laid-out garden, sipping a local white wine.

But not relaxing. The tension she’d been feeling had intensified when she’d seen Carlos’s delight in his granddaughter. Now it was so strong it was a wonder she could swallow.

‘You must marry, of course.’

Carlos’s remark was so unexpected—mind-boggling might be a better word—Caroline couldn’t reply.

‘Not a man to beat around a bush, my father.’ Jorge’s words dropped into the sudden silence, and from the dry tone of his voice Caroline knew that
this
was what he had feared
—this,
not rejection, had been on his mind.

‘You do not want my granddaughter growing up a bastard,’ Carlos continued, as if this was a perfectly normal and logical conversation.

‘Nobody cares about that kind of thing any more, Papá,’ Jorge protested.

‘I care about it,’ Carlos retorted, and although he didn’t raise his voice Caroline read not only truth but determination in the words.

‘We will work it out between us, Caroline and I. After all, it is our business,’ Jorge told him.

‘And the child’s,’ Carlos pointed out, and the sinking feeling in Caroline’s stomach told her she knew she’d lost.

But lost what?

She’d admitted to herself that she still loved Jorge so surely marriage to him wouldn’t be a problem?

Except it would be if he didn’t love her and so far she’d had no indication that he did.

The physical attraction was still there—she knew that—felt it in every nerve in her body whenever he was near. And she knew from his reaction to her presence that he wasn’t immune to it either. Several times they’d nearly kissed—or so she’d thought—but.

What must she be thinking, sitting there so quietly, listening to my father’s outrageous suggestion, to his reasoning that marriage was the only answer? Jorge tried to read Caroline’s face, but it revealed nothing.

Neither did she show any signs of arguing with his father, although she must have been equally shocked by the old man’s abrupt suggestion.

‘I would never hurt Ella, but I must do what’s right for Caroline as well,’ Jorge told his father. ‘And it is for she and I to decide what is best.’

‘You
know
what is best, my son,’ Carlos said. ‘Now, I wish to speak to Antoinette about dinner and look in my princess. Why don’t you take Caroline for a promenade in the
plaza
until it is time for us to sit down?’

He stood up and walked away, leaving Jorge wondering what to say to the woman who’d been on the receiving end of his father’s proclamation.

Caroline solved that problem by speaking first.

‘Does it put Antoinette out to have more people in the house, more people for dinner?’ she asked, and the words stabbed into him, shocking him into speech far more effectively than his father’s words had done.

‘Is that where we have come to, you and I, mundane
conversation about Antoinette and dinner when my father has demanded we marry?’

To his surprise, Caroline laughed.

‘What did you expect me to say? Something along the lines of how dare your father interfere in our lives? He has said what he said out of love, Jorge, love for a child he’s met only once. And don’t try to tell me you didn’t suspect he’d react like this because you’ve been teetering on a tightrope since you first considered introducing Ella to him. I thought you were thinking, Will I, or won’t I? tossing up about telling him at all, but now I realise you knew him well enough to have guessed how he’d react.’

Jorge stared at her, her usual attire of dark trousers and top making her all but invisible in the shadows, except for her face with its silvery halo of hair, luminous in the lamplight.

She smiled again, and stood up.

‘Well, come on, you’re under orders to take me for a promenade around the
plaza.’

Dumbfounded again—it was a good thing he’d learned that descriptive English word—he joined her, following her through the wide hall to the front door, opening it for her, then taking her elbow as they walked down the steps.

‘It’s this way,’ he said, but Caroline had halted at the front gate, and was looking around her in amazement.

‘Earlier,’ she said, nodding in a friendly fashion at people walking past, ‘I held Ella up to the window to show her the moon and stars. She likes to see them before she goes to sleep. And from up there, in her
bedroom.’ Caroline turned to look up at the upper storey of the house ‘.the streets were deserted. I thought it odd because I’ve grown used to the custom of having dinner late in the evening and I wondered where everyone was, but now the streets are full of people strolling.’ she grinned at Jorge ‘.or
promenading
along the pavement.’

He
had
to smile. How could he not, when her delight in this custom of his country was so obvious? But even smiling hurt when he considered how he should have brought Caroline home—how he’d intended bringing her home—four years ago.

He turned to practicality to hide the pain. At least that was something he was good at, hiding pain.

‘They stay indoors until the heat of the day has passed. I think that’s where this custom came from. Then in the cool of the evening they stroll out to meet their friends.’

‘It’s a lovely idea,’ she said, and she sounded so pleased by everything around her that he set aside the past and all that belonged there and took her hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm.

‘Shall we promenade, my lady?’

Big mistake. Now that her body was pressed close against his side, his left side—he’d made sure of that—his father’s idea of marriage came rushing back into his head, his body telling him it was the best idea it had heard in a long time.

The physical attraction between them had been slow-growing—back then. Awareness had quivered from the beginning, but they’d come to like each other as friends,
delighting in talking, discussing, even arguing together, until it had seemed only natural that they should take what they’d both recognised as something special to another stage.

‘Are you thinking about sex?’

Caroline’s question startled him so much he stopped, halting her progress so suddenly she stumbled against him.

He opened his mouth to deny it, then laughed.

‘Why on earth would you ask that?’

‘Because I was,’ she admitted with a rueful laugh.

‘About us, and the past, and how good our love-making always was, and it seems to me that lately you’ve been … not reading my mind perhaps, but definitely on the same wavelength, so I thought I’d ask.’

What could he reply?

What he’d have liked to say was, ‘Oh, Caroline,’ then he’d have liked to take her in his arms and hold her close, perhaps whisper of the things he would do to her later in the privacy of a bedroom, but that was hardly appropriate given how she must feel about him.

How he’d treated her.

But she’d brought it up—the past and their love-making …

Desire and panic squirmed inside him. He tucked her arm back into the crook of his elbow and resumed walking.