Cordero's Forced Bride

‘I think not…’ Alexa tried but Santos ignored her and swept on as if she hadn’t even attempted to speak.

‘And I am sure that your stepmother would prefer to have somewhere to regain her composure before she has to face the paparazzi.’

‘The paparazzi?’

She hadn’t thought about that. The truth was that she hadn’t been able to think beyond the actual delivery of her sister’s message. After that, her imagination hadn’t been able to stretch to consider the possibilities.

‘But of course.’

This time Santos’s smile was pure ice; nothing charming or even pleasant about it at all. It was a smile that destroyed all the warmth that had filled her just moments before, leaving her feeling drained and lost and suddenly very fearful for the future, though for no reasons she could put her finger on.

‘You don’t think that they will let a scoop like this pass them by without comment? The wedding of the year turning into the non-event of the year. It will be just the sort of thing they’d love to report. And they’ll tear your family to pieces to get it.’

The pale grey eyes slid to where Petra was still wailing her distress on the front pew, with Stanley struggling to soothe her but actually looking as pale and worried as his wife himself. Once more Alexa shivered as she felt that sensation like something cold and slimy crawling over her skin. She could just imagine how her stepmother would go to pieces in front of the cameras, the pictures that would appear in the gossip columns the next day.

‘And you could stop that?’

‘I have men employed to make sure that the Press don’t get too close. And I have a fleet of cars waiting to take everyone from the church to the reception.’

Alexa nodded silently. She’d travelled to the church in one of those cars. Big, sleek limousines with smoked-glass windows that provided the occupants with efficient protection from the flash of camera lights, the prying lenses. And she’d seen the efficient security that had ringed the cathedral, making sure that no one who wasn’t on the guest list could get through.

‘Why would you do that—for us?’

‘Obviously I have my own reasons for not wanting the story of what has happened here today plastered all over the scandal sheets. Once inside my home, we can all relax.’

Relax. The word had so much appeal to it. Alexa’s whole body was starting to ache as if she had been holding herself tense for so long that she had forgotten how it had felt to be any other way. Every muscle was tired and her head was starting to pound.

‘Then thank you. I’ll tell my father—get him and Petra into a car.’

‘No. Miguel will see to that.’

One hand lifted in a silent signal to someone at the back of the church in the same moment that Santos moved once more to hold her back. But this time his powerful fingers laced with hers, closing tight over her hand as he restrained her. Alexa’s heart jumped painfully as she felt the warmth of his palm curve against hers, heating her blood and sending it pulsing up her arm towards her heart. Her fingers tingled, her skin felt scorched and her mouth seemed to dry suddenly in the heat so that she slicked her tongue over parched lips to ease the sensation.

He had moved closer too and the scent of his body seemed to surround her like a warm mist, tangy with some light cologne overlaid by the muskier, more intimate aroma of his skin. Just inhaling it set all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck lifting in sensitive response, and her heart thudded even harder, forcing her to snatch in a swift, sharp, much needed breath of air.

‘You will come with me.’

It was a command, not a suggestion. The tone of his voice said that he wouldn’t listen to any argument, and the way that his hold on her hand tightened meant that she could not pull away as he headed away from the altar, dragging her with him.

She should be worried—probably even a bit frightened, Alexa admitted to herself as she trotted in his wake, trying to keep up with the long, powerful strides that took him down the aisle at a pace she couldn’t quite manage. And she was just a bit of both.

But right at this moment, discretion very definitely seemed the better part of valour in this situation. Digging in her heels, refusing to move, would only cause another, bigger scene, and she had already had more than enough stress and emotional tension for one day.

In one thing at least, Santos was right. With the paparazzi baying at the door of the church, they would soon suspect that something was wrong when they realised that the bride was not going to turn up, and then they were going to have a field day. The sooner everyone got out of here the better.

The journey back to Santos’s elegant mansion would only take a few minutes, and once there she would be able to escape, lose herself in the crowd of guests, the force of his presence diluted by the presence of so many others.

Surely the worst was over and things could only get easier from now on?

CHAPTER THREE

HAD SHE REALLY thought that things would get easier? Alexa asked herself a couple of hours later. The truth was that she really had no idea whether things were getting better—or so much worse.

Restless and totally ill at ease, Alexa prowled around the huge blue and gold dining room in which the meal that was to have been part of the reception following Santos Cordero’s wedding had been served and where now a small army of his staff was clearing away the remains of the wonderful food.

It had been delicious, at least, the one or two mouthfuls she had tried had been out of this world, but she had found it impossible to actually swallow more than a couple of bites. Her stomach had been churning so wildly, her head throbbing, and a feeling as if a hundred thousand butterflies were dancing along her veins had made it almost impossible to try and sit still.

And matters had been made so much worse by the way that Santos had insisted that she sit beside him. Right next to him in the seat that should have been his bride’s place. Instead of which it had been his bride’s sister who had taken that seat, looking totally out of place in the unaccustomed finery of her bridesmaid’s dress, with her hair already starting to escape from the over-elaborate style that Petra had insisted on…

‘What am I doing here?’ Alexa murmured to herself as she paused by one of the huge French windows that opened out onto a wide stone balcony overlooking the huge grounds, staring out at the sweeping slope that led to the woods on one side and the enormous rectangular swimming pool on the other.

Right now the blue water sparkled beautifully in the sun, making her think longingly of pulling off her clothes and plunging into its cool depths. Or at the very least kicking off the elegant shoes that were crippling her and dangling her feet over the edge, letting the water ease the aches and the raw spots where the narrow straps had rubbed too much.

‘So this is where you’re hiding yourself…’

The deep, accented male voice pulled her out of her reflections, bringing her back into reality in the space of a heartbeat. She had only heard—what?—a few thousand words spoken in that voice this afternoon on top of little more than a hundred on the night they had first met, but she knew that for ever onwards she would always recognise it, only needing to hear a couple of syllables in that rich, deep timbre, that sexy accent, and she would know instantly who was behind her.

‘I’m not hiding. After all, nobody wants to see me. Just taking a breather.’

Deliberately she kept her gaze fixed on the scene beyond the window. She didn’t want to look into Santos’s face, knowing that would only scramble the thoughts that she was fighting so hard to clear. Besides, she had faced him all the way here, studied that shockingly handsome face close up, tried to read just what was going on behind those amazing eyes, the lush black lashes, tried to judge his mood from the tone of every word he spoke—and she had failed miserably. Whatever was going on in his mind, he was hiding it from her without any effort. Everything he said, every gesture, every expression that crossed his face gave away nothing at all.

‘And trying to work out what the hell I’m doing here.’

‘You’re here as my guest—like everyone else.’

‘A guest at a reception for a wedding that never was. It seems a weird thing to be celebrating.’

‘You don’t think that it’s a practical solution to a possible problem? I had no intention of wasting the money I’d paid out for this.’

‘You paid for the reception?’ It had confused her from the start. She had wondered too why the marriage was to take place in Spain, but Natalie had said that Santos had insisted on it. ‘But why?’

‘Your father could not afford to do things the way that your stepmother wanted—I could.’

It was blunt and matter-of-fact, but surprisingly without the note of dark cynicism she might have expected. And somehow that worried her more. She knew that her stepmother had extravagant tastes, and it had been obvious lately that her father was struggling to indulge her in the way he had once done.

‘And I intended that my bride should have only the best.’

Which was a stiletto-sharp dig that made her wince. Santos might have declared that he didn’t give a damn that Natalie had walked out on him, and yet he was a man who had been prepared to spend heavily to make sure that she had a wedding day to be proud of. It didn’t quite add up.

‘You’ve been very generous.’

Santos shrugged off her attempt at thanks.

‘If I had not invited everyone back here, I would have been overwhelmed with expensive food and wine with no one to help me deal with it. And not everyone ate as little as you did.’

So he had noticed the way that she had simply pushed her food around on her plate and hadn’t been able to force herself to choke much of it down. The feeling of having been watched so closely, of his noting everything she did, was unnerving, making her shift uneasily from one foot to the other.

Behind her, his tall, powerful figure was reflected in the glass of the window as evening darkened the grounds, and, in spite of the fact that in her three inch heels she almost matched him in height, she still felt that he dwarfed her, towering over her where she stood. He had discarded his elegant jacket and the cutaway armholes of the silk waistcoat emphasised the power of his arms, the width of the broad, straight shoulders.