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Isobel’s hands tightened on it convulsively, as if protecting it. A little defensively she said, ‘The housekeeper told me it belonged to my grandmother. There’s something in it, but we couldn’t find the key, so I’m going to try and open it in BA.’ She sensed his curious look.
‘Isobel, it’s fine. It was your grandmother’s. It’s yours. You can do what you want with it.’
Isobel immediately felt wrong-footed and childish, and cursed herself. This man seemed to effortlessly bring out the worst in her, the most base part. She just said quietly, ‘Thank you.’
‘One of my assistants will be over this morning, with
some credit cards and bank account details.’
Rafael was draining a cup of coffee, clearly getting ready to go to work. They were having breakfast in the informal dining room the morning after returning from the estancia. Already Isobel felt as if Buenos Aires was too loud and harsh, and she longed for the peace and tranquillity of the Estancia Paradiso again.
Rafael was a million miles from the relaxed man she’d spent a week with. He was dressed in a pristine suit, shirt and tie. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back. The industrial dragon in his element—back to business and sorting out the undesirables.
‘But I have a bank account already,’ Isobel pointed out, not wanting at that moment to have anything to do with his money.
Rafael shook his head. ‘I’ve set up new ones for you. One of them holds the profit from the estancia—that’s yours now, too.’
Panic clawed at her again. Did the man have no morals? ‘But I can’t spend the profits of the estancia. Surely that should go back into maintenance or wages or something?’
Rafael smiled a little patronisingly. ‘It’s the profit after all the maintenance and wages are looked after.’
Isobel’s mind boggled. He hadn’t been joking when he’d said it was a thriving business. ‘Oh.’ She looked at him. ‘And what am I supposed to do now?’
He put his cup down. ‘I told you already, Isobel, I’m not some gaoler. You can do what you want. Go shopping, meet friends, set up a charity for unwanted designer clothes—the world’s your oyster now.’ He stood up and loomed large over her. ‘Why don’t you take a few days to figure out how to spend your money? Go on a shopping spree. I can’t imagine any woman turning that opportunity down.’
After a long week of disturbing and far too ambiguous emotions where this man was concerned, Isobel welcomed the rush of anger at this evidence of his sheer arrogance and his dismissive tone. She was back on ground she knew and understood.
She stood, too, and threw down her napkin. ‘I have a room bigger than my entire apartment in Paris full of clothes upstairs. I have a vault full of jewellery. What on earth could I possibly want to buy? I’ve never shopped on the Avenida Alvear, and I’m not going to start now.’
And then, as if an internal demon had taken over, she couldn’t stop. ‘I’m used to going out to cafés for coffee with friends, talking about real issues. I’m used to doing my own shopping, not having it delivered to the house to be unpacked by a maid. I’m used to making my own meals, not being presented with cordon bleu dinners cooked by a Michelin-starred chef.’ She finally stopped, breathing hard.
Rafael lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, a definite hint of irritation lacing his voice. ‘So go and find some kindred spirits and drink coffee all day, set the world to rights—or knock yourself out with grocery shopping. Or bake a cake. I really don’t care, Isobel. This is your life now. You’d better get used to it.’
He turned to leave the room, took a few long steps, and then turned back, eyes flashing dangerously. ‘And this is the other part of it—one of the primary functions of this marriage—be ready to go out to the opera at seven this evening. It’s going to be our first public outing as a married couple.’
That evening Isobel was waiting, still seething. She’d seethed all day, and it had been made worse because she was very afraid that her anger had a lot to do with feeling betrayed by Rafael’s morphing back to arrogant tycoon after showing her another side to him at the estancia, a more relaxed and charming side. The side of him which should have had her running for cover but which had seduced her all too easily, making her forget who he was.
Juanita, who was still as cool to Isobel as ever, saw her in the main reception room and huffed past the door. Isobel heard footsteps descend the main stairs and stood, then hurriedly sat down again, not wanting Rafael to see her so eager.
He came and filled the doorway, adjusting the cufflinks of his shirt. Dressed in a black tuxedo, he looked gorgeous.
He gestured with an imperious hand for Isobel to join him. Swallowing her anger, Isobel stood and walked over stiffly, trying to remain unmoved by his slow up and down appraisal.
He looked into her eyes as she came to stand before him. ‘Beautiful. You’re perfect, Isobel.’
‘Well, I hope so. Because I spent all day today picking out the perfect dress so that I could be your perfect wife, Rafael. After all, you’re sacrificing a hedonistic playboy existence for me, aren’t you?’
Rafael felt a lance of hurt, and it made rage curl through him. He would not let his own wife get to him. He hadn’t asked for or cared about anyone’s opinion in a long time, and he wasn’t about to start now. His uncharacteristic confession at the estancia would be the last time he explained himself to this woman.
His jaw clenched tightly and he snaked out a hand to take her chin and tip it up. ‘Exactly. And do you know what would make things even more perfect? You coming into my bed. This waiting is growing tedious. I think you’ve had all the space one person needs, and the sooner that sharp tongue of yours has its edges smoothed by passion the better. All this sexual frustration really doesn’t suit you—or me.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN THE back of his car Rafael shook with the effort it had taken not to haul Isobel into his arms in the house and kiss that mutinous mouth into submission. She was wearing a fulllength gown in off-white, softly ruched and flowing, with a swathe of material over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. The material clung to her small, firm breasts, clearly outlining their alluring shape.
That morning, the prospect of day-to-day life with Isobel had hit home, and it hadn’t been comfortable. He knew the sort of person she was: principled, and full of her own integrity. Of course she wasn’t going to just seamlessly blend into the round of coffee mornings and lunches and shopping that most high-society wives filled their days with. So why had it rankled and pushed his buttons so much when he’d never really cared one way or the other for that scene, either?
He was afraid to acknowledge the fact that on some level, after the week at the estancia, he’d thought he could push Isobel back to some safe place, and yet she’d just come at him in her usual fashion, challenging and biting and hissing. Demanding that he see her and not put her in a neat box where he wouldn’t have to deal with her. Which was exactly what he’d tried to do.
