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He felt unaccountably bleak, frozen inside. And he knew the only thing that alleviated that feeling would be when he held Isobel’s panting, naked and trembling body in his arms later that night. His body started to respond to that image, and with a growl of frustration and a clawing feeling of guilt Rafael poured himself another drink.
His mind went back to a few weeks ago, when he’d felt so lighthearted for the first time…in a long time. The day he’d encouraged Isobel to take the Bugatti out for a drive. It had only been when they’d got back to the house and she’d turned her shining face to him that he’d realised he’d never seen her so happy. The only other time he could remember a look resembling that had been after their exhilarating horse ride at the estancia that day, or when she’d got the keys to her dance studio.
He’d realised then that she must be happy because for a brief second she was the girl in Paris again, with no responsibility or commitment. Even as he’d been thinking that he’d seen the look of pure unmitigated joy slide from her face, and it had been like a cold finger touching his heart, confirming his suspicion that for a moment she’d forgotten herself, but was now remembering that she was all but incarcerated in a marriage she didn’t want.
A sound came from the door, and Rafael turned to see the object of his thoughts standing there, looking hesitant. She wore a softly draped silk dress in a dark chocolate colour, exactly like her eyes. Gold hoop earrings drew the eye to that slender neck, and gold strappy sandals made her legs look even more lissom. She was finally his. And yet, mocked a voice, she wasn’t. That thought nearly felled him.
The breath stuck in Rafael’s throat, but he managed to get out, ‘You look stunning.’
Isobel made a self-deprecating face, but Rafael couldn’t fail to notice the slight shadows under her eyes, and more, in her eyes, making them look even more dark and mysterious. A red-hot skewer lacerated his insides.
Isobel was trying not to be floored by Rafael’s sheer gorgeousness in a black suit and white shirt. Trying to ignore the way her heart seemed always to respond to his presence by picking up a more urgent beat.
Her heart was already constricting at seeing him looking so cold and stern. But before she could say anything the first of the guests started to arrive, and Isobel found herself caught up in acting the hostess.
At one point during the evening, when she was making polite but meaningless conversation, she slid a glance to Rafael, who was similarly occupied. She had to reconcile herself to the fact that this was all he really wanted from her; she didn’t even have a reason to fight him any more. She’d been wrong about so many things…
The only other thing he would ask from her eventually would be to start a family. Isobel couldn’t doubt that. She knew as well as he the importance of heirs. It would be one of the primary requirements of their marriage.
Her belly contracted at the thought of a family with Rafael—a tiny baby with dark, dark eyes and hair. She’d never really contemplated the reality of being a mother, but now she knew that she did not want to bring children into the sterile environment of their marriage. If she had children she wanted them to be surrounded by love and affection and two parents who loved each other. But not to the exclusion of everyone else, which she could see now had been the fatal flaw of her grandparents’ love, shutting out her mother and making her hard and cold as a result.
Rafael caught her eye then, and lifted a brow minutely, silently asking her if anything was wrong. Isobel shook her head and smiled a brittle smile, and went back to her conversation. But it was a lie, because everything was wrong, and it was for the very last reason Isobel would have expected. She had no problem living this life. She just couldn’t live it in isolation, without her husband’s love.
When the final guest had left, Isobel closed the door wearily and bade goodnight to Juanita.
Rafael surprised her by coming out to the hall, holding his car keys. He looked intense. ‘I’d like to take you somewhere—would you come with me?’
Isobel frowned. ‘You want to go out now?’
He nodded slightly. He’d taken off his tie, and just the small glimpse of his powerful chest made Isobel feel weak. Perhaps putting off the sensual torture to come wasn’t such a bad idea.
She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Okay.’
Without talking, Rafael helped her into his Range Rover. Feeling more and more bemused, she watched as Buenos Aires went past them and he eventually drove into an area between La Boca and San Telmo. They parked across the road from a crumbling building and Rafael got out, coming round to take Isobel’s hand.
He led her across the road and she asked, ‘Where are we going?’
The last time Rafael had been spontaneous had been the day he’d let her drive the Bugatti, and the memory of that was bittersweet.
He gestured to the doorway in front of them, partially obscured with thick, heavy, velvet curtains. ‘In here.’
As they walked in, Isobel felt the heat of many bodies rush to meet them, and then heard the strains of tango music. It was a milonga. They emerged into a huge, brightly lit and ornately decorated room, where what seemed like hundreds of couples were dancing around the dance floor, engrossed in their own little worlds. Her heart clenched hard.
Rafael led Isobel over to a quiet seat at one corner of the dance floor and ordered some drinks. It was only then that he said, ‘This milonga is where I learnt to tango. It’s where my grandmother used to bring us.’
Isobel looked at him. ‘You mean you and your brother?’
He nodded, his eyes following the dancers. ‘My grandmother knew what was happening…the beatings…so I think it was as much an effort on her part to try and protect us
as anything else…’
Isobel’s heart literally ached in her chest at being reminded of what had happened to him. She put a hand over his in an unconscious effort to sympathise, knowing words would be superfluous. He looked directly into her eyes, and the intensity of his gaze made Isobel feel dizzy. For a second she could almost imagine—
Mentally she shook her head and broke their gaze, looking out to the dance floor. She had to stop this awful yearning.
She took her hand away from his and focused on the dancing couples. There were hundreds of similar halls all around Buenos Aires, filled with anonymous couples who would dance far into the early hours of the morning.
It was a place of respected codes. If a man wanted to dance with a woman he would signal from across the room with his eyes and she would decline or accept as she wished. They would then dance three dances, or more if they were an exclusive couple. This place wasn’t for the fainthearted or the beginner. It was for Buenos Aires natives and tango lovers, who came to lose themselves for a few hours in the music of melancholy and a dance of great beauty and sensuality.
