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Rafael shrugged again, and grimaced delicately. ‘I wouldn’t say followed,
per se, I merely had access to your movements. After all, you are essentially my fiancée.’
Fury raced through Isobel, and she seized the opportunity to feel righteous, with something concrete to be angry about. ‘You had me followed, and that is unacceptable.’
She stood up, but in an instant Rafael was standing, too, dwarfing her across the table. His face wasn’t remotely charming now.
‘Sit down, Isobel. I will not allow you to use something so flimsy as an excuse to walk out of here just because I make you feel nervous.’
Shock upon shock reverberated through her. Isobel’s jaw felt sore from clenching it. She felt as transparent as a glass screen, but lied, ‘You don’t make me nervous. And I’m not going to stay unless you apologise for having me followed.’
Tension crackled between them. Rafael’s eyes glowed, a dark and almost black-brown, and Isobel had a sudden flash of memory, back to when he’d kissed her and she’d seen flecks of green in their depths. She felt weak.
Rafael struggled not to kick the low table out of the way and haul her into his arms, crush her mutinous mouth under his. Two spots of colour were in her cheeks, standing out against the pallor that lingered, evidence of her discomfiture.
Easily, because it cost him nothing, he said, ‘I apologise. Now sit down.’ When she didn’t move straight away he bit out, ‘Please.’
Finally she sat, and an enticing scent teased his nostrils—her scent. Rafael sat, too, and shifted in his seat so he could be comfortable—which was a challenge when his body seemed determined to respond to rogue hormones and not logic. Sexual frustration was not a state he’d ever known until the last six months, and right now it was screaming through his veins.
The waiter came back and put down their drinks. Isobel reached for her water and lifted it to take a big gulp, but just before she did she saw Rafael’s glass lifted, too, towards her. He raised a brow.
She blushed, embarrassed, and clinked her glass to his faintly.
‘To your health.’
She mumbled something incoherent, her eyes glued to his as they both took a sip. The sparkling fizzy water burst down her throat and brought her back to some sort of reality.
‘So tell me,’ he drawled, ‘how has it been for you living in Paris?’
Isobel looked at him, and he could see her bite her lower lip. He wanted to reach across and take her chin between his fingers, kiss that spot. She looked down and up again, something fleeting crossing her face, before she asked in a strangled voice, ‘You want to talk about my life here in Paris?’
Rafael sat forward, elbows on his knees, intent on this woman in a way he hadn’t felt about any woman in a very long time. ‘That’s exactly what I want.’
Isobel sneaked a glance at Rafael. Tension had been gradually building in her body since they’d moved into the plush and opulent dining room, lit with a thousand glinting lights from intricately heavy chandeliers. A waiter came and unobtrusively cleared their empty plates. If asked, she knew she wouldn’t remember what they’d eaten, delicious though it had been. Rafael lifted the white wine bottle and gestured to Isobel. She’d only had a few sips from her glass. She shook her head quickly.
Rafael refilled his own glass and shot her a look. ‘You don’t drink?’
Isobel grimaced slightly. ‘I don’t have the head for it.’ Desperation mounted inside her as she watched him take a lazy sip. She couldn’t believe that there was no way out of the situation, and in that moment something else struck her—a feeling of guilt at knowing that he had once tried to forge his own path, marry for love, and it had been destroyed, all because of this legal agreement.
Isobel leant forward. ‘Mr Romero…’ she faltered. ‘That is, Rafael…you can’t want to marry me. Neither one of us wants this. Is there no other way we can salvage the agreement without marrying?’
Rafael leant forward, too, putting down his glass. His face was hard, his voice arctic. ‘No, Isobel, there is no other way. And you’re quite wrong. I do want this marriage. The sooner you come to terms with the fact that we are getting married, the better. If we were to try and get out of this agreement the legalities would tie up any monies from the estate for the foreseeable future—a situation your parents really cannot afford. And, as I’ve told you before, I’m not about to jeopardise one of my most valuable assets.’
CHAPTER THREE
RAFAEL continued, with no clue as to the meltdown going on inside Isobel’s head. ‘I almost lost a lucrative deal just a month ago, because my client didn’t believe I was a secure bet.’ He grimaced. ‘He was a family man, and viewed my single status as an indication of a lack of stability which he somehow linked to my business practice. It was only when I explained to him that I was engaged to be married that he came back on board.’
Isobel sat back. If Rafael had told one person, the whole of Buenos Aires would now know. No wonder her mother had sounded so complacent. Rafael kept talking, watching her carefully, his dark eyes focused on her, and Isobel felt as though she’d been hit by a lorry.
‘So you see, Isobel, the wheels have been set in motion. The press has already been speculating about my upcoming nuptials.’
Isobel’s mouth opened, even though she hadn’t even formulated anything to say, but Rafael lifted a hand. ‘Let me finish.’
She shut her mouth. She wasn’t capable of doing much else.
‘On the day of our wedding your parents will receive the money owing to them for the sale of the estancia.’
Isobel blankly looked down and saw her cappuccino. She hadn’t even registered the waiter delivering it. Her whole life was reduced to this moment in time. She saw everything in a flash: her strict upbringing, her parents’ incessant arguments, the respite of her boarding school in Britain and the influence of her staunchly middle-class English relations.
