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He’d known if he stopped pushing she would push herself—and she had, Alejandro thought with some satisfaction as they drew up in front of the Four Seasons Hotel in Buenos Aires.
They were right on schedule. He would stash her here and then he could still make his meetings across town, before taking the long drive out to the estancia this afternoon.
Naturally he’d keep an eye on her—maybe they could have dinner. Probably a good idea. Discuss their options. What mattered was that she was in town, within easy reach. If she was carrying his baby he wanted to know about it.
Which didn’t explain his unease as he escorted her across the square. He was growing distinctly tense as they approached the hotel. Lulu kept looking at him with those big anxious eyes. He should probably explain the set-up.
‘You’ll be comfortable here—you’ll want for nothing, querida. You only need to pick up the phone.’
She didn’t say a word, but as they walked through the doors and into the lobby of the hotel Lulu slipped her hand into his.
It was a small gesture. No one looking on would even notice it.
Alejandro felt it like a lightning strike.
Her small fingers curled trustingly around his. His mind was back on that Edinburgh street, when she had wound her arms so tightly around his neck and her heart had beat like a trapped bird.
He halted and looked around.
‘Alejandro?’
With a nod he turned and strode back the way they’d come, dragging Lulu on her clumpy heels after him.
Alejandro knew he was behaving like a madman. But her small smooth hand in his felt as if she was squeezing something vital inside him.
‘What are we doing?’ she asked as they stepped out into the warm afternoon and the familiar sounds of his city wrapped around them.
‘Sightseeing,’ he said.
‘Really?’
Instead of being full of disbelief she was beaming up at him as if he’d promised her rubies, not blisters. He paid some attention to her shoes.
‘Are they okay for a long walk?’
She looked a little offended. ‘You forget, I’m a showgirl—I dance in heels.’
He had forgotten. Alejandro just couldn’t imagine her up on stage in a rhinestone bikini and feathers. Unclothed, she looked as if she belonged in an eighteenth-century portrait by Goya, La maja desnuda.
‘Where are we going?’
Her voice broke into his thoughts and he must have looked blank for a moment, because her forehead formed a tiny concertina of indecision.
‘Not that we have to go anywhere,’ she added. ‘Unless this is like a date or something?’
A date? It was the one thing they hadn’t had. He’d skipped it all in favour of deflowering her and possibly getting her pregnant. It was wince-inducing stuff.
He could picture the tabloid headlines: Like father, like son.
He was not his father’s son. He had long been his own man. And the press were not going to run with this story.
His hand tightened around Lulu’s.
‘Sí, like a date, Lulu.’
A slow smile curved her mouth. ‘It’s your city, Mr du Crozier. Where will we go?’
*
