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“Ready to go, Miss Langtry? Ivan has already pulled around the car.”
Belle had dreaded the thought of the appointment with that famous personal stylist, but at that moment hell itself sounded preferable to remaining in this enormous, empty house, filled with employees who scorned her. She got up from the breakfast table so quickly that Kip’s eyes widened to see a pregnant woman move so fast.
But later that afternoon, when Belle finally returned to the house, she felt worse, not better. She’d been poked and prodded, manicured and, most of all, criticized. Her awful hair! Her awful clothes! Her ragged cuticles! The famous stylist had cried out in sh
ock and agony, right in front of Belle, and sent her assistants scurrying. They seemed to think Belle was a rock, incapable of thinking or feeling, just the brute clay from which they, the long-suffering artists, would sculpt and construct their art.
Ten different assistants had worked on her at the stylist’s private salon, which the stylist herself, the famous owner of the establishment, called her atelier.
Belle had never cared much about her appearance. She’d always had more important things to think about, like raising her little brothers and putting food on the table. So she’d tried to remain patient and silent as they picked out a wardrobe and hairstyle appropriate to her station as a rich man’s wife.
Seven hours later, as Kip finally carried out her new wardrobe to the waiting car, the famous stylist had showed Belle a mirror. “What do you think?”
She’d sucked in her breath. Her dark hair was now perfectly straight, gleaming down her shoulders. Her face felt raw from the facials, shellacked with expensive lotions and makeup, including lipstick and mascara. Her pregnant shape was draped in a severely chic black shift dress, black capelet, her hips thrust forward by uncomfortably high heels.
Startled by the stranger in the mirror, Belle replied timidly, “I don’t recognize myself.”
To which the famously pretentious personal stylist responded with a laugh, “Then my job is done.”
Now, Belle trudged into the brownstone mansion feeling ridiculous in the jaunty black capelet.
Tomorrow she was supposed to meet with the wedding planner. She could only imagine how that would go. Santiago had already mentioned an engagement party he meant to hold in two weeks, “after you’ve gotten a chance to get comfortable.” Comfortable?
She felt sick with worry.
Belle saw the maid and the cook as she walked wearily into the house. The two women elbowed each other as they saw her new chic appearance.
“You look nice, ma’am,” the maid said meekly. Belle wondered if she was mocking her.
“Thank you,” she said flatly, and went up to the third floor bedroom suite to take a nap. The same maid knocked on the door a few hours later.
“Mr. Velazquez is home, miss. He’s requesting that you join him downstairs for dinner.”
Groggily, Belle smoothed down her dress and hair from her nap, then went down to the dining room.
Santiago’s dark eyes widened when he saw her. Rising from the table, he came forward to kiss her.
“You look very elegant,” he said, helping her into her chair. Sitting beside her, he smiled. “Who is queen of society now?”
He didn’t seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm or her absence of appetite for dinner. But there was one thing he noticed fast enough. When he took her upstairs to bed and kissed her, she didn’t respond. He frowned. “What is it?”
“It’s this makeup,” she improvised. “It feels like a Halloween mask over my face.”
He stared at her, then gave her a slow-rising grin. “I can solve that.”
He pulled her into the shower, turned on the water, and scrubbed the day off her until she felt almost like herself again. It was only then, when her skin was pink and warm with steam, as she stood in front of him with her baby bump and pregnancy-swollen breasts, that she felt like she could breathe again, and started returning his kisses.
“That’s better,” he whispered appreciatively and kissed her in the shower until her knees were weak. Turning off the water, he gently toweled her off and pulled her onto the bed, their bodies still hot and wet. Lying down, he lifted her over him and put his hand gently on her cheek.
“You’re in charge,” he whispered, and she was. It was ecstasy. It was glory. Their souls seemed to spark together into fire, as well as their bodies. When they were together in bed, she could forget all her fears. She felt nothing but pleasure. She was his. He was hers.
But when Belle woke up in the morning, she was alone.
CHAPTER SIX
TWO WEEKS LATER, Santiago came home from his forty-floor skyscraper in Midtown with a scowl on his face.
His company, Velazquez International, had spent two weeks in negotiations, trying and failing to nail down the acquisition of a Canadian hotel chain. He’d offered them an excellent price, but they continued to hold out—not for more money, but for his promise that he’d keep all their employees and stores intact. Santiago scowled, narrowing his eyes. What fool would promise such a thing? But now, because of their stubbornness, he was going to be late for his own engagement party. And no deal had been struck.
