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That was what was making him tense, he told himself. The business deal. Running late.
It had nothing to do with the thought of giving Belle the prenuptial agreement tucked into his briefcase.
Rushing up the stone steps of his brownstone, he ground his teeth. The wedding was planned for early September, just a month away, just a few weeks before her due date. Of course the agreement had to be signed. He was a billionaire. Belle had nothing. Without a prenuptial agreement, he’d be risking half his fortune from the moment he said “I do.”
But his scowl deepened as he entered his Upper East Side mansion, lavish with flowers and additional hired serving staff, awaiting the first guest for their engagement party, when he would introduce his future bride to New York society. He took the elevator to the third floor, then stopped when he saw Belle.
She was looking into a full-length mirror as she put on diamond earrings, wearing a sleek black dress, her dark hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Her face was perfectly made up, and the diamond earrings he’d given her yesterday sparkled as brightly as the ten-carat engagement ring on her finger. But as she turned to him, he saw that beneath the dramatic black sweep of her lashes and red ruby lips, her creamy caramel skin was pale.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
She gave him a trembling smile. “I was starting to worry you might make me host this party alone.”
“Of course not.” Dropping his briefcase, he kissed her, stroking her soft cheek. He searched her gaze. “You look beautiful.”
“I’m glad. So maybe the pain is worth it.”
“Pain?” he said, surprised.
She held out her foot, shod in a sexy black stiletto heel. “And you should see my underwear,” she said wryly.
“I’d like to.”
She returned his grin, then sighed. “At least the baby is comfortable. All the clothes are loose around my waist.” She glanced down at the briefcase. “So when are you going to spring it on me?”
His hand stilled. “What?”
“The prenuptial agreement.”
He blinked. How had she known?
Of course she knew, he chided himself. Belle was intuitive and smart. “You know it’s necessary.”
“Yes. I know.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t complain. She just looked at him, her dark eyes like big pools in her wan, pale face. And he felt like a cad. That irritated him even more. Turning away, he changed his clothes, pulling on his tuxedo.
“Santiago, am I a trophy wife?” she asked suddenly.
“What are you talking about?”
“I met some other brides while waiting for my appointment with the wedding planner yesterday. They told me all about the life of a trophy wife. They made it sound like being an indentured servant.” She looked at the closet. “I already have the uniform. Shift dresses in black and beige.”
He felt irritated as he sat down on the bed to put on his Italian leather shoes. “I didn’t tell you to only wear black and beige.”
“No, but the stylist did. And she insisted I must always wear stilettos, to be taller. They’re like torture devices...” She peered down at her feet, then looked up with a sigh. “I’ll sorry. I’m doing my best. I’m just afraid I’ll fail you,” she said in a sma
ll voice. “That I can’t be what you need, or ever fit into your world—”
“Fit in?” He looked up from tying his shoes. “I wasn’t born in this world either, Belle. Growing up in Madrid, I had nothing. And I’ve learned the hard way there’s only one way to fit into a world that doesn’t want you. By force. You have to make it impossible for them to ignore you.”
She stared at him for a moment, and he wished he hadn’t brought up his own childhood. He was relieved when she shook her head. “Force? I can’t even force our wedding planner to consider any of my ideas. Our wedding is going to be awful.”
“Awful?”
Belle rolled her eyes. “She called it ‘postmodern’. I’m to hold a cactus instead of a bouquet, and instead of a white wedding cake, we’ll be serving our guests gold-dusted foam.”
“Really.”
