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Santiago was left alone in the salon, with nothing but the glass of Scotch and his own bleak thoughts for company.
His father was offering him everything he’d ever dreamed of as a boy.
A vindication of his worth.
Everything he’d hungered for as a young man.
But that wasn’t the only reason he was suddenly tempted. He clawed back his hair.
For the last few months, he’d found himself growing closer to Belle in a way that he’d enjoyed at first, but now terrified him. As their marriage approached, he’d become increasingly on edge. In bed with her, he’d experienced physical joy beyond anything he’d ever imagined. But he’d started to have feelings for her, beyond partnership or even friendship. Against his will, Belle had become too important to him. Her beauty. Her kindness. Her wit. The deep luminosity of her brown eyes.
He found himself drawn to her. Needing her.
Like today. Even after he’d made the decision to send her back to New York so he wouldn’t worry about her going into labor so far from home, all she’d had to do was raise her poignant gaze to his and ask to stay, and he’d immediately given in. Because he couldn’t bear to see her unhappy, not even for a moment.
He didn’t like it.
Santiago didn’t want to need anyone. He didn’t want to be dependent on their happiness for his own peace of mind. Because if you depended on someone—if you cared for them—it left you weak and vulnerable, to be crushed at will by their inevitable betrayal. He’d learned that from childhood. From Nadia.
I know you and Nadia have a history. Perhaps this is fate. She could still bear the Zoya heir. To you.
The thought repelled him. Nadia, for all her angelic beauty, had the soul of a snake. A mercenary, gold-digging snake. The thought of touching her disgusted him.
But at least Nadia would never again tempt him into risking his heart. Not like Belle.
If he was honest with himself, when he’d gotten the call about his brother’s death, and realized it gave him the perfect excuse to cancel the wedding—the same wedding he himself had insisted on, demanded, blackmailed Belle into—part of him had been relieved.
Something inside him was afraid of marrying her now. He, who’d never been afraid of anything, was afraid of what would happen if he spoke those vows to Belle, the one woman on earth who held power over him.
Wearily, Santiago left the salon and went up the sweeping stairs toward the second floor. He stopped in front of his own door, suddenly remembering how he’d promised Belle he’d come up and kiss her good night.
He pictured her beautiful face. Her wide, haunting brown eyes, fringed with black lashes. Her full ruby-red lips. Her softness. Her sweetness.
She’d hated him when they’d first met, with good cause. Santiago had pushed people away for most of his life. It wasn’t just a game to him; it was necessary for survival. But he’d known from the night he first seduced Belle that she, idealistic and romantic and good-hearted as she was, could be dangerous to his peace of mind. So he’d pushed her away.
That had all changed when he’d found out she was pregnant. He’d forced her into an engagement in Texas. She’d h
ated him for that.
But Belle didn’t hate him anymore. Something had changed in her during their time living in New York. She’d been his hostess. She’d redecorated his home. She’d even traveled with him to Spain when, by rights, she should have slapped his face for canceling their wedding to attend the funeral of a virtual stranger half a world away.
Santiago wanted her. So much. Even picturing Belle now, stretched out on a bed somewhere upstairs, he yearned to see her, hold her, touch her. He’d meant to ask the housekeeper for directions to her bedroom, which he assumed to be even larger and more comfortable than his own, as any pregnant woman deserved. But now...
Hesitating at his own bedroom door, he looked down the dark hallway toward the stairs. His body yearned for the electricity and comfort of her touch. He longed to feel her sweet, hot, lush body naked against his own.
But the cost to his soul was suddenly too high.
Setting his jaw, he turned back to his own bedroom, going inside, closing the door firmly behind him.
He would sleep alone.
* * *
Belle woke up alone in the shabby little attic room of the castle, and sat up in a rush. He’d never come up to kiss her last night.
Trying to ignore the hurt, she stretched her muscles, aching from the lumpy mattress. She took a quick, awkward shower in the tiny beat-up bathroom with peeling linoleum, then freshened up, putting on a new dress that, with her full pregnancy, made her look as lumpy as that bed.
Going downstairs, she went to Santiago’s bedroom, only to discover it was empty. So were the other bedrooms in the wing. She wandered downstairs, feeling lost, until she found an English-speaking maid who directed her to the breakfast room.
