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His lovely wife already had everything she needed. His fortune. His name. His body. She needed no more.
She’d loved him once. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
And neither would he. Every time he’d loved a woman, she betrayed him. Was every woman faithless? Or was there something about Rodrigo that made them so, from the moment he loved them?
He didn’t know, but it had happened not just once, not twice, but three times. He wouldn’t make it four.
These feelings he felt for Lola were sexual, nothing more. And that was all they could ever be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT NIGHT, as they walked into the large, elegant ballroom of a grand hotel on the Gran Vía, Lola kept sneaking glances at her husband on her arm.
Over the last twenty-four hours, they’d made love six times. Before she’d even stopped blushing from the shocking sexual encounter in the luxury clothing boutique they’d barely gotten home when Rodrigo had started kissing her again. In the great room with its view of the
autumn colors of Retiro Park, Rodrigo had pulled her onto the sofa, and made love to her, this time taking off his own clothes, with gentle, seductive urgency.
Later that night, once their baby was properly asleep in his crib and they had hours to call their own, Rodrigo had made love to her again, slowly, lingeringly caressing every inch of her. As if they had the rest of their lives to enjoy each other.
Which they did.
Lola didn’t understand how any woman could ever be unfaithful to Rodrigo. And she wasn’t the only one, apparently. Even his ex that she’d spoken with on set yesterday, the famous actress Pia Ramirez, had seemed bewildered by it.
“So you’re Rodrigo’s new wife,” the older actress had said. “I’d started to think he would never marry.”
“And you’re the one who cheated on him,” Lola had replied bluntly. The other woman’s eyebrows raised, as if she were trying to decide whether to be offended; then she’d sighed.
“I loved Rodrigo, with the impetuous love of the young. He was working, chasing his empire. While he was gone—” she’d lifted her hands helplessly “—a handsome actor started paying attention to me every day. He said he was desperately in love, that he would die for me. But after he got me into bed, somehow, pictures were sent of us to Rodrigo.” She’d looked away. “I’m happy now, married with a family. But I still wonder sometimes who sent those photos. And who that man was. I never saw him again. But he destroyed everything.”
“You destroyed it,” Lola said coldly. Then her phone buzzed, and she’d been distracted by funny messages from Tess and Hallie in New York, begging her to come for Thanksgiving.
But the more Lola thought about it, the more confused she was by the whole thing. She looked up at him now, in the gilded ballroom of the grand nineteenth-century hotel. How could anyone betray Rodrigo?
He looked impossibly attractive, dressed in a sleek tuxedo that accentuated the hard, powerful shape of his muscular body. Even now, while he was surrounded by people congratulating him on getting his award, his dark eyes lingered on Lola in the slinky, low-cut red dress she’d chosen from the boutique.
He’d helped her put it on tonight in their bedroom. Then, after taking one look at her, he’d helped her swiftly take it off again. Which is why they’d arrived twenty minutes late. Her cheeks went hot, remembering.
It wasn’t like her to blush. But her husband did that to her. He peeled away her defenses, leaving her trembling and gasping and hot. Just as he’d peeled away her lingerie in that shop.
As they walked through the crowded ballroom, as they ate dinner at the head table, as she saw her husband honored by his peers, Lola basked in the glory of being his wife. Especially since he made it clear to everyone that it wasn’t just his glory, but hers. Whenever anyone congratulated Rodrigo, he said: “It was entirely my wife’s idea. She should be getting this award with me.” His dark, sensual gaze simmered through hers. “I’ll thank you later, believe me.”
She shivered. She didn’t think she’d ever get enough of him thanking her.
Her heart was bursting with pride as she watched him go up to the podium, to thunderous applause. But as he started his speech on stage, someone plopped beside her at the table in the darkened audience, into his empty chair.
Looking in surprise, she saw Ulrika Lund, the well-known director, whom Rodrigo had briefly been engaged to after Pia Ramirez, some eight years before.
“So you’re the wife,” Ulrika said without preamble. She was very thin, with muscular arms, and dressed in severe black.
“Do you mind?” Lola said, annoyed. “I’m trying to hear his speech.”
“I’m sure you are, because he’s praising you. He praised me once, too. For about a day.” Her jaw tightened. “But as soon as I agreed to marry him, he was suddenly too busy to see me.”
“Is that your excuse for cheating on him?” Lola said coldly, looking up at her handsome husband on the stage, wishing the woman would go away.
Ulrika leaned forward, drumming her fingers impatiently. “I met another man while Rodrigo was gone. A man who hung on my every word. Eventually I gave in. Then someone sent Rodrigo photographs of our night together. That gave him a convenient excuse to end our engagement.” She paused. “I never saw the other man again. Even when I tried to find him. I discovered he’d given me a fictitious name.”
A warning buzz went off in the back of Lola’s mind. It sounded almost exactly like the story that Pia Ramirez had told. Coincidence, she told herself firmly. Pushing the disquieting thought aside, she said, “And this affects me how?”
