Rafael's Contract Bride

скачать книгу бесплатно


‘We announce our engagement; we organise a wedding. Pronto. We get married, I approach Don Carlos, secure the vineyard—marriage over. We move on to pastures new.’

‘Define “pronto”.’

‘Two to three weeks.’

The potato she had just speared fell from her fork. ‘We can’t organise a wedding in that time. And anyway Don Carlos may not be able to make it at such short notice.’

Rafael shook his head. ‘I can guarantee everyone will clear their diary for this. Lady Cora Derwent, from the highest echelons of English society, and Rafael Martinez, billionaire playboy from the gutters of London, get married after a romantic whirlwind courtship? I need the wedding to be soon—before Don Carlos sells the vineyard to someone else. Plus, a wedding shouts real commitment.’

A troubled look entered her turquoise eyes and a small frown creased her brow—almost spelt out the word qualm. ‘Whereas this one’s shout-out should be “great big lie”.’

Ah. Her principles were obviously making another play for a win.

‘Yes, it is a lie.’

There was no disputing that and he wouldn’t try. But he didn’t give a damn—he understood her scruples, but when it came to immorality the Aiza clan had graduated cum sum laude and Rafael didn’t feel even a sliver of conscience at the way his moral compass pointed.

‘That doesn’t bother you?’

She’d tipped her head to one side and for a second the judgement in her gaze flicked at him.

‘I totally disagree with Don Carlos’s principles, but it is his vineyard to sell to whomever he wants. This plan is a con.’

The troubled look in her eyes intensified to one of distaste.

No. This plan is my birthright. This is my retribution.

The night he and his mother had left Spain was a blurred memory, seen through the eyes of a five-year-old, but he could still taste the fear—his mother’s and his own. Through all the tears and the pleas had been the presence of a man who had come to see ‘the whore’ with his own eyes. Of course then the word had meant nothing to him, but he’d sensed the man’s venom, had witnessed his delight in brutality and humiliation. Had watched those goons he’d brought terrorise his mother as they trashed her belongings.

But until recently he hadn’t known the identity of the man he had dreamt about for long after their ignominious return to the London housing estate his mother had grown up on. Now, though, he did know—beyond the shadow of a doubt—and when he’d seen Don Carlos there had been a jolt of recognition so strong it had taken all his control to keep his hands unclenched.

‘Rafael?’

He scrubbed his palm down his face and focused on Cora, whose troubled blue eyes studied him with concern. For a second of insanity he was almost lured into telling her the truth. An impulse he squashed without hesitation. To confide in Cora would be madness—the very last thing he wanted was for this news to go public. He didn’t want Don Carlos to get a heads-up and the lawyers in.

All Rafael wanted was the personal satisfaction of getting some Aiza land and then telling his grandfather exactly who he was. Maybe that moment would in some way compensate for the way the de Guzman family had ruined his mother’s life. Maybe the ownership of Aiza land would give him some satisfaction—he would produce Martinez wine from Aiza grapes and dedicate the wine to his mother.

‘I will pay a fair price to Don Carlos, and if he makes the decision to sell based on the fact I have married a lady that is his look-out. We will be legally married. I will have changed my lifestyle. If you have a moral issue with that then now is the time to pull out, so I can find someone else. If you are on board I need you to be on board a hundred per cent.’

Her delicate features were scrunched into a frown, and the swirl of bright colours on her dress intensified the hue of her hair, emphasised the curves of her body. Cora looked miles away from the cool, aloof woman who had climbed into his car a few hours earlier.

He found himself holding his breath as he waited her response.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Are you on board?’

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_870090e5-a3af-5e8d-8689-5c3d600a9db1)

WAS SHE ON board with the idea of marrying Rafael Martinez? Faking a marriage for money and a vineyard? It was a con of gigantic proportions and as such it should fill her with disgust. After all, she herself had suffered hugely at the hands of a con artist. Yet it didn’t feel wrong. Instinct told her that whatever Rafael Martinez was he wasn’t immoral—this was more than a business deal to him, for sure, but she knew his hidden purpose wouldn’t be sinister.

Stop it, Cora. Why was she kidding herself? Her instincts had let her down before and she knew nothing. Everyone had an agenda. Including herself. The point here was that Rafael would give Don Carlos a fair price for his land. If the Duque de Aiza chose to sell just because of their marriage that was his look-out, and she would win her way back to the Derwent fold.

‘I’m in.’

The words filled her with apprehension, and yet exhilaration zinged through her body as he lifted his glass and this time she raised her own, and clinked it against his. The sunlight glinted off the cut crystal and the sound echoed in her ears like an omen.

‘So what now?’

‘We get engaged. I thought we could do it here. I’ve got a ring.’

As he reached into his pocket a small thread of sadness tugged at her heart. True, she’d written off the idea of romance in her life, had accepted that men only wanted her for her title or as a conduit to gain access to her infinitely more desirable sister. But the cool, clinical nature of this engagement made her swallow down a stupid regret that it wasn’t real.

‘Is there a problem?’ His words were said with a surprising gentleness. ‘We can do it somewhere else if you prefer.’

‘No. You’ve put a lot of thought into this.’

A sweep of her hand encompassed the beauty of their surroundings, the tang of the food, the smooth burst of the wine on her tastebuds. She glanced round, inhaled the glorious scents, heard the lazy drone of bees, let the sun warm her skin. Every sensation was suddenly heightened. The only necessity lacking was love; the irony was bittersweet.

‘It’s the perfect setting for a proposal. Are you sure you want to waste it on a fake engagement?’

‘It’s not a waste. Believe me, I have no intention of ever doing this for real.’

‘How can you be so sure? Maybe there is an ideal woman for you out there.’ After all, surely a man who had put so much thought into a fake proposal must have a romantic side to him—however deep it was buried.

‘I’m sure. If I ever met my “ideal woman” I’d sprint a marathon in the opposite direction.’