Bride in a Gilded Cage

He frowned. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d even hazard a guess that she was still innocent. It was in every skittish move she made when he was near, in the way she’d look at him when she thought he wasn’t watching. The way that telling colour stole into her cheeks whenever he got too close. While he couldn’t be certain she hadn’t had a lover, there had clearly been no one significant.

The thought that she might be a virgin sent a frisson of pure masculine thrill through him and it surprised him. He’d never entertained any kind of romantic notion of bedding a virgin bride. He’d always made sure to gravitate towards women who were experienced and knew how to pleasure him.

One thing was sure: he hadn’t lied when he’d promised he would be faithful. He had to concede that the memory of her had hovered over the shoulder of every other woman he’d been with since that night. He hadn’t met anyone who had touched some primal part of him as effortlessly as she had. The kiss tonight had just proved that they had explosive chemistry.

He placed a hand on the glass and realised his heart was thumping hard. He was becoming aroused by little more than thinking of Isobel—not a usual effect of any woman who occupied his mind, no matter how seductive.

He would have Isobel in his life, and in his bed, as his wife. And once she saw what he could provide for her she’d soon realise how futile it would be to fight him, or her fate. He smiled then. This marriage was beginning to look appealing on many more levels than he might ever have anticipated.

The following day the weather seemed to be in sympathy with Isobel’s mood. Bleak and stormy. She was hollow eyed after a long, sleepless night. Her landlord had just been, and her ears were still ringing from his long rant because she was leaving with no notice. She’d had to fork over some precious cash to appease him, and she’d thought a little hysterically of the fact that within a short space of time she’d be

the joint owner of a multi-million-dollar estate.

In the lonely hours in the middle of the night she’d resigned herself to the fact that she had submit to this marriage. All avenues of escape were cut off. Curiously, as soon as she’d articulated the thought, a sense of calm had washed over her—not panic, as she’d expected. It was almost as if the fates were conspiring against her to say, You were never going to escape this.

She’d called her dance partner José that morning, and without getting into the whole explanation had just said that she had to leave to go home indefinitely because of a family crisis. He’d been sad, but delighted to think he could take over her classes. It drove home to Isobel how tenuous her links to Paris really were, and that was disturbing. Why hadn’t she forged deeper links?

Isobel knew a big part of her was still in shock, not really contemplating the reality that faced her.

A peremptory knock sounded on the door. With her stomach in freefall she took a last glance around what had been her home for the best part of three years and went to the door.

‘You don’t have much baggage.’

Still feeling exposed and raw from realising how easy it had been to walk away from three years of a life, Isobel was trying her best to block out the far too dominant male all but sprawled across the back seat of the luxury car as they were driven to the airport.

She gritted her teeth and recalled his look of pure disbelief when she’d presented herself at the door of her apartment with one wheelie suitcase.

‘Not all of us need possessions and money and real estate to feel validated.’

He chuckled softly, but the sound was anything but friendly. ‘Very noble. Are you afraid I’ll corrupt you with my debauched and materialistic ways?’

Isobel just clamped her mouth shut and said nothing, watching as Paris gave way outside the car to the start of the gritty suburbs and then the anonymous motorway. She felt all at once clammy and sweaty, and her heart beat a restless tattoo in her chest which got worse every time Rafael made the minutest move. She hated to be so aware of him, and told herself it was only antipathy, not attraction.

He was on the phone now, speaking rapidly in Spanish to someone. Isobel could only make out the gist of the conversation as he was talking about something she had no knowledge of: stocks and shares and bonds. But she was supremely aware of the hand nearest her, gesticulating the emphasis of his words, fingers long and graceful.

He terminated the conversation just as they approached the airport and said, ‘We’re going straight to the plane. Customs will check your passport and documents there.’

Before Isobel could draw breath, they’d been cleared to go, and she was stepping into a private jet straight out of a magazine spread. The carpet alone felt like stepping onto a cloud. She’d never seen anything so decadently opulent in her life.

‘I suppose you’re happy with a carbon footprint the size of Everest?’

Rafael had been moving around behind her and stopped. His hands were on his hips when Isobel turned to face him, drawing attention to how lean they were in faded jeans. It was the first time she’d looked directly at him all morning. He was just too beautiful. And the feelings jumping around her belly were far too ambiguous.

‘I share this jet with a group of businessmen, one of whom happens to be my older half-brother. Much as I’d like to take a scheduled flight, sometimes it’s just not practical—not when I have back-to-back meetings lined up as soon as we return to Buenos Aires. I’m just lucky that my brother happened to be here in Paris at the moment.’

She couldn’t even feel mildly chastised at being put in her place. Intense relief that he was going to be busy nearly made Isobel sag back into the seat behind her. She tried to school her expression, but obviously failed.

‘No need to look so pleased, Isobel. You’ll need some time at home with your family to prepare for the wedding anyway.’

This time she did sag back into the seat, and she asked shakily, hating having to speak the words out loud, as if that was making it more concrete, ‘We’re getting married on my birthday?’

Rafael came and sat down in the seat on the other side of the aisle, taking out papers from a briefcase and a super slim platinum laptop. ‘Yes. Exactly according to the terms laid out in the agreement.’

She looked away with effort, and her hands shook as she did up her seat belt. ‘I can’t believe you’re making me do this.’

In a flash Rafael had surged out of his seat and was leaning over her, hands on the armrests either side of her body. Isobel shrank back into her seat, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest.

‘I’m not making you do anything Isobel. We’re bound together by a set of circumstances outside of our control.’ His mouth became a bitter line. ‘This marriage has been set in stone for years and it will happen, whether you like it or not. No fairytale endings here, Isobel.’