Bride in a Gilded Cage

‘Honeymoon?’ Trepidation laced Isobel’s voice as visions of deserted beaches and vast villas and just the two of them flooded her mind. Trepidation and something much scarier.

Rafael grimaced. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not enough of a masochist to seclude us on a desert island just yet. I thought you might like to see the Estancia Paradiso, and I could do with catching up on things. I haven’t been there in a couple of months…’

Isobel felt a little winded, and then all sorts of nebulous feelings rose up. What could she say? She’d love to see the estanica. ‘Well…That is, of course I’d like to see it.’

A tug of nostalgia for her grandparents made her look away to concentrate on her plate. He was surprising her. She’d fully expected to wake up today and have an empty house welcome her. Her parents had always maintained a good distance in their marriage, meeting only for stilted dinners in the evening and agonising social events where they and many other couples like them projected a false image of unity.

After a few minutes Rafael excused himself to get his things ready and left Isobel sitting there, still dazed. On automatic pilot she got up and started to clear the table, but Juanita came in and tutted.

‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ she said.

Still not a glimmer of friendliness. Isobel said firmly, ‘Fair enough. But you don’t have to pack for me, Juanita. I can do that myself.’

The woman just nodded her head and busied herself clearing the table. Isobel went upstairs. She looked wistfully at her own bag of clothes, but remembered Rafael’s threat that he would dress her himself. She shivered and reluctantly started to go through the clothes in the closet. To her surprise she found that most of the clothes weren’t too far off the mark from what she would have chosen herself.

Wondering uncomfortably if Rafael had been involved with picking out the wardrobe, she changed into a pair of cargo pants and a classic white shirt. She couldn’t forget that here in BA they were in the middle of winter. Even if the temperature didn’t drop the same way it did in Europe, there was still a nip in the air.

When she came downstairs with her bag, an older smiling man took it out to where a luxury Range Rover waited. Isobel wandered out and breathed deep, and then spotted something that had piqued her interest before. The vintage cars parked up in one corner of the huge forecourt.

She walked over, her pulse quickening at seeing one in particular. She walked around it and touched it reverently.

‘It’s a 1951 Bugatti.’

Isobel jumped minutely. How did Rafael do that? Creep up on her when he was such a big man? She looked at him warily and took in properly that he was dressed in jeans and a casual shirt. Her pulse sped up, and it had nothing to do with the car. She looked away, willing down the heat that threatened upwards.

‘I know. There are only eight in the world.’ And each one was worth the equivalent of the national debt of a small country.

He quirked a brow. ‘I’m impressed. You like vintage cars?’

Isobel nodded, focusing on the sleek and gorgeous lines of the car. ‘I got it from my grandfather. He was fanatical about them. He always coveted one of these—he showed me pictures in a magazine.’ Isobel smiled wryly. ‘I used to promise him that when I grew up I’d make enough money to buy him one. I was only about twelve.’

‘You could now…but it’s too late.’

Isobel smiled sadly. ‘Yes.’ She looked at Rafael and her breath caught at the look in his eyes.

‘Your grandfather sounds like he was an interesting man.’

Isobel fought his seductive pull valiantly. She had no doubt he was just turning on the charm, and was no more interested in her grandfather than in the inner workings of her mind. She was a challenge to him, that was all. And thinking about her grandfather was making her feel far too emotional.

‘He was.’ She cut off any further line of enquiry, and could see Rafael’s jaw clench in response. Ridiculously, she felt guilty.

He stepped back and gestured to the Range Rover with his arm. ‘We’d better get going. It’s a four-hour drive and I want to get there before it gets dark.’

Still feeling wrong-footed as Rafael expertly negotiated the heavy Buenos Aires traffic, Isobel was taken aback when he asked casually, ‘Where did you learn how to tango?’

She shot him a look, but he was facing forwards. After a long moment, her fingers plucking at her trousers, she said, ‘My grandparents both loved it. My grandmother started teaching me when I was tiny, and then after she died my grandfather used to dance with me…’ She snuck another glance at him, curiosity getting the better of her. ‘You said in Paris that your grandmother used to take you and your brother to milongas?’

Rafael cast her a quick look and quirked a small smile, making Isobel’s breath hitch. ‘She was crazy about it—even though when she was growing up tango was still not considered entirely appropriate for her class. She used to sneak us into milongas and get her friends to teach us.’

Isobel nodded. ‘For my grandparents it was the same, but they used to dance it anyway—usually when they were alone. So that’s how you know the old milong

uero style…like my grandfather?’

He nodded.

Isobel sat back and looked out of the window. She could feel her guard dropping, although a part of her couldn’t believe it was so easy to talk to Rafael like this. ‘I used to watch them dance. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen…’ She smiled faintly. ‘I can remember feeling like such a voyeur—as if I was intruding on something incredibly intimate.’

Dry humour laced Rafael’s voice when he said, ‘Where you saw white picket fences springing up, with roses around doorways and true love, all I saw was a way to impress beautiful girls…You really are just a romantic at heart, aren’t you, Isobel?’