“Go ahead and forward it. My parents will want that reassurance,” he said like it was a bureaucratic hoop he couldn’t avoid.
“Don’t you want to see it?” she challenged.
“If I thought you were lying, I wouldn’t have upended my life to marry you. Are they releasing the two of you now?”
“Tomorrow,” she replied.
He chivalrously turned up with an infant carrier, carting it out himself after interrogating the nurse about Enrique’s health and schedule for immunizations, but he had yet to properly hold his son.
They went to her modest flat, where she had already been packing to give it up, planning to live with her mother through the birth and her maternity leave.
When he saw the boxes, Cesar gave her a sharp look. “Small wonder you went into labor early.”
She shrugged off that comment and called her landlord to explain the situation. Cesar took over, informing the man that his assistant would have everything shipped to Spain before the lease was up and that they were leaving today.
Today? As much as she wanted to see her mother, Sorcha really wanted a nap.
He packed her case while she sat on the bed and nursed, then she slept on his private plane as they flew to Cork. Her customary seat greeted her like an old friend. The hostess knew how to make her tea just right and brought it without asking.
Sorcha relaxed in a way she never had in the flat she’d just vacated. She felt like she was home.
Because she was going home, she reasoned when she woke, groggy and thinking again that her pregnancy had been a dream. But there was Enrique in the seat next to his father, blinking and alert, thankfully unaware his father was sending him the puzzled look he reserved for unexpected experimentation results.
They drove down the coast to her mother’s village and a warm welcome.
Cesar, being a man who didn’t just know how to disrobe a woman, but could outfit them effortlessly, had flown in a modiste from a Paris boutique. The bridal gown she brought only needed a few nips and tucks and the woman took care of that in her mother’s lounge.
The dress wasn’t something Sorcha would have chosen for herself, but it was incredibly flattering. Its empire waist disguised her recent pregnancy and its seed-pearl-encrusted bodice and off-the-shoulder straps made the most of her chest—currently her best asset. Her hair never held a curl, but the straight, golden strands looked right beneath a crown of pink rosebuds.
She looked like a Celtic goddess, strong and empowered.
Cesar spent the night at the hotel while she stayed with her family and poured out her heart, including her concerns about her marriage.
“I can’t imagine any man not loving you,” her sister said, squeezing her hand.
Sorcha appreciated the sentiment, but half expected to be stood up at the altar. The entire village was holding their breath to see it, she was sure, but she went through the motions of dressing for her wedding.
The morning ceremony was held in the church Sorcha had attended growing up, and was, secretly, her most cherished dream come true.
When she saw Cesar waiting at the altar for her, she felt more than relief. Pride. Joy. The sun came out long enough to splash reds and blues and greens from the stained glass windows onto the worn, golden pews and gray stone floor. Cesar had provided all the women with corsages, which, along with her elegant bouquet, perfumed the air with the scent of lilies and roses. The moment was pure and reverent.
Cesar wore a morning coat and had shaved. He hated shaving, which was why he wore stubble most of the time. He wore stubble really well, truth be told, but with his cheeks clean, his face looked narrow and sharp, his sensual mouth more pronounced.
Perhaps it was a severe mood putting that tautness in his expression, she thought, but as her sister played her down the aisle with a pretty march, he watched her with a gaze that pulled her forward. His eyes had never looked so much like white-hot metal, the green-blue giving way to silvery heat, hammered and binding.
Emotive tears came to her eyes. Was she really marrying her boss?
His hands were reassuringly steady as he held her trembling ones, his voice strong where hers cracked with emotion. She didn’t know if that meant he was more confident in this marriage than she was, or less emotionally invested.
Financially, dear Lord, he appeared more than willing to invest. The platinum band he put on her finger was already soldered to its matching engagement ring. The stone in the one ring was a princess-cut diamond with emerald baguettes on either side, then another pair of smaller princess diamonds. The rest of the setting, like the wedding band, was alternating diamonds and square-cut emeralds.
She could hardly speak as she pushed his simple platinum band with one winking green emerald onto his swarthy hand. Hers. He belonged to her. The knowledge quivered through her like an arrow had lodged in her heart and vibrated with the impact.