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‘A guest at a reception for a wedding that never was. It seems a weird thing to be celebrating.’
‘You don’t think that it’s a practical solution to a possible problem? I had no intention of wasting the money I’d paid out for this.’
‘You paid for the reception?’ It had confused her from the start. She had wondered too why the marriage was to take place in Spain, but Natalie had said that Santos had insisted on it. ‘But why?’
‘Your father could not afford to do things the way that your stepmother wanted—I could.’
It was blunt and matter-of-fact, but surprisingly without the note of dark cynicism she might have expected. And somehow that worried her more. She knew that her stepmother had extravagant tastes, and it had been obvious lately that her father was struggling to indulge her in the way he had once done.
‘And I intended that my bride should have only the best.’
Which was a stiletto-sharp dig that made her wince. Santos might have declared that he didn’t give a damn that Natalie had walked out on him, and yet he was a man who had been prepared to spend heavily to make sure that she had a wedding day to be proud of. It didn’t quite add up.
‘You’ve been very generous.’
Santos shrugged off her attempt at thanks.
‘If I had not invited everyone back here, I would have been overwhelmed with expensive food and wine with no one to help me deal with it. And not everyone ate as little as you did.’
So he had noticed the way that she had simply pushed her food around on her plate and hadn’t been able to force herself to choke much of it down. The feeling of having been watched so closely, of his noting everything she did, was unnerving, making her shift uneasily from one foot to the other.
Behind her, his tall, powerful figure was reflected in the glass of the window as evening darkened the grounds, and, in spite of the fact that in her three inch heels she almost matched him in height, she still felt that he dwarfed her, towering over her where she stood. He had discarded his elegant jacket and the cutaway armholes of the silk waistcoat emphasised the power of his arms, the width of the broad, straight shoulders.
‘Was the food not to your taste?’
‘It wasn’t that, I didn’t like the feeling of being watched— being on show. I felt as if everyone was staring—wondering just why I was there.’
‘Who gives a damn what anyone else thinks?’
Not him, obviously, his tone said.
She couldn’t continue this conversation without looking at him and so she forced herself to spin round on her heel until she was facing him, looking up into that dark, stunning face.
Not that it helped her in any way. If she had thought that his expression was closed and shuttered against her in the car on the journey here when he had hardly spoken a single word all the way, then it was even more sealed off from her now.
Anyone watching them would simply see polite attention, the natural courtesy of a considerate host to one of his guests, stamped onto the beautifully carved profile, faintly curving the beautiful shape of his sensual mouth. But facing him head-on, Alexa couldn’t be unaware of the total control he was imposing over every feature, every expression.
His eyes were so hooded they were almost half-closed, giving him a sleepily sensual look that had the most devastating effect on her heart rate, making it thud slow and heavy until she heard its echoes deep inside her head. But beneath those heavy lids, sleepy was the last thing the burnished eyes actually were. They gleamed with sharp intent as he watched each move she made, followed every tiny gesture, every revealing twitch of a muscle.
‘And you needed to avoid the paparazzi,’ Santos continued. ‘I gave you a way to do that.’
‘I’m grateful…’
Her voice shook slightly with the memory of the pack of reporters who had been waiting outside the church, as close to the grounds as the heavy ring of security would let them get. Shielded by Santos’s large frame, hurried into the sleek limousine, hidden behind the smoked-glass windows, she had still been aware of the size of the crowd, the loud buzz of interest, the shouted questions. The cameras had flashed wildly too until she had felt as if she were in the middle of some dramatic firework display and she huddled in the back of the car, cowering away from the windows.
‘And so, I’m sure, are my father and stepmother.’
She’d only seen them once since they had arrived at Santos’s beautiful home. Her father had been supporting her mother, helping her into a seat, fetching her a brandy, though the truth was that he looked fit to drop himself. Natalie’s defection had hit them both hard and for that reason she had to be grateful to Santos for the way he had taken action.
‘Protecting us from the Press might have been the start to it but there was more to it than that.’
‘You think so?’
The lift of an arching black brow questioned her statement, sending a rush of hot blood into her face. She always felt as if she was on the wrong foot with this man. From the moment that she had arrived at the church to tell him that the wedding was off, he had never once reacted in the way that she had anticipated. Once again she felt as if the ground beneath her feet was shifting dangerously.
What makes you think that you matter enough for that? the look in his eyes said.
‘Well, there has to be more, or none of this makes any sense.’
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