Rafael's Contract Bride

The door opened and María bustled in. ‘Bella!’ She handed over a pair of jewelled flip-flops and a sun hat and gestured for Cora to follow her.

Minutes later they approached a paved mosaic courtyard, dappled with sun and shadow and awash with the smell of flowering grapes, the aromatic smell of spices and the tang of olives.

Cora’s legs gave a sudden wobble as Rafael rose from a wooden chair and any last vestige of confidence soared away. No man had the right to look so good. His rolled up shirtsleeves exposed tanned forearms that made the breath hitch in her throat, and as her gaze travelled up his body her eyes drank in the breadth of his chest, the column of his throat, and the sheer arrogant strength of his features.

María said something and then turned to walk away. From somewhere Cora found her voice and a smile and said, ‘Gracias,’ before turning back to Rafael. From somewhere she found the courage to stand tall, not to tug the hem of the wretched dress down.

Something flashed across his dark eyes: surprise and a flicker of heat that made her heart thud against her ribcage.

‘That looks way more comfortable,’ he said eventually.

Comfortable? She must have imagined that flicker—of course she had. She was not Rafael’s type and best she remembered that she didn’t even want to be.

‘It is,’ she said coolly, and headed to the table—at least once she was sitting down the dress would be less obvious.

But before she could take a seat her gaze alighted on the table and she came to a halt. Crystal glasses gleamed, and a cut-glass vase of beautifully arranged flowers sat next to a silver wine cooler amidst an array of dishes that smelt to die for. This didn’t look like a business lunch—and it didn’t feel like a business lunch.

But what else could it be? Maybe this was the billionaire version. But María’s words echoed in her brain. ‘Un dia especial.’

‘This looks incredible.’

‘I asked María to produce some regional specialities. We have piquillo peppers, wood-roasted and then dipped in batter and fried. Plus the same peppers stuffed with lamb. And white asparagus, whose shoots never see sunlight—which makes them incredibly tender. And one of my favourites—patatas riojanas—cooked with chorizo and smoky paprika. And chuletas a la riojana—perfectly grilled lamb chops over vine cuttings.’

A special meal for a special day?

‘Is this how you usually entertain your business guests?’

‘No. I don’t usually give my business guests lunch here.’

‘So who do you entertain here?’

‘No one. I don’t bring my dates here either.’

‘So why me? Why have you brought me here?’

Wrapping one arm round her waist, she tried to subdue the prickle of apprehension as she awaited his answer.

* * *

Crunch time, and a small droplet of moisture beaded his neck as he surveyed Cora’s body language. Doubt whispered as he considered his own. He had not anticipated an attraction factor. In all the times he’d seen Cora at Cavershams he’d noticed her, been intrigued by the itch of memory that told him he’d seen her before, but there hadn’t been any hint of attraction.

Instead he’d written her off as cold, aloof, and set on avoiding him. And once he’d figured out her identity he had assumed she didn’t like him because of her social position—that she was a snob.

But now... Well, now for some bizarre reason his body was more than aware of her. Because it turned out that Cora Derwent wasn’t cold or aloof or a snob. There was a feistiness to her, countered by the sense of her vulnerability, and he’d felt a tug of attraction even when she’d been hidden beneath that hideous blue trouser suit.

Now that she was clothed in a dress that showed off long legs and curves in all the right places his libido was paying close attention. Which was not good.

Especially as she was waiting for an answer to the million-dollar question.

‘Well, why don’t you sit down and I can explain. Have an olive. And a glass of wine.’

For a moment he wasn’t sure that she’d comply, and before she sat her eyes narrowed. ‘OK. But eating your food does not mean I will agree to anything.’

‘Understood.’

He poured the pale golden wine for them and then settled back on the wooden chair. ‘OK. Here goes.’

Cora speared an olive. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘So, I’ve explained how the wine business sucked me in—and I now own four vineyards across Rioja. You also know that Ethan and I have set up a Martinez-Caversham venture which will offer vineyard holidays. As part of that venture I want to buy another vineyard, which is owned by Don Carlos de Guzman, the fifteenth Duque de Aiza—it would link my vineyards beautifully and it is for sale. I arranged a meeting, but...’

His skin grew clammy as he recalled the churning of hope, anger and anticipation. He had even wondered if the old man would somehow recognise him—even though he’d known it would have been impossible for his grandfather to have kept tabs on him. His mother had changed their surnames and gone to ground.

‘Unfortunately the Duque is...’ A stubborn old man and my paternal grandfather—although he doesn’t know it. Yet. ‘Unwilling to sell it to the likes of me.’

Rafael kept his voice even, though it was hard. Each word stuck in his craw. But he didn’t want Cora to garner even a glimmer of the truth. Though really there was no risk of that. Who would believe that Rafael Martinez was the illegitimate grandson of the Duque de Aiza? He’d had difficulty believing it himself. But there had been no disputing the facts in the letter his mother had left with a solicitor, to be given to him on his thirtieth birthday. The phrases were etched on his brain as if his mother had been alive to read them to him herself.

Cora frowned, confusion evident in the crease on her brow and the expression in her bright blue eyes. ‘I don’t understand...’

Careful, Martinez. Stick to facts and keep emotions off the table.

‘Don Carlos doesn’t approve of my background or my lifestyle, so I need to change his mind.’

And he was pretty sure his marriage into the crème de la crème of British aristocracy would do exactly that.

He sipped his wine, savoured its silkiness. ‘That’s where you come in.’

‘Me? I don’t see how I can help.’

There was a faint hint of trepidation in her voice and he saw her hand tighten round the stem of the glass.

‘I’m an administrator.’

‘You’re more than that, Cora.’ Rafael kept his voice even, gentle—he didn’t know why Cora was hiding her identity, and he didn’t want to spook her, but... ‘You’re Lady Cora Derwent.’

Her turquoise eyes widened and the sudden vulnerability in them smote him. For a second he thought she’d push her chair back and run, but instead she sat immobile.

‘How long have you known?’ she asked eventually.

‘You looked vaguely familiar—I’ve got a good memory for faces.’

Probably because he had spent so many years studying them—always wondering if that person was his father, or related to him in some way. He’d constructed so many fantasies as a child, each more farfetched than the last, and yet none had been as out there as the truth.

‘Then, when I was trying to figure out a way to persuade Don Carlos to reconsider my credentials, something clicked in my brain and I remembered that I had seen you years ago at some party. I knew exactly who you were. After that it was easy to make sure.’

Cora inhaled a deep breath. Her face was still leeched of colour but she managed a shrug. ‘OK. Fine. I’m Lady Cora Derwent.’

Her voice was tight, but he could hear the supressed hurt mixed with a tangible anger.

‘I still don’t see how that helps you. I’m a lady, not a magician. I can’t convince Don Carlos that your lifestyle is moral and upright. It wouldn’t wash—the Duque de Aiza won’t listen to me. I don’t even get why you would want him to. Why not tell him to shove his stupid hidebound ideas? I wouldn’t have the nerve, but I’m pretty sure that you do.’

‘An enticing option, but that wouldn’t get me the vineyard.’

‘Surely there are other vineyards?’

‘True. But not that many are for sale—plus, the Duque de Aiza made it more than clear that he would consider selling to the right sort of person.’ With the right sort of blood. The supreme irony had nearly made him laugh out loud. ‘Let’s say this is the optimum vineyard, and therefore I am prepared to go the extra mile to get it.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ The scrape of her chair on the terracotta mosaic indicated that as far as she was concerned this lunch was over.

‘Wait. You haven’t even heard what I want you to do. Or what the salary is.’

Her blue eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not for sale, Rafael, and neither is my title.’

‘Do you agree with Don Carlos?’

For a second he thought she would fling the wine at him.

‘Of course I don’t. In fact I can’t stand the man.’

‘So you know him?’

‘My family knows him. I went to his grandson’s wedding a year or two back. Alvaro.’

Rafael froze—it took every ounce of his iron control to keep his face neutral, to keep the questions from spewing forth. Cora had met Alvaro—his half-brother—and Juanita his half-sister. She might have spoken with Ramon. His father. No—the heir to a Spanish dukedom wasn’t his father in any way that counted. The man had abandoned him without mercy.

He blinked, suddenly aware of Cora’s eyes on him, a look of assessment in their turquoise depths.

Cool it, Rafael. Focus on Cora.

‘So if you can’t stand him why won’t you help me? Help the Martinez-Caversham venture? This vineyard is important.’

‘I really don’t see what I could do even if I wanted to help. Truly, he won’t listen to me.’

Rafael inhaled deeply and said the words he had never in his wildest dreams thought he would utter. ‘I want you to marry me.’

CHAPTER FOUR

MARRY RAFAEL? THE IDEA was so ludicrous, so incongruous, so impossible that Cora could only stare at him, her brain unable to co-ordinate with her vocal cords or inform her feet to get her the heck out of there. Forget the Spanish mafia—Rafael Martinez was obviously nuts. Loop the loop. A few bricks, a bucket of cement and shedload of mortar short of a wall.

Then anger rushed in on a tide of outrage. ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ Or some kind of mad reality TV show in which billionaires humiliated the aristocracy.

‘Of course it isn’t a joke. I’d be up the creek without a paddle if you agreed.’

There was near amusement in the rich treacle of his voice.

‘There is no danger of that because of course I’m not going to agree. I mean... I—’ Curiosity broke through and surfaced through the haze of anger. ‘Why? Why would you even suggest something so insane?’

‘Because I think marrying you will change Don Carlos’s mind.’

‘I told you that I am not for sale. Nor is my title. End of.’

Finally her body caught up with events and she pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. Tried to ignore the stew of hurt that bubbled under the broth of rage. There was no need for hurt. Why should she care that Rafael Martinez was only after her title? But somehow the idea he would marry her for it made her feel....icky.

‘Wait.’

The word was a command.

‘Please.’

The second word was a concession that didn’t so much as make her pause.

‘The answer is no.’

‘I will pay you a substantial salary.’

Without hesitation he named an amount of money that boggled her mind. Shame trickled through her veins as the words resonated in her brain and flooded her with temptation. The figure of her debt flashed in neon colours—and the yoke of guilt relaxed its hold on her for a heartbeat. The salary he proposed would nearly wipe out the amount she owed her parents. Could be put towards the flood repairs on Derwent Manor. Then pride stiffened her spine. There was no universe in any parallel existence where this marriage could take place.

‘Still no. The whole idea is ludicrous.’

To say nothing of stupid. And yet Rafael Martinez was many things...unscrupulous, arrogant...but he wasn’t stupid.

‘Wrong. This idea is an opportunity. For both of us.’ He leant back and looked up at her, seemingly at ease with their positions. ‘If I marry you Don Carlos will see that I have changed my lifestyle. He will also, I think, be happy to sell his vineyard to Lady Cora Derwent’s husband. After all, the Derwent blood is as noble as his.’

Cora frowned at the note of bitterness in the honey of his voice. ‘You want a vineyard so much that you are willing to get married? Doesn’t that strike you as a little over the top?’

‘No. And I am not proposing we stay married. Once the knot is tied I will move full speed ahead to secure the deal.’

‘Won’t that look a little odd?’

‘Not if I handle it right. I don’t want to risk Don Carlos selling it to someone else. This would be a very temporary marriage of convenience. The whole charade should only last a month, tops. Hopefully way less.’

‘There would be nothing convenient about us being married.’ This she knew.

‘What about the money? Most people would agree that is a pretty convenient amount to have in the bank. Plus you’ll be able to enjoy a few weeks of luxury.’

Cora closed her eyes, grasped the back of the wooden chair and tried to fend off temptation. An image of her parents’ faces when she repaid them the worth of the Derwent diamonds seeped into her retina—surely that would win her a modicum of approval, a way back into the fold?

The price to pay: a temporary marriage. A few weeks, ‘tops’, with Rafael Martinez.

Opening her eyes, she regarded him, saw the incipient victory in his dark ironic gaze. ‘And where would you be whilst I lolled about in the hypothetical lap of luxury?’

Perhaps sarcasm would hide the fact that she was still standing there, a participant in a conversation she should have closed down long ago.

‘Lolling right alongside you. This marriage would have to look real. The world will have to believe that we were swept off our feet in a romantic storm.’

For reasons she did not want to look into a small shiver ran through her whole body at his words. Absurd. The need to hang on to reality was imperative.

‘As if anyone would believe that.’ Good. That had been exactly the right mix of scoffing and disdain.

One dark eyebrow rose. ‘Why wouldn’t they? It’s plausible enough—we met at Cavershams in the line of business and bam.’

The snort that escaped her lips might not have been ladylike, but it was way more ladylike than the words on the tip of her tongue. ‘Get real! You’ve admitted yourself that you don’t do romance—you do fun.’ With women so different from her it was laughable.

‘So you’re saying marriage can’t be fun?’

The question stopped her in her tracks. Her parents’ marriage was one of duty, not fun. Their commitment to the Derwent estate and the family name was unquestionable, and that was what their life revolved around. Fun wasn’t part of the programme.

Rafael’s lips curved up into a smile that turned all her thoughts into a fluffy white cotton ball. ‘I promise you as much fun as you like in our marriage.’

Irritation permeated the after-effects of the Martinez smile. How could he sit there as if the whole idea of a fake temporary marriage was commonplace? Was he flirting with her, mocking her, or just having a good old laugh at her expense?

‘No one in their right mind will believe the “romantic storm” theory.’

‘Everyone will believe it. I promise.’

And suddenly the heat that surrounded her was nothing to do with the Spanish sun. Because Rafael rose, stepped around the table to within touching distance, where he halted.

‘The world will believe that I have eyes only for my wife. That I am head over heels in love.’

The words were like molten chocolate—the expensive type...the type that tempted you to believe you could eat it by the bucketful and it would be positively good for you.

No. Chocolate—expensive or otherwise—was only good for you in moderation, and it seemed clear that this man didn’t do moderation. Whereas ‘Moderate’ was Cora’s middle name.

‘It won’t work.’

Thud, thud, thud. Any minute now her heart would leave her ribcage as he took another infinitesimal step towards her, his eyes resting on her face with a look so intense it took all her backbone to stay upright and not ooze into a puddle at his feet.

‘Care to bet?’ he drawled.

Right that second it was hard to care about anything but his proximity, the citrus clean scent of him, the sheer beauty of his lips and the look in his eyes as they darkened to jet-black pools of desire. Her lips parted and she released the back of the chair to bring her hand upwards—and then reality, mortification and the prospect of humiliation had her stepping backwards.

What was she thinking? Acting. The man is acting, Cora.

Something flashed across his face and was gone. ‘We can pull this off.’

His words were a shade jerky and Cora forced her breathing to normal levels, prayed he couldn’t sense the accelerated rate of her pulse.

‘Your choice. Marry me...help me persuade Don Carlos it’s a real union. In return you get a shedload of cash’

Cora tried to think. ‘Then what happens? A few weeks after a massive high-profile wedding we announce our divorce?’

‘Yup. We can make it an amicable split—say that we rushed into marriage and realised we weren’t compatible. There will probably be a tabloid furore, but they usually die down.’

The idea made her insides curl in anticipated humiliation. As if anyone would believe the incompatibility story—the world would think that she hadn’t measured up, hadn’t been able to hold the attention of a man like Rafael Martinez. She would be able to add ‘failed wife’ to the résumé that already charted her failure as a daughter.

His dark eyes surveyed her with a hint of impatience and she shrugged. ‘My tabloid experience is nil, so I’ll bow to your better knowledge.’ For that fee she could withstand a few days of paparazzi attention—the pay-off in parental approval would be worth it.

‘Good. After that you could afford a career break, but if you’d rather return to work I’m sure the Caversham-Martinez venture could use an administrator when it launches.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Because if all went to plan she would win back her job at Derwent Manor.

‘Or, if you preferred, I’m equally sure Ethan will take you back.’

Her ahead awhirl with the surrealness of the situation, Cora tried to think. ‘Hold on. Ethan. I can’t leave Ethan and Ruby in the lurch. They took a risk taking me on in the first place, and...and they don’t even know I’m Lady Cora Derwent... He and Ruby think I am plain Cora Brookes.’

‘Once Ethan and Ruby are back we can explain our engagement and tell them who you really are. You can finish up this week in Cornwall and after that Ethan was going to send you on secondment elsewhere anyway. So you aren’t deserting the Caversham ship. They’ll understand. After all, their courtship was pretty whirlwind itself.’

‘Can’t we tell them the truth?’

‘No.’ Some reporter might get hold of them and Ruby couldn’t lie her way out of a paper bag. ‘Plus, the fewer people to know the truth the better.’

‘OK.’

‘So, any more questions?’

‘What if it doesn’t work? What if Don Carlos still won’t sell you the vineyard?’

‘You still get your money.’

As her thoughts seethed and whirled she studied his expression, the tension to his jaw, the haunted look in the dark depths of his eyes that spoke of a fierce need. This meant a lot more to Rafael than a mere business deal. Because no matter how reasonably he was spinning this idea—so much so that for a moment Cora had been caught up in the threads of the tale—it did not make sense.

‘This is about more than a vineyard.’

‘This is all about the vineyard. But my motivations are irrelevant—I am offering you a job, an opportunity. The question is, do you want it?’

For a long moment she stared at him, felt the sun soak her skin with warmth, and somewhere deep down inside her soul a remnant of the old Cora surfaced—the impulsive Cora, who still believed it was possible to even out the playing field with her siblings and win some love from her parents.

‘Yes,’ she said, and pulled out the chair, her tummy tumbling with a flotilla of acrobatic butterflies.

* * *

Tension seeped from Rafael’s shoulders as victory coursed through his veins. The plan had paid off. Every woman had a price, after all, and he’d known money was Cora’s Achilles’ heel.

He pushed aside the small frisson of doubt. Turned out Cora was no different from those shallow women she’d dissed—cash and the promise of some luxurious living had been too much for her principles. Not that he would be fool enough to point that out. Yes, she had sat down, but she was still perched on the edge of the wooden slatted seat as if poised for flight.

She chewed her lip, and there came another wave of doubt as his gaze snagged on that luscious bow. Again. Only minutes before the desire to kiss her, really kiss her, had nigh on overwhelmed him. Rafael blinked. It had been an aberration brought on by adrenalin, by the knowledge that he was on the brink of success. Nothing to do with Cora and her absurdly kissable lips at all.

Focus.

He topped up her wine and lifted his own glass. ‘To us,’ he declared.

There was a moment of hesitation before she raised her glass and then replaced it on the table with a thunk.

‘So how will this work? Exactly?’

‘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.