The Spaniard's Surprise Love-Child / A Bride Fit For A Prince?

Gwen felt dizzy as the image from the past was overlaid by one of the man standing on the stage, his words just sounds that had a physical effect on her, sending successive shivers over the surface of her suddenly too warm skin.

She felt as though everyone must see what was happening, that they were all staring at her, but crazily they were completely oblivious. Now they were laughing, an appreciative ripple of sound that wafted like a breeze through the vaulted room—Rio was being amusing, entertaining. She knew full well, though, that he could get a lot more entertaining than this, especially when there was skin-to-skin contact involved.

Jaw clenched, lips compressed over the cry trying to escape her lips, she closed her eyes and thought, Do not go there, Gwen… But too late—she was already remembering that first shock of feeling skin-to-skin contact after he had unfastened her bra for the first time and, holding her eyes, had pulled her hard against his chest…

The myriad impressions made her dizzy: the warmth of his skin, the clean salty tang she’d breathed in, the tingling of intense pleasure as her hardened nipples pressed into the barrier of his naked, muscled chest.

His eyes didn’t leave hers for one moment, the hot desire burning in them making her limbs go boneless, silencing the voice telling her she needed to explain to him that she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. It had seemed a matter of simple politeness only a few minutes ago, but now she found herself thinking in a hazy way what did it actually matter…?

Why shouldn’t her embarrassing inexperience remain on a need-to-know basis? After all, he’d not twigged yet so why should it matter? She could suddenly see all the advantages of sleeping with a stranger: you didn’t owe them anything, including explanations… Ironic, really, when this was precisely what he pointed out to her a few days later in a frigid voice filled with icy contempt she would never, ever forget…even though she had tried.

‘I owe you nothing, certainly not explanations. We had sex; we are not in a relationship.’

The brutal words carried the impact of a sledgehammer, each individual scornful syllable adding fresh layers of hurt as she clutched his shirt around her. Unable to match his marvellous unselfconscious attitude to nudity, she had pulled it on to walk to the bathroom, and it retained the scent of his skin but it didn’t give her a warm feeling of intimacy; she felt mortified and stupid and very, very cold.

She lifted her chin, struggling to salvage a tiny shred of pride. ‘I… I didn’t think we were.’ It wasn’t totally a lie; she knew that a few nights of passion did not add up to a relationship. It nearly hadn’t even made it this far after he’d found out he was her first lover and hadn’t exactly been thrilled about it, and he’d been quite clear then that this was not the start of anything; it was just casual fun he was offering.

Pride and the determination not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she had just begun to believe that they’d developed a deeper connection made her stand her ground rather than run away. She felt stupid even imagining for a moment that when he’d told her she was the best sex he’d ever had, it meant he thought she was different and what they had was worth more than a quick fling. It was easy to see now that it had all been wishful thinking on her part.

Maybe he’d known anyway because in case she’d missed the point he drove it home with brutal honesty.

‘We are not exclusive, you and I. You do not have the right to interrogate me.’

The chill in his eyes, the hauteur in his body language, the expressive curl of his lip did not require the addition of the snap of his fingers to tell her she was being dismissed, not just from his bed or this room, but from his life.

‘Who I sleep with…and, let me tell you, it is never knowingly anyone who would rifle through my private correspondence…is none of your concern.’

She tried to defend herself, tell him that wasn’t what she’d been doing, she really did, but she failed. Basically, because the bottom line was that it was true she had read his letter, but not intentionally. She’d picked up the incriminating piece of paper off the floor along with the pile of other correspondence that had landed on the carpet when she had caught it with her elbow. She was unable to replicate the precision of the neat stack but, tongue caught between her teeth, she had been making an effort to do so when the letterhead had caught her eye. She had scanned a sentence before she had realised what she was doing and…she really should have stopped; that was why she knew the guilt had been shining in her eyes when he’d caught her in the act.

She had considered pretending she hadn’t read it, but it would have looked foolish.

As it turned out that wasn’t even an option as the awkward words just blurted out of her mouth in the face of his accusatory glare.

‘I only said, “So you have a child…” I didn’t know, that’s all. Are you and the mother together?’ She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘You’re not…not married, are you?’

He arched a brow. ‘Would it have mattered to you if I were?’

She wanted to slap him then, and she had never struck anyone in her life, she couldn’t even crush a spider, but it took all her control to keep her clenched hand at her side, refusing to rise to the insulting provocation.

‘What is his name?’ There was no reason he shouldn’t have a child, several children, in fact, and no reason either that he should have mentioned it to her…because he had made it quite clear that what they were enjoying had a shelf life. She was the one who had decided something had changed—and now it had.

He was the sort of man whose response to the news that he was a father was to demand a DNA test; he was the sort of man who, when asked his son’s name by her, replied that he couldn’t remember! The irony was that she’d learnt more in the last twenty seconds about this man than she had in three whole days…or, rather, nights.

He arched a dark brow and regarded her with frozen distaste. She had caught glimpses of the hauteur before but had never been on the blighting, chilly receiving end of it.

‘What business is it of yours if I have a child?’ His voice carried no expression but it didn’t need to as his eyes said it all.

‘None at all,’ she agreed as the paper in her fingers that outlined in black and white a DNA match fluttered to the floor. ‘So it confirms you’re a father, so what? It takes more than a piece of paper to become one of those, doesn’t it? Paternity has very little to do with being a father—that’s all about a lifetime commitment, not just donating your genes—so I really hope this kid has someone else in his life who doesn’t need proof that they’re related to him, and someone who actually remembers his name.’

With a sneer of contempt that was aimed as much at herself as at him, she gathered her dignity around her as she removed his shirt and, with a grimace of distaste, she dropped it on the floor before she walked away with her head held high.

CHAPTER TWO

RIO WAITED FOR a polite ripple of laughter to die down before he moved on. His mother, who he was standing in for, could do this sort of thing in her sleep and she’d been genuinely upset that she couldn’t attend today, which proved, he supposed, that there were some people who enjoyed their schooldays and wanted to be reminded of them. His glance slid over the young shiny faces turned to him.

Were there any lonely kids out there who cried themselves to sleep when the lights went out? Not that he’d been traumatised by being sent off at a ridiculously young age to an English boarding school, just stifled, perhaps.

The fact that he and his twin brother, Roman, were each other’s support group meant he’d never suffered the sort of isolation that had afflicted some of the other children, and there had been enough foreign students at his school to make his own accent nothing to set him apart. Despite the fact he had survived the experience relatively unscathed, sending his children to boarding school was a tradition that he intended to break, not because he was rebelling against tradition, but because he didn’t intend to have children at all.

He felt the phone in his pocket vibrate and resisted the temptation to cut the obligatory amusing anecdote short. Nothing in his delivery would make his audience suspect he had moved onto autopilot and was working out how soon he would be able to make his exit. Instead of his speech, his thoughts were on the rescue package he was putting into place for a friend. Jake was so grateful to him, which made him feel guilty. It hadn’t required much effort on his part to save Jake—the name Bardales inspired confidence and made those banks who didn’t appreciate that his friend was a techno genius a lot more likely to extend credit.

‘Again, thank you, Mr Jarvis, for asking me here to present the Cavendish Prize in my mother’s stead.’ Rio turned to look at the headmaster before he could launch into another speech. ‘My mother sends her apologies for being unable to be present herself today, as this school still holds such a special place in her heart. However, she is here in spirit and I believe her presence is still marked on several desks where she left a permanent impression. So without further ado…’ He took the crystal cup from the female teacher who held it out. ‘I present this award to this year’s recipient of the Cavendish Prize, Clarice Walker.’

Smiling, he watched a tall girl who was blushing as brightly as her auburn curls walk from the back of the room towards the stage, her progress accompanied by clapping.

He handed the girl the crystal goblet engraved with her name and the envelope that contained a more practical reward in the form of a cheque.

‘Congratulations, Clarice. My mother is looking forward to meeting you in the near future when she is more mobile.’

In the meantime, his normally very active parent was being a predictably pretty impatient patient, frustrated by the plaster cast that was her souvenir from a recent skiing trip.

He took a step back and joined in the clapping as the youngster took her place in front of the microphone. ‘Thank you, Mr Bardales. I do hope your mother is better very soon.’

His mother was fond of saying that being involved with young people kept her young, but being in this room filled with shiny idealism and even shinier faces made him feel old and not a little nostalgic for a touch of youthful rebellion—if there were any mavericks in the room, they were hiding it well.

It was hard to disguise his inner cynicism as he scanned the sea of faces staring up at the stage listening to the earnest speaker, wondering how long it would be before the real world would kill off all this youthful enthusiasm.

His thought stream was interrupted when the room suddenly erupted into sniggers at what he could only assume was an ‘in joke’ from Clarice. Rio fought an eye-roll, recognising with a jolt that he was displaying all the characteristics of a grumpy old man at only thirty-one—it did not bode well for the future.

Rio let his eyelids droop, the silky mesh of his lashes hiding the gleam of cynicism shining in the dark depths. Perhaps, he mused, I need a day off… Or a night in with someone smart and beautiful who had no interest in what made him tick, but just wanted to use this body that was actually in better condition than he deserved, considering the schedule that had left very little time for the punishing exercise regime he had once enjoyed.

His mobile mouth curled into a smile that flattened out as a movement in the periphery of his vision interrupted the pleasant fantasy before he had even begun to weave it, dragging his wandering attention to the rows of children sitting nearest the stage.

Finally a bit of rebellion! He didn’t fight off his grin as he watched one of the tiny occupants of the low bench just in front of the stage making a determined bid for freedom.

Rio silently willed him on, but inevitably he didn’t get far. The culprit was captured by someone who displayed a great deal of agility and also a really good bottom…actually, it was truly excellent, he decided, studying the curves outlined by conservative trousers that were wide-legged but pulled tight across her bottom as she stretched. The tall, leggy owner of the rich chestnut hair and excellent bottom released her hold on the kid’s arm, bending a little lower to say something that involved a wag of her finger, and, although he dragged his feet, the sulky little boy retook his seat.

He was attempting to pull his attention back to the proceedings on stage when the woman straightened up, one hand smoothing her glorious hair, the other smoothing the fabric of her trousers over long thighs. He was on the point of looking away when she lifted her head and they made eye contact.

The connection lasted seconds before she turned away, head bent to the child, but it only took a fraction of that time for his self-possession to fragment into a million pieces as recognition shuddered through him with the force of a sledgehammer blow that continued to send aftershocks throughout his body. He lowered his eyelids to shield his eyes as he nodded, mainly because everyone else was doing it in response to something the headmaster was saying.

Confusion was not normally part of Rio’s mindset, as confusion required an uncertainty, a hesitancy, an inability to cut through all the nonsense. None of these were attitudes he possessed, and he was rarely confused, but as he stood there questioning the evidence of his own eyes Rio was extremely confused.

It was the sort of confusion that came from seeing a familiar face out of context. Rio struggled to kick start his brain and think past the sense-limiting testosterone rush.

What the hell was this high-flyer doing in a school for kids of moneyed parents, wearing an outfit that made it easy for her to bend over and grab the would-be escapee kid—wide-legged trousers cinched in with a belt at her slender waist and a shirt that might have been sexy had it not been buttoned up to the neck?

If he ever thought about Welsh Gwen, he pictured her in a New York setting, dressed with immaculate City gloss, in sharp-edged fashionable tailoring that made sure people took her seriously despite the extraordinary face that was always going to set her apart from the other ambitious women aiming to shatter any glass ceilings that got in their way. And good luck to them; he liked ambitious women, just not ones who thought they could control him.

If he ever thought about her…? Who are you kidding, Rio? he mocked himself as he fought to regain control of his stupefied brain. The dressed part was a lie too; he always pictured her completely naked and lying beneath him, her stunning legs wrapped tightly around him.

It had been nearly three years since he’d last seen her, and, despite the fact he was not someone to dwell on past mistakes, his subconscious had been known to drag him back to this particularly gorgeous mistake time and time again.

His eyes slid over her rear; he was thinking of the sleek curves under the clothes and an image flashed into his head of the last time he had seen her, walking away from him stark naked, anger and pride in her slow determined strides. He remembered every detail: her lovely long legs, her slender square shoulders, the graceful curve of her spine and feminine flare of her hips from a tiny waist. Thinking about the dimple just above her taut right buttock and the endless graceful legs sent a fresh flash of hormonal heat through his body.

He had spent considerable time and effort rationalising how their short liaison had left such a lasting raw impression on him, convincing himself that it was the element of unfinished business between them, thanks to that messy conclusion. All wasted energy as it turned out, as in reality he was unable to file the episode away in some dusty mental drawer marked ‘Over’ because he had never known a woman who had made him this hungry!

Though in his defence Gwen Meredith, with her melodic lilting voice, was not a woman a man forgot. Any man with blood in his veins could not be indifferent to the memory of the electricity that had been between them, the little whimpered purr low in her throat whenever he’d slid his tongue between her plump lips… He inhaled sharply. Dios, this raw hunger was something he had not experienced before or since her; in fact, the memory had made any encounters he’d had since Gwen seem pallid and boring in comparison. He frowned and pushed away the sense-paralysing fantasies before they took hold, focusing instead on the mystery of her presence—here, where there were no glass ceilings whatsoever to shatter.

How and why the hell had she transplanted herself from New York to the English shires and a private school in leafy grounds?

He’d always enjoyed the challenge of unravelling a mystery.

It wasn’t until Max tried to twist out of her grip that Gwen realised she still had hold of his hand.

‘Sit down, Max.’

Her voice was lacking its usual note of calm authority and sounded as though it were coming from a long way off. The fact the child had ignored her did not at that moment feel like something that Gwen could deal with, when standing up was taking all her focus, and her head was still spinning.

She pressed her hand to her stomach, and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t excuse the liquid heat of desire in the pit of her belly on ignorance, she was simply stupid and weak and…

Oh, stop bleating, Gwen, and deal with it!

A tiny sigh huffed between her clenched lips as her slender shoulders lowered and her chin lifted fractionally in response to the bracing inner voice that had zero tolerance for self-pity.

It was one thing to acknowledge you had a problem, it was another entirely to find yourself staring it straight in the face. It left little room to hide from the fact, mortifying and shameful but inescapable, that when it came to Rio her hormones were utterly indiscriminate, though in her defence there couldn’t be many men who projected the aura of raw sexuality that he did.

She wasted one wistful moment wishing for a time when she had sincerely believed that respect and liking were necessary for sexual attraction, when she had believed that being paralysed with lust by an obsidian-eyed stare had anything to do with a mystical connection. No, actually she wasn’t wistful at all; it was scary to think how beneath her sophisticated facade she had been so totally vulnerable. She had had nearly three years to think about it and she had come to the conclusion that it had all been about her belated sexual awakening allied with her inexperience and timing. Yes, most importantly, it was always about the timing.

She’d told herself it could have been anyone who had sparked her desire; it had just happened to be Rio Bardales who had provided the catalyst, and the idea he wasn’t special whatsoever had been oddly comforting.

Misplaced comfort, as it happened. The second she’d seen him again she’d felt sick to her stomach and scared stiff. He had recognised her too—she had seen it in his eyes. The question was would he be curious enough to seek her out, talk to her, try and find out why she was here instead of New York? She clamped her lips tight over a snort of self-disgust for the idiot she had been. The simple fact was, she might have known a whole lot about financial forecasting, but when it came to life and men she just hadn’t had a clue.

Maybe she was paranoid after all, thinking he’d recognised her? She bore little resemblance to the sophisticated career girl on the fast track to success, with her designer clothes and strong sense of self-belief that she could achieve whatever she set her mind to.

Right now her mind was set to getting the hell out of here, as soon as humanly possible.

‘Max needs the bathroom,’ she hissed in Ruth’s ear.

Ruth started to get to her feet but responded to the pressure of Gwen’s hand on her shoulder and subsided back down.

‘I don’t want—’

Gwen smiled determinedly at the little boy. ‘Yes, you do…’

Looking slightly bewildered but not at all unwilling to leave the boring assembly, he trotted along beside Gwen as she made her dash for the side door.

Once in the cool, emotional calm of the long corridor lined with photographs of sporting achievements down the years of pupils past and present, she realised that she had really not handled that very well at all. In fact, probably the only thing she’d achieved was to draw attention to herself.

‘Miss…?’

‘Oh, yes, right.’ Her heels tapping on the floor, she led the boy to the nearest cloakroom.

‘Off you go. I’ll be waiting.’

Her excuse for escape vanished inside the boys’ cloakroom and Gwen let out a sigh as she leaned back against the wall.

This isn’t the time to panic, she told herself.

If not now, when?

She ignored the unhelpful insertion of her subconscious and reminded herself that Ellie was safely in the crèche, where it was most unlikely their VIP would be taken—the redbrick addition to the listed building was only a selling point to members of staff. No, he’d be taking the well-trodden route beginning in the photo gallery of alumni who had gone on to success and fame or, in some cases, had just had it handed to them on a plate, taking in the new state-of-the-art science block and then heading back via the restored, historically listed gardens for refreshments in the headmaster’s office.

She was safe and so, more importantly, was Ellie.

But she didn’t dare relax; people didn’t when nightmares started happening for real. Hand to her mouth, she straightened up and began to pace up and down until the trembling weakness in her legs made her stop. She placed her hands on the window sill, staring out at the quadrangle with its borders of herbs she had supervised her class planting last week.

It was going to be fine but she had to prepare for the worst, and hope…really hope for the best. Her smooth brow furrowed. The most important question was, how bad could the worst be?

This was a situation she had never anticipated happening when she had made her decision not to make contact with him after she’d discovered she was pregnant. It hadn’t been an easy choice to make or one she had ever foreseen she would have to. Having children had been something she had seen for herself, but only in the distant future when she was in a secure, loving relationship and had got far enough up the career ladder to be able to afford to step off the escalator temporarily and then afford excellent child care afterwards.

She was very conscious of the argument that morally a man had a right to know when he’d fathered a child and a child had a right to know who her father was, but what if that father had no interest in being a father? He’d demanded DNA proof of paternity once, she thought scornfully, so why would this time have been any different?

During her pregnancy there had been moments when she knew she wouldn’t ever tell him and others when she had come so close to making contact. She’d even composed emails she’d never sent. They’d generally been along the lines of I thought you should know, but don’t worry, it’s fine that you’re not going to be involved in our child’s life, but any relevant family medical history would be appreciated.

She had see-sawed back and forth as she wrestled with the difficult choice throughout her pregnancy. There had been a deep sense of relief when she had finally made her decision while looking down with a sense of wonderment at her perfect newborn daughter, experiencing a swell of protective love she had never realised existed until that moment.