Spring Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       PROLOGUE

      SHE was not the sort of woman Antonio Rodrigo Cordoba del Rey found attractive or even likable, but that hadn’t kept him from watching her for the past hour.

      Crazy, Antonio thought with a little frown. What was there to look at, when you came down to it?

      She was tall and willowy—far too slender for his taste, though the high thrust of her breasts and the curve of her bottom beneath the little black silk dress she wore were, he had to admit, interesting.

      It couldn’t have been her coloring, though it was striking. His preference was for blue-eyed blondes with skin the color of fresh cream. But this woman had skin the sun had buffed to a golden hue and eyes so gray they were almost silver. Her hair was short and dark auburn, and when she tilted her head, it framed her heart-shaped face with the color of autumn leaves.

      There was even a way about her that set his teeth on edge. The tilt of her chin, the too-polite smile that was pasted to her lips…Antonio’s gaze narrowed. He knew the type. Underneath the soft gold skin and the hair that glowed with red and amber fire lived an ice princess, filled with scorn and cool hauteur.

      She reminded him of those museum sculptures that had little signs on them warning an unworthy public that they could look but not touch.

      …she reminded him of a time in his life he had thought he had forgotten.

      Antonio scowled and turned his attention to the woman’s escort. It was obvious he thought himself one of the lucky ones who would eventually be permitted to touch. It was there for the world to see in the way he’d danced attendance on her, first throughout the nonsensical cocktail party that had preceded dinner and then through the meal itself, when she’d made no attempt at conversation and merely toyed with the chicken and mushrooms on her plate.

      It was not good food, of course. What did the North Americans call such banquet fare? Rubber chicken, wasn’t that it? But good manners demanded one make a pretence at eating it. The woman had not bothered making a pretense of anything. She was bored with the charity event, bored with her table companions, bored with the man who’d brought her—and she didn’t give a damn who knew it.

      Not that her attitude was a surprise. Women of her class were often like that, especially the ones who knew how beautiful and desirable they were. Here I am, their cool faces told the world, and aren’t you fortunate? Just don’t expect me to feel the same, or even to pretend that I do ..

      “Antonio?”

      He watched as the woman’s escort leaned toward her, said something, and smiled. It was a nervous smile; Antonio could see that even at this distance. Surely, she could see it, too, could sense that the man needed some little reassurance. A smile in return, or a word.

      She offered, instead, a shrug of her bare, elegant shoulders and an almost imperceptible pout of that soft, cinnamon-colored mouth.

      “Antonio? I’m talking to you.”

      What a fool the man was! Why was he hovering beside her like a pet poodle waiting for a treat? Why didn’t he tell her to stop treating him like a dog, or get up and walk out?

      There was a simple way to put a woman like her in her