Postcards From Madrid: Married by Arrangement / Valdez's Bartered Bride / The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride. Chantelle ShawЧитать онлайн книгу.
her tough front. She looked like a tiny teenager striving to stand up to a bully. The baby, evidently picking up on her aunt’s distress, was sobbing into Sophie’s slight shoulder.
‘It is not a matter of throwing you out of her life…This is the language of emotion, not of intellect,’ Antonio censured in exasperation.
Sophie dragged in a deep, tremulous breath and treated him to a look of fierce condemnation. ‘I’m not ashamed of that…as far as I’m concerned love would win over money every time—’
‘According to what I understand, you’ve never had any money, so are scarcely qualified to make such a sweeping statement—’
‘I love her…you don’t!’ Sophie launched at him.
‘If you love her why don’t you restrain your temper and stop scaring her?’ Antonio asked with lethal effect.
Sophie gave him an anguished look and turned away, soothing the anxious child in her arms.
Antonio decided that it had been a definite mistake to try to cut to the baseline as if he were dealing with a business issue. There was nothing businesslike about Sophie. Nothing practical, nothing sensible, nothing controlled. In fact he had never seen a woman betray that amount of emotion and the freedom with which she showed it held an almost indecent fascination for him. She was a powder keg of passionate feeling. Sexual curiosity threatened to seize him and he fought it off, angry with her, angry with himself. But even anger could not make him unaware of a very powerful urge to just grab her up and flatten her to the nearest bed. Scarcely an appropriate response to her distress, he acknowledged. He despised the primitive reactions she had always stirred in him.
‘I want you to think over what I’ve said,’ Antonio continued, deciding that attempting further discussion in the current atmosphere would be unprofitable. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning at eleven. If you need to talk to me before then, you can reach me at this hotel.’ He passed her a card. ‘Tell me where you live.’
‘In the blue van at the far end…the one parked right by the field,’ Sophie told him chokily.
‘I have no desire to sound like an actor in a bad movie but I can improve your life as well as Lydia’s. You don’t need to live at this level.’
‘Oddly enough, I’ve never met any baby thieves living like this, only decent people who don’t think money and social status is the be-all and end-all of life!’ Sophie tossed back accusingly.
Antonio decided to prove his maturity by not responding to that taunt. ‘I think it would be less upsetting for the baby if she was…resting when I call tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to think about how much Lydia will be upset if I suddenly vanish out of her life,’ Sophie retorted thickly.
Antonio was sufficiently impressed by that warning to glance at the baby. He could not evade the suspicion that his brother’s child had inherited Sophie’s overly emotional temperament and was more sensitive than most. He had only lifted the child and it had gone off like a burglar alarm on hyper alert. For a split second he imagined carrying the baby away with both Sophie and the baby screaming and sobbing at high volume and he barely managed to repress a very masculine shudder.
Discovering a depth of imagination that he had not known he possessed, he even considered the risk of tabloid headlines and interference. Baby thief. No, he would be careful to do nothing likely to rouse such hysterical publicity. He was, he reminded himself, a highly intelligent and shrewd businessman. He was renowned for his logic and subtlety and his willingness to consider fresh and innovative approaches to find workable solutions. He was confident that he would find a way to persuade Sophie to accept the inevitable with good grace.
‘You don’t care about how I feel or how she feels, do you?’ Sophie accused as she thrust wide the front door, descended the steps and proceeded to buckle Sophie into her buggy.
‘I care enough to want to ensure that my niece does not grow up with your disadvantages.’
Shooting him a shocked glance from pain-filled green eyes, Sophie lifted her head high. ‘Isn’t it strange that even with all your advantages—your money and title and education and success—you are a ruthless bastard with no consideration for anyone’s feelings but your own?’
Hot temper unleashing, Antonio surveyed her with thickly lashed eyes that shimmered a biting gold. ‘But then I’m not a hypocrite. I know that you’re not the fragile little flower that you look, querida. You’re the same sleazy little liar who told me she was ill and then went out to get drunk and shag some loser on the beach,’ he reminded her with icy derision. ‘What you could never grasp about a guy like me is my good manners.’
‘Excuse me? You? Good manners?’ Sophie slung back at him in a hissing undertone selected to bypass Lydia’s hearing.
‘You said you were unwell. Naturally I went to see you to offer you my assistance.’
‘Nah…that wasn’t good manners, Antonio. You didn’t trust me, so you called round to check up on me and you couldn’t wait to jump to the wrong conclusions about me!’ Sophie hurled with the bitterness she had never managed to shake off. ‘Well, for your information, I told a polite lie to avoid embarrassing you with the truth of why I couldn’t see you that night. And by the way, that loser you refer to was Terry, the son of my father’s girlfriend, and he might have been very tall for his age but he was only fourteen years old! Not my lover, not my anything, just a scared kid worried sick about his mum!’
Having delivered that final rebuttal with spirit, Sophie stalked down the path with the buggy. To Antonio’s eyes, she seemed to dance as she moved. Her golden corkscrew curls bounced and tumbled round her shoulders and down her narrow back. The worn fabric of her jeans accentuated the suggestion of a pert swing to her small, heart-shaped derrière. She did not have much of any particular attribute, but what she did have had an explosive effect on his libido. He was not proud of his base instincts. Willing his inappropriate arousal to hell and back, Antonio breathed in very slow and deep.
But he still wanted to haul her back and voice his scorn for that foolish story that only an intellectually challenged male would swallow. He wanted to ask her where she got off speaking to him in that impertinent tone. He wanted her to listen to his every word when he spoke to her. He wanted to teach her respect. He wanted to drag her into his arms and demonstrate sexual skills that he had never practised on a beach…at least, not a public one. Being who he was, however, and proud of his tough self-discipline, he chose instead to watch her walk away. He could no longer ignore the obvious: shameful though it was, it could only be her sluttish qualities that attracted him.
ANTONIO was planning to take Lydia from her and bring her up in Spain, Sophie reflected in agonised panic. How dared he start telling her how the baby that she loved should be brought up?
Frantically determined to keep herself busy so that she did not have time to fret, Sophie fed Lydia and put her to bed. She tidied up the static caravan that had been her home for over three years. She would make an early start tomorrow to finish that mobile home. She opened the box of cardigans the mail order firm had sent her to be embroidered and sat down to begin work on the intricate flowers.
How was she supposed to fight Antonio? A real live aristocrat? Was her lifestyle really one of appalling poverty? They had a secure roof over their heads and enough to eat. Admittedly the mobile home could be rather cold in winter and their clothes were rarely new, but Lydia was a happy, thriving child. How was she supposed to demand equal rights over her niece when Antonio could offer so much more in every material way?
Norah Moore called in at nine that evening. As soon as the older woman realised that Antonio was returning the next day, she offered to take care of Lydia while he was there. ‘That way you’ll be able to talk in peace. Where did you say this Antonio was staying?’
‘I