Postcards From Madrid. Lynne GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
for him to acknowledge her arrival with a look, a smile, the merest touch, but nothing happened. He had phoned her several times over the past three weeks but the calls had been brief and businesslike. As the nuptial mass began she listened carefully to every word. Each of them made their responses, her voice uneven with a sense of the gravity of the occasion, his cool and firm. He slid a gold ring on her finger without betraying a hint of proper masculine hesitance.
Only with the greatest difficulty was Antonio restraining his ire. The paparazzi were encamped outside. The discreet event he had had organised had been blown wide open. His family avoided publicity like the plague. Who had talked? One of his own staff? A hotel employee? Someone attached to the church? Or his bride? He had expected Sophie to show up in a very frilly over-the-top long white dress complete with veil. In a funny sort of way that he was reluctant to analyse, he had been rather looking forward to seeing her in a wedding gown. Instead she was sporting the most extraordinarily inappropriate apparel. Her outrageously floral dress was flashy enough to stop rush-hour traffic. He studied her ridiculously tiny perky hat. He knew he was being punished for not giving her the advice she had asked for: it was his own fault.
‘Stop right there…’ Norah instructed, holding up her camera as the bride and groom turned away from the altar.
Antonio looked down into Sophie’s misty green eyes fringed by curling dark lashes. Her soft pink mouth was the same shade as the hat and it was amazing how well that particular colour became her, Antonio reflected grudgingly.
‘Sorry about this…but there’s times when you have to bite the bullet and just do what you have to do,’ Sophie whispered apologetically, gripping hold of his arms to stretch herself up to him. ‘Act like you’re going to kiss me…this one’s for the album I’m going to make for Lydia.’
Antonio closed long, lean fingers into the toffee-coloured curls tumbling down her spine, tugged her head back and brought his hungry mouth down hard on hers. In shock, she jerked against him and gasped as if she were being ravished. Even as pure lust leapt through him he wanted to laugh. It was time she accepted that he was a Rocha and like every Rocha right back to the sixteenth century: he didn’t take orders; he handed them out.
His tongue delved deep in a bold invasion. A piercing, unbearable sweetness shot through Sophie followed by a fierce wave of heat. Dizzy, she locked her arms round his neck to stay upright, and as he released her tingling lips she struggled to catch her breath against his shoulder. He set her back from him in the thrumming silence. Norah was staring wide-eyed. Crimson with embarrassment, Sophie stared into space, her mind blanked out by shock at her own wanton behaviour.
Impervious to that kind of discomfiture, Antonio introduced her very briefly to the lawyer, who, having acted as their second witness, was already making his departure. The official photographer, whose services had been arranged, awaited them in the church porch. At Antonio’s request he produced his driving licence as proof of his identity.
‘I’m sorry but the presence of the journalists outside means that a photographic session will not be possible,’ Antonio imparted gravely. ‘That will not, of course, make any difference to your remuneration.’
Emerging from her fog of self-loathing over that kiss, Sophie exclaimed, ‘But you can’t cancel the photographs!’
‘I can do whatever I like, mi rica.’ His quiet tone audible only to her ears, Antonio gazed down at her with grim dark eyes. ‘If you’re responsible for that rabble of reporters out there, you’re likely to be very disappointed by the coverage they gain of our wedding. We’re leaving now by the rear exit.’
‘Those people are newspaper reporters?’ Sophie was bewildered by his speech. ‘Why are you suggesting that I might have something to do with them being here?’
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ Antonio informed her at a pitch that would have frozen volcanic lava in its tracks.
Sophie thought that perhaps she had misunderstood what he had said and returned to her main source of concern. ‘You can’t just cancel the photos!’
‘Might I suggest,’ the photographer dared in a deferential murmur, ‘That a change of location would suffice?’
Considerably more interested in heading direct to the airport and his flight home to Spain and normality, Antonio set his even white teeth together at that unwelcome suggestion.
‘Look,’ Sophie said urgently, ‘Let me go out and tell those reporters to get lost!’
Seriously taken aback by that suggestion, Antonio studied his bride. She might be five feet nothing in height, but there was a definite suggestion of belligerence in her irate stance. She was confrontational and naïve. He had a disturbing image of the headlines that would erupt if his wife waded in to exchange insults with a posse of paparazzi. It began to dawn on him for the first time that being married to Sophie might not be the equivalent of a walk in the park. It was a sobering reflection for a male who had intended to safeguard his freedom by taking a wife.
‘You can’t let them ruin the day,’ Sophie protested at his elbow. ‘That would be like giving way to blackmail.’
Antonio stifled a derisive desire to admit that all of a sudden he knew exactly how that felt. ‘We’ll use the grounds of the hotel.’
His reward for that peace-keeping concession was immediate and startling. Sophie flung both arms round him and gave him an enthusiastic hug. ‘Thanks. Thanks! You won’t regret it.’
Before the bridal couple left the building, however, Norah Moore also insisted on taking her leave of them. ‘No, I’m not coming one step further to play goose-berry,’ she responded wryly when Sophie took her off to one side in an effort to persuade her to accompany them to the hotel. ‘You should just have said that you and Antonio…well, that kiss said it all for you, didn’t it? I didn’t know where to look!’
Reminded of what an exhibition she had made of herself, Sophie squirmed in shame and chagrin. ‘It wasn’t like you think.’
‘It was just as it should be. Your getting married will be good for my Matt too,’ the older woman informed her bluntly. ‘He’s been trailing after you like a lovelorn puppy, but now he’ll have to get over you.’
In the limo on the way to the hotel, Sophie turned to Antonio and said, ‘Why did you suggest that I might be responsible for all those journalists turning up at the church?’
Stunning dark eyes unflinching, he looked levelly back at her. ‘Someone tipped them off.’
‘Not me…for goodness’ sake, I didn’t even know the newspapers would be interested in what you get up to!’
Antonio said nothing.
Her temper roused, Sophie watched him from below her lashes. ‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’
‘If I misjudged you, I’m sorry—’
‘If?’ Sophie was outraged by the wording he had chosen to use.
‘I don’t yet know who’s responsible for alerting the paparazzi,’ Antonio countered silkily, as immoveable as solid rock in his resolve not to yield the point.
‘Well, it wasn’t me and we’re not going to have a very friendly relationship if you keep on accusing me of things I didn’t do!’ Sophie warned him in high dudgeon.
‘Who said we have to be friendly?’ Antonio drawled with deliberate provocation, lounging fluidly back in his corner of the limousine to enjoy the entertainment. He liked watching her vibrate with emotion, for that intense capacity for feeling was as rare in his experience as a genuine Stradivarius violin.
‘But you just married me!’ Sophie condemned furiously.
‘Since when did matrimony and friendship go hand in hand?’ Having made that statement to keep her simmering, Antonio surveyed her from below lush black lashes. Once again his analytical mind was engaged in attempting to dissect the mystery of her pulling power. It wasn’t just her passion. Inexplicably