Panic was like a frantic caged bird beating against her breastbone as they drew closer and closer to the bedroom doors.

Rafael opened his door and turned and picked Isobel up in his arms so fast that her breath caught and she felt dizzy. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Carrying you over the threshold.’ And he did just that, before putting her back on her feet on the other side.

His bed loomed large and threatening through the door of the bedroom just feet away. She put up a hand, panic strangling her voice. ‘Wait—stop,’ she blurted out. ‘I just…I really want to go to bed alone. This has all happened so fast. I’ve barely seen you since we came back to Argentina. Two weeks ago I was living in Paris, yet here I am…It’s a lot to take in.’

Rafael just looked at her, his face unreadable in the shadows of the dark room. Eventually he let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. Tension vibrated off him in waves, enveloping Isobel.

‘I’m not in the habit of forcing unwilling women into my bed, Isobel, and I’ve no intention of starting now with my wife. Please, by all means, go to your own bed. But soon enough you’ll be welcoming me with open arms.’

Abby Green got hooked on Mills & Boon® romances while still in her teens, when she stumbled across one belonging to her grandmother, in the west of Ireland. After many years of reading them voraciously, she sat down one day and gave it a go herself. Happily, after a few failed attempts, Mills & Boon bought her first manuscript.

Abby works freelance in the film and TV industry, but thankfully the four a.m. starts and the stresses of dealing with recalcitrant actors are becoming more and more infrequent, leaving her more time to write!

She loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her through her website at www.abby-green.com She lives and works in Dublin.

Bride In A Gilded Cage

By

Abby Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This is especially for Sinead O’Connor (lovely friend), who brought me to my first tango lesson, which infected me with the tango bug.

This is also especially for Ann Murphy, who enriches my life and my tango world on a regular basis, with much thanks.

And, lastly but not leastly, this is for tangeuros and tangeuras everywhere!

CHAPTER ONE

DON RAFAEL ORTEGA ROMERO looked at the girl standing across the room from him. He knew she would be no different from her social peers in their privileged circles in Buenos Aires: rich and spoilt. She was paler than her contemporaries, but he guessed that came from her English father. Her mother, Maria Fuentes de la Roja, was Argentinian aristocracy through and through. His brain felt slightly fuzzy around the edges and he cursed himself mentally; one shot too many of whisky wasn’t going to help him out of this predicament, or the feeling of entrapment he’d lived with for years.

It was Isobel Miller’s eighteenth birthday tonight, and he’d finally come to meet her face to face. Because this was the woman…He amended that now with a twist in his gut. This was the girl he’d been promised to in marriage since he was eighteen years old.

‘You can’t make me marry you!’

Isobel’s chest rose up and down with her agitated breath. She’d never felt so threatened and intimidated in her life. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and she felt frumpy and awkward in the too tight and fussy satin dress her mother had made her wear for her birthday celebrations that night.

The man across the room just looked at her coolly and said, in a deep voice that sent a disturbing frisson of awareness through her, ‘I’d like to say that your reluctance is refreshing, but I doubt you really mean that—especially when you know you have no choice in the matter. When your grandfather sold your family’s estancia to my father, he rewrote your destiny.’ His mouth thinned into a bitter line. ‘They both got what they wanted—your grandfather got money from the sale with the assurance that the estancia would return to the family through you by walking away with a watertight marriage agreement.’

Isobel struggled to comprehend. ‘You mean…you mean that your father was played? But that’s—’

‘Hardly.’ He cut her off, his voice grim. ‘My father didn’t get played by anyone. He had a bone to pick with your grandfather and he was the only one willing to make an offer on a property too huge for many others to contemplate buying. But he made sure he got what he wanted in return—a dynastic marriage between his son—me—and someone from a suitably impressive lineage—you. Your family fortunes leave much to be desired at this time, but that is neither here nor there. Your family are still considered pillars of Buenos Aires society. Ten years ago, when the deal was done, your grandfather only received half of the estancia’s worth. My father, using his profession as a lawyer to best advantage, made sure that your family would only receive the other half on the day of our wedding—on your twenty-first birthday.’

Isobel reeled. She’d known about this since she’d turned sixteen, known that this day might come. But she’d pushed the prospect away, deep down where she wouldn’t have to think about it, hoping that if she didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t manifest itself. The thought of an arranged marriage to one of Buenos Aires’s scions of industry had been too barbaric to contemplate, and going to secondary school in England and living most of the time with her father’s family there had helped cushion her from the truth.

But the reality was manifesting itself in front of her right now, mocking her paltry hopes that it might never happen. Panic clawed upwards through Isobel’s throat, constricting it slightly. ‘It’s not my fault that my grandfather felt compelled to sell the estancia and broker such a deal.’

It was hard for her to cling onto any sense of reality right now. It had been hard enough to contemplate coming back to Buenos Aires after leaving school in England with the prospect of telling her parents she wanted to go to Europe to pursue her love for dancing. She’d always found the more conservative society of Buenos Aires constrictive—especially after spending time with her more relaxed and down-to-earth English relations, who would frequently debate around the dinner table. They hadn’t known about her arranged marriage, and she’d never mentioned it to them, mortified at how medieval it would sound.

Her years of relative freedom in England had given Isobel an objective view of her privileged upbringing, and she knew with a passion that she could never slot into the life of a pampered millionaire’s wife—which was what so many of her Buenos Aires girlfriends were doing, despite their own schooling in exclusive schools all around the world.

Don Rafael Ortega Romero gave a short sharp laugh now, making Isobel flinch minutely, and she felt her heart kick when she saw a flash of white teeth. ‘Are you really that naive, little Isobel Miller? Our whole privileged society is based on unions of strategy and convenience. Marriages have been arranged for many, many generations. I’ll give you that this particular one seems to be a little more arbitrary than most, but really it’s no different.’

He smiled, and it was devastatingly cynical. ‘If we all believed in true-love matches, the upper echelons would collapse into anarchy in the morning—and believe me, I’ve first-hand knowledge of that.’

In a slightly crumpled tuxedo, white shirt open and bow tie hanging rakishly undone, with a potent aura of raw sexuality surrounding him, the most elusive and sought-after bachelor in Buenos Aires was effortlessly living up to his arrogant and ruthless name. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his expertly tailored black trousers. Rafael Romero was a truly magnificent specimen of virile masculinity.

The threat of no escape and a forced marriage made Isobel’s chest constrict with fear, but she felt a flash of fire in her belly and said through gritted teeth, ‘I’m not little or naive, and it is positively medieval in this day and age to expect people to agree to an arranged marriage like this.’

Isobel had followed her parents into the hall earlier when he’d arrived. The front door had remained open momentarily, along with the back door of his chauffeur-driven car. Isobel had caught a glimpse of a long, sleek leg, a seductively high-heeled shoe, before his driver had shut the door on the view.

Looking at photos of this man in the press had done little to prepare Isobel for his effect on her face to face. His skin was a deep dark olive, his hair as black as midnight, and his eyes were like two pools of dark sin. His face was hard and uncompromising, with an almost cruel aspect that was softened only by the most decadently sensual mouth she’d ever seen on a man—even when it was set in a grim line. She shook herself inwardly. She’d looked him up once on the Internet, with a sick fascination, and had read that his business methods had been praised and lambasted in equal measures for being cutthroat.

He was a rich playboy tycoon, used to riding roughshod over people. She had to stand up to him—make him see that she wouldn’t just succumb like some sacrificial lamb.

He’d dismissed her fawning parents just moments before, with a curt, ‘Leave us. I’ve come here tonight to speak to your daughter alone.’

She hitched up her chin now. ‘Why did you come here tonight? I didn’t invite you.’

His mouth quirked, mocking her attempt at bravado. ‘You must have known that we’d meet sooner or later. Why do you think your parents insisted on your return from England?’

That panic surged back, gripping Isobel tight inside her belly. The fact that her mother hadn’t even warned her that he was coming made her go cold inside. She must have anticipated how Isobel might react.

‘We’re not getting married,’ she denied desperately.

He shrugged minutely, unconcerned. ‘Not right now, no. But in three years’ time we will become man and wife.’

The walls of her life were encroaching around Isobel. This was her worst fear: being marched into a life she had no control over, being forced into a marriage of convenience with someone she didn’t love, and growing cynical and bitter just like her own parents. Her vision of a future in Europe, far away from here, was quickly crumbling.

She could feel the colour draining from her face. ‘But I don’t want to marry you. I don’t even know you.’ She looked at him then, feeling a little wild. ‘I don’t want this life. And I don’t care if you believe me or not. I would be quite happy to walk away right now and never see you, or this house or Buenos Aires ever again.’

She gestured with a shaking hand, horror taking hold now, alongside her escalating panic at the thought of succumbing to a life with this cold man. ‘How can you be so blasé about this? Coming here to meet your future wife when you’re quite obviously in the middle of a date? Does that woman out there know that you’re in here discussing your marriage?’

He smiled again, a hard smile, and drawled, ‘A date? That’s cute. The date you refer to took place earlier this evening, but I can assure you that the woman in my car will be perfectly happy once she’s in my bed and underneath me. She doesn’t care about marriage any more than I do. She’s already been twice divorced.’

‘You’re disgusting.’ And yet his words had sent another deeply betraying quiver of awareness through her body.

Rafael shook his head and came closer to Isobel. She stood her ground.

‘No, not disgusting. Realistic. Two consenting adults coming together to enjoy one another without any of the barefaced lies most lovers indulge in.’ His eyes flicked Isobel up and down insultingly. ‘When you become an adult you might appreciate that a little better than you do now. Clearly you haven’t moved beyond slushy teen romances.’

Isobel had never felt so angry in all her life. Red spots danced before her eyes. ‘It’s a pity you never married the fiancée you were prepared to risk this union for. If you had, we wouldn’t be discussing this now. Was it your charming cynicism that sent her packing?’

Isobel saw his face darken at her provocation, but she didn’t care. She was referring to the fact that he’d ignored the legal agreement between their families to get engaged some eight years previously. Isobel had not known then of his significance in her future life, and she could remember looking at pictures of the gorgeous passionate couple, and thinking how impossibly romantic they had seemed.

But the engagement had died a quick death in a blaze of publicity. There hadn’t even been time for Isobel’s family’s legal team to use the potential marriage as an excuse to get the money owed them from the estancia. As soon as the engagement was off, the agreement stood again. And then, when she’d turned sixteen, her parents had broken the news to her.

When she’d researched him, she’d looked up all the old press reports of Rafael’s engagement to the stunningly beautiful Ana Perez, and for the first time, to her mortification, had realised that the reason for their break-up must have been her. Reports alluded to an arranged marriage but never revealed between whom. And since then his reputation with women had invariably been compared with how he dealt with his business concerns: merciless precision, no woman ever lasting longer than a few months.

‘No,’ Rafael said coldly now, more than a little stunned at how this girl before him was turning his preconceptions of her on their head. ‘It’s not a pity at all that my engagement didn’t work out. It was a blessing in disguise. When we marry it’ll be like any other business arrangement—which is exactly what a good marriage should be.’

He hadn’t expected the words to come out so easily, but declaring to this girl that they would marry felt right on a level that disturbed him. His voice became harsh. ‘There is no escaping this fate. I’ve learnt that, Isobel, and you will, too.’

Suddenly, in that instant, something undefinable solidified in Rafael’s chest. A sense of inevitability. He’d come here tonight to meet for himself his bride-to-be. He’d come with his mistress in tow, which he knew was reprehensible, but it had made him feel somehow protected.

The fact was, he’d blocked out the reality of this marriage successfully for years—until his solicitor, an old and trusted friend, had rung him earlier that day and said bluntly, ‘It’s Isobel Miller’s eighteenth birthday today. Don’t you think you should acknowledge the fact that her parents have been begging an audience for months now? This isn’t going to go away, Rafael. You need to deal with it, with her, and the fact that you’re not getting any younger. The longer you remain single, the more unstable you will appear in the eyes of your potential clients and colleagues.’

Rafael had muttered something rude, which his solicitor had wisely ignored. The minute he’d mentioned Isobel Miller something tight had formed in Rafael’s chest—that sense of a trap closing around him. He wasn’t used to being at the mercy of anything. And along with the feeling of entrapment had come the bitter reminder that his ex-fiancée had used that information to expose his one weakness for her own avaricious benefit.

His solicitor had cut in. ‘Do you want to jeopardise the estancia? I’ve warned you before, Rafael, that if you try and get out of this marriage you’ll embroil yourself in a huge and lengthy legal battle, and there’s every chance you could lose. One of our advantages in this situation is that Isobel’s parents seem loath to do battle, too, and that can only be because they need the money so badly.’

Curtly, Rafael had replied, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to risk losing one of my most valuable assets.’ His lip had curled. ‘Not for a woman.’

His solicitor had sighed audibly with relief. ‘I knew you’d see it that way. Well, then, the sooner you can come to terms with this and meet your future bride the better. Her mother has extended to you an invitation to go to her birthday celebration tonight.’

He could have laughed now, though—Isobel Miller was the one woman who didn’t even have to try and seduce him to get him to marry her! He was being served up to her on a plate, and here he stood, listening to her protest against what any other girl would have given her right arm for.

At that moment, in the tense atmosphere of the study, Isobel got a tiny glimpse of indefinable emotion in Rafael’s eyes. When had he moved so close? She could see now that his eyes were a deep, dark brown, like molasses, with shifting glimmers of green and gold—not entirely black, as she’d thought.

Sensing some aspect of the man she might appeal to, she said, ‘But you don’t want to marry me. Can’t you just give us what we’re due for the estancia and we can be done with this arrangement?’

Before Rafael’s very eyes Isobel Miller was changing. His first impression of her as a girl hadn’t been entirely fair. She just looked incredibly young. But now he could see that she had an inherent maturity, a worldliness he wouldn’t have expected. His eyes compelled hers to his, holding them. He shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that simple.’

Rafael found his thoughts scattering as he became increasingly transfixed by her. Up close, she was even paler than he’d first thought. Brown hair with a hint of russet shone in the dim light of the study. It was caught up in a fussy chignon that did nothing for her face, which still held some teenage plumpness. But her eyes…he found himself caught by them. They were huge and brown, like dark velvet, with long lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks.

He could see in an instant that once her teenage plumpness disappeared she’d have the potential to emerge as a true beauty. Disturbingly, he felt a rush of blood to his groin.

Why was he just staring at her like that? Isobel spoke again, with more than a hint of desperation in her voice. ‘Why is it not that simple?’

She was unaware of the hopelessly pleading look on her face, and didn’t see how Rafael’s jaw tightened in response. He took a step closer, and now Isobel felt even more threatened. Rafael Romero at a distance was truly intimidating, but close, like this, he was altogether overwhelming. She found it hard to breathe.

‘I am not going to risk losing the estancia by trying to negotiate a way out of the agreement. And the fact is I will need a wife. Why would I turn my back on one so conveniently provided?’

His eyes dropped in a leisurely appraisal of Isobel’s body, making her heat up so that her face felt brick-red by the time their eyes met again.

‘You’re not what I expected,’ he said, almost musingly.

‘Well, you’re exactly what I expected,’ Isobel threw back, feeling more and more threatened.

Rafael arched a brow. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I? You’re quite the little firebrand, aren’t you?’

Isobel hitched up her chin. ‘If by that you mean I’ve got a mind of my own and I’m not afraid to use it then, yes, I am a firebrand. And if you think I’m going to meekly agree to a marriage of convenience with you then you’re sorely mistaken. I’ve no desire to commit myself to a life of purgatory as some billionaire playboy’s convenient wife.’

Isobel felt even hotter, and hoped the dim light was hiding her reaction. The way he was looking at her was so…assessing. Too assessing. As if he saw something that she’d never been aware of—herself as a woman. Immediately something liquid and illicit pooled in her belly and down lower. She fought not to squirm. She wanted to look away, anywhere but into those dark, hypnotic eyes, but she couldn’t.

The futility of their circumstances washed over her. His enigmatic silence was sending her tension levels into orbit. ‘You can’t seriously tell me you’re happy to marry me.’

His mouth was grim, hard. His eyes weren’t assessing any more; they were hard and black. ‘On the contrary, Isobel, I came here tonight to see my future bride for myself, expecting to meet a vacuous spoilt brat, but you’ve confounded my expectations—and, believe me, not many people surprise me these days.’

Isobel went cold inside. ‘I don’t want to confound your expectations.’

‘Tough,’ Rafael said easily. ‘You have. I will admit that the prospect of this marriage has held little appeal for me, but my attitude is changing by the second. My eventual need to marry was never in doubt, and after my near-fatal brush with matrimony, let’s just say that a marriage of convenience is the only type of marriage I’d contemplate.’

His gaze flicked down and up again, and his mouth softened, making Isobel quiver inwardly.

‘While I’ve no desire to take a child bride into my bed, I can see that with a little more maturity you might well become a woman I can make a life with.’

Now Isobel was fierce, some innate feminine pride surging upwards, along with the sheer panic his words engendered. ‘I’m not a child.’

Rafael arched a brow. ‘No? Then what are you—a woman?’ He shook his head and said cruelly, ‘You’re not a woman yet, querida, and you’re certainly not ready for my bed.’

White-hot anger and something scarily like hurt made Isobel spit out, ‘By all appearances your bed is far too busy anyway. I don’t think I’d like to share it with every social climber in Buenos Aires.’

Rafael looked stunned for a moment, and then livid. ‘Why, you little—’ He reached out and put his hands on Isobel’s arms, pulling her into his chest.

She couldn’t gasp, couldn’t breathe. Eyes opening wide, she saw Rafael’s head descend and that unbelievably sensuous mouth come closer and closer. She let out a strangled gasp before everything went black and hot and Rafael’s mouth closed over hers. He tasted of whisky and danger—an altogether intoxicatingly adult mix.

The boys she’d kissed in England could never have prepared her for this sensual onslaught.

Sheer shock kept Isobel immobilised for a long moment. Too long. Because suddenly all she was aware of was how hard Rafael’s chest felt against hers, how it made her breasts tingle and swell against her dress.

His mouth was hard and ruthless, punishing her and expertly seeking a response so that he could humiliate her some more. Isobel knew in some distant part of her brain exactly what was happening, but that part of her brain seemed to be disconnected from her body and her mouth.

She found her hands clinging to the lapels of his jacket—clinging because her legs had turned to jelly. When Rafael’s mouth moved away for one second Isobel heard a mewl of distress come from her throat as she blindly sought and found Rafael’s mouth again.

His hands moved—one down her back, the other to the back of her head. She could feel him loosen her hair, so that it fell around her shoulders. Her world was reduced to delicious insanity. This man and his arms and his mouth on hers. So hot and demanding, like nothing she’d ever known or imagined. The touch and slide of his tongue against hers made her legs clench together to stop the pulse throbbing between them. Liquid heat was spreading outwards from the very core of her being…and Isobel had no hope of clawing back rationality or any pretence that Rafael wasn’t blowing her mind to pieces. Her inexperience rendered her helpless.

He was the one to eventually pull back. Isobel opened heavy eyes, her breath coming hard and fast. Heart thumping. She felt hot and sweaty and desperately disorientated. As if her inner being had just shifted on some level and been reorganised. She felt as if he’d branded her.

Rafael carefully made sure she was standing, and then dropped his hands and moved back. Humiliation rose swiftly. Isobel couldn’t look at him. Face burning, she sat in the chair beside her. She couldn’t even pretend she was unaffected. It would be the most obvious lie in the world.

Rafael paced a few feet away, all his coiled energy reaching out and making Isobel want to curl up and hide.

He stopped pacing, and his voice had a rough edge that had Isobel’s pulse skittering again. ‘Like I said, you’re not ready for me, Isobel. But in three years, when we’re due to marry, I’ve no doubt you will be.’

He sounded almost surprised, and Isobel looked up—then wished she hadn’t when she saw he was so close, looking down at her. Before she could escape he was reaching down and putting those big hands on her arms to lift her to her feet. She trembled all over.

He tipped up her chin with a finger, his eyes roving over her face as if he was inspecting her all over again. ‘Marriage between us is inevitable, and I do believe that perhaps we can make a good one. We’ve got as good a chance as anyone in this city facing a marriage like this. Any reluctance I may have once felt is fading fast.’

He was talking as if she weren’t even there, almost musing to himself. Isobel stood stiffly and gathered all of her courage. ‘I won’t marry you.’

Grimly, Rafael’s eyes caught Isobel’s, and the force of rejection in his body at her words surprised him. ‘You don’t have a choice. Our futures are bound together. Like I said before, I’ve no intention of jeopardising my ownership of the estancia, not for anything—and certainly not for a convenient bride I intend to make full use of.’

His mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘You should be counting yourself lucky that you have some time to get used to the prospect. When we do marry, Isobel, you will be my wife and by my side in every sense of the word.’

Hysteria rose within Isobel at the thought that he believed she would become the kind of woman he could marry. Never. The thought of living in Buenos Aires with the prospect of marriage to Rafael hanging over her head felt like a prison sentence.

She shook her head, felt the slip and slide of her hair over the sensitised skin of her shoulders. ‘No. I’ mgoing to leave. Get away from here. I won’t marry you. I won’t. I’d prefer to die.’

A cynical look crossed his face. ‘No need to be so dramatic, Isobel. When we marry we’ll simply be joining the thousands of others before us who’ve had to marry for convenience and inheritance.’ His eyes flicked down and back up. ‘With a little time you will mature into a woman I can take into my bed as my wife…’

Sheer hurt winded Isobel. She still hadn’t fully processed the effect of that kiss, but Rafael had proved his sensual dominance over her with effortless ease. And her very obvious lack of effect on him.

The sheer threat of what Rafael said made Isobel forget everything rational, all the reasons why she didn’t have much choice in this matter. ‘I’m not scared of a legal agreement. It’s not my fault that my grandfather was forced to sell the estancia to your family. I won’t pay for his choices with a marriage of convenience to someone I despise.’

Her fists were clenched, nails scoring grooves in her palms.

Rafael stepped back, dropping his hands, and conversely that made her feel slightly bereft.

He smiled minutely, and that seemed to make the floor tilt underneath her. ‘Despise is a strong word when you barely know me, little one. Run away all you want, but I’ll know exactly where you are and what you’re doing—every single moment. You’re a Buenos Aires princess, Isobel. Your life is here. You wouldn’t survive for two minutes outside your protected environment in the real world. And I really wouldn’t advise you to do anything rash like elope—either to escape your fate or for love…’

His voice turned bitter. ‘I’ll save you the heartache now. It wouldn’t work out, and my team of lawyers would see to it that your family never sees the money they’re due if you pull a stunt like that. It’s a considerable amount of money, and I can guarantee you that your family’s very survival in this society revolves around getting it—especially if their finances continue on the downward spiral they appear to be on.’

‘I hate you,’ Isobel said shakily. ‘I hope I never lay eyes on you again.’

Rafael reached out and trailed a finger down Isobel’s cheek. ‘Oh, but you will, Isobel, you can count on that. We’re going to have a long and happy life together in the not too distant future.’

CHAPTER TWO

Nearly three years later

THAT KISS… Rafael had given up trying to figure out why the kiss he’d shared with Isobel Miller that night had impacted upon him far more than he’d let on at the time. It still had an uncomfortable habit of sneaking into his thoughts with annoying and vivid frequency.

He could remember going back out to his car, where his mistress had been waiting, and dropping her home with some pathetic excuse—an unprecedented situation. But it hadn’t just been the kiss that had turned his head, made him stop to think about the marriage in a new light. It had been the way she’d stood up to him—something no one before or since had done. It had made him believe that the prospect of their arranged marriage might not be the prison sentence he’d always anticipated it to be. He’d hidden his reaction that night, but the heat between them had been fierce and elemental—to the point that in the last six months not one woman had made it into his bed. The memory of his future wife and the reality of her rapidly approaching twenty-first birthday had rendered him all but impotent.

With irritation mounting at this acknowledgement of the power she seemed to hold over him so effortlessly, Rafael studied the photograph on the desk before him. It was of Isobel, running across a busy street in Paris, arm in arm with a handsome young man. Even though Rafael knew already that the man in question was her dance partner, and gay, it didn’t stop the surge of hot anger in his belly. It was as if Isobel was mocking him.

To compound this feeling, Isobel was smiling broadly, with clearly not a care in the world, eyes sparkling with humour and beauty. Rafael’s gut tightened. He’d been right, but even he had underestimated the full force of Isobel’s beauty. The hint of teenage puppy fat had disappeared, to reveal the exquisite bone structure of her face. She’d had her hair cut short—very short—and while Rafael didn’t ordinarily find short hair attractive, on Isobel it highlighted those huge eyes and the delicate lines of her jaw and neck, making her look both incredibly seductive and innocent.

Something that felt absurdly like regret rushed through Rafael as he acknowledged that there could be no way Isobel was still the blushing virgin he’d encountered on the night of her eighteenth birthday. It would be impossible. But he didn’t know why regret was surfacing, when he’d never had any desire to bed a virgin and had more or less instructed Isobel to become a woman.

Rafael’s mouth firmed. Well, she’d done that, and then some. She’d left Buenos Aires within weeks of their meeting and gone to Paris, where she’d been making a living teaching Argentine Tango dance classes. She hadn’t used her extensive and expensive British education to carve out a high-profile career or social existence, and as a result had gone unnoticed as far as the tabloids were concerned. As time had passed Rafael had had to admit to a growing sense of respect. The periodic reports that he received showed that she was living in the most basic of accommodation, and struggling to survive just like anyone else.

He knew she was receiving no hand-outs from her parents because they had nothing to give. Their finances were in a sorry state after years of bad judgments and investments. They had come to him some weeks before, and he had assured them that he fully intended to go through with the marriage and instructed them to leave all the arrangements up to him. Their relief had been palpable.

Rafael turned around in his chair and looked out of the window at the view of Plaza de Mayo, the business hub of Buenos Aires. He rested his chin on steepled fingers. Within minutes of meeting Isobel that night she’d effectively blasted apart any misconception he’d had about her character. Clearly she was not cut of the same cloth as other girls in her peer group, and her actions since then had only confirmed that.

A sense of anticipation coiled in his belly. The time had come to bring his fiancée home and get married. She looked far too carefree and happy in the photograph he’d just received. And the memory of that kiss was too tantalisingly erotic.

Exactly as his solicitor had warned, and as he knew himself, his business was starting to suffer. Clients and colleagues were growing nervous, thinking that his single status translated to his being less than reliable on all fronts. He was more often than not in social situations the only single man. He never thought he’d say it, but he could now see the advantages that his marriage had to offer—not the least of which was the prospect of a stunningly beautiful wife on his arm and in his bed.

This was a business decision, pure and simple, and would be a marriage of convenience like a thousand others in his city.

‘That’s right, Lucille, keep bringing your feet back together. Marc, watch your embrace. It needs to be much firmer—you’re not giving Lucille enough support…’

Isobel adjusted the couple who had just danced past her and watched as they set off again, her eyes automatically going to the other dancers in her tango class, assessing their progress.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t distract her from the humiliating fact that since she’d left Buenos Aires, a few weeks after the fateful night of her eighteenth birthday, she hadn’t managed to get through one day without thinking about Don Rafael Ortega Romero. Or seeing his devastating face and body in her mind’s eye.

She’d done everything she could to try and block out his words and what had passed between them. That kiss. Even now she got hot just thinking about it. And, despite living in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, with men asking her out regularly, she’d yet to come close to experiencing anything like she had with Rafael that night.

If she went on a date, at some point she’d begin to compare her date’s lovemaking to Rafael’s kiss, or how it had felt to be in his arms, and a coldness would lodge in her chest and make her push him back. It was as if Rafael had put some kind of spell on her that night, and she hated him for it.

The back of her neck prickled then, as if thinking about him might conjure him up, and she shook off the feeling with an effort that dismayed her. This year, for the first time, she’d stopped jumping at every sudden movement, or when someone tapped her on the shoulder. From the moment she’d got off the plane in Paris she’d been expecting to see Rafael. Expecting him to haul her back to Buenos Aires, incensed that she had run away.

Isobel shook her head now, disgusted with herself all over again. Why hadn’t she been able to erase the memory of that kiss three years ago? She was disgusted too because never in a million years had she ever wanted to be in thrall to someone like him. Arrogant and rich, taking everything for granted.

A small voice pointed out that her judgment of him was purely superficial, but Isobel disregarded it. She knew very well the kind of world he came from, because she came from it, too. And nothing could dissuade her from believing that he would be as amoral and greedy as the next billionaire, whose sole focus was keeping up appearances and making money. It had been there in his arrogant stance that night of her eighteenth birthday, when he’d come to look her over like a brood mare he was considering buying.

As time had worn on she’d almost started to believe that perhaps she’d dreamt it—perhaps Rafael hadn’t really meant it when he’d insisted that they would be married. But just weeks ago she’d felt a cold finger of fear touch her spine when her mother had been far too genial on the phone during one of their sporadic calls.

Her parents had fought her decision to go to Paris, but Isobel had insisted, and since then relations had been strained. When Isobel’s mother had sounded so uncharacteristically upbeat, Isobel had had a strong suspicion that they knew something she didn’t. Had Rafael been in touch with them? Had he reassured them that he and Isobel would be married? She couldn’t ignore the fact that it was two weeks from her twenty-first birthday. Her belly clenched into a knot of tension.

The song playing through the speakers came to an end and Isobel welcomed the distraction. She clapped her hands together and faced her students, lamenting again the fact that her regular partner, José, was ill and couldn’t be there to teach with her.

‘We’re almost done, but I’ll show you how we can put all these steps together in a sequence. Now, I just need a volunteer…’

Isobel looked around the group and groaned inwardly. None of the men was really good enough to do a demo. But just as she was about to select the best of the bunch, she noticed that everyone’s attention had gone over her head to something behind her, where the door to the studio was. The tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck again, and with a nearly overwhelming sense of foreboding she turned around.

Rafael had to curb the violence of the reaction in his body when Isobel turned to face him. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. Even though he’d had regular updates on her activities, and photographs, it hadn’t prepared him to see her in the flesh, up close, with her light scent suffusing the air.

She was dressed in black knee-length leggings and a tank top, showing off the slender gracefulness of her dancer’s physique. She wore special dance shoes, which were obviously more practical for teaching a class than the requisite high heels, but already Rafael was imagining her feet encased in silver or gold, slim high heels elongating those gorgeous legs.

Just as he’d seen in the photograph, her short hair made her delicate features stand out, made her more luminously beautiful. Her eyes were the same: huge pools of dark brown velvet, their lashes long and dark. She was exquisite. His blood got hot, and as he watched every ounce of colour drained from her face completely.

Isobel felt the urge to reach out and hold on to something concrete. Don Rafael Ortega Romero stood just feet away from her, dwarfing her tiny studio. For an awful second she wondered if she was in fact imagining him standing there, if she was experiencing some kind of hallucination brought on by thinking about him…But then he spoke.

‘I think I could be of assistance to you, if you need a dance partner…?’

Isobel felt paralysed. She couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. She was dimly aware of her students looking curiously from her to Rafael.

‘To demonstrate the steps?’ Rafael prompted, as if she might be having trouble understanding him. As if it was entirely normal that he’d just turned up in her place of work, on the other side of the world.

Isobel saw Rafael take off his dark jacket, revealing a white shirt and dark trousers. She felt a ripple of unmistakable feminine interest spike behind her and it seemed to break her out of the shock threatening to suck her under.

Taking control, she put out a hand. ‘No, it’s fine—really, I’ll use…’ She looked around and thought wildly for a second, but this was the beginners’ class. Her eyes rested on Marc, but he went red and gave her a tortured look. Her heart sank. She couldn’t do it to him. She looked back at Rafael, who was standing there looking smug with arms crossed.

‘Do you know how to dance tango?’ Isobel asked, feeling as if she’d been dropped into some surreal world. She didn’t even think she was breathing.

Rafael smiled arrogantly. ‘I’m Argentinian—of course I know how to tango. I’ve been dancing since my grandmother used to sneak my brother and I into milongas when we were younger.’

Isobel was stunned into speechlessness, and only the presence of curious eyes forced her to pretend insouciance, to shrug lightly and turn round to start the music. With shaking fingers she chose a song, and the strains of Carlos Di Sarli wound through the studio. Numb with shock, she turned back to face Rafael, who was now standing in front of her with a quirked brow.

‘What are we doing?’

‘Ochos and sacadas.’

He nodded. Isobel couldn’t delay any longer, or the song would be over and her students would be wondering who this enigmatic stranger was and why she was acting so weirdly. She walked forward and into his arms. He took her hand and settled an arm across her back, and Isobel closed her eyes in a moment of desperation; his touch was having an explosive effect on her insides.

On the balls of her feet, she moved so that she leant into him fully, and then expertly Rafael started to dance, twisting and turning Isobel in a series of moves to demonstrate the steps she’d mentioned.

Isobel dimly recognised in some rational part of her brain that he danced like a professional. Her natural dance ability and instinct took over as she recognised his lead and followed him. She unconsciously let him take more of her weight. The steps became more complex. For the first time in her life, despite dancing with many partners, tango suddenly felt sexy, and she wished he wasn’t holding her so close. Her head was turned in the same direction as his, tucked perfectly just below his jaw. They fitted perfectly.

She was aware of Rafael’s steel band of support across her back, her right hand held high by his. She was aware of his arm under her shoulder, her hand spread across his back. She could feel the muscles bunch and move as he danced, and only the fact that she was such an experienced dancer stopped her from tripping over her own feet.

It was a long moment before Isobel realised that the music had stopped and they weren’t dancing any more. With a jerky move she pulled herself free of Rafael’s arms and stood apart, none too steady. She felt hot in the face. Her students were looking at her with slightly open-mouthed expressions that Isobel couldn’t and didn’t want to decipher.

She got caught up in a flurry of goodbyes and thank yous, was touched when some of her students presented her with small gifts, but through it all she felt as if she were on a tightrope of tension, acutely aware of the man who lounged nonchalantly just feet away, waiting for her.

Was it time? Had he come to bring her home? She was very much afraid she was about to find out.

Isobel walked back into the studio after changing in the tiny bathroom next door. Her heart kicked to see that Rafael was still there. He hadn’t been some bizarre hallucination. She felt self-conscious and shabby in an ancient knee-length sundress. It had been unbearably hot even by early morning that day, and she’d thrown on the coolest thing that came to hand. Next to the stunning perfection of Rafael she felt like a bag lady.

Her pulse sped up when she saw Rafael turn from where he’d been looking out of the window over the street below. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes looked her up and down, their expression shuttered.

He gestured towards where a couple of gift-wrapped boxes sat by her things. ‘Do your students know that it’s your birthday in two weeks?’

Isobel looked at Rafael, panic resounding through her in waves. He’d come for her.

‘It’s nearly three years to the day since we met, Isobel, do you remember?’

Her mouth felt numb. She’d gone icy cold. She deliberately ignored what he said. ‘They’re not birthday gifts. I’m shutting down for August as everyone in Paris goes on their holidays. Some students bring me small gifts to say thank you.’

Rafael just looked at her with that intent gaze. In a bid to put some space between them and turn her back to him, Isobel went over to her things and started to pack up her iPod and speakers, putting it all into a small backpack. Her brain had seized.

When everything was packed away she turned around and took a deep breath, steeling herself. Her belly went into a tight knot of apprehension. ‘Why are you here, Mr Romero?’

His dark eyes speared her to the spot. ‘You know very well why I’m here. And it’s not Mr Romero. It’s Rafael.’

Isobel’s hand clenched on her bag. Even now, when he’d confirmed why he’d come, she tried to deny it to herself—fool herself into thinking that she still had some sort of choice. ‘I’m not prepared to just—’

He cut her off. ‘We’re not going to discuss this here and now. I’ll have my car pick you up from your apartment at 7:00 p.m. and bring you to my hotel.’

Isobel nearly fainted to think that he was just snapping his fingers and expecting her to fall in behind him. Hysteria wasn’t far from her voice. ‘How do you know I don’t have plans? That I don’t have friends I’ve arranged to meet somewhere? If you think you can just come here and pluck me out of my life like this—’

Rafael stepped close, and Isobel fought strenuously not to move back a pace. His eyes roved over her face, making her skin prickle.

‘You’ve known very well this day was coming, and you can’t say I haven’t left you alone to enjoy your independence. I’ve booked a table for dinner this evening and you will join me.’

While Isobel was still absorbing her shock at his implacable arrogance, he’d somehow taken her bag off her shoulder and with a hand on her elbow was escorting her from the studio. He’d taken her keys and was locking up behind them, as if he did it all the time.

Once they stepped out into the street, the languorous city heat did little to break Isobel from her inertia. Rafael calmly handed her back her keys and bag and indicated a sleek car parked by the kerb. ‘I won’t offer you a lift, as I know you live just a block away from here, but my car will be waiting for you at seven.’

He reached out and trailed a finger down Isobel’s cheek to her jaw. It left a line of fire in its wake, making her breath hitch, shocking her out of the inertia holding her in its grip. He’d done exactly the same thing that night three years before.

‘Don’t try anything silly, Isobel, or I’ll just come for you myself.’

And then, speechless, Isobel just watched as Don Rafael Ortega Romero got into the back of the car and it pulled away and disappeared into the traffic.

Isobel was still in a state of shock three hours later. She looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror that lay against a wall in the tiny space the landlord euphemistically called a bedroom. She’d found the mirror one day in a nearby skip and carried it home.

She knew well the kind of man Rafael was. The world he came from was a place where people didn’t say no to him, so she knew his threat was not an empty one. He wouldn’t stand for being stood up. A disturbing frisson of something she didn’t want to name went through her belly and she quashed it. She hated the fact that she seemed to be caught up in wondering about what Rafael thought of her now.

In a moment of weakness about a year ago she’d done a Google search on him, to see where he was, what he was doing, and she’d seen a picture of him at a premiere in Los Angeles with a veritable glamazon of a woman on his arm. All long, luscious limbs and flowing red hair. The kind of woman Isobel didn’t think she could ever hope to imitate.

She looked at her hair critically; she’d had it cut when she’d come to Paris on an impulse. It had felt like something rebellious, something cathartic, to distract her from the fact that she couldn’t escape her fate. Sometimes now, though, she longed for length again—something to hide behind. She’d felt acutely exposed today under Rafael’s gaze.

She gave herself a last, dismissive look, collected her bag and went down to wait for the car. It was only in the car on the way to Rafael’s hotel that Isobel realised that not once since she’d seen Rafael again that afternoon had the thought occurred to her to try and run or escape.

Rafael sat in the lobby of the Plaza Athénée hotel and waited for Isobel. It was one of the grandest hotels in Paris, but Rafael didn’t notice the trappings of wealth around him, the expensive scents of the women there as they passed by with unconcealed looks of interest in his direction.

A coil of delicious tension snaked through his body—a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He remembered the moment in that study three years before, when Isobel had stood up to him, taking him by surprise, and he recognised the same sense of anticipation.

He saw his car pull up outside the main door and stood, grimacing slightly when he felt that tight coil of tension move southwards. With ruthless control he called his body to heel. And then the minute he saw Isobel’s silhouette emerge from the car that control was blasted to smithereens.

She passed two men as she walked in the main entrance, and Rafael saw how they both turned to look. He was no better, with his eyes glued to the graceful curve of her body. She wore the unmistakable signs of her breeding unconsciously; her dress was most likely chainstore, and nothing more than plain and black…but it could have been a Dior creation the way it hugged her torso and clung softly to her slim thighs, flaring out slightly at the knee. His eyes dropped to see her feet encased in silver high-heeled sandals and his desire escalated. With a burst of pique at his uncontrollable hormones, he went to intercept her.

Isobel tried not to be intimidated by the plush luxury of the iconic Paris hotel. It was a long time since she’d been somewhere so opulent, and she found it a little overpowering now. If she’d felt like a bag lady earlier, now she felt as if she might be mistaken for a cleaner.

She went towards the reception desk, with the intention of getting them to inform Rafael that she was here. She was not expecting the great man to be waiting himself. But just then something tall and dark caught her eye. She turned to see Rafael, in a coal-black suit and white shirt, striding across the marble lobby towards her. Isobel quailed inwardly. He looked angry, a glower transforming his features as he came closer and closer. She felt a hot rush of sensation when she remembered the tango they’d danced earlier and how closely he’d held her.

He came to a stop just inches away, and Isobel was more nervous than she cared to admit, reacting testily to his obvious irritation. ‘There’s no need to look like you’re about to take my head off. I’m only too happy to turn around and go home.’

For a second she saw Rafael battle with something, and then the glower was gone, replaced by a smile so gorgeous and charming that she was sorry she’d said anything. He put a disturbingly warm hand on her elbow.

‘Come through to the bar. We’ll have an aperitif before dinner.’

Isobel had no choice but to follow him. His hand was like a steel brand on her elbow, and heat radiated up her arm. No other man had ever had such a viscerally intense physical reaction on her body. To her relief when they walked into the bar he let her go, so they could sit down at a table. The décor was a sophisticated mix of modern and antique, the lighting was low and the tones of conversation around them reverentially hushed. Soft piano music played in the background.

She’d dreaded this moment of seeing Rafael again for three years, and yet now that it was here it didn’t feel as if it was dread making her belly tighten…

A bowing waiter materialised, as if from thin air, and Rafael looked at Isobel. She felt flustered and hot. ‘I’ll…just have a sparkling water, please.’

Rafael just looked at her, before glancing at the waiter and saying, ‘A shot of whisky. No ice. Thank you.’

The waiter walked away and Rafael settled back into his chair, long legs stretched out under the table. Isobel’s usual sense of co-ordination and grace had deserted her somewhere back in the lobby. She felt as tightly wound as a spring and sat straight, legs tucked under her chair, as far away from his as she could get.

The corner of his mouth tipped up in a small smile and her chest literally ached for a second.

‘I have to admit it, Isobel, you’ve surprised me and proved me wrong.’

She schooled her body and mind’s traitorous responses and replied tightly, ‘I wasn’t aware that I was doing anything with you in mind.’

His smile grew. ‘You threw down the gauntlet when you left Buenos Aires.’

‘I also told you that I never wanted to see you again.’

He smiled. ‘Well, you knew that wasn’t going to happen.’

Isobel felt the colour leaching from her face like a physical reaction, draining all the way down to her feet. No escape.

He continued. ‘I’ve kept tabs on you, and believe me, if I’d thought it necessary I would have come for you a lot sooner.’ He shrugged minutely and almost smirked. ‘But it would appear that your closest association has been with your gay dance partner, so I wasn’t too worried.’

Heat flooded Isobel’s cheeks at his ‘I would have come for you a lot sooner.’ ‘You had me followed?’

Rafael shrugged again, and grimaced delicately. ‘I wouldn’t say followed, per se, I merely had access to your movements. After all, you are essentially my fiancée.’

Fury raced through Isobel, and she seized the opportunity to feel righteous, with something concrete to be angry about. ‘You had me followed, and that is unacceptable.’

She stood up, but in an instant Rafael was standing, too, dwarfing her across the table. His face wasn’t remotely charming now.

‘Sit down, Isobel. I will not allow you to use something so flimsy as an excuse to walk out of here just because I make you feel nervous.’

Shock upon shock reverberated through her. Isobel’s jaw felt sore from clenching it. She felt as transparent as a glass screen, but lied, ‘You don’t make me nervous. And I’m not going to stay unless you apologise for having me followed.’

Tension crackled between them. Rafael’s eyes glowed, a dark and almost black-brown, and Isobel had a sudden flash of memory, back to when he’d kissed her and she’d seen flecks of green in their depths. She felt weak.

Rafael struggled not to kick the low table out of the way and haul her into his arms, crush her mutinous mouth under his. Two spots of colour were in her cheeks, standing out against the pallor that lingered, evidence of her discomfiture.

Easily, because it cost him nothing, he said, ‘I apologise. Now sit down.’ When she didn’t move straight away he bit out, ‘Please.’

Finally she sat, and an enticing scent teased his nostrils—her scent. Rafael sat, too, and shifted in his seat so he could be comfortable—which was a challenge when his body seemed determined to respond to rogue hormones and not logic. Sexual frustration was not a state he’d ever known until the last six months, and right now it was screaming through his veins.

The waiter came back and put down their drinks. Isobel reached for her water and lifted it to take a big gulp, but just before she did she saw Rafael’s glass lifted, too, towards her. He raised a brow.

She blushed, embarrassed, and clinked her glass to his faintly.

‘To your health.’

She mumbled something incoherent, her eyes glued to his as they both took a sip. The sparkling fizzy water burst down her throat and brought her back to some sort of reality.

‘So tell me,’ he drawled, ‘how has it been for you living in Paris?’

Isobel looked at him, and he could see her bite her lower lip. He wanted to reach across and take her chin between his fingers, kiss that spot. She looked down and up again, something fleeting crossing her face, before she asked in a strangled voice, ‘You want to talk about my life here in Paris?’

Rafael sat forward, elbows on his knees, intent on this woman in a way he hadn’t felt about any woman in a very long time. ‘That’s exactly what I want.’

Isobel sneaked a glance at Rafael. Tension had been gradually building in her body since they’d moved into the plush and opulent dining room, lit with a thousand glinting lights from intricately heavy chandeliers. A waiter came and unobtrusively cleared their empty plates. If asked, she knew she wouldn’t remember what they’d eaten, delicious though it had been. Rafael lifted the white wine bottle and gestured to Isobel. She’d only had a few sips from her glass. She shook her head quickly.

Rafael refilled his own glass and shot her a look. ‘You don’t drink?’

Isobel grimaced slightly. ‘I don’t have the head for it.’ Desperation mounted inside her as she watched him take a lazy sip. She couldn’t believe that there was no way out of the situation, and in that moment something else struck her—a feeling of guilt at knowing that he had once tried to forge his own path, marry for love, and it had been destroyed, all because of this legal agreement.

Isobel leant forward. ‘Mr Romero…’ she faltered. ‘That is, Rafael…you can’t want to marry me. Neither one of us wants this. Is there no other way we can salvage the agreement without marrying?’

Rafael leant forward, too, putting down his glass. His face was hard, his voice arctic. ‘No, Isobel, there is no other way. And you’re quite wrong. I do want this marriage. The sooner you come to terms with the fact that we are getting married, the better. If we were to try and get out of this agreement the legalities would tie up any monies from the estate for the foreseeable future—a situation your parents really cannot afford. And, as I’ve told you before, I’m not about to jeopardise one of my most valuable assets.’

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