Carrying The Spaniard's Child

“I just needed some fresh air,” she said desperately, wishing he’d leave her alone.

A beam of light from a second-floor window of the manor house illuminated the hard lines of Santiago’s powerful body in the black suit and well-cut cashmere coat. As their eyes met, electricity coursed through her.

Santiago Velazquez was too handsome, she thought with an unwilling shiver. Too sexy. Too powerful. Too rich.

He was also a selfish, cynical playboy, whose only loyalty was to his own vast fortune. He probably had vaults big enough to swim in, she thought, and pictured him doing a backstroke through hundred-dollar bills. In the meantime he mocked the idea of kindness and respect. She’d heard he treated his one-night stands like unpaid employees. Belle’s expression hardened. Folding her arms, she waited as he strode through the snow toward her.

He stopped a few feet away. “You don’t have a coat.”

“I’m not cold.”

“I can hear your teeth chattering. Are you trying to freeze to death?”

“Why do you care?”

“Me? I don’t,” he said mildly. “If you want to freeze to death, it’s fine with me. But it does seem selfish to force Letty to plan yet another funeral. So tedious, funerals. And weddings. And christenings. All of it.”

“Any human interaction that involves emotion must be tedious to you,” Belle said.

He was nearly a foot taller than her own petite height. His shoulders were broad and he wore arrogance like a cloak that shadowed him in the snow. She’d heard women call him Ángel, and she could well understand the nickname. He had a face like an angel—a dark angel, she thought irritably, if heaven needed a bouncer to keep lesser people out and boss everyone around. Santiago might be rich and handsome but he was also the most cynical, callous, despicable man on earth. He was everything she hated most.

“Wait.” His black eyes narrowed as he stared down at her in the faint crystalline moonlight frosting the clouds. “Are you crying, Belle?”

She blinked hard and fast to hide the evidence. “No.”

“You are.” His cruel, sensual lips curved mockingly. “I know you have a pathetically soft heart, but this is pushing the limits even for you. You barely knew Letty’s father, and yet here I find you mourning him after the funeral, alone in the snow like a tragic Victorian madwoman.”

Normally that would have gotten a rise out of her. But not today. Belle’s heart was too sad. And she knew if she showed the slightest emotion he’d only mock her more. Wishing desperately that Santiago hadn’t been the one to find her, she said, “What do you want?”

“Darius and Letty have gone to bed. Letty wanted to come out and look for you but the baby needed her. I’m supposed to show you to your guest room and turn on the house alarm once you’re brought in safe and sound.”

His husky, Spanish-accented voice seemed to be laughing at her. She hated how, even disliking him as much as she did, he made her body shiver with awareness.

“I changed my mind about staying here tonight.” The last thing she wanted was to spend the night tossing and turning in a guest room, with no company but her own agonizing thoughts. “I just want to go home.”

“To Brooklyn?” Santiago looked at her incredulously. “It’s too late. Everyone wanting to get back to the city left hours ago. The ice storm just closed the expressway. It might not reopen for hours.”

“Why are you even still here? Don’t you have a helicopter and a couple of planes? It can’t be because you actually care about Letty and Darius.”

“The guest rooms here are nice and I’m tired. Two days ago I was in Sydney. Before that, Tokyo.” He yawned. “Tomorrow I leave for London.”

“Poor you,” said Belle, who had always dreamed of traveling but never managed to save the money, even for an economy ticket.

His sensual lips curved upward. “I appreciate your sympathy. So if you don’t mind wrapping up your self-indulgent little Wuthering Heights routine I’d like to show you to your room so I can go to mine.”

“If you want to go, go.” She turned away so he couldn’t see her exhausted, tearstained expression. “Tell Letty I’d already left. I’ll get a train back to the city.”

“Are you serious?” He looked down at her skeptically. “How will you reach the station? I doubt trains are even running—”

“Then I’ll walk!” Her voice was suddenly shrill. “I’m not sleeping here!”

Santiago paused.

“Belle,” he said, in a voice more gentle than she’d ever heard from him before. “What’s wrong?”

Reaching out, he put his hand on her shoulder, then lifted it to her cheek. It was the first time he had ever touched her, and even in the dark and cold the touch of his hand spun through her like a fire. Her lips parted.

“If something was wrong, why would I tell you?”

His smile increased. “Because you hate me.”

“And?”

“So whatever it is, you can tell me. Because you don’t give a damn what I think.”

“True,” she said wryly. It was tempting. She pressed her lips together. “But you might tell the world.”

“Do I ever share secrets?”

“No,” she was forced to admit. “But you do say mean and insulting things. You are heartless and rude and...”

“Only to people’s faces. Never behind their backs.” His voice was low. “Tell me, Belle.”

Clouds covered the moon, and they were briefly flooded in darkness. She suddenly was desperate to share her grief with someone, anyone. And it was true she couldn’t have a lower opinion of him. He probably couldn’t think less of her, either.

That thought was oddly comforting. She didn’t have to pretend with Santiago. She didn’t have to be positive and hopeful at all times, the cheerleader who tried to please everyone, no matter what. Belle had learned at a young age never to let any negative feelings show. If you were honest about your feelings, it only made people dislike you. It only made people leave, even and especially the ones you loved.

So Santiago was the only one she could tell. The only one she could be truly herself with. Because, heck, if he permanently left her life, she’d throw a party.

She took a deep breath. “It’s the baby.”

“Little Howie?”

“Yes.”

“I had a hard time with him, too. Babies.” He rolled his eyes. “All those diapers, all that crying. But what can you do? Some people still seem to want them.”

“I do.” The moon broke through the clouds, and Belle looked up at him with tears shimmering in the moonlight. “I want a baby.”

He stared down at her, then snorted. “Of course you do. Romantic idiot like you. You want love, flowers, the whole package.” He shrugged. “So why cry over it? If you are foolish enough to want a family, go get one. Settle down, buy a house, get married. No one is stopping you.”

“I... I can’t get pregnant,” she whispered. “Ever. It’s impossible.”

“How do you know?”

“Because...” Belle looked down at the tracks in the snow. The moonlight caused strange shadows, mingling her footsteps and his. “I just know. It’s medically impossible.”

She braced herself for his inevitable questions. Medically impossible how? What happened? When and why?