Melting the Argentine Doctor's Heart / Small Town Marriage Miracle (16 page)

Could she take that kind of risk when he’d rejected her once before?

And had it been her father’s earlier rejection that had made her take Jorge’s rejection so hard? Made her so afraid of being rejected again?

She had no answers to any of her questions so she turned her thoughts back to Antoinette and realised something she had missed, so caught up had she been in her own thoughts and feelings. Antoinette loved Carlos, and probably had for some time. Antoinette knew the pain of unrequited love, of love that couldn’t be shown, or celebrated.

And Carlos?

Ws he still pining for his Ella?

Antoinette was an attractive woman—did he not see that?

‘You are not coming to dinner?’

Jorge was in front of her, having emerged from his bedroom—a sanctum she had yet to see but was reasonably sure would be her bedroom tomorrow night.

‘I’m a little tired and not hungry, although Antoinette has fixed more in snacks than I’d eat in a full meal.’

‘I am sorry to have put you through all of this production,’ he said quietly, taking the tray from her hands and turning to lead her to her room. ‘But—’

‘But it pleases Carlos,’ Caroline finished for him as Jorge set the tray down on the small table by the window. She touched his arm. ‘It’s no big deal,’ she added, but he’d moved into the light and she saw the strain on his face too.

‘No big deal?’ he queried, his voice rough with emotion. ‘No big deal when my body aches for you every minute of every day? When I can’t sleep for thinking of you in bed only metres from my room? When I replay our kisses in the library over and over in my head, wondering how I had the strength to not lock the door and finish what we’d started? Are you so immune to me now—did I hurt you so badly—that you can step out of my arms after a tango and carry on a normal conversation while my imagination is stripping off your clothes and slathering your naked body with kisses?’

Caroline stared at him, unable to believe the closed-off man she’d been coming to know over the last few weeks was talking like this. It wasn’t love, that much was obvious, but if he wanted her as much as she wanted
him, then might not love find a way back into their relationship?

She stepped towards him and put her arms around him, kissing him gently on the lips.

‘One more night,’ she whispered, then she pulled away, using her hands on his shoulders to turn him and guide him towards the door. Then, with her heart full of hope, she ate some of Antoinette’s carefully prepared snacks and drank the wine.

She could make this work.

She
would
make this work!

At times it seemed the minutes flew, while others dragged out to hours. She’d vetoed the cathedral, settling for the local church, next to the school Jorge had attended, the school Ella would probably attend.

Clad in a frilly white dress with a crown of roses in her hair, Ella danced through the morning in such a welter of excitement Caroline
had
to forget her own reservations and laugh at her daughter’s antics.

But when Antoinette pinned a mantilla of fine old Spanish lace into Caroline’s hair, all she’d wanted to do was cry. Here she was, the very vision of a bride, but a bride should go in joyous love down the aisle to the man who loved her, while she, for all the love she felt for Jorge, was going with fear and trepidation in her heart.

Red eyes! she reminded herself.

Enjoy Ella’s delight.

Remember it is only a couple of hours out of your life—nothing more.

But as she repeated age-old, solemn vows she knew it was a whole lot more. To love and to cherish—oh, how she longed to do just that to Jorge so
her
promise, though wavery, was heartfelt.

But his?

Oh, she had no doubt about the cherish part for he would look after her in every way, but love?

Once again the question of whether it had ever existed on his part slipped into her head, and the rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. He’d said not, told her he’d never loved her, and for all she could make up excuses why he’d do that, she couldn’t know for sure.

Maybe tonight.

He was shifting her mantilla, pushing it back so it framed her face, his fingers trembling, as were the lips that touched hers, but behind them the guests had erupted into loud applause and cheering and probably some lewd remarks, although Caroline’s grasp of Spanish seemed to have disappeared, so lost was she in her emotions.

Her beauty had overwhelmed him so he’d had to hold back tears as she’d approached the altar, but now the lost look in her eyes cut into his heart.

She’s doing this for me—for Papá.

I’ve forced her into it, into a marriage without love.

Would telling her I love her still—that the hateful, hurtful words were lies—help or make things worse?

Make things worse, undoubtedly, if the words I used as swords to cut through the bond between us worked and she no longer loves me. Then she’ll have the burden of a maimed, diminished husband
and
a love she can’t
return. And surely the latter would be the heaviest of loads.

The added complication of talking love was if she said it was returned.

To have her say she loved him. Would that hurt most of all—because would he ever know if it was truly love or pity?

Best let things lie.

With the papers signed he led her back down the aisle, the triumph of the music diminishing him more with every step he took.

‘Smile!’ his new wife ordered, and the word shocked him out of his gloomy thoughts.

She
was smiling.

Looking so radiant—so beautiful—his heart stopped beating.

‘Look how Ella is enjoying all of this,’ Caroline added, pointing to their daughter with her basket of rose petals, strewing them down the aisle ahead of them. ‘If we’re not careful she’s going to grow into a right little miss with Carlos and Antoinette doting on her so much.’

‘Can a child have too much love?’ Jorge asked, although watching his daughter’s antics
had
brought a smile to his face.

‘I suppose not,’ Caroline agreed, ‘as long as she doesn’t take advantage of it.’

‘We’ll see she doesn’t,’ Jorge assured her, and felt his worries and concerns drop from his shoulders. They were marrying for Ella and the shared responsibility of silly things, like seeing she wasn’t spoiled by too much
attention, was surely more important than love. He and Caroline would be good in bed—their mutual enjoyment a given, not only from past experience but from what he now thought of, in capital letters, as The Library Kiss!

Yes, things would be okay, and now he really smiled.

‘Ella is going to fall asleep in her ice cream,’ Caroline whispered to Jorge when the speeches were made and the toasts were done and tiredness was making her think she, too, might fall asleep at the table.

‘We will take her up to bed, then retire ourselves. Papá will excuse us.’

Retire ourselves. How civilised it sounded, yet Caroline’s skin prickled at the words, goose-bumps forming in the most unlikely places.

She glanced towards Carlos, who nodded in reply to her unspoken question, and as Jorge lifted Ella, her ruffles crushed and her face wreathed in chocolate ice cream, Caroline rose, said goodnight to the guests who’d come to share their dinner, and followed him upstairs.

Bath, teeth, bed, story, say goodnight to moon and stars, then she and Jorge were alone, standing in the doorway of Ella’s room, their child already asleep.

‘Come,’ Jorge said, his voice a husky whisper. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her past the door of the room where she’d been sleeping, to his suite of rooms further along the corridor.

Inside he unpinned the comb that had held her mantilla in place and set the old lace carefully down on the top of a heavy wooden dresser.

‘You looked so beautiful I could barely breathe,’ he said, and Caroline, feeling the tension tightening in her body, knew she had to break it somehow or shatter into pieces herself.

‘You polished up okay yourself,’ she said lightly, kicking off her shoes, then bending to lift her skirt to undo the clasps that had held her stockings in place.

Had she lifted her skirt too far that Jorge stepped towards her?

‘A suspender belt? You wore a suspender belt?’ Awed was the only way to describe his voice.

‘I suppose a pair of garters would be more symbolic but I thought—’

He stopped her with a kiss.

‘No more talk,’ he commanded when they could both breathe again.

Jorge turned her around to get at the million tiny buttons running down the back of the silky gown and with fumbling fingers began the task of undoing them, easing the gown, as it opened, first off her shoulders, then letting it slide to her waist, fighting the last buttons until eventually it slid down over her hips, leaving her standing in a pool of white silk, a lacy bra, matching lacy panties and a frothy confection of a suspender belt, white strips of satin ribbon running down to the top of lacy-topped stockings.

He walked around to see her from the front and shook his head.

‘I have always known you were beautiful, but now you steal my breath, my mind, my—’

He stopped himself before the word ‘heart’ erupted from his lips, substituting ‘power of words’.

She stepped out of the puddle of white froth, bending to lift it, giving him a tantalising glimpse of thigh, before she spread the gown over the mantilla on the dresser.

His body was burning with such desire he knew he was likely to make a fool of himself if he touched her, so he simply looked, watching as she sat down on the bed and now slid off the stockings.

He should be doing that!

He moved, turning on a bedside light, dimming it, then turning off the main light so although she shone in the gloom of the darkened room, he felt less embarrassed about his own body—about the scars she had yet to see.

He knew it was pride that bothered him—foolish pride—yet Caroline had loved his body—his old body—so how would she feel? How would she react?

Could he go through with this?

Other women had seen the scars, one had even seemed to be turned on by them in some macabre way, but.

He tried to rationalise his fears which came down to.

What?

Losing her?

She was made of sterner stuff.

Yet fear and, yes, stupid pride still held him in their thrall.

Now she unclipped the suspender belt and tossed it lightly onto a chair, then stood up and came towards him.

‘Fair’s fair,’ she said, and moved close enough to pull his bow-tie undone, removing it, then starting on his shirt buttons, her fingers sliding into the opening of his shirt, undoing the cuff links, finally easing it off his shoulders, not pausing to gaze at the ravages the explosion had left on his body, calmly undoing his belt now, sliding down his zip.

‘You will have to do some of this yourself and as it’s been a very long day, I would really like a shower before we go to bed.’

She pressed a kiss on his lips.

‘Can I leave you to get naked on your own?’ she teased, and as if he wasn’t hard enough his groin tightened even further—agonising.

He’d shower in the guest bathroom. Sex in the shower was all very well, but this first time—this new first time—with Caroline—well, she deserved a bed. They both deserved a bed.

He wasn’t sure of the logic of this, but his mind was racing around like a rat in a maze so logic didn’t stand a chance. He’d shower, put on a nightshirt—Antoinette had produced a new silk one as a pre-wedding gift. Had she guessed how apprehensive he was about leaping the hurdle of a ‘real’ marriage?

Or had Antoinette, who’d bathed his injured, battered body, thought he should wear it for Caroline’s sake?

Not that he didn’t want to wear it—appearing naked in front of Caroline would break down the last of his carefully erected barriers and fear of her revulsion tamed his lust.

But Caroline had said get naked, so wouldn’t she
expect to find him that way, not in a nightshirt, even if it was silk?

The rat kept running into walls, hopelessly trying to learn the escape route. Once Caroline would have laughed if he’d told her about the rat in his head—would she now?

He had no idea—no idea how to begin to think it through, think anything through.

‘You’re not naked!’

She was back!

She couldn’t be back.

And
she
wasn’t naked, though she might as well have been for he could see right through the diaphanous gown she was wearing to the pale, slim, shapely body beneath—the body that had haunted his dreams for four years.

It came to Caroline, standing there, feeling foolish in the nightdress Antoinette had given her—a nightdress Caroline suspected had long lain in Antoinette’s hope chest until hope had faded into sadness—that Jorge was even more uptight than she was about the night ahead of them.

‘Beautiful gown,’ he murmured, but the words rough as if his throat was dry, his mouth devoid of moisture.

She grinned at him.

‘Antoinette took one look at my banana pyjama pants and took over my night-time wardrobe,’ she said, coming closer to where her husband stood. He looked so incredibly foolish with his shirt half-off and his trousers around his knees that it was all she could do not to laugh.

She kissed him lightly on the lips.

‘Go have a shower,’ she told him. ‘You’ll feel much better. You know this isn’t a regular wedding night. You’re under no pressure to perform. Just shower and come to bed.’

H
E CAME
to bed, a silk nightshirt covering his body, and slid in beside her, turning off the bedside light. Caroline wanted to protest, to strip off her gown and his so they’d be naked together, but through the silk she felt the damage to the skin on his torso—damage she’d carefully not looked at as she’d unbuttoned his shirt.

Tears filled her eyes, a bone-deep sadness descending on her. That Jorge, whom she’d loved more than life itself, should shield his scarred body from her. That he did not trust her to love him, scars and all, or even accept him as a lover, scars and all, seemed so overwhelmingly sad she couldn’t help but cry.