Rafael's Suitable Bride (11 page)

‘But…?'

‘But I haven't been brought up to sleep my way through a series of meaningless relationships.' Another lungful of air. ‘I…' She almost slipped up and told him that she loved him, but she bit back the words which, even more than the carefully planned meal, would have guaranteed him running
scared within seconds. He had not once mentioned love, and she wasn't going to ask for declarations, just for the hope that they could progress the relationship in the right direction.

‘And that's a good thing,' he surprised her by saying. He leaned across the table towards her. The first time he had proposed marriage, he had done it in style—bended knee, his mother's engagement ring. That marriage had been an illusion. This, however, was reality and there would be no foolish romantic gestures. ‘I don't expect you to continue sleeping with me, assuming the position of mistress. I knew that the very first time we slept together it was a matter of great significance for you.' He paused. ‘I would never disrespect you, nor would I disrespect your parents by stringing you along. Which is why I think we should get married.'

‘Get married?'

‘Of course.'

This wasn't what Cristina had imagined, not as a marriage proposal nor, for that matter, as a likely outcome for her conversation with him. Gradually, though, his words sunk in. Not only was he prepared to offer her hope that their relationship was more serious than she could ever have dreamed possible, but he was proving it by doing the one thing he had spent years avoiding! It might have been a bit flat as far as proposals went, but he wasn't given to sweeping emotional displays, and wasn't this her dream come true? Her fairy-tale ending?

She smiled tentatively and he took her hand and idly played with her wedding finger. ‘So…is that a yes?' he asked softly.

‘It's a yes!'

‘Good.' Rafael sat back, satisfied. ‘In that case, a ring is in order. I think it's safe to say that we might as well enjoy a brief spell of calm before our families are let loose.'

That funny, flat feeling was gone as her imagination took
wing and began to soar.
A ring!
She would be sporting an engagement ring! And would be marrying the man of her dreams
!
How much better could life get?

She went across and flung her arms around him. ‘Does that mean,' he drawled, ‘That you're offering yourself for dessert?'

‘Just making the most of this brief spell of calm, as you ordered,' Cristina laughed. ‘And, in case you're still hungry, you can have whatever dessert you like…'

I
N ALL
good movies, the dashing man proposed on bended knee, flourishing an antique engagement ring, which magically always fitted the blushing bride-to-be. Sometimes the ring was concealed in a fortune cookie, which had always got Cristina wondering what might happen if it were to be accidentally swallowed.

She decided that it was probably much better to actually choose the engagement ring together and, Rafael being Rafael, the minute she had accepted his marriage proposal he took charge.

He knew exactly which jewellers to visit, as he had used them himself in the past. Cristina wondered what, exactly, he had bought from them, but she kept that uneasy question to herself, happy to go along with the flow. Despite owning some valuable pieces of jewellery herself, most of which were pointlessly locked in bank vaults, Cristina was not a jewellery person. Rings and necklaces might look fine on her sisters, but she personally found that they got in the way of normal day-today activities, like gardening or playing sports. How on earth could she coach football with a tiara on her head or a string of pearls wrapped around her neck?

‘We'll try and stay away from the flamboyant pieces, in
that case,' Rafael had told her. But when, two days later, they found themselves in the exclusive jewellery shop, Cristina watched in dismay as drawers of rings with diamonds the size of oranges were pulled out.

‘You know, I could always get it from one of Dad's shops in Italy,' she said faintly, staring down at something that glittered so much she felt she might need to fetch her sunglasses out of her handbag.

‘Nonsense. What's wrong with the selection here?'

‘Remember what I said about not really liking rings with diamonds the size of rocks?' She picked out one of the smaller pieces and held it up. It was a good diamond, but it was still a very large diamond. The man clucking around them had discreetly positioned himself to one side and Cristina turned to Rafael awkwardly.

‘We could always go for something really cheap and cheerful,' she joked. ‘That way, when I get knocked football coaching, it won't matter too much if it falls off.'

Rafael frowned. ‘What do you mean, when you get knocked football coaching?'

‘It happens.' Cristina broke it to him in a teasing voice. ‘Running around on a muddy playing field with a bunch of teenagers trying to score a goal. Sometimes they don't see me on the sidelines shouting instructions. Or maybe they do.' She laughed, expecting him to laugh back with her, but instead his ebony brows were knitted into a frown. ‘What's the matter?' she asked, slotting the ring back into its velvet niche and signalling for the proprietor to take the case away.

‘Why would you be football coaching?' Rafael asked with genuine puzzlement in his voice.

‘Ah.' Cristina was beginning to understand. She turned to the proprietor with a smile. ‘We're going to go away for a bit
and think about which ring is right for us,' she said. ‘Rafael, shall we go and grab something to eat and we can discuss this?'

‘What's there to discuss? There must be a ring in this shop that you like, Cristina.'

‘Come on.' She placed her small hand on his arm and guided him out of the shop into the bright sunlight outside. A sunny Saturday in London was not the most relaxing place on the face of the earth to be. The streets were overflowing with people, tourists snapping pictures, young girls frantically trying to shop, people scurrying to destinations unknown, and all of them in a terrible rush from the looks of it.

Across the street was a coffee shop, one of those newfangled ones that sold fancy coffees with long names and over sized prices, along with paninis, baguettes and tiny salads in eco-friendly packaging.

‘Look, Rafael,' she opened, when they had finally emerged from the queue and were sitting in front of their tall paper cups of coffee. ‘There's something we need to talk about.' She took a careful sip of her latte and thought about what she was going to say. This was something she had never considered when she had joyfully accepted his proposal of marriage. Rafael was all Italian, and his way of looking at marriage had been through the eyes of a man who could see no reason for his wife to work. Not only could he more than afford to keep her in whatever style she so desired, but that would be his right and his duty. It would make no difference that she could more than afford to keep herself in whatever style she chose. He was Italian, and that would be the way things would work.

She took a deep breath. ‘I love what I do, Rafael. I came over here so that I could open my flower shop and try and fulfil some of my ambitions. I know that, next to yours, you probably find my ambitions a little limp, but there's no way
I am going to give up everything I've worked for the minute there's a ring on my finger.'

Rafael frowned. ‘I see no reason for my wife to go out to work,' he said heavily.

‘That's a very Victorian point of view. This is the twenty-first century. Women go out to work. They don't stay indoors doing the cooking and cleaning and laundry and waiting for their husbands to come through the front door at the end of the day.' She thought that Anthea would have been very proud of that little speech. Of course, compared to her friend, she was alarmingly old-fashioned, but Rafael…Rafael was a positive dinosaur.

‘I'm not asking you to do the cooking and cleaning and laundry,' he now pointed out. ‘I have my own chef, and someone comes in twice a week to do the cleaning and laundry. Actually, it won't be a problem if she comes in every day. I'm sure she would be more than amenable if she's offered enough money.'

‘And what would I do all day?' Cristina asked, knowing that she should be angry with him for his out-dated attitude, but warmly aware that there was a note of possessiveness behind it that thrilled her to death.

Rafael shrugged. ‘Whatever women who don't go out to work do all day.' He wouldn't go into too many details on that one. His dearest ex-wife had managed to pack in a surprising amount in her days. Unlike Cristina, she had been more than happy to ditch her job and begin the arduous marital task of running through vast sums of money. Along the way—and seemingly immune to the stunningly obvious piece of logic which states that a man must work in order to earn—she had grown bored with a husband who was always at work, bored with random spending, and had taken to distributing her
favours elsewhere, on men who'd flattered her ego and filled the increasing absences of her husband.

Ironically Cristina, who came with money of her own and didn't have a need to work, was the one now insinuating that he was something from the Dark Ages because he wanted a wife at home.

‘I wouldn't know,' Cristina told him. ‘I've never just stayed at home and done nothing.'

‘What do your sisters do?'

‘Rafael, they both have children and very busy lives. Frankie does a lot of charity stuff, organising events, and they both play tennis and golf.'

Rafael tried and failed to picture Cristina playing tennis, followed by tea with a select group of friends. She wasn't a tennis-playing kind of person.

‘I'm going to keep running the flower shop,' she stated firmly. ‘And I'm also going to carry on with the football coaching when the season begins towards the end of the year. And I might just have my first commission to landscape a garden in July. So, before we get married and I disappoint you, I might as well say that I won't be giving up my various jobs.'

‘I don't feel comfortable having a wife who's running all over London working for other people.'

Cristina, knowing exactly the way his mind was working, released a small sigh. ‘I won't be running all over London working for other people,' she told him mildly.

‘Landscape jobs?'

‘One possible landscape job.'

‘You'll be all over the country. Sourcing baby conifers and spring bulbs.'

Cristina laughed out loud. ‘You don't know the first thing about gardening, do you?

‘Why on earth would I?'

‘Well, I can assure you, a lot of it will be in the layout and design, and I really won't need to trek the length and breadth of the country to get whatever plants I may need.'

Rafael, having pretty much banked on an obedient and traditional wife, looked in some consternation at the stubborn set of her mouth. She might be sweetly undemanding, but it was obvious that she was capable of digging those sweetly undemanding heels in. He mentally conceded defeat in this particular area which, he had to admit, was not a particularly important area.

If she wanted to play at the flower-shop business, then so be it. The football coaching, or any other coaching for that matter, could simply be seen as a form of exercise, similar to going to the gym once a week. And, well, a landscape job…one that might or might not materialise…what was the use in getting stressed over that?

Also—and he came to the conclusion that this was of greater importance—what had his ex done in the absence of any job or hobby or overriding interest? The devil worked on idle hands.

All things considered, it might be a better thing for Cristina to potter around her flower shop and sketch layouts for other people's gardens.

He smiled magnanimously at her. ‘You're right,' he said grandly. ‘I've been brought up with the outmoded concept of the wife at home tending the fires.'

‘While the caveman does the hunting,' she agreed, relieved that this minor difficulty had been surmounted. ‘And I won't be needing a chef to do the cooking,' she continued. ‘Although a cleaner might be useful now and again.'

‘No, the chef is definitely redundant after that meal you cooked for me a couple of days ago.' He grinned at her. Cristina
wondered whether he knew just how sexy he looked when he smiled like that, when the harsh angles of his face were softened and his eyes looked hot and lazy. ‘I particularly enjoyed the dessert,' he added wickedly. ‘What would you call it?'

‘Ssh!' Cristina looked around her, blushing.
He
might think that because he viewed the rest of the world with royal indifference that it, likewise, was royally indifferent to
him
. Not so. Even in a heaving London coffee shop, he still managed to be the centre of attention, and Cristina was sure that a number of the women had deliberately decided to enjoy their coffees inside instead of taking them out. Rafael Rocchi made very fetching scenery.

‘I can't believe you can be shy when you think—'

‘That it's time to go!' She stood up, bright red, aware that a couple of women too close for comfort were listening with interest to their exchange.

‘Of course. The ring. And then—' he stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped back, allowing her to precede him through the door ‘—I think a visit to the country might be in order. My mother will be over the moon.'

* * *

Cristina was blissfully happy on the drive up to the Lake District. It was hard to imagine that months ago she had undertaken exactly the same drive in her little Mini. Who ever would have thought that, with summer breaking through the cool spring days, she would now be making the same trip in Rafael's Bentley with a glorious, exciting future stretching out in front of her with the man she adored?

Three weeks ago they had finally chosen the engagement ring and she looked surreptitiously now at her finger where it sparkled, a tangible reminder that this wasn't all some weird dream from which she would eventually awaken.

He had refused to indulge her whimsy for something cheap and cheerful. Having been surrounded by jewellery all her life, she would have liked to discard the formality of something really expensive, but that, he had informed her, was inappropriate.

‘My wife will wear the best,' he had said to her, squashing all thoughts of rebellion.

The diamond wasn't the size of a boulder, but it would never pass unnoticed. Utterly impractical for her line of work, but what was a loving relationship if not about compromises? And hadn't he compromised when it had come to her work?

Her parents had been overjoyed at the news of her engagement. In fact, like a rider pulling back on the reins of a runaway horse, Cristina had had to halt the tide of plans, which had included an elaborate engagement party in Italy, similar to the extravaganza which both her sisters had enjoyed. That had been
their
choice, but it wasn't hers. She remembered both parties as confusingly big affairs at which she had clung to the sidelines, sipping non-alcoholic drinks and wondering when she could slip away to her bedroom so that she could catch up on the reality TV show she had been obliged to miss.

It was already seven in the evening by the time they finally made it to Maria's country house. Cristina had spent much of the trip dozing, much to Rafael's amusement. He had never been known to send a woman to sleep, and he found that he rather missed her chatter, having become accustomed to her random remarks about perfectly ordinary things and perfectly dull-looking people. Sometimes in the past few weeks, when his day had been particularly gruelling, he had picked up the phone knowing that her good-natured, irrepressible small talk would soothe and entertain him.

‘We're here,' he said, turning to her as he pulled into the
drive and killed his engine. In a minute his mother would be outside, and he very much looked forward to a weekend spent without that insidious message being passed to him in silent but pointed waves that it was time for him to find himself a good wife and settle down. He had taken her advice and, hats off to his mother, he felt perfectly contented with his decision.

‘Was I asleep?' Cristina asked, yawning.

‘Asleep and snoring.'

‘I wasn't!' She shot up into a sitting position and looked at him in horror, but grinned when she saw the expression on his face.

Rafael kissed her swiftly on the mouth. ‘That's about all we'll be getting,' he murmured. ‘At least while my mother has her beady eyes on us. She's never been one to approve of public displays of affection. I might just have to creep into your bedroom tonight under cover of darkness.' He glanced towards the front door and, as it was still shut, he slipped his hand under her shirt. No bra.