Bride in a Gilded Cage. ABBY GREEN

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