Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

wide-eyed. Crimson with embarrassment, Sophie stared into space, her mind blanked out by shock at her own wanton behaviour.

      Impervious to that kind of discomfiture, Antonio introduced her very briefly to the lawyer, who, having acted as their second witness, was already making his departure. The official photographer, whose services had been arranged, awaited them in the church porch. At Antonio’s request he produced his driving licence as proof of his identity.

      ‘I’m sorry but the presence of the journalists outside means that a photographic session will not be possible,’ Antonio imparted gravely. ‘That will not, of course, make any difference to your remuneration.’

      Emerging from her fog of self-loathing over that kiss, Sophie exclaimed, ‘But you can’t cancel the photographs!’

      ‘I can do whatever I like, mi rica.’ His quiet tone audible only to her ears, Antonio gazed down at her with grim dark eyes. ‘If you’re responsible for that rabble of reporters out there, you’re likely to be very disappointed by the coverage they gain of our wedding. We’re leaving now by the rear exit.’

      ‘Those people are newspaper reporters?’ Sophie was bewildered by his speech. ‘Why are you suggesting that I might have something to do with them being here?’

      ‘We’ll discuss that later,’ Antonio informed her at a pitch that would have frozen volcanic lava in its tracks.

      Sophie thought that perhaps she had misunderstood what he had said and returned to her main source of concern. ‘You can’t just cancel the photos!’

      ‘Might I suggest,’ the photographer dared in a deferential murmur, ‘That a change of location would suffice?’

      Considerably more interested in heading direct to the airport and his flight home to Spain and normality, Antonio set his even white teeth together at that unwelcome suggestion.

      ‘Look,’ Sophie said urgently, ‘Let me go out and tell those reporters to get lost!’

      Seriously taken aback by that suggestion, Antonio studied his bride. She might be five feet nothing in height, but there was a definite suggestion of belligerence in her irate stance. She was confrontational and naïve. He had a disturbing image of the headlines that would erupt if his wife waded in to exchange insults with a posse of paparazzi. It began to dawn on him for the first time that being married to Sophie might not be the equivalent of a walk in the park. It was a sobering reflection for a male who had intended to safeguard his freedom by taking a wife.

      ‘You can’t let them ruin the day,’ Sophie protested at his elbow. ‘That would be like giving way to blackmail.’

      Antonio stifled a derisive desire to admit that all of a sudden he knew exactly how that felt. ‘We’ll use the grounds of the hotel.’

      His reward for that peace-keeping concession was immediate and startling. Sophie flung both arms round him and gave him an enthusiastic hug. ‘Thanks. Thanks! You won’t regret it.’

      Before the bridal couple left the building, however, Norah Moore also insisted on taking her leave of them. ‘No, I’m not coming one step further to play goose-berry,’ she responded wryly when Sophie took her off to one side in an effort to persuade her to accompany them to the hotel. ‘You should just have said that you and Antonio…well, that kiss said it all for you, didn’t it? I didn’t know where to look!’

      Reminded of what an exhibition she had made of herself, Sophie squirmed in shame and chagrin. ‘It wasn’t like you think.’

      ‘It was just as it should be. Your getting married will be good for my Matt too,’ the older woman informed her bluntly. ‘He’s been trailing after you like a lovelorn puppy, but now he’ll have to get over you.’

      In the limo on the way to the hotel, Sophie turned to Antonio and said, ‘Why did you suggest that I might be responsible for all those journalists turning up at the church?’

      Stunning dark eyes unflinching, he looked levelly back at her. ‘Someone tipped them off.’

      ‘Not me…for goodness’ sake, I didn’t even know the newspapers would be interested in what you get up to!’

      Antonio said nothing.

      Her temper roused, Sophie watched him from below her lashes. ‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’

      ‘If I misjudged you, I’m sorry—’

      ‘If?’ Sophie was outraged by the wording he had chosen to use.

      ‘I don’t yet know who’s responsible for alerting the paparazzi,’ Antonio countered silkily, as immoveable as solid rock in his resolve not to yield the point.

      ‘Well, it wasn’t me and we’re not going to have a very friendly relationship if you keep on accusing me of things I didn’t do!’ Sophie warned him in high dudgeon.

      ‘Who said we have to be friendly?’ Antonio drawled with deliberate provocation, lounging fluidly back in his corner of the limousine to enjoy the entertainment. He liked watching her vibrate with emotion, for that intense capacity for feeling was as rare in his experience as a genuine Stradivarius violin.

      ‘But you just married me!’ Sophie condemned furiously.

      ‘Since when did matrimony and friendship go hand in hand?’ Having made that statement to keep her simmering, Antonio surveyed her from below lush black lashes. Once again his analytical mind was engaged in attempting to dissect the mystery of her pulling power. It wasn’t just her passion. Inexplicably that tiny hat anchored to her mane of curls now struck him as the very essence of femininity. His wide, sensual mouth compressed. In fact she looked amazingly sexy.

      ‘That’s a horrible thing to say!’ Sophie condemned.

      ‘I have a whole host of lifelong married ancestors who cohabited with hatred.’

      ‘That doesn’t surprise me one little bit!’ Sophie slung back.

      Antonio was now endeavouring to work out why she looked so sexy. He still thought the dress was a mistake, but it did somehow contrive to accentuate her delicate grace to perfection. The neckline revealed only a modest hint of shadowy cleavage. She had surprisingly full breasts for her slender build. Even overblown roses could not conceal that ripe, rounded swell from his attention. At that point and very much to his annoyance, his libido kicked in with almost painful enthusiasm. She shifted position, her hemline riding up to expose a slim length of thigh. A wolf to the slaughter, his gaze lingered to trace the limb’s progression into a shapely knee and slender calf that concluded in amazingly narrow ankles and very small feet. Suddenly he wanted her under him with a ferocity that astonished him.

      ‘Pablo was cruel to Belinda,’ Sophie breathed abruptly. ‘I just want you to know I won’t put up with that kind of treatment!’

      All desire stifled by that disquieting revelation, Antonio settled brilliant dark golden eyes on her. ‘What did he do?’

      ‘What didn’t he do?’ Sophie traded heavily with a slight shiver, her anger with Antonio ebbing while she remembered what her sister had told her. ‘He killed her confidence. He was always criticising her and telling her how stupid she was and cutting her off in front of other people.’

      ‘I am not my brother,’ Antonio spelt out with measured clarity.

      ‘Oh, I know that. Pablo wouldn’t have cared what happened to his niece. He would only have got involved if there was money in the offing,’ Sophie ceded grudgingly.

      She was not in the mood to say anything that Antonio might construe as a compliment. But there it was, whether she liked it or not—Antonio was a positive prince among men when set next to his late brother.

      ‘I dislike being compared to Pablo,’ Antonio informed her with cold emphasis.

      Feeling snubbed for having been generous enough to point out that he was much more responsible and caring, Sophie flushed with annoyance and