Bride in a Gilded Cage. Эбби Грин

was not cut of the same cloth as other girls in her peer group, and her actions since then had only confirmed that.

      A sense of anticipation coiled in his belly. The time had come to bring his fiancée home and get married. She looked far too carefree and happy in the photograph he’d just received. And the memory of that kiss was too tantalisingly erotic.

      Exactly as his solicitor had warned, and as he knew himself, his business was starting to suffer. Clients and colleagues were growing nervous, thinking that his single status translated to his being less than reliable on all fronts. He was more often than not in social situations the only single man. He never thought he’d say it, but he could now see the advantages that his marriage had to offer—not the least of which was the prospect of a stunningly beautiful wife on his arm and in his bed.

      This was a business decision, pure and simple, and would be a marriage of convenience like a thousand others in his city.

      ‘That’s right, Lucille, keep bringing your feet back together. Marc, watch your embrace. It needs to be much firmer—you’re not giving Lucille enough support…’

      Isobel adjusted the couple who had just danced past her and watched as they set off again, her eyes automatically going to the other dancers in her tango class, assessing their progress.

      Unfortunately, they couldn’t distract her from the humiliating fact that since she’d left Buenos Aires, a few weeks after the fateful night of her eighteenth birthday, she hadn’t managed to get through one day without thinking about Don Rafael Ortega Romero. Or seeing his devastating face and body in her mind’s eye.

      She’d done everything she could to try and block out his words and what had passed between them. That kiss. Even now she got hot just thinking about it. And, despite living in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, with men asking her out regularly, she’d yet to come close to experiencing anything like she had with Rafael that night.

      If she went on a date, at some point she’d begin to compare her date’s lovemaking to Rafael’s kiss, or how it had felt to be in his arms, and a coldness would lodge in her chest and make her push him back. It was as if Rafael had put some kind of spell on her that night, and she hated him for it.

      The back of her neck prickled then, as if thinking about him might conjure him up, and she shook off the feeling with an effort that dismayed her. This year, for the first time, she’d stopped jumping at every sudden movement, or when someone tapped her on the shoulder. From the moment she’d got off the plane in Paris she’d been expecting to see Rafael. Expecting him to haul her back to Buenos Aires, incensed that she had run away.

      Isobel shook her head now, disgusted with herself all over again. Why hadn’t she been able to erase the memory of that kiss three years ago? She was disgusted too because never in a million years had she ever wanted to be in thrall to someone like him. Arrogant and rich, taking everything for granted.

      A small voice pointed out that her judgment of him was purely superficial, but Isobel disregarded it. She knew very well the kind of world he came from, because she came from it, too. And nothing could dissuade her from believing that he would be as amoral and greedy as the next billionaire, whose sole focus was keeping up appearances and making money. It had been there in his arrogant stance that night of her eighteenth birthday, when he’d come to look her over like a brood mare he was considering buying.

      As time had worn on she’d almost started to believe that perhaps she’d dreamt it—perhaps Rafael hadn’t really meant it when he’d insisted that they would be married. But just weeks ago she’d felt a cold finger of fear touch her spine when her mother had been far too genial on the phone during one of their sporadic calls.

      Her parents had fought her decision to go to Paris, but Isobel had insisted, and since then relations had been strained. When Isobel’s mother had sounded so uncharacteristically upbeat, Isobel had had a strong suspicion that they knew something she didn’t. Had Rafael been in touch with them? Had he reassured them that he and Isobel would be married? She couldn’t ignore the fact that it was two weeks from her twenty-first birthday. Her belly clenched into a knot of tension.

      The song playing through the speakers came to an end and Isobel welcomed the distraction. She clapped her hands together and faced her students, lamenting again the fact that her regular partner, José, was ill and couldn’t be there to teach with her.

      ‘We’re almost done, but I’ll show you how we can put all these steps together in a sequence. Now, I just need a volunteer…’

      Isobel looked around the group and groaned inwardly. None of the men was really good enough to do a demo. But just as she was about to select the best of the bunch, she noticed that everyone’s attention had gone over her head to something behind her, where the door to the studio was. The tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck again, and with a nearly overwhelming sense of foreboding she turned around.

      Rafael had to curb the violence of the reaction in his body when Isobel turned to face him. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. Even though he’d had regular updates on her activities, and photographs, it hadn’t prepared him to see her in the flesh, up close, with her light scent suffusing the air.

      She was dressed in black knee-length leggings and a tank top, showing off the slender gracefulness of her dancer’s physique. She wore special dance shoes, which were obviously more practical for teaching a class than the requisite high heels, but already Rafael was imagining her feet encased in silver or gold, slim high heels elongating those gorgeous legs.

      Just as he’d seen in the photograph, her short hair made her delicate features stand out, made her more luminously beautiful. Her eyes were the same: huge pools of dark brown velvet, their lashes long and dark. She was exquisite. His blood got hot, and as he watched every ounce of colour drained from her face completely.

      Isobel felt the urge to reach out and hold on to something concrete. Don Rafael Ortega Romero stood just feet away from her, dwarfing her tiny studio. For an awful second she wondered if she was in fact imagining him standing there, if she was experiencing some kind of hallucination brought on by thinking about him…But then he spoke.

      ‘I think I could be of assistance to you, if you need a dance partner…?’

      Isobel felt paralysed. She couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. She was dimly aware of her students looking curiously from her to Rafael.

      ‘To demonstrate the steps?’ Rafael prompted, as if she might be having trouble understanding him. As if it was entirely normal that he’d just turned up in her place of work, on the other side of the world.

      Isobel saw Rafael take off his dark jacket, revealing a white shirt and dark trousers. She felt a ripple of unmistakable feminine interest spike behind her and it seemed to break her out of the shock threatening to suck her under.

      Taking control, she put out a hand. ‘No, it’s fine—really, I’ll use…’ She looked around and thought wildly for a second, but this was the beginners’ class. Her eyes rested on Marc, but he went red and gave her a tortured look. Her heart sank. She couldn’t do it to him. She looked back at Rafael, who was standing there looking smug with arms crossed.

      ‘Do you know how to dance tango?’ Isobel asked, feeling as if she’d been dropped into some surreal world. She didn’t even think she was breathing.

      Rafael smiled arrogantly. ‘I’m Argentinian—of course I know how to tango. I’ve been dancing since my grandmother used to sneak my brother and I into milongas when we were younger.’

      Isobel was stunned into speechlessness, and only the presence of curious eyes forced her to pretend insouciance, to shrug lightly and turn round to start the music. With shaking fingers she chose a song, and the strains of Carlos Di Sarli wound through the studio. Numb with shock, she turned back to face Rafael, who was now standing in front of her with a quirked brow.

      ‘What are we doing?’

      ‘Ochos and sacadas.’

      He