‘But what if I can’t live with that?’ she whispered.
‘Then I respect that. I won’t touch you. I’m not a monster.’ His tone hardened. ‘But I am a man. There’s only so much temptation I can stand. You have to be careful, Lily; if you play with fire, you’re going to get burned. It’s up to you to choose what sort of marriage this is going to be.’
‘A loveless marriage, or a loveless, sexless one.’ She made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. ‘That’s my choice?’
He sighed heavily. ‘Not entirely. You can also choose to leave me out of your life and the life of your child.’
Her face was half in shadow but he caught the glimmer of a single tear as it slid silently down her cheek. Her hand moved instinctively to her midriff and slowly she shook her head.
‘No. I want my baby to have a father, but I won’t prostitute myself for the privilege,’ she said dully.
Tristan shrugged helplessly. ‘OK. Your choice.’ Turning away, he began to walk back down the path to the car. ‘I’ll be in touch with travel details for Barcelona as soon as I have them.’
As he drove away he caught a glimpse of her, silhouetted in the light from the hallway, and felt guilt rise like acid in the back of his throat. Bracing his arms against the steering wheel, he swore tersely.
Why was she letting him do this to her?
He had offered her the only way out he could think of and she had stubbornly refused to take it. He had given her a chance to walk away, to live a normal life, and she wouldn’t go.
Why?
Pulling up at a red light, he noticed the folded paper on the seat next to him, and opened it up. ‘Lily Alexander,’ he read. ‘Birthplace—Brighton, England. Mother—Susannah Alexander. Father—unknown.’
So that was it, he thought with a despairing gust of laughter. That explained the fervour with which she’d spoken earlier. I won’t have my child growing up without a name. An identity, she’d said, as if having no father were the worst thing that could happen.
He dragged a hand across his face as the lights changed to green, and he accelerated away with unnecessary force. Her naiveté would have been almost endearing if it weren’t so dangerous.
Everyone was just a victim of their own past, he thought despairingly.
He wondered how long he could go on hiding how much of a victim he was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LILY walked down the aisle of the beautiful old church as if she were in a dream.
From behind the snowy tulle of her designer veil the world had taken on a soft-focus haze, so that she was barely aware of the anonymous smiling faces that turned towards her as she passed, the artistic posies tied onto the pew ends, the candles flickering in sconces on the pillars. She just had to concentrate on putting one expensive ivory satin-shod foot in front of the other…on suppressing the ever-present morning sickness…on making it down to the man who stood waiting at the altar with his back towards her.
As she gripped her bouquet of white roses and lily of the valley her diamond engagement ring bit into her finger, heavy and still unfamiliar. It had arrived a week ago, by courier, accompanied by a terse note giving details of her journey to Barcelona.
That was it.
No explanation, no additional words to strengthen the gossamer-fine threads that tied her to the remote, handsome stranger she was marrying. Nothing to reassure her that she was doing the right thing. Oh, God, was she doing the right thing?
‘Cut!’
There was a palpable release of tension in the ‘congregation’ as the director of the perfume commercial stepped in front of her, making slashing motions with his arms. ‘Lily, darling, you’re walking towards your bridegroom, the love of your life, not your executioner! Some sense of joyous serenity, darling, please! This is supposed to be your wedding! The happiest day of a girl’s life!’
‘Sorry, sorry…’ Lily muttered, gripping her bouquet of slightly wilting roses in anguish. The director’s face softened as he peered through her veil and said quietly, ‘Look, are you OK under there? Perhaps you’d like to take a quick break? Grab something to eat?’
Lily shook her head. The wedding dress supplied by the couture arm of the company was already so tight it felt like some barbaric method of medieval torture, and a car was due to collect her in just a few hours to take her to the private airfield where Tristan’s jet would be waiting. Her stomach swooped at the thought. ‘No, really, I’m fine,’ she said determinedly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m ready now. Let’s do it again.’
The director gave her arm a quick squeeze and nodded at the bridegroom, who was leaning against the altar rail talking on his mobile to his boyfriend in Milan. Gathering up her papery silk skirts, Lily hurried back to the church doorway while the director clapped his hands to bring the congregation of extras back to order, hushing the musical babble of Italian conversation that had risen during the hiatus.
Beneath her veil Lily felt the heat of panic rise to her cheeks and breathed deeply, steadying herself against it as she smoothed a hand over the silk that stretched across her thickening midriff. Her heart twisted with primitive love as she thought of the baby inside her. That was why she was doing it. That was why she was shortly going to be getting on a plane and flying to a strange city to marry a man she didn’t know. She was giving her baby a father. A name. That had to be right, didn’t it?
‘OK, people, let’s take that again. And remember, Lily, you’re drifting on a cloud of bliss, darling. You’re in love and getting married to the man of your dreams! What could be better?’
If he loved me back, thought Lily sadly as she stepped forwards once more into the bright lights.
Tristan didn’t even glance at his father’s secretary as he stalked through her office and pushed open the tall double doors to Juan Carlos Romero de Losada’s inner sanctum. He was holding a piece of paper—a printout of the transactions made by the bank in the last week, which he’d been studying ahead of tomorrow’s meeting with the chancellors of some of Europe’s major banks—and as he threw it down on his father’s desk the secretary appeared at the door looking worried.
‘Señor, I am sorry—’
From behind the fortress of his enormous desk Juan Carlos held up a regal and perfectly manicured hand, the Romero signet ring glinting heavily on his little finger.
‘Please, Luisa, it is not your fault. My son has yet to learn some manners.’ Settling his face into a smooth smile, he turned his cold gaze on Tristan as the secretary retreated with obvious relief. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain what is so important that you neglect the most basic courtesy to my staff?’
Tristan’s face was set into a rigid mask of barely controlled anger. When he spoke it was through gritted teeth, his lips hardly moving.
‘You authorised a further loan to the Khazakismiri army. Last week. Another four million euros. Do you know who these people are? They’re terrorists, guerillas, who are responsible for mass genocide.’
Juan Carlos gave a minute shrug of his elegant shoulders. ‘Their generals are also very likely to form a large part of the cabinet of the next Khazakismiri government. This is business, Tristan. We cannot afford to be emotional.’
The word hit Tristan like an unexpected blow, reminding him so suddenly of Lily that he felt the air being knocked from his lungs.
I think you already are in touch with your emotions, she had said. And I think the emotion you’re most in touch with at the moment is fear.
She was wrong, he thought bitterly as he stared unflinchingly into the brutally handsome face of his father; the face that his own echoed so clearly. He knew fear. Fear was the element in which he had lived for the first eight years of his life, until boarding school had delivered him from it. Fear had coloured every day, so that he knew all its shades of blackness. Fear was being small, powerless, not in control, and he had made sure that he was as far removed from all those things as it was possible to be.
‘I’m not talking about emotion,’ he said icily. ‘I’m talking about ethics.’
‘Tristan, this is Spain’s oldest and most venerated bank, not some ramshackle, politically correct charity,’ Juan Carlos said silkily, and not for the first time Tristan wondered just how much his father knew about his double life. ‘Khazakismir is going through a turbulent time in its history at the moment, but it is an area that is potentially rich in natural gas and oil, and when things are more settled our investment will be richly rewarded. I have a duty to provide the best return for our investors.’
Tristan swore with quiet disgust. ‘And you think they would agree with that if they knew exactly what kind of atrocities their money was funding?’
‘We don’t have to burden them with moral dilemmas or complicated political issues. I think of myself as a father figure to our customers,’ Juan Carlos continued complacently. ‘I make decisions with their best interests at heart. It’s not always an easy role, or a comfortable one, but it is my duty. Just as your duty is to the family.’
Just the word ‘father’ coming from Juan Carlos’s lips made Tristan’s hands bunch into fists and adrenaline pulse through him. His eyes were drawn, as they always were whenever he had any cause to penetrate Juan Carlos’s private citadel, to the large silver-framed photograph that stood on the desk. To the casual observer it showed the Romero de Losada Montalvo family posing happily together on the steps of El Paraiso, but Tristan always suspected it was placed there, not so much to impress visitors, but to remind Tristan of the real nature and extent of his ‘duty’.