ouse to tell him about the baby.
Standing in the morning room, he’d known he could force Belle to marry him, if he chose.
He suddenly didn’t want to.
He didn’t want to be her enemy. For their daughter’s sake, they needed a better foundation for their marriage, for a happy home, than resentment and hatred.
So Santiago had abruptly changed tactics.
Instead of giving Belle his ultimatum in the morning room, he’d given her time to rest, to regroup, to be refreshed. And he’d taken time to plan his own strategy. He’d organized this dinner with the help of his staff. The dress had already been purchased in nearby Alford, by Mrs. Carlson, but he’d still lacked one thing: a show-stopping engagement ring.
Fortunately, he’d thought with grim amusement, he happened to have one, gathering dust these past years in his safe. The diamond ring was tucked in his tuxedo pocket now, glinting, sparkling, obscene.
He’d tried to give this ring to a different woman, long ago; one he’d loved so much he’d built his billion-dollar fortune in the attempt to win her. Santiago still felt acid in his gut at the memory of the day he’d proposed to Nadia with this very ring, as promised so many years before, only to discover she hadn’t waited for him. And the man she’d chosen—
Santiago’s shoulders went tight. In the past. All in the past. Starting today, he would treat Belle, the mother of his unborn child, with respect and care. Once he did, she would see reason. She would not refuse his marriage proposal.
The sun was falling into the lake, a red ball of fire burning through the low haze of twilight, when Santiago heard Belle come out through the sliding doors onto the terrace. Turning from the railing, he looked at her.
And was dazzled.
He’d never seen such rampant beauty, all lush curves in that red dress, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her lips invitingly red, black eyelashes trembling over big brown eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, holding out a champagne glass. “Brighter than the stars.”
She took the glass. From this close, her skin looked delectably soft. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to pick her up like a caveman and carry her to bed, to rip off the red dress that clung to every curve, and make love to her until he felt her quiver and shake, until he heard her cry out with pleasure.
She looked up at him, her eyes regretful. “I can’t drink champagne.”
“It’s sparkling juice.”
“Juice?” Taking the glass, she gave him a nervous smile. “I can’t imagine you drinking anything except black coffee and maybe Scotch.”
“We’re celebrating.”
“We are?”
“And if you can’t drink champagne, neither will I.”
Her forehead furrowed in the twilight, beneath the fairy lights of the pergola.
“I think I know why you’re being so nice to me,” she said slowly.
“Because I know I was wrong,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”
She could have no idea, he thought, how long it had been since he’d said those last two words to anyone. Years? Decades?
“Sorry?” She frowned. “About what?”
“You truly thought you couldn’t get pregnant.”
Her expression changed. “Why do you believe me now?”
“Dr. Hill told me about your medical procedure.”
“She shouldn’t have.” She stiffened. “That’s my private business.”
“Not anymore. Anything that relates to you or the baby is my business now.” Moving closer, his body thrummed with awareness as his gaze fell to her red lips, then further down still. Her thick dark hair fell in waves over her bare clavicle, over her shoulders, almost to her full breasts straining the red knit fabric of her dress. His body suddenly raged to pull her into his arms, tip her back against the table and ravage her right here and now. He took a deep breath to control himself.