Everywhere, he saw admiring eyes, curious eyes. All of them, these aristocrats and royals and politicians from around the world, seemed to admire him as he’d once only dreamed of being admired.
Ironic. All it had taken was the death of his brother, and suddenly Santiago had become a Zoya.
His jaw was taut as he came down the aisle, Belle directly behind him. Then he froze.
At the altar, surrounded by flowers, he saw a closed casket covered with a blanket embroidered with the family’s coat of arms. The brother he’d never met, the chosen one, the rightful heir. Surrounding the coffin were flowers, tall silver candlesticks and officiants, ponderous in their robes.
Santiago’s attention fell on two people in the front row. An old man in a wheelchair. His father. He looked old, compared to the pictures he’d seen. His face looked querulous, and his skin so pale it was almost translucent.
Beside him, patting him on the shoulder, a woman stood in a sleek, short black dress and chic little black hat with netting. Nadia.
At thirty-six, she was tall and thin and blonde, delicate and fragile, like an angel, severely elegant in her dark mascara and red slash of lipstick. He felt the shock of her beauty like the metallic tang of a remembered poison that had once been tasted and nearly been fatal.
Looking up, Nadia’s violet eyes pierced him. She lowered her head to whisper to the man in the wheelchair, and the Duque de Sangovia’s rheumy eyes abruptly looked up to see Santiago, his thirty-five-year-old bastard son, for the very first time.
For a second, Santiago held his breath. Then he exhaled. What did he care what the man thought of him now?
Behind him, Belle gave a soft, breathy curse that made him turn and stare. She’d never used a curse word in front of him before. Her eyes were wide with horror.
“That’s your ex?” she said in a strangled voice. “Nadia Cruz?”
“So?” he said shortly.
“So—she’s famous! I’ve seen her movies! She’s one of the biggest movie stars in the world!”
“I know,” he said impatiently, and strode forward to the end of the aisle, Belle trailing behind him.
“Santiago! Thank the heavens you are here at last,” Nadia greeted him in Spanish, anxiously holding out her hands. “Quickly, quickly, it’s about to start. We saved you a place...” She drew back with an irritated look as she saw Belle behind him, still clinging to his hand. “Who is this?”
“My fiancée,” he responded in the same language. “Belle Langtry.”
Belle’s hand tightened. She didn’t understand Spanish, but she understood her own name.
Nadia gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and switched to say in clear English, “We only saved one place in the front row. For family only. She’ll have to go behind.”
“She stays with me,” Santiago said automatically, but he was distracted as his father wheeled himself forward.
The Duque de Sangovia was even older than he’d expected. He seemed to have shrunken since last photographed, in the days since his heir had died. He said imperiously to Santiago, “You will sit between Nadia and me.” He didn’t look at Belle. “Your companion must find another place.”
Bereaved or not, Santiago wasn’t going to let the old man boss him around. “No, she stays.”
But he felt Belle’s hand pull away.
“It’s fine. I’ll get a spot in the back,” she said quickly, and disappeared into the crowd. As the choir started to sing, everyone took their seats and Santiago found himself sitting between his father, whose attention he’d once craved so desperately, and the woman he’d once loved so recklessly.
Twisting his head, Santiago saw Belle in her dark black dress and coat sitting three rows behind them. Her lovely face was pale, her dark eyes luminous and sad. Was she so affected by the death of a man she’d never known? But when she met his eyes, she gave him an encouraging smile.
Always so thoughtful. Such a loving heart.
Luring him to trust her. To love her. Luring him to his own destruction.
Santiago turned away, a storm raging inside him.
The priest began the ceremony and he sat numbly, hardly able to feel anything. He barely heard the words as one officiant after another praised his brother, who apparently had been a paragon, beloved by all.
His heart was pounding as he stared at the closed casket, covered with the embroidered Zoya coat of arms and surrounded by flowers, barely hearing the eulogies.
He’d never imagined he would someday be seated beside his father, the duke, in a place of honor, for all the world to see. The old man actually looked at him once or twice during the ceremony, his wizened expression a little bewildered, tears in his eyes.