CHAPTER FOUR
FORWANTOFsomething to do in Marcelo’s absence, Clara decided to clear the table, but no sooner had she started when two members of his staff bustled in and insisted she leave it to them.
Was there anything worse than boredom? she wondered. She’d been bored rigid in her Monte Cleure prison cell but at least she’d successfully kept her mind occupied thinking of escape routes and ways to torture Dominic, and dreaming up insults and cutting remarks to her women gaolers who so rarely left her side.
She had no idea why it had upset her when Marcelo challenged her about whether she’d have been able to fight Dominic off. It had got to the stage where she believed rescue would never come so she’d made her plans for it, and those plans were simply to fight until her last breath. It had amused her to imagine the public’s reaction to her wedding night death. Better than the alternative of imagining her own corpse. The thought of her own death as a concept didn’t particularly bother her. So long as her animals back home were taken care of then she was happy to go. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy life—she did, very much, even if at times it felt a little lonely—but more that she didn’t fear the pain and grief for those she loved, mainly because there wasn’t anyone left who loved her. It was a simple fact. She thought some of her colleagues might miss her, some might even shed a tear, but they wouldn’t grieve her and would probably quickly forget her. Even Samson and Delilah, her dogs, would transfer their affection to Liza. Dogs lived in the moment. It was an ethos Clara tried hard to emulate.
Maybe Marcelo’s challenge had upset her because she’d had a fleeting moment of wondering what if? As in, what if Marcelo hadn’t rescued her?
Clara didn’t deal with what ifs. They were pointless. When bad stuff happened the only way forward was to dust yourself down, put it behind you and carry on.
How funny, though, that he should be so prudish about flesh. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d be uncomfortable to see her in a towel. Marcelo had had lots of lovers.
She remembered catching a glimpse of him when she was fifteen and he’d turned up at her boarding school one Saturday to take Alessia out. Clara had been confined to her room that weekend for some misdemeanour or other, and she’d sat on her windowsill watching the bustle of activity unfolding in the grounds when the tall, gorgeous stranger had caught her eye. She’d guessed by Alessia’s reaction that he was one of her brothers and when she’d been subsequently put in a room with the Ceresian princess some months later, she’d asked about him. And that had been that. Clara hadn’t given him another thought in the following years, apart from the times when she flicked through social media and caught a glimpse of his name. She always followed the links, always hoping to find he’d settled down with one of the beautiful women he was often pictured with. Any man who went out of his way to take his little sister on jollies from boarding school was all right in Clara’s book and deserved to find happiness. Andrew hadn’t made a single visit in all her years there.
She supposed that’s why it hadn’t occurred to her that her flesh would make Marcelo uncomfortable because, to a degree, she trusted him so it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be more appropriate—how she hated that word. She’d lost count of the times her teachers would say, ‘That is not appropriate behaviour, Miss Sinclair.’—to leave the room before putting the jeans back on. The towel couldn’t be helped as she genuinely hadn’t seen the clothes on the bed, but even if she had, the same degree of trust in Marcelo applied. He would not lay an unwanted finger on her.
Trust, however limited, in a man? In any human? This really was a day of firsts.
Helping herself to a slice of the lemon mousse brought in for her, she stretched her legs out and wriggled her bare toes and contemplated that it was just as well she’d be leaving for the embassy soon. Marcelo made her feel all funny inside. More nervous energy than usual ran through her veins and she kept staring at the dining room door like she was waiting with bated breath for his return. This was curious and a touch disconcerting. But only a touch. Lots of women, she imagined, would have a fit of the vapours to be in his presence so in comparison the effect he had on her was minor.
All the same, she found herself straightening when he returned to the dining room.
He closed the door behind him.
One look at his face told her something terrible had happened.
She half rose from her chair. ‘Has someone died?’
A look of amused but pained torture contorted his gorgeous features, and he shook his head, lowering himself into his seat and gripping at his hair.
He closed his eyes for a long moment and, when he opened them, fixed them directly on her. ‘There is no easy way to say this.’
‘Then just say it,’ she encouraged. ‘Straight to the point is always best.’
The corners of his lips twitched for a moment before his shoulders rose and he took a deep breath. ‘I need to convince you to marry me.’
Marcelo watched Clara carefully, bracing himself for whatever unpredictable reaction she would give.
The large eyes widened. The plump mouth sucked in so hard her cheeks sucked in with them, disappearing until her lips were the size and shape of a bird’s beak.
And then she covered the bird’s beak and half her face with her hand, and her shoulders began to shake. To his alarm, tears spilled over the hand smothering her mouth but the alarm barely had time to register for she whipped the hand away, slapped it on the table and threw her head back.
She wasn’t crying. She was laughing. She was convulsed with it.
She slapped the table a number of times and must have swiped at the tears a dozen times before she regained control of herself, and even then her chest and shoulders continued to shake.
‘Marry you?’ she finally managed to splutter. ‘I’ve heard everything now. And you’re serious!’ More laughter echoed around the room. ‘You are. I can see it on your face. You want me to marry you! Is that what your mother wanted to see you for? Is this her idea? No way it’s yours. She must be desperate!’
Marcelo had left his family feeling as if he had the weight of the entire castle on his shoulders, but now, with Clara’s laughter ringing in his ears and her glee shining before his eyes, he felt that weight lift.
He’d imagined tantrums. He’d imagined her throwing things at him. He’d imagined curses. He’d imagined her making a running jump through one of the dining room windows and then continuing to run until she found the British embassy.
Knowing she preferred straight to the point honesty, he said, ‘Yes. Unfortunately my rescuing you did not go undetected—your guards broke the door down and managed to get some pictures of us hanging from the helicopter. Dominic has launched a full diplomatic war and is making threats against our nation. To get public and political opinion on our side, not just here on Ceres but in Europe, my mother and the rest of my family think we should marry as soon as possible and spin things that you and I are a love match and that I stole you away from Dominic because I had been a stubborn fool who didn’t realise until it was nearly too late how much I love you and couldn’t bear to see you married to someone else.’
‘That’s what your family thinks?’ There was a flash of astuteness. ‘And what do you think?’
He sighed and pushed his chair back. Rising to his feet, he said, ‘I think I need a drink. Want one?’