His Suitable Bride(126)

They shared a long intense look.

‘Do you know what day tomorrow is?’

‘Of course I do. It’s Zac’s birthday,’ Rowan said huskily.

He smiled. ‘So tomorrow, early, we go home, we wake up our son, and we give him a very special birthday—the first of many, together.’

Rowan smiled a wobbly smile. She was sure she must look a sight, but with Isandro gazing at her as if she were the Venus de Milo she didn’t care. She let him take her hand, pull her up and lead her out to the terrace.

In the warm spring air of a beautiful night in Paris, they started again.

Four years later.

Rowan looked down in wonder at the small head full of dark auburn hair nestled against her breast. Watched the tiny puckered frown, the rosebud mouth suckling fiercely as if her life depended on it. A small hand curled around her little finger with a strength that was truly unbelievable. Her daughter. Alégria. Joy. Because that was what her pregnancy had been. One of hope and joy. There had been every chance that after the chemotherapy her fertility might have been irreparably damaged, but Alégria was proof otherwise.

The door opened with a burst, and a flash of blond barrelled in, followed by Isandro, tall and so handsome that Rowan smiled and her heart clenched as it always did. They shared a look, and then she turned her smiling attention to Zac as he clambered up onto the bed.

‘Mamá, mamá—look what I drew for Légria!’

‘It’s Alégria sweetie …’

Zac clearly wasn’t interested and chattered on, showing Rowan a drawing of Papá, Mamá, Zac and the new baby. Tears filled Rowan’s eyes and Isandro saw them. He came and pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth. She just looked at him mutely, with everything written on her face, in her eyes. The moment was huge. Love blazed between them, strong and true.

Isandro just smiled at her. ‘I know, querida. I know …’





Cordero’s

Forced Bride





Kate Walker





About the Author


KATE WALKER was born in Nottinghamshire, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots are there. She met her husband at university, and originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats, and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theatre, and, of course, reading.

YOU can visit Kate at www.kate-walker.com





For Helen





CHAPTER ONE


IF SHE WAS going to do this, then she had better get on with it, Alexa told herself firmly. In fact, she had better get on with it right now, she added fiercely, knowing there was no other way forward.

Because the truth was that she did have to do this. Somebody had to, that was for sure. No one else was going to do it. And definitely not Natalie.

Natalie would never have coped with this. She’d have given in, gone down under pressure, and she’d have ended up saying the exact opposite of what she’d come to say—what she needed to say.

If Natalie had had to face Santos Cordero then she would have agreed to go through with this wedding she didn’t want, just as she’d been agreeing to do right from the start. She’d go through with it and as a result she’d miss out on her chance of a real relationship, real love. No, Natalie was better being on her way to the airport and a new life.

Leaving her older half-sister to tidy up after her. It was now Alexa’s job to clean up, apologise, explain.

That thought was enough to have Alexa’s feet slowing as she moved away from where the car had just delivered her to the main door of the huge, elegant cathedral of Santa María de la Sede in the centre of Seville. Glancing upwards briefly, towards where the bell tower known as La Giralda was etched against the clear blue sky, she drew a deep, calming breath and squared her shoulders. At her back the crowd of paparazzi gathered to record the event called for her attention, and the flashing of cameras sounded like a fusillade of bullets, one she struggled to ignore as she climbed the couple of worn stone steps into the porch, her fingers reaching out for the heavy wrought-iron handle of the big, carved wooden door.

‘You’re not getting trapped that way, Nat. Not any more.’

She spoke the words out loud, shaking her head as she did so in an attempt to give them more emphasis, to make them mean more and have more effect. But even as she heard them she knew that they lacked the conviction she’d been aiming for. They weren’t going to be able to give her the strength she needed to walk into the cathedral, announce what had happened and deal with the chaos that followed. And that was what she had to do. Because there was no one else.