Spaniard's Waitress Wife
Autor:in
Kate Hewitt
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Kapitel
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A Cinderella, runaway bride, second chance, Spanish billionaire romance. Married in haste… Reunited in passion? A cocktail waitress and a Spanish aristocrat? Their passionate whirlwind romance had everyone convinced — until Mia ran away weeks into their marriage, after a painful loss created an emotional chasm they couldn't cross. But Santos has finally found her… Vows are forever, as far as Santos is concerned. He insists Mia come home to Seville, but she carries too much heartbreak to return. Santos changes tack, using desire rather than demands to reclaim his runaway wife. But he must confront their past and expose his own vulnerabilities, for Mia to trust him with hers…
CHAPTER ONE
TECHNO MUSIC PULSED in time with the beat of his heart as Santos Aguila’s narrowed gaze surveyed the crowded bar, his arms folded across his powerful chest. He didn’t want to be here. Moreover, he didn’t want Mia to be here. His wife—his wayward wife.
A frown settled between Santos’s dark brows as his gaze continued to move over the young, enthusiastic crowd partying it up—a tiresome and expected mix of trust-fund babies and inebriated gap-year students, along with the odd socialite who had decided to slum it at this rooftop bar in Ibiza Town. He had it on good authority—that of the world-class private detective he’d hired ten days ago—that Mia would be here tonight.
Raucous music continued to blare from the speakers, mixing with the shrill shrieks of feminine laughter, as well as the clink and clatter of glasses and trays. Tension banded Santos’s temples as he felt the unfortunate start of a migraine that he did his best to stave off. He needed to find Mia before he succumbed to any such infirmity. He needed to find her—and bring her home, for good. Why he needed to do this, considering she’d left him without so much as a word, was a question Santos chose not to examine too closely. She was his wife, she belonged with him...and that was all that mattered.
They had first met at a bar much like this one—full of the young, hip and trendy, with eye-wateringly expensive cocktails—in Portugal’s Algarve just seven short months ago. She’d been behind the bar, her auburn hair messily piled on top of her head, her blue-green eyes alight with humour and mischief as she’d shaken cocktails with sinuous, elegant ease. Just as with this bar tonight, Santos hadn’t wanted to be there. His oldest friend Emiliano had insisted on a wild stag night, even though Santos didn’t do wild, or even parties; but, when his gaze had snagged on Mia, he’d found himself caught, transfixed.
There had been something about the way she’d moved with such easy, lithe grace, and he’d become mesmerised by every flip of her wrist and the way she tilted her head back when she laughed, a generous, open sound that had floated through him like a warm breeze. She had a small space between her front teeth that somehow just added to her enchantment. She wasn’t classically beautiful, certainly not in the way of the women he’d usually had on his arm—elegant, entitled women suitable for a man of his standing—like his almost-fiancée, Isabella. Mia had been something more, something real and warm...or so he’d believed at the time.
Her gaze had skimmed over him, resting on his form for barely a millisecond before moving on, and it had somehow felt like both a challenge and an invitation. He’d decided he simply had to say hello to her—a compulsion that, a bit uneasily, he had acknowledged was very unlike him—and they’d ended up talking until the bar had closed at three a.m. And then afterwards as well... Oh, he certainly remembered the afterwards.
With effort, Santos pushed such thoughts and the ensuing recriminations out of his mind. No point dwelling on the past and how it had all gone so very wrong. Right now, he just wanted to find Mia...and bring her home.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, continuing to scan the faces that were starting to blur a little as pain tightened on his temples. He hadn’t had a migraine in over a year, he thought in irritation. Why now? And where was Mia?
A sweaty, red-faced twenty-something guy holding two cocktails aloft knocked into his shoulder, sloshing the lurid red liquid over the rim of the glasses and almost onto Santos’s expensively tailored jacket. Santos stepped quickly out of the way, causing a blaze of pain through his head as the guy slurred his apologies and moved on. What on earth was Mia doing in a place like this? It was a question Santos didn’t want to think about too closely because, the more he considered it, the more he feared he’d never known his wife at all.
And yet they were married, and would stay married, because an Aguila kept his vows. Even here, amidst the pounding music of the bar, Santos could recall his father’s voice, deep and certain, telling him again and again what it meant to be an Aguila. He could see his aristocratic face crumpled in pain...
But he couldn’t think about that now. That memory was buried far too deeply. What he knew, what he was absolutely certain of, was that as an Aguila he would keep his word. He would keep his vow...no matter what happened.
Santos stepped out of the crowded indoor space onto the rooftop terrace. The air was soft, the harbour glinting under the moonlight dotted with fishing boats and private yachts. It was quieter out here, at least, and he felt he could breathe. The pain in his head eased a little...and then he saw her.
The pain flashed again like a blaze of lightning, and he had to put one hand on the doorframe to steady himself. He blinked to clear his blurred vision and there she was: leaning against the low wall that surrounded the terrace, the silver-limned harbour the perfect backdrop for her long, lithe figure. Her auburn hair blew in tangled waves in the sea breeze, and she pushed it back with both hands as she laughed at the man standing next to her. A man, Santos noted grimly, who was looking at her in frank and unabashed admiration.
She was wearing a dress—and, oh, what a dress. It was made of a shimmery emerald satin with a halter top, and it covered her from collar bone to ankle, yet clung to every curve and dip of her figure so lovingly that Santos thought she might as well be naked.
His head continued to pulse with pain. What the hell was his wife doing in a place like this, wearing a dress like that, and with a man next to her, ogling her all the way? None of it boded well. All of it made him coldly furious. Slowly, each move lethal, he stalked towards his wife.
She was so busy talking to the Lothario in tight leather jeans, with his shirt unbuttoned nearly to his navel, that she didn’t notice her husband standing a few feet away—not until her companion threw Santos a startled glance.
‘Umm...do you need something?’ he asked in heavily accented English.
‘Si,’ Santos replied curtly. ‘Mi esposa.’ My wife.
He looked pointedly at Mia, while the man’s jaw dropped, and then Mia finally looked at him. Her face drained of colour so the freckles on her nose stood out in bold relief, her eyes widening to aquamarine pools and her lips—those lush lips he’d kissed and tasted—parting slightly.
‘Santos...’ His name was no more than a breath.
‘Mia.’ His voice was flat and hard. They stared at each other for what could only have been a second but felt endless. In that brief flicker of time, Santos felt as if he could recall every moment of their marriage: the early rapture; the ensuing cold silences; a chasm neither of them had been able to cross; the deep, deep disappointment and the lancing pain. And now this.
‘I think I’ll leave you two alone,’ the man murmured, slipping away while Mia simply stared at Santos, her face still deathly pale.
He folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to speak. Surely, she would say something—apologise, explain? Stammer something, at least, even if he already knew nothing she could say would make much of a difference. She’d left him without a single word six weeks ago, slipping away in the night like a thief. She’d never let him know where or how she was or if she was even alive. She had a lot of explaining to do, Santos thought with a cold fury that he feared masked a far worse hurt.
And yet she didn’t say a word. After a second, her gaze flicked away from him, almost as if he’d been dismissed. The fury he’d been keeping on a tight rein burst into flame and made the pain in his head a thousand times worse. After six weeks of silence, this was what he got—absolutely nothing? He reached for her arm, her skin soft and cool beneath his touch.
Mia tensed as his fingers curled around her wrist. ‘Let go of me, Santos,’ she said in a low voice that trembled. She wasn’t looking at him.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he replied grimly, and she jerked her arm away from him.
‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’
She cradled her arm to her chest as if he’d hurt her, but Santos knew he hadn’t. He’d barely touched her, and yet she was acting as though he was a bully, a threat, a danger. How had that happened? She was the one at fault in this scenario. She was the one who had run away without a word...and he wanted to know why.
‘Mia, you’re my wife,’ he told her. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘We might be married, but you don’t own me,’ she fired back, and he took a slow, steadying breath. Responding in anger—as much as he was tempted to—wasn’t going to help things, and it would make his head blaze all the more.
‘We need to talk at least,’ he stated. ‘In private. Surely you owe me that much?’
She hesitated, and he saw the shadow of something in her eyes—something like regret, or maybe just guilt. ‘Please,’ he said quietly, and, with a slump of her slender shoulders she finally relented.
‘All right,’ she said, her tone both wary and defeated, and then she glanced around in furtive apprehension. Who was she looking for—the man she’d been talking to? Jealousy wasn’t an emotion Santos was used to feeling. He certainly didn’t like it, but damn it, they were married. Hadn’t their vows meant anything to her?
‘Where should we go?’ she asked and once again he swallowed down the anger and the hurt.
‘My yacht is moored in the harbour.’
Her eyes widened and she hesitated, clearly not liking the idea of going there with him. Why not? Was she actually afraid of him? He’d never, ever given her reason to be.
‘I’m not going to kidnap you, Mia, if that’s what kind of nonsense you’re thinking,’ he told her tersely. ‘But my yacht is private and comfortable and not too far away.’ And he needed the quiet as much as the privacy to keep the pain in his head at bay.
She bit her lip and then nodded. ‘All right,’ she said for a second time, a concession, and she reached down to grab a bag which she slung over one shoulder. Santos realised it was the same beat-up backpack she’d had back when they’d first met. It looked incongruous against her emerald satin dress. She hesitated and then she glanced around again.
‘Who are you looking for?’ Santos demanded. ‘That chancer who was chatting you up?’
‘What? No.’ She shook her head, tumbled waves flying. ‘No, the owner of the bar. I was here for a job.’
A job? He could buy this whole bar with his pocket change. Why on earth would she be looking for a job here? He decided they could talk about that later. There were more pressing matters to deal with first.
‘You can send him your apologies,’ he told her, and put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her forward with firm decision. ‘Now, let’s go.’
Mia’s mind was reeling, the space on the small of her back where Santos had pressed his palm burning as if she’d been singed. He’d always had that effect on her, right from the first night they’d met, when she’d handed him his whiskey sour and her fingers had brushed his, sending an electric current all the way up her arm and straight to her heart.
If you’re going to play with fire...prepare to get burned.
A shudder went through her that she tried to suppress, not wanting Santos to see how his presence still affected her. She’d never expected to see him again. She’d thought him too proud a man to go chasing after her and, in any case, he’d been tired of her, hadn’t he? Exhausted and utterly fed up—at least, he’d certainly acted as if he had been. The last six weeks of their marriage had been interminable, unbearable, each day more difficult than the one before, until she’d felt she couldn’t stand another moment, not without losing some essential part of herself. Running away had felt like the only option.
And it’s what you’ve always done before.
They made their way through the crowded bar, Santos’s hand on her back the whole time, guiding her forward. Mia wasn’t actually being frog-marched, but she felt as if she was. The pressure of his hand was firm, insistent, and she could feel each individual long and lean finger against her spine like a brand. What did he actually want with her? She’d genuinely believed he would be relieved to see the back of her. He’d surely regretted their brief whirlwind of a marriage; he’d certainly acted as if he had.
So why was he here? Mia supposed she’d find out soon enough.
They made it through the bar and down the stairs, out into the street facing the promenade. A balmy, brine-tinged breeze blew over them, cooling Mia’s heated cheeks as she gazed out at the port with its flotilla of super-yachts. She’d never actually been on Santos’s yacht. She’d never even known he had one, although she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he did. He was a man who had just about everything. Except the one thing he’d really wanted: a child. A child of their own...and she hadn’t given it to him.
Guilt, regret and grief burned like acid in her throat, forming a lump that made it hard to swallow. Forget about that, she told herself. They weren’t going to talk about it. They certainly never had before.
‘So, where is this yacht of yours?’ she asked, and he nodded towards one of the more streamlined of them, two stripes of grey and gold on its hull—the Aguila colours, after their eagle crest. Mia squared her shoulders, trying to suppress the fizz of nerves in her stomach. She had no real reason to think Santos would kidnap her; he’d said he wouldn’t. In fact, she thought quite the opposite—he’d be more likely to heave her overboard than kidnap her, although she didn’t really think he’d do that either. So, what exactly was she afraid of?
The answer came immediately: him. She was afraid of the man himself: of his powerful charisma; of the way he just had to look at her to make her feel all mixed up inside, a tangle of fear and yearning, hope and aching disappointment.
His hand was still on the small of her back, and it still burned. Her whole body did.
Feeling as if she were facing her doom, even as she told herself not to be so melodramatic, Mia slowly started to walk towards the yacht. Santos matched her steps, stride for measured stride. A security guard stood at the gangway—Ronaldo, Mia recalled. He’d been kind to her, but the look he gave her now was like granite.
Did everyone hate her now? And yet, why shouldn’t they? She’d been the worst wife ever, running away the way she had. And, even before that, she had not performed as the Aguila heiress and future matriarch should. Not at all...but, really, was that a surprise? She was the illegitimate daughter of a single mother who had never stayed in one place for long. She hadn’t gone to college, had barely completed school and had never held down a job for more than a few months at a time; she’d skipped from place to place, because not planting roots was what she knew, how she’d always lived. None of it had been befitting of an Aguila.
She swallowed the smile she’d been about to give Ronaldo and started up the gangway. Santos guided her towards a lounge with leather sofas and glass coffee-tables, everything the epitome of luxury. With a firm click, he closed the double wood-panelled doors, enclosing them in total privacy. It felt a little bit like a tomb.
Mia swallowed hard. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready to face the man she’d married, the man she’d fallen in love with—or at least had started to; in the six weeks since she’d left him, she’d wondered if any of it had been real. Could she really fall in love with someone that fast, that hard? Had Santos loved her, or had he just been caught up in it all? Mia had never been able to answer that question. The longer she’d lived with Santos, the unhappier they’d both become; she’d decided it couldn’t have been love, no matter how much they might have convinced themselves. They could call it infatuation—obsession, even—but it hadn’t been real... It certainly hadn’t lasted.
And yet, now he was here.
‘Drink?’ he asked tersely and headed over to a well-stocked mahogany bar. Mia watched with more than a little trepidation as her husband poured himself a double whisky. He took a packet of pills out of his jacket pocket and broke the foil on three, tossing them back with a gulp of the amber liquid, before he returned the empty glass to the bar.
‘What are those for?’ she asked, and he turned around, leaning against the bar, his arms folded across his chest.
‘Headache.’
For a second, Mia wondered if he was being sarcastic, implying that she was the headache. It must have taken some doing to find her, she supposed. She’d made sure only to use cash as she’d made her way across Spain so she couldn’t be traced. Then she saw him flinch, and realised he really did have a headache.
She gazed at him uneasily as he stared her down, seemingly willing to let the silence spin out. His darkly handsome looks still made her stomach contract with both longing and memory: the ebony hair and those golden-brown eyes the colour of the whisky he’d just tossed back; the trimmed beard on his lean cheeks and sculpted jaw glinting in the dim lighting of the room; the broad shoulders and powerful chest; the same well-muscled body encased in hand-tailored linen. In the six weeks since she’d last seen him, nothing about him had changed at all, except he looked wearier, maybe a bit more cynical. That had to be because of her.
Mia swallowed again and made herself lift her chin and look him right in his golden-brown eyes. ‘So,’ she asked with a poor attempt at insouciance, ‘What do you want to talk about?’
He let out a huff of hard laughter. ‘You haven’t changed, I see.’
Actually, she thought, unable to keep a corrosive edge of bitterness from sharpening her insides, I’ve changed a lot. And not for the better.
‘Neither have you,’ she replied, tilting her chin up just that little bit higher. He was as coldly arrogant and assured as ever. ‘Why did you find me, Santos?’
‘Because you’re my wife.’
‘I’m not a possession,’ she reminded him although, to be fair, he’d never truly treated her like one. That hadn’t been their problem, at least.
‘I didn’t say you were,’ he returned evenly, so evenly... The man never raised his voice, never got angry, a fact which had come to infuriate Mia. She’d wanted a fight, had wanted to get all the ugly emotions out, and he’d refused to give her one. He’d always spoken with that even, measured voice, revealing nothing, feeling nothing except judgment...so much judgment. She saw it in his eyes now, in the way his lips tightened, and she remembered all over again why she’d had to leave.
‘Well,’ she asked, unable to keep from sounding sarcastic, ‘Is there another reason, then, why you came looking for me besides the fact that we made a very silly mistake in marrying each other?’
‘Don’t say that,’ he ordered with quiet lethality, enough to make Mia blink.
‘Say what?’
‘That our marriage was a mistake.’ His golden-brown eyes gleamed into hers. ‘We made vows, Mia. As an Aguila, I take those seriously.’
‘As an Aguila,’ she repeated. She’d known that Santos had a thing about being the patriarch of one of Spain’s oldest aristocratic families. Their titles had been lost a long time ago, but the pedigree remained. Aguilas were men of their word, who took their vows seriously—of course they were.
‘As a man,’ he qualified, and Mia wondered if that meant anything different. She knew what it didn’t mean, anyway—he didn’t love her, didn’t respect her. He couldn’t, she’d decided, when he’d treated her the way he had—with glowering looks and simmering, accusatory silences. If he’d decided he wanted to stay married to her now just to be a man of his word, well, it would end up being hell for them both...just as it had been before.
So, if Santos had found her simply to bring her back to Seville so that he could remain a person of integrity or some such, well, Mia would simply have to convince him that that was not a good idea for either of them.
Because Santos Aguila might be a man of his word, but Mia was a woman of hers. And she’d made a promise too—a promise to herself—never again to let Santos make her feel the way he had before.
