Rafael's Suitable Bride

Cristina wanted to lock the
door, shut Rafael out until she
could assimilate those casual,
throwaway words about
finding a
suitable wife
.

She remembered that surreal feeling she had had, that a man like Rafael, so supremely
eligible
, could ever have managed to be attracted to
her
. Rafael had never once told her that he loved her but, like a fool, she had believed that he
must
—because why else would he have asked her to marry him?

‘What's the matter?' Rafael asked.

He leant forward and kissed the side of her neck, murmuring seductively into her ear. Where she once would have squirmed with pleasure, Cristina now pulled away and twisted around to face him. It took all of her will-power not to succumb to his massive charm.

How could she have been so blind as to imagine that Rafael was seriously attracted to her? He was probably making the best of a bad job by seducing the woman he had set up to marry. Cristina turned away, willing herself not to cry. She wriggled the engagement ring from her finger, turned back to him and held out her hand with the ring in her palm.

‘This isn't going to work, Rafael.'

Cathy Williams
is originally from Trinidad, but has lived in England for a number of years. She currently has a house in Warwickshire, which she shares with her husband Richard, her three daughters, Charlotte, Olivia and Emma, and their pet cat, Salem. She adores writing romantic fiction and would love one of her girls to become a writer—although at the moment she is happy enough if they do their homework and agree not to bicker with one another!

Recent titles by the same author:

BEDDED AT THE BILLIONAIRE'S CONVENIENCE

THE ITALIAN BILLIONAIRE'S SECRET LOVE-CHILD

KEPT BY THE SPANISH BILLIONAIRE

THE ITALIAN BOSS'S SECRETARY MISTRESS

O
N A
day when most sane people were doing their utmost to stay off the roads, Rafael Rocchi had decided against the ease and speed of the train and chosen instead to bring his Ferrari out of hiding. It wasn't often that he got the opportunity to drive it, and what was the point of having all that supercharged brake horsepower and black metal tucked away in his London garage—cleaned and polished once a week by his chauffeur, Thomas, and then patted gently on the bonnet and locked away for another week of rest and relaxation?

Driving to his mother's house in the Lake District would be perfect. He would be able to lose himself in the sheer pleasure of being behind the wheel of a car that was as powerful and challenging as an unbridled wild horse. Nothing topped it for a sense of freedom, which was, to him, invaluable because by contrast, his day-to-day life was so structured. Running the Rocchi empire, which he had done singlehandedly since his father had died eight years previously, was not exactly a liberating experience. Invigorating, yes. Highly charged and immensely satisfying, yes. Liberating, no.

Once on the open road, the car devoured the distance noiselessly and effortlessly. On this rare occasion, Rafael had switched off his mobile phone and instead was listening to the
rousing dynamism of classical music, keenly alert to the condition of the roads, but not unduly bothered. The past few days had seen snow cover the length and breadth of the country, and although none was currently falling, the fields as he headed up north were still blanketed in white.

At no point did he think that a fast car on treacherous roads was a lethal combination. He was utterly convinced of his own ability to control his Ferrari, just as he was convinced of his ability to control every aspect of his life. It was probably why, at the age of thirty-six, he was already legendary in the business world, feared for his ruthlessness as much as for his brilliance.

He was even occasionally inclined to think that women feared him equally, and that, he thought, was a good thing. A little fear never hurt anyone, and it paid to make sure that a woman knew who controlled the strings in a relationship. If six-month flings could be deemed relationships. His mother certainly had an alternative way of describing them, which, he thought, was behind this grand party of hers. A little impromptu post-Christmas event, she had told him, to lift everyone's spirits because there was no month flatter than February—yet how impromptu could a party be when catering for over a hundred people had to be arranged?

No, his mother was on the matchmaking bandwagon again, even though he had repeatedly told her that he was not up for grabs, that he liked his life precisely as it was. As far as his mother was concerned—traditional Italian that she still was at heart, even after decades of living in England—unmarried and offspring-free at the age of thirty-six couldn't possibly be a happy situation for anyone. She herself had married at twenty-two and had had Rafael by twenty-five, and would have had several more children had fate not seen fit to deny her the chance.

She had also insisted that he attend, which was ominous, but
in the whole world the one person whom Rafael respected unconditionally was his mother. And so here he was, at least for the moment enjoying the experience of getting there even if, once there, he would be bored out of his skull—and probably stuck having to make mind-numbingly dull small talk with a girl with whom he would almost certainly have nothing in common.

His mother had never come to grips with the truth that Rafael liked his women almost solely for their looks. He liked them tall, blonde, obliging and, most important of all, temporary.

All it took was that small lull in his concentration. As he rounded the corner of the small country road which led towards his mother's substantial property, he pressed on the brakes at the sight of a car which had veered off the road and ploughed into the snowy bank at the side. The Ferrari spun round, and in a squeal of protesting tyres came to a halt just feet away from the hapless and, as Rafael could see as soon as he had stormed out of his skewed car, abandoned Mini.

His pleasurable satisfaction had come to an abrupt halt, and there was someone on whom he could vent his well-deserved rage. Someone standing up from the other side of the Mini now, fixing him with a startled glance. A woman. Typical.

‘What the hell's going on here? Are you hurt?'

The woman stepped out and blinked up at him.

‘Well?' Rafael demanded. As an afterthought, he realised that he had better move his car just in case someone else rounded the corner. The road was always deserted, but there was no point taking chances.

‘I have to move my car,' he told the woman who didn't appear to have a tongue in her head.

When he next stepped out of his now parked car, it was to find that she had disappeared once again.

With mounting irritation, Rafael walked round the back of the Mini and found her kneeling on the ground, looking for something with the help of the light from her mobile phone.

‘Sorry,' came an anxious apology from the squatting figure. ‘I'm really sorry. Are you all right?' A quick glance in his direction, then the search for whatever was missing began again.

‘Have you any idea how dangerous it is for you to leave your car there?' He nodded curtly at the Mini.

‘I tried moving it, honestly, but the tyres kept squealing.' She stood up, reluctantly abandoning her search, and chewed her lips nervously.

Rafael could now see that the woman in question was little over five-three. Short and dumpy from the looks of it. Which did nothing for his diminishing patience levels. Had she been willowy and beautiful, his charm-gene might have automatically been kick-started. As it was, he looked down at her with a frown of displeasure.

‘So you then decided to leave it where it lay, never mind the risk you were causing to anyone coming round the bend, and start scrabbling on the road instead?' His voice was laced with sarcasm. Never noted for high levels of patience, Rafael was now on the verge of snapping completely.

‘Actually, I wasn't scrabbling on the road. I was…I rubbed my eyes to wake myself up, and one of my contact lenses came out. I've been driving all the way from London. I should have taken the train, but I want to leave first thing in the morning and I didn't want to be rude and have to wake anyone up to drop me to the station.' She looked up at him earnestly. ‘Hello, by the way.' She held out one small hand and stared at the stranger.

He was the most beautiful stranger she had ever seen in her entire life. Actually, he could have stepped off the cover of a
magazine. He was very tall, over six feet, and his dark hair was combed back so that there was nothing to distract from the perfect chiselled beauty of his face. His scowling face.

Cristina couldn't stop herself from smiling helplessly, unfazed by his unsympathetic expression.

Rafael ignored the outstretched hand. ‘I'll get your car into a less hazardous position and then you'd better get in my car. I assume you're heading in the same direction as me. There's only one house at the end of his lane.'

‘Oh, you don't have to do that,' Cristina said breathlessly.

‘No, I don't, but I will because I don't want the hassle of dealing with a guilty conscience if you get behind the wheel of your car when you can't see anything and crash.' He spun round on his heels while Cristina continued to watch, with fascinated interest, as he expertly did what she had spent half an hour trying and failing to do.

‘That was brilliant,' she told him honestly when he was back in front of her, and Rafael felt some of his anger begin to subside.

‘Hardly brilliant,' he muttered. ‘But at least the damn thing's in a safer position now.'

‘I could drive myself now,' Cristina was forced to admit. ‘I mean, I have a pair of specs in my bag. I always carry them because I never know when my contact lenses are going to start irritating my eyes. Do you wear contact lenses?'

‘What?'

‘Never mind.' She frowned slightly, belatedly considering her appearance and what lay ahead of her.

‘Well?' Rafael was back by his car, passenger door open, waiting for her to stop dithering at the side of the road while the wind whipped around them, reminding them that yet more snow was just a frosted breath away.

Cristina took a couple of steps towards him, her expression
still anxious and hesitant. ‘It's just that…well…' She spread her hands tellingly along the length of her body. ‘Look at me. I can't possibly make an entrance looking like this.' She barely knew her hostess, Maria. She had met her a few times in Italy, when she had been living with her parents before moving to London, and she had seemed a nice lady, but she really wasn't close enough to her to enlist her help in getting cleaned up because she had somehow managed to lose a contact lens. Now her hands were dirty from rummaging on the ground, her tights were torn and she dared not even think of the state of her hair, which was unruly at the best of times.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Rafael told her dismissively. He pulled open the passenger door and sighed impatiently. ‘It is freezing out here, and I'm not standing having a prolonged conversation with you about the state of your appearance.' He kindly decided not to point out that there was very little she could have done with her appearance which would have made her look sexy anyway. She was built like a little round ball, and the wind was doing some very unflattering things to her hair. Grubby hands weren't exactly going to go a long way to remedy what looked like a pretty plain gene pool.

However, as she seemed rooted to the spot in some kind of agony of embarrassment and indecision, and as he was getting colder and colder and more and more impatient by the second, Rafael decided on the only possible solution.

‘Get your things from your car and I'll make sure we go through the back entrance. Then I'll take you up to one of the guest suites and you can do whatever it is you think you have to do.'

‘Really?' The way he had handled her little car! And now the way he was taking charge, hitting upon a solution to the thorny problem of her appearance! Cristina couldn't help but
admire his ingenuity and consideration in helping her out. True, he wasn't exactly giving off sympathetic vibes, but as she hurried to get her overnight bag and coat from her car she decided that that was perfectly understandable. He had, after all, just had the fright of his life when he had taken the corner and nearly crashed into her car.

‘Hurry up.' Rafael glanced at his watch and realised that the party would already be in full swing. He had promised his mother that he would make it well in advance, but naturally the demands of work had progressively eaten away into his good intentions.

‘You're very kind,' Cristina told him as he took her bag and coat from her and tossed them into the trunk—the virtually invisible-to-the-naked-eye trunk.

Rafael couldn't remember the last time he had been described as kind, and he really wasn't sure that he cared for it, but he shrugged and didn't say anything, just turning the ignition so that his powerful beast of a car roared into immediate life.

‘How are you going to find your way to the back entrance?'

At this point in time, Rafael didn't feel inclined to go into his relationship with the hostess. The woman obviously didn't have a clue as to his identity and he preferred to keep it that way. At least for the moment. He had met enough women in his lifetime who'd found his wealth an aphrodisiac. Sometimes it was amusing. Mostly it was just plain dull.

‘I never got your name,' he said, changing the conversation, and as his eyes slid over to her he saw the colour flood her cheeks and she looked at him with mortified consternation.

‘Cristina. Golly, I'm so rude! You've just rescued me and I haven't even had the wit to introduce myself!' Was she gaping? She thought she might be, and she made an effort to
pull herself together and start acting like the twenty-four-year-old woman that she was.

However all attempts at sophistication were ambushed by her intrinsically cheerful personality and impressionable nature. She had met hordes of men throughout her life. That had all been part and parcel of her privileged upbringing in Italy, and then later staying with her aunt in Somerset when she had gone to boarding school. But her experiences with them on any kind of intimate level were limited. Indeed, non-existent, and so the cynicism that came from broken hearts and ruined relationships, which most women would have considered just another part of growing up, had failed to materialise. She had an unbounding faith in the goodness of human nature and was therefore undaunted by Rafael's unwelcoming response to her chatter.

‘What's your name?' she asked curiously, abandoning the struggle not to feast her eyes on him.

‘Rafael.'

‘And how do you know Maria?'

‘Why are you so concerned about what kind of impression you make? Do you know the crowd who are going to be there?'

‘Well, no…But…I just can't bear the thought of walking into a roomful of people with torn tights and hair all over the place.' She looked at her hands and sighed. ‘My nails are a mess as well, and I especially had a manicure yesterday.' She could feel tears begin to well at her ruined appearance and she stoutly swallowed them back. Instinct told her that here was a man who probably wouldn't welcome the sight of a strange woman howling in his car.

But she had tried so hard. New in London and still without any solid friendships, Maria's invitation had been something lovely to look forward to, and she had really tried to dress for
the occasion. Hard as her mother had laboured over the years, in her own sweetly loving way Cristina had always been guiltily aware that she had never managed to live up to the position into which she had been born. Her two sisters, both now married and in their thirties, had been blessed with the sort of good looks that needed very little work. They had been super clothes horses and then, in due course, super wives and super mothers.