But it happens, of course. My gaze slides his way, setting off a wave of knicker flutters.
Si dondeestamitequila?The phrase floats into my mind.Where is my tequila?Before university, I spent a month working in a bar in Marbella, living off sun, sand, and sundowners.It’s probably the tequila’s fault I don’t remember much of the language.
I shudder with a visceral remembrance, forcibly moving my attention from the past and onto the view. The azure Mediterranean glitters under a white-hot sun, the rocky point of the peninsula jutting out to the right. I find myself wondering how long it’d take to walk from one end of the country to the other. Not that I’m going to, obviously.
Not in these boots.But you are about to get married in them.
My stomach turns over, and I’m almost certain it wasn’t from terror.
This heat. I really want to take my boots off, but it would probably look a bit weird. It’s midmorning here, and it’s already quite humid. It’s not helping my tiredness, but after drooling and snorting myself awake in his car, I wasn’t about to do the same on his jet. It wouldn’t have been hard, not after I’d insisted on reading through the prenup his lawyer handed to me.
I’m not a lawyer myself, but it all seemed pretty plain. If we separate, at my instigation, before the twelve months are up, I get nothing. At his instigation, before or at the twelve-month period, I get a cool million.
“You’re twenty-four?”
I turn to Raif’s voice. He looks angry as I nod. “Is there a problem with that?”
“I thought you were older.”
I arch my brow, though I’m not sure he can see me over my sunglasses. “You thought wrong, then.” I stare at him, expecting him to say more. When he doesn’t, I add, “My sister Heatheris older. Maybe you confused me with her. Sadly for you, she’s already got a husband.”
He clears his throat. His smile is brief and stiff looking as he adds, “Excuse my fiancée, gentlemen. I do love her little jokes.”
Joke’s on him if he thinks I’m any kind of funny.
Huh.Maybe I remember more Spanish than I thought as I hear the rounder of the two men sayel vestido.I think that’s the Spanish word for dress. He seems agitated, which isn’t helped by Raif’s dismissive retort. The conversation bounces back and forth before Raif catches my eye.
“We’re almost ready,” he says in English, obviously for my benefit.
My heart gallops.
“To do the deed? Get spliced,” I add when he doesn’t reply. “Yoked, hitched. Do the two becoming one thing,” I add, crossing the terrace as I bring my index fingers together. It seems my Spice Girls reference goes over my Raif’s head.
They were more Heather’s thing, anyway.
“Do you have your phone?”
I absently pat my back pockets. “No. Have you seen it?”
Raif reaches for my backpack, tugging it to the edge of the vast dining table. I pull open the leather toggle, widening the opening.
“I don’t suppose you have a dress in there,” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. It has a six-foot train and lacy mutton sleeves. Of course I—why would I have a dress?”
“This is proving a little trickier than I expected,” he mutters.
“What is?”
“S?nor Moreno—the one with the pink bow tie? He’s a commissioner for oaths.”
“Right.”
“He’s here because of the paperwork. And to collect his not inconsiderable fee,” he mutters unhappily. “Apparently, his sense of propriety is offended at the ramshackle style of our wedding.”
“Civil ceremony.”
Amusement flickers in his expression.
