Sandra Marton - Spring Bride

Antonio opened his mouth, then closed it again. The rebuke was unsubtle, but then, lack of subtlety was one of his secretary’s assets. Consuelo was old enough to be his mother; she had been with him for ten years, and whenever he needed to be brought back to size—as, he supposed, he might on extremely rare occasions—she was the only one with the courage to do it.

“She has had a difficult time, Señor del Rey,” Consuelo added softly.

Antonio’s mouth hardened. “Perhaps she has also learned a lesson. The world and its inhabitants are not toys put here for her amusement.”

He turned and slammed the door behind him before Consuelo could respond. Then he walked to his desk and sat down behind it.

What god with a bad sense of humor had brought the woman to Venezuela and then deposited her outside this office on the one day in weeks—in weeks, dammit!—he had chosen to stop by?

It was insane.

“Insane,” Antonio muttered, slapping his palms against his desk.

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