A Spanish Marriage (8 page)

Clarity came when she turned off the shower and huddled into a towel. He hadn't ruled a divorce out of play because he wanted her permanently in his life—he was simply sticking to his original dateline.

Two years. They'd stay married for one more year, until she came into her inheritance and could demonstrate that she was mature enough to handle it. By his own admission he was deeply ashamed of having made love to her. No—having had sex with her—‘muddied the waters', she corrected dully as she
finally exited the
en suite
. And he'd probably make damn sure it didn't happen again. He'd go back to what he had been: remote, often absent, impersonally kind. She simply didn't think she could bear that!

Was she the last woman on earth he would choose to be the mother of his children? Had he seen the steel jaws of a trap close around him when she'd mentioned the word ‘pregnant'?

Her balloon well and truly pricked, Zoe put on the act of her life and went down to breakfast wearing a tiny pair of lemon yellow shorts, a skimpy, silky camisole top in a matching shade and a great big smile.

Javier laid aside the morning broadsheet he'd been trying and failing to concentrate on, his wide chest tightening as his eyes locked onto his wife. She was exquisite; she put the sunlight that streamed into the room to shame. A truly vital presence, all silky, endless legs, shining silver-gilt hair, breasts enticingly peaked against the top she was wearing.

He got to his feet, narrowed eyes watching as she returned Boysie's ecstatic greeting, pulling out a chair for her when those long legs brought her to the breakfast table. She was wearing hot pink lipstick on those lush, kiss-swollen lips. His pulses quickened. He ignored them and poured her coffee.

‘Eat something,' he ordered as the slice of toast she'd buttered was being cut into small pieces and fed to the dog. Had her appetite deserted her because she was fretting over the possibility of an unwanted pregnancy?

Again he mentally flayed himself. He had hated the things Sherman had implied, but hated himself even
more for having been unable to stop believing them. Which had led, in turn, to his inexcusable lack of protection.

‘We need to discuss our situation.' Self-disgust put an edge on his voice, made her soft lips tremble before she clamped them forcibly together. She fed the last of the toast to the tail-thrashing bunch of fur then turned to face him, pushing her hair away from her face with the back of a slender hand, her magnificent eyes flashing with the old rebellion, the slender bones of her shoulders tense beneath the shimmery fabric of the top she was wearing.

He sounded as if he thoroughly regretted their ‘situation', as he so grimly named it, Zoe decided sinkingly. It was truly terrible to love to distraction when the object of all that emotional passion didn't love you back, to have all your hopes of happiness and fulfilment dependent on just one man.

But she wasn't going to let him know what she was feeling. Still holding his silver-smoke eyes, she lifted her chin even higher just as Joe entered the room, grinning. ‘Pardon me, boss, but it's time for his lordship's morning walk. We usually go up through the woods and on down to the lake.' He gave a low whistle and Boysie pricked up his ears and raced to the man in the doorway, his small body one huge hairy wag.

‘I'll take him—' Zoe was half out of her seat, unreasonable jealousy that her dog now recognised Joe as the leader of the pack making her voice shrill.

But Javier's hand reached out to clamp around her
wrist, forcing her back, his, ‘Carry on, Joe,' full of raw impatience.

Rubbing her released wrist, Zoe glared at him, trying not to burst into tears. Not because of Boysie's fickleness—if she was honest with herself she was glad the little stray had finally integrated into his new home and family. It had taken ages before he had stopped viewing Ethel with suspicion and even longer before he had been comfortable around Joe.

No, it was Javier's attitude that was breaking her heart. Last night she had felt as if they had at last found each other, their hearts and souls recognising each other just as their bodies had, and this morning it would seem that he wished he'd never set eyes on her!

‘I always take him for walks. That's when you bother to turn up to bring me down here at weekends!' Zoe knew she sounded petulant and childish. But she had to say something to explain away the sudden tears she could feel filling up her eyes. No way was she about to let him know that his patently obvious impatience with her and their cataclysmic unplanned change of marital situation was making her want to cry her eyes out!

Javier leaned forward, his forearms on the table, a frown scoring a deep line between his slashing black brows. Judging by her reaction to her pet's preference for Joe's company, the poor kid was still needy, clinging onto love wherever she found it. ‘Let it go,' he advised a touch more curtly than he'd intended before the image of how unchildlike she'd been in his arms
last night had flashed across his brain and made his voice emerge like a shot from a gun.

She was no kid—hadn't he known that for months now? She was all woman. It had been her first time but she'd been a natural. He went hot just thinking about it. And not with shame, either.

Shifting edgily in his seat, he told her, ‘Don't be so intense about your feelings. They're likely to rear up and slap you in the face. More coffee?'

Zoe mutely shook her head. That was a warning, wasn't it? Telling her not to read too much into what had happened last night, not to take it seriously.

He looked into her glittering golden eyes, eyes to drown in, and the air in the sunny room was suddenly thick with sexual tension. She was so lovely. And she was his. It hadn't been planned, in fact he'd fought what she'd been doing to him as soon as he'd recognised it for what it was.

But what the hell? Their sham marriage had turned into vivid reality and he aimed to keep it that way. He would concentrate all his powers to make her forget she'd ever decided to walk away from him.

The probably pompous discussion about their altered relationship was promptly jettisoned.

What kind of fool had he been to think he could keep this beautiful, slightly elusive, bright and feisty creature by spouting a list of ground rules?

A fool who hadn't recognised the fact that he'd been falling in love, hook, line and sinker.

But it was too soon to let her know that. She might have believed herself to be in love with him at age sixteen. An adolescent infatuation she'd grown out of.
Must have done or she wouldn't have been determined to walk out on him.

He'd reel her in gently. Make sure she didn't want to live without him.

Leaning back in his chair, he relaxed utterly. He felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He always got what he wanted in the end. He made it happen. His mouth curved in a dazzling smile.

As always Zoe drowned in the smile that had been absent for far too long, her body filling with primal need as the fluid grace with which he leaned back in his chair reinforced the myriad reasons she loved this man. And when he turned the shameless magic of his grin on her again and told her, ‘We fly out to Spain next week for a belated honeymoon,' her wits scattered to the four corners of the room and she could only stare back at him, her cheeks reddening with pleasure, her mind in a muddle because she would never understand what was going on in his head from one minute to the next.

But trying to find out would be exciting!

T
HE
Spanish sun blazed down and the aquamarine sea glittered back at it with improbable intensity. The leaves of the overhanging eucalyptus tree moved with silvery languour in the slight, soft breeze.

Zoe turned from staring down unseeingly at the tranquil view of the deserted sandy beach beyond the manicured gardens. Her lush mouth compressed into a tight line, she leant back against the ornate stone balustrade that surrounded the terrace that ran round three sides of the white-walled Moorish-style villa, her heart jumping beneath her breastbone as Javier emerged through an archway, a tray of cold drinks in his strong hands.

He'd changed from the clothes he'd travelled in. Just looking at him made her feel light-headed. Her wretched mouth began to wobble again as her eyes drank in his spectacular male body clad now in casual shorts that hung low on his lean hips, and a white T-shirt that did wonders for his sleek olive-toned skin and lovingly clung to his impressive torso.

The muscles guarding her sex quivered and her breath locked tight in her lungs. They were here together in this beautiful, romantic spot but they might as well be on different planets. Utterly disorientated because of his unfathomable attitude towards her since the night they'd made love, Zoe didn't know
whether she wanted to laugh or to cry. It would be far too easy to do both at once.

Biting down on her soft lower lip to stop herself doing either, or more probably both, she forced herself to walk slowly down the length of the long terrace to the table in the shade of a vine where he was placing what appeared to be a frosted jug of juice and two tall glasses.

Everything had happened so quickly and that was part of the trouble, she thought edgily. When Javier decided on a course of action he didn't hang about.

Initially, she'd thought his mention of a honeymoon meant that they were to embark on a real and lasting marriage, cancelling out her earlier fear that he would be sticking to his original time-span of their empty marriage, making sure the mistake of the night before was never repeated.

Provided, of course, that she wasn't pregnant.

If she was then, being an honourable man, he would bite the bullet and resign himself to his fate. An impossible scenario. It made her feel physically ill just to think about it.

So the way he'd smiled at her and mentioned a belated honeymoon had made her deliriously happy, confident that after the magic of what had happened between them the night before he wanted her permanently in his life, was already halfway to falling in love with her. But that state of euphoria had lasted for a couple of hours only.

Because now she wasn't so sure.

She wasn't sure at all.

‘I wondered where you had got to.' He looked at
her and smiled that bone-weakening smile of his. A lock of his soft dark hair had fallen over his forehead. Her fingers itched to run through it, push it back into place.

She sat down instead, watched him take the chair opposite and shrugged lightly. ‘I wanted to get my bearings.' Wanted to snatch a slice of time by herself would be nearer the truth, to try to figure out what was going on inside that clever head of his, what he truly wanted of her, of their marriage.

That other morning at breakfast, two minutes after telling her they would be heading for a belated honeymoon at his parents' winter home in Spain, he'd shut himself in the technological wonder that was his Wakeham Lodge study, emerging a couple of hours later to drive himself back to London, only sparing her the time to impart in the clinical tone she dreaded, ‘I'll be back to collect you in a couple of days. I'll pick up our passports from the apartment and pack for us both.' Not even a goodbye kiss. Hardly lover-like behaviour. Right then all her hopeful happiness had taken a sharp nosedive.

‘You've been here before, remember?' he reminded as he set a glass of juice down in front of her.

There was a knowing light in those smoky, heavily fringed eyes. Was he laughing at her? Mocking?

Of course she remembered! How could she forget the way she'd humiliated herself? That passionate declaration of love—he hadn't wanted her love then and it looked as if he didn't want it now.

She offered a languid shrug. Two could be cool
and uninterested. ‘So? It's been, what, three years? A long time, anyway. Things change.'

But she hadn't changed. She still loved him to absolute distraction. And he hadn't, either. He still saw her as a tiresome responsibility, especially after the night he obviously preferred to forget and wholeheartedly wished had never happened.

Zoe's fingers closed round the ice-cold surface of the glass. When he'd collected her from Wakeham Lodge early this morning he'd been back to being polite but distant. And flying over on the company jet she had spikily wondered if there were any other couple in the history of the world, embarking on their honeymoon who weren't at least holding hands!

And every time she'd tried to talk about what was really important, such as how he saw their future, he'd smoothly changed the subject and stuck his nose back into the file of documents that had been waiting for him when they'd boarded. So she'd given up.

But now: ‘How long will we be here?' Zoe connected with his stunning eyes, held his smoky gaze and tried to look as if her question weren't all that important, just idle conversation. But it was something that had been really muddling her. From his attitude—back to the status quo—she was growing surer with each hour that passed that the no-divorce thing he'd insisted on applied only to the next year.

He stuck like a limpet to what he saw as his duty. Over the years she had learned that it was an intrinsic part of his strong, macho character. So why bother to bring her out here to Almeria, to this isolated spot a few kilometres from the tiny unspoiled village of La
Isleta del Moro? From her perspective it didn't make a whole lot of sense.

Not to make mad passionate love to her, really cement their marriage, that was for sure. He hadn't so much as touched her in passing since that night.

And not to broaden her horizons, either, although in the back of the chauffeur-driven car that had met them at the airport he had, very politely, given her the tourist spiel: the rugged province of Almeria was the hottest and driest in Spain, the mild winter temperatures made it ideal for his parents when the winter closed in over the mountains. The spaghetti westerns had been filmed here—on and on until, frustrated and heart-wrenchingly miserable over the complete lack of anything remotely personal coming from his direction, she'd wanted to smack his face.

Now, looking into that same breathtakingly handsome face, she waited, more wired-up with each passing second. He had some explaining to do!

‘As long as it takes,' Javier unthinkingly answered, watching the tiny pulse beat at the base of her long, elegant neck, following the tense line of her delicate collar-bones, and down to the warm honey skin revealed by the open-necked silk shirt she was wearing.

She was tense, wary, taut as a bowstring, the light in those magnificent golden eyes partly suspicion, partly defiance. The urge to take her in his arms and hold her tight was hard to resist.

Javier smothered a sigh. He had to be patient, tread very carefully. He knew the way her mind worked. One hint of pressure and she'd be off at the speed of light. Three days ago she'd been ready to run. She
would have had her reasons. He doubted that one night of sex would have changed them. But she was his and he was determined to keep her. So play it cool and play it slow, take as much time as needed to bind her to him for all time—

‘As long as it takes to find out if you've got me pregnant!' she flashed out as she scrambled to her feet. She had the answer to her question now and she didn't like it one little bit! She slapped away the outstretched hand that would have stayed her, and her long legs took her flying for the sanctuary of the villa.

She had suspected as much, hadn't she? So why did it hurt so much? Why should she feel traumatised and shocked when he came out with the truth?

The cool ambience of the villa's interior, all white marble floors, watery green colour-washed walls, elegant classic furnishings, did nothing to soothe her tumultuous emotions.

Had he reverted to the part of a polite stranger to hide the fact that he was sick to his stomach thinking about what—honour-bound—he'd have to do if she proved to be carrying his child? Stick by her for the rest of his life, give up the bachelor freedom he relished and had still felt free to follow during the latter part of their paper marriage?

‘You'll want to freshen up after the journey. I'll show you to our room.'

Zoe all but leapt out of her skin. She hadn't heard him follow her inside. Heart thumping wildly, she decided she hated him. Really and utterly!

‘Don't bother.' Her voice was nicely chilling she
noted with empty satisfaction. ‘Teresa can show me where I'm to sleep.'

She perfectly remembered the round, smiley señora from her previous stay here. Full-time housekeeper when Javier's parents or guests were in residence. She wished Teresa would appear right now, or her husband, Manuel, who seemed to have disappeared entirely since he'd delivered them here from the airport.

Someone—anyone—to act as a buffer between her and Javier, the husband who didn't want her, who almost certainly regarded what had happened between them as a deeply regrettable one-night stand and shuddered every time he thought about it.

But his firm hand beneath her elbow was guiding her to the foot of the sweeping marble staircase with its delicate iron-work bannisters and he was telling her, ‘On my instructions Teresa's gone back to her home in the village. Manuel, too. Honeymooning couples need to be alone, wouldn't you say?'

Zoe tripped over her own feet as the breath whooshed out of her lungs at that cynical statement. This honeymooning couple needed to be alone so that the hired staff wouldn't be tempted to gossip about how unloverlike they actually were!

Misery and shame overwhelmed her. If she hadn't enthusiastically encouraged him to bed her they wouldn't be in this weird situation! And she wouldn't have to be pretending that she could take it in her stride when in reality she felt as if her heart were shattering.

Suddenly, the elegant staircase looked like a sheer cliff face. Zoe's buckled knees began to shake.
Shooting her an amused look from heavily veiled smoky eyes, Javier swept her up into his arms before she could fully collect herself and carried her up the stairs with no effort at all, tutting mildly when she squirmed and huffed, ‘Put me down!' as they approached the open arched doorway of the magnificent master bedroom.

‘It's tradition. The groom carries his bride over the threshold.'

Desperately trying not to let her body's instinctive response to his reveal itself as he slowly slid her down his impressive length and settled her prone upon the bed, she immediately came back with a raspingly breathless, ‘There's no one around to applaud your performance, so you needn't have risked a hernia!'

She was wallowing in the fallout of her own shame. That night had been so special to her, just a horrendous mistake as far as he was concerned. And as if to emphasise that embarrassing fact he stepped smartly back from the bed as if he didn't want to be anywhere near her.

Scrambling into a sitting position—no way was she just going to lie where he'd put her, like an invitation he would never dream of accepting, ever again—she pouted. ‘In case you'd forgotten, we've been married for almost a year, so I'm hardly a “bride”. So all that carrying over the threshold is just a sick joke. You never carried me over anything before.'

A sick, hurtful joke, a mockery of everything she'd hoped this marriage would be. Tears stung at the backs of her eyes. She willed them not to fall and swallowed convulsively, her head downbent, her fin
gers knotted together, her poor heart getting another mangling when Javier mused softly, ‘I remember what must have been the last time I carried you. You were ten years old and had spent an entire Sunday racing around the zoo, trying to see everything at once. You were too tired to make it back to the car. You fell instantly asleep in my arms. It was as if someone had switched you off. I remember thinking what a cute scrap you were, in spite of those long, gawky legs and dirty little face!'

He backed off doorwards, clipped practicality to the fore, as if he was wondering where that soppy memory had come from. ‘Have a shower and a nap. Teresa unpacked for you so you'll find your gear in the dressing room. We'll have a late supper.' Leaving her to remember how the seeds for an adult love had been sown in the child she had been in the days when he had been like a big brother, caring and kind, the nicest, most wonderful person she knew.

Slotting the arched wood into the doorframe with exaggerated care, Javier gritted his teeth and pulled a long hiss of breath into his lungs. It had been a close-run thing. He only had to look at her to want her, his body threatening to take control and blow his cerebral plans to smithereens.

When he'd made love to her from the starting point of the possessive anger he'd not known he was remotely capable of he'd experienced the most mind-blowing event of his life. She'd been spectacular, a fast and eager learner. He knew he would only have to go back into that room and take her in his arms,
kiss her, to instigate the repeat performance his whole body was aching for.

Even now the temptation to stride straight back into the bedroom was eating into his brain like acid, slyly telling him that she was his wife, that they'd already made love, that she'd proved beyond all possible doubt that she was highly sexed and passionate, and that denying himself another slice of that heaven was a ridiculous sacrifice.

But something else had happened that night, hadn't it? He stalked towards the stairs, through the house, out to the swimming pool, dragging his T-shirt over his head as he went.