The Twelve-Month Mistress (10 page)

‘I
THOUGHT
we would never get here!’

Joaquin’s impatient stride into the house matched the irritation in his tone.

‘When did you become such an old woman when you drive?’

‘I was taking care of you,’ his brother pointed out reasonably, his soothing tone grating on Joaquin’s already badly rattled nerves. ‘You’ve just had a—’

‘A nasty accident—I know, I know!’ Joaquin snapped. ‘But I’m not an invalid. I don’t need wrapping in cotton wool!’

He pushed his hands into the pockets of the black jeans that Cassandra had brought to the hospital that morning, shoulders hunched under the white polo shirt, and glared at his brother. Ramón appeared totally unconcerned by his irritation.

‘And
I
don’t want to be responsible for you suffering any sort of setback.’

‘Oh, I don’t think there’s much likelihood of that! Unless you count the possibilities of exhaustion from the length of time it took to get here. Cassandra would have had time to get to your place, collect whatever it was that she’d left there and
still
get here before us.’

If she was here at all, some nasty little voice inserted into his brain. Deep down, he knew that this was the real reason for his irritation and that he was taking it out on Ramón quite unnecessarily.

His real anxieties centred around Cassandra, and the problem was that he had no idea why. But he had seen the look on her face when he had said that he wanted to come
home, and she had fled from the hospital room looking as if all the hounds in hell were after her. All he could imagine was that they must have had some sort of a major row in the time he couldn’t remember.

That was something he was determined to get to the bottom of. But first he had to get rid of Ramón. Only when he and Cassandra were alone together could he start to find out anything that mattered.

A sound from upstairs caught his attention, had him moving to the foot of the stairs.

‘Cassandra! Is that you?’ he called, then frowned as something swirled inside his head.

It was just a hint. Just a momentary flash on the screen of his mind. A feeling that he had done this before.

But then, of course, that was inevitable. This was his home. He must have done this or something similar dozens—more—times over the time he and Cassandra had been together. It was nothing.

‘I’m here.’

She had appeared at the top of the stairs while his mind was distracted, and now she started down towards him, a welcoming smile on her face.

‘I was just making up the bed—putting fresh sheets on it. Yes—I know!’

She had caught his expression and interpreted it with unnerving accuracy.

‘You don’t want to have to lie down—and you don’t have to, so long as you take things easy. But I wanted things ready. Then if you do feel tired…’

A swift glance at his face had her trailing the words off.

‘All right, I won’t fuss. But you must take things steady. It’s so good to see you back here.’

Moving up close, she gave him a swift, firm hug. But when his arms would have closed around her, holding her tight, enveloping her in the sort of hug that had been impossible while he was stuck in the hospital bed, she seemed
to almost slip out of his grasp like water through his fingers, drifting away again, out of reach before he had even had a chance to be aware that she’d moved.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.

Amen to that! was the thought that echoed inside Joaquin’s head. That hug, the contact, brief though it had been, had brought home to him just how much he had missed her.

Just to touch her, to feel the warmth and softness of her body in his arms, to inhale her scent, the mixture of some herbal shampoo on her hair, the light, tangy perfume that she wore, was enough to switch his senses into overdrive. But it was the deeper, more intensely personal, faintly musky aroma of her skin that kicked him deep in the gut, hardening him in an instant, setting off the sort of hot, clamouring demand that had him gritting his teeth against a betraying groan.

He wanted her so badly. He felt as if he had been starved of her for weeks, not just the couple of days he had been in the hospital.

If his brother hadn’t been here then he would never have let her go. Even as she slipped away, he would have grabbed her, hauled her hard up against him, pulled her face up to meet his own and taken her mouth with all the force of the hunger he was feeling. Kissing her until they were both out of their minds with need.

But Ramón was here, damn him. And so he had to smile and say as calmly as he could that he had missed her too. And yes, coffee would be nice. He was parched, could kill for a drink.

What he could really kill for was
not
coffee.

If he couldn’t have Cassandra, in his bed, naked underneath him, right now—then a glass of the finest
crianza
might come a reasonable second. But he could just see Cassandra’s frown if he suggested that. Not yet, she would say. You’re supposed to be taking things steady.

He would erupt if one more person told him to take things steady.

Oh, he knew why, of course. He understood. He even saw the sense in it—if he had to. But the trouble was that he didn’t
feel
steady, or sensible, or even calm, though he supposed he must look it on the surface to both his brother and his woman. Long experience of discussing business terms, negotiating deals, had taught him how to wear a controlled, affable mask when he needed to conceal his real feelings. But what he felt was a different matter.

What he felt right now was like a ticking bomb. He had lost a month out of his life in the blink of an eye and everyone seemed to expect him to just accept it, go with the flow, until things came back to him.

If they ever came back to him.

But everyone else knew what had happened in that month, while he’d had it wiped from his mind. He’d lived through four weeks that he didn’t remember and those four weeks…

Those four weeks—what? Hell, he didn’t know! He couldn’t even begin to guess. But if the way that Cassandra was behaving was anything to go by, then something had happened in that time. Because she sure as damnation wasn’t the same with him as the Cassandra he remembered.

That Cassandra hadn’t been edgy with him, elusive, impossible to pin down. She wouldn’t have come into his arms and then dodged out of them, flighty as a butterfly. And she hadn’t had those shadows in her eyes, the ones that lurked at the back of this woman’s eyes. The ones that darkened and clouded the bright blue of her gaze and made him feel that there was something he just didn’t understand.

And even that could be wrong.

Damn it, he didn’t know anything. He could be jumping to conclusions, imagining things. And the worst thing was that he couldn’t even
ask
! If he did, then no one would tell
him because he was supposed to wait for it all to come back to him.

Wait for
what
to come back to him?

‘Joaquin?’

Cassandra was waiting by the sitting room door, watching him in obvious concern. Just how long had he been standing there, locked in his thoughts, unaware of anything else?

With an effort he dragged his attention back to the present.

‘Sorry. It’s just rather weird knowing that I’ve lived here for the past month and I can’t remember anything of it.’

‘It must be,’ she said, giving nothing away. ‘Why don’t you come and have this coffee? Ramón can’t stay long…’

The sooner his brother left the better, as far as he was concerned. With Ramón there, acting like a guard dog, watching every word of the conversation, there was going to be no chance of Cassandra letting anything slip. He couldn’t wait to be left alone with her and try to probe for answers. The time between now and then was going to seem far, far too long.

The time Joaquin’s brother had spent with them had passed far too quickly, Cassie told herself as she stood watching, waiting until Ramón’s car had totally disappeared from view before slowly shutting the door and going back, reluctantly, into the house.

She had tried everything she could to make him stay longer. Offering him another drink, food—anything to delay the time when, inevitably, he would leave and she would have to face the fact that she was now on her own with Joaquin and she had no idea at all how to behave.

She didn’t even know how to face him, was terrified of looking him in the eyes, wondering just what she would see. And even worse was the thought that he would look into
her
face and see…

And see
what
?

That there was so much that she was keeping from him?

Could he sense the secrets that came between them, like smoke hanging in the air? Would he not rest until he had winkled them out of her, picking away at her defences until she gave everything away?

Or would he just watch her and wait, knowing when she was not telling the truth, when she was dodging the issue, knowing that one day, inevitably, she wouldn’t be able to keep it all back any longer, and she would have to let it out.

And would that be worse than the distinct possibility that he could just wake up one morning—any morning—even tomorrow—and find that his memory had come back? That the missing month was all there, clear in his mind, in perfect recall. And what would she see in his face then? What sort of accusations would he throw at her—and would he even wait for the answers?

How could she live with the tension, the uncertainty, the fear? How could she get through each day not knowing what was going to happen next?

And what about the nights?

That was something she just wasn’t ready to face until she felt a lot braver, and had managed to drag together some sort of composure. So she deliberately avoided going back into the room where she knew Joaquin was waiting for her, heading instead for the kitchen, finding herself an endless string of unimportant and largely unnecessary tasks to keep her occupied. She washed up the coffee mugs by hand instead of simply putting them in the dishwasher, washed and sliced a salad to go with their evening meal, wiped every possible surface within reach, set about mopping the floor…

‘Are you trying to avoid me?’

Joaquin’s voice, mild enough but with an edge that might
have been curiosity, or perhaps something else, came to her from the open door, making her jump in nervous shock.

He was standing in the doorway, dark and, to her already nervous mind, disturbingly dangerous. The dark bruise that had spread across his forehead was already turning into different colours, deep burgundy at the centre, yellow at the edges like some malign sunset, adding to the impression of menace.

‘Avoid? N—no. Why would I want to do that?’

‘I don’t know—you tell me.’

This time it was definitely challenging, making her heart thud in uneasy response.

‘I had things to do if we’re going to eat soon.’

‘To tell you the truth, I’m not that hungry. Except for two things.’

‘What two things?’

Did she have to ask? Weren’t they there, in the darkness of his eyes, the set, controlled expression on his face?

‘Facts…’

‘Oh, now you know I can’t tell you anything. The doctors were insistent about that. We have to wait—’

‘For my memory to come back; I know,’ Joaquin supplied, his tone sending chills down her spine.

Forcing herself not to react, she turned her attention to an imaginary spot on the already immaculate worktop surface, rubbing at it hard with a cloth.

‘And the other?’

‘Oh, come on, Cassandra,’ Joaquin mocked, sending even more shivers along every nerve, but in a very different way from before. ‘You know. I want you.’

The cleaning cloth froze mid-rub and Cassie stared down at it, but blindly, seeing nothing.

He was right; she had known this was coming. But not so soon. Not yet! Not when she was still totally unprepared to handle it.

‘That isn’t a very good idea, is it?’

She jumped almost sky-high as strong, tanned fingers closed over her own hand, stilling the nervous movement and holding her there.

‘Why not?’

She flicked a nervous, uncertain sidelong glance in his direction and then away again, meeting the black, searching eyes only for a moment. Her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with the shock of his sudden grab at her hand, but everything to do with the stinging awareness of the size and strength of his body so close to hers.

She could feel the heat of his skin where her arm touched him, seemed to be surrounded by the clean, intimate scent of his body, and he was so close that his breath caressed her cheek as he spoke, its warmth stirring her hair, drying her mouth.

‘You—you know why!’

‘No.’

The cloth was plucked from her nerveless fingers, tossed in the vague direction of the sink, and then he took hold of her arms, spinning her round so that she had no option but to face him. But she couldn’t look up so as to meet his gaze, instead staring fixedly at the point where the open neck of his white shirt lay open revealing the bronze skin and muscular strength of his throat, and just the beginning of his broad chest.

Even that was bad enough.

Her fingers itched to touch, to slide in at the open edges of the shirt and feel the warm satin of his skin, the crisp curl of body hair under their tips. Her lips actually tingled, knowing that all she had to do was to purse them slightly, lean forward a little, and they would rest against the muscles, the sinews, under the tanned covering of his flesh. In spite of herself, she inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of him, drawing in as much of him as she could without actually making contact.

‘Tell me why. And don’t mention the damn doctors!’

That brought her head up, sharply, protest flashing in her eyes. She would have pulled away but the strength of his arms, linked apparently loosely, at the base of her spine held her back. If she pulled against it, she knew that that seemingly gentle hold would tighten. She would be held a prisoner, fighting a futile battle against his superior strength. And that would give too much away. Much more than she dared risk anyway.