Which only went to show that working under the hot Spanish sun had sent her twin brother completely loopy.
They'd arrived in Seville in the sweltering afternoon heat and booked into a hotel where, to her knee-sagging relief, she'd been given a room of her own, complete with a four-poster bed and wonderful views of the Giralda. Then, before she'd had time to unpack her meagre belongings, Roman had knocked on the door, insisting on taking her to a surprisingly elegant boutique off the pedestrianised Calle Sierpes.
The sheer, rather stark grace of the dark-haired woman who had approached them had made Cassie sit up and take notice. The discreet decor, the clever lighting, the single garment on display—a simple cream silk suit with a designer label to die for— shrieked serious money.
'I need something practical,' Cassie had muttered at Roman, mentally digging her heels in. One or two cotton skirts, trousers and tops plus comfy sandals— stuff that could be bought cheaply at the market, not wickedly expensive designer gear. She hated the thought of being beholden to him to that extent.
A lazy look into her hot and mutinous face, the slight raising of one sable brow, and Roman had smoothly taken over. But when the pile of garments which had been brought out for his inspection and approval had reached mountainous proportions, Cassie had snapped, 'Enough!'
So here she was, with enough beautiful, expensive clothes to last her a lifetime packed into the boot of the Mercedes, driving away.
In warmth of the following morning, her head throbbing sullenly after another sleepless night, her body tense with the misgivings that were accumulating with remorseless rapidity and her mind buzzing with unanswered questions.
One of which was answered as they headed out of Jerez, making for the coast, through the gently undulating vineyards, miles upon miles of them beneath the vast blue sky.
'You're taking me to Sanlucar?' She could hardly believe it. Was he too insensitive to realise that the beautiful stone house, almost a mini-palace, in the old quarter of the historic port, was the last place she wanted to have to see again?
He spared her a mild sideways glance. 'You didn't want to stay on the estate, the house in Jerez is being redecorated, and I remembered how delighted you were with this area, the house. So, yes, we shall make our home in Sanlucar.'
He was talking as though it would be a permanent arrangement. 'For three months,' she reminded him stiffly, the memories she'd thought she'd successfully buried rising up to the surface of her mind to torment her.
He'd brought her to the house in Sanlucar for their honeymoon. She'd fallen in love with the place on sight and had told him as much. The tall rooms, the time-touched, lovingly tended antiques, the perfumed courtyard where water played in the ancient stone fountain and white doves called from the top of the walls where pale lemon roses arched in graceful profusion.
And it had all gone wrong, every single thing; instead of staying for several weeks, they'd left after three days. She'd been weeping silent tears of shame and hopeless inadequacy as they'd driven away and his gorgeous, beloved face had been stiff with Spanish pride. From that moment on he had virtually ignored her existence.
Had he brought her here to humiliate her? Was that another part of her punishment? Probably. A year ago he would have been incredulous, furious, when he'd received that note telling him she was leaving him. No one—not even a despised, unwanted wife—could turn their back on him and hope to get away with it.
And now she was being punished for it.
The large stone house overlooking the mouth of the Guadalquivir was deserted, the elegant, high-ceilinged rooms silent. Roman said, with no particular inflexion whatsoever, 'The caretaker and his wife are on leave. I thought it best to give them extra time off under the circumstances. So we fend for ourselves for a week or two. In view of your recent independence, I'm sure you won't find that a problem.'
'None at all,' she answered blandly. 'Housekeeping will help pass the time.' Not for the world would she let him see that their isolation worried her, that the thought of sharing his bed—as he had stipulated—horrified her, made her feel almost as if she were prostituting herself.
Her amber eyes were expressionless as they locked with his. He had married a naive, vulnerable dreamer. Three years on she had her feet firmly on the ground, an adult woman toughened by harsh experience. It was something he was going to have to learn.
She said stiffly, 'I'll leave you to dispose of the luggage.' Heaps of it littered the shady hall. 'Is there a phone still in the small salon? I need to call Cindy.'
'That's already been taken care of.' He was watching her narrowly. 'She was delighted to hear we would be living as man and wife again,' he told her, a thread of cruelty hardening his voice. 'You have nothing to say to her that has not already been said.'
'I think,' she said calmly, ignoring the flutter of nerves that notched her heartbeats up a gear, 'that I'm the best judge of that.' She turned her back on him and began to walk away. Never again would he tell her what to do and expect her to submit in the old mindless fashion. She had moved on. She had changed.
But she was actually shaking as she dialled her friend's number, fine tremors that ruffled the surface of her skin and sent mini-icebergs bobbing through her veins. Standing up to Roman instead of taking the much easier option and acting like a doormat was strangely exhilarating. She felt as if she were stepping blindfold into unknown, scary territory.
'Dolls and Dames, how may I help you?' The sound of Cindy's bright voice curved Cassie's mouth in a wistful smile. She could hear the chatter of customers in the background, the hypnotic beat of the latest chart-topper, and she wished ferociously that she was back there, in the thick of things, getting on with her own life.
'It's me,' she said. 'I'm sorry about what's happened—Roman said he'd already spoken to you. Look, Cin, about my job and the flat—' Would they still be waiting for her at the end of three months? 'I'll be back, I promise, I—'
'Stop fussing,' Cindy inserted blithely, her voice raised against the background noise. 'And for heaven's sake don't apologise. It's the best news I've heard in a long while. The only person who isn't celebrating because you and Roman have got back together is Guy. He looks like he's won the lottery and lost the ticket! My poor brother hoped to move in on you after you and Roman divorced, so now he's stuck in the mother and father of sulks. But don't you worry yourself about that, or anything, you hear me? Enjoy your second honeymoon—Sanlucar, Roman told me—and come back to clear your personal stuff from the flat when you feel like it. And don't worry about dropping me in the you-know-what because I hired a school-leaver yesterday—seventeen and sassy. She stepped right into your shoes as if they'd been hand-made for her.'
Glumly, Cassie gave up. Obviously, to save face, her estranged husband had intimated that the supposed reconciliation would be of a permanent duration. He had lost her a job she enjoyed and her home. However loudly she might protest that she wouldn't stay in Spain a minute longer than three months, her friend wouldn't believe her.
'I had no idea Guy felt that way,' she said disbelievingly when she was able to get a word in. 'You have to be wrong. We've been friends for ever. Just friends,' she insisted.
'Nope. My big brother started fancying his chances with you on the holiday we all had in Spain—but Roman made his move, and the next we knew you'd promised to marry him. Poor old Guy— back home he started to sow wild oats with a vengeance, but as soon as you came back, saying your marriage was over, he stopped dating and started waiting for your divorce to come through. He didn't think it right to tell you how he felt until you were free.'
'Oh, Lord!' Cassie pressed the knuckles of her free hand against her forehead. 'I promise you, I didn't realise.' Just one more thing to worry about. Guy was almost like another brother; she hated to think she had caused him misery, albeit unknowingly.
When she came off the phone she tried to put the unsettling conversation out of her mind. She had more pre
ssing matters to deal with. Roman had disappeared, and so had the luggage.
Suddenly, all those beautiful new clothes seemed utterly desirable. Refusing to make use of them because he had bought them seemed childish. Cutting her nose off to spite her face. The suit she'd traveled to Spain in felt as if it had been on her back for a year!
She mounted the magnificent staircase, the banister supports intricately carved with clusters of grapes and exotic birds, trying to ignore the fluttery sensations in the pit of her stomach. 'Bedroom' and 'Roman' were not words she was happy to couple together.
With diminishing hope, she poked her head into one bedroom after another. No sign of her things. As she approached the master suite, the scene of their honeymoon disasters, her heart fluttered wildly. Taking a deep breath to steady it, she opened the elaborately carved door.
Nothing about the beautiful room had been changed. Tall windows overlooked the gardens and the rolling hills beyond the coastal plain. Sumptuous brocade in soft shades of rose and silver covered the walls and the graceful chairs which flanked a low antique table that was perfect for intimate breakfasts for two.
She refused to look at the splendour of the four-poster bed.
The classy carrier bags and her overnight case were piled in the centre of the floor and Roman was hanging his gear in the cavernous wardrobe. He had no intention of letting her wriggle out of her side of the bargain or even to give her a night or two of breathing space!
Well, the room hadn't changed, and he surely hadn't. But she had. She was no longer an inarticulate mouse, unable to express her feelings. She said to the back of his head, 'I see you don't intend to offer me the privacy of my own room. In at the deep end, is it? Hardly a subtle approach.'
The wide shoulders stiffened beneath the crisp white cotton. He turned slowly, his darkly glittering eyes meeting hers and holding.
'Subtlety didn't get me anywhere on our honeymoon here. Or perhaps you've forgotten how you gritted your teeth and endured my lovemaking? Do you know how that made me feel?' he demanded, a dull flush of angry colour staining his craggy cheekbones. 'Little better than an animal, taking my own pleasure and giving none! Cassie—' his tone altered, softening just a little '—I told myself to make allowances for your sheltered upbringing, your total lack of experience. After all, that was part of the attraction I felt for you. But after that first time you wouldn't let me near you. So I left you alone—as you wanted. There's a limit to how many blows to his pride a man can take.'
Her eyes dropped guiltily. She had never looked at it quite like that before. Instinctively, she'd known that what she'd secretly feared had become fact. She'd been a huge disappointment to him on their wedding night, fear of failing him making her freeze, unable to relax or respond.
And that same fear had made her instinctively reject him whenever he tried to touch her again.
If only he'd said one word of love, things might have been so very different... But then, for all his faults, Roman wasn't a liar...
'I suggest we drop the subject,' he said flatly. 'Why don't you unpack "while I find something for lunch?'
He walked out, closing the door behind him and, for no reason that she could think of, she felt totally bereft.
An hour later she descended the stairs. A shower in the luxurious green marble en suite had worked wonders, as had the liberal application of fragrant body oil.
And the choice of what to wear from the huge selection of shockingly expensive clothing Roman had insisted she have had been difficult. Everything was so lovely.
In the end she'd settled for white lace briefs, soft, silky wide-legged trousers in a gorgeous tawny colour and a matching halter-neck top that left her arms and most of her back bare and negated the need to wear a bra.
She'd left her hair loose and it was beginning to dry in soft curling tendrils. After adding the barest touch of lipstick and mascara, she felt ready to go downstairs. She wasn't going to think about the coming night and get herself all tense and apprehensive because she might, just might, be able to wriggle out of it.
She paused for a moment on the cool tiles of the hall, then followed the sound of cutlery. Roman was drawing the cork from a bottle of white Rioja and the kitchen table held a huge tray crammed with plates, cutlery, glasses and salads.
The arrogant Roman Fernandez, master of the vast Colinas Verdes estates, working in a kitchen? Unheard of!
'You have been busy,' she drawled from the doorway, amusement in her voice. For some reason, seeing him in an unprecedented domestic role made her feel warm inside.
He glanced up, smoky eyes veiled by twin fans of thick dark lashes. 'I have impressed myself,' he confessed in his lightly accented, sexy voice, his sudden white grin disarming her.
He straightened, placing the opened bottle that was already sporting a haze of condensation on the overburdened tray, the straight black bar of one eyebrow rising in silent appraisal.
Resting one narrow-boned hip on the side of the table, he let his eyes travel with slow deliberation from the toes of her sandalled feet to eventually lock with hers.
'I was right to insist on that outfit.' His voice was low, sultry. 'You would have thrown it back in that poor woman's face, along with everything else I chose for you. It becomes you. You have beautiful breasts. You were right not to constrict them in a bra.'
His openly sexual appraisal had made her breath catch in her throat. She felt her nipples peak as a slow ache of desire flared deep inside her. Heavens, the man was dynamite! A look, a word, could bring any woman to her knees! No wonder she had felt inadequate, way out of his league.
His narrowed charcoal eyes still held hers as a rapid pulse of embarrassed colour covered her face. 'A mere observation,' he said lightly. His mouth wasn't smiling but his eyes were dancing. 'Shall we eat? Outside?'
He lifted the heavy tray and strode out through the open door. Cassie dragged in a shuddery breath and followed.
In the past she'd only had to look at him to go dizzy with wanting him. Wanting him so badly yet unable to deliver.
If he had his way, the whole humiliating farce was due to begin all over again—unless she could convince him that it wasn't necessary.
By the time she caught up with him he was unloading the contents of the tray on to a teak table in the courtyard. Shaded by a massive almond tree, flanked by ancient stone urns filled with perfumed lilies and carnations, it was the ideal site for a relaxed meal, the prelude to a second honeymoon.
Suddenly, her legs felt hollow. She sat down quickly. It was so hot, even in the green shade that made his skin seem darker, his eyes enigmatic. The combination of the still, heavily perfumed air and nervous tension was making her dizzy.
'You have to be hungry,' he allowed, piling a plate with thin slices of the ham that was a speciality of the region, plump olives and crisp salad. 'Since you refused to eat breakfast back at the hotel. Tell me—' his eyes skimmed her wilting body as he poured the wine '—do I ruin your appetite, Cassie mia? Whenever I was at the finca I saw you pick at your food, yet you've gained weight during this last year. A very becoming amount of weight.'
Cassie reached for a crusty roll, broke it and drizzled olive oil over the two halves. She took a deliberate bite and speared a succulent morsel of ham with her fork.
'You intimidated me,' she told him honestly. If nothing else, a year away from him had given her back the ability to give an opinion, vocalise her thoughts. 'I was dumped in that isolated farmhouse with nothing to do but endure the disapproval of your female relatives. When you did put in an appearance, you barely seemed to see me—'
'Oh, I saw you,' he slid in, his mouth compressing. 'Whenever I was foolish enough to try to get near you I saw a pair of frightened eyes, I saw panic. Por Dios! Is it any wonder I stopped trying?'
'That was just sex,' she shot back. 'You wanted an heir. That was the only use you had for me!' Her fingers tightened convulsively on the misty surface of her wine glass
. 'When it was obvious that it wasn't going to happen, you washed your hands of me— you couldn't even be bothered to ask why!' she told him stormily. 'What I wanted was never important, was it? When I asked—begged you to let us make a home away from the finca—'
'You were hysterical,' he reminded coldly. 'In those days I needed to be away often—'
'You could have taken me with you,' Cassie snapped back, wishing the subject didn't still have the power to make her-so angry. The past was dead, so why couldn't she bury it? She drained her glass in one long swallow, hoping the chilled wine would cool her temper.
And when he dismissed, 'My mother was worried about you; the aunts, too, decided you needed guidance, looking after,' she could have hurled the empty glass straight at his head.
As if he read the intention in her eyes he calmly refilled the prospective missile, then put his forearms on the table, leaning towards her.
The shock of soft dark hair that fell over his forehead and his sudden, disarming smile made him look younger than his thirty-six years. And his voice was husky as he told her, 'Querida, we are not here to quarrel. You have your wish. We are away from the finca and my relatives. Now we can see if your attitude in the bedroom has changed as radically as your figure and your ability to answer me back.'
He reached out and touched her hand and the whole of her body caught fire as he said, 'I am looking forward to finding out, mi esposa.'
CHAPTER FIVE
The fluid music of the fountain as the water splashed into the shallow stone basin seemed unnaturally loud in the silence that lay over the courtyard. The way be was still looking at her, the things he had said, released a flood of shattering sensation inside her, making her flesh quiver, her blood pound hotly through her veins. It took her breath away.
Claiming His Wife Page 4