Claiming His Wife

by Diana Hamilton

  Responding to the way he looked, the sound of his voice, his vital masculinity, had never been a prob­lem. Nothing had changed in that respect. But she couldn't deliver, couldn't hope to please and enthral a man of his sophistication and experience.

  Could she?

  Feeling as if her bones were about to disintegrate, she gripped the stem of her wine glass and said thickly, 'It needn't happen—the bed thing,' and felt her face go red beneath those steady, watchful eyes.

  'I see.' Long fingers lazily plucked a grape from the terracotta platter. She heard the wine-dark fruit crunch between his strong white teeth. 'And how do you work that out?'

  At least he wasn't forcefully reminding her of the bargain they'd made, she thought, as she thankfully released the breath she'd been holding. He wasn't getting all macho and Spanish and breathing fire and brimstone from those aristocratically sculpted nos­trils! In fact, he looked completely relaxed, one arm hooked across the back of his chair, the other reach­ing towards the grapes.

  Roman in a reasonable, listening mood was pretty bewildering—it made her feel as if she were on an­other planet, but she wasn't going to knock it!

  Hoping it was going to last, she said levelly, 'Tell me if I'm wrong, but this supposed reconciliation of ours is being staged to get your family and Delfina off your case, isn't it?'

  No response. He crunched another grape and re­filled the wine glass she hadn't noticed emptying.

  Despite her best intentions, her voice rose a level. 'When you marry again it won't be to that type of spoiled, demanding socialite. Unless you've altered your mind radically, it will be to a quiet breeding machine, content to stay home while you go out to play.'

  Cassie huffed in an infuriated breath. He could at least show some interest in what she'd been saying and agree with her, because she knew she was right. 'Why don't you say something? Anything! Or are we having a one-sided conversation here?'

  His slow smile was indulgent, his eyes lazy. 'You have an opinion, Cassandra; I am merely doing you the courtesy of listening to it. So far you've not said anything that invited comment.' His brows lifted just slightly. 'I'm patiently waiting to hear what you have about the—what did you call it?—the Bed thing’

  Patronising horror! But losing her temper wouldn't help. 'Exactly,' she said grittily. 'Just putting the picture straight. ‘So sorry to bore you. If you can't be up-front about it and tell Delfina and your family to get lost instead of insisting on this subterfuge to get you out of a corner—'

  Now she was being sarcastic. She really couldn't afford to ruffle his feathers, so she deliberately re­laxed her shoulders and sugared her tone a little. "What I'm trying to say is, I've agreed to live with you for three months. To the interested parties back at the finca, it will appear that we're making our marriage work. That's enough. They won't have posted spies here, or put hidden cameras in all the rooms. There's absolutely no need for us to actually sleep together.'

  There, she'd said it. Holding her breath, feeling the prickle of perspiration gather on her forehead, she waited for his reaction. Surely he would recognise that her being here with him was enough to get Darling Delfina and his matchmaking relatives off his back? Surely he could have no wish to repeat the frustrating and humiliating experiences of three years ago?

  Smoky eyes regarded her narrowly. He stretched his endless legs further under the table and clasped his hands behind his head. In the green shade of the almond tree his expression was shadowed, un­readable.

  'Are you on the pill, Cass?'

  She widened her eyes at him. With a handful of words he'd pushed her thoughts right out of gear. What had her being on the pill got to do with any­thing?

  'Are you?'

  'Yes,' she grudged, and felt her face go hot.

  'Ah. I see.' His tone might be smooth, but some­thing dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes as he shifted his position, leaning slightly forwards. 'Who's the lucky man? My cousin Guy? He ogled you when he thought no one was looking, when you visited that first time. You certainly headed in his direction when you left me.'

  'Don't be ridiculous!' She moved uncomfortably in her seat. Poor Guy. She'd had no idea he'd thought of her in that way. On that fatal visit she'd had eyes for no one but Roman.

  'Who, then?'

  He looked unpredictable, dangerous. His pose might be studiedly relaxed but she knew better. He was like a coiled spring. Touch him and he'd snap every which way.

  Despite being separated for a year, they were still man and wife. If he thought she'd been making love with someone else after rejecting him, the knife-thrust to his monumental Spanish pride would pro­duce an explosion of awesome proportions.

  'No one. My GP recommended I go on the pill to regulate my monthly cycle. It had gone haywire. No other reason. Unlike you, I don't look on sex as being the be-all and end-all of everything,' she said stiltedly.

  "Of that, mi esposa, I am fully aware.' His mouth curled wryly as he swung down his arms and pushed back his chair. 'So I choose to believe you. I had to ask you understand. One of us has to use protection.' So he wasn't prepared to listen to reason! Her heart leapt and fluttered like a frightened bird. But he wasn't to know that. She wouldn't give him de satisfaction of seeing her in a panic.

  Protection? Here was I, thinking that the only reason you married me was to get an heir!' Her voice as commendably cool, she'd even managed a slight underlying note of amusement. And knew she'd hit a nerve when his face tightened.

  "I do want an heir. But not one given grudgingly.' Grudgingly? What did he know about it? What did be know about the lonely heart that had wished things could have been different, wished he could have understood her fears, the way she'd hated and dispised herself for her failings?

  She would have loved to have had his child, a real and loving home with him, away from his critical relatives.

  She stood up quickly; the way he was looking at her was making her jittery. If he weren't so gorgeous she could handle him bet­ter. Forget that once she had loved him. .And now they were too close. Cassie took a quick step back, trying not to think that when he made her keep her side of their fiendish bargain they would be a whole lot closer. No point in getting in a state before she had to!

  'So—' One large, finely made hand gestured vaguely at the table. 'We clear away? Wash the dishes? Then, maybe, siesta?'

  His abrupt change of mood, that slow sexy smile, took her breath away all over again. But she recov­ered it, recovered herself, turned away and told him, 'You dismissed the staff. You do the dishes. And sex in the afternoon wasn't part of the bargain, as I remember.’

  She walked away.

  As she stepped beneath the rose-covered arch in the stone wall that separated the courtyard from the extensive gardens her skin prickled, the fine hairs standing on end. It felt as if an army of ants wearing red-hot spiky boots were marching all over her body. Knowing him, he would command her to come right back—and if she refused he'd make her.

  But he didn't. Only the sleepy sound of the doves, the faint rustle of a breeze in the gently swaying tops of the eucalyptus trees disturbed the peace of the slow Spanish afternoon. She expelled a shaky breath.

  Reprieve.

  But not for long. Only until tonight.

  And did she mind? Really mind?

  The sudden, unwelcome question had her rooted to the spot, her feet seemingly glued to the narrow, paved path. Something sharp and fierce twisted deep inside her, making her squeeze her eyelids together. Her lungs expanded as she dragged air into them, baling the scents of the billowing borders, heady hot spicy geraniums, sweet oleander... She forced her eyes open. What kind of stupid —question was that? Of course she minded! She hated the thought of being used to satisfy his warped curiosity, of being punished for what her twin had done.

  What sane woman would want to be forced to Roman's bed? Loads, she answered herself truthfully. And it wouldn't be a question of forcing, feeling uncomfortable with the way her thoughts shaping, she marc
hed on, covering all the wind- paths that curved around the massive flowerbeds passing the airless summer house covered with red roses. She finally came to a halt at the bar-of wooden poles that overhung the deep and v ravine.

  Steep sides and tall trees offered shade, and far she could hear the stream from the hills fall rocks and chatter its way between moss-covered . It was tempting. Up here, at this time of aid at this time of year, the Andalusian sun was merciless.

  She felt as if she were melting, her clothes sticking overheated body, an ache building up at the of her eyes. But the only way down was a steep staircase of stone and her legs felt so wobbly she

  didn’t think she'd be able to make it.

  Roman, she thought crossly, was probably lolling in the salon, an electric fan cooling the air, a glass something long and cold to hand. While she—

  'You punish yourself.' His voice was slow and soft, the hands he placed on her shoulders gut-wrenchingly gentle.

  She hadn't heard him walk up to her, but the sound of his voice in the sleepy silence of the garden, the touch of his hands, hadn't startled her. Almost as if she had known he would come and she'd been wait­ing.

  The tips of his fingers moved over her burning skin and she thought: No, you punish me. You make me face the things about myself I don't like—the fear, and the cowardice that stopped me doing any­thing about that fear. I should have told you I was afraid, and made you listen. I wasn't brave enough.

  'Too much sun, your skin burns.' He lifted the heavy swathe of hair away from the back of her neck and her breath snagged as his lips touched her nape. 'You taste of salt.' His voice purred. 'And woman.'

  Her head was beginning to swim, and it wasn't just the effects of the hot afternoon sun. She wanted to move away, to reinforce the distance that had been growing between them ever since their wedding night, but couldn't make her legs function.

  Instead she said shakily, 'I was thinking of climb­ing down there, into the shade,' and sagged weakly back against him as his hands slid down her naked arms, cupping her elbows.

  A year ago, if he'd come to her, touched her like this, she would have leapt away like a startled rabbit, terrified to let things go further and allow him to rediscover just how frigid she was.

  Now, she was incapable of any movement at all; her body wanted to stay exactly where it was, close to him, and her brain had gone AWOL.

  'I've got a better idea.' His hands slid around her body, resting on her midriff. The light pressure of his fingertips sent a shock of feverish tension zinging through her. She could feel the hard jut of his pelvis against the lower part of her back and felt faint at the contact, desperately willing his hands to move higher to cup her breasts, to discover for himself the evidence of erect nipples that strained against the in­substantial barrier of silk.

  She wanted to cry out, to beg him to touch her, and almost did, but was achingly glad she hadn't when he said lightly, 'We go back to the house and you can shower and rest. Alone. I won't bother you—if that's why you're staying out here and in­viting sunstroke. Later, we'll go out for supper. I can't face doing any more dishes!'

  He moved away, walking back towards the house, his stride loose and graceful, and Cassie followed, her face flaming.

  He hadn't noticed how her body had become so supple and willing, so eager for his touch, how her breath had shortened. But then, why should he? In his limited experience of her, she had never re­sponded. He wouldn't expect anything to have changed.

  Which begged the question of why he had stipu­lated that they share a bed at all.

  To punish her.

  Which meant he was cruel, had an unfeeling heart and thought of her as nothing more than an experi­ment. With the side-effect of getting Delfina and his family off his back.

  Well, for Roy's sake she could get through the next three months. Roman expected a wooden woman in his bed and that was what he'd get. The aching desire she'd felt just a few moments ago was nothing to worry about.

  She'd wanted Roman to make love to her on their wedding night, but when it had come right down to it she'd turned into a block of ice. The same thing would happen again. He'd soon tire of the silly game and remove himself to another room.

  And that would be the end of it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  'You are safe to walk -home?' Roman's voice was threaded with dry amusement and Cassie's amber eyes answered his relaxed mood, gleaming up at him.

  Moonlight suited him; he looked really spectacu­lar. But then, when did he not?

  'I may have had one glass of Rioja too many—'

  'Don't forget the Manzanilla—'

  'I'm not.' She wrinkled her nose at him. 'Besides, I ate like a horse—those langostinos were to die for, and that sauce!' She kissed her fingers in the air and swallowed a husky giggle. 'Besides, what option do I have? Unless you're offering to carry me?'

  For answer he gave her a long assessing look, sweeping from head to toe. Cassie felt the sexual awareness that had been hovering between them all evening crank up another notch or two. Or two hun­dred. The breeze was moulding the fine cotton of the understatedly elegant shift dress she was wearing tightly to her body and his eyes lingered like a lover's touch on each and every lush curve.

  She shivered deliciously, the punch of desire in­side her making her legs go weak, and he told her, 'It wouldn't be a problem, but I think the walk would sober you up.'

  'I'm not drunk!'

  'Tipsy, then?' His gorgeous mouth was straight now, unsmiling, making her want to reach up and touch his lips with hers, to feel them soften, remind him of the promise this night held. For both of them. 'Only a little.' She did her best to sound haughty and dismally failed. And didn't really mind. She was beyond being annoyed with him, having to be forever on the defensive. The evening spent in the little res­taurant in the Barrio Alto, the oldest part of the port, had been wonderful from start to finish, and if she'd had too much wine it had only been because she'd decided to dull her senses so that the prospect of the coming night might take on less alarming propor­tions.

  Instead, she realised as she took his proffered arm, the alcohol had crept insidiously through her veins, whetting her sexual appetite, making her near delir­ious in her need to act the wanton, fling herself on him, beg him to make love to her, and hope to hell she didn't freeze up on him again.

  Not that she felt like freezing, not one little bit, she recognised dizzily as they threaded slowly through the narrow, ancient streets. The playful breeze was warm and she could smell the sea, and the river, and the orange trees that seemed to be planted everywhere.

  She belonged here; she really did. It made her feel so happy. This place, and being here with him, in­toxicated her far more than the wine had done. 'I'd forgotten how relaxing this corner of Spain could be,' she said on a breathy little sigh, and dropped her glossy chestnut head against his pow­erful shoulder.

  'Andalusia? Or the best part of a bottle of wine?' he queried dryly, slipping an arm around her waist for greater support. 'Not long now; almost home.'

  Home. Oh, it sounded so good! Far too good to be true. A tear formed in the corner of each eye. If only they could have spent their married life here, away from...

  'Whoops!' She stumbled over an uneven cobble­stone and the momentary plunge into misery was for­gotten as Roman, with a darkly muttered impreca­tion, swept her up into his arms and carried her the rest of the short distance and then beneath the stone portal of the house.

  'You didn't carry me over the threshold on our honeymoon,' she murmured, knowing her words were all slurring together in a way that made her want to giggle irrepressibly.

  And it wasn't really the effects of alcohol, either. It was being held in his arms, pressed against that gorgeous, macho male body, her arms clinging around his neck, her face so very close to his. Definitely close enough to kiss...

  'We had an audience, remember?' he answered lightly, as if he were trying to humour a difficult child. 'You were such a timid little t
hing, I didn't want to embarrass you. The slightest thing made your face turn into a beetroot and sent you scurrying for cover.'

  He had a point, she conceded. Three years ago she'd been a pathetic wimp. She responded airily, 'I remember. All the staff gathered to give the master's new bride the once-over. Staring, picking me to pieces!'

  She felt his whole body tense, the arms that held her turning to steel bars. She wound her arms more tightly around his neck. Hey ho! What did the past matter? They were alone now; that was the important thing. No old family retainers to exclaim over the total unsuitability of el patron's new wife, as she'd had no doubt they had done in the privacy of their own quarters.

  Not that that sort of thing would bother her now, of course. Suddenly, she felt liberated, her own woman, capable of facing anyone and anything. Best of all, she wasn't afraid of disappointing Roman in bed. What she didn't know he could teach her. She would be a willing pupil!

  'You get some strange ideas.' His long stride car­ried him across the cool, dimly lit hall. 'But then I never had the privilege of knowing what was going on inside your head.'

  Because he hadn't asked? Or because she hadn't told him? Were they equally to blame for the com­plete lack of communication between them?

  Cassie was in no fit state to come up with an an­swer to that; she was simply a mass of sensation, minus a brain. Her blood was singing through her veins, red-hot, burning her up. She'd expected him to put her down but he didn't. He carried her up the stairs as if she weighed no more than a kitten.

  Tonight wasn't going to be a problem. Tonight she was more ready for him than she could ever have dreamed possible.

  The fiendish bargain he'd struck had seemed like a violation of the worst possible kind. Until tonight. Tonight, making love with her husband—whole­heartedly responding to his incredible, overpowering, fantastic masculinity—was nothing short of natural, totally and overwhelmingly right.

  She gave a long sigh of blissful anticipation as he paced his way to the side of the sumptuous bed by the light of the moon that slanted through the louvres, and slid her down to her feet, flicking on the bedside lamp at the same time.