Claiming His Wife

by Diana Hamilton

  On the other hand, Roman knew that the three of them had been close friends for practically the whole of their lives. He didn't know Guy was in love with Cass. And Cass wasn't interested; she was still in love with her husband.

  Cindy sighed. They would have to sort it out for themselves. By telling him where to find Cass she'd done more than her fair share of meddling. 'It's a ten-minute walk, if that,' she told him. 'But I could call a cab; it's still pouring down outside.'

  'I'll walk, if you'll give me directions.' He stood up, impatient to be gone. It would probably take a cab more than ten minutes to turn up here and a drop of rain wouldn't hurt him.

  At the door, after giving him the simple directions, Cindy said, almost diffidently, 'I don't know what your plans are, and I know you're great at granting favours but lousy at taking them, but you can stay with us tonight. Fraser and I only have the one bed at the moment, but you could kip on the sofa. Cass has our number—call. One of us can pick you up.'

  'So you see this as something of a wild-goose chase?' The forced lightness of his tone hid the sud­den swamping ache that tightened his heart. 'What's to say I won't be spending the night, the rest of my life, with Cass?'

  The hope was so great it tore at him savagely. But if it didn't turn out that way—his body went cold, his heart contracting beneath a layer of ice—then company would be the last thing he wanted. He would rather walk the streets, or find an all-night cab company and get himself straight back to the airport.

  He gave Cindy a bleak smile and strode out into the rain.

  Her hands unsteady, Cassie hastily chopped red pep­pers, sweet onions and celery and dumped them into the bowl of lettuce. She'd make the dressing later.

  She had to get dressed before Guy had finished getting showered and changed. Suitably armoured against the hungry look she'd seen in his eyes, she'd be more able to explain that he'd made the wrong assumptions, that she would never see him as any­thing other than a friend.

  Explain, perhaps, that she still loved Roman and probably always would, despite what had happened. Not that Guy had any idea, of course. He only knew what she'd told him and Cindy—that the reconcili­ation hadn't worked out. That didn't stop him being anti-Roman. Guy blamed him for everything bad that had happened in her life. And maybe he was right.

  But there were good things, too, memories she would always treasure. Memories of a time when she'd believed that their lives would run together, always. Those lazy, languid weeks in Sanlucar. The sun and the teasing wind from the Atlantic. Wandering through the old town together, hand in hand, sipping cafe solos at their favourite cafe, where the taped voices of cante jondo singers came from the dim interior and a fragrant orange tree cast a wel­come shade over their chosen table. And the nights, the long, sultry nights of loving...

  The knife she'd been holding slipped from her nerveless fingers, skittering over the tiled floor. Blinking, biting her lip as she came back to stark reality, she muttered under her breath and went down on her knees to fish it out from under the fridge.

  And heard the kitchen door open.

  Damn!

  She'd been day-dreaming, masochistically indulg­ing in memories that only served to heighten her pain, when she should have been starching herself up, dressing in sexless old jeans and a baggy sweater, scraping back her hair.

  Now she would really have to scuttle if Guy weren't to get the wrong ideas about her state of undress.

  Giving up on the knife that seemed to have got well and truly wedged, she peered through the nearly-dry mane of her hair, her startled eyes fasten­ing on a pair of boots, travelling slowly up long, lithely muscled legs encased in narrow black denim, a black leather jacket spangled with raindrops. Roman!

  His black hair was plastered to his skull and there were lines of strain etched deeply at the sides of his mouth, but his eyes glowed with something that made her breath catch in her throat, her heartbeats race, sending her giddy.

  'The door was on the latch. I walked straight in.' His voice was like velvet, the voice of the lover who had haunted her dreams. 'You should be more se­curity-conscious, Cass. I worry about you.' A slow, almost tentative smile curved his mouth. 'At least something smells good. You are not neglecting your­self, as I feared.'

  The casserole! she thought manically, trying to hold on to the mundane and normal to counteract the shock of his sudden appearance, the crazy hopes that against all common sense were clamouring for rec­ognition in her painfully agitated brain.

  It was an effort to scramble to her feet, an effort to make her voice work. 'Why are you here?' It was scarcely more than a whisper. She couldn't tear her eyes from his face. So dear to her, so loved. Yet strangely older, with deeper hollows beneath his slashing cheekbones. Compassion stirred strongly, making her ache. Had he, too, suffered, just as she had?

  His slightly hooded eyes swept her, a line of quick colour touching his skin, and Cassie, shell-shocked, knew why when she glanced down and saw how dur­ing her undignified knife-hunt the edges of her bor­rowed robe had come apart, revealing the heavy globes of her breasts, or most of them, the line of her still-flat tummy and the tangle of springy hair at the apex of her thighs.

  Swallowing convulsively, she snatched at the edges, wrapping them tightly around her, and he said thickly, moving closer, 'Don't hide your body from me. You are so beautiful you make my heart ache, querida. I have come for you, if you will have me. Will you, my Cassie?'

  With tears in her eyes, dazed wonder numbing her mind, her body suddenly shaking, Cassie could only struggle to get control of her vocal cords, tell him yes, and yes again, to be with him was what she had always wanted.

  A sound emerged, but thickly, making no sense. Her hands flew to her face as shattering emotions racked her body. She made her feet move somehow towards him, to reply to his question with physical contact, since she seemed incapable of doing it ver­bally—her body against his, her arms around him, her mouth finding his, giving him his answer.

  'Stop hounding her, dammit!' Guy's voice was thin and high, ragged with temper. 'Haven't you done enough damage?'

  In the doorway his face was red. He was wearing a thin silky robe that did little to disguise the fact that he wore nothing under it.

  The silence following his outburst was still and sharp. Cassie didn't know whether to giggle hyster­ically or to burst into tears.

  Roman turned cold eyes on his distant cousin, his patrician nostrils pinched with arctic displeasure.

  'And don't look at me like that,' Guy blustered. 'This is my home, and I'm telling you we don't want you in it. If you need to contact Cassie, do it through your solicitor.'

  Cassie's eyes went wide. Guy's face was purple now. She was afraid he'd have a stroke! 'Guy,' she commanded, as firmly as she could under these sur­real circumstances, 'don't I have a say here?'

  'No!' His voice rose a full octave. 'I'm handling this. And I'll tell you something for nothing, Fernandez. I'm looking after Cass, I'm marrying her and taking care of the baby—'

  A single fiery Spanish expletive cut him off in full flow. Tormented charcoal eyes flicked briefly in Cassie's direction. And then, with Guy stepping smartly aside, Roman strode through the doorway, disappearing into the dark wet night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  'This is a total dump!' Cindy censured, parking her­self on the only armchair the dingy room boasted. The best that could be said of it was that it had bro­ken springs and stained upholstery. 'Guy was in a right state when he phoned this morning and told me you'd moved out, and where you'd gone. I came as soon as I shut up shop. Where's Roman?' she de­manded. 'And what the hell do you think you're do­ing in this grot-hole? Honestly, sometimes I think you should be locked up for your own safety!'

  Glumly, Cassie had to agree with her friend's scathing assessment of the bed-sit she'd just moved into. But it was cheap and, more importantly, she was no longer sharing with Guy.

  Last night he'd gone to bed in a chastened mood after she'd told him
he'd ruined everything for her, reminding him that if he'd thought by saying he was planning on marrying her and looking after the baby had been an act of chivalry, he was utterly and hope­lessly wrong.

  What he'd said, giving Roman the wrong impres­sion of their relationship, had been totally destructive and completely out of order.

  She'd spent the night in anguish, stuffing her few possessions in carrier bags, then pacing the floor as she waited for dawn when she could remove herself; sleep had been out of the question.

  Roman had wanted her back, wanted to make their marriage work. Now he believed she'd shacked up with Guy, leapt straight into bed with him and had conceived his child. What other interpretation could he have put on what Guy had said? No wonder he'd walked straight out. He would think she was a slut and would have washed his hands of her!

  'So,' Cindy prompted sharply, 'what happened? Roman had come for you; I know that because I gave him Guy's address. Don't tell me you sent him pack­ing?'

  Still in shock over what had happened the previous evening, and cursing the weak tears that flooded her eyes, Cassie muttered dully, 'It's a long story.' She really didn't want to talk about it. It was too close, too painful. But she knew she would have to. Cindy wouldn't leave until she did.

  Buying herself a few extra moments, she offered tiredly, 'Why don't I make us some coffee?'

  There was a sink and a gas ring in one corner, divided from the rest of the room by a shabby brown curtain. She'd shopped for a few basics on her way back from the bookshop but hadn't been motivated enough to unpack them.

  Now she hunted through the carrier for the jar of granules, and when the brew was made and she couldn't delay any longer she perched on the edge of the single bed and haltingly told her friend every­thing.

  'Hell's teeth!' Cindy exploded, putting her empty mug down on the floor. 'How could my stupid brother have done that? I honestly thought it would be all right—he kept his feelings to himself, was the perfect gentleman, in fact, when you came back that first time.'

  She moved her hands expressively, her frown fe­rocious. 'The only time he ever really came clean about what he felt for you, he definitely told me he wouldn't say a word to you, or give you a hint, while you were still legally married to Roman. I really thought it would be the same this time, otherwise—' She shook her head helplessly. 'I'm so sorry, Cass!' 'You're not your brother's keeper,' Cassie said dully. 'It's done now.'

  'But not dusted,' Cindy replied decisively. 'When did you find out you were pregnant?'

  'Some time towards the end of August, I suppose. Just before everything went wrong.'

  'So why didn't you tell Roman then? Surely he'd have been delighted—why keep it a secret?'

  'Because.'

  Cassie sucked in a long breath. Her whole body was shaking with inner tension. She didn't think she could take much more.

  'Because what?'

  Another dredging sigh, then Cassie spilled out edgily, 'Because even though we were getting along fine and the sex was great, he hadn't said a word about loving me or wanting me with him perma­nently. So far as I knew, he still expected me to leave at the end of the three months—he never said a single thing to make me believe anything else. As it happened,' she tacked on stiffly, 'he as good as gave me my marching orders well before then—as soon as he heard Delfina was no longer a problem.'

  'All that tells me is that both of you are hopeless when it comes to communication. It doesn't tell me why he doesn't know he's about to be a father,' the other woman pointed out drily.

  'If I'd told him about the baby he would have insisted I stay. I do know that much!' Cassie bit down on her trembling lower lip. 'Can't you under­stand? I needed him to want me for my own sake, not because I was carrying his baby. He wants an heir. And you know him—if I'd refused to stay on permanently because I couldn't bear to stay married to a man who couldn't love me, he would have done everything he could to get custody. I want this baby!'

  His child.

  'It's his baby, too,' Cindy pointed out. 'You have to tell him.'

  'He thinks it's Guy's.'

  'Then you'll have to tell him it isn't, won't you?' Cindy stood up, pointing out firmly, 'You're under­standably upset, and in no mood to think straight. But believe me, Roman does love you. Why else would he have asked you to go back to him? But my stupid brother went and put his foot in it. No big deal—just a minor spanner in the works. It's up to you to get everything running smoothly again.'

  Cindy had offered to come to Las Colinas Verdes with her for moral support. Now, drawing the hired car up in front of the large stone-built farmhouse at the heart of the sprawling estate, Cassie wished she'd accepted her offer.

  It was almost dark. The wind blowing from the distant mountains carried an autumnal chill. She shivered, but the palms of her hands were clammy with sweat.

  After Cindy had left her, a couple of evenings ago, she had eventually emerged from her traumatised state and everything had seemed so simple.

  Follow Roman back to Spain and tell him the truth.

  The baby was his, not Guy's.

  Despite the way things had looked, he would be­lieve her—surely he would? After all, he must have missed her, missed the closeness they'd shared, thought things over and regretted having told her to go. He must have done; there could be no other rea­son for his coming to England, asking her to come back to him.

  Simple. The outcome a foregone happy conclu­sion. She'd felt so sure of herself, and of him, that she'd told her boss at the bookshop that she wouldn't be returning; given up the bed-sit; burned all her bridges.

  Now, within moments of coming face to face with his clothes from the hanging cupboard by the dim light, tossing them haphazardly into an open suitcase. Hers, the clothes he had insisted on buying her all those weeks ago, were in a pile on the bed. A huge lump formed in her throat.

  Without missing a beat, without turning, he said, 'If you've come for your things, you needn't have bothered. Teresa returns tomorrow, I was going to ask her to pack them up and send them on.'

  He did turn then, slowly. The light from the lamp picked out his features, emphasising a new and dis­quieting harshness. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into slate-grey trousers; it made his skin look dark by contrast, his eyes black and unforgiving.

  She swallowed convulsively and blurted, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere, 'How did you know it was me? It could have been anyone—a burglar!'

  'I knew,' he said, almost uninterestedly. 'And "burglar" fits. You stole something from me, and I don't for a moment think you've come to give it back.'

  A mind like a maze didn't come near describing his tortuous thought processes. She'd left here taking only the things she'd brought with her! But now wasn't the time to ask why he was adding theft to the long list of things he'd stacked up against her.

  He gave her a last, penetrating look from beneath his brows, his mouth a hard, straight line, then closed the open suitcase with his foot, bent to fasten it and straightened up again.

  He was leaving, she thought, panicking, as he hefted the heavy case and strode towards the door where she was standing. As far as he was concerned she didn't even merit the title of unfinished business. Her heart gave a violent twist of anguish. It couldn't end liked this—she wouldn't let it!

  'We need to talk.' Her voice sounded ragged. Cassie stood her ground, though. If he wanted to go through that door he would have to lift her bodily off her feet. And she was getting the distinct im­pression that touching her in any way at all was the last thing he wanted to have to do.

  'Why?' The question was flat. But he did stop, keeping distance between them, his eyes coldly dis­missive.

  First things first. Conscious for the first time of her travel-stained clothes, her hair all over the place, her possibly manic appearance, she levelled her voice and told him, 'I was at Las Colinas earlier this eve­ning. Roy said it was common knowledge by now that you intend to sell up. Everything.'

  One
black brow tilted upwards fractionally. 'And you followed me all the way down here? Por dios! you must be eager. For the clothes you left behind? Or were you intending to wheedle your way back into my life via the bedroom? Decided you prefer living in luxury in Spain to sharing a flat with your lover?'

  Cassie closed her eyes briefly, her head going back as if to force the threatening tears back right where they came from. She'd expected initial difficulties, but they were turning out to be more painful than she could ever have imagined.

  'And not quite everything,' he corrected, loosing his grip on the case, letting it drop to the floor. 'The house in Jerez will stay in the family, for the benefit of the older generation.' He lifted his shoulders in an uncaring shrug. 'After the place has served its pur­pose, who knows? It will probably go the same way as the estate and this house.'

  'You can't do it!' Her throat tightened up again, the words emerging thickly. He would spend the rest of his life regretting it; his heritage was the most important thing in his life.

  He crossed his arms across his chest, his long legs straddled, his aristocratic nostrils narrowed. 'No one tells me what I can and cannot do.'

  His arrogance pricked her on the raw, despite her compassion. Knowing what his proud heritage meant to him, she knew that something deeply traumatic had forced him to this decision. 'A law unto your­self?' she snapped sardonically. 'What was it you used to say? That you were merely the custodian of your inheritance, honour-bound to hand it on to the next generation in a better state than when it came to you. Or have you conveniently forgotten that?'

  She saw a muscle jerk at the side of his mouth, another clench along his hard jawline. 'As there is to be no future generation, I see no point in tying my­self to places that hold nothing but bad memories of a woman I don't know any more.. I thought I did know you. For a few perfect weeks you had me fooled.'

  Her heart lifted. The feeling was so strong it was almost a pain. He had followed her to England to ask her to go back to him, of course he had, and she hadn't lost sight of that. Was it possible that he was feeling as bereft as she was? How could she prove that she loved him, that there had never been anyone else for her?