Claiming His Wife

Roy, too, had moved out to one of the self-contained cabanas on the estate, so that meant he was alone here and no one but himself had to suffer from his perpetual black mood.

If it weren't for his pride he might not have been alone. He might have had Cass. His wife. His adored wife. But he hadn't told her how beloved she was. He ground his teeth together, raging against himself. He'd been on the brink of it, willing himself to swal­low his pride, tell her how he felt and put his future happiness in her hands—when two things had hap­pened.

A sudden brain-boiling hatred for the man—or men—who had taught Cassie to enjoy sex, and an equally explosive reaction to the way he'd black­mailed her into agreeing to live with him.

Ignoring his supper, as he did more often than not, he tossed his hat onto a chair and reached for the phone.

Stiff-necked, arrogant pride.

It didn't warm his bed or fill his heart with joy. One thing was for sure: he had to see her one more time, swallow that wretched pride of his—go down on his knees if necessary and humbly ask if she would forget the idea of a divorce and spend the rest of her life with him. And if she would, he'd make sure she never regretted a single moment of their time together.

And if she didn't—well, he didn't want to think about that. But he'd be no worse off than he was now. What did loss of pride matter?

His face grimly determined, he punched in the numbers for Air Iberia.

Cassie stepped out of the bath and smothered her glowing body in the swamping towelling robe Guy had loaned her and felt marginally better.

The weather on this first day of October had turned wet and decidedly chilly, an unpleasant and unseasonal foretaste of winter. She'd got soaked to the skin as she'd walked back to the ground-floor flat from the antiquarian bookshop where she'd found part-time, temporary work.

Four days a week, from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon, Robert Greaves—the owner— had told her. The job would end in November, when his partner returned from visiting relatives in New Zealand.

It wasn't much but it was better than nothing and at least the pay packet meant she didn't have to dip into her savings account. Soon she would have to start looking for something else.

A sudden mental image of the cheque Roman had sent through Cindy flashed into her consciousness.

She blinked it rapidly away as she dragged a comb through her tangled wet hair.

As an allowance it had been more than generous. She wouldn't have had to find work to keep her and the baby growing inside her. But she hadn't even been tempted. She wanted nothing from him. He'd virtually accused her of marrying him in the first place for what she could get out of him, deliberately causing the breakdown of their relationship so that on their divorce she could take him to the cleaners.

Well, he could stuff his wretched money! She could manage without it!

'Send it straight back to him,' she'd instructed Cindy tersely, tearing the cheque to tiny pieces.

'Are you mad?' Cindy's blue eyes had gone wide. 'I don't know what went wrong this time—I've lost patience with the pair of you—but why scratch around for a living when Roman can afford to keep you in comfort?'

'Because I don't want his hand-outs.' She wanted his love, and because she knew she couldn't have it she was damned if she'd settle for anything less. Besides, regular contact, even if it was only through a monthly allowance cheque, would remind her of him, hamper her resolve to forget he'd ever existed.

'Then you return it,' Cindy had ordered, refusing to take the confetti-like scraps of paper. 'You do know his address! Besides, this not speaking to each other is childish. You could at least talk things over like rational human beings. Heaven knows, he can afford to keep you until you get back on your feet. Absolutely childish!' she'd repeated vehemently.

Perhaps. But the pain of what he had done to Cassie, using her body until he got bored then giving her her marching orders, was entirely adult and fe­rocious.

'You haven't told him where I am?' Cassie had asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

'Nope. He didn't ask. When he phoned he just said he'd be sending a cheque once a month and would I see you got it.'

Yet another savage stab of pain. He wasn't inter­ested in her whereabouts, what she was doing. For all he knew or cared, she could have emigrated to Australia!

Though why that should hurt when she'd already decided that she had no interest in him either, she couldn't fathom. She'd drawn a decisive line beneath her ill-fated marriage to Roman Fernandez—hadn't she?

Cassie slammed the door firmly on memories that had anything at all to do with Roman—something, she reflected uneasily, she was having to do several times a day. She put the hairbrush down on the dress­ing table and walked out of the tiny spare bedroom, tightening the belt of her robe around her waist.

It was almost five o'clock and Guy would be home in an hour, from the high street tra

vel agency he managed, and since making use of his spare room she'd insisted on cooking supper. It was the least she could do.

She would put the remains of yesterday's casserole in the oven and then throw on a pair of jeans and a warm sweater. Then, while the casserole was heating through, she'd prepare a salad to go with it and cut up the crusty loaf she'd bought on her way home.

She was straightening up after sliding the heavy cast-iron pot into the oven when she caught the sound of a key in the door.