A Spanish Marriage

Thinking of those happier times, innocent and improbably naive times, when she’d hoped that their marriage would turn into a real one, made her want to cry.

So she injected steel into her spine when the short journey was completed and she exited the car and found to her shame that her legs would barely hold her upright.

As the security lights came on Zoe leant against the side of the car for much-needed support and watched Javier unlock the front door. She was shaking again, but with rage this time. How dared he think she’d arranged to spend the night with Oliver Sherman?

To immediately leap to that conclusion—not even bothering to ask for her side of the sordid story—had to mean that his opinion of her morals was solid rock-bottom!

Had he always thought she was a slag?

Her head high, she walked into the house, passing him without so much as a glance, and on up the stairs, her soft mouth tightly compressed to hold back the scalding words of self-defence that were blistering her tongue. Throw them at him and it would all come out—the stark truth that she had never slept with Oliver Sherman, or any other man. The pathetic fact that he, Javier, was the only man she’d ever wanted.

A savage thrust of anger made Javier’s heart thump against his chest as his narrowed eyes followed her progress. The scarlet dress was a come-on if ever he’d seen one, making the most of her glorious man-teaser body, emphasising the sexy curve of her hips and the length of her shapely legs.

Had the minx bought it especially for her assignation with Sherman? And how many times, during his absences, had the two of them been together? His teeth grated, tightening his rock-hard jaw. He shouldn’t have left her to her own devices, her own inclinations. Once again he’d solved the problem he’d faced by withdrawing. This time not to allow his absence to cool her ardour, but his own!

He took the stairs two at a time. To hell with cool, gentlemanly withdrawal—that solution had been born of his pragmatic English genes. The Spaniard in him demanded confrontation, the airing of the emotions that were turning his insides to fire.

Her bedroom was empty, just the teasing subtle ghost of the perfume she wore and the muted sound of the shower. His hands stuffed in the pockets of his tailored trousers, he paced the floor, feeling the tiger inside his chest try to claw its way out.

Her statement that she was about to go out on the town had rung alarm bells loud and clear. He’d packed four days’ worth of meetings into two and flown back to London. And waited. Her car hadn’t been in the underground parking area and the wedding invitation had told him where she’d be.

He should have known the new butter-wouldn’t-melt persona was just an act!

The cool blue pristine bedroom, the ornate bed with its smooth cream cover, mocked him. She was a normal healthy young adult. She had a sex drive like anyone else. A frustrated sex drive. Despite her volunteer charity work, to which he had to admit she’d willingly and enthusiastically given large chunks of her time, she’d been bored within the sterile bounds of their marriage and had taken up the invitation her former lover had issued.

With hot enthusiasm?

A groan vented through his clenched teeth. She was his wife,

dammit!

As if on cue the object of his fevered thoughts exited the bathroom. Water darkened her hair, slicked her silky skin; the towel around her body was tiny. Golden eyes widened with shock, lush lips parting. Her breathing accelerated, exposing the tops of her full breasts as they thrust against the towelling barrier.

The thought of Sherman luxuriating in that sensational body filled him with blistering anger. Sherman had entered that heaven on earth while he had behaved like the perfect gentleman, putting on that cool façade while every move the little witch made him want her more, absenting himself, putting temptation behind him. What kind of man did that make him?

‘You dishonour me!’ His Spanish genes came to the fore as he spoke with savage contempt. ‘My wife making a cuckold of me in front of an audience! Are you always so indiscreet? Or were you both too drunk to care? His breath would have made a distillery smell like fresh sea air!’

Eyes darkening to pitch castigated her. Zoe threw sparks of loathing back at him. How dared he?

And perhaps the most crushing thing to come out of this was the painfully obvious fact that his gripe had little to do with his premise that she and Oliver had been having sex, but a lot to do with their lack of discretion!

Reining back the wild-cat impulse to slap those strong dark features cost more in self-control than he would ever know. Hitching the towel more securely around her tense body, she came back with a cool that took a huge mental effort to achieve. ‘If that’s what you think of me then you’ll be happy to know that I won’t dishonour your name any longer than it takes to get an annulment. And I have never been your true wife!’

Smouldering charcoal clashed with molten gold. In his anger he was dangerously exciting. Despite all her best intentions her body thrummed with it, betraying her. Her throat felt thick. She tried to swallow and couldn’t.

Electrifying tension pulsed in the air, thickening it, making it difficult to breathe. Zoe’s fingers tightened on the slipping towel. Her long-standing relationship with this hard-angled man now seemed completely unstable. Every muscle of his powerful lean body was rigid with the internal battle she sensed within him.

Her soft mouth trembled as ice shivered down her spine while, simultaneously, violently contrasting heat coursed through her veins. His veiled eyes fastened on the betrayal of her lips. It was like a caress, soft and invasive.

She snatched air into her lungs and he took a slow pace forward, his own mouth softening from the harsh line of contempt. She watched it happen and her lower limbs became unsteady. His brooding eyes, locked still on her suddenly unbearably sensitised mouth, gave him away.

Her breath caught again as the prickly sensation between her thighs turned hot and liquid. Something throbbed, fiery, pagan and insistent. Zoe knew she should ask him to leave, tell him they could talk about the ending of their marriage in the morning when they were both calmer, but she couldn’t form the words.

‘As you said, you have never been my true wife. I’ve kept my hands off you, even though I’ve been tempted to do exactly the opposite,’ he informed her with a raw edge to his voice. ‘I told myself you were too young to know what you wanted but, as you pointed out, you are no longer a child.’

Zoe swallowed convulsively. She’d thought he was totally indifferent but he had wanted her. He’d said so. Her heart drummed a tattoo in her throat. He had advanced until he was a hand’s breadth away. Thick ebony lashes veiled eyes that were still fixated on her mouth.

‘If you wanted sex you should have told me,’ he informed her with force. ‘I would have been happy to oblige; there would have been no reason for you to offer the freedom of your body to another man.’