Claiming His Wife Page 2

  She didn't want him touching her. The heat of his hand through the fine fabric of her sleeve brought back memories she had no desire to acknowledge. Her tongue, though, was welded to the roof of her mouth and, before she could unstick it, he said at a smooth tangent, 'You've gained weight: For most of our two years together you reminded me of a stick. Sometimes I used to worry about you.'

  What a lie! Concern for her happiness and well-being had been so low on his list of priorities it had fallen off the bottom of the paper!

  'Liar!' she accused scornfully. 'The only people who worried about my weight loss were your mother and aunts. And that, according to the precious Delfina, was because they thought I was anorexic and possibly infertile. She even told me that having your child was the only way they would ever accept me.' Seized by a wild, uncontrollable anger, she surged on, 'I should have told them that I lost weight be­cause I was desperately unhappy. That I couldn't conceive because you never came near me!'

  The words blistered her mouth but she didn't re­gret them. It was time Roman faced the truth.

  'I thought you didn't want me to?' The sensual line of his mouth tightened. 'You rejected me, or don't you remember?'

  It was framed as a question but he'd wait until hell froze over before he got an answer. She'd die before she admitted how much she'd regretted pushing him away, turning from him, lacking the courage to tell him how she felt; how later she'd ached for his touch; how his indifference, his long absences had hurt her.

  She thinned her mouth as, probably in retaliation for her stubborn silence, glittering charcoal eyes veiled by thick black lashes made a lazy inventory of the curves she privately thought had grown a little too lush just lately. Her body burned hotly where his eyes touched and she tried to squirm away, aware that her breath was thick in her throat. His unan­swered question and the explicitly intimate way he was looking at her was beginning to fill her with embarrassment and confusion.

  What did he know about how she had felt? The sense of inadequacy, the beginnings of the shame that had grown right throughout their marriage be­cause he had obviously decided she was frigid, not worth the trouble of going to her room at night.

  His fingers tightened on her arm, his other hand resting lightly on her waist, just above the feminine roundness of her hips; his voice was sultry and wicked as he asked, 'I wonder if a year apart has made any difference? Perhaps we should try to find out. Would you still reject me if I came to you in the night?'

  'Don't!' It was wrenched from her. She went rigid. She had taught herself not to cry; she wasn't going Jo forget those harsh lessons and disgrace herself now.

  Once—it seemed like a lifetime ago now—she had thought she loved him, had worshipped him, believed him to be the most perfect being ever to draw breath.

  Now she knew better. He couldn't get to her on in every level if she didn't let him. She threw back her head and challenged him, 'If you think I'm going to oblige you, lie down on the floorboards while you satisfy your sexual curiosity, then you can think again.

  She slapped his hands away, one after the other, and headed for the door, her lips clamped together to stop herself screaming with all the remembered pain, and he drawled behind her, 'I had something rather more civilised in mind, mi esposa. Share my bed for the next three months and satisfy my... sexual curiosity, and I won't bring charges against your brother.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘You need time to think about-it?' Roman asked as he brittle silence stretched until it was painful. The almost scornful strand of amusement in his finally snapped her out of her state of numbing shock.

  'You can't be serious!' The thin, wavery bleat of her own voice secretly appalled her. She hadn't meant to sound so utterly withering. Cassie swallowed convulsively and tried again, tried to do better. ‘You must be desperate if you have to resort to blackmail to get a woman to share your bed!' This time the contempt she felt must have echoed tone because she saw his eyes narrow, his jawline harden. He was a passionate man; she knew that- passionate about his work, the land he loved, his family name, his women. Never about her, and they both knew it. Her taunt would have his inbred, fierce Spanish pride

  ‘Not blackmail—a condition,' he corrected "Non-negotiable. You are free to take my offer or leave it.'

  ‘My body's not a commodity to be bartered,' she stated, suddenly feeling shivery, as if her flesh had been plunged into a deep freeze. What he was sug­gesting was completely out of the question.

  But he obviously wasn't seeing it that way because his voice roughened. 'It- was before, if I remember correctly. Your body in my bed in exchange for my ring on your finger, a life of luxury, payment of your father's debts—and let's not forget that nice soft op­tion for your brother, which we now know he abused. And again, with you, I got the rough end of the bar­gain and found myself sharing a bed with a block of ice. My bride made me feel like an animal with de­praved and intolerable appetites—it was not an ex­perience I wished to repeat.'

  So he had left her completely alone. And he hadn't had the sense to understand that she'd been terrified.

  Not of him, because she had loved him then, but scared half to death of failing the shatteringly sexy, passionate and experienced man who had swept her off her feet with one smile from those sensually moulded lips, one glance from those sultry, smoky eyes. The man who hadn't seen that his family's dis­pleasure at his choice of wife had already made her feel inferior and totally inadequate.

  And she hadn't had the courage to explain all of that to him, to at least try to tell him how she felt. Cassie shook that unwanted thought out of her head and closed her eyes as she dragged in a deep lungful of air; when she opened them he was holding the door open, his powerful body graceful, relaxed.

  Showing her out? Bored? Impatient to get rid of now he knew she would have nothing to do with his outrageous suggestion?

  Oh, why did she feel giddy with relief when he told "I'm not suggesting something immoral. You are my wife.'

  ‘We are separated,' she reminded him, defensively ng her light-headedness down to the trauma of the last few days, the expenditure of courage that had been needed to bring her to face him again.

  ‘Not by my wish,' he stated dismissively. He swung on his heels.

  Catching her breath, she followed him along the stone-flagged passageway that connected the old use to the newer, more comfortable addition bad been built in his father's lifetime. Surely was room for negotiation? Surely she could I him see that his cruel suggestion simply wasn't practical then ask him to reconsider her original offer?

  ‘Roman!’ If there was a desperate edge to her voice couldn't help it. Her brother's future depended on her ability to make her estranged husband his mind. 'Even if I wanted to come back to you’ which she most definitely did not '—I couldn't. I have a living to earn, a job to go back to. I told Cindy I'd only be away for a couple of days. It is one of our busiest times.' stopped, turned, his impressive figure framed the archway that led into the main hall. He lifted his shoulders dismissively. 'No problem. I'll phone my cousin and explain. She'll understand.'

  Of course she would! Cindy idolised Roman, she hadn't been able to believe her ears when Cassie had returned to England with the news that her marriage was over.

  The relationship wasn't as close as Roman had stated. Cindy's grandmother had been Dona Elvira's eldest sister. She'd married a Scot and they'd lived in England, producing Cindy's mother. Although the Fernandez family hadn't approved of the alliance with a mere foreigner, Dona Elvira and her surviving sisters had remained in contact.

  Cassie and Cindy had been best friends since they'd met at school as five-year-olds, and it had been to her and her warm and loving family that Cassie had turned when her and Roy's father had died from a heart attack.

  They couldn't have been more supportive. When the shock news had come that the house Cassie and Roy shared with their widowed father would have to be sold to cover his debts, Cindy's mother had sug­gested, 'We've been pla
nning a holiday in Spain, vis­iting relatives on my mother's side. Why don't you and Roy come with us? I know they'll make you welcome when I explain the circumstances. And it would give you and Roy a chance to get your heads round what's happened.'

  That was how she'd met Roman; that was when the short and, with hindsight, strangely distant court­ship had begun. And the rest, she thought tiredly, was history. A history she wished had never been written.

  'Any other objections?' he enquired flatly. 'Or is the resumption of our marriage for three short months too high a price to pay?'

  Much, much too high! Roy had done wrong and the only way Roman would allow him to avoid pun­ishment was to punish her in her brother's stead. Their wedding night had been a total fiasco. Although they had consummated the marriage, her fear of disappointing him had made her about as re­sponsive as a lump of rock, thereby ensuring that the experience was one she didn't want to repeat. The fear of further failure had made her push him away when he'd tried to take her in his arms on the fol­lowing nights after that. So why would he want to force her to share his bed now—unless it was to dole out punishment?

  Oh, her objections were legion! Moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, she framed the words of the only one that wasn't personally insult­ing to him—which meant it was the tritest. 'I came prepared for an overnight stay in Jerez before getting a flight back to England. How can I stay when I haven't got much more than the clothes I'm wearing now?'

  His smile was thin and it didn't reach his eyes. 'I think we might be able to find a store that stocks female clothing somewhere in Spain, don't you? And, Cassandra—' his eyes narrowed to slits of smoke-hazed jet '—I'm not prepared to discuss this further. You take my offer, or you leave it. Sleep on it and give me your decision in the morning.' He turned again, lobbing over his shoulder, 'I'll get someone to show you to a room you can use for tonight. We eat at nine, as you may remember, and afterwards you and Roy can have some time together to discuss your futures.'

  Dispiritedly, she watched as he strode across the polished terracotta tiles of the airy, square hallway. She had honestly believed she was mature enough now to stand her ground against that overweening authoritarianism of his—that she would never again allow him to tell her what to do, where to go.

  Yet she had to admit, after one of the maids—new since her own departure, just over a year ago—had shown her to a bedroom overlooking the courtyard at the back of the house, that her interview with Roman had sapped her of the energy she would have needed to arrange for a taxi to pick her up here and drive her back to Jerez, where she would have had to find overnight accommodation.

  Also, this way she was guaranteed some time with her twin. She could sit through dinner with Dona Elvira and the dreadful aunts for the sake of the op­portunity to speak to Roy alone afterwards. If she insisted on leaving now, Roman would make sure she didn't get so much as a glimpse of her brother.

  She needed to apologise in person for having failed him. Break the news that Roman would be bringing charges against him. It made her sick just to think of it. She'd been looking out for him ever since their mother had died a few days before their eighth birthday, but the price Roman was demanding was way too high. She had worked hard to turn her life around. How could anyone expect her to put her­self back in the prison she'd escaped from a year ago?

  Her pale face set, she gave the room she'd been shown to a cursory glance. It was very similar to the one she'd used when she'd spent the greater part of her two years of marriage here. Roman had simply dumped her, leaving her with his mother and the aunts while he'd been away doing his own thing. Business in Jerez and Cadiz, with plenty of fringe benefits in the form of fancy restaurants, fancy fe­males, climbing in the Himalayas, skiing at Klosters—whatever turned him on.

  Shrugging, consigning her memories back into the past, she unpacked her overnight bag. Cotton night­dress, a change of underwear, make-up and toiletries. Her heart hovering somewhere beneath the floor­boards, she went to the adjoining bathroom for a much-needed shower and wished she and her twin had never heard of Roman Fernandez.

  Candles—dozens of them—set in shallow crystal bowls imparted a warm, flickering glow to the old silver of the elaborate place settings. Dinner at Las Colinas Verdes was always a formal affair and to­night all the stops had been pulled out because there were two guests.

  Herself the unwanted one. And Delfina the Desirable, who had been flavour of the month amongst Roman's female relatives for as long as Cassie had known them.

  Roman was seated at the head of the long table with the Spanish woman on his left. Delfina was as exquisite as Cassie recalled, her dark hair cut in a fashionable jaw-length bob, her slender figure clothed in ruby satin, leaving the delicate sweep of her shoulders and arms bare.

  'You are looking well, Cassandra. Better than I have seen you. You are obviously happier in your own country.' Dona Elvira, remote and dignified in black silk, was seated at the foot of the table, to Cassie's right. Her remark was made in her perfect English and carried the customary barb.

  'Thank you.' Cassie inclined her head coolly. She could have answered that she would have been ec­statically happy in Spain if her husband had loved her, if his family had accepted her. But what was the point raking over a past that was dead and buried as far as she was concerned? She would not let this ordeal undermine her hard-won poise. She wouldn't let any one of them intimidate her now.

  Tia Agueda and Tia Carmela, Roman's aunts, were seated opposite, their small dark eyes constantly flicking between Cassie and Delfina. Delfina was speaking in animated Spanish to Roman who, natu­rally, took pride of place at the head of the gleaming mahogany table. Her hand was continually moving to touch the back of his, or to linger on the white fabric of his sleeve, as if to emphasis a point she was making, her dark eyes flicking and flirting beneath the lustrous sweep of her lashes.

  During her time in Spain Cassie had picked up enough of the language to get by, but the other woman's voice was pitched too low, too soft and intimate to allow her to hear what was being said.

  She fingered the stem of her wine glass and, as if noting the unconsciously nervous gesture, Dona Elvira said, 'It is an uncomfortable time for all of us.'

  And wasn't that the truth? Cassie speared a sliver of tender pork fillet. Her twin was conspicuous by his absence. House arrest, he'd told her. He probably had to eat in the kitchen with the servants. She laid down her fork, the food unwanted.

  'I'll be returning to England tomorrow,' she stated, squashing the wicked impulse to tell her mother-in-law of her son's attempt to blackmail her into resum­ing their marriage. Only for three short months—but, even so, Dona Elvira and the aunts would hate that. They were probably already counting down to when Roman could be free of his unsuitable, hopeless wife and they could begin pressing him to marry someone of his own nationality, someone with breeding and lots of lovely old money!

  Something clicked inside her brain. Of course! She could see it all now. Roy's fall from grace had given Roman the leverage he needed. It wasn't just sexual curiosity about her, as he'd so insultingly claimed— his family must be nagging him again to produce an heir, and this time he could put them off if it ap­peared that he was having another stab at making his marriage work!

  Sharply, her mind skidded back to the afternoon Roman had proposed to her. The older family mem­bers had been taking a siesta; Roy and Guy—Cindy's older brother—had taken a couple of horses out onto the campos while Cindy and her mother were up­stairs packing. About to follow suit—the month-long holiday was over and they were leaving for home the next day—she'd been halfway up the handsomely carved staircase when Roman's softly voiced request had stopped her in her tracks.

  'Cassie, got a few minutes to spare?'

  Her hand had shot out and tightened on the pol­ished banister until her knuckles stood out like white sea-shells as a wave of raw heat flooded her body. She had been sure she was in love with him, help­lessly and hope
lessly in love, and it had turned her into a gibbering idiot when he was around.

  Cindy had said, 'Mucho macho!', pretending to swoon. 'He doesn't even notice me but he follows you with his eyes, you lucky pig!'

  Trying not to think of the gross stupidity of that remark—why should a man as gorgeous, as self-assured and wildly wealthy as Roman spare a very ordinary woman with no social skills and about as much sex appeal as a carrot a second glance?—she had waited until the gauche heat ebbed from her face before slowly turning.

  He had been watching her from the foot of the stairs. Watching. Waiting. Her throat muscles had gone into spasm.

  'I want to talk to you.'

  'Yes?' Had her expression been intelligent, or just plain dumb? The latter, she suspected, because the shake of his dark, handsome head, the very abrasiveness of his voice had suggested im­patience.

  'Not here. In the courtyard, for privacy. Come down.'

  She'd gone; of course she had. If he'd asked her to walk to the North Pole with him she'd have gone without a murmur. And the sun-soaked courtyard had been deserted except for just the two of them, the scent of the rosemary and lavender planted in the centre perfuming the hot air. And his proposal had been the very last thing she'd expected.

  'As my mother and aunts never tire of telling me, it's time I married and sired an heir. They've been dangling suitable females under my nose for the past five years and now that I've reached the venerable age of thirty-three they've stepped up their campaign.

  'I tell them to hold their meddling tongues, to put the succession of simpering creatures back into the boxes they dug them out of; I tell them that I will marry the woman of my choosing, not theirs. It makes no difference and, quite frankly, Cass, I am tired of it.'

  At that point he had taken her hand and her whole body had melted, turning her into an amorphous mass of sensation, blanking out every last one of her brain cells. What else could explain the unseemly haste, the total lack of logical thought that had ac­companied her acceptance when he'd increased the pressure of his fingers on hers and murmured, 'I think we could make a successful marriage. You're young for your years. Don't take that as a criticism— you lack the guile and artifice that bores me in other women, and I find that very appealing. I do need an heir, and for that I need to marry. I want a woman I can live with, a woman whose primary concerns aren't the perfection of her appearance, attending parties that take her days to prepare for, or empty-headed gossip.'