Читать книгу A Spanish Passion: A Spanish Marriage / A Spanish Engagement / Spanish Doctor, Pregnant Nurse - Carol Marinelli, Carol Marinelli - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

JAVIER hadn’t set foot inside the blue suite since Zoe had picked it out for her use when she’d first come to live at Wakeham Lodge. Illuminated as it was by a couple of cream-shaded table lamps, it was like walking into the heart of a cool delphinium, perfect, pristine, no sign of the muddle of strewn discarded clothing or lurid pop-star posters pinned to the walls as he’d automatically expected. Just the softly feminine enclosure of misty blue and the ornate brass bed with its oyster-coloured spread.

He pulled air sharply into his lungs as he conjured up the image of her breathtaking body on that bed. Naked. Willing.

That she was willing was not in dispute here. The moment he’d gathered her up into his arms her own arms had snaked around his neck and stayed there, her head tucked into the angle of his shoulder, just beneath his chin, her body fusing into his as he’d carried her up the stairs.

He could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath the palm of his left hand, the heat of her smooth thighs beneath his right. As he leant back against the door to close it she lifted her head, her hair brushing like pale, perfumed silk against the hard plane of his cheek. Kissable lips a scant inch away from his. His loins jerked. His eyes closed as he fought the primeval instinct to set her on that bed, drag every scrap of clothing from that delectable body and brand her with his ownership, wipe the memory of all the others from her mind.

Red mist sprang beneath his closed lids. It was a tough call. He opened his eyes as she twisted within his arms, the thrust of her beautiful breasts pressed against his chest in open invitation. An invitation he would have little chance of turning down, he recognised with a savage burst of self-despising. And the first damn thing he saw was the gaudy bouquet from her former lover, glimpsed through the open door that led into the tiny sitting room.

Self-disgust dealt him another swiping blow. His behaviour, the thoughts in his head, put him on a level with Sherman, a man intent on grabbing what he wanted with no thought of the consequences. Zoe might look and act like a woman but she was still a child at heart.

Setting her briskly on her feet, he walked away from her, further into the room, furious with himself for thinking like an animal. She was just a kid. She’d proved it by the casual, almost insultingly off-hand way she’d fallen in with his suggestion that they marry. No adult discussion, no sensible stipulations of her own to make. As if she was viewing the novel idea of wearing a wedding ring as just another experience to be explored. He’d come damn close to giving in to lust and making this marriage a real one—he must have been mad!

A few strides took him past the bed, the centre of his dark, hot thoughts a few moments ago, and on through the wide-open doorway into the sitting room with its chaise upholstered in rich dark blue velvet, the cream marble-topped coffee-table sporting that hateful bouquet. Had she arranged the vulgar blooms herself? Placing them one by one in the crystal vase, remembering the ‘fun’ she’d had with her lover? Deprived of real love for so many years, had she made sex a substitute?

Was she hooked on it? Could any personable male meet that need? Remembering the thick sizzling shaft of the sex thing when their eyes had clashed down there in the conservatory, he answered his own question.

Watching Javier take the violently coloured roses and lilies, which the misguided Ethel must have arranged, and toss them out of the open window, Zoe felt the weight of rejection settle heavily on her slim shoulders.

She’d been so sure he wanted her, had changed his mind about his wretched paper marriage. The aura around them as he’d carried her up the stairs had been alive with sex, so heady she’d felt intoxicated, convinced that need would follow want on the direct path to love.

She’d hoped that he had the acumen to realise that the message from Ollie had been nothing more than a spite-filled attempt to cause havoc, but he’d only had to see those horrible flowers to make him put her away from him as if she were contaminated material.

The volatile Spanish part of his make-up that had had him hurling the contents of the vase out into the night vanished as he turned back to face her, fastidiously brushing his fingers together, his features wiped of expression as he gave a casual shrug. ‘The smell of those lilies was overpowering. They had to go if I’m to get any sleep at all on that sofa. If you had a sentimental attachment to them, then I apologise.’

Zoe’s tummy gave a sickening lurch. Her face felt frozen. If he thought his violent disposal of Ollie’s flowers had upset her then he was completely off his trolley. It was so unimportant she didn’t waste breath on a comment. But, ‘Why don’t you sleep in your own room? That chaise will be torture.’ Act as if you hadn’t really expected him to share your bed on your wedding night, she silently adjured herself. Act as if you didn’t want it with all your heart, body and soul. She tried to smile and couldn’t.

He was unbuttoning his shirt. Zoe’s eyes widened as she forced back tears. ‘My mother’s an early riser,’ he imparted prosaically.

Her lovely eyes looked haunted. Had Sherman’s bouquet meant that much to her? The hard, hot knot in his gut tightened.

‘Mama is incorrigible, as you’ll discover when you get to know her better,’ he sliced at her. ‘Her dearest wish is to hold her grandchildren and if she discovered—and she would, believe me—that we had separate rooms she would raise the dead with her earsplitting shrieks of outrage. As it is, that little charade downstairs should have put her mind at rest for the moment.’

The shirt was flung over the back of a chair. Zoe’s mouth went dry. Faced with six feet plus of masculine power and perfection, bronzed skin covering sleek muscles, she almost exploded with the desperate need to fling her arms around him. Every taut inch of her racked by internal tremors, she resisted the insistent temptation of him.

Been there, done that, she reminded herself hollowly. And he’d run a mile. And the glorious thing that had seemed to spring to pulsating life between them had been a mirage, a charade of his own devising to hide the truth of the kind of marriage they had from his parents.

She had to be very careful to hide her feelings for him, create a part for herself to play, and stick to it. Almost always upfront, her emotions worn on her face and spilling from her tongue, she might find it difficult, but she’d give it her best shot. She had a chance within this sham marriage, maybe only a slim one, granted, but she must not blow it.

Dragging her eyes from him, she turned and made her weakened limbs carry her to the tall set of drawers. The discomfort of trying to fit his big frame on the narrow chaise would be nothing to the way his close proximity would torture her.

Ever since he’d turned from getting rid of Sherman’s gaudy flowers she’d been looking stricken, Javier noted grimly. She didn’t even have that explicit message to drool over because he’d disposed of that, too. Was she so hooked on sex that she would do what Sherman had suggested and sneak away to be with him to make up for what this marriage lacked? Was she that much of a slut?

‘Have you been sleeping with Sherman? Are you aiming to take up his invitation?’ His voice came brittly; he had to know. Watching her slim shoulders stiffen, he waited, his eyes narrowing.

The shock of his blunt question kept her rigid, her normally ready tongue stilled to silence. What did he think she was? He’d taken Oliver’s vile message on board, that was perfectly obvious. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

Plucking one of the oversized T-shirts she wore to bed from the drawer, she turned then, hurt squeezing her heart until she thought she would choke on it. She wanted to lash out at him, scream and scratch, but she wouldn’t allow herself that luxury.

Her voice as sour as vinegar, she pushed out, ‘That’s my business. I don’t ask you if you’ve slept with all those Glendas and Sophies.’ The reminder of how gut-wrenchingly jealous she’d always been of the women who’d briefly shared his life made her feel ill.

Refusing to spare him another glance in case he saw pain in her eyes, she made it to the en suite and closed the door behind her.

As he watched her go, the silky fabric of her dress clinging sensually to the shape of her lovely body, Javier’s brows met in a dark-as-the-devil frown. Was she criticising his lifestyle when he was supposed to be criticising hers?

But her response had hit home, he recognised guiltily, remembering the times he’d persuaded his current lady to accompany his ward on those holidays he’d promised. Hardly setting a good example, dammit!

Besides, his wild oats were sown. Uncommitted relationships had begun to pall and he’d been celibate for well over a year—but that was an irrelevance, he dismissed as he completed undressing down to his boxer shorts.

What was important was the way she’d avoided answering his question.

Which, in view of all he’d learned, was an answer in itself, he decided with mounting icy fury as he stalked over to one of the windows and stared out at the night, waiting for her to exit the bathroom.

He was going to have to try harder to bring her back in line, make sure she didn’t ruin her life. Starting tomorrow.

Sleep had been impossible so he’d spent most of the night working in the office he’d set up here at Wakeham Lodge. Javier rasped a hand over his tough jawline and closed down his computer. It had been light for a couple of hours and the enticing aroma of coffee was beginning to filter through from the kitchen.

He stood up edgily and walked to the window that overlooked the sun-drenched south lawn. His heart jerked. Zoe. Throwing a ball for Boysie. Laughing, long limbs dancing in the early-morning sunlight, long hair flowing down her back like a silky silver-gilt river, flicking across her face. Bare feet, tiny shorts topped by a baggy T-shirt, the soft fabric caught by the breeze that moulded it to those pertly rounded breasts, that tiny waist.

Energetic. A young animal refreshed after hours of untroubled sleep. Just a kid on the brink of womanhood, blisteringly aware of her own sexuality. He stuffed his fists into his trouser pockets. In dire need of taming. A driven groan escaped him. What kind of guy tied himself to that kind of responsibility?

The answer came as she scooped the wriggling little dog up into her arms and buried her face in its hairy ruff.

A guy who cared. Who had always cared.

A muscle jerked at the side of his hard jaw. He turned and strode from the room, heading for a shower, a shave and a change of clothes.

There was nothing remotely childlike about the Zoe who presented herself for breakfast an hour later. The sleeveless shift dress in a heavy cream-coloured cotton was both casual and classy, perfect for a country house breakfast with the in-laws. Her glorious hair was smoothly coiled into her nape, emphasising the purity of her profile, and the narrow hem of her dress just covered her knees, but rode just above as she took her seat at the table.

Javier felt his throat close up. Serene, elegant, poised. But hellishly sexy. It screamed at him. He didn’t want to hear it.

He didn’t want to watch the curve of her lush mouth as she drank from her glass of orange juice, but he did. Those smiling golden eyes behind the ridiculously thick fringing lashes moved confidently between his parents as the light conversation passed over the eggs and racks of hot toast. He waited for those eyes to turn his way but they didn’t. He found himself willing her to look at him, but she didn’t, and cursed himself for a fool, losing control of the situation to the calm, surprisingly adult sexy witch sitting opposite.

She even managed a perfect, enigmatic smile when his mother archly enquired if she had slept well. He’d expected a raging blush or a sulky pout at the uncomfortable memory of what had passed between them.

His wife was starting to surprise him he recognised with a not unpleasant lurch of his gut.

‘I regret that Lionel and I have to leave today.’ Isabella Maria assumed a sorrowful expression, but her black eyes were dancing as she turned towards her son. ‘But I’m sure regret will be very far from your mind as you wave us on our way!’ She laid down her linen napkin, preparing to leave the table. ‘You must promise to bring Zoe to our summer home for a long visit. She will enjoy the views, the mountain air, you know she will. I am sure the business will survive if you are not poking your nose into every aspect every minute of every day, sí?’

Leaning back in his chair, Javier hooked his hands behind his head. Smiled, gave every appearance of being totally relaxed when rivers of a peculiar kind of tension were scalding in his veins. Drawled, ‘I make my own plans, Mama. As you know.’

His plans for Zoe had nothing to do with lazy, sybaritic days and long, perfumed nights. He didn’t go looking for trouble! A lazy brow arched. ‘Do you need help with your packing?’

A little under two hours later they projected a united front, the archetypal just-married couple as they waved goodbye to Javier’s parents. As the car Lionel had hired for the visit disappeared round the final bend Zoe just knew what would happen.

Javier stepped abruptly away, his arm dropping from around her shoulders. Emptiness washed through her like a chilling wave.

Even though she knew the display of closeness had been for his parents’ benefit she had treasured every moment, every smile, every touch and soft word. She felt sick with loss but he mustn’t know that. Javier believed she was still a rebellious brat, running out of control. The only way to disabuse him, show him that she was a grown woman, worthy of his respect for starters, adult female to adult male, was to do her utmost to tailor her behaviour to what he least expected from the bolshie teenager he saw her as.

Giving him the merest glance, her slight smile serene, she murmured, ‘I’m sorry to see your parents go, they’re darlings. But at least we can dispense with the play-acting. You must have found it a strain.’

Strangely enough, he hadn’t. Javier’s eyes narrowed on her delectable profile.

‘It’s such a beautiful day.’ A small, self-contained smile was aimed somewhere behind his left shoulder. ‘I think I’ll take a walk.’

In Sherman’s direction? Javier’s eyes snapped. No way! A strong hand descended on her shoulder before she could make good her intentions.

‘You need to pack,’ he stated firmly. ‘I want to leave for the London apartment before noon.’

This time Zoe looked directly at him, a frown peaking her brows above dismayed eyes. The city would be alien, hot and airless, clogged with traffic and tourists, and, ‘Boysie,’ she objected. ‘I can’t leave him, he’ll really miss me. He’d been abandoned when I found him—he’ll think it’s happening all over again!’

Quite apart from the likelihood of the little dog pining, here, with vast expanses of countryside to lose herself in, the home she was now totally comfortable with, she could hold her own in this strange marriage. She could take a crash course of driving lessons with a professional to pass some of the time, decide on a career as backup if her hopes to be a real wife to Javier, mother of his children, came to nothing. ‘Why can’t we stay here?’ she asked, her voice rising with desperation.

Any excuse to stick around, close to her lover? Every nerve in Javier’s body tightened. ‘The dog will be fine,’ he incised, holding onto his temper, hating the shaft of jealousy that churned his insides. He had never been jealous of anyone in his entire life. He sure as hell wasn’t starting now! ‘Will Ethel neglect to feed him? Will Joe kick him?’

His obvious sarcasm stinging, Zoe had to admit that he was right on that point. Both Ethel and Joe doted on the dog. Not wanting to leave him had just been an excuse. A poor one, too, she conceded as he told her firmly, ‘The world doesn’t owe me a living, I have to work.’

A dig at her? Did he think she was a parasite, content to live off the wealth her father had worked his socks off to accumulate? Her spine stiffened even as she felt hot colour flood her cheeks. She would just have to show him differently!

‘I could work from here,’ he conceded bluntly. ‘But don’t forget, the Ramsays were originally employed by my parents. There’s a strong bond of loyalty. As you’ll have noticed they’ve always been treated like part of the family. My dear mama will be on the phone on a daily basis, checking up on the newlyweds! We can’t hide separate rooms from Ethel and I’ll be damned if I’m going to bed down on that uncomfortable sofa for the foreseeable future.’

Her lovely mouth was sulky, her eyes downcast. In the sunlight her hair was the colour of champagne. His throat constricted and his voice emerged thickly, gently. ‘Start packing. And if it eases your conscience, we can visit your pets each weekend. I can put up with that sofa for one night out of seven.’ And make sure she didn’t wander Sherman-wards.

It was the voice of a man humouring a child, making concessions in return for good behaviour, Zoe recognised, furious with herself. Her error had been in making that instinctive objection in the first place. Her head coming up, a slight smile in place, she remedied it. ‘I hadn’t looked at it in that light. You’re right, of course. Ethel’s got sharp eyes and it would be difficult to keep up a lovey-dovey act for her benefit. Drive us both insane.’ The smile slanted wider as unconcealed surprise glinted in his eyes. ‘I’ll go and pack.’

The London apartment was just as she remembered it from the overnight stay before she and Javier had flown out to Spain that Easter. She’d taken in every detail with eyes greedy for everything that made up his personal space.

The plastic-card-activated lift took them directly to the foyer, cool off-white walls, a single Venetian salon chair, a mahogany door that led into a long sitting room, one wall entirely of glass giving fabulous views over the city. A minimum amount of furniture, understated, expensive, classy. It needed a woman’s touch, Zoe thought now as she’d thought then, when her feet had first touched the bland oatmeal-coloured carpet. Flowers, jewel-coloured cushions, bright paintings to break the severity, a clutter of magazines and books to make it look more home-like.

Was this to be her home for the next two years? Sterile, to suit a sterile marriage? Her stomach curdled. Then she railed at herself for being such a wimp. Two years gave her enough time to make him fall in love with her!

Taking her small suitcase from him, she told him calmly, ‘I take it I’ll be using the room I had before? I remember the way.’ She gave him the smallest glance. Too dangerous to allow her eyes to linger on her stunningly gorgeous new husband. He made her heart turn over, pound and clatter, drying up her throat, made the softness of love shine from her far-too-revealing eyes. She’d once made the crass mistake of telling him she loved him. By now he would have written it off as silly girlish infatuation. Let him keep his misconception.

Almost as soon as she had started to walk away she turned again to face him, very slowly. ‘Look, I’m fully aware of why you married me, Javier—to stop me making a fool of myself with unsuitable people. I admire your sense of duty.’

Was there a trace of utter wickedness as her sexy mouth curved in a slight smile that held his fascinated gaze? Probably. She could be a witch when she wanted to be.

‘And I accepted because it was a way out of an empty, pointless life.’ Amazed that her face hadn’t gone fierily red at the outright lie, Zoe reminded with commendable cool, ‘You offered your guidance. And I’ll take it. But we need to discuss my place in this marriage. This evening, if you have no other plans?’

Definitely a challenge in those beautiful golden eyes. A sexual challenge? Something gave a violent wrench inside him. Was she about to tell him that she wanted her place to be in his bed? Watching the sensual sway of her body as she finally walked to the door that accessed the rest of the penthouse apartment, he wondered if he would have the strength to resist.

His breath felt hot in his lungs. The way the little minx could get under his skin was beginning to seriously annoy him. Behaving with natural, almost childlike innocence at one moment, sulking because he was keeping her away from her lover the next, then acting like a poised adult.

And all the time the undercurrent of hot sex…

His smoky eyes grim, he stalked after her. No one was going to run rings round him! They could have that discussion right here and now. And if she so much as hinted at a desire to make this marriage a real one he’d shoot her down in flames and throw the fire extinguisher straight out of the window.

He didn’t knock. Just walked right in. Her suitcase was open on the bed. And in answer to his terse question, she merely straightened, hooked a strand of silky hair behind one ear and gave him the bland smile that made him grind his teeth because it just made him want to use his own mouth to ravage it away, and casually answered him, ‘I’m your wife. I only wanted to know whether you expect me to do wifely things—cook your meals, iron your shirts, that sort of stuff.’

Minutes later, closing the door of his home office behind him, Javier couldn’t remember what answer he’d given back. None, probably.

And just why had her prosaic reply—the last thing he’d expected to hear—flooded him with cold disappointment?