A Spanish Passion

She had never been short on determination. So maybe she had been negative in its use in the past. Now she would bring the power of it to bear on something truly positive, gaining Javier’s respect and, the best prize of all, his love.

Halfway through the chicken in aspic served with hot crusty rolls and a crisp green salad, a small shaggy whirlwind, complete with a white satin ribbon tied onto his collar in honour of the occasion, leapt onto Zoe’s lap, to a dismayed, ‘One of the caterers must have let him out! I told them not to!’ from Ethel.

‘Put the creature down, child. It’s not seemly or hygienic,’ said Grandmother Alice, with a disapproving glance at Ethel who was struggling to her feet. ‘Someone should make sure it’s properly tied up.’

One look at the beam of pleasure on his bride’s face as she held the squirming bundle of hair, receiving its ecstatic attentions, had Javier insisting, ‘Sit down, Ethel. Boysie’s my wife’s devoted slave, he deserves to share her day.’ And to ram home his point he selected a juicy morsel of chicken from his plate and gave it to the rescued stray, received a look of undying doggy devotion and decided that the animal wasn’t as ugly as he’d thought it was.

Wiping his fingers on a linen napkin, he took delivery of Zoe’s dazzlingly wide smile and found himself returning it with interest. He had done the right thing in putting his ring on her finger. Shown some kindness and understanding, she was malleable as putty—he’d always known that and had tried to act on it when she’d been younger. In the two years ahead of them he would help to motivate her, give her all the guidance and encouragement she needed to carve out a worthwhile future for herself. And her position as his wife would keep the leeches away.

The rest of the wedding breakfast passed in a glorious daze as far as Zoe was concerned. Javier had stood up for her and her pet against Grandmother Alice but what was even more fantastic was the way he’d called her my wife! Hearing those words from his lips made her go gooey inside like warm treacle.

Only when one of the caterers appeared holding a bouquet of scarlet roses and orange lilies as big as a dustbin, to announce that the car had arrived to ferry Mrs Rothwell and her companion home, did Zoe’s starry-eyed conviction that having Javier take her side, call her my wife, anoint her with that fantastic, knee-buckling smile of his, meant she was halfway to her secret objective take a swift nosedive.

Accepting the enormous bouquet, Zoe placed it on the end of the table, her brow pleating. She had no idea who could have sent it and in her opinion it was completely OTT, borderline vulgar. With Javier attentively at her shoulder she extracted the small oblong envelope, curiosity driving her to read the enclosure.

Then she wished she hadn’t. The paper fluttered from her fingers and her face went fiery red. Her heart squeezed painfully as Javier retrieved it and read:

Congrats, Zo, on nabbing a rich sucker! I know you only turned me down due to my lack of the folding stuff. No lack in other departments—don’t we both know it! So when the old man bores you, you know where to find me. Ollie.

Crunching the offensive message into a savagely moulded ball, Javier tossed it aside, dealt Zoe a black, unreadable look and smoothly strode off, urbanity itself now to help Grandmother Alice collect her belongings, standing aside as the old lady unbent enough to drop the first kiss she had ever bestowed on Zoe’s cheek, then walking the black-clad pair towards the front of the massive house where their car was waiting.

Watching him go, Zoe felt defeat wash over her in heavy black waves. Back to square one, or even further. Javier’s opinion of her would be rock-bottom. Miserably she regretted having thrown at him that she might marry Ollie, not having meant a word of it because it had sprung from deep hurt and anger.

If she ever saw Oliver Sherman again she would throttle him! Spite had made him send that vile message. As Javier had pointed out, her future fortune was no secret, and she had always known that Sherman’s proposals had stemmed from avarice. He’d seen her as a soft touch, but she wasn’t. Just because she’d been free with her generous allowance, happy to pick up the tabs in exchange for fun nights out in smooth, cynically witty company because it had temporarily taken her mind off her unstoppable longing for Javier, didn’t mean she was a complete fool.

Thwarted in his plans to get himself a wealthy wife, Sherman was spitefully trying to make mischief.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Lionel Masters was beside her, leaning heavily on his cane, Isabella Maria clinging onto his other arm. ‘You are very pale.’

‘A bit of a headache.’ Zoe pulled herself together. ‘Too much champagne, probably.’ Her smile felt strained. How could she convince Javier that that note from Sherman was just a cruel attempt to pay her back for consistently turning him down?

The utterly distasteful implications would put her light years away from earning his respect, never mind his love!

‘Javier should be taking you on an exotic honeymoon,’ Lionel proclaimed. A sentiment echoed by Isabella Maria’s ‘He should pamper his pretty young bride, I told him as much!’ making Zoe feel like something silly and childish marrying a man old enough to be her father. Javier was only twelve years her senior, for goodness’ sake, and she wasn’t just out of the nursery and her smile was making her face ache!

‘We’re both perfectly happy here,’ she said by way of scotching any more parental interference, neglecting to explain that what use was a honeymoon when the bridegroom had no intention of getting up close and intimate? And even if she’d harboured hopes of making him change his mind in that direction he wouldn’t touch her with the proverbial bargepole after what Oliver Sherman had written.

She fell in step beside her in-laws as they progressed slowly towards the house. The caterers were clearing the debris, dismantling the long trestle-table; her wedding day was over. From the corner of her eye she saw Ethel take the gaudy bouquet away—hopefully towards the compost heap!

‘Lionel and I will take a rest until supper and give you and Javier some time on your own,’ Isabella Maria stated. ‘I was surprised and touched when Ethel showed us to the rooms we used when we lived here—I would have thought you and Javier would have chosen them.’

‘I chose the blue suite when I came to live here,’ Zoe offered obliquely, desperate to get off the subject of sleeping arrangements. ‘As far as I know, Javier’s never used the master suite. When he came here—’ never once since the Spanish disaster ‘—he used the room above his office for easy access. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and find him.’

Easier said than done. A rapid search of the ground-floor rooms, the faithful Boysie at her heels, followed by Honey, the inquisitive ginger cat, revealed nothing but his absence.

Had he taken himself off to fume in private at the discovery that he had got legally tied up to the sort of chick who had been around the block a few times? A flighty piece who would naturally seek forbidden excitement with a former lover when her husband began to bore her?

His proud, fastidious nature would be appalled. That she hadn’t exactly given him the impression that she was the type of girl to sit chastely around knitting doilies for her bottom drawer, should Mr Right ever hove into her limited view, made her shudder right down to the soles of her feet.

No, of course not! she scolded herself as she mounted the stairs to seek her room and rid herself of her wedding finery. Get real! Her supposed lack of morals wouldn’t touch him emotionally. He’d married her out of his strict sense of duty, hadn’t he? Nothing else. He’d decided she was running out of control, and that only by marrying her could he make her toe the line, and that vile note would have reinforced that already entrenched opinion.

Knowing him, and his determination to do the right thing, she’d probably find herself incarcerated in a nunnery for the next two years!

The shadows were softening into hazy dusk as Javier garaged the Jag beside the racy yellow Lotus. Grim satisfaction hardened the sensual line of his mouth. Hooking his discarded suit jacket over his shoulder, he stood to watch the bats’ acrobatic aerial display. His thoughts, mercifully calmer now, winged back over the events of the earlier part of the evening.

Sherman would know better than to attempt to contact Zoe again.

A call at his parents’ home in the village a couple of miles away had had Monica Sherman, a wispy, fluttery woman, apologizing. ‘I’m afraid our son’s out. His friends were here earlier and I heard them talking about a new club that’s opened just outside Gloucester on the Cheltenham road. I’m sure they decided to try it and that means he won’t be in until the early hours—you know what boys are like! Can I give him a message?’

No message, and at around twenty-four Sherman was hardly a boy.

He’d found the club without difficulty. It might be new but the scene had been tediously predictable. Overheated, overcrowded, underlit. Loud, mindless music. He’d located Sherman leaning against a gilded pillar, glass in hand, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, eyes drooping as he’d ogled a redhead in a yellow dress that had looked little larger than a vest.

Javier had confronted him, his bones clenched, his voice harsh as he’d advised, ‘Keep away from my wife. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t even nod in her direction if you pass her in the street.’

The redhead had giggled. Pique pouting his mouth, Sherman had tried to make himself look taller. Javier had swung away, distaste flattening his mouth. Then had abruptly turned back, going very still as the younger man had sniped, ‘You’re welcome to her but when your first kid turns up get it DNA-tested to make sure it’s yours. Zo’s a bit of a goer!’

With one well-aimed blow Javier had felled him. With icy eyes he’d watched the other man slide down the pillar, his arms sheltering his head, his mouth crumpling as if he’d been about to cry and call for his mother!

Javier had turned on his heel and stalked out.

His anger under tight control, he had driven back to Wakeham Lodge, taking extra care to keep within the speed limit. That initial white-hot rage when he had wanted to kill the creep was over. It wasn’t like him to resort to violence. In fact it was totally unprecedented. He couldn’t understand why he had slapped the little toad when a cutting put-down would have been just as effective and far more dignified.

Logically, the low-life could have been stirring it. And equally logically there was no need to confront Zoe with what her former boyfriend had said. If she had been having sex with him—and it seemed likely in view of the fact that she’d previously announced that she was thinking of accepting his repeated proposals of marriage—his decision to marry her himself to take her out of circulation and keep her safe until she developed at least a modicum of maturity had been the right one.

So why did he suddenly feel empty, as if he was reaching out to find the one thing that would fill the void in his life that was as strange as it was unexpected, not knowing what it was, knowing only that he desperately needed it?

Cynically putting his odd mood down to hunger, he tracked his family down in the conservatory, grouped around the Victorian white-painted cast-iron table lavishly spread with a selection of cold foods.

As he stood unnoticed in the shadows beneath the high arching doorway his breath clogged in his lungs. Zoe had changed into something long, slithery and clingy the colour of old ivory. It left her graceful arms bare and the thigh-high split at the side of the skirt revealed a tantalising glimpse of one elegantly shapely leg.

The light from the amber glass candle-holder near her place-setting flickered across her perfect profile, gilded her pale hair. Something hot and hard balled in his stomach, tightened his loins. The thought of that low-life Sherman mauling her, having sex with her, infiltrated his brain with the red mist of rage.

Sherman had intimated that he hadn’t been her only lover. How many had enjoyed that sensual body? Was she hooked on sex?

The memory of her shattering response to the kiss that had started out, on his part, as a simple, caring need to comfort, rapidly becoming something else entirely, leapt with shattering immediacy into his mind. He just about managed to smother a driven groan.

As if his tension had touched her, she turned, her glorious eyes widening, her smile irradiating his veins with the fire of lust. His mouth pulled back against his teeth, he noted the way her breasts peaked against the soft fabric of her dress as she pulled a sharp breath into her lungs and knew he had to have her, claim what was his by right. Receive what had been so freely given to others if Sherman was to be believed.

Fielding his father’s, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ and his mother’s accusatory, ‘You’ve been neglecting your bride!’ with a smooth, ‘I had to attend to a vital piece of business and I’m about to remedy my bride’s neglect,’ he fastened strong fingers around Zoe’s fragile wrist and drew her to her feet.

Her elusive, utterly tantalising perfume made his head spin. The warmth of her sensuous body as she fluidly closed the space between them sent a shaft of driving need through his nervous system, the force of it rocking him back on his heels.

This was about sex. He knew it; she knew it.

It was there in the hazy glow of her golden eyes, the rapid pulse beat at the base of her long creamy throat, the wild rose colour that stole across her cheeks, the erect nipples angled against his chest just below his thundering heart. There in the quiver of heated flesh beneath slinky silk as he scooped her into his arms, tossing over his shoulder as he walked through the doorway, ‘I know you’ll excuse us. My wife and I have some serious remedying to do.’

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.