His Revenge Seduction: The Mélendez Forgotten Marriage / The Konstantos Marriage Demand / For Revenge or Redemption?

His Revenge Seduction

The Mélendez

Forgotten Marriage

Melanie Milburne

The Konstantos

Marriage Demand

Kate Walker

For Revenge or

Redemption?

Elizabeth Power

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

The Mélendez Forgotten Marriage

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

The Konstantos Marriage Demand

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

For Revenge or Redemption?

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

The Mélendez Forgotten Marriage

Melanie Milburne

MELANIE MILBURNE says: “I am married to a surgeon, Steve, and have two gorgeous sons, Paul and Phil. I live in Hobart, Tasmania, where I enjoy an active life as a long-distance runner and a nationally ranked top ten Master’s swimmer. I also have a Master’s Degree in Education, but my children totally turned me off the idea of teaching! When not running or swimming I write, and when I’m not doing all of the above I’m reading. And if someone could invent a way for me to read during a four-kilometre swim I’d be even happier!”

To Gaile Donoghue, a loyal and trusted friend for more years than I can count. Thank you for your love and support.

Also, special thanks to Rebecca Fleming and her grandmother, who were so helpful with translating some words for me into Spanish. Thanks!

Chapter One

EVEN before Emelia opened her eyes she knew she was in hospital. At the blurred edges of her consciousness she vaguely registered the sound of shoes squeaking on polished linoleum and the swish of curtains and voices, both male and female, speaking in low hushed tones.

She half-opened her eyes. The light was bright, making her pupils shrink painfully. She squeezed her eyes shut and, after a moment or two, blinked again and, narrowing her still flinching gaze, looked at the nurse who was standing at the end of the bed with a chart in her hands.

‘W-what happened?’ Emelia asked, trying to lift herself upright in the bed. ‘What am I doing here? What’s going on?’

The nurse clipped the folder on the end of the bed before coming to lay a gentle hand on Emelia’s shoulder to ease her back down. ‘Mrs Mélendez, please don’t upset yourself. You’re in hospital. You had a car accident a week ago. You’ve been in a coma.’

Emelia felt her heart give a jerky beat in her chest like a kick. She frowned and then wished she hadn’t as it made her head ache unbearably. She put a hand up to her forehead, her fingers encountering a thickly wadded bandage positioned there.

Hospital? Accident? Coma?

The words were foreign to her, but the most foreign of all was how the nurse had addressed her. ‘W-what did you call me?’ she asked, staring at the nurse with her heart still thudding out of time.

The nurse glanced over her shoulder as if looking for backup. ‘Erm…I think I’d better get the doctor to explain,’ she said and quickly bustled away.

Emelia felt as if she were trying to find her way through a thick fog while blindfolded. Accident? What accident? She looked down at her sheet and hospital blanket-covered body. Although she ached all over, she seemed to be in all one piece. No plaster casts were on any of her limbs so she obviously hadn’t broken any bones. The worst pain was from her head, although she felt horrendously nauseous, but she assumed that was from the pain medication she had been given. She could see the drip leading from a vein in the back of her left hand where it was lying on the top of the bed. She quickly looked away as her stomach gave a rolling turn.

What had the nurse called her again…Mrs Mel…something or other? Her heart gave another little stutter. Married? Of course she wasn’t married! There must be some mistake, a mix-up in the paperwork or something. They’d obviously got her name wrong. Her name was Emelia Louise Shelverton. She had moved abroad from Australia a couple of months ago. She lived in London, in Notting Hill. She worked part-time as a singer in The Silver Room at one of the top hotels a couple of blocks from Mayfair while she looked for a more permanent position as a music teacher.

Married? What a laugh. She wasn’t even dating anyone.

‘Ah, so you are finally awake.’ A man who was clearly one of the senior doctors swished the curtains around Emelia’s bed closed. ‘That is very good news indeed. We’ve been quite worried about you, young lady.’

Emelia glanced at his name tag through eyes that were still slightly blurry. ‘Dr…um…Pratchett? What am I doing in hospital? I don’t know what’s going on. I think there’s been some sort of mistake. The nurse called me Mrs something or other but I’m not married.’

The doctor gave her a formal trust-me-I’m-a-doctor smile. ‘You have suffered a head injury, Emelia,’ he said. ‘This has obviously caused you to have some memory loss. We don’t know how extensive it is until we conduct further tests. I will have the staff psychologist assess you presently. We may also need to rescan you under MRI.’

Emelia put her hand to her head again, her brows coming together in a tight frown. ‘I…I have amnesia?’

The doctor nodded. ‘It seems so. Do you know what day it is?’

Emelia thought for a moment but knew she was only guessing when she offered, ‘Friday?’

‘It is Monday,’ Dr Pratchett said. ‘September tenth.’

Emelia drew in an uneven breath. ‘What year is it?’ she asked in a frightened whisper.

The doctor told her and she blinked at him in horror. ‘That can’t be right,’ she said. ‘I can’t have forgotten two years of my life. That’s ridiculous!’

Dr Pratchett placed his hand over hers where it was lying on the bed clutching the sheet in her fingers. ‘Try to keep calm, Emelia,’ he said soothingly. ‘This is, of course, a very frightening and confusing time for you. You have been in a coma for several days so things will seem a little strange at first. But in time you may well remember everything. It just takes a little time. You need to take things very slowly at first. Baby steps, my dear. Baby steps.’

Emelia pulled her hand out from beneath the doctor’s, holding it up like an exhibit at an investigation. ‘Look,’ she said, pushing her chin up. ‘No rings. I told you—there’s been some sort of mix-up. I’m not married.’

‘You are very definitely Mrs Emelia Louise Mélendez,’ the doctor assured her with authority. ‘That is the name the police found on your driver’s licence. Your husband is waiting outside to see you. He flew over from Spain as soon as he was informed of your accident. He has positively identified you as his wife. He has barely left your bedside the whole time you have been unconscious. He just stepped out a moment ago to take a phone call.’

Emelia’s mouth fell open so wide she felt her chin drop almost to her chest. She felt her heart boom like a cannon exploding in her chest.

Her husband?

Her Spanish husband?

She didn’t even know his Christian name. How could it be possible for her to forget something as important as that? Where had they met? When had they got married? Had they? How many times…?

Her stomach gave a funny little quiver…It wasn’t possible…was it? How could she have lived with and loved a man and not remember him? Her skin broke out in a sweat, her palms hot and moist with uncertainty and fear. Was she dreaming? Surely she must be dreaming.

Think. Think. Think.

What was the last thing she had been doing? She scrunched her eyes closed and forced herself to concentrate but her head pounded sickeningly as she tried to recall the last few days. It was all a blur, a foggy indistinct blur that made little, if any, sense.

When Emelia opened her eyes the doctor had already moved through a gap in the curtains and a short time later they twitched aside again, the rattle of the rings holding the curtain on the rail sounding too loud inside her head.

She felt her breath stall in her throat.

A tall raven-haired stranger with coal-black deep set eyes stood at the end of the bed. There was nothing that was even vaguely familiar about him. She studied his face for endless seconds, her bruised brain struggling to place him. She didn’t recognise any one of his dark, classically handsome features. Not his tanned, intelli-gent-looking forehead or his dark thick brows over amazingly bottomless eyes or that not short, not long raven-black hair that looked as if it had last been groomed with his fingers. She didn’t recognise that prominent blade of a nose, and neither did she recognise that heavily shadowed jaw that looked as if it had an uncompromising set to it, and nor that mouth…Her belly gave another involuntary movement, like a mouse trying to scuttle over a highly polished floor. His mouth was sculptured; the top lip would have been described as slightly cruel if it hadn’t been for the sensual fullness of his lower one. That was a mouth that knew how to kiss and to kiss to conquer, she thought, as her belly gave another little jiggle. She sent the tip of her tongue out to the sand dune of her lips. Had she been conquered by that mouth? If so, why couldn’t she remember it?

‘Emelia.’

Emelia felt her spine prickle at the way he said her name. His Spanish accent gave the four syllables an exotic allure, making every part of her acutely aware of him, even if she didn’t know who the hell he was.

‘Um…Hi…’ What else was she supposed to say? Hello, darling, how nice to see you again?

She cleared her throat, her fingers beginning to pluck at the hem of the sheet pulled across her middle. ‘Sorry…I’m a little confused right now…’

‘It’s quite all right.’ He came to the side of her bed in a couple of strides, his tall presence all the more looming as he stood within touching distance, looking down at her with those inscrutable black eyes.

Emelia caught a whiff of his aftershave. It wasn’t strong, but then he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. There was a masculine urgency about the black stubble peppering his jaw, making her think of the potent male hormones surging through his body. She shakily breathed in another waft of his aftershave. The light fragrance had citrus undertones that smelt vaguely familiar. Her forehead creased as she tried to concentrate…Lemons…sun-warmed lemons…a hint of lime or was it lemon grass?

‘The doctor said I can take you home as soon as you are well enough to travel,’ the man said.

Emelia felt the skin on her back tingle all over again at the sound of his voice. It had such a sexy timbre, deep and low and unmistakably sensual. She could imagine him speaking in his native tongue; the musical cadences of Spanish had always delighted her. But there was something about his demeanour that alerted her to an undercurrent of tension. There was something about the unreachable depths of his eyes. There was something about the way he hadn’t yet touched her. Not that she wanted him to…or did she?

She glanced at his long fingered tanned hands. They were hanging loosely by his sides—or was that a tight clench of his fingers he had just surreptitiously released?

Her eyes slowly moved up to meet his. Her chest tightened and her breathing halted. Was that anger she could see in that tiny flicker of a nerve pulsing by the side of his mouth?

No, of course it couldn’t be anger. He was upset, that was what it was. He was obviously shocked to see her like this. What husband wouldn’t be, especially if his own wife didn’t even know who he was?

She moistened her lips again, trying to find a way out of the confusing labyrinthine maze of her mind. ‘I’m sorry…you must think I’m terrible…but I don’t even know…I mean…I…I…I don’t remember your name…’

His top lip lifted in a movement that should have been a wry smile but somehow Emelia suspected it wasn’t. ‘I do not think you are terrible, Emelia,’ he said. ‘You have amnesia, sí? There is much you do not remember, but in time hopefully it will all come back to you. The doctor seems to think your memory loss will not be permanent.’

Emelia swallowed. What if it was? She had read a story a couple of years ago about a young woman who had lost her memory after a horrific attack. Her whole life had changed as a result. She hadn’t even recognised her parents. Her brother and two sisters were total strangers to her.

‘Perhaps I should introduce myself,’ the man said, breaking through her tortured reverie. ‘My name is Javier Mélendez. I am your husband. We have been married for almost two years.’

Emelia felt the cacophonous boom of her heart again. It felt as if her chest wall was going to blow open with the sheer force of it. She struggled to contain her composure, her fingers now clutching at the sheet of the bed either side of her body as if to anchor herself. ‘M-married?’ she choked. ‘Truly? This is not a joke or something? We are legally married?’

He gave a single nod. ‘It is our anniversary at the end of next month.’

Emelia had no hope of disguising her shock. She opened and closed her mouth, trying to get her voice to work. Her brain was flying off in all directions, confused, frightened, lost. How could this be? How could this man be her husband? How could her mind let her down in such a way? How could she forget her own wedding day? What cruel stroke of fate had erased it from her memory? She let out a breath that rattled through her lungs. ‘Um…where did we meet?’ she asked.

‘We met at The Silver Room in London,’ he said. ‘You were playing one of my favourite songs as I walked in.’

Emelia ran her tongue over her lips again as part of the fog cleared in her head. ‘I…I remember The Silver Room…’ She put her hand to her aching eyes. ‘I can picture it. The chandeliers…the piano…’

‘Do you remember your employer?’ Javier asked.

Emelia looked up at him again but his eyes were like glittering diamonds: hard and impenetrable.

‘Peter Marshall…’ she said after a moment, her spirits instantly lifting as the memories flooded back. At least she hadn’t lost too much of her past, she thought in cautious relief. ‘He manages the hotel. He’s from Australia like me. I’ve known him since childhood. We went to neighbouring private schools. He gave me the job in the piano bar. He’s been helping me find work as a private music teacher…’

Something flickered in his gaze, a quick lightning flash of something she couldn’t quite identify. ‘Do you remember why you came to London in the first place?’ he asked in a voice that was toneless, showing no hint of emotion.

Emelia looked down at her hands for a moment. ‘Yes…yes I do…’ she said, returning her gaze to his. ‘My father and I had a falling out. A big one. We have a rather difficult relationship, or at least we have had since my mother died. He married within a couple of months of her death. His new wife…the latest one? We didn’t get on. Actually, I haven’t got on with any of his wives. There have been four so far…’ She lowered her gaze and sighed. ‘It’s complicated…’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It always is.’

She brought her gaze back to his, searching his features for a moment. ‘I guess if we’re married I must have told you about it many times. How stubborn my father is.’

‘Yes, you have,’ he said, ‘many times.’

Emelia pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes, her frown still tight. ‘Why can’t I remember you?’ she asked. ‘I should be able to remember you.’ I need to be able to remember you, otherwise I will be living with a total stranger, she thought in rising alarm.

His dark eyes gave nothing away. ‘The doctor said you should not rush things, querida,’ he said. ‘You will remember when the time is right. It might take a few days or maybe even a few weeks.’

Emelia swallowed a tight knot of panic. ‘But what if I don’t?’ she asked in a broken whisper. ‘What if I never remember the last two years of my life?’

One of his broad shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug that Emelia somehow felt wasn’t quite representative of how he felt. ‘Do not concern yourself with things that are out of your control,’ he said. ‘Perhaps when you are back at home at my villa in Seville you will remember bits and pieces.’

He waited a beat before continuing. ‘You loved the villa. You said when I first took you there it was the most beautiful place you had ever seen.’

Emelia tried to picture it but her mind continued to be a blank. ‘What was I doing in London?’ she asked as soon as the thought popped into her head. ‘You weren’t with me in the car, were you?’

That lightning-quick movement came and went in his gaze again; it was like the hand of an illusionist making something disappear before the audience could see how it was done. ‘No, I was not,’ he said. ‘You were with your—’ he paused for a moment ‘—with Peter Marshall.’

Emelia felt a hand grab at her insides and twist them cruelly. ‘Peter was with me?’ Her heart gave a lurch against her breastbone. ‘Was he injured? Is he all right? Can I see him? Where is he? How is he?’

The ensuing silence after her rapid fire of panicked questions seemed to contain a deep and low back beat, a slow steady rhythm that seemed to be building and building, leading Emelia inexorably to a disharmonious chord she didn’t want to hear.

‘I am sorry to be the one to inform you of this, but Marshall did not survive the accident,’ Javier said again without any trace of emotion in his voice.

Emelia blinked at him in stunned shock. Peter was dead? Her mind couldn’t process the information. It kept shrinking back from it, like a battered dog cowering out of reach of the next anticipated blow. ‘No…’ The word came out hoarsely in a voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘No, that can’t be. He can’t be dead. He can’t be…We had such plans…’

Javier’s expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker of a muscle in his jaw revealed an iota of what he was feeling. It was as if he were reading from a script for a role he had no intention of playing. His words were wooden, cool. ‘He is dead, Emelia. The doctors couldn’t save him.’

Emelia felt tears burst from her eyes, hot scalding tears that ran unchecked down her cheeks. ‘But I loved him so much…’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘We’ve known each other for years. We grew up in the same suburb. He was such a supportive friend to me…’ A thought hit her like a glancing blow and her eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh, God…’ she gulped. ‘Who was driving? Did I kill him? Oh, God, God, God—’

He touched her then. His hand came down over hers on the bed just like the doctor’s had done earlier, but his touch felt nothing like the cool, smooth professional hand of the medico’s. Javier’s touch was like a scorching brand, a blistering heat that scored her flesh to the fragile bones of her hand as he pinned it beneath the strength of his. ‘No, you did not kill him,’ he said flatly. ‘You were not driving. He was. He was speeding.’

Her relief was a minute consolation given the loss of a dear friend. Peter was dead? The three words whirled around and around in her head but she wouldn’t allow them to settle. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was nothing but a horrible nightmare. Maybe she would wake up any second and find herself lying in her sunny shoebox flat in Notting Hill, looking forward to meeting up with Peter later to discuss the programme for that night’s performance, just as she did every night before taking her place at the grand piano.

Emelia looked down at her hand beneath the tanned weight of Javier Mélendez’s. There was something about his touch that triggered something deep inside her body. Her blood recognised him even if her mind did not. She felt the flicker of it as it began to race in her veins, the rapid escalation of her pulse making her heart pound at the thought of him touching her elsewhere. Had he touched her elsewhere? Well, of course he must have if they were married…

She gave her head a little shake but it felt as if a jar of marbles had spilled inside. She groaned and put her free hand to her temple, confusion, despair, grief and disbelief all jostling for position.

Javier squeezed her hand with the gentlest of pressure but even so she felt the latent strength leashed there. ‘I realise all this must be a terrible shock. There was no easy way of telling you.’

Emelia blinked away her tears, her throat feeling so dry she could barely swallow the fist-sized wad of sadness there. As if he had read her mind, he released her hand and pulled the bed table closer, before pouring her a glass of water and handing it to her.

‘Here,’ he said, holding the glass for her as if she were a small child. ‘Drink this. It will make you feel better.’

Emelia was convinced nothing was ever going to make her feel better. How was a sip of water going to bring back her oldest friend? She frowned as she pushed the glass away once she had taken a token sip. ‘I don’t understand…’ She raised her eyes to Javier’s ink-black gaze. ‘Why was I in London if I am supposedly married and living with you in…in Seville, did you say?’

His eyes moved away from hers as he set the water glass back on the table. ‘Seville, yes,’ he said. ‘A few kilometres out. That is where I…where we live.’

Emelia heard the way he corrected himself and wondered if that was some sort of clue. She looked at his left hand and saw the gold band of a wedding ring nestled amongst the sprinkling of dark hairs of his long tanned finger. She felt another roller coaster dip inside her stomach and doing her best to ignore it, looked back up at him. ‘If we are married as you say, then where are my rings?’ she asked.

He reached inside his trouser pocket and took out two rings. She held her breath as he picked up her hand, slipping each of the rings on with ease. She looked at the brilliance of the princess cut diamond engagement ring and the matching wedding band with its glittering array of sparkling diamonds set right around the band. Surely something so beautiful, so incredibly expensive would trigger some sort of memory in her brain?

Nothing.

Nada.

Emelia raised her eyes back to his. ‘So…I was in London…alone?’

His eyes were like shuttered windows. ‘I was away on business in Moscow,’ he said. ‘I travel there a lot. You had travelled to London to…to shop.’

There it was again, she thought. A slight pause before he chose his words. ‘Why didn’t I go to Moscow with you?’ she asked, frowning.