A Spanish Marriage (7 page)

‘Your stated intent to go out on the prowl,' he shot back tersely as he fired the powerful engine.

Recalling the rebellious lie didn't make her feel guilty. Quite the opposite. Folding her arms across her chest as he pulled out of the hotel car park, she fumed, ‘It's all right for you to do as you please, go where you like, hang out with other people—women, as far as I know. But I must sit in an empty apartment twiddling my thumbs, is that it?'

Accelerating, he growled, ‘Grow up, Zoe!'

‘I am,' Zoe shot at him through gritted teeth. ‘I'm taking charge of my own life from now on. I'm not a child, in case you hadn't noticed! And I won't be treated like one.'

It wasn't the way she'd wanted to end it. Not in an undignified spat with him losing all patience with her. She'd intended to tell him of her decision to end the sham of their marriage before schedule coolly and civilly, explain that he had no need to worry about her, thanks to him she was on track. But what he'd walked in on had put paid to that.

Subsiding into miserable silence as the explosive tension coming from him in almost tangible waves made her bones shake, made her remember the times his patience had seemed inexhaustible.

Learning to drive in London when they'd first been married. Apart from sessions with qualified instructors Javier had taken her out time after time to practise the dreaded parallel parking. Calm, good-humoured and above all patient when she'd repeatedly, session after session, got it all wrong. Spending what must have been hours with her until she'd eventually got the hang of the manoeuvre.

To celebrate passing her driving test at the first attempt he'd bought her what she'd privately called a granny-going-shopping car, sedate and sensible. Not like the Lotus.

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.'

Zoe's long lashes flickered. He was volatile, unpredictable, displaying a side of his character she had never been allowed to see. Breath hissed from her straining lungs and the tip of her tongue moved languorously over her lips, moistening the dryness.

‘I didn't—' she started to protest, but her voice died when she saw fierce determination settle on his charismatic features and heard the banked-down husk of emotion in his voice as a hand flicked out to move strands of damp hair from their resting place between her breasts. ‘You want sex? Tell me.'

A forefinger tracked the place where her hair had lain. Zoe shuddered convulsively.

‘Well?' he pressed. There was a flare of hot desire
in his eyes and the clean male scent of him was a further aphrodisiac. She didn't need it! She already felt as if she had overdosed on the potent stuff! ‘Answer me.' The command was issued thickly.

‘Not like this,' she managed. She sounded like someone being tortured, she recognised. ‘Not—not when you hate me.'

His long mouth curved in what passed for a smile. ‘I don't hate you. I hate the sin but not the sinner—hang onto that thought while I try to get an answer to my question.'

For a moment she didn't understand. Enlightenment came when he raised both hands to cup her naked shoulders, his thumbs gently rotating against the tender hollows beneath. ‘Tell me to stop touching you, and I will.'

Zoe gasped for breath. How long had she ached for his touch? Years and years. He was convinced she was little better than a common whore. She should have enough pride to walk away from him. She couldn't move; she had no pride where he was concerned.

‘No?' His breath feathered the top of her downbent head. ‘Not yet?' He felt her flesh quiver beneath his hands. He wasn't proud of what he was doing. He felt uncontrollably driven. Driven by desire. Months ago he'd recognised the edginess he felt in her presence for what it really was and had taken steps to remove himself from the temptation of her. Reminding himself that sex wasn't part of the bargain they'd made…that she was too immature…that he'd be taking unfair advantage…

Now things were different. His earlier suspicions of her promiscuity were confirmed. It should have made him turn his back on her for all time. But it hadn't.

He wanted to put his brand of ownership on her, turn her off every man she'd ever had sex with for the rest of her life. She was his wife, dammit!

He smothered a groan. His hands slid lower, fingers sliding over the upper curves of her partially naked breasts. Blood was thundering hotly in his ears. But if she told him to back off he would.

Immediately.

Walk out and leave her to go for that annulment.

Her skin felt like the softest satin. The firm globes hardening in response to his touch, sending him insane. ‘Not yet?' The repeated question was thick with his need.

Zoe made a soft whimpering sound at the back of her throat. The lingering touch of his lean fingers, his closeness, were playing havoc with her ability to think. His eyes had turned to smoke, hot with desire. He wanted her. He ignited her.

Aided by his fingers, the towel dropped to the floor. Another step closer, another turn of the screw. She felt a long shudder rake through his body, so close to hers she could feel the potent male strength and heat of him, sense the heavy pounding of his heart. How often had she fantasised about him touching her naked body? Countless. But she had never known it could be this wonderful.

His lean hands not quite steady, Javier lifted both of them and tilted her face towards him. Her eyes
were glazed gold, siren-hot, half hidden by the heavy sweep of her dark lashes. She shifted her feet a little, like a sleepwalker. The burning, hard tips of her beautiful breasts were touching his shirt, searing him through the fine material. His body was one long ache for her and he didn't know how much longer he could hang onto his control. The decision had to be hers.

‘Do I stop this?' he asked, hardly able to breathe. ‘Tell me.'

Z
OE'S
body throbbed with desire and his did, too—she could feel it. A major miracle had happened! Javier actually saw her as a woman, not as a needy child or a pesky adolescent, and he wanted her!

Add love to her side of the equation and there was no backing off, no denying herself what she had craved for long, empty years.

Did it matter what he thought of her? Wasn't half a loaf better than no bread? Wasn't this—him, her love for him—the only thing of any importance?

Lifting her hands, Zoe pulled his head down to hers, her mouth giving him his answer. I love him like crazy, was her last sane thought when, after a nanosecond of stony stillness, he groaned deep in his throat and kissed her back.

Kissed her with fierce passion, ravaging her mouth with his brand of possession, kissed her until she was drugged and breathless, craving the next intimate slide of his tongue, returning it with interest, clinging, her arms around his neck, hands sliding through the crisp blackness of his hair, her body on fire, almost exploding as his hands took off on a hungry quest to explore her willing and wanton nakedness.

His body shook as she lifted herself onto her toes, the eager arc of her hips lifted to meet the burning, insistent pressure of his. She melted into him as
though she belonged. His heartbeat thundered as the irresistible force of desire intensified to primal need.

The provocative minx was turning the tables, branding him with her mark. She had made him jettison his self-respect as if it had no more worth than an old paper bag! He had no more self-control where she was concerned now than a newborn baby.

Her pouting lips were teasing now, feathering tiny tasting kisses at the corner of his mouth, grazing down to the underside of his jaw, her elegantly lovely hands slowly parting his shirt buttons.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, every atom of his being centred on what was happening here, the feel of her silky skin beneath his hands, the exquisite curve where her hips flared from her tiny waist, the scent of her, the pulsating, addictive warmth of her flesh. In a moment those perfectly formed, sinfully tight breasts would be touching his naked skin.

He was sweating, shaking with need. Lust. Knowing what she was should have had him fastidiously turning his back on her.

She was a witch. Had to be.

He was bewitched. Glad to be.

Those exquisitely delicate hands at last tugged his shirt free of the waistband of his trousers, the backs of her fingers sliding against his overheated skin. Javier couldn't breathe.

She was offering what he'd craved for long, tormenting months. Months of doing the honourable thing, of removing himself from temptation as much as possible.

The events of this evening had ejected honour right out of the window.

He heard the tiny mew of her satisfaction as pebble-hard nipples rubbed against the tight drum that was his near-exploding chest and expelled a driven sigh that seemed to come up from the soles of his feet, before lifting her in his arms and carrying her with long, impatient strides to the waiting bed with its mocking smooth virginal covers.

She was his wife, dammit to hell and back again!

Her arms clung; she was boneless, fluid. Her beautiful golden eyes were glazed with passion, enticing, inviting, sending him out of his mind. She was avid for what he could give her and he needed it more than he'd ever needed anything!

She was heaven, spread out on that bed. Her long pale hair spilling over the pillow, her lush lips parted as her breath came in rapid, shallow pants. On driven impulse, Javier bent over her and took one rosy distended nipple into his mouth just briefly and then the other, his pulses surging as her back arched in wanton response, her hands reaching for him.

He stood back, avoiding the supplication of her outstretched arms. It took one hell of a lot of will power. He wanted to possess his wife—his woman—right now. But two could tease. She didn't have the monopoly on driving the opposite sex crazy. He shed the rest of his clothes very slowly. Her witchy yellow eyes drank in every movement.

Siren's eyes.

Pulling him to her. The air was hot, full of sex, the
awareness between the two of them more intense than anything he'd ever experienced.

Naked, he joined her. She writhed towards him, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him to her like the experienced wanton she was, slick skin fusing with the heat of his.

Javier took both her hands in his and held them above her head. Long mouth twisted in a wry smile, his eyes hot smoke, he began to stroke lazily tormenting kisses over her breasts, down to the soft curve of her tummy. She squirmed in wild ecstasy, frantic need, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips lifting for him, her breathing out of control.

Javier gave her a grim smile and, before moving his dark head lower, told her, ‘Patience. I'm in no hurry. I've waited a long time, and I fully intend to savour every slow second…'

 

The soft light of dawn was filtering through the open window. Birdsong woke her with liquid silvery notes. Her lips curved with blissful contentment, her eyes turning to him, to his smooth, muscular back packaged in taut golden skin. A hand reached out to touch. She withdrew it, her smile widening. After last night he would need all the rest he could get.

Last night. If her body didn't ache in all sorts of unaccustomed places she would have believed it to have been a dream, a precious fantasy.

Her heart swelled within her breast. No dream. It had been real and way beyond and above mere perfection. A delicious tremor rippled through her as she
recalled that one short moment when he might have denied her.

When he had finally, for the first time, parted her thighs and entered the place he had made so ready, thrusting his swollen length so deeply within her she hadn't been able to disguise the sharp gasp of pain as the barrier had been broken.

Javier had gone still. Very still. Had lifted his head. ‘Zoe, you're—'

‘Yes.'

‘I—'

‘Don't talk!' A command bordering on panic. Not prepared to let him get all protectively honourable, not now, she wrapped her legs tightly around his body and that decisive movement let him know she was giving him everything, all she was, all she had ever been.

And he gave, too. Gave heaven on earth.

He stirred. Zoe's body stirred in response. She touched him then, the pads of the fingers of one hand tracing a loving path down his back.

He went still, seemed to stop breathing, then turned, met those melting, slumberous golden eyes and his heart contracted. ‘Zoe—' He reached out to touch his fingers to the side of her adorable face, his dark brows clenching as she gave him her glorious smile, arched closer and wrapped her long legs around his.

His for the taking.

Guilt swamped him.

He reached for the hands that were already creating havoc as they palmed the blatant evidence of what
she did to him, held them in his fists between their bodies.

Javier knew he should move, shatter this incredible feeling of intimacy. What he had to say to her would banish the bloom from her lovely face, turn the soft light in her eyes to sharp daggers of disgust.

He would deserve it. He disgusted himself!

‘Zoe—' His fingers tightened around hers. She returned the pressure, her eyes vulnerable with trust. He didn't deserve her trust! And he was about to shatter it. ‘It was your first time. Forgive me—I was angry—I thought—'

‘I know what you thought.' One hand was tugged from his grasp, a finger laid across his mouth, effectively stopping his words because his breath went as he fought the temptation to take that soft warm finger into his mouth and start everything all over again. ‘You thought Oliver Sherman and I had been lovers. I can't blame you,' she absolved him softly. ‘That note he sent with those flowers,' she reminded gently. ‘And when you asked me, before we married, if I'd been sleeping with him I refused to give you a straight answer.'

Her eyes glimmered, her thick lashes flickering down as she remembered her bolshie need at that time to pay him back for the double standards that told him it was OK for him to share his bed with the woman of the moment while she was expected to be chaste as a nun.

The frown line between his smoky eyes deepened. Repentant, she released her other hand and stroked it away. The movement brought her body into closer,
more intimate contact with his. She felt a long shudder rake through him and told him, ‘Last night wasn't what you thought it was. Oliver wasn't at the ceremony, I checked. He turned up at the wedding party late on and seemed to latch onto a group of people I'd never seen before. It was a relief. I didn't want anything to do with him, not after that note. I was about to leave when he jumped me. He was drunk as a skunk, that's the only excuse I can think of—'

‘There is no excuse for that kind of behaviour,' Javier shot in tightly. No excuse for his, either. Feeling worse than bad about himself, he stated heavily, ‘You were a virgin. I was angry, I took advantage, I'm no better than he is. You should have told me.'

Her lips curved in a smile that turned his heart inside out. ‘I could have done, and asked you to be gentle with me—like a properly brought-up virgin should!' An entrancing dimple told him she was up to her old witchery. ‘But I wanted you to find out for yourself.'

‘Minx!' He meant it. She wriggled against him. His body wanted to take what she was offering. This woman, this flirt, was twisting him around her little finger.

This woman. His wife!

‘This changes everything.' His body throbbed with desire, but his mind took charge as he levered himself away from the little witch and swung his legs out of the innocent-seeming, pristine bed that had become a honey-trap.

By making love with her he had changed the rules
that had governed their sham marriage. ‘Last night you told me our marriage was over. Now I'm telling you that it isn't.' Still sitting, he reached for the shirt so hurriedly discarded the night before, shrugged into it. ‘There's no question of a divorce.'

Zoe squirmed to her knees. He sounded as if he were handing out a life sentence when he was giving her paradise, everything she'd dreamed of since she was fifteen years old! Her hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt, caressing the firm warm flesh, laying her cheek against the hard span of his shoulder blade as he dragged in a harsh intake of breath.

‘That's OK,' she murmured. She loved him so much she felt as if every inch of her were disintegrating, melting into a treacly river of desire and adoration. Her hands slithered round his taut body. The muscles below his ribcage were rigid, she lovingly discovered. ‘You never know, I might be pregnant,' she said in a small voice, her vocal cords knotting up, all of her mind wonderingly focussed on the tightness of her breasts, the pulsating heat deep in the place that seemed to have taken centre stage in her being.

Pregnant!

Tension locked Javier's jaws together. He leapt to his feet, reaching for the remainder of his clothes, getting into them while she just flopped back against the heaped pillows and lay there, butter-wouldn't-melt, all elegant silky limbs, pale hair fanned out against the pillow, watching him with those come-bed-me eyes.

He hadn't thought. He hadn't damn well thought of anything but his driving need to claim what was
his by right, the heaven he'd stoically denied himself for so long! The dam had finally burst and he'd tumbled mindlessly with the flow. And if his opinion had been asked at the start of it he'd have probably said that the ‘goer' had to be well protected.

Having his back to her successfully hid his sharp wince of shattering self-loathing. Irresponsibly, he might have fathered a child. And for all he knew she might not even want to think about motherhood for several years. Was the possibility that he might have selfishly impregnated her the only reason she'd given in and changed her mind about leaving him?

And if the pregnancy scare proved to be unfounded, would she change her mind right back again and walk out on him as last night she'd unequivocally stated that she fully intended to?

Unwilling right now to inspect how he'd feel in that eventuality, Javier tightened his jaw and bit out, ‘I'll see you at breakfast.' He reached the door in rapid strides, adding heavily, ‘We need to talk things out fully and clear-headedly—away from your bed. Without sex to muddy the waters.'

His grim tone shook her rigid, closing up her throat. And what he'd said—did he still, in the privacy of his thoughts, name her as a whore by inclination? Her uninhibited behaviour last night, the way she'd given him unlimited access to her body, encouraging him every inch of the way, would have hammered that impression all the way home.

She stared at the door he had just closed behind him, tears welling in her eyes. The glittering prize, her acceptance as his true wife, her place in his life
as the mother of the children she desperately hoped to give him turned into a handful of ashes, slipping through her fingers.

She shouldn't have mentioned the possibility of pregnancy. It had been a flip, thoughtless comment, tossed out to cover the fact that she'd been over the moon and practically speechless with happiness when he'd so strongly vetoed divorce.

He might have lusted after her, enjoyed the sex, but he wasn't in love with her, not yet, she knew that. And he would hate the responsibility if she'd come out with the truth and confessed that she'd always loved him and always would.

He took his responsibilities seriously, he was that kind of man—as evidenced by the way he'd suggested a paper marriage in the first place—so she couldn't land that on him, she decided miserably, forcing herself to leave the bed where she'd been so ecstatically happy, so hopeful about the wonderful future she and Javier would have together, so confident that she could in time teach him to love her as much as he'd learned to want her.