The Alcolar Family: The Twelve-Month Mistress / The Spaniard's Inconvenient Wife / Bound by Blackmail

‘Oh, no, querida,’ Joaquin cut in brutally. ‘That is my question.’

Kicking the door to behind him with a slam that made her wince in nervous distress, he raked burning eyes from the top of her loose blonde hair, over the pale green silky robe, and down to where her narrow, bare feet rested on the polished wooden floor, toes curled slightly, apparently poised, ready to run if necessary.

‘I have to ask you what the hell you are doing here, in my brother’s apartment—and dressed like that.’

Cassie knew that the robe was fastened firmly across her breasts, but still, when subjected to the cruel scrutiny of those molten eyes, she felt as if the flimsy protection of the delicate material had been torn away from her, leaving her dangerously exposed and vulnerable.

‘I—I live here now…’ she managed shakily, pulling the front of the garment even tighter across her chest, and undoing and then retying the belt in a jerky, nervous movement, more for something to do rather than because it actually needed adjusting.

‘Oh, do you?’

The question scorched across her already sensitised nerves, making her shiver inwardly at the ominous undercurrents that lurked in the depths of his tone, totally at odds with the simple words. They made her think of rocks with jagged edges and unwary boats, torn to pieces, sinking under the weight of water that poured in through holes ripped in their sides.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

This time she dragged up a touch of defiance from somewhere, injecting it into her tone with an effort. But all the rebellion drained right out of her again as a cynical dark eyebrow lifted, expressing deep contempt without a word needing to be spoken.

‘I’ve moved in with Ramón,’ she declared, pushing the words between them like a shield against him—or against her own most foolish impulses.

It was impossible to think clearly—to think at all. She only wanted him to turn and walk out of here, to go, before she did something really stupid, like fling herself into his arms, telling him that she loved him and if he would only take her back…

I’ve moved in with Ramón.

The words flared behind Joaquin’s eyelids, searing themselves into his brain, blinding him, destroying all hope of thinking rationally.

I’ve moved in with Ramón.

Did she mean—she couldn’t mean what he thought! She didn’t…

But then he remembered the time, just over a week ago. The time when he had arrived home unexpectedly.

Cassandra had been in a strange mood that day. Jittery as a cat on hot bricks and obviously on edge.

And then Ramón had turned up, using her key, obviously expected—and she had smiled, her whole face lighting up…

Ramón, who had a habit of turning up out of the blue. He had done that years before and claimed to be—had been proved to be—his father’s son by another woman. The woman Juan Alcolar had said that he loved, while his legitimate son’s mother had been just a marriage of duty, of convenience. That revelation had destroyed Joaquin’s own belief in love and honesty and fidelity.

In any sort of happy ever after.

And now Cassandra. His Cassandra. His woman.

I’ve moved in with Ramón.

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t! But why else would she say it? Why else would she be here, in that flimsy slip of a robe, obviously waiting for, expecting Ramón?

When she moved it was blatantly evident that underneath the robe she was wearing nothing at all. Her breasts swung softly, unfettered by any bra, and the smooth line of her hips…

He clenched his teeth together savagely, biting back the vicious outburst he wanted to fling in her face. His breath hissed between them as he struggled to get the worst of his black rage under control enough to speak.

‘You are living here—with my brother? You have been here all this time? While I was looking for you?’

She swallowed hard, seemed unable to speak, but there was no doubting the firmness of her nod of affirmation, the way those blue eyes clashed with his as she destroyed any remaining hope with a single gesture.

‘I see…’

Oh, he saw all right. And what he saw burned in his soul like acid, eating away at him deep inside.

‘So tell me, when did this happen?’

He was proud of that tone. It sounded almost cool, calm, in contrast to the lava-like fury that was boiling up inside him.

‘It’s obviously a very sudden thing.’

‘Not really—it’s been coming for a while.’

‘And you didn’t think to say anything?’

How the hell had he not noticed?

But of course he had. He had seen that something was wrong. It had been obvious that she’d been uneasy, edgy with him, never quite herself. But he had never imagined this.

And what the hell was herself? What was the real Cassandra? The true woman? The woman he’d known—thought he’d known…

‘I did try—but…’

‘You tried!’

The disgust he felt rang in his voice.

‘Oh, yes, lady, you tried. You tried so hard. You complained that I was going to work. Said that you didn’t want to act as my interpreter on Friday—well, you sure as hell got out of that one! By Friday you had disappeared from my life and I had no idea where on earth you were! You’d gone and all you left was that bloody note!’

He swung away from her, pacing the length of the room and back again, his eyes glazed, blurring his vision as he relived the night, a week before, when he had returned home to the empty room. An empty room in a still, silent, empty house.

He had called her name, thinking that she was perhaps by the pool or out in the garden. But there had been no answer. And so he had waited. He had set some wine to chill and he had sprawled on a lounger by the pool—the lounger on which they had made love the night before—and he had waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He had spent a long time thinking over the events of the previous night. Reviewing the things they had said to each other that morning. He had faced the fact that he was, after all, in deeper than he’d thought. Far deeper than he had ever believed was possible. That he had finally met the woman he couldn’t walk away from.

He’d looked at the decision he’d made during the day and known it was the only way open to him. He still hadn’t known if he believed in for ever, only that for this woman he had to give it a try. He’d taken out the ring that he’d bought, spending hours at a jeweller’s when he should have been at meetings. And he had struggled with a sensation that he had experienced only rarely in his life before.

Fear.

The fear that Cassandra might not feel the same way. That her change of mood, her strange behaviour over the past weeks had meant that she was the one who was preparing to turn her back on him. That she was the one who was about to walk. And as the time had dragged on and she hadn’t appeared, that fear had grown worse and worse.

It was when he had come inside again that he had found the note, tucked between two photograph frames on the mantelpiece, in a way that was such a cliché it would have been blackly humorous if it hadn’t been for what it had contained.