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

CHAPTER FIVE

COULD any week have lasted as long as this one? Cassie asked herself on a deep, despondent sigh as she poured herself a glass of cool, sparkling water, listening to the ice crackle as the liquid landed on top of it. Each day since she had left Joaquin and moved in to Ramón’s apartment had felt as if it had lasted a lifetime.

A long, lonely, dreary, dragging lifetime. One that didn’t seem to get any better, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself that it would.

And she had tried.

Every single night, as the darkness fell and she lay awake in the big comfortable bed she had told herself that tomorrow was another day. That tomorrow would be better. That it had to be better. How could it be any worse?

But each morning had dawned with the same dreary sense of dread, the same fearful anticipation of the long, weary hours that had to be got through until she could seek sanctuary in the darkness and the stillness once again. And each night she had lain awake again, staring blankly in front of her for yet more long, lonely hours, wishing with all her heart that she were back with Joaquin. That she had never left him.

When she slept, for the few hours she managed to sleep at all, she dreamed she was back there with him, back in the big house on the hill above the vineyard. Back in the room she and Joaquin had shared, in the bed where they had slept together. She would dream that he was with her, that she was curled tight against the hard power of his body, held comfortingly in the strength of his arms. And her dreams were so real, so vivid, so intense that she would wake believing it was real, with every nerve awake to the closeness of the man she loved, her whole body on fire with a hunger and a need of him that came from some deep, primitive part of her soul.

She would sigh, stretch, reach out for him…

And of course he wasn’t there.

With the terrible, jolting sense of awareness of the truth would come a devastating sense of loss and shock. She would lie there, aching and empty, hungry and yearning so desperately for him that she would curl up on herself with a moan of pain. The tears would slide from her eyes, impossible to hold back, and seep into the pillow so that every morning the wet patches were silent testimony to the misery of the night.

The sound of a car pulling up outside gave her despondent spirits a tiny, feeble lift.

Ramón was home. That at least meant that she would have someone else to talk to, someone to distract her. Someone to help her stay put right here and withstand the temptation to turn round and head back to the house she had shared with Joaquin.

At least once every day, and frequently more often, she had found the temptation to head for the door and drive out to the big white house by the vineyard almost irresistible.

What harm could it do? a persistent little voice inside her head kept asking.

She knew only too well what harm would result. She had said goodbye to Joaquin, in her mind, if not in her heart, and if she was to see him again then she would lose all the strength that she had gained from the week she had spent away from him.

Like an addict faced with the prospect of a free fix, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from reaching out and taking it, and the result would be destruction to her hopes of eventually gaining some sort of peace of mind. If she saw Joaquin, she would end up going back to him. It was as inevitable as the sun rising over Spain tomorrow morning. And if she went back to him, she was only storing up the prospect of bitter pain at some point in the probably not too distant future. Joaquin had made it plain that he was not looking for anything permanent with her, or for any form of commitment. Going back to him wouldn’t change that. It would only delay, not prevent, the inevitable.

The sound of the bell ringing pierced her unhappy thoughts, bringing her head up sharply. When it was followed by a persistent thumping on the thick wooden door to Ramón’s apartment, she smiled, shaking her head in disbelief at Ramón’s impatience.

‘Typical Alcolar!’ she laughed. ‘Can’t wait for anything!’

So like his brother. The unwanted reminder slipped into her mind, sobering her immediately. But then as the thumping sounded again she tightened the belt on the robe she had slipped into for comfort after taking a long shower to wash off the heat of the day, and headed out into the shadowy hallway.

‘What happened, Ramón?’ she asked, slipping the catch and pulling the big, heavy door open. ‘Did you forget your key, love?’

‘Ramón, you have to tell me if you know where the hell she is…’

The words, raw, harsh and strongly accented, spoken in a very masculine voice, clashed with her own as her eyes fell on the man who stood outside the apartment. The one man she most wanted to see and yet had prayed she would never, ever encounter again because it would destroy her.

Joaquin Alcolar in the devastatingly attractive flesh. And just one swift glance at his dark, stunning features undid all the hard work of the week as she had known it would do, leaving her hopelessly weak and totally vulnerable, a prey to all the uncontrollable, utterly irrepressible emotions that rose up from deep inside her heart.

‘I’ve tried every damn place I can think of to look and…’

Belatedly becoming aware of her dazed silence, Joaquin stopped dead too, his black eyes going to her shocked face, and narrowing in swift, stunned response.

‘You!’ he muttered, the single word sounding as if it had been forced from a painfully dry throat.

‘No!’

Cassie’s reaction was swift, purely instinctive. Acting through fear, totally beyond thought, she moved immediately to close the door, wanting to slam it shut in his face before he could have any further effect on her. Before Joaquin could realise just what effect his appearance had already had.

But she never managed to complete the action.

Fast as a striking snake, Joaquin’s hand came out, slamming hard against the wood of the door and stopping it in mid-curve. For a couple of silent, awkward seconds the two of them faced each other, Cassie struggling to complete the closing of the door and Joaquin determined to prevent her. At first it seemed as if they were almost equally matched, but then Joaquin exerted just a little more pressure, used a little more strength, and Cassie gave way, falling back with a small cry of despair and panic as the big, dark, threatening figure of the man moved inexorably into the room.

‘Go away!’

It was all she could manage and she knew it was hopeless and totally ineffectual even before he turned on her a blazing look that was so filled with arrogance and scorn that it dismissed her feeble attempt at protest with as much ease as he might flick away a fly that had landed on his arm.

‘No chance! I’m not leaving till I find out just what is going on.’

‘But—wha-what are you doing here? Why—?’

‘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.

That note had taken all his worst possible fear and turned it dark as night.

“‘I’m sorry it had to be this way”,’ he quoted cynically now, “‘but it’s over.” And that was it. Not even a dozen words. Would it have killed you to say why?’

Cassandra flinched. She actually flinched away at his words, the sound of his anger. He couldn’t believe that she was shocked at his vehemence, surprised by his fury.

What the hell else had she expected?

Bitter memories surfaced. Memories of the night before she had left him, the delight he had felt in her then, the passion they had shared.

‘You gave no sign, woman. We slept together that night…’

He knew he didn’t have to say which night. The way her head went back, the brief moment in which she closed her eyes, the way her face whitened, all told him without speaking that his words had hit home.

‘We made love…’

But that brought her eyes open again in a rush, blazing into his in rejection of what he had said.

‘No, we didn’t! We did no such thing! We—we had sex…’

‘Sex—yeah.’

Hearing the way she said it, the use of the basic, blunt term instead of any gentler euphemism, told him just what she had felt about it. All that it had meant to her. The thought burned like acid in his guts.

He knew where Ramón kept the alcohol in his apartment and he headed over to the cupboard, pulling out a bottle of brandy and wrenching open the top of it with a vicious movement. Sloshing an unmeasured amount into a fine crystal glass, he lifted it, tilting it in Cassie’s direction in a mockery of a toast, before taking a deep swallow of the fiery liquid.