Public Marriage, Private Secrets. Helen Bianchin

control.

      His eyes locked with her own. ‘Give it up, Gianna.’ His voice was deceptively quiet, and her eyes sparked retaliatory anger for a few long seconds before she deliberately turned her attention to the passing nightscape as Carlos joined the main arterial route into the city.

      The thought of revisiting the penthouse apartment she’d shared with Raúl in the exclusive area of Salamanca meant a revival of memories she’d chosen to mentally compartmentalise in a box labeled ‘Past,’ where they lay buried in the deep recesses of her mind. Never to be retrieved, opened and re-examined…except in the intrusive dreams she was unable to control.

      When she had left Madrid, she’d only taken what she had brought into the relationship. All the gifts he’d generously bestowed…clothing, lingerie, jewellery…had been left behind.

      Had he changed anything? Redecorated? Removed all traces of her occupation?

      Oh, get over yourself, Gianna silently chided. Why balk at one night in a luxury two-level penthouse apartment? Raúl’s master suite and his home office occupied the upper level. The guest suites, lounge, dining room and service rooms were situated on the lower level.

      Why, she’d probably only see him in the morning, when Carlos drove them to the airport.

       So what was the big deal?

      There was none…except in her mind.

      Consequently she exited the Mercedes as it drew to a halt in the forecourt, rode a lift to the apartment, allowed Raúl to deposit her bag in one of the guest suites, then politely bade him goodnight.

       Unpack, shower, then bed, she determined, and completed each before sliding beneath the covers.

      Yet sleep eluded her, and she tossed and turned, caught up in a number of complex reactions. Vivid memories of happier times, the starkness of their break-up…and inevitably wondering if she’d made the right decision in coming here.

      Teresa—think only of Teresa.

      Except nothing eased the haunting pain, until with a low growl of anguish she slid from the bed and moved quietly into the kitchen.

      Hot milk with a dash of brandy might soothe her jangling nerves, overcome the jetlag and tension and allow her a few hours’ rest.

      Easy to fill a beaker with milk from the refrigerator and heat it in the microwave. When it was done she added a generous nip of brandy, hesitated, added another, then cupped her hands around the beaker and crossed to the window to look out at the nightscape, where pinpricks of light illuminated tall buildings and bright neon advertisements blazed in cascading colour.

      Raúl stirred at the faint beeping sound of the security monitor, saw the flashing sensor light position the lounge, and moved quietly from the bed, taking only a brief moment to pull on jeans before descending the stairs to investigate.

      Had the main entrance been breached, several security measures would have been automatically activated and a security team would already be on their way.

      As it was internal there was only one logical explanation…Gianna.

      He entered the lounge and saw her standing before the floor-to-ceiling plate glass.

       Her slender form silhouetted there aroused a tug of emotion he tamped down.

      She was attired in cotton sleep trousers and tank top, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, and her features appeared pale beneath the dimmed lighting.

      ‘Unable to sleep?’

      The sound of his voice startled her, and she turned, eyes widening as he crossed to stand at her side.

      He had the soft tread of a cat, and she instinctively hugged her arms across her midriff.

      ‘Several hours of air travel, I guess,’ she managed evenly.

      ‘You didn’t sleep during the flight.’

      How did he know that she’d simply closed her eyes and pretended sleep because she was unable to relax sufficiently in his presence? She hadn’t expected to feel vulnerable, or so acutely sensitive…and it made her cross.

      Oh, for heaven’s sake, call it like it is…She was edgy, uncertain in hindsight if she’d made the right decision to place herself in a position where she’d be constantly reminded of what had been, not to mention the fallout of leaving Spain, leaving Raúl. Revisiting it again now seemed to be the height of foolishness.

      Yet she was here, and after breakfast the Velez-Saldaña private jet would transport her to Mallorca, where Teresa’s villa in Cala Fornells, Calvià, would provide panoramic views of the sea and an escape from Raúl’s disturbing presence.

      None of which helped now, as he stood close, within touching distance, his tall, partly clothed frame a vivid reminder of times past when she’d slipped from their bed unable to sleep. Occasions when he’d gently massaged her neck, shoulders, easing the kinks, before sweeping her into his arms and carrying her back to bed.

       For one brief moment she almost longed for the soporific effect…the comfort. She was aware the sensual tension still existed on her part. But on his?

      He was impossible to read, and she tried to convince herself she didn’t want to.

      Worse, to stand here, aware and almost compliant, was the antithesis of the image she cared to present. Dammit, she could sense the clean male scent of him, the faint muskiness merging with his brand of aftershave.

      It evoked too many memories…places she was loath to go.

      With determined effort, she drank the rest of her milk, then indicated the empty beaker. ‘I’ll take this through to the kitchen, then go back to bed.’ She waited a beat, then added, ‘Goodnight…’ with the utmost politeness.

      He made no attempt to stop her, and there was a small part of her that almost wished he would.

       Are you insane?

      The words echoed silently as she slid into bed and snapped off the bed-lamp, becoming the last thing she remembered before she fell asleep.