Patriot Threat. Steve Berry

her bag in the boot.

      What did one discover as a suitable topic of conversation with an ex-lover who also happened to be her husband? Soon to be ex, she amended, for the path to divorce was merely a formality.

      The weather? The state of world affairs? She pondered as Raúl took the ocean-front route to the airport.

      What would his reaction be if she aimed straight for the jugular and queried him sweetly about his ex-lover, the self-possessed Sierra Montefiore, who’d sensed a slender crack in Gianna’s marriage and closed in for the kill?

      Not a good way to begin the day, the flight, or a two-week sojourn in Mallorca. So sticking to the prosaic seemed safe, not to mention wise.

      Pretend, Gianna bade silently. And she did…with polite charm and considerable poise. She even played Gold Coast host by pointing out new high-rise apartment buildings, and proposed ventures in the pipeline for the rapidly growing tourist city.

      Conversation carried them the thirty-minute drive to the airport, where, given Raúl’s private Lear jet, passage through Customs proved a mere formality before they were cleared to board.

      There were introductions to the pilot and flight staff, whereupon Raúl discarded his jacket, turned back his sleeve-cuffs, they took their seats and all too quickly were in the air.

      Gianna reached down into her carry-on bag and extracted a thick new release by a favourite author, and spared Raúl a glance.

      ‘Please don’t feel you need to entertain me.’ She even managed a faint smile. ‘I’ll be perfectly happy reading.’

      ‘Breakfast will be served in about an hour.’ Was that her imagination, or did the edge of his mouth twitch in amusement? ‘You have no objection if I work?’

      She met his dark eyes with equanimity. ‘Not at all.’

      Raúl inclined his head, extracted a laptop, and set to work, wrapping up configurations on screen, then transferring data from various files to update various graphs.

      The ability to achieve total focus had been something he’d acquired during university studies. That and a photographic mind had ensured a smooth passage as he earned one degree after another, choosing employment for three years in New York before returning to Madrid to join his father in the Velez-Saldaña conglomerate.

      On his father’s demise Raúl had assumed the position of CEO and developed the firm into a worldwide conglomerate, accumulating a personal fortune which included prime real estate in several cities around the world, industrial holdings—you name it.

      He had it all…amend that to nearly all. One thing was missing. Perhaps the most important, he mused. The love of a good woman…family.

      Not any woman. Gianna…who had been his, until life had thrown a curve ball and she had walked.

      Divorce hadn’t been on his agenda. Nor hers, apparently. Yet.

      Circumstance had presented him with a two-week window in which to ensure she would never consider it an option.

      Flight staff served a full breakfast an hour later, from which Gianna selected muesli, fruit and coffee.

      Given the time zone, she calculated they were due to arrive in Madrid late Tuesday, thereby gaining almost a full day.

      ‘Won’t it be an imposition to arrive at Teresa’s villa at such a late hour?’ The query held no validity, for, although the villa was fully staffed, Raúl would naturally possess the relevant keys to gain access.

      He regarded her thoughtfully as he reached for his coffee. He drained his cup and refilled it from the carafe. ‘We’ll stay overnight at my apartment, then fly to Mallorca tomorrow morning.’

      His apartment? Not in this millennium.

      Her eyes sparked brilliant blue fire. ‘I’ll book into a hotel.’

      ‘Afraid, Gianna?’

      ‘Of you? No.’

      ‘In which case you have no reason for concern,’ he drawled in response.

      Sure, she decided silently. And pigs might fly.

      It was relatively simple to pretend an intense interest in the book she was reading—except in truth she barely retained a paragraph or two on each page she turned. The plot was predictable, but she was a fan of the author’s style and individual voice.

      Raúl’s presence provided a distraction, one she found impossible to ignore, and after a while she simply secured a marker, closed the book, then, feeling strangely restless, stood to her feet and stretched her legs by covering the length of the jet several times.

      He, on the other hand, didn’t appear a wit disturbed as he worked throughout the flight, logging in the hours as if it was a normal day at the office…his focus total.

      Did he even notice she was there?

      Somehow it annoyed her, the fact that he might not—which hardly made any sense. What was wrong with her?

      Something she silently questioned as the hours wound down to arrival time, and the nerves in her stomach began tightening into a painful ball as the jet began to lose altitude in preparation for landing.

      There was something vaguely surreal about disembarking in the night hours after a long flight, and seeing Raúl’s driver, Carlos, move forward to meet them as they entered the arrivals lounge.

      Within a matter of minutes they were comfortably seated in Raúl’s luxury Mercedes, their luggage stowed in the boot, and the car eased towards an exit.

      Gianna leaned forward a little. ‘Could you please check hotel accommodation and book a room for me, Carlos?’

      She glimpsed the driver’s questioning look via the rear vision mirror. ‘Señor?’

      ‘The apartment,’ Raúl countered smoothly.

      She threw him a dark glare, which lost much of its impact in the shadowy interior. ‘I’d prefer a hotel,’ she reiterated with quiet vehemence.

      Only to have him remind her, ‘There are three guest suites.’

      As if she didn’t know this. She’d lived there with him for a time.

      The rational part of her brain registered that it was late at night, it had been a long day, and all she wanted to do was shower, then climb into bed and sleep.

      What difference did it make where?

      Except for the niggle of resentment at his intent to take 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