A Spanish Passion. Carol Marinelli

the miracle of having Javier fall headlong in love with her simply wasn’t going to happen and she might as well face it.

      Her shoulders drooping, she walked through to her bedroom on leaden legs. She’d given it her best shot, turned herself inside out trying to become special to him, a woman he could respect, admire—a woman he could find desirable and eventually grow to love.

      Getting out of her tailored primrose-yellow suit, she took her usual quick shower and dressed in light cotton trousers and toning dark green shirt, avoiding her eyes in the mirror because she couldn’t bear to see defeat looking back at her.

      She knew she should make herself something to eat but couldn’t be bothered. She’d have something to drink when she’d glanced at the post that had arrived after she’d left. A couple of bills, a letter for Javier addressed in a flowing female hand and something for her.

      An invitation to Guy and Jenny’s wedding. She must have been an afterthought because the ceremony was to take place this coming weekend, she decided with a wry smile. Javier had effectively taken her out of circulation, so her friends would have as good as forgotten about her.

      The ceremony was to be held at the village church, she noted, the reception at the White Boar.

      So those two had decided to formalise their sizzling relationship—they would have a proper marriage…

      Unlike hers.

      And she’d have to pass. Javier had made no secret of his dislike and distrust of her wild friends. She laid the invitation back on the pile of post awaiting Javier’s return and the wall-mounted phone rang as she was reaching for a carton of fruit juice from the fridge.

      Javier!

      Her stupid heart gave its all-too-familiar lurch. He always phoned from his hotel room at around this time when he was working away, a state of affairs that had become far more frequent over the past three months.

      Checking up on her? What else? Certainly not for the pleasure of hearing her voice!

      ‘How was your day?’

      ‘Fine.’ Her reply was just as predictable, as was the potted run-down that he always expected her to give. Reminiscent of a father asking a child what it had done at school all day.

      ‘The usual Thursday afternoon meeting,’ she told him dully. He’d been instrumental in getting her on the committee of a charity working with the homeless, and she’d found the work challenging, absorbing and deeply rewarding, but the enthusiasm was missing from her voice today as she enlightened him. ‘We’re in the throes of organising a late autumn fund-raising thrash; you’ll have to dragoon your wealthy friends into buying tickets. They’ll cost an arm and a leg.’

      Acid in her voice there? Probably.

      During the first months of their paper marriage she’d been introduced to his circle of high-flying friends. Sophisticated dinner parties mostly, the spiky chatter way over her head, an odd overheard remark about child brides and the common sense of marrying for money even if one did already have simply oodles of one’s own, dahling.

      She’d been put under the microscope and had endured it with outward serenity to please Javier. She hadn’t gone off on one—

      ‘I thought I’d be able to make it back in time to go to Wakeham as usual on Saturday morning.’ She tuned in to what he was saying.

      She could hear voices in the background, the husky sound of female laughter. He was entertaining. People he’d met while checking up on progress at the site? Or was the husky woman his regular travelling companion? she wondered on a sickening surge of jealousy.

      ‘But something’s come up, so I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here in Cannes until some time next week. So,’ he came out with the next stock question, ‘what are you doing this evening?’

      As if he cared! She swallowed hard on the rising bubble of rage. Stuck in Cannes—oh, what a terrible shame! Throwing a party in his hotel suite—oh, how absolutely dreadful for him! No doubt being hit on by some fascinating full-blown woman—oh, she could weep for him, poor darling!

      Zoe bit back the sarcastic comments and instead of telling the boring truth—ironing, reading or watching something on TV; what else was she to do?—she fibbed tightly, ‘I’m going out. Hitting the town and seeing what turns up. See you next week, then.’ And cut the connection and burst into tears.

      By the time she’d used the last tissue in the box Zoe was struggling to pull herself together. She had to get right down to face a few unpleasant facts. Such as it was time she started living in the real world and stopped inhabiting a dream that had no chance of coming true.

      For the last eleven months she’d been sweetness and light, never complaining, not even when he’d grown more and more remote, his eyes turning to brooding charcoal whenever he happened to look at her, regularly jetting off to sites all over the world. Leaving her to—

      Miss him so badly she ached all over.

      Instead of getting despondent over the way things were turning out, she’d gritted her teeth and clung onto her new maturity, thrown herself into her charity work, planned the welcome-home dinner she’d cook, stored up amusing anecdotes to entertain him with, shopped for the restrained and classy clothes she knew he preferred his women to wear…

      His women!

      He was a highly sexed male animal. Sophie—or had it been Glenda?—had actually and hatefully boasted of that fact during a session of babysitting holiday duties. She hadn’t wanted to hear that, she remembered, had been physically sick with jealousy.

      Had he found a new woman to satisfy his needs? That would explain his increasing absences, wouldn’t it? The woman whose husky laughter she’d heard in the background only minutes ago! While his wife sat meekly at home, untouched, pure and properly behaved!

      Well, not any more! It was time she cut free, saved herself a load of heartache. Acknowledged finally that what she had hoped for would never happen. Javier would never see her as a real woman, a woman he could fall in love with. To him she would always remain in permanent childhood, a self-inflicted duty. Something he would put up with until she came into her inheritance and could be trusted to behave sensibly!

      Her golden eyes sparking rebelliously, her stomach churning sickly with a horrible mixture of jealousy and hopelessness, she punched in the Wakeham Lodge number and when it was picked up launched straight in.

      ‘Ethel, I’ll be driving down tomorrow. No, Javier won’t be with me, he’s working in France. I’m going to a local wedding on Saturday —you remember Guy and Jenny? And I’ll probably stay at Wakeham until the middle of next week.’

      And Javier, returning to an empty apartment, could make what he liked of that. As for her, she was going out. This sham of a marriage was over.

      Nearly midnight, and the wedding party was still going full blast. Lights strobed, moody blues and purples, couples dancing to the frenetic music. There were mostly young people left, the older guests having called it a night a couple of hours ago, the newlyweds having left for their honeymoon well before that.

      Jenny had looked fantastic in her beautiful wedding gown. The adoration between the couple as they’d exchanged their marriage vows had been real enough to reach out and touch.

      So different from her own wedding, almost a year ago. Zoe’s eyes misted as her throat tightened. She swallowed hard. She wouldn’t look back to the futile, juvenile hopes she’d harboured at that time. She would not! It was time to move on. Tonight was the start of the process.

      And she’d been having fun, hadn’t she? Of course she had!

      In the early evening, after the wedding breakfast, she’d changed here at the White Boar hotel from the summery suit she’d worn to the church service into a flirty scarlet chiffon dress with a dipping halter neckline, a narrow waist and a short flared skirt that made dancing a pleasure, freeing her movements. And it had been great to catch up with friends she hadn’t