A Spanish Passion. Carol Marinelli

shown the inclination to linger. She’d had fun but it was time to get back to Wakeham and spend the next few days considering her future, walking the dog and generally chilling out.

      Placing her glass of iced water on one of the small tables that bordered the banquet hall, she felt hard fingers bite into her wrist.

      ‘Been avoiding me, Zo? Given hubby the slip?’

      Oliver. As the answer to both questions was obvious and affirmative she didn’t bother to answer. Just, ‘Let go of me, please.’

      He didn’t. Simply tugged her closer. He was sweating. He looked drunk. It had been over twelve months since she’d last seen him. In that time his pretty-boy features had grown blurred, his waistline hinting at an incipient paunch. Shock stilled her tongue; in any case it was pointless to tear him off a strip for that vile message he’d sent with those horrible flowers. It all seemed part of a different life…

      ‘Nothing to say to an old mucker?’ Whisky fumes soured his breath. ‘Ever wondered what you’d missed when you turned me down?’

      ‘Never!’ The more she tried to pull free, the harder his fingers gripped. And no one was taking any notice. Dim lighting and everyone absorbed in dancing to something slow and smoochy now, locked together, clinging, totally oblivious.

      ‘Then what say I show you?’ His free hand dived beneath her halter top, hot and sweaty, squeezing, hurting. Her raised knee didn’t have time to connect in self-defence before he had her off balance, thrust back against the wall, a heavy thigh pushed between her shaking legs, his hands all over her, making her want to retch.

      And then, like a miracle, she was free, Oliver hurtling backwards, falling against one of the tables. She was panting, her breath coming in shallow frightened gasps. Her eyes felt so dazed she could scarcely see. She forced them wide. Was she facing a knight in shining armour or an even greater threat?

      Javier!

      Big, dark and coldly furious.

      Relief washed through her in huge convulsive waves. Levering herself away from the wall, she laved her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and shakily blurted the first thing that came into her head. ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t be back for days.’

      ‘Obviously.’ His voice was dryer than a Saharan wind. The background music picked up in tempo. Oliver, she noted, had scuttled away. Javier said, ‘Out!’ and jerked his head in the direction of the doorway.

      Glad to, Zoe headed for the exit to the hotel foyer, her scarlet skirts swaying around her long legs, aware of his eyes pinned on her. She had never been so happy to see anyone in her life, and as soon as they reached the well-lit foyer, the relative silence, she turned to him, the colour she’d lost starting to steal back into her face. ‘Thanks. I’ll just fetch my things.’

      She sounded breathless, she knew she did; she had hardly been able to get those few words out. Her whole body was shaking with reaction. She turned jerkily towards the lift that would take her to the room she had changed in after the wedding breakfast, unprepared for his, ‘Not now. I want you out of here.’

      His words felt like bullets in his throat. Anger and hostility burned in his brain. He had never lifted a finger against a woman in his life, never wanted to. But now he wanted to turn her over his knee and paddle her delightful backside! But he would never betray his honour by doing any such thing.

      An insistent hand on the small of her back was sufficient to guide her unresistant body out through the main doors, into the quiet night. There was nothing quiet about his thoughts. How long had Sherman and his wife been mauling each other, propped up against that wall? How long before the two of them would have sneaked away to somewhere more private?

      ‘Get in.’ He opened the passenger door of his Jaguar. Zoe lifted her head to look into his face. All hard angles and sharp planes, his eyes like lasers. She had never faced such savage anger before. Her throat went dry. No knight to the rescue. More like an avenging angel.

      She shivered as the night air cooled her overheated skin, pulling herself together, remembering that he was no longer part of her life. ‘I’ve got my own car.’ The Lotus, parked right beside his, he couldn’t have failed to see it. ‘The keys are in my hotel room. I’m going back to get them and check out. You can’t tell me what to do, not any more. The stupid farce of our marriage is over.’

      Javier ignored that. He picked up on the damning evidence, and his voice pulsed with outrage. ‘Then it’s a pity you and Sherman didn’t use the room you’d booked instead of having sex in full view of half the county.’ He dragged in a tight breath. ‘Get in.’

      In this mood there was no talking to him, Zoe recognised, her heart sinking. Just for a moment she’d had the fleeting thought that, not believing he was rescuing her from a hateful, scary situation, he’d actually been jealous. Not the case. Hadn’t she learned enough during the last eleven months to stop herself hoping for the impossible? The primary source of his anger stemmed from what people might say about his wife’s behaviour, making him look like a cuckolded fool! How he would loathe that!

      Wordlessly, she folded herself into the seat, shuddered as he slammed the door closed and hated him for the power he had to hurt her time after time. Then as he took his seat behind the steering wheel she asked in a viciously tight voice, ‘So what brought you back from the delights of Cannes?’

      ‘Your stated intent to go out on the prowl,’ he shot back tersely as he fired the powerful engine.

      Recalling the rebellious lie didn’t make her feel guilty. Quite the opposite. Folding her arms across her chest as he pulled out of the hotel car park, she fumed, ‘It’s all right for you to do as you please, go where you like, hang out with other people—women, as far as I know. But I must sit in an empty apartment twiddling my thumbs, is that it?’

      Accelerating, he growled, ‘Grow up, Zoe!’

      ‘I am,’ Zoe shot at him through gritted teeth. ‘I’m taking charge of my own life from now on. I’m not a child, in case you hadn’t noticed! And I won’t be treated like one.’

      It wasn’t the way she’d wanted to end it. Not in an undignified spat with him losing all patience with her. She’d intended to tell him of her decision to end the sham of their marriage before schedule coolly and civilly, explain that he had no need to worry about her, thanks to him she was on track. But what he’d walked in on had put paid to that.

      Subsiding into miserable silence as the explosive tension coming from him in almost tangible waves made her bones shake, made her remember the times his patience had seemed inexhaustible.

      Learning to drive in London when they’d first been married. Apart from sessions with qualified instructors Javier had taken her out time after time to practise the dreaded parallel parking. Calm, good-humoured and above all patient when she’d repeatedly, session after session, got it all wrong. Spending what must have been hours with her until she’d eventually got the hang of the manoeuvre.

      To celebrate passing her driving test at the first attempt he’d bought her what she’d privately called a granny-going-shopping car, sedate and sensible. Not like the Lotus.

      Thinking of those happier times, innocent and improbably naive times, when she’d hoped that their marriage would turn into a real one, made her want to cry.

      So she injected steel into her spine when the short journey was completed and she exited the car and found to her shame that her legs would barely hold her upright.

      As the security lights came on Zoe leant against the side of the car for much-needed support and watched Javier unlock the front door. She was shaking again, but with rage this time. How dared he think she’d arranged to spend the night with Oliver Sherman?

      To immediately leap to that conclusion—not even bothering to ask for her side of the sordid story—had to mean that his opinion of her morals was solid rock-bottom!

      Had he always thought she was a slag?

      Her head