Public Marriage, Private Secrets - By Helen Bianchin Page 0,40

stamp her foot like a recalcitrant child, and hated that he knew it. ‘You’re an arrogant fiend.’ She could think of worse words to hurl at him, and almost did.

‘Careful, mi mujer,’ Raúl warned her softly, and glimpsed the sudden gleam of anger in those deep blue eyes a second before she snatched up the pillow and thumped him with it.

Her forward momentum worked against her, and the next instant she lay sprawled on top of him. His hold was loose, although the expression evident in those dark eyes mere inches beneath her own was sufficient to send warning bells clamouring through her body.

One false move would be all it would take, and while anger urged her to struggle against him the sane, rational part of her dictated commonsense.

‘Let me go.’

He didn’t move or attempt to release her, and she wavered on the brink, momentarily uncertain…of him, herself and how the situation would evolve.

‘Please.’

For a moment she was unsure whether he’d comply, and she gasped as he cradled her head and brought her mouth down to his in a possession that rocked her very being.

Passion, in all its many facets…pulsing, mesmeric, intensely primitive. It took hold of her emotions and swept her to a place where there was no coherent thought…only the man, his touch and its cataclysmic effect.

She was dying here…a wild and wanton supplicant prepared to beg.

‘Please.’

It was all he needed. Restrictive nightwear became discarded as he positioned her to accept him, and she held on as he took her for the ride of her life…and his…as rapture sent them spiralling high to reach that exquisite magical place in perfect accord.

It was almost more than she could bear, and she rested against him, too enervated to move as erotic sensation began to subside.

She was conscious of the light trail of his fingers along the edge of her spine, soothing gently as he murmured softly in his native Spanish… A few words registered on some remote level, and his lips caressed her temple, then rested against her cheek.

‘Sleep, querida,’ Raúl directed huskily.

His voice was the last thing she recalled, and when she woke in the morning his side of the bed was empty. She reached out a hand and found the sheets cool to her touch.

There was no sound of the shower running in the en suite bathroom, and it was then she remembered he had business to deal with in Madrid. A quick check of the time revealed it was after eight, which meant he was probably at the airport, if not already in the city.

The day loomed ahead—one which she intended to devote entirely to Teresa who, if she felt sufficiently well enough, might appreciate a drive…perhaps even a pause for some light refreshment.

With that thought in mind, Gianna slid from the bed, indulged in a leisurely shower, then dressed in casual white cotton trousers, added a colourful knit top, and ran lightly downstairs.

‘My dear, let’s venture out a little this morning,’ Teresa suggested as they lingered over coffee. ‘I rested well yesterday and enjoyed a good night’s sleep.’

‘I’m in,’ Gianna assured her with a warm smile. ‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Jardines de Alfàbia,’ Teresa enthused. ‘I’m particularly fond of the Moorish gardens surrounding the old manor house. The house itself is set amid lemon groves, and there are splendid beds of roses. A garden lover’s idea of heaven.’

Miguel drove them north of Palma, less than twenty kilometres distant, and Gianna experienced a sense of awe as she wandered the footpaths shaded by pergolas, with streams and a number of softly murmuring fountains. A stately avenue of plane trees led to the house—formerly a residence of the Mallorcan kings, Teresa informed her, according to history.

However, it was the gardens themselves, the many beds of beautiful roses, which caused the breath to catch in her throat.

‘Splendid, are they not?’

Perfect blooms, emerging buds, provided a riot of colour.

‘It’s so peaceful here,’ Gianna offered. ‘Serene. An idyllic place for writers, poets, painters to meditate and create.’

‘Not during the tourist season,’ Teresa began with a faint smile. ‘But for now, at this time of day, it is lovely. I like to come here to be inspired, and to be reminded life continues and evolves.’ She spared Gianna a look that held mild humour. ‘Occasionally I ask Miguel to walk with me and we discuss…’ She shook her head. ‘No, we argue, politely of course, about what we shall introduce with the new planting. It occasionally becomes a lively debate.’

‘Which you