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The brusqueness of his tone made her shiver, the way he stepped back from the bedside, thrusting his hands into the pockets of the light cotton jeans he was wearing, his wide shoulders rigid beneath the black sleeveless vest, distancing him.
Under the circumstances of their crazy marriage he wouldn’t want any physical contact. It made sense. ‘And who is Mercy?’ she asked lightly, refusing to let him know how much the death of even the smallest, stubbornly lingering hope could hurt.
‘Mercy and her husband Manuel look after everything here. They come with the territory—which is ours for the next month.’ He strode round the room with the loose-limbed grace that was so characteristic of him, opening the louvres, letting the light flood in. ‘She will be bringing your breakfast shortly.’ He turned back to her, a flash of silver in his narrowed eyes. ‘After you’ve eaten—not before—’ he stressed, ‘you can shower and dress. Wear something light, the temperature’s soaring. We’ll spend the day quietly, give you time to fully recover.’
Recover, she thought blisteringly as he walked out of the room. Be fit and strong enough to take what he had to tell her, that he wanted to end their marriage as seamlessly as possible, discuss tactics—perhaps he would spend most of his time away, on far-flung construction sites, while she sat quietly at home, so that their eventual divorce wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow because their separateness would have been accepted.
He wouldn’t tell her the real reason—that after seeing Fiona again he couldn’t bear to have another woman take her place, even nominally. That he wanted to be free to pursue the woman he did love, persuade her to change her mind about marrying him. He was far too urbane for that. His emotions too carefully guarded.
Well, she had news for him! She couldn’t go on this way, either, swinging between hope and despair; wanting him, always wanting him, was driving her mad.
And she was already recovered and he couldn’t tell her what to do. She slid her legs out of bed to prove it, swayed alarmingly, gritted her teeth and tottered to the en suite bathroom, admiring the pale green marble, the spotlessly gleaming chrome, the sparkling glass door of the shower cubicle, the shelves and shelves of lotions and essences.
Showering and brushing her teeth made her feel much better. A tray had been left on a table beneath one of the windows, so Mercy must have been here while she was in the bathroom.
The rich aroma of hot coffee teased her nostrils but she ignored it for now and dressed in a simple light blue gauzy cotton skirt and a plain white T-shirt first, then drank her coffee, too wound up to sit, staring out of the window over an expanse of closely mown emerald-green grass to the sea that lapped against a white, crescent-shaped cove.
She closed the louvres. She wasn’t about to be seduced by paradise. She was going to be tough. Tough enough to go along with whatever he had to say to her.
The eggs Benedict beneath the domed cover she lifted turned her stomach but she forced down some of the fruit as a token gesture, then hunted for her flat canvas shoes. Mercy must have unpacked last night. All her things were neatly hung, her underwear and nightwear folded in drawers.
As were his. Mercy wouldn’t have known, of course, that they occupied separate rooms. No doubt James would discreetly move his stuff today.
James. Despite having talked herself into a state of common sense, she felt her stomach tighten at the thought of facing him, talking things through.
But she had to do it. Now.
Straightening her spine, she walked out of the room, down a broad curving flight of polished wood stairs and found Mercy instead.
A small, curvy woman, in her mid-forties, Mattie guessed, admiring the smooth, coffee-coloured skin, patrician features and bright dark eyes. She looked efficient, imperturbable, nice to have around. She said, her accent faintly Spanish, ‘I hope you have got over the effects of your long flight—I know how disorientating such journeys can be.’ Her smile was sympathetic. Mattie took to her immediately, feeling marginally more relaxed.
‘I’m absolutely fine, thanks,’ and then, because she had to, ‘I’m looking for my husband. Have you seen him?’
‘He’s waiting on the terrace, by the pool. I will show you.’ She led the way through an airy room, full of sunlight, with tall French wind
ows open to the sea breeze, explaining, ‘It is best you use the pool until you learn which beaches give safe bathing. Some have reefs which protect them from wild seas and sharks, some have not. Manuel will tell you.’
‘I’ll stay with the pool!’ Mattie answered with a lightness she was far from feeling. Every step she took brought her nearer to him, every second that passed brought her nearer to the time when she would hear him tell her that everything was over.
‘I will bring fresh coffee out in a moment. And fruit juice, yes?’
Mattie heard what Mercy was saying but could only nod in abstracted reply, blink the film of moisture from her eyes, force herself to focus on the sparkling waters of the huge outdoor pool, the mellow stone paving of the terrace backed by flame trees, their branches covered with vivid scarlet blossoms.
And the man who was waiting. James, indolently stretched out on a padded lounger, his hair slicked to his skull, the skin that covered his tautly muscled body spangled with droplets of water, his only concession to modesty skin-tight black swimming briefs.
How on earth could she hope to keep a clear head, a cool mind, be able to discuss their future rationally when every power-packed inch of that perfectly formed and honed male body was an open invitation to touch, a temptation too far?
But then when had life ever been fair?
It was up to her to do the best she could.
‘Mattie—’
Mercy’s voice must have alerted him to her presence. She hadn’t moved a muscle herself. She could hardly breathe.
He sat up, swinging his long legs over the side of the lounger. The olive tone of his skin was darkened by a very male dusting of body hair. She still couldn’t breathe.
‘You look much better.’ Approval in his voice, but there was no smile. His mouth was tight, as if he were gritting his teeth. She was sure there were lines of strain on his lean, handsome face and his eyes were unreadable behind the dark sunglasses he was wearing.
