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The middle-aged woman sighed expressively. ‘My husband and I went to a tango show last night. It’s just about the most erotic and sexy thing I’ve ever seen. I’d love to be able to dance like that.’
Isobel flushed when she remembered how it had felt to dance with Rafael in Paris and took another sip of her wine, knowing that she was pla
ying with fire but needing something, anything, to block out the fact that here she was, all but colluding in her husband’s business concerns, and that tonight Rafael expected her to—
‘Go easy on that wine, Isobel. I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.’
Rafael said it quietly, just to her and with a smile, but also with a clear warning in his eyes. It made Isobel rebelliously pick up her wine again and take an even bigger gulp this time.
He said urbanely to Rita, ‘Isobel and I would love to perform a tango for you if the opportunity arises. When you’re here for longer perhaps she could give you a few lessons.’
The woman stuttered. ‘Oh—oh, no, I couldn’t expect that—’
Isobel took pity on her and said effusively, ‘Don’t be silly. I’d love to teach you the basics. It’d be no problem at all. I have so much time on my hands these days I almost don’t know what to do with myself.’
The woman looked from Rafael to Isobel, clearly registering the barbed comment, and just said, ‘Well, that’d be great, honey. Thank you.’
Isobel took another drink, almost revelling now in Rafael’s dark, censorious glances. Who did he think he was anyway? She knew the wine was going straight to her head, despite the dinner they’d eaten.
Bob, Rita’s husband, who sat opposite, engaged her in conversation, but Isobel found herself having to carefully enunciate everything she said. In truth she wasn’t able to keep track of much of the conversation around her, knowing that on some level she was blocking it out because she didn’t want to hear just how ruthless Rafael was. It wasn’t long before she began to feel a little sick and knew she’d gone too far. She wasn’t even really aware any more of what she was saying.
Feeling a sudden urge to get some air, she moved to get up. A surge of dizziness made her sit straight back down. Immediately, Rafael’s arm was around her. She heard him murmur something about ‘getting home…long day…not long after honeymoon…’ and then he was supporting her out of the restaurant.
In the back of the car on the way home, the alcohol provided a nice safe distance from the waves of anger she could feel coming off Rafael. She started to giggle when she imagined it like a force field, protecting her from his wrath.
His filthy look in her direction made her giggle even harder—and then she was gone, tears streaming down her face, nearly bent double over her knees, unable to catch her breath.
It was only when Rafael reached in to pluck her out of the car that she realised that they were home. Rafael lifted her into his arms, and instantly Isobel’s giggles stopped and turned into hiccups. Her head spun ominously, but then cleared again.
His body felt taut and hard and his face was grim. Her hands went around his neck and the surprisingly silky strands of his hair brushed against her fingers. Instinctively, she moved them to feel more. She couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth.
Everything coherent disappeared from Isobel’s head. All she knew was that she was in Rafael’s arms, and any concerns and inhibitions were dissolving like snow on hot coals at the feel of his body so close to hers. It was amazingly unclear to her now why she’d insisted on resisting him.
The front door was open and he shouldered his way through. She could feel his chest muscles contract and move against her. Isobel brought her hand round and pressed a finger against his mouth, a cord tightening in her belly. ‘You’ve got the most beautiful mouth—do you know that?’
She was aware on some level that the words in her head weren’t coming out as clearly as they should. They were flowing together in an incoherent slurred rush of words all joined up together.
Rafael twisted his head away and Isobel’s hand fell to his neck. She started to pull at his bow tie to get to the buttons of his shirt. Frowning in concentration, she was barely aware of Rafael climbing the main stairs she was so intent on her task.
When the bow tie proved impenetrable to her clumsy ministrations she gave up with a huff and started to undo the other buttons of his shirt, sighing happily when she could slide a hand in and touch the warm skin of his chest. His heart was beating heavily against her hand and she felt unbearably hot all over. Waves of heat were coming and going, gathering intensity.
Swaying dangerously, she was hardly aware of Rafael standing her on her feet, or his curse. She looked up and his head was too far away. She wanted him to kiss her, right now, but wasn’t even aware she’d articulated it with any success until he said caustically, ‘Isobel, I am not taking my drunk wife to bed. When we make love you’re going to be stone-cold sober and aware of every moment.’
She swayed again unsteadily, and then everything became a blur. All she knew was that she was lying down and Rafael’s arms were around her. But then he was pulling back, taking them away.
‘No!’ she said impulsively, and caught him back. She ran her hands through his hair and pulled his head down, sighing voluptuously. ‘Your hair feels like silk…kiss me, Rafael.’
She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and heard Rafael say, ‘I swear you’ll be the death of me.’
She opened her eyes and tried to focus, but there were two Rafaels. ‘So die a little…please…just kiss me.’
But Rafael was gone, and Isobel suddenly felt very strange as the whole room started to spin alarmingly.
When Isobel woke the next morning everything hurt. Especially her head and her stomach. She groaned and put a hand to her head, massaging it delicately. And with slow and devastating thoroughness everything trickled back. The dinner, Rita and Bob, the wine…Rafael carrying her up the stairs. Her begging him to kiss her…and then, worst of all, her hunched over the toilet as the entire contents of her wine-laden belly came up. It was still blurry, but she definitely remembered a presence with her, holding her and handing her a wet cloth, making her brush her teeth. Rafael.
She groaned even louder and buried her face in her pillow. How could she ever hope to beg for more space after her wanton theatrics last night? After a long moment she sat up carefully, only noticing then that she was in her bra and pants. With another groan she threw back the cover and went to stand up, but just then her door opened and Rafael stood on the threshold, tall and glorious and stern. Isobel scrambled for the sheet to cover herself.
‘Do you mind?’ Her voice felt unbearably rusty.
