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She lay staring at the ceiling, trying to say something—his name, perhaps, out of a throat tight with tears.
But eventually it was Diaz who broke the silence. ‘You’ve never done this before.’ It was a statement, not a question. He turned back slowly to face her, pulling up the sheet to cover the lower part of his body and propping himself on an elbow. ‘Simon Rawlins was never your lover, and you’re not having his child. Because until a few moments ago you were virgo intacta.’
‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could manage. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yet, knowing that,’ Diaz went on, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘you encouraged me to—violate you. Why?’
She said, ‘Because I wanted you.’ Because I love you. I always have and always will.
Those unsayable words he would not want to hear. Therefore they went unsaid.
She took a deep breath. ‘I decided long ago that my first time was going to be with someone I’d always really fancied, who knew what he was doing. You fitted the template perfectly—and created the opportunity too. You can hardly deny that. So it was never a—a violation. I truly wanted it, and you must believe that.’
She added unevenly, ‘I thought being a virgin was simply a state of mind. I never dreamed there’d be—consequences.’
‘Apart, you mean,’ he said with chilling irony, ‘from the dangers of unprotected sex? You didn’t take those into consideration? The fact that there might be a real baby to be disposed of this time?’
She winced. ‘Don’t!’
Do you really imagine I’m capable of that? Especially if it’s your child involved? I’d rather die…
‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ he demanded. ‘Taking part in some episode from that damned series? Making life up as you went along? Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me the truth about Simon Rawlins? Why did you let me think you were having an affair with him?’
For the first time she turned away from him, sheltering her naked body with the protection of her arms.
She said tonelessly, ‘Because it was what you wanted to think. My mother took your father away from your mother. I had to be the one to take Simon away from Carrie. History repeating itself. Another ideal template.’
‘No,’ he said. Then, more forcefully, ‘No, Rhianna, that makes no sense. You stood there and let me accuse you of being Simon’s secret mistress without one word in your own defence. How do you explain that?’
He paused. ‘You say you’ve always wanted me, but you went to great lengths to ensure we wouldn’t be together.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Our joint family history did that. Because if it had ever become known we were lovers, all the old stories about my mother would have been dragged out for another airing. Her memory doesn’t deserve that, whatever you believe.’ She paused. ‘Nor does your own mother, who is still around to be hurt. How would she feel if she knew you were sleeping with Grace Trewint’s daughter?’
She stared sightlessly ahead of her. ‘Maybe, unconsciously, when you started accusing me of being Simon’s mistress I saw it as a convenient get-out clause—a means of escape from an impossible situation. And, perhaps what happened just now is fate’s way of telling us that wanting each other still doesn’t make it right.’
She bit down on her already torn lip. ‘Would you go now, please? I—I’d rather be alone.’
‘Tough,’ Diaz said succinctly. ‘Because I’m going nowhere.’ He drew her back into his arms, swearing softly when he saw the expression of mute apprehension on her face. ‘No, darling, I’m not planning to try and have sex with you again. I just need to hold you.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You look as if you need that too.’
It was suddenly all too much—the misery and disappointment, the knowledge that inevitably there’d be more questions to come, more blame assigned. The certainty that any remaining flicker of hope was gone for ever. Yet now, almost from nowhere, this unexpected kindness.
Rhianna turned her face into his shoulder and could taste the salt of his sweat on her trembling lips as she wept softly and bitterly in the arms of the man who could never be her lover.
CHAPTER NINE
AS SHE cried, she was aware of his hand smoothing her damp, tumbled hair, and his voice murmuring to her in a language she dimly recognised as Spanish.
And in some strange way both seemed equally comforting.
At last he lifted her and put her back against the pillows.
He said, ‘I’m going to get you some water.’
